proofreaders europe at http://dp.rastko.net [illustration: mr. john d. rockefeller at the age of eighteen] random reminiscences of men and events by john d. rockefeller new york doubleday, page & company copyright, , , by doubleday, page & company preface probably in the life of everyone there comes a time when he is inclined to go over again the events, great and small, which have made up the incidents of his work and pleasure, and i am tempted to become a garrulous old man, and tell some stories of men and things which have happened in an active life. in some measure i have been associated with the most interesting people our country has produced, especially in business--men who have helped largely to build up the commerce of the united states, and who have made known its products all over the world. these incidents which come to my mind to speak of seemed vitally important to me when they happened, and they still stand out distinctly in my memory. just how far any one is justified in keeping what he regards as his own private affairs from the public, or in defending himself from attacks, is a mooted point. if one talks about one's experiences, there is a natural temptation to charge one with traveling the easy road to egotism; if one keeps silence, the inference of wrong-doing is sometimes even more difficult to meet, as it would then be said that there is no valid defence to be offered. it has not been my custom to press my affairs forward into public gaze; but i have come to see that if my family and friends want some record of things which might shed light on matters that have been somewhat discussed, it is right that i should yield to their advice, and in this informal way go over again some of the events which have made life interesting to me. there is still another reason for speaking now: if a tenth of the things that have been said are true, then these dozens of able and faithful men who have been associated with me, many of whom have passed away, must have been guilty of grave faults. for myself, i had decided to say nothing, hoping that after my death the truth would gradually come to the surface and posterity would do strict justice; but while i live and can testify to certain things, it seems fair that i should refer to some points which i hope will help to set forth several much-discussed happenings in a new light. i am convinced that they have not been fully understood. all these things affect the memories of men who are dead and the lives of men who are living, and it is only reasonable that the public should have some first-hand facts to draw from in making up its final estimate. when these reminiscences were begun, there was of course no thought that they should ever go so far as to appear between the covers of a book. they were not prepared with the idea of even an informal autobiography, there was little idea of order or sequence, and no thought whatever of completeness. it would have been a pleasure as well as a satisfaction to dwell with some fulness upon the stories of daily and intimate companionship which existed for so many years with my close partners and associates, but i realize that while these experiences have always been to me among the great pleasures of my life, a long account of them would not interest the reader, and thus it happens that i have but mentioned the names of only a few of the scores of partners who have been so active in building up the business interests with which i have been associated. j.d.r. _march_, . contents i. some old friends ii. the difficult art of getting iii. the standard oil company iv. some experiences in the oil business v. other business experiences and business principles vi. the difficult art of giving vii. the benevolent trust--the value of the cooperative principle in giving chapter i some old friends since these reminiscences are really what they profess to be, random and informal, i hope i may be pardoned for setting down so many small things. in looking back over my life, the impressions which come most vividly to my mind are mental pictures of my old associates. in speaking of these friends in this chapter, i would not have it thought that many others, of whom i have not spoken, were less important to me, and i shall hope to refer to this subject of my early friends in a later chapter. it is not always possible to remember just how one first met an old friend or what one's impressions were, but i shall never forget my first meeting with mr. john d. archbold, who is now a vice-president of the standard oil company. at that time, say thirty-five or forty years ago, i was travelling about the country visiting the point where something was happening, talking with the producers, the refiners, the agents, and actually getting acquainted. one day there was a gathering of the men somewhere near the oil regions, and when i came to the hotel, which was full of oil men, i saw this name writ large on the register: _john d. archbold, $ . a bbl._ he was a young and enthusiastic fellow, so full of his subject that he added his slogan, "$ . a bbl.," after his signature on the register, that no one might misunderstand his convictions. the battle cry of $ . a barrel was all the more striking because crude oil was selling then for much less, and this campaign for a higher price certainly did attract attention--it was much top good to be true. but if mr. archbold had to admit in the end that crude oil is not worth "$ , a bbl.," his enthusiasm, his energy, and his splendid power over men have lasted. he has always had a well-developed sense of humour, and on one serious occasion, when he was on the witness stand, he was asked by the opposing lawyer: "mr. archbold, are you a director of this company?" "i am." "what is your occupation in this company?" he promptly answered, "to clamour for dividends," which led the learned counsel to start afresh on another line. i can never cease to wonder at his capacity for hard work. i do not often see him now, for he has great affairs on his hands, while i live like a farmer away from active happenings in business, playing golf, planting trees; and yet i am so busy that no day is long enough. speaking of mr. archbold leads me to say again that i have received much more credit than i deserve in connection with the standard oil company. it was my good fortune to help to bring together the efficient men who are the controlling forces of the organization and to work hand in hand with them for many years, but it is they who have done the hard tasks. the great majority of my associations were made so many years ago, that i have reached the age when hardly a month goes by (sometimes i think hardly a week) that i am not called upon to send some message of consolation to a family with whom we have been connected, and who have met with some fresh bereavement. only recently i counted up the names of the early associates who have passed away. before i had finished, i found the list numbered some sixty or more. they were faithful and earnest friends; we had worked together through many difficulties, and had gone through many severe trials together. we had discussed and argued and hammered away at questions until we came to agree, and it has always been a happiness to me to feel that we had been frank and aboveboard with each other. without this, business associates cannot get the best out of their work. it is not always the easiest of tasks to induce strong, forceful men to agree. it has always been our policy to hear patiently and discuss frankly until the last shred of evidence is on the table, before trying to reach a conclusion and to decide finally upon a course of action. in working with so many partners, the conservative ones are apt to be in the majority, and this is no doubt a desirable thing when the mere momentum of a large concern is certain to carry it forward. the men who have been very successful are correspondingly conservative, since they have much to lose in case of disaster. but fortunately there are also the aggressive and more daring ones, and they are usually the youngest in the company, perhaps few in number, but impetuous and convincing. they want to accomplish things and to move quickly, and they don't mind any amount of work or responsibility. i remember in particular an experience when the conservative influence met the progressive--shall i say?--or the daring side. at all events, this was the side i represented in this case. arguments versus capital one of my partners, who had successfully built up a large and prosperous business, was resisting with all his force a plan that some of us favoured, to make some large improvements. the cost of extending the operations of this enterprise was estimated at quite a sum--three million dollars, i think it was. we had talked it over and over again, and with several other associates discussed all the pros and cons; and we had used every argument we could command to show why the plan would not only be profitable, but was indeed necessary to maintain the lead we had. our old partner was obdurate, he had made up his mind not to yield, and i can see him standing up in his vigorous protest, with his hands in his pockets, his head thrown back, as he shouted "no." it's a pity to get a man into a place in an argument where he is defending a position instead of considering the evidence. his calm judgment is apt to leave him, and his mind is for the time being closed, and only obstinacy remains. now these improvements had to be made--as i said before, it was essential. yet we could not quarrel with our old partner, but a minority of us had made up our minds that we must try to get him to yield, and we resolved to try another line of argument, and said to him: "you say that we do not need to spend this money?" "no," he replied, "it will probably prove to be many years before such a sum must be spent. there is no present need for these facilities you want to create, and the works are doing well as they are--let's let well enough alone." now our partner was a very wise and experienced man, older and more familiar with the subject than some of us, and all this we admitted to him; but we had made up our minds, as i have said, to carry out this idea if we could possibly get his approval, and we were willing to wait until then. as soon as the argument had calmed down, and when the heat of our discussion had passed, the subject was brought up again. i had thought of a new way to approach it. i said: "i'll take it, and supply this capital myself. if the expenditure turns out to be profitable the company can repay me; and, if it goes wrong, i'll stand the loss." that was the argument that touched him. all his reserve disappeared and the matter was settled when he said: "if that's the way you feel about it, we'll go it together. i guess i can take the risk if you can." it is always, i presume, a question in every business just how fast it is wise to go, and we went pretty rapidly in those days, building and expanding in all directions. we were being confronted with fresh emergencies constantly. a new oil field would be discovered, tanks for storage had to be built almost over night, and this was going on when old fields were being exhausted, so we were therefore often under the double strain of losing the facilities in one place where we were fully equipped, and having to build up a plant for storing and transporting in a new field where we were totally unprepared. these are some of the things which make the whole oil trade a perilous one, but we had with us a group of courageous men who recognized the great principle that a business cannot be a great success that does not fully and efficiently accept and take advantage of its opportunities. how often we discussed those trying questions! some of us wanted to jump at once into big expenditures, and others to keep to more moderate ones. it was usually a compromise, but one at a time we took these matters up and settled them, never going as fast as the most progressive ones wished, nor quite so carefully as the conservatives desired, but always made the vote unanimous in the end. the joy of achievement the part played by one of my earliest partners, mr. h.m. flagler, was always an inspiration to me. he invariably wanted to go ahead and accomplish great projects of all kinds, he was always on the active side of every question, and to his wonderful energy is due much of the rapid progress of the company in the early days. it was to be expected of such a man that he should fulfil his destiny by working out some great problems at a time when most men want to retire to a comfortable life of ease. this would not appeal to my old friend. he undertook, single handed, the task of building up the east coast of florida. he was not satisfied to plan a railroad from st. augustine to key west--a distance of more than six hundred miles, which would have been regarded as an undertaking large enough for almost any one man--but in addition he has built a chain of superb hotels to induce tourists to go to this newly developed country. further than this, he has had them conducted with great skill and success. this one man, by his own energy and capital, has opened up a vast stretch of country, so that the old inhabitants and the new settlers may have a market for their products. he has given work to thousands of these people; and, to crown all, he has undertaken and nearly completed a remarkable engineering feat in carrying his road on the florida keys into the atlantic ocean to key west, the point set out for years ago. practically all this has been done after what most men would have considered a full business life, and a man of any other nationality situated as he was would have retired to enjoy the fruits of his labour. i first knew mr. flagler as a young man who consigned produce to clark & rockefeller. he was a bright and active young fellow full of vim and push. about the time we went into the oil business mr. flagler established himself as a commission merchant in the same building with mr. clark, who took over and succeeded the firm of clark & rockefeller. a little later he bought out mr. clark and combined his trade with his own. naturally, i came to see more of him. the business relations which began with the handling of produce he consigned to our old firm grew into a business friendship, because people who lived in a comparatively small place, as cleveland was then, were thrown together much more often than in such a place as new york. when the oil business was developing and we needed more help, i at once thought of mr. flagler as a possible partner, and made him an offer to come with us and give up his commission business. this offer he accepted, and so began that life-long friendship which has never had a moment's interruption. it was a friendship founded on business, which mr. flagler used to say was a good deal better than a business founded on friendship, and my experience leads me to agree with him. for years and years this early partner and i worked shoulder to shoulder; our desks were in the same room. we both lived on euclid avenue, a few rods apart. we met and walked to the office together, walked home to luncheon, back again after luncheon, and home again at night. on these walks, when we were away from the office interruptions, we did our thinking, talking, and planning together. mr. flagler drew practically all our contracts. he has always had the faculty of being able to clearly express the intent and purpose of a contract so well and accurately that there could be no misunderstanding, and his contracts were fair to both sides. i can remember his saying often that when you go into an arrangement you must measure up the rights and proprieties of both sides with the same yardstick, and this was the way henry m. flagler did. one contract mr. flagler was called upon to accept which to my surprise he at once passed with his o.k. and without a question. we had concluded to purchase the land on which one of our refineries was built and which was held on a lease from john irwin, whom we both knew well. mr. irwin drew the contract for the purchase of this land on the back of a large manila envelope that he picked up in the office. the description of the property ran as such contracts usually do until it came to the phrase "the line runs south to a mullen stalk," etc. this seemed to me a trifle indefinite, but mr. flagler said: "it's all right, john. i'll accept that contract, and when the deed comes in, you will see that the mullen stalk will be replaced by a proper stake and the whole document will be accurate and shipshape." of course it turned out exactly as he said it would. i am almost tempted to say that some lawyers might sit at his feet and learn things about drawing contracts good for them to know, but perhaps our legal friends might think i was partial, so i won't press the point. another thing about mr. flagler for which i think he deserves great credit was that in the early days he insisted that, when a refinery was to be put up, it should be different from the flimsy shacks which it was then the custom to build. everyone was so afraid that the oil would disappear and that the money expended in buildings would be a loss that the meanest and cheapest buildings were erected for use as refineries. this was the sort of thing mr. flagler objected to. while he had to admit that it was possible the oil supply might fail and that the risks of the trade were great, he always believed that if we went into the oil business at all, we should do the work as well as we knew how; that we should have the very best facilities; that everything should be solid and substantial; and that nothing should be left undone to produce the finest results. and he followed his convictions of building as though the trade was going to last, and his courage in acting up to his beliefs laid strong foundations for later years. there are a number of people still alive who will recall the bright, straightforward young flagler of those days with satisfaction. at the time when we bought certain refineries at cleveland he was very active. one day he met an old friend on the street, a german baker, to whom he had sold flour in years gone by. his friend told him that he had gone out of the bakery business and had built a little refinery. this surprised mr. flagler, and he didn't like the idea of his friend investing his little fortune in a small plant which he felt sure would not succeed. but at first there seemed nothing to do about it. he had it on his mind for some days. it evidently troubled him. finally he came to me and said: "that little baker man knows more about baking than oil refining, but i'd feel better if we invited him to join us--i've got him on my conscience." i of course agreed. he talked to his friend, who said he would gladly sell if we would send an appraiser to value his plant, which we did, and then there arose an unexpected difficulty. the price at which the plant was to be purchased was satisfactory, but the ex-baker insisted that mr. flagler should advise him whether he should take his pay in cash or standard oil certificates at par. he told mr. flagler that if he took it in cash it would pay all his debts, and he would be glad to have his mind free of many anxieties; but if mr. flagler said the certificates were going to pay good dividends, he wanted to get into and keep up with a good thing. it was rather a hard proposition to put up to mr. flagler, and at first he declined to advise or express any opinion, but the german stuck to him and wouldn't let him shirk a responsibility which in no way belonged to him. finally mr. flagler suggested that he take half the amount in cash and pay per cent. on account of his debts, and put the other half in certificates, and see what happened. this he did, and as time went on he bought more certificates, and mr. flagler never had to apologize for the advice he gave him. i am confident that my old partner gave this affair as much time and thought as he did to any of his own large problems, and the incident may be taken as a measure of the man. the value of friendships but these old men's tales can hardly be interesting to the present generation, though perhaps they will not be useless if even tiresome stories make young people realize how, above all other possessions, is the value of a friend in every department of life without any exception whatsoever. how many different kinds of friends there are! they should all be held close at any cost; for, although some are better than others, perhaps, a friend of whatever kind is important; and this one learns as one grows older. there is the kind that when you need help has a good reason just at the moment, of course, why it is impossible to extend it. "i can't indorse your note," he says, "because i have an agreement with my partners not to." "i'd like to oblige you, but i can explain why at the moment," etc., etc. i do not mean to criticize this sort of friendship; for sometimes it is a matter of temperament; and sometimes the real necessities are such that the friend cannot do as he would like to do. as i look back over my friends, i can remember only a few of this kind and a good many of the more capable sort. one especial friend i had. his name was s.v. harkness, and from the first of our acquaintance he seemed to have every confidence in me. one day our oil warehouses and refinery burned to the ground in a few hours--they were absolutely annihilated. though they were insured for many hundred thousands of dollars, of course, we were apprehensive about collecting such a large amount of insurance, and feared it might take some time to arrange. that plant had to be rebuilt right away, and it was necessary to lay the financial plans. mr. harkness was interested with us in the business, and i said to him: "i may want to call upon you for the use of some money. i don't know that we shall need it, but i thought i'd speak to you in advance about it." he took in the situation without much explaining on my part. he simply heard what i had to say and he was a man of very few words. "all right, j.d., i'll give you all i've got." this was all he said, but i went home that night relieved of anxiety. as it turned out, we received the check of the liverpool, london & globe insurance company for the full amount before the builders required the payments; and while we didn't need his money, i never shall forget the whole-souled way in which he offered it. and this sort of experience was not, i am grateful to say, rare with me. i was always a great borrower in my early days; the business was active and growing fast, and the banks seemed very willing to loan me the money. about this time, when our great fire had brought up some new conditions, i was studying the situation to see what our cash requirements would be. we were accustomed to prepare for financial emergencies long before we needed the funds. another incident occurred at this time which showed again the kind of real friends we had in those days, but i did not hear the full story of it until long years after the event. there was one bank where we had done a great deal of business, and a friend of mine, mr. stillman witt, who was a rich man, was one of the directors. at a meeting, the question came up as to what the bank would do in case we wanted more money. in order that no one might doubt his own position on the subject, mr. witt called for his strong-box, and said: "here, gentlemen, these young men are all o.k., and if they want to borrow more money i want to see this bank advance it without hesitation, and if you want more security, here it is; take what you want." we were then shipping a large quantity of oil by lake and canal, to save in transportation, and it took additional capital to carry these shipments; and we required to borrow a large amount of money. we had already made extensive loans from another bank, whose president informed me that his board of directors had been making inquiries respecting our large line of discounts, and had stated that they would probably want to talk with me on the subject. i answered that i would be very glad of the opportunity to meet the board, as we would require a great deal more money from the bank. suffice it to say, we got all we wanted, but i was not asked to call for any further explanations. but i fear i am telling too much about banks and money and business. i know of nothing more despicable and pathetic than a man who devotes all the waking hours of the day to making money for money's sake. if i were forty years younger, i should like to go into business again, for the association with interesting and quick-minded men was always a great pleasure. but i have no dearth of interests to fill my days, and so long as i live i expect to go on and develop the plans which have been my inspiration for a lifetime. during all the long period of work, which lasted from the time i was sixteen years old until i retired from active business when i was fifty-five, i must admit that i managed to get a good many vacations of one kind or another, because of the willingness of my most efficient associates to assume the burdens of the business which they were so eminently qualified to conduct. of detail work i feel i have done my full share. as i began my business life as a bookkeeper, i learned to have great respect for figures and facts, no matter how small they were. when there was a matter of accounting to be done in connection with any plan with which i was associated in the earlier years, i usually found that i was selected to undertake it. i had a passion for detail which afterward i was forced to strive to modify. at pocantico hills, new york, where i have spent portions of my time for many years in an old house where the fine views invite the soul and where we can live simply and quietly, i have spent many delightful hours, studying the beautiful views, the trees, and fine landscape effects of that very interesting section of the hudson river, and this happened in the days when i seemed to need every minute for the absorbing demands of business. so i fear after i got well started, i was not what might be called a diligent business man. this phrase, "diligent in business," reminds me of an old friend of mine in cleveland who was devoted to his work. i talked to him, and no doubt bored him unspeakably, on my special hobby, which has always been what some people call landscape gardening, but which with me is the art of laying out roads and paths and work of that kind. this friend of thirty-five years ago plainly disapproved of a man in business wasting his time on what he looked upon as mere foolishness. one superb spring day i suggested to him that he should spend the afternoon with me (a most unusual and reckless suggestion for a business man to make in those days) and see some beautiful paths through the woods on my place which i had been planning and had about completed. i went so far as to tell him that i would give him a real treat. "i cannot do it, john," he said, "i have an important matter of business on hand this afternoon." "that may all be," i urged, "but it will give you no such pleasure as you'll get when you see those paths--the big tree on each side and ----" "go on, john, with your talk about trees and paths. i tell you i've got an ore ship coming in and our mills are waiting for her." he rubbed his hands with satisfaction--"i'd not miss seeing her come in for all the wood paths in christendom." he was then getting $ to $ a ton for bessemer steel rails, and if his mill stopped a minute waiting for ore, he felt that he was missing his life's chance. perhaps it was this same man who often gazed out into the lake with every nerve stretched to try to see an ore ship approaching. one day one of his friends asked him if he could see the boat. "no-o, no-o," he reluctantly admitted, "but she's most in sight." this ore trade was of great and absorbing interest at cleveland. my old employer was paid $ a ton for carrying ore from the marquette regions fifty years ago, and to think of the wickedness of this maker of woodland paths, who in later years was moving the ore in great ships for eighty cents a ton and making a fortune at it. all this reminds me of my experiences in the ore business, but i shall come to that later. i want to say something about landscape gardening, to which i have devoted a great deal of time for more than thirty years. the pleasures of road planning like my old friend, others may be surprised at my claim to be an amateur landscape architect in a small way, and my family have been known to employ a great landscape man to make quite sure that i did not ruin the place. the problem was, just where to put the new home at pocantico hills, which has recently been built. i thought i had the advantage of knowing every foot of the land, all the old big trees were personal friends of mine, and with the views of any given point i was perfectly familiar--i had studied them hundreds of times; and after this great landscape architect had laid out his plans and had driven his lines of stakes, i asked if i might see what i could do with the job. in a few days i had worked out a plan so devised that the roads caught just the best views at just the angles where in driving up the hill you came upon impressive outlooks, and at the ending was the final burst of river, hill, cloud, and great sweep of country to crown the whole; and here i fixed my stakes to show where i suggested that the roads should run, and finally the exact place where the house should be. "look it all over," i said, "and decide which plan is best." it was a proud moment when this real authority accepted my suggestions as bringing out the most favoured spots for views and agreed upon the site of the house. how many miles of roads i have laid out in my time, i can hardly compute, but i have often kept at it until i was exhausted. while surveying roads, i have run the lines until darkness made it impossible to see the little stakes and flags. it is all very vain of me to tell of these landscape enterprises, but perhaps they will offset the business talks which occupy so much of my story. my methods of attending to business matters differed from those of most well-conducted merchants of my time and allowed me more freedom. even after the chief affairs of the standard oil company were moved to new york, i spent most of my summers at our home in cleveland, and i do still. i would come to new york when my presence seemed necessary, but for the most part i kept in touch with the business through our own telegraph wires, and was left free to attend to many things which interested me--among others, the making of paths, the planting of trees, and the setting out of little forests of seedlings. of all the profitable things which develop quickly under the hand, i have thought my young nurseries show the greatest yield. we keep a set of account books for each place, and i was amazed not long ago at the increase in value that a few years make in growing things, when we came to remove some young trees from westchester county to lakewood, new jersey. we plant our young trees, especially evergreens, by the thousand--i think we have put in as many as ten thousand at once, and let them develop, to be used later in some of our planting schemes. if we transfer young trees from pocantico to our home in lakewood, we charge one place and credit the other for these trees at the market rate. we are our own best customers, and we make a small fortune out of ourselves by selling to our new jersey place at $ . or $ . each, trees which originally cost us only five or ten cents at pocantico. in nursery stock, as in other things, the advantage of doing things on a large scale reveals itself. the pleasure and satisfaction of saving and moving large trees--trees, say, from ten to twenty inches in diameter, or even more in some cases--has been for years a source of great interest. we build our movers ourselves, and work with our own men, and it is truly surprising what liberties you can take with trees, if you once learn how to handle these monsters. we have moved trees ninety feet high, and many seventy or eighty feet. and they naturally are by no means young. at one time or another we have tried almost all kinds of trees, including some which the authorities said could not be moved with success. perhaps the most daring experiments were with horse-chestnuts. we took up large trees, transported them considerable distances, some of them after they were actually in flower, all at a cost of twenty dollars per tree, and lost very few. we were so successful that we became rather reckless, trying experiments out of season, but when we worked on plans we had already tried, our results were remarkably satisfactory. taking our experiences in many hundreds of trees of various kinds in and out of season, and including the time when we were learning the art, our total loss has been something less than per cent., probably more nearly or per cent. a whole tree-moving campaign in a single season has been accomplished with a loss of about per cent. i am willing to admit that in the case of the larger trees the growth has been retarded perhaps two years, but this is a small matter, for people no longer young wish to get the effects they desire at once, and the modern tree-mover does it. we have grouped and arranged clumps of big spruces to fit the purposes we were aiming for, and sometimes have completely covered a hillside with them. oaks we have not been successful with except when comparatively young, and we don't try to move oaks and hickories when they have come near to maturity; but we have made some successful experiments with bass wood, and one of these we have moved three times without injury. birches have generally baffled us, but evergreens, except cedars, have been almost invariably successfully handled. this planning for good views must have been an early passion with me. i remember when i was hardly more than a boy i wanted to cut away a big tree which i thought interfered with the view from the windows of the dining-room of our home. i was for cutting it down, but some other members of the family objected, though my dear mother, i think, sympathized with me, as she said one day: "you know, my son, we have breakfast at eight o'clock, and i think if the tree were felled some time before we sat down to table, there would probably be no great complaint when the family saw the view which the fallen tree revealed." so it turned out. chapter ii the difficult art of getting to my father i owe a great debt in that he himself trained me to practical ways. he was engaged in different enterprises; he used to tell me about these things, explaining their significance; and he taught me the principles and methods of business. from early boyhood i kept a little book which i remember i called ledger a--and this little volume is still preserved--containing my receipts and expenditures as well as an account of the small sums that i was taught to give away regularly. naturally, people of modest means lead a closer family life than those who have plenty of servants to do everything for them. i count it a blessing that i was of the former class. when i was seven or eight years old i engaged in my first business enterprise with the assistance of my mother. i owned some turkeys, and she presented me with the curds from the milk to feed them. i took care of the birds myself, and sold them all in business-like fashion. my receipts were all profit, as i had nothing to do with the expense account, and my records were kept as carefully as i knew how. we thoroughly enjoyed this little business affair, and i can still close my eyes, and distinctly see the gentle and dignified birds walking quietly along the brook and through the woods, cautiously stealing the way to their nests. to this day i enjoy the sight of a flock of turkeys, and never miss an opportunity of studying them. my mother was a good deal of a disciplinarian, and upheld the standard of the family with a birch switch when it showed a tendency to deteriorate. once, when i was being punished for some unfortunate doings which had taken place in the village school, i felt called upon to explain after the whipping had begun that i was innocent of the charge. "never mind," said my mother, "we have started in on this whipping, and it will do for the next time." this attitude was maintained to its final conclusion in many ways. one night, i remember, we boys could not resist the temptation to go skating in the moonlight, notwithstanding the fact that we had been expressly forbidden to skate at night. almost before we got fairly started we heard a cry for help, and found a neighbour, who had broken through the ice, was in danger of drowning. by pushing a pole to him we succeeded in fishing him out, and restored him safe and sound to his grateful family. as we were not generally expected to save a man's life every time we skated, my brother william and i felt that there were mitigating circumstances connected with this particular disobedience which might be taken into account in the final judgment, but this idea proved to be erroneous. starting at work although the plan had been to send me to college, it seemed best at sixteen that i should leave the high school in which i had nearly completed the course and go into a commercial college in cleveland for a few months. they taught bookkeeping and some of the fundamental principles of commercial transactions. this training, though it lasted only a few months, was very valuable to me. but how to get a job--that was the question. i tramped the streets for days and weeks, asking merchants and storekeepers if they didn't want a boy; but the offer of my services met with little appreciation. no one wanted a boy, and very few showed any overwhelming anxiety to talk with me on the subject. at last one man on the cleveland docks told me that i might come back after the noonday meal. i was elated; it now seemed that i might get a start. i was in a fever of anxiety lest i should lose this one opportunity that i had unearthed. when finally at what seemed to me the time, i presented myself to my would-be employer: "we will give you a chance," he said, but not a word passed between us about pay. this was september , . i joyfully went to work. the name of the firm was hewitt & tuttle. in beginning the work i had some advantages. my father's training, as i have said, was practical, the course at the commercial college had taught me the rudiments of business, and i thus had a groundwork to build upon. i was fortunate, also, in working under the supervision of the bookkeeper, who was a fine disciplinarian, and well disposed toward me. when january, , arrived, mr. tuttle presented me with $ for my three months' work, which was no doubt all that i was worth, and it was entirely satisfactory. for the next year, with $ a month, i kept my position, learning the details and clerical work connected with such a business. it was a wholesale produce commission and forwarding concern, my department being particularly the office duties. just above me was the bookkeeper for the house, and he received $ , a year salary in lieu of his share of the profits of the firm of which he was a member. at the end of the first fiscal year when he left i assumed his clerical and bookkeeping work, for which i received the salary of $ . as i look back upon this term of business apprenticeship, i can see that its influence was vitally important in its relations to what came after. to begin with, my work was done in the office of the firm itself. i was almost always present when they talked of their affairs, laid out their plans, and decided upon a course of action. i thus had an advantage over other boys of my age, who were quicker and who could figure and write better than i. the firm conducted a business with so many ramifications that this education was quite extensive. they owned dwelling-houses, warehouses, and buildings which were rented for offices and a variety of uses, and i had to collect the rents. they shipped by rail, canal, and lake. there were many different kinds of negotiations and transactions going on, and with all these i was in close touch. thus it happened that my duties were vastly more interesting than those of an office-boy in a large house to-day. i thoroughly enjoyed the work. gradually the auditing of accounts was left in my hands. all the bills were first passed upon by me, and i took this duty very seriously. one day, i remember, i was in a neighbour's office, when the local plumber presented himself with a bill about a yard long. this neighbour was one of those very busy men. he was connected with what seemed to me an unlimited number of enterprises. he merely glanced at this tiresome bill, turned to the bookkeeper, and said: "please pay this bill." as i was studying the same plumber's bills in great detail, checking every item, if only for a few cents, and finding it to be greatly to the firm's interest to do so, this casual way of conducting affairs did not appeal to me. i had trained myself to the point of view doubtless held by many young men in business to-day, that my check on a bill was the executive act which released my employer's money from the till and was attended with more responsibility than the spending of my own funds. i made up my mind that such business methods could not succeed. passing bills, collecting rents, adjusting claims, and work of this kind brought me in association with a great variety of people. i had to learn how to get on with all these different classes, and still keep the relations between them and the house pleasant. one particular kind of negotiation came to me which took all the skill i could master to bring to a successful end. we would receive, for example, a shipment of marble from vermont to cleveland. this involved handling by railroad, canal, and lake boats. the cost of losses or damage had to be somehow fixed between these three different carriers, and it taxed all the ingenuity of a boy of seventeen to work out this problem to the satisfaction of all concerned, including my employers. but i thought the task no hardship, and so far as i can remember i never had any disagreement of moment with any of these transportation interests. this experience in conducting all sorts of transactions at such an impressionable age, with the helping hand of my superiors to fall back upon in an emergency--was highly interesting to me. it was my first step in learning the principle of negotiation, of which i hope to speak later. the training that comes from working for some one else, to whom we feel a responsibility, i am sure was of great value to me. i should estimate that the salaries of that time were far less than half of what is paid for equivalent positions to-day. the next year i was offered a salary of $ , but thought i was worth $ . we had not settled the matter by april, and as a favourable opportunity had presented itself for carrying on the same business on my own account, i resigned my position. in those days, in cleveland, everyone knew almost everyone else in town. among the merchants was a young englishman named m.b. clark, perhaps ten years older than i, who wanted to establish a business and was in search of a partner. he had $ , to contribute to the firm, and wanted a partner who could furnish an equal amount. this seemed a good opportunity for me. i had saved up $ or $ , but where to get the rest was a problem. i talked the matter over with my father, who told me that he had always intended to give $ , to each of his children when they reached twenty-one. he said that if i wished to receive my share at once, instead of waiting, he would advance it to me and i could pay interest upon the sum until i was twenty-one. "but, john," he added, "the rate is ten." at that time, per cent. a year interest was a very common rate for such loans. at the banks the rate might not have been quite so high; but of course the financial institutions could not supply all the demands, so there was much private borrowing at high figures. as i needed this money for the partnership, i gladly accepted my father's offer, and so began business as the junior partner of the new firm, which was called clark & rockefeller. it was a great thing to be my own employer. mentally i swelled with pride--a partner in a firm with $ , capital! mr. clark attended to the buying and selling, and i took charge of the finance and the books. we at once began to do a large business, dealing in carload lots and cargoes of produce. naturally we soon needed more money to take care of the increasing trade. there was nothing to do but to attempt to borrow from a bank. but would the bank lend to us? the first loan i went to a bank president whom i knew, and who knew me. i remember perfectly how anxious i was to get that loan and to establish myself favourably with the banker. this gentleman was t.p. handy, a sweet and gentle old man, well known as a high-grade, beautiful character. for fifty years he was interested in young men. he knew me as a boy in the cleveland schools. i gave him all the particulars of our business, telling him frankly about our affairs--what we wanted to use the money for, etc., etc. i waited for the verdict with almost trembling eagerness. "how much do you want?" he said. "two thousand dollars." "all right, mr. rockefeller, you can have it," he replied. "just give me your own warehouse receipts; they're good enough for me." as i left that bank, my elation can hardly be imagined. i held up my head--think of it, a bank had trusted me for $ , ! i felt that i was now a man of importance in the community. for long years after the head of this bank was a friend indeed; he loaned me money when i needed it, and i needed it almost all the time, and all the money he had. it was a source of gratification that later i was able to go to him and recommend that he should make a certain investment in standard oil stock. he agreed that he would like to do so, but he said that the sum involved was not at the moment available, and so at my suggestion i turned banker for him, and in the end he took out his principal with a very handsome profit. it is a pleasure to testify even at this late date to his great kindness and faith in me. sticking to business principles mr. handy trusted me because he believed we would conduct our young business on conservative and proper lines, and i well remember about this time an example of how hard it is sometimes to live up to what one knows is the right business principle. not long after our concern was started our best customer--that is, the man who made the largest consignments--asked that we should allow him to draw in advance on current shipments before the produce or a bill of lading were actually in hand. we, of course, wished to oblige this important man, but i, as the financial member of the firm, objected, though i feared we should lose his business. the situation seemed very serious; my partner was impatient with me for refusing to yield, and in this dilemma i decided to go personally to see if i could not induce our customer to relent. i had been unusually fortunate when i came face to face with men in winning their friendship, and my partner's displeasure put me on my mettle. i felt that when i got into touch with this gentleman i could convince him that what he proposed would result in a bad precedent. my reasoning (in my own mind) was logical and convincing. i went to see him, and put forth all the arguments that i had so carefully thought out. but he stormed about, and in the end i had the further humiliation of confessing to my partner that i had failed. i had been able to accomplish absolutely nothing. naturally, he was very much disturbed at the possibility of losing our most valued connection, but i insisted and we stuck to our principles and refused to give the shipper the accommodation he had asked. what was our surprise and gratification to find that he continued his relations with us as though nothing had happened, and did not again refer to the matter. i learned afterward that an old country banker, named john gardener, of norwalk, o., who had much to do with our consignor, was watching this little matter intently, and i have ever since believed that he originated the suggestion to tempt us to do what we stated we did not do as a test, and his story about our firm stand for what we regarded as sound business principles did us great good. about this time i began to go out and solicit business--a branch of work i had never before attempted. i undertook to visit every person in our part of the country who was in any way connected with the kind of business that we were engaged in, and went pretty well over the states of ohio and indiana. i made up my mind that i could do this best by simply introducing our firm, and not pressing for immediate consignments. i told them that i represented clark & rockefeller, commission merchants, and that i had no wish to interfere with any connection that they had at present, but if the opportunity offered we should be glad to serve them, etc., etc. to our great surprise, business came in upon us so fast that we hardly knew how to take care of it, and in the first year our sales amounted to half a million dollars. then, and indeed for many years after, it seemed as though there was no end to the money needed to carry on and develop the business. as our successes began to come, i seldom put my head upon the pillow at night without speaking a few words to myself in this wise: "now a little success, soon you will fall down, soon you will be overthrown. because you have got a start, you think you are quite a merchant; look out, or you will lose your head--go steady." these intimate conversations with myself, i am sure, had a great influence on my life. i was afraid i could not stand my prosperity, and tried to teach myself not to get puffed up with any foolish notions. my loans from my father were many. our relations on finances were a source of some anxiety to me, and were not quite so humorous as they seem now as i look back at them. occasionally he would come to me and say that if i needed money in the business he would be able to loan some, and as i always needed capital i was glad indeed to get it, even at per cent. interest. just at the moment when i required the money most he was apt to say: "my son, i find i have got to have that money." "of course, you shall have it at once," i would answer, but i knew that he was testing me, and that when i paid him, he would hold the money without its earning anything for a little time, and then offer it back later. i confess that this little discipline should have done me good, and perhaps did, but while i concealed it from him, the truth is i was not particularly pleased with his application of tests to discover if my financial ability was equal to such shocks. interest at per cent. these experiences with my father remind me that in the early days there was often much discussion as to what should be paid for the use of money. many people protested that the rate of per cent. was outrageous, and none but a wicked man would exact such a charge. i was accustomed to argue that money was worth what it would bring--no one would pay per cent., or per cent., or per cent. unless the borrower believed that at this rate it was profitable to employ it. as i was always the borrower at that time, i certainly did not argue for paying more than was necessary. among the most persistent and heated discussions i ever had were those with the dear old lady who kept the boarding-house where my brother william and i lived when we were away from home at school. i used to greatly enjoy these talks, for she was an able woman and a good talker, and as she charged us only a dollar a week for board and lodging, and fed us well, i certainly was her friend. this was about the usual price for board in the small towns in those days, where the produce was raised almost entirely on the place. this estimable lady was violently opposed to loaners obtaining high rates of interest, and we had frequent and earnest arguments on the subject. she knew that i was accustomed to make loans for my father, and she was familiar with the rates secured. but all the arguments in the world did not change the rate, and it came down only when the supply of money grew more plentiful. i have usually found that important alterations in public opinion in regard to business matters have been of slow growth along the line of proved economic theory--very rarely have improvements in these relationships come about through hastily devised legislation. one can hardly realize how difficult it was to get capital for active business enterprises at that time. in the country farther west much higher rates were paid, which applied usually to personal loans on which a business risk was run, but it shows how different the conditions for young business men were then than now. a nimble borrower speaking of borrowing at the banks reminds me of one of the most strenuous financial efforts i ever made. we had to raise the money to accept an offer for a large business. it required many hundreds of thousands of dollars--and in cash--securities would not answer. i received the message at about noon and had to get off on the three-o'clock train. i drove from bank to bank, asking each president or cashier, whomever i could find first, to get ready for me all the funds he could possibly lay hands on. i told them i would be back to get the money later. i rounded up all of our banks in the city, and made a second journey to get the money, and kept going until i secured the necessary amount. with this i was off on the three-o'clock train, and closed the transaction. in these early days i was a good deal of a traveller, visiting our plants, making new connections, seeing people, arranging plans to extend our business--and it often called for very rapid work. raising church funds when i was but seventeen or eighteen i was elected as a trustee in the church. it was a mission branch, and occasionally i had to hear members who belonged to the main body speak of the mission as though it were not quite so good as the big mother church. this strengthened our resolve to show them that we could paddle our own canoe. our first church was not a very grand affair, and there was a mortgage of $ , on it which had been a dispiriting influence for years. the holder of the mortgage had long demanded that he should be paid, but somehow even the interest was barely kept up, and the creditor finally threatened to sell us out. as it happened, the money had been lent by a deacon in the church, but notwithstanding this fact, he felt that he should have his money, and perhaps he really needed it. anyhow, he proposed to take such steps as were necessary to get it. the matter came to a head one sunday morning, when the minister announced from the pulpit that the $ , would have to be raised, or we should lose our church building. i therefore found myself at the door of the church as the congregation came and went. as each member came by i buttonholed him, and got him to promise to give something toward the extinguishing of that debt. i pleaded and urged, and almost threatened. as each one promised, i put his name and the amount down in my little book, and continued to solicit from every possible subscriber. this campaign for raising the money which started that morning after church, lasted for several months. it was a great undertaking to raise such a sum of money in small amounts ranging from a few cents to the more magnificent promises of gifts to be paid at the rate of twenty-five or fifty cents per week. the plan absorbed me. i contributed what i could, and my first ambition to earn more money was aroused by this and similar undertakings in which i was constantly engaged. but at last the $ , was all in hand and a proud day it was when the debt was extinguished. i hope the members of the mother church were properly humiliated to see how far we had gone beyond their expectations, but i do not now recall that they expressed the surprise that we flattered ourselves they must have felt. the begging experiences i had at that time were full of interest. i went at the task with pride rather than the reverse, and i continued it until my increasing cares and responsibilities compelled me to resign the actual working out of details to others. chapter iii the standard oil company it would be surprising if in an organization which included a great number of men there should not be an occasional employee here and there who acted, in connection with the business or perhaps in conducting his own affairs, in a way which might be criticized. even in a comparatively small organization it is wellnigh impossible to restrain this occasional man who is over-zealous for his own or his company's advancement. to judge the character of all the members of a great organization or the organization itself by the actions of a few individuals would be manifestly unfair. it has been said that i forced the men who became my partners in the oil business to join with me. i would not have been so short-sighted. if it were true that i followed such tactics, i ask, would it have been possible to make of such men life-long companions? would they accept, and remain for many years in positions of the greatest trust, and finally, could any one have formed of such men, if they had been so browbeaten, a group which has for all these years worked in loyal harmony, with fair dealing among themselves as well as with others, building up efficiency and acting in entire unity? this powerful organization has not only lasted but its efficiency has increased. for fourteen years i have been out of business, and in eight or ten years went only once to the company's office. in the summer of i visited again the room at the top of the standard oil company's building, where the officers of the company and the heads of departments have had their luncheon served for many years. i was surprised to find so many men who had come to the front since my last visit years ago. afterward i had an opportunity to talk with old associates and many new ones, and it was a source of great gratification to me to find that the same spirit of coöperation and harmony existed unchanged. this practice of lunching together, a hundred or more at long tables in most intimate and friendly association, is another indication of what i contend, slight as it may seem to be at first thought. would these people seek each other's companionship day after day if they had been forced into this relation? people in such a position do not go on for long in a pleasant and congenial intimacy. for years the standard oil company has developed step by step, and i am convinced that it has done well its work of supplying to the people the products from petroleum at prices which have decreased as the efficiency of the business has been built up. it gradually extended its services first to the large centres, and then to towns, and now to the smallest places, going to the homes of its customers, delivering the oil to suit the convenience of the actual users. this same system is being followed out in various parts of the world. the company has, for example, three thousand tank wagons supplying american oil to towns and even small hamlets in europe. its own depots and employees deliver it in a somewhat similar way in japan, china, india, and the chief countries of the world. do you think this trade has been developed by anything but hard work? this plan of selling our products direct to the consumer and the exceptionally rapid growth of the business bred a certain antagonism which i suppose could not have been avoided, but this same idea of dealing with the consumer directly has been followed by others and in many lines of trade, without creating, so far as i recall, any serious opposition. this is a very interesting and important point, and i have often wondered if the criticism which centred upon us did not come from the fact that we were among the first, if not the first, to work out the problems of direct selling to the user on a broad scale. this was done in a fair spirit and with due consideration for everyone's rights. we did not ruthlessly go after the trade of our competitors and attempt to ruin it by cutting prices or instituting a spy system. we had set ourselves the task of building up as rapidly and as broadly as possible the volume of consumption. let me try to explain just what happened. to get the advantage of the facilities we had in manufacture, we sought the utmost market in all lands--we needed volume. to do this we had to create selling methods far in advance of what then existed; we had to dispose of two, or three, or four gallons of oil where one had been sold before, and we could not rely upon the usual trade channels then existing to accomplish this. it was never our purpose to interfere with a dealer who adequately cultivated his field of operations, but when we saw a new opportunity or a new place for extending the sale by further and effective facilities, we made it our business to provide them. in this way we opened many new lines in which others have shared. in this development we had to employ many comparatively new men. the ideal way to supply material for higher positions is, of course, to recruit the men from among the youngest in the company's service, but our expansion was too rapid to permit this in all cases. that some of these employees were over-zealous in going after sales it would not be surprising to learn, but they were acting in violation of the expressed and known wishes of the company. but even these instances, i am convinced, occurred so seldom, by comparison with the number of transactions we carried on, that they were really the exceptions that proved the rule. every week in the year for many, many years, this concern has brought into this country more than a million dollars gold, all from the products produced by american labour. i am proud of the record, and believe most americans will be when they understand some things better. these achievements, the development of this great foreign trade, the owning of ships to carry the oil in bulk by the most economical methods, the sending out of men to fight for the world's markets, have cost huge sums of money, and the vast capital employed could not be raised nor controlled except by such an organization as the standard is to-day. to give a true picture of the early conditions, one must realize that the oil industry was considered a most hazardous undertaking, not altogether unlike the speculative mining undertakings we hear so much of to-day. i well remember my old and distinguished friend, rev. thomas w. armitage, for some forty years pastor of a great new york church, warning me that it was worse than folly to extend our plants and our operations. he was sure we were running unwarranted risks, that our oil supply would probably fail, the demand would decline, and he, with many others, sometimes i thought almost everybody, prophesied ruin. none of us ever dreamed of the magnitude of what proved to be the later expansion. we did our day's work as we met it, looking forward to what we could see in the distance and keeping well up to our opportunities, but laying our foundations firmly. as i have said, capital was most difficult to secure, and it was not easy to interest conservative men in this adventurous business. men of property were afraid of it, though in rare cases capitalists were induced to unite with us to a limited extent. if they bought our stock at all, they took a little of it now and then as an experiment, and we were painfully conscious that they often declined to buy new stock with many beautiful expressions of appreciation. the enterprise being so new and novel, on account of the fearfulness of certain holders in reference to its success, we frequently had to take stock to keep it from going begging, but we had such confidence in the fundamental value of the concern that we were willing to assume this risk. there are always a few men in an undertaking of this kind who would risk all on their judgment of the final result, and if the enterprise had failed, these would have been classed as visionary adventurers, and perhaps with good reason. the , men who are at work constantly in the service of the company are kept busy year in and year out. the past year has been a time of great contraction, but the standard has gone on with its plans unchecked, and the new works and buildings have not been delayed on account of lack of capital or fear of bad times. it pays its workmen well, it cares for them when sick, and pensions them when old. it has never had any important strikes, and if there is any better function of business management than giving profitable work to employees year after year, in good times and bad, i don't know what it is. another thing to be remembered about this so-called "octopus" is that there has been no "water" introduced into its capital (perhaps we felt that oil and water would not have mixed); nor in all these years has any one had to wait for money which the standard owed. it has suffered from great fires and losses, but it has taken care of its affairs in such a way that it has not found it necessary to appeal to the general public to place blocks of bonds or stock; it has used no underwriting syndicates or stock-selling schemes in any form, and it has always managed to finance new oil field operations when called upon. it is a common thing to hear people say that this company has crushed out its competitors. only the uninformed could make such an assertion. it has and always has had, and always will have, hundreds of active competitors; it has lived only because it has managed its affairs well and economically and with great vigour. to speak of competition for a minute: consider not only the able people who compete in refining oil, but all the competition in the various trades which make and sell by-products--a great variety of different businesses. and perhaps of even more importance is the competition in foreign lands. the standard is always fighting to sell the american product against the oil produced from the great fields of russia, which struggles for the trade of europe, and the burma oil, which largely affects the market in india. in all these various countries we are met with tariffs which are raised against us, local prejudices, and strange customs. in many countries we had to teach the people--the chinese, for example--to burn oil by making lamps for them; we packed the oil to be carried by camels or on the backs of runners in the most remote portions of the world; we adapted the trade to the needs of strange folk. every time we succeeded in a foreign land, it meant dollars brought to this country, and every time we failed, it was a loss to our nation and its workmen. one of our greatest helpers has been the state department in washington. our ambassadors and ministers and consuls have aided to push our way into new markets to the utmost corners of the world. i think i can speak thus frankly and enthusiastically because the working out of many of these great plans has developed largely since i retired from the business fourteen years ago. the standard has not now, and never did have a royal road to supremacy, nor is its success due to any one man, but to the multitude of able men who are working together. if the present managers of the company were to relax efforts, allow the quality of their product to degenerate, or treat their customers badly, how long would their business last? about as long as any other neglected business. to read some of the accounts of the affairs of the company, one would think that it had such a hold on the oil trade that the directors did little but come together and declare dividends. it is a pleasure for me to take this opportunity to pay tribute to the work these men are doing, not only for the company they serve, but for the foreign trade of our country; for more than half of all the product that the company makes is sold outside of the united states. if, in place of these directors, the business were taken over and run by anyone but experts, i would sell my interest for any price i could get. to succeed in a business requires the best and most earnest men to manage it, and the best men rise to the top. of its origin and early plans i will speak later. the modern corporation beyond question there is a suspicion of corporations. there may be reason for such suspicion very often; for a corporation may be moral or immoral, just as a man may be moral or the reverse; but it is folly to condemn all corporations because some are bad, or even to be unduly suspicious of all, because some are bad. but the corporation in form and character has come to stay--that is a thing that may be depended upon. even small firms are becoming corporations, because it is a convenient form of partnership. it is equally true that combinations of capital are bound to continue and to grow, and this need not alarm even the most timid if the corporation, or the series of corporations, is properly conducted with due regard for the rights of others. the day of individual competition in large affairs is past and gone--you might just as well argue that we should go back to hand labour and throw away our efficient machines--and the sober good sense of the people will accept this fact when they have studied and tried it out. just see how the list of stockholders in the great corporations is increasing by leaps and bounds. this means that all these people are becoming partners in great businesses. it is a good thing--it will bring a feeling of increased responsibility to the managers of the corporations and will make the people who have their interests involved study the facts impartially before condemning or attacking them. on this subject of industrial combinations i have often expressed my opinions; and, as i have not changed my mind, i am not averse to repeating them now, especially as the subject seems again to be so much in the public eye. the chief advantages from industrial combinations are those which can be derived from a coöperation of persons and aggregation of capital. much that one man cannot do alone two can do together, and once admit the fact that coöperation, or, what is the same thing, combination, is necessary on a small scale, the limit depends solely upon the necessities of business. two persons in partnership may be a sufficiently large combination for a small business, but if the business grows or can be made to grow, more persons and more capital must be taken in. the business may grow so large that a partnership ceases to be a proper instrumentality for its purposes, and then a corporation becomes a necessity. in most countries, as in england, this form of industrial combination is sufficient for a business co-extensive with the parent country, but it is not so in america. our federal form of government making every corporation created by a state foreign to every other state, renders it necessary for persons doing business through corporate agency to organize corporations in some or many of the different states in which their business is located. instead of doing business through the agency of one corporation they must do business through the agencies of several corporations. if the business is extended to foreign countries, and americans are not to-day satisfied with home markets alone, it will be found helpful and possibly necessary to organize corporations in such countries, for europeans are prejudiced against foreign corporations, as are the people of many of our states. these different corporations thus become coöperating agencies in the same business and are held together by common ownership of their stocks. it is too late to argue about advantages of industrial combinations. they are a necessity. and if americans are to have the privilege of extending their business in all the states of the union, and into foreign countries as well, they are a necessity on a large scale, and require the agency of more than one corporation. the dangers are that the power conferred by combination may be abused, that combinations may be formed for speculation in stocks rather than for conducting business, and that for this purpose prices may be temporarily raised instead of being lowered. these abuses are possible to a greater or less extent in all combinations, large or small, but this fact is no more of an argument against combinations than the fact that steam may explode is an argument against steam. steam is necessary and can be made comparatively safe. combination is necessary and its abuses can be minimized; otherwise our legislators must acknowledge their incapacity to deal with the most important instrument of industry. in the hearing of the industrial commission in , i then said that if i were to suggest any legislation regarding industrial combinations it would be: first, federal legislation under which corporations may be created and regulated, if that be possible. second, in lieu thereof, state legislation as nearly uniform as possible, encouraging combinations of persons and capital for the purpose of carrying on industries, but permitting state supervision, not of a character to hamper industries, but sufficient to prevent frauds upon the public. i still feel as i did in . the new opportunities i am far from believing that this will adversely affect the individual. the great economic era we are entering will give splendid opportunity to the young man of the future. one often hears the men of this new generation say that they do not have the chances that their fathers and grandfathers had. how little they know of the disadvantages from which we suffered! in my young manhood we had everything to do and nothing to do it with; we had to hew our own paths along new lines; we had little experience to go on. capital was most difficult to get, credits were mysterious things. whereas now we have a system of commercial ratings, everything was then haphazard and we suffered from a stupendous war and all the disasters which followed. compare this day with that. our comforts and opportunities are multiplied a thousand fold. the resources of our great land are now actually opening up and are scarcely touched; our home markets are vast, and we have just begun to think of the foreign peoples we can serve--the people who are years behind us in civilization. in the east a quarter of the human race is just awakening. the men of this generation are entering into a heritage which makes their fathers' lives look poverty-stricken by comparison. i am naturally an optimist, and when it comes to a statement of what our people will accomplish in the future, i am unable to express myself with sufficient enthusiasm. there are many things we must do to attain the highest benefit from all these great blessings; and not the least of these is to build up our reputation throughout the whole world. the great business interests will, i hope, so comport themselves that foreign capital will consider it a desirable thing to hold shares in american companies. it is for americans to see that foreign investors are well and honestly treated, so that they will never regret purchases of our securities. i may speak thus frankly, because i am an investor in many american enterprises, but a controller of none (with one exception, and that a company which has not been much of a dividend payer), and i, like all the rest, am dependent upon the honest and capable administration of the industries. i firmly and sincerely believe that they will be so managed. the american business man you hear a good many people of pessimistic disposition say much about greed in american life. one would think to hear them talk that we were a race of misers in this country. to lay too much stress upon the reports of greed in the newspapers would be folly, since their function is to report the unusual and even the abnormal. when a man goes properly about his daily affairs, the public prints say nothing; it is only when something extraordinary happens to him that he is discussed. but because he is thus brought into prominence occasionally, you surely would not say that these occasions represented his normal life. it is by no means for money alone that these active-minded men labour--they are engaged in a fascinating occupation. the zest of the work is maintained by something better than the mere accumulation of money, and, as i think i have said elsewhere, the standards of business are high and are getting better all the time. i confess i have no sympathy with the idea so often advanced that our basis of all judgments in this country is founded on money. if this were true, we should be a nation of money hoarders instead of spenders. nor do i admit that we are so small-minded a people as to be jealous of the success of others. it is the other way about: we are the most extraordinarily ambitious, and the success of one man in any walk of life spurs the others on. it does not sour them, and it is a libel even to suggest so great a meanness of spirit. in reading the newspapers, where so much is taken for granted in considering things on a money standard, i think we need some of the sense of humour possessed by an irish neighbour of mine, who built what we regarded as an extremely ugly house, which stood out in bright colours as we looked from our windows. my taste in architecture differed so widely from that affected by my irish friend, that we planted out the view of his house by moving some large trees to the end of our property. another neighbour who watched this work going on asked mr. foley why mr. rockefeller moved all these big trees and cut off the view between the houses. foley, with the quick wit of his country, responded instantly: "it's invy, they can't stand looking at the ividence of me prosperity." in my early days men acted just as they do now, no doubt. when there was anything to be done for general trade betterment, almost every man had some good reason for believing that his case was a special one different from all the rest. for every foolish thing he did, or wanted to do, for every unbusiness-like plan he had, he always pleaded that it was necessary in his case. he was the one man who had to sell at less than cost, to disrupt all the business plans of others in his trade, because his individual position was so absolutely different from all the rest. it was often a heart-breaking undertaking to convince those men that the perfect occasion which would lead to the perfect opportunity would never come, even if they waited until the crack o' doom. then, again, we had the type of man who really never knew all the facts about his own affairs. many of the brightest kept their books in such a way that they did not actually know when they were making money on a certain operation and when they were losing. this unintelligent competition was a hard matter to contend with. good old-fashioned common sense has always been a mighty rare commodity. when a man's affairs are not going well, he hates to study the books and face the truth. from the first, the men who managed the standard oil company kept their books intelligently as well as correctly. we knew how much we made and where we gained or lost. at least, we tried not to deceive ourselves. my ideas of business are no doubt old-fashioned, but the fundamental principles do not change from generation to generation, and sometimes i think that our quick-witted american business men, whose spirit and energy are so splendid, do not always sufficiently study the real underlying foundations of business management. i have spoken of the necessity of being frank and honest with oneself about one's own affairs: many people assume that they can get away from the truth by avoiding thinking about it, but the natural law is inevitable, and the sooner it is recognized, the better. one hears a great deal about wages and why they must be maintained at a high level, by the railroads, for example. a labourer is worthy of his hire, no less, but no more, and in the long run he must contribute an equivalent for what he is paid. if he does not do this, he is probably pauperized, and you at once throw out the balance of things. you can't hold up conditions artificially, and you can't change the underlying laws of trade. if you try, you must inevitably fail. all this may be trite and obvious, but it is remarkable how many men overlook what should be the obvious. these are facts we can't get away from--a business man must adapt himself to the natural conditions as they exist from month to month and year to year. sometimes i feel that we americans think we can find a short road to success, and it may appear that often this feat is accomplished; but real efficiency in work comes from knowing your facts and building upon that sure foundation. many men of wealth do not retire from business even when they can. they are not willing to be idle, or they have a just pride in their work and want to perfect the plans in which they have faith, or, what is of still more consequence, they may feel the call to expand and build up for the benefit of their employees and associates, and these men are the great builders up in our country. consider for a moment how much would have been left undone if our prosperous american business men had sat down with folded hands when they had acquired a competency. i have respect for all these reasons, but if a man has succeeded, he has brought upon himself corresponding responsibilities, and our institutions devoted to helping men to help themselves need the brain of the american business man as well as part of his money. some of these men, however, are so absorbed in their business affairs that they hardly have time to think of anything else. if they do interest themselves in a work outside of their own office and undertake to raise money, they begin with an apology, as if they are ashamed of themselves. "i am no beggar," i have heard many of them say, to which i could only reply: "i am sorry you feel that way about it." i have been this sort of beggar all my life and the experiences i have had were so interesting and important to me that i will venture to speak of them in a later chapter. chapter iv some experiences in the oil business during the years when i was just coming to man's estate, the produce business of clark & rockefeller went on prosperously, and in the early sixties we organized a firm to refine and deal in oil. it was composed of messrs. james and richard clark, mr. samuel andrews, and the firm of clark & rockefeller, who were the company. it was my first direct connection with the oil trade. as the new concern grew the firm of clark & rockefeller was called upon to supply a large special capital. mr. samuel andrews was the manufacturing man of the concern, and he had learned the process of cleansing the crude oil by the use of sulphuric acid. in the partnership was dissolved; it was decided that the cash assets should be collected and the debts paid, but this left the plant and the good-will to be disposed of. it was suggested that they should go to the highest bidder among ourselves. this seemed a just settlement to me, and the question came up as to when the sale should be held and who would conduct it. my partners had a lawyer in the room to represent them, though i had not considered having a legal representative; i thought i could take care of so simple a transaction. the lawyer acted as the auctioneer, and it was suggested that we should go on with the sale then and there. all agreed, and so the auction began. i had made up my mind that i wanted to go into the oil trade, not as a special partner, but actively on a larger scale, and with mr. andrews wished to buy that business. i thought that i saw great opportunities in refining oil, and did not realize at that time that the whole oil industry would soon be swamped by so many men rushing into it. but i was full of hope, and i had already arranged to get financial accommodation to an amount that i supposed would easily pay for the plant and good-will. i was willing to give up the other firm of clark & rockefeller, and readily settled that later--my old partner, mr. clark, taking over the business. the bidding began, i think, at $ premium. i bid a thousand; they bid two thousand; and so on, little by little, the price went up. neither side was willing to stop bidding, and the amount gradually rose until it reached $ , , which was much more than we supposed the concern to be worth. finally, it advanced to $ , , and by slow stages to $ , , and i almost feared for my ability to buy the business and have the money to pay for it. at last the other side bid $ , . without hesitation i said $ , . mr. clark then said: "i'll go no higher, john; the business is yours." "shall i give you a check for it now?" i suggested. "no," mr. clark said, "i'm glad to trust you for it; settle at your convenience." the firm of rockefeller & andrews was then established, and this was really my start in the oil trade. it was my most important business for about forty years until, at the age of about fifty-six, i retired. the story of the early history of the oil trade is too well known to bear repeating in detail. the cleansing of crude petroleum was a simple and easy process, and at first the profits were very large. naturally, all sorts of people went into it: the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick-maker began to refine oil, and it was only a short time before more of the finished product was put on the market than could possibly be consumed. the price went down and down until the trade was threatened with ruin. it seemed absolutely necessary to extend the market for oil by exporting to foreign countries, which required a long and most difficult development; and also to greatly improve the processes of refining so that oil could be made and sold cheaply, yet with a profit, and to use as by-products all of the materials which in the less-efficient plants were lost or thrown away. these were the problems which confronted us almost at the outset, and this great depression led to consultations with our neighbors and friends in the business in the effort to bring some order out of what was rapidly becoming a state of chaos. to accomplish all these tasks of enlarging the market and improving the methods of manufacture in a large way was beyond the power or ability of any concern as then constituted. it could only be done, we reasoned, by increasing our capital and availing ourselves of the best talent and experience. it was with this idea that we proceeded to buy the largest and best refining concerns and centralize the administration of them with a view to securing greater economy and efficiency. the business grew faster than we had anticipated. this enterprise, conducted by men of application and ability working hard together, soon built up unusual facilities in manufacture, in transportation, in finance, and in extending markets. we had our troubles and set-backs; we suffered from some severe fires; and the supply of crude oil was most uncertain. our plans were constantly changed by changed conditions. we developed great facilities in an oil centre, erected storage tanks, and connected pipe-lines; then the oil failed and our work was thrown away. at best it was a speculative trade, and i wonder that we managed to pull through so often; but we were gradually learning how to conduct a most difficult business. foreign markets several years ago, when asked how our business grew to such large proportions i explained that our first organization was a partnership and afterward a corporation in ohio. that was sufficient for a local refining business. but, had we been dependent solely upon local business, we should have failed long since. we were forced to extend our markets into every part of the world. this made the sea-board cities a necessary place of business, and we soon discovered that manufacturing for export could be more economically carried on there; hence refineries were established at brooklyn, at bayonne, at philadelphia, at baltimore, and necessary corporations were organized in the different states. we soon discovered, as the business grew, that the primary method of transporting oil in barrels could not last. the package often cost more than the contents, and the forests of the country were not sufficient to supply cheaply the necessary material for an extended time. hence we devoted attention to other methods of transportation, adopted the pipe-line system, and found capital for pipe-line construction equal to the necessities of the business. to operate pipe-lines required franchises from the states in which they were located--and consequently corporations in those states--just as railroads running through different states are forced to operate under separate state charters. to perfect the pipe-line system of transportation required many millions of capital. the entire oil business is dependent upon the pipe-line. without it every well would be less valuable and every market at home and abroad would be more difficult to serve or retain, because of the additional cost to the consumer. the expansion of the whole industry would have been retarded without this method of transportation. then the pipe-line system required other improvements, such as tank-cars upon railroads, and finally the tank-steamer. capital had to be furnished for them and corporations created to own and operate them. everyone of the steps taken was necessary if the business was to be properly developed, and only through such successive steps and by a great aggregation of capital is america to-day enabled to utilize the bounty which its land pours forth, and to furnish the world with light. the start of the standard oil company in the year the firms of william rockefeller & co., rockefeller & andrews, rockefeller & co., and s.v. harkness and h.m. flagler united in forming the firm of rockefeller, andrews & flagler. the cause leading to the formation of this firm was the desire to unite our skill and capital in order to carry on a business of greater magnitude with economy and efficiency in place of the smaller business that each had heretofore conducted separately. as time went on and the possibilities became apparent, we found further capital to be necessary; then we interested others and organized the standard oil company, with a capital of $ , , . later we saw that more money could be utilized, found persons who were willing to invest with us, and increased our capital to $ , , , in , and afterward in to $ , , . as the business grew, and markets were obtained at home and abroad, more persons and capital were added to the business, and new corporate agencies were obtained or organized, the object being always the same--to extend our operations by furnishing the best and cheapest products. i ascribe the success of the standard oil company to its consistent policy of making the volume of its business large through the merit and cheapness of its products. it has spared no expense in utilizing the best and most efficient method of manufacture. it has sought for the best superintendents and workmen and paid the best wages. it has not hesitated to sacrifice old machinery and old plants for new and better ones. it has placed its manufactories at the points where they could supply markets at the least expense. it has not only sought markets for its principal products, but for all possible by-products, sparing no expense in introducing them to the public in every nook and corner of the world. it has not hesitated to invest millions of dollars in methods for cheapening the gathering and distribution of oils by pipe-lines, special cars, tank-steamers, and tank-wagons. it has erected tank-stations at railroad centres in every part of the country to cheapen the storage and delivery of oil. it has had faith in american oil and has brought together vast sums of money for the purpose of making it what it is, and for holding its market against the competition of russia and all the countries which are producers of oil and competitors against american products. the insurance plans here is an example of one of the ways in which we achieved certain economies and gained real advantage. fires are always to be reckoned with in oil refining and storage, as we learned by dear experience, but in having our plants distributed all over the country the unit of risk and possible loss was minimized. no one fire could ruin us, and we were able thus to establish a system of insuring ourselves. our reserve fund which provided for this insurance could not be wiped out all at once, as might be the case with a concern having its plants together or near each other. then we studied and perfected our organization to prevent fires, improving our appliances and plans year after year until the profit on this insurance feature became a very considerable item in the standard earnings. it can easily be seen that this saving in insurance, and minimizing the loss by fire affected the profits, not only in refining, but touched many other associated enterprises: the manufacture of by-products, the tanks and steamers, the pumping-stations, etc. we devoted ourselves exclusively to the oil business and its products. the company never went into outside ventures, but kept to the enormous task of perfecting its own organization. we educated our own men; we trained many of them from boyhood; we strove to keep them loyal by providing them full scope for their ability; they were given opportunities to buy stock, and the company itself helped them to finance their purchases. not only here in america, but all over the world, our young men were given chances to advance themselves, and the sons of the old partners were welcomed to the councils and responsibilities of the administration. i may say that the company has been in all its history, and i am sure it is at present, a most happy association of busy people. i have been asked if my advice is not often sought by the present managers. i can say that if it were sought it would be gladly given. but the fact is that since i retired it has been very little required. i am still a large stockholder, indeed i have increased my holdings in the company's stock since i relinquished any part in its management. why the standard pays large dividends let me explain what many people, perhaps, fully appreciate, but some, i am sure, do not. the standard pays four dividends a year: the first in march, which is the result of the busiest season of the whole twelvemonth, because more oil is consumed in winter than at other seasons, and three other dividends later, at about evenly divided periods. now, these dividends run up to per cent. on the capital stock of $ , , , but that does not mean that the profit is per cent. on the capital invested. as a matter of fact, it represents the results of the savings and surplus gained through all the thirty-five or forty years of the workings of the companies. the capital stock could be raised several hundred per cent. without a penny of over-capitalization or "water"; the actual value is there. if this increase had been made, the rate would represent a moderate dividend-paying power of about to per cent. a normal growth study for a moment the result of what has been a natural and absolutely normal increase in the value of the company's possessions. many of the pipe-lines were constructed during a period when costs were about per cent. of what they are now. great fields of oil lands were purchased as virgin soil, which later yielded an immense output. quantities of low-grade crude oil which had been bought by the company when it was believed to be of little value, but which the company hoped eventually to utilize, were greatly increased in value by inventions for refining it and for using the residues formerly considered almost worthless. dock property was secured at low prices and made valuable by buildings and development. large unimproved tracts of land near the important business centres were acquired. we brought our industries to these places, made the land useful, and increased the value, not only of our own property, but of the land adjacent to it to many times the original worth. wherever we have established businesses in this and other countries we have bought largely of property. i remember a case where we paid only $ , or so an acre for some rough land to be used for such purposes, and, through the improvements we created, the value has gone up or times as much in or years. others have had similar increases in the value of their properties, but have enlarged their capitalization correspondingly. they have escaped the criticism which has been directed against us, who with our old-fashioned and conservative notions have continued without such expansion of capitalization. there is nothing strange or miraculous in all this; it was all done through this natural law of trade development. it is what the astors and many other large landholders did. if a man starts in business with $ , capital and gradually increases his property and investment by retaining in his concern much of his earnings, instead of spending them, and thus accumulates values until his investment is, say, $ , , it would be folly to base the percentage of his actual profits only on the original $ , with which he started. here, again, i think the managers of the standard should be praised, and not blamed. they have set an example for upbuilding on the most conservative lines, and in a business which has always been, to say the least, hazardous, and to a large degree unavoidably speculative. yet no one who has relied upon the ownership of this stock to pay a yearly income has been disappointed, and the stock is held by an increasing number of small holders the country over. the management of capital we never attempted, as i have already said, to sell the standard oil stock on the market through the stock exchange. in the early days the risks of the business were great, and if the stock had been dealt in on the exchange its fluctuations would no doubt have been violent. we preferred to have the attention of the owners and administrators of the business directed wholly to the legitimate development of the enterprise rather than to speculation in its shares. the interests of the company have been carefully conserved. we have been criticized for paying large dividends on a capitalization which represents but a small part of the actual property owned by the company. if we had increased the capitalization to bring it up to the real value, and listed the shares on the exchange, we might have been criticized then for promoting a project to induce the public to invest. as i have indicated, the foundations of the company were so thoroughly established, and its affairs so conservatively managed, that, after the earlier period of struggle to secure adequate capital and in view of the trying experiences through which we then passed, we decided to pursue the policy of relying upon our own resources. since then we have never been obliged to lean very heavily upon the financial public, but have sought rather to hold ourselves in position not only to protect our own large and important interests, but to be prepared in times of stress to lend a helping hand to others. the company has suffered from the statements of people who, i am convinced, are not familiar with all the facts. as i long ago ceased to have any active part in the management of its affairs perhaps i may venture the opinion that men who devote themselves to building up the sale of american products all over the world, in competition with foreign manufacturers should be appreciated and encouraged. there have been so many tales told about the so-called speculations of the standard oil company that i may say a word about that subject. this company is interested only in oil products and such manufacturing affairs as are legitimately connected therewith. it has plants for the making of barrels and tanks; and building pumps for pumping oil; it owns vessels for carrying oil, tank-cars, pipes for transporting oil, etc., etc.--but it is not concerned in speculative interests. the oil business itself is speculative enough, and its successful administration requires a firm hand and a cool head. the company pays dividends to its stockholders which it earns in carrying on this oil trade. this money the stockholders can and do use as they think fit, but the company is in no way responsible for the disposition that the stockholders make of their dividends. the standard oil company does not own or control "a chain of banks," nor has it any interest directly or indirectly in any bank. its relations are confined to the functions of ordinary banking, such as other depositors have. it buys and sells its own exchange; and these dealings, extending over many years, have made its bills of exchange acceptable all over the world. character the essential thing in speaking of the real beginning of the standard oil company, it should be remembered that it was not so much the consolidation of the firms in which we had a personal interest, but the coming together of the men who had the combined brain power to do the work, which was the actual starting-point. perhaps it is worth while to emphasize again the fact that it is not merely capital and "plants" and the strictly material things which make up a business, but the character of the men behind these things, their personalities, and their abilities; these are the essentials to be reckoned with. late in , we began the purchase of some of the more important of the refinery interests of cleveland. the conditions were so chaotic and uncertain that most of the refiners were very desirous to get out of the business. we invariably offered those who wanted to sell the option of taking cash or stock in the company. we very much preferred to have them take the stock, because a dollar in those days looked as large as a cart-wheel, but as a matter of business policy we found it desirable to offer them the option, and in most cases they were even precipitate in their choice of the cash. they knew what a dollar would buy, but they were very sceptical in regard to the possibilities of resurrecting the oil business and giving any permanent value to these shares. these purchases continued over a period of years, during which many of the more important refineries at cleveland were bought by the standard oil company. some of the smaller concerns, however, continued in the business for many years, although they had the same opportunity as others to sell. there were always, at other refining points which were regarded as more favourably located than cleveland, many refineries in successful operation. the backus purchase all these purchases of refineries were conducted with the utmost fairness and good faith on our part, yet in many quarters the stories of certain of these transactions have been told in such form as to give the impression that the sales were made most unwillingly and only because the sellers were forced to make them by the most ruthless exertion of superior power. there was one transaction, viz., the purchase of the property of the backus oil company, which has been variously exploited, and i am made to appear as having personally robbed a defenceless widow of an extremely valuable property, paying her therefor only a mere fraction of its worth. the story as told is one which makes the strongest appeal to the sympathy and, if it were true, would represent a shocking instance of cruelty in crushing a defenceless woman. it is probable that its wide circulation and its acceptance as true by those who know nothing of the facts has awakened more hostility against the standard oil company and against me personally than any charge which has been made. this is my reason for entering so much into detail in this particular case, which i am exceedingly reluctant to do, and for many years have refrained from doing. mr. f.m. backus, a highly respected citizen of cleveland and an old and personal friend of mine, had for several years prior to his death in been engaged in the lubricating oil business which was carried on after his death as a corporation known as the backus oil company. in the latter part of , our company purchased certain portions of the property of this company. the negotiations which led to this purchase extended over several weeks, being conducted on behalf of mrs. backus, as the principal stockholder, by mr. charles h. marr, and on behalf of our company by mr. peter s. jennings. i personally had nothing to do with the negotiations except that, when the matter first came up, mrs. backus requested me to call at her house, which i did, when she spoke of selling the property to our company and requested me to personally conduct the negotiations with her with reference to it. this i was obliged to decline to do, because, as i then explained to her, i was not familiar with the details of the business. in that conversation i advised her not to take any hasty action, and when she expressed fears about the future of the business, stating, for example, that she could not get cars to transport sufficient oil, i said to her that, though we were using our cars and required them in our business, yet we would loan her any number she needed, and do anything else in reason to assist her, and i did not see why she could not successfully prosecute her business in the future as in the past. i told her, however, that if after reflection she desired to pursue negotiations for the sale of her property some of our people, familiar with the lubricating oil business, would take up the question with her. as she still expressed a desire to have our company buy her property, negotiations were taken up by mr. jennings, and the only other thing that i had to do with the matter was that when our experts reported that in their judgment the value of the works, good will, and successorship which we had decided to buy were worth a certain sum, i asked them to add $ , , in order to make doubly sure that she received full value. the sale was consummated, as we supposed, to the entire satisfaction of mrs. backus, and the purchase price which had been agreed upon was paid. to my profound astonishment, a day or two after the transaction had been closed, i received from her a very unkind letter complaining that she had been unjustly treated. after investigating the matter i wrote her the following letter: november , . dear madam: i have held your note of the th inst., received yesterday, until to-day, as i wished to thoroughly review every point connected with the negotiations for the purchase of the stock of the backus oil company, to satisfy myself as to whether i had unwittingly done anything whereby you could have any right to feel injured. it is true that in the interview i had with you i suggested that if you desired to do so, you could retain an interest in the business of the backus oil company, by keeping some number of its shares, and then i understood you to say that if you sold out you wished to go entirely out of the business. that being my understanding, our arrangements were made in case you concluded to make the sale that precluded any other interests being represented, and therefore, when you did make the inquiry as to your taking some of the stock, our answer was given in accordance with the facts noted above, but not at all in the spirit in which you refer to the refusal in your note. in regard to the reference that you make as to my permitting the business of the backus oil company to _be taken_ from you, i say that in this as in all else you have written in your letter of the th inst., you do me most grievous wrong. it was but of little moment to the interests represented by me whether the business of the backus oil company was purchased or not. i believe that it was for your interest to make the sale, and am entirely candid in this statement, and beg to call your attention to the time, some two years ago, when you consulted mr. flagler and myself as to selling out your interests to mr. rose, at which time you were desirous of selling at _considerably less price_, and upon time, than you have now received in cash, and which sale you would have been glad to have closed if you could have obtained satisfactory security for the deferred payments. as to the price paid for the property, it is certainly three times greater than the cost at which we could now construct equal or better facilities; but wishing to take a liberal view of it, i urged the proposal of paying $ , , which was thought much too high by some of our parties. i believe that if you would reconsider what you have written in your letter, to which this is a reply, you must admit having done me great injustice, and i am satisfied to await upon your innate sense of right for such admission. however, in view of what seems to be your present feeling, i now offer to restore to you the purchase made by us, you simply returning the amount of money which we have invested, and leaving us as though no purchase has been made. should you not desire to accept this proposal, i offer to you , or shares of the stock at the same price that we paid for the same, with this addition, that if we keep the property we are under engagement to pay into the treasury of the backus oil company any amount which added to the amount already paid would make a total of $ , and thereby make the shares $ each. that you may not be compelled to hastily come to a conclusion, i will leave open for three days these propositions for your acceptance or declination, and in the meantime believe me, yours very truly, john d. rockefeller. neither of these offers was accepted. in order that this may not rest on my unsupported assertion, i submit the following documents: the first is a letter from mr. h.m. backus, a brother of mrs. backus's deceased husband, who had been associated with the business and had remained with the company after his death. the letter was written without any solicitation whatever on my part, but i have since received permission from mr. backus to print it. it is followed by extracts from affidavits made by the gentleman who conducted the negotiations on behalf of mrs. backus. i have no wish to reprint the complimentary allusion to myself in mr. backus's letter, but have feared to omit a word of it lest some misunderstanding ensue: bowling green, ohio, september , ' . mr. john d. rockefeller, cleveland, ohio. i do not know whether you will ever receive this letter or not, whether your secretary will throw it into the waste-basket or not, but i will do my part and get it off my mind, and it will not be my fault if you do not receive or read it. ever since the day that my deceased brother's wife, mrs. f.n. backus, wrote you the unjust and unreasonable letter in reference to the sale of the property of the old backus oil company, in which i had a small interest, i have wanted to write you and record my disapproval of that letter. i lived with my brother's family, was at the house the day you called to talk the matter of the then proposed purchase of the property with mrs. backus by her request, as she told mr. jennings that she wanted to deal through you. i was in favour of the sale from the first. i was with mrs. backus all through the trouble with mr. rose and with mr. maloney, did what i could to encourage her, and to prevent mr. rose from getting the best of her. mrs. backus, in my opinion, is an exceptionally good financier, but she does not know and no one can convince her that the best thing that ever happened to her financially was the sale of her interest in the backus oil company to your people. she does not know that five more years of the then increasing desperate competition would have bankrupted the company, and that with the big debt that she was carrying on the lot on euclid avenue, near sheriff street, she would have been swamped, and that the only thing that ever saved her and the oil business generally was the plan of john d. rockefeller. she thinks that you literally robbed her of millions, and feeds her children on that diet three times a day more or less, principally more, until it has become a mania with her, and no argument that any one else can suggest will have any effect upon her. she is wise and good in many ways, but on that one subject she is one-sided, i think. of course, if we could have been assured of continued dividends, i would have been opposed to selling the business, but that was out of the question. i know of the ten thousand dollars that was added to the purchase price of the property at your request, and i know that you paid three times the value of the property, and i know that all that ever saved our company from ruin was the sale of its property to you, and i simply want to ease my mind by doing justice to you by saying so. after the sale to your company i was simple enough to go to buffalo and try it again, but soon met with defeat and retired with my flag in the dust. i then went to duluth, and was on the top wave, till the real-estate bubble broke, and i broke with it. i have had my ups and downs, but i have tried to take my medicine and look pleasant instead of sitting down under a juniper tree and blaming my losses to john d. rockefeller. i suppose i would have put off writing this letter for another year or more as i have done so long, had it not been for a little chat that i had with mr. hanafin, superintendent of the buckeye pipe line company, a day or two since when i was relating the sale, etc., of the old b.o. co.'s business, and in that way revived the intention that had lain dormant since the last good resolution in regard to writing it was made. but it's done now, and off my mind. with much respect and admiration to john d. rockefeller i remain, yours truly, h.m. backus. it appears from the affidavits that the negotiations were conducted on behalf of mrs. backus and her company by charles h. marr, who had been in the employ of the backus company for some time, and by mr. maloney, who was the superintendent of the company from the time of its organization and was also a stockholder; and on behalf of the standard oil company by mr. peter s. jennings. there has been an impression that the standard oil company purchased for $ , property which was reasonably worth much more, and that this sacrifice was occasioned by threats and compulsion. mr. jennings requested mr. marr to submit a written proposition giving the price put by the backus company upon the several items of property and assets which it desired to sell. this statement was furnished and was annexed to mr. jennings's affidavit. the standard oil company finally decided not to purchase all of the assets of the company, but only the oil on hand, for which it paid the full market price, amounting to about $ , , and the item "works, good-will, and successorship," which were offered by mr. marr at $ , , and for which the standard offered $ , , which was promptly accepted. mr. marr made affidavit as follows: "charles h. marr, being duly sworn, says that, in behalf of the backus oil company, he conducted the negotiations which led to the sale of its works, good-will, and stock of oils and during same when said company had offered to sell its entire stock for a gross sum, to wit, the sum of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars ($ , ), which was to include cash on hand, accrued dividends, accounts, etc., said jennings requested said company to submit an itemized proposition fixing values upon different articles proposed to be sold, and that he, after full consideration with mrs. backus and with her knowledge and consent, submitted the written proposition attached to said jennings's affidavit; that the same is in his handwriting, and was copied at the office of the american lubricating oil company from the original by himself at the request of said jennings, and said original was submitted by affiant to mrs. backus. "that she was fully cognizant of all the details of said negotiations and the items and values attached thereto in said proposition, consulted with at every step thereof, none of which were taken without her advice, as she was by far the largest stockholder in said backus oil company, owning about seven-tenths ( / ) of said company's stock, and she fully approved of said proposition, and accepted the offer of said jennings to pay sixty thousand dollars ($ , ) for the item works, good-will, and successorship without any opposition, so far as affiant knows. and affiant says that the amount realized from the assets of the backus oil company, including purchase price, has been about one hundred and thirty-three thousand dollars ($ , ), and a part of its assets have not yet been converted into money as affiant is informed." mr. marr, who was, it will be remembered, the widow's representative, refers to the negotiations leading up to the purchase and says: "but affiant says that nothing that was said by mr. jennings or anybody else during their progress could be construed into a threat, nor did anything that was said or done by said jennings hasten or push forward said trade." he also says: "affiant says that the negotiations extended over a period of from two to three weeks ... and during their pendency that mrs. backus frequently urged affiant to bring the same to a conclusion as she was anxious to dispose of said business and relieve herself from further care and responsibility therewith. and when the said offer of purchase by said jennings upon the terms aforesaid was conveyed to her by affiant, she expressed herself as entirely satisfied therewith." mr. maloney made an affidavit that he was superintendent of the backus oil company from the time of its organization, and also a stockholder in the company, and had been associated in business with mr. backus for many years previous to his death; that he took part in the negotiations for the sale, representing mrs. backus in the matter. after speaking of the negotiations, he says: "finally, after consultation, the proposition was made by her to dispose of the works, good-will, and successorship for $ , . a few days after the proposal was made to her to pay the sum of $ , for works and good-will, and to take the oil on hand at its market price, which proposition she accepted, and the sale was concluded. "during these negotiations mrs. backus was anxious to sell, and was entirely satisfied with the sale after it was concluded. i know of the fact that about a year and a half previous she had offered to sell out the stock of the backus oil company at from to per cent. less than she received in the sale referred to, and the value of the works and property sold had not increased in the meantime. i was well acquainted with the works of the backus oil company and their value. i could at the time of the sale have built the works new for $ , . there were no threats nor intimidations, nor anything of the kind used to force the sale. the negotiations were pleasant and fair, and the price paid in excess of the value, and satisfactory to mrs. backus and all concerned for her." so far as i can see, after more than years have elapsed, there was nothing but the most kindly and considerate treatment of mrs. backus on the part of the standard oil company. i regret that mrs. backus did not take at least part of her pay in standard certificates, as we suggested she should do. the question of rebates of all the subjects which seem to have attracted the attention of the public to the affairs of the standard oil company, the matter of rebates from railroads has perhaps been uppermost. the standard oil company of ohio, of which i was president, did receive rebates from the railroads prior to , but received no advantages for which it did not give full compensation. the reason for rebates was that such was the railroads' method of business. a public rate was made and collected by the railroad companies, but, so far as my knowledge extends, was seldom retained in full; a portion of it was repaid to the shippers as a rebate. by this method the real rate of freight which any shipper paid was not known by his competitors nor by other railroad companies, the amount being a matter of bargain with the carrying company. each shipper made the best bargain that he could, but whether he was doing better than his competitor was only a matter of conjecture. much depended upon whether the shipper had the advantage of competition of carriers. the standard oil company of ohio, being situated at cleveland, had the advantage of different carrying lines, as well as of water transportation in the summer; taking advantage of those facilities, it made the best bargains possible for its freights. other companies sought to do the same. the standard gave advantages to the railroads for the purpose of reducing the cost of transportation of freight. it offered freights in large quantity, car-loads and train-loads. it furnished loading facilities and discharging facilities at great cost. it provided regular traffic, so that a railroad could conduct its transportation to the best advantage and use its equipment to the full extent of its hauling capacity without waiting for the refiner's convenience. it exempted railroads from liability for fire and carried its own insurance. it provided at its own expense terminal facilities which permitted economies in handling. for these services it obtained contracts for special allowances on freights. but notwithstanding these special allowances, this traffic from the standard oil company was far more profitable to the railroad companies than the smaller and irregular traffic, which might have paid a higher rate. to understand the situation which affected the giving and taking of rebates it must be remembered that the railroads were all eager to enlarge their freight traffic. they were competing with the facilities and rates offered by the boats on lake and canal and by the pipe-lines. all these means of transporting oil cut into the business of the railroads, and they were desperately anxious to successfully meet this competition. as i have stated we provided means for loading and unloading cars expeditiously, agreed to furnish a regular fixed number of car-loads to transport each day, and arranged with them for all the other things that i have mentioned, the final result being to reduce the cost of transportation for both the railroads and ourselves. all this was following in the natural laws of trade. pipe-lines vs. railroads the building of the pipe-lines introduced another formidable competitor to the railroads, but as oil could be transported by pumping through pipes at a much less cost than by hauling in tank-cars in a railroad train the development of the pipe-line was inevitable. the question was simply whether the oil traffic was sufficient in volume to make the investment profitable. when pipe-lines had been built to oil fields where the wells had ceased to yield, as often happened, they were about the most useless property imaginable. an interesting feature developed through the relations which grew up between the railroads and the pipe-lines. in many cases it was necessary to combine the facilities of both, because the pipes reached only part of the way, and from the place where they ended the railroad carried the oil to its final destination. in some instances a railroad had formerly carried the oil the entire distance upon an agreed rate, but now that this oil was partly pumped by pipe-lines and partly carried by rail, the freight payment was divided between the two. but, as a through rate had been provided, the owners of the pipe-line agreed to remit a part of its charges to the railroad, so we had cases where the standard paid a rebate to the railroad instead of the reverse--but i do not remember having heard any complaint of this coming from the students of these complicated subjects. the profits of the standard oil company did not come from advantages given by railroads. the railroads, rather, were the ones who profited by the traffic of the standard oil company, and whatever advantage it received in its constant efforts to reduce rates of freight was only one of the many elements of lessening cost to the consumer which enabled us to increase our volume of business the world over because we could reduce the selling price. how general was the complicated bargaining for rates can hardly be imagined; everyone got the best rate that he could. after the passage of the interstate commerce act, it was learned that many small companies which shipped limited quantities had received lower rates than we had been able to secure, notwithstanding the fact that we had made large investments to provide for terminal facilities, regular shipments, and other economies. i well remember a bright man from boston who had much to say about rebates and drawbacks. he was an old and experienced merchant, and looked after his affairs with a cautious and watchful eye. he feared that some of his competitors were doing better than he in bargaining for rates, and he delivered himself of this conviction: "i am opposed on principle to the whole system of rebates and drawbacks--unless i am in it." chapter v other business experiences and business principles going into the iron-ore fields was one of those experiences in which one finds oneself rather against the will, for it was not a deliberate plan of mine to extend my cares and responsibilities. my connection with iron ores came about through some unfortunate investments in the northwest country. these interests had included a good many different industries, mines, steel mills, paper mills, a nail factory, railroads, lumber fields, smelting properties, and other investments about which i have now forgotten. i was a minority stockholder in all these enterprises, and had no part in their management. not all of them were profitable. as a matter of fact, for a period of years just preceding the panic of , values were more or less inflated, and many people who thought they were wealthy found that the actual facts were quite different from what they had imagined when the hard experiences of that panic forced upon them the unpalatable truth. most of these properties i had not even seen, having relied upon the investigation of others respecting their worth; indeed, it has never been my custom to rely alone upon my own knowledge of the value of such plants. i have found other people who knew much better than i how to investigate such enterprises. even at this time i had been planning to relieve myself of business cares, and the panic only caused me to postpone taking the long holiday to which i had been looking forward. i was fortunate in making the acquaintance of mr. frederick t. gates, who was then engaged in some work in connection with the american baptist education society, which required him to travel extensively over the country, north, south, east, and west. it occurred to me that mr. gates, who had a great store of common sense, though no especial technical information about factories and mills, might aid me in securing some first-hand information as to how these concerns were actually prospering. once, as he was going south, i suggested that he look over an iron mill in which i had some interest which happened to be on his route. his report was a model of what such a report should be. it stated the facts, and in this case they were almost all unfavourable. a little later he happened to be going west, and i gave him the name and address of property in that region in which i held a minority interest. i felt quite sure that this particular property was doing well, and it was somewhat of a shock to me to learn through his clear and definite account that it was only a question of time before this enterprise, too, which had been represented as rolling in money, would get into trouble if things kept on as they were going. nursing the commercially ill i then arranged with mr. gates to accept a position whereby he could help me unravel these tangled affairs, and become, like myself, a man of business, but it was agreed between us that he should not abandon his larger and more important plans for working out some philanthropic aspirations that he had. right here i may stop to give credit to mr. gates for possessing a combination of rare business ability, very highly developed and very honourably exercised, overshadowed by a passion to accomplish some great and far-reaching benefits to mankind, the influence of which will last. he is the chairman of the general education board and active in many other boards, and for years he has helped in the various plans that we have been interested in where money was given in the hope that it would do something more than temporary service. mr. gates has for many years been closely associated with my personal affairs. he has been through strenuous times with me, and has taken cares of many kinds off my shoulders, leaving me more time to play golf, plan roads, move trees, and follow other congenial occupations. his efforts in the investigations in connection with our educational contributions, our medical research, and other kindred works have been very successful. during the last ten or twelve years my son has shared with mr. gates the responsibility of this work, and more recently mr. starr j. murphy has also joined with us to help mr. gates, who has borne the heat and burden of the day, and has well earned some leisure which we have wanted him to enjoy. but to return to the story of our troubled investments: mr. gates went into the study of each of these business concerns, and did the best he could with them. it has been our policy never to allow a company in which we had an interest to be thrown into the bankruptcy court if we could prevent it; for receiverships are very costly in many ways and often involve heavy sacrifices of genuine values. our plan has been to stay with the institution, nurse it, lend it money when necessary, improve facilities, cheapen production, and avail ourselves of the opportunities which time and patience are likely to bring to make it self-sustaining and successful. so we went carefully through the affairs of these crippled enterprises in the hard times of and , carrying many of them for years after; sometimes buying the interests of others and sometimes selling our own interest, but all or nearly all escaped the expenses and humiliation of bankruptcy, receivership, and foreclosure. before these matters were entirely closed up we had a vast amount of experience in the doctoring of the commercially ill. my only excuse for dwelling upon the subject at this late day is to point out the fact to some business men who get discouraged that much can be done by careful and patient attention, even when the business is apparently in very deep water. it requires two things: some added capital, put in by one's self or secured from others, and a strict adherence to the sound natural laws of business. the ore mines among these investments were some shares in a number of ore mines and an interest in the stocks and bonds of a railroad being built to carry the ore from the mines to lake ports. we had great faith in these mines, but to work them the railroad was necessary. it had been begun, but in the panic of it and all other developments were nearly ruined. although we were minority holders of the stock, it seemed to be "up to us" to keep the enterprise alive through the harrowing panic days. i had to loan my personal securities to raise money, and finally we were compelled to supply a great deal of actual cash, and to get it we were obliged to go into the then greatly upset money market and buy currency at a high premium to ship west by express to pay the labourers on the railroad and to keep them alive. when the fright of the panic period subsided, and matters became a little more settled, we began to realize our situation. we had invested many millions, and no one wanted to go in with us to buy stock. on the contrary, everybody else seemed to want to sell. the stock was offered to us in alarming quantities--substantially all of the capital stock of the companies came without any solicitation on our part--quite the contrary--and we paid for it in cash. we now found ourselves in control of a great amount of ore lands, from some of which the ore could be removed by a steam shovel for a few cents a ton, but we still faced a most imperfect and inadequate method of transporting the ore to market. when we realized that events were shaping themselves so that to protect our investments we should be obliged to go into the business of selling in a large way, we felt that we must not stop short of doing the work as effectively as possible; and having already put in so much money, we bought all the ore land that we thought was good that was offered to us. the railroad and the ships were only a means to an end. the ore lands were the crux of the whole matter, and we believed that we could never have too many good mines. it was a surprise to me that the great iron and steel manufacturers did not place what seemed to be an adequate value on these mines. the lands which contained a good many of our best ore mines could have been purchased very cheaply before we became interested. having launched ourselves into the venture, we decided to supply ore to every one who needed it, by mining and transporting with the newest and most effective facilities, and our profits we invested in more ore lands. mr. gates became the president of the various companies which owned the mines and the railroad to the lake to transport the ores, and he started to learn and develop the business of ore mining and transportation. he not only proved to be an apt scholar, but he really mastered the various complexities of the business. he did all the work, and only consulted me when he wished to; yet i remember several interesting experiences connected with the working out of these problems. building the ships after this railroad problem was solved, it was apparent that we needed our own ships to transport the ore down the lakes. we knew absolutely nothing of building ships for ore transportation, and so, following out our custom, we went to the man who, in our judgment, had the widest knowledge of the subject. he was already well known to us, but was in the ore transportation business on a large scale on his own account and, of course, the moment we began to ship ore we realized that we would become competitors. mr. gates got into communication with this expert, and came with him one evening to my house in new york just before dinner. he said he could stay only a few minutes, but i told him that i thought we could finish up our affairs in ten minutes and we did. this is the only time i remember seeing personally any one on the business of the ore company. all the conferences, as i said before, were carried on by mr. gates, who seemed to enjoy work, and he has had abundant privileges in that direction. we explained to this gentleman that we were proposing to transport our ore from these lake superior lands ourselves, and that we should like to have him assume charge of the construction of several ships, to be of the largest and most approved type, for our chance of success lay in having boats which could be operated with the greatest efficiency. at that time the largest ships carried about five thousand tons, but in , when we sold out, we had ships that carried seven thousand or eight thousand tons, and now there are some that transport as much as ten thousand tons and more. this expert naturally replied that as he was in the ore-carrying trade himself, he had no desire to encourage us to go into it. we explained to him that as we had made this large investment, it seemed to us to be necessary for the protection of our interests to control our own lake carriers, so we had decided to mine, ship, and market the ore; that we came to him because he could plan and superintend the construction of the best ships for us, and that we wanted to deal with him for that reason; that notwithstanding that he represented one of the largest firms among our competitors, we knew that he was honest and straightforward; and that we were most anxious to deal with him. employing a competitor he still demurred, but we tried to convince him that we were not to be deterred from going into the trade, and that we were willing to pay him a satisfactory commission for looking after the building of the ships. somebody, we explained, was going to do the work for us, and he might as well have the profit as the next man. this argument finally seemed to impress him and we then and there closed an agreement, the details of which were worked out afterward to our mutual satisfaction. this gentleman was mr. samuel mather of cleveland. he spent only a few minutes in the house, during which time we gave him the order for about $ , , worth of ships and this was the only time i saw him. but mr. mather is a man of high business honour, we trusted him implicitly although he was a competitor, and we never had occasion to regret it. at that time there were some nine or ten shipbuilding companies located at various points on the great lakes. all were independent of each other and there was sharp competition between them. times were pretty hard with them; their business had not yet recovered from the panic of , they were not able to keep their works in full operation; it was in the fall of the year and many of their employees were facing a hard winter. we took this into account in considering how many ships we should build, and we made up our minds that we would build all the ships that could be built and give employment to the idle men on the great lakes. accordingly we instructed mr. mather to write to each firm of shipbuilders and ascertain how many ships they could build and put in readiness for operation at the opening of navigation the next spring. he found that some companies could build one, some could build two, and that the total number would be twelve. accordingly we asked him to have constructed twelve ships, all of steel, all of the largest capacity then understood to be practicable on the great lakes. some of them were to be steamships and some consorts, for towing, but all were to be built on substantially the same general pattern, which was to represent the best ideals then prevalent for ore-carrying ships. in giving such an order he was exposed, of course, to the risk of paying very high prices. this would have been certain if mr. mather had announced in advance that he was prepared to build twelve ships and asked bids on them. just how he managed it i was not told until long after, and though it is now an old story of the lakes i repeat it as it may be new to many. mr. mather kept the secret of the number of ships he wished to construct absolutely to himself. he sent his plans and specifications, each substantially a duplicate of the others, to each of the firms, and asked each firm to bid on one or two ships as the case might be. all naturally supposed that at most only two ships were to be built, and each was extremely eager to get the work, or at least one of the two vessels. on the day before the contracts were to be let, all the bidders were in cleveland on the invitation of mr. mather. one by one they were taken into his private office for special conference covering all the details preparatory to the final bid. at the appointed hour the bids were in. deep was the interest on the part of all the gentlemen as to who would be the lucky one to draw the prize. mr. mather's manner had convinced each that somehow he himself must be the favoured bidder, yet when he came to meet his competitors in the hotel lobby the beams of satisfaction which plainly emanated from their faces also compelled many heart searchings. at last the crucial hour came, and at about the same moment each gentleman received a little note from mr. mather, conveying to him the tidings that to him had been awarded a contract sufficient to supply his works to their utmost capacity. they all rushed with a common impulse to the hotel lobby where they had been accustomed to meet, each bent on displaying his note and commiserating his unsuccessful rivals, only to discover that each had a contract for all he could do, and that each had been actually bidding against nobody but himself. great was the hilarity which covered their chagrin when they met and compared notes and looked into each others' faces. however, all were happy and satisfied. but it may be said in passing that these amiable gentlemen all united subsequently in one company, which has had a highly satisfactory career, and that we paid a more uniform price for our subsequent purchases of ships after the combination had been made. a landsman for ship manager with these ships ordered, we were fairly at the beginning of the ore enterprise. but we realized that we had to make some arrangement to operate the ships, and we again turned to our competitor, mr. mather, in the hope that he would add this to his cares. unfortunately, because of his obligations to others, he felt that this was impractical. i asked mr. gates one day soon after this: "how are we to get some one to run these big ships we have ordered? do you know of any experienced firm?" "no," said mr. gates, "i do not know of any firm to suggest at the moment, but why not run them ourselves?" "you don't know anything about ships, do you?" "no," he admitted, "but i have in mind a man who i believe could do it, although when i tell you about him i fear you will think that his qualifications are not the best. however, he has the essentials. he lives up the state, and never was on a ship in his life. he probably wouldn't know the bow from the stern, or a sea-anchor from an umbrella, but he has good sense, he is honest, enterprising, keen, and thrifty. he has the art of quickly mastering a subject even though it be new to him and difficult. we still have some months before the ships will be completed, and if we put him to work now, he will be ready to run the ships as soon as they are ready to be run." "all right," i said, "let's give him the job," and we did. that man was mr. l.m. bowers; he came from broome county, new york. mr. bowers went from point to point on the lakes where the boats were building, and studied them minutely. he was quickly able to make valuable suggestions about their construction, which were approved and adopted by the designers. when the vessels were finished, he took charge of them from the moment they floated, and he managed these and the dozens which followed with a skill and ability that commanded the admiration of all the sailors on the lakes. he even invented an anchor which he used with our fleet, and later it was adopted by other vessels, and i have heard that it is used in the united states navy. he remained in his position until we sold out. we have given mr. bowers all sorts of hard tasks since we retired from the lake traffic and have found him always successful. lately the health of a member of his family has made it desirable for him to live in colorado, and he is now the vigorous and efficient vice-president of the colorado fuel and iron company. the great ships and the railroad put us in possession of the most favourable facilities. from the first the organization was successful. we built up a huge trade, mining and carrying ore to cleveland and other lake ports. we kept on building and developing until finally the fleet grew until it included fifty-six large steel vessels, this enterprise, in common with many other important business undertakings in which i was interested, required very little of my personal attention, owing to my good fortune in having active, competent, and thoroughly reliable representatives who assumed so largely the responsibilities of administration. it gives me pleasure to state that the confidence which i have freely given to business men with whom i have been associated has been so fully justified. selling to the steel company the work went on uninterruptedly and prosperously until the formation of the united states steel corporation. a representative of this corporation came to see us about selling the land, the ore, and the fleet of ships. the business was going on smoothly, and we had no pressing need to sell, but as the organizer of the new company felt that our mines and railroads and ships were a necessary part of the scheme, we told him we would be pleased to facilitate the completion of the great undertaking. they had, i think, already closed with mr. carnegie for his various properties. after some negotiation, they made an offer which we accepted, whereby the whole plant--mines, ships, railway, etc.--should become a part of the united states steel corporation. the price paid was, we felt, very moderate considering the present and prospective value of the property. this transaction bids fair to show a great profit to the steel company for many years, and as our payment was largely in the securities of the company we had the opportunity to participate in this prosperity. and so, after a period of about seven years, i went out of all association with the mining, the transporting, and the selling of iron ore. follow the laws of trade going over again in my mind the events connected with this ore experience that grew out of investments that seemed at the time, to say the least, rather unpromising, i am impressed anew with the importance of a principle i have often referred to. if i can make this point clear to the young man who has had the patience to follow these reminiscences so far, it will be a satisfaction to me and i hope it may be a benefit to him. the underlying, essential element of success in business affairs is to follow the established laws of high-class dealing. keep to broad and sure lines, and study them to be certain that they are correct ones. watch the natural operations of trade, and keep within them. don't even think of temporary or sharp advantages. don't waste your effort on a thing which ends in a petty triumph unless you are satisfied with a life of petty success. be sure that before you go into an enterprise you see your way clear to stay through to a successful end. look ahead. it is surprising how many bright business men go into important undertakings with little or no study of the controlling conditions they risk their all upon. study diligently your capital requirements, and fortify yourself fully to cover possible set-backs, because you can absolutely count on meeting set-backs. be sure that you are not deceiving yourself at any time about actual conditions. the man who starts out simply with the idea of getting rich won't succeed; you must have a larger ambition. there is no mystery in business success. the great industrial leaders have told again and again the plain and obvious fact that there can be no permanent success without fair dealing that leads to wide-spread confidence in the man himself, and that is the real capital we all prize and work for. if you do each day's task successfully, and stay faithfully within these natural operations of commercial laws which i talk so much about, and keep your head clear, you will come out all right, and will then, perhaps, forgive me for moralizing in this old-fashioned way. it is hardly necessary to caution a young man who reads so sober a book as this not to lose his head over a little success, or to grow impatient or discouraged by a little failure. panic experiences i had desired to retire from business in the early nineties. having begun work so young, i felt that at fifty it was due me to have freedom from absorption in active business affairs and to devote myself to a variety of interests other than money making, which had claimed a portion of my time since the beginning of my business career. but - were years of ominous outlook. in the storm broke, and i had many investments to care for, as i have already related. this year and the next was a trying period of grave anxiety to everyone. no one could retire from work at such a time. in the standard we continued to make progress even through all these panic years, as we had large reserves of cash on account of our very conservative methods of financing. in or i was able to carry out my plans to be relieved from any association with the actual management of the company's affairs. from that time, as i have said, i have had little or no part in the conduct of the business. since i can remember all the great panics, but i believe the panic of was the most trying. no one escaped from it, great or small. important institutions had to be supported and carried through the time of distrust and unreasoning fear. to mr. morgan's real and effective help i should join with other business men and give great praise. his commanding personality served a most valuable end. he acted quickly and resolutely when quickness and decision were the things most needed to regain confidence, and he was efficiently seconded by many able and leading financiers of the country who coöperated courageously and effectively to restore confidence and prosperity. the question has been asked if i think we shall revive quickly from the panic of october, . i hesitate to speak on the subject, since i am not a prophet nor the son of a prophet; but as to the ultimate outcome there is, of course, no doubt. this temporary set-back will lead to safer institutions and more conservative management upon the part of everyone, and this is a quality we need. it will not long depress our wonderful spirit of initiative. the country's resources have not been cut down nor injured by financial distrust. a gradual recovery will only tend to make the future all the more secure, and patience is a virtue in business affairs as in other things. here again i would venture to utter a word of caution to business men. let them study their own affairs frankly, and face the truth. if their methods are extravagant, let them realize the facts and act accordingly. one cannot successfully go against natural tendencies, and it is folly to fail to recognize them. it is not easy for so impressionable and imaginative a people as we americans are to come down to plain, hard facts, yet we are doing it without loss of self-esteem or prestige throughout the world. chapter vi the difficult art of giving it is, no doubt, easy to write platitudes and generalities about the joys of giving, and the duty that one owes to one's fellow men, and to put together again all the familiar phrases that have served for generations whenever the subject has been taken up. i can hardly hope to succeed in starting any new interest in this great subject when gifted writers have so often failed. yet i confess i find much more interest in it at this time than in rambling on, as i have been doing, about the affairs of business and trade. it is most difficult, however, to dwell upon a very practical and business-like side of benefactions generally, without seeming to ignore, or at least to fail to appreciate fully, the spirit of giving which has its source in the heart, and which, of course, makes it all worth while. in this country we have come to the period when we can well afford to ask the ablest men to devote more of their time, thought, and money to the public well-being. i am not so presumptuous as to attempt to define exactly what this betterment work should consist of. every man will do that for himself, and his own conclusion will be final for himself. it is well, i think, that no narrow or preconceived plan should be set down as the best. i am sure it is a mistake to assume that the possession of money in great abundance necessarily brings happiness. the very rich are just like all the rest of us; and if they get pleasure from the possession of money, it comes from their ability to do things which give satisfaction to someone besides themselves. limitations of the rich the mere expenditure of money for things, so i am told by those who profess to know, soon palls upon one. the novelty of being able to purchase anything one wants soon passes, because what people most seek cannot be bought with money. these rich men we read about in the newspapers cannot get personal returns beyond a well-defined limit for their expenditure. they cannot gratify the pleasures of the palate beyond very moderate bounds, since they cannot purchase a good digestion; they cannot lavish very much money on fine raiment for themselves or their families without suffering from public ridicule; and in their homes they cannot go much beyond the comforts of the less wealthy without involving them in more pain than pleasure. as i study wealthy men, i can see but one way in which they can secure a real equivalent for money spent, and that is to cultivate a taste for giving where the money may produce an effect which will be a lasting gratification. a man of business may often most properly consider that he does his share in building up a property which gives steady work for few or many people; and his contribution consists in giving to his employees good working conditions, new opportunities, and a strong stimulus to good work. just so long as he has the welfare of his employees in his mind and follows his convictions, no one can help honouring such a man. it would be the narrowest sort of view to take, and i think the meanest, to consider that good works consist chiefly in the outright giving of money. the best philanthropy the best philanthropy, the help that does the most good and the least harm, the help that nourishes civilization at its very root, that most widely disseminates health, righteousness, and happiness, is not what is usually called charity. it is, in my judgment, the investment of effort or time or money, carefully considered with relation to the power of employing people at a remunerative wage, to expand and develop the resources at hand, and to give opportunity for progress and healthful labour where it did not exist before. no mere money-giving is comparable to this in its lasting and beneficial results. if, as i am accustomed to think, this statement is a correct one, how vast indeed is the philanthropic field! it may be urged that the daily vocation of life is one thing, and the work of philanthropy quite another. i have no sympathy with this notion. the man who plans to do all his giving on sunday is a poor prop for the institutions of the country. the excuse for referring so often to the busy man of affairs is that his help is most needed. i know of men who have followed out this large plan of developing work, not as a temporary matter, but as a permanent principle. these men have taken up doubtful enterprises and carried them through to success often at great risk, and in the face of great scepticism, not as a matter only of personal profit, but in the larger spirit of general uplift. disinterested service the road to success if i were to give advice to a young man starting out in life, i should say to him: if you aim for a large, broad-gauged success, do not begin your business career, whether you sell your labour or are an independent producer, with the idea of getting from the world by hook or crook all you can. in the choice of your profession or your business employment, let your first thought be: where can i fit in so that i may be most effective in the work of the world? where can i lend a hand in a way most effectively to advance the general interests? enter life in such a spirit, choose your vocation in that way, and you have taken the first step on the highest road to a large success. investigation will show that the great fortunes which have been made in this country, and the same is probably true of other lands, have come to men who have performed great and far-reaching economic services--men who, with great faith in the future of their country, have done most for the development of its resources. the man will be most successful who confers the greatest service on the world. commercial enterprises that are needed by the public will pay. commercial enterprises that are not needed fail, and ought to fail. on the other hand, the one thing which such a business philosopher would be most careful to avoid in his investments of time and effort or money, is the unnecessary duplication of existing industries. he would regard all money spent in increasing needless competition as wasted, and worse. the man who puts up a second factory when the factory in existence will supply the public demand adequately and cheaply is wasting the national wealth and destroying the national prosperity, taking the bread from the labourer and unnecessarily introducing heartache and misery into the world. probably the greatest single obstacle to the progress and happiness of the american people lies in the willingness of so many men to invest their time and money in multiplying competitive industries instead of opening up new fields, and putting their money into lines of industry and development that are needed. it requires a better type of mind to seek out and to support or to create the new than to follow the worn paths of accepted success; but here is the great chance in our still rapidly developing country. the penalty of a selfish attempt to make the world confer a living without contributing to the progress or happiness of mankind is generally a failure to the individual. the pity is that when he goes down he inflicts heartache and misery also on others who are in no way responsible. the generosity of service probably the most generous people in the world are the very poor, who assume each other's burdens in the crises which come so often to the hard pressed. the mother in the tenement falls ill and the neighbour in the next room assumes her burdens. the father loses his work, and neighbours supply food to his children from their own scanty store. how often one hears of cases where the orphans are taken over and brought up by the poor friend whose benefaction means great additional hardship! this sort of genuine service makes the most princely gift from superabundance look insignificant indeed. the jews have had for centuries a precept that one-tenth of a man's possessions must be devoted to good works, but even this measure of giving is but a rough yardstick to go by. to give a tenth of one's income is wellnigh an impossibility to some, while to others it means a miserable pittance. if the spirit is there, the matter of proportion is soon lost sight of. it is only the spirit of giving that counts, and the very poor give without any self-consciousness. but i fear that i am dealing with generalities again. the education of children in my early days may have been straightlaced, yet i have always been thankful that the custom was quite general to teach young people to give systematically of money that they themselves had earned. it is a good thing to lead children to realize early the importance of their obligations to others but, i confess, it is increasingly difficult; for what were luxuries then have become commonplaces now. it should be a greater pleasure and satisfaction to give money for a good cause than to earn it, and i have always indulged the hope that during my life i should be able to help establish efficiency in giving so that wealth may be of greater use to the present and future generations. perhaps just here lies the difference between the gifts of money and of service. the poor meet promptly the misfortunes which confront the home circle and household of the neighbour. the giver of money, if his contribution is to be valuable, must add service in the way of study, and he must help to attack and improve underlying conditions. not being so pressed by the racking necessities, it is he that should be better able to attack the subject from a more scientific standpoint; but the final analysis is the same: his money is a feeble offering without the study behind it which will make its expenditure effective. great hospitals conducted by noble and unselfish men and women are doing wonderful work; but no less important are the achievements in research that reveal hitherto unknown facts about diseases and provide the remedies by which many of them can be relieved or even stamped out. to help the sick and distressed appeals to the kind-hearted always, but to help the investigator who is striving successfully to attack the causes which bring about sickness and distress does not so strongly attract the giver of money. the first appeals to the sentiments overpoweringly, but the second has the head to deal with. yet i am sure we are making wonderful advances in this field of scientific giving. all over the world the need of dealing with the questions of philanthropy with something beyond the impulses of emotion is evident, and everywhere help is being given to those heroic men and women who are devoting themselves to the practical and essentially scientific tasks. it is a good and inspiring thing to recall occasionally the heroism, for example, of the men who risked and sacrificed their lives to discover the facts about yellow fever, a sacrifice for which untold generations will bless them; and this same spirit has animated the professions of medicine and surgery. scientific research how far may this spirit of sacrifice properly extend? a great number of scientific men every year give up everything to arrive at some helpful contribution to the sum of human knowledge, and i have sometimes thought that good people who lightly and freely criticize their actions scarcely realize just what such criticism means. it is one thing to stand on the comfortable ground of placid inaction and put forth words of cynical wisdom, and another to plunge into the work itself and through strenuous experience earn the right to express strong conclusions. for my own part, i have stood so much as a placid onlooker that i have not had the hardihood even to suggest how people so much more experienced and wise in those things than i should work out the details even of those plans with which i have had the honour to be associated. there has been a good deal of criticism, no doubt sincere, of experiments on living dumb animals, and the person who stands for the defenceless animal has such an overwhelming appeal to the emotions that it is perhaps useless to allude to the other side of the controversy. dr. simon flexner, of the institute for medical research, has had to face exaggerated and even sensational reports, which have no basis of truth whatever. but consider for a moment what has been accomplished recently, under the direction of dr. flexner in discovering a remedy for epidemic cerebro-spinal meningitis. it is true that in discovering this cure the lives of perhaps fifteen animals were sacrificed, as i learn, most of them monkeys; but for each one of these animals which lost its life, already scores of human lives have been saved. large-hearted men like dr. flexner and his associates do not permit unnecessary pain to defenceless animals. i have been deeply interested in the story of a desperate experiment to save a child's life, told in a letter written by one of my associates soon after the event described; and it seems worthy of repeating. dr. alexis carrel has been associated with dr. flexner and his work, and his wonderful skill has been the result of his experiments and experiences. a wonderful surgical operation "dr. alexis carrel, one of the institute's staff, has been making some interesting studies in experimental surgery, and has successfully transplanted organs from one animal to another, and blood vessels from one species to another. he had the opportunity recently of applying the skill thus acquired to the saving of a human life under circumstances which attracted great interest among the medical fraternity of this city. one of the best known of the younger surgeons in new york had a child born early last march, which developed a disease in which the blood, for some reason, exudes from the blood vessels into the tissues of the body, and ordinarily the child dies of this internal hemorrhage. when this child was five days old it was evident that it was dying. the father and his brother, who is one of the most distinguished men in the profession, and one or two other doctors were in consultation with reference to it, but considered the case entirely hopeless. "it so happened that the father had been impressed with the work which dr. carrel had been doing at the institute, and had spent several days with him studying his methods. he became convinced that the only possibility of saving the child's life was by the direct transfusion of blood. while this has been done between adults, the blood vessels of a young infant are so delicate that it seemed impossible that the operation could be successfully carried on. it is necessary not only that the blood vessels of the two persons should be united together, but it must be done in such a way that the interior lining of the vessels, which is a smooth, shiny tissue, should be continuous. if the blood comes in contact with the muscular coat of the blood vessels, it will clot and stop the circulation. "fortunately, dr. carrel had been experimenting on the blood vessels of some very young animals, and the father was convinced that if any man in the country could perform the operation successfully, it would be he. "it was then the middle of the night. but dr. carrel was called on, and when the situation was explained to him, and it was made clear that the child would die anyhow, he readily consented to attempt the operation, although expressing very slight hope of its successful outcome. "the father offered himself as the person whose blood should be furnished to the child. it was impossible to give anæsthetics to either of them. in a child of that age there is only one vein large enough to be used, and that is in the back of the leg, and deep seated. a prominent surgeon who was present exposed this vein. he said afterward that there was no sign of life in the child, and expressed the belief that the child had been, to all intents and purposes, dead for ten minutes. in view of its condition he raised the question whether it was worth while to proceed further with the attempt. the father, however, insisted upon going on, and the surgeon then exposed the radial artery in the surgeon's wrist, and was obliged to dissect it back about six inches, in order to pull it out far enough to make the connection with the child's vein. "this part of the work the surgeon who did it afterward described as the 'blacksmith part of the job.' he said that the child's vein was about the size of a match and the consistency of wet cigarette paper, and it seemed utterly impossible for anyone to successfully unite these two vessels. dr. carrel, however, accomplished this feat. and then occurred what the doctors who were present described as one of the most dramatic incidents in the history of surgery. the blood from the father's artery was released, and began to flow into the child's body, amounting to about a pint. the first sign of life was a little pink tinge at the top of one of the ears, then the lips, which had become perfectly blue, began to change to red, and then suddenly, as though the child had been taken from a hot mustard bath, a pink glow broke out all over its body, and it began to cry lustily. after about eight minutes the two were separated. the child at that time was crying for food. it was fed, and from that moment began to eat and sleep regularly, and made a complete recovery. "the father appeared before a legislative committee at albany, in opposition to certain bills which were pending at the last session to restrict animal experimentation, and told this incident, and said at the close that when he saw dr. carrel's experiments he had no idea that they would so soon be available for saving human life; much less did he imagine that the life to be saved would be that of his own child." the fundamental thing in all help if the people can be educated to help themselves, we strike at the root of many of the evils of the world. this is the fundamental thing, and it is worth saying even if it has been said so often that its truth is lost sight of in its constant repetition. the only thing which is of lasting benefit to a man is that which he does for himself. money which comes to him without effort on his part is seldom a benefit and often a curse. that is the principal objection to speculation--it is not because more lose than gain, though that is true--but it is because those who gain are apt to receive more injury from their success than they would have received from failure. and so with regard to money or other things which are given by one person to another. it is only in the exceptional case that the receiver is really benefited. but, if we can help people to help themselves, then there is a permanent blessing conferred. men who are studying the problem of disease tell us that it is becoming more and more evident that the forces which conquer sickness are within the body itself, and that it is only when these are reduced below the normal that disease can get a foothold. the way to ward off disease, therefore, is to tone up the body generally; and, when disease has secured a foothold, the way to combat it is to help these natural resisting agencies which are in the body already. in the same way the failures which a man makes in his life are due almost always to some defect in his personality, some weakness of body, or mind, or character, will, or temperament. the only way to overcome these failings is to build up his personality from within, so that he, by virtue of what is within him, may overcome the weakness which was the cause of the failure. it is only those efforts the man himself puts forth that can really help him. we all desire to see the widest possible distribution of the blessings of life. many crude plans have been suggested, some of which utterly ignore the essential facts of human nature, and if carried out would perhaps drag our whole civilization down into hopeless misery. it is my belief that the principal cause for the economic differences between people is their difference in personality, and that it is only as we can assist in the wider distribution of those qualities which go to make up a strong personality that we can assist in the wider distribution of wealth. under normal conditions the man who is strong in body, in mind, in character, and in will need never suffer want. but these qualities can never be developed in a man unless by his own efforts, and the most that any other can do for him is, as i have said, to help him to help himself. we must always remember that there is not enough money for the work of human uplift and that there never can be. how vitally important it is, therefore, that the expenditure should go as far as possible and be used with the greatest intelligence! i have been frank to say that i believe in the spirit of combination and coöperation when properly and fairly conducted in the world of commercial affairs, on the principle that it helps to reduce waste; and waste is a dissipation of power. i sincerely hope and thoroughly believe that this same principle will eventually prevail in the art of giving as it does in business. it is not merely the tendency of the times developed by more exacting conditions in industry, but it should make its most effective appeal to the hearts of the people who are striving to do the most good to the largest number. some underlying principles at the risk of making this chapter very dull, and i am told that this is a fault which inexperienced authors should avoid at all hazards, i may perhaps be pardoned if i set down here some of the fundamental principles which have been at the bottom of all my own plans. i have undertaken no work of any importance for many years which, in a general way, has not followed out these broad lines, and i believe no really constructive effort can be made in philanthropic work without such a well-defined and consecutive purpose. my own conversion to the feeling that an organized plan was an absolute necessity came about in this way. about the year i was still following the haphazard fashion of giving here and there as appeals presented themselves. i investigated as i could, and worked myself almost to a nervous break-down in groping my way, without sufficient guide or chart, through this ever-widening field of philanthropic endeavour. there was then forced upon me the necessity to organize and plan this department of our daily tasks on as distinct lines of progress as we did our business affairs; and i will try to describe the underlying principles we arrived at, and have since followed out, and hope still greatly to extend. it may be beyond the pale of good taste to speak at all of such a personal subject--i am not unmindful of this--but i can make these observations with at least a little better grace because so much of the hard work and hard thinking are done by my family and associates, who devote their lives to it. every right-minded man has a philosophy of life, whether he knows it or not. hidden away in his mind are certain governing principles, whether he formulates them in words or not, which govern his life. surely his ideal ought to be to contribute all that he can, however little it may be, whether of money or service, to human progress. certainly one's ideal should be to use one's means, both in one's investments and in benefactions, for the advancement of civilization. but the question as to what civilization is and what are the great laws which govern its advance have been seriously studied. our investments not less than gifts have been directed to such ends as we have thought would tend to produce these results. if you were to go into our office, and ask our committee on benevolence or our committee on investment in what they consider civilization to consist, they would say that they have found in their study that the most convenient analysis of the elements which go to make up civilization runs about as follows: st. progress in the means of subsistence, that is to say, progress in abundance and variety of food-supply, clothing, shelter, sanitation, public health, commerce, manufacture, the growth of the public wealth, etc. nd. progress in government and law, that is to say, in the enactment of laws securing justice and equity to every man, consistent with the largest individual liberty, and the due and orderly enforcement of the same upon all. rd. progress in literature and language. th. progress in science and philosophy. th. progress in art and refinement. th. progress in morality and religion. if you were to ask them, as indeed they are very often asked, which of these they regard as fundamental, they would reply that they would not attempt to answer, that the question is purely an academic one, that all these go hand in hand, but that historically the first of them--namely, progress in means of subsistence--had generally preceded progress in government, in literature, in knowledge, in refinement, and in religion. though not itself of the highest importance, it is the foundation upon which the whole superstructure of civilization is built, and without which it could not exist. accordingly, we have sought, so far as we could, to make investments in such a way as will tend to multiply, to cheapen, and to diffuse as universally as possible the comforts of life. we claim no credit for preferring these lines of investment. we make no sacrifices. these are the lines of largest and surest return. in this particular, namely, in cheapness, ease of acquirement, and universality of means of subsistence, our country easily surpasses that of any other in the world, though we are behind other countries, perhaps, in most of the others. it may be asked: how is it consistent with the universal diffusion of these blessings that vast sums of money should be in single hands? the reply is, as i see it, that, while men of wealth control great sums of money, they do not and cannot use them for themselves. they have, indeed, the legal title to large properties, and they do control the investment of them, but that is as far as their own relation to them extends or can extend. the money is universally diffused, in the sense that it is kept invested, and it passes into the pay-envelope week by week. up to the present time no scheme has yet presented itself which seems to afford a better method of handling capital than that of individual ownership. we might put our money into the treasury of the nation and of the various states, but we do not find any promise in the national or state legislatures, viewed from the experiences of the past, that the funds would be expended for the general weal more effectively than under the present methods, nor do we find in any of the schemes of socialism a promise that wealth would be more wisely administered for the general good. it is the duty of men of means to maintain the title to their property and to administer their funds until some man, or body of men, shall rise up capable of administering for the general good the capital of the country better than they can. the next four elements of progress mentioned in the enumeration above, namely, progress in government and law, in language and literature, in science and philosophy, in art and refinement, we for ourselves have thought to be best promoted by means of the higher education, and accordingly we have had the great satisfaction of putting such sums as we could into various forms of education in our own and in foreign lands--and education not merely along the lines of disseminating more generally the known, but quite as much, and perhaps even more, in promoting original investigation. an individual institution of learning can have only a narrow sphere. it can reach only a limited number of people. but every new fact discovered, every widening of the boundaries of human knowledge by research, becomes universally known to all institutions of learning, and becomes a benefaction at once to the whole race. quite as interesting as any phase of the work have been the new lines entered upon by our committee. we have not been satisfied with giving to causes which have appealed to us. we have felt that the mere fact that this or the other cause makes its appeal is no reason why we should give to it any more than to a thousand other causes, perhaps more worthy, which do not happen to have come under our eye. the mere fact of a personal appeal creates no claim which did not exist before, and no preference over other causes more worthy which may not have made their appeal. so this little committee of ours has not been content to let the benevolences drift into the channels of mere convenience--to give to the institutions which have sought aid and to neglect others. this department has studied the field of human progress, and sought to contribute to each of those elements which we believe tend most to promote it. where it has not found organizations ready to its hand for such purpose, the members of the committee have sought to create them. we are still working on new, and, i hope, expanding lines, which make large demands on one's intelligence and study. the so-called betterment work which has always been to me a source of great interest had a great influence on my life, and i refer to it here because i wish to urge in this connection the great importance of a father's keeping in close touch with his children, taking into his confidence the girls as well as the boys, who in this way learn by seeing and doing, and have their part in the family responsibilities. as my father taught me, so i have tried to teach my children. for years it was our custom to read at the table the letters we received affecting the various benevolences with which we had to do, studying the requests made for worthy purposes, and following the history and reports of institutions and philanthropic cases in which we were interested. chapter vii the benevolent trust--the value of the coÃ�perative principle in giving going a step farther in the plan of making benefactions increasingly effective which i took up in the last chapter under the title of "the difficult art of giving," i am tempted to take the opportunity to dwell a little upon the subject of combination in charitable work, which has been something of a hobby with me for many years. if a combination to do business is effective in saving waste and in getting better results, why is not combination far more important in philanthropic work? the general idea of coöperation in giving for education, i have felt, scored a real step in advance when mr. andrew carnegie consented to become a member of the general education board. for in accepting a position in this directorate he has, it seems to me, stamped with his approval this vital principle of coöperation in aiding the educational institutions of our country. i rejoice, as everybody must, in mr. carnegie's enthusiasm for using his wealth for the benefit of his less fortunate fellows and i think his devotion to his adopted land's welfare has set a striking example for all time. the general education board, of which mr. carnegie has now become a member, is interesting as an example of an organization formed for the purpose of working out, in an orderly and rather scientific way, the problem of helping to stimulate and improve education in all parts of our country. what this organization may eventually accomplish, of course, no one can tell, but surely, under its present board of directors, it will go very far. here, again, i feel that i may speak frankly and express my personal faith in its success, since i am not a member of the board, and have never attended a meeting, and the work is all done by others. there are some other and larger plans thought out on careful and broad lines, which i have been studying for many years, and we can see that they are growing into definite shape. it is good to know that there are always unselfish men, of the best calibre, to help in every large philanthropic enterprise. one of the most satisfactory and stimulating pieces of good fortune that has come to me is the evidence that so many busy people are willing to turn aside from their work in pressing fields of labour and to give their best thoughts and energies without compensation to the work of human uplift. doctors, clergymen, lawyers, as well as many high-grade men of affairs, are devoting their best and most unselfish efforts to some of the plans that we are all trying to work out. take, as one example of many similar cases, mr. robert c. ogden, who for years, while devoting himself to an exacting business, still found time, supported by wonderful enthusiasm, to give force by his own personality to work done in difficult parts of the educational world, particularly to improving the common school system of the south. his efforts have been wisely directed along fundamental lines which must produce results through the years to come. fortunately my children have been as earnest as i, and much more diligent, in carefully and intelligently carrying out the work already begun, and agree with me that at least the same energy and thought should be expended in the proper and effective use of money when acquired as was exerted in the earning of it. the general education board has made, or is making, a careful study of the location, aims, work, resources, administration, and educational value, present and prospective, of the institutions of higher learning in the united states. the board makes its contributions, averaging something like two million dollars a year, on the most careful comparative study of needs and opportunities throughout the country. its records are open to all. many benefactors of education are availing themselves of these disinterested inquiries, and it is hoped that more will do so. a large number of individuals are contributing to the support of educational institutions in our country. to help an inefficient, ill-located, unnecessary school is a waste. i am told by those who have given most careful study to this problem that it is highly probable that enough money has been squandered on unwise educational projects to have built up a national system of higher education adequate to our needs if the money had been properly directed to that end. many of the good people who bestow their beneficence on education may well give more thought to investigating the character of the enterprises that they are importuned to help, and this study ought to take into account the kind of people who are responsible for their management, their location, and the facilities supplied by other institutions round about. a thorough examination such as this is generally quite impossible for an individual, and he either declines to give from lack of accurate knowledge, or he may give without due consideration. if, however, this work of inquiry is done, and well done, by the general education board, through officers of intelligence, skill, and sympathy, trained to the work, important and needed service is rendered. the walls of sectarian exclusiveness are fast disappearing, as they should, and the best people are standing shoulder to shoulder as they attack the great problems of general uplift. roman catholic charities just here it occurs to me to testify to the fact that the roman catholic church, as i have observed in my experience, has advanced a long way in this direction. i have been surprised to learn how far a given sum of money has gone in the hands of priests and nuns, and how really effective is their use of it. i fully appreciate the splendid service done by other workers in the field, but i have seen the organization of the roman church secure better results with a given sum of money than other church organizations are accustomed to secure from the same expenditure. i speak of this merely to point the value of the principle of organization, in which i believe so heartily. it is unnecessary to dwell upon the centuries of experience which the church of rome has gone through to perfect a great power of organization. studying these problems has been a source of the greatest interest to me. my assistants, quite distinct from any board, have an organization of sufficient size to investigate the many requests that come to us. this is done from the office of our committee in new york. for an individual to attempt to keep any close watch of single cases would be impossible. i am called upon to explain this fact many times. to read the hundreds of letters daily received at our office would be beyond the power of any one man, and surely, if the many good people who write would only reflect a little, they must realize that it is impossible for me personally to consider their applications. the plan that we have worked out, and i hope improved upon year after year, has been the result of experience, and i refer to it now only as one contribution to a general subject which is of such great moment to earnest people; and this must be my excuse for speaking so frankly. the appeals that come the reading, assorting, and investigating of the hundreds of letters of appeal which are received daily at my office are attended to by a department organized for this purpose. the task is not so difficult as at first it might seem. the letters are, to be sure, of great variety, from all sorts of people in every condition of life, and indeed, from all parts of the world. four-fifths of these letters are, however, requests for money for personal use, with no other title to consideration than that the writer would be gratified to have it. there remain numbers of requests which all must recognize as worthy of notice. these may be divided, roughly, as follows: the claims of local charities. the town or city in which one lives has a definite appeal to all its citizens, and all good neighbours will wish to coöperate with friends and fellow townsmen. but these local charities, hospitals, kindergartens, and the like, ought not to make appeal outside the local communities which they serve. the burden should be carried by the people who are on the spot and who are, or should be, most familiar with local needs. then come the national and international claims. these properly appeal especially to men of large means throughout the country, whose wealth admits of their doing something more than assist in caring for the local charities. there are many great national and international philanthropic and christian organizations that cover the whole field of world-wide charity; and, while people of reputed wealth all receive appeals from individual workers throughout the world for personal assistance, the prudent and thoughtful giver will, more and more, choose these great and responsible organizations as the medium for his gifts and the distribution of his funds to distant fields. this has been my custom, and the experience of every day serves only to confirm its wisdom. the great value of dealing with an organization which knows all the facts, and can best decide just where the help can be applied to the best advantage, has impressed itself upon me through the results of long years of experience. for example, one is asked to give in a certain field of missionary work a sum, for a definite purpose--let us say a hospital. to comply with this request will take, say, $ , . it seems wise and natural to give this amount. the missionary who wants this money is working under the direction of a strong and capable religious denomination. suppose the request is referred to the manager of the board of this denomination, and it transpires that there are many good reasons why a new hospital is not badly needed at this point, and by a little good management the need of this missionary can be met by another hospital in its neighbourhood; whereas another missionary in another place has no such possibility for any hospital facilities whatever. there is no question that the money should be spent in the place last named. these conditions the managers of all the mission stations know, although perhaps the one who is giving the money never heard of them, and in my judgment he is wise in not acting until he has consulted these men of larger information. it is interesting to follow the mental processes that some excellent souls go through to cloud their consciences when they consider what their duty actually is. for instance, one man says: "i do not believe in giving money to street beggars." i agree with him, i do not believe in the practice either; but that is not a reason why one should be exempt from doing something to help the situation represented by the street beggar. because one does not yield to the importunities of such people is exactly the reason one should join and uphold the charity organization societies of one's own locality, which deal justly and humanely with this class, separating the worthy from the unworthy. another says: "i don't give to such and such a board, because i have read that of the money given only half or less actually gets to the person needing help." this is often not a true statement of fact, as proved again and again, and even if it were true in part it does not relieve the possible giver from the duty of helping to make the organization more efficient. by no possible chance is it a valid excuse for closing up one's pocketbook and dismissing the whole subject from one's mind. institutions as they relate to each other surely it is wise to be careful not to duplicate effort and not to inaugurate new charities in fields already covered, but rather to strengthen and perfect those already at work. there is a great deal of rivalry and a vast amount of duplication, and one of the most difficult things in giving is to ascertain when the field is fully covered. many people simply consider whether the institution to which they are giving is thoughtfully and well managed, without stopping to discover whether the field is not already occupied by others; and for this reason one ought not to investigate a single institution by itself, but always in its relation to all similar institutions in the territory. here is a case in point: a number of enthusiastic people had a plan for founding an orphan asylum which was to be conducted by one of our strongest religious denominations. the raising of the necessary funds was begun, and among the people who were asked to subscribe was a man who always made it a practice to study the situation carefully before committing himself to a contribution. he asked one of the promoters of the new institution how many beds the present asylums serving this community provided, how efficient they were, where located, and what particular class of institution was lacking in the community. to none of these questions were answers forthcoming, so he had this information gathered on his own account with the purpose of helping to make the new plan effective. his studies revealed the fact that the city where the new asylum was to be built was so well provided with such institutions that there were already vastly more beds for children than there were applicants to fill them, and that the field was well and fully covered. these facts being presented to the organizers of the enterprise, it was shown that no real need for such an institution existed. i wish i might add that the scheme was abandoned. it was not. such charities seldom are when once the sympathies of the worthy people, however misinformed, are heartily enlisted. it may be urged that doing the work in this systematic and apparently cold-blooded way leaves out of consideration, to a large extent, the merits of individual cases. my contention is that the organization of work in combination should not and does not stifle the work of individuals, but strengthens and stimulates it. the orderly combination of philanthropic effort is growing daily, and at the same time the spirit of broad philanthropy never was so general as it is now. the claim of higher education the giver who works out these problems for himself will, no doubt, find many critics. so many people see the pressing needs of every-day life that possibly they fail to realize those which are, if less obvious, of an even larger significance--for instance, the great claims of higher education. ignorance is the source of a large part of the poverty and a vast amount of the crime in the world--hence the need of education. if we assist the highest forms of education--in whatever field--we secure the widest influence in enlarging the boundaries of human knowledge; for all the new facts discovered or set in motion become the universal heritage. i think we cannot overestimate the importance of this matter. the mere fact that most of the great achievements in science, medicine, art, and literature are the flower of the higher education is sufficient. some great writer will one day show how these things have ministered to the wants of all the people, educated and uneducated, high and low, rich and poor, and made life more what we all wish it to be. the best philanthropy is constantly in search of the finalities--a search for cause, an attempt to cure evils at their source. my interest in the university of chicago has been enhanced by the fact that while it has comprehensively considered the other features of a collegiate course, it has given so much attention to research. dr. william r. harper the mention of this promising young institution always brings to my mind the figure of dr. william r. harper, whose enthusiasm for its work was so great that no vision of its future seemed too large. my first meeting with dr. harper was at vassar college, where one of my daughters was a student. he used to come, as the guest of dr. james m. taylor, the president, to lecture on sundays; and as i frequently spent week-ends there, i saw and talked much with the young professor, then of yale, and caught in some degree the contagion of his enthusiasm. when the university had been founded, and he had taken the presidency, our great ambition was to secure the best instructors and to organize the new institution, unhampered by traditions, according to the most modern ideals. he raised millions of dollars among the people of chicago and the middle west, and won the personal interest of their leading citizens. here lay his great strength, for he secured not only their money but their loyal support and strong personal interest--the best kind of help and coöperation. he built even better than he knew. his lofty ideals embodied in the university awakened a deeper interest in higher education throughout the central west, and stirred individuals, denominations, and legislatures to effective action. the world will probably never realize how largely the present splendid university system of the central western states is due indirectly to the genius of this man. with all his extraordinary power of work and his executive and organizing ability, dr. harper was a man of exquisite personal charm. we count it among the rich and delightful experiences of our home-life that dr. and mrs. harper could occasionally spend days together with us for a brief respite from the exacting cares and responsibilities of the university work. as a friend and companion, in daily intercourse, no one could be more delightful than he. it has been my good fortune to contribute at various times to the university of chicago, of which dr. harper was president, and the newspapers not unnaturally supposed at such times that he used the occasions of our personal association to secure these contributions. the cartoonists used to find this a fruitful theme. they would picture dr. harper as a hypnotist waving his magic spell, or would represent him forcing his way into my inner office where i was pictured as busy cutting coupons and from which delightful employment i incontinently fled out of the window at sight of him; or they would represent me as fleeing across rivers on cakes of floating ice with dr. harper in hot pursuit; or perhaps he would be following close on my trail, like the wolf in the russian story, in inaccessible country retreats, while i escaped only by means of the slight delays i occasioned him by now and then dropping a million-dollar bill, which he would be obliged to stop and pick up. these cartoons were intended to be very amusing, and some of them certainly did have a flavour of humour, but they were never humorous to dr. harper. they were in fact a source of deep humiliation to him, and i am sure he would, were he living, be glad to have me say, as i now do, that during the entire period of his presidency of the university of chicago, he never once either wrote me a letter or asked me personally for a dollar of money for the university of chicago. in the most intimate daily intercourse with him in my home, the finances of the university of chicago were never canvassed or discussed. the method of procedure in this case has been substantially the same as with all other contributions. the presentation of the needs of the university has been made in writing by the officers of the university, whose special duty it is to prepare its budgets and superintend its finances. a committee of the trustees, with the president, have annually conferred, at a fixed time, with our department of benevolence, as to its needs. their conclusions have generally been entirely unanimous and i have found no occasion hitherto seriously to depart from their recommendations. there have been no personal interviews and no personal solicitations. it has been a pleasure to me to make these contributions, but that pleasure has arisen out of the fact that the university is located in a great centre of empire; that it has rooted itself in the affections and interest of the people among whom it is located; that it is doing a great and needed work--in fine, that it has been able to attract and to justify the contributions of its patrons east and west. it is not personal interviews and impassioned appeals, but sound and justifying worth, that should attract and secure the funds of philanthropy. the people in great numbers who are constantly importuning me for personal interviews in behalf of favourite causes err in supposing that the interview, were it possible, is the best way, or even a good way, of securing what they want. our practice has been uniformly to request applicants to state their cases tersely, but nevertheless as fully as they think necessary, in writing. their application is carefully considered by very competent people chosen for this purpose. if, thereupon, personal interviews are found desirable by our assistants, they are invited from our office. written presentations form the necessary basis of investigation, of consultation, and comparison of views between the different members of our staff, and of the final presentation to me. it is impossible to conduct this department of our work in any other way. the rule requiring written presentation as against the interview is enforced and adhered to not, as the applicant sometimes supposes, as a cold rebuff to him, but in order to secure for his cause, if it be a good one, the careful consideration which is its due--a consideration that cannot be given in a mere verbal interview. the reason for conditional gifts it is easy to do harm in giving money. to give to institutions which should be supported by others is not the best philanthropy. such giving only serves to dry up the natural springs of charity. it is highly important that every charitable institution shall have at all times the largest possible number of current contributors. this means that the institution shall constantly be making its appeals; but, if these constant appeals are to be successful, the institution is forced to do excellent work and meet real and manifest needs. moreover, the interest of many people affords the best assurance of wise economy and unselfish management as well as of continued support. we frequently make our gifts conditional on the giving of others, not because we wish to force people to do their duty, but because we wish in this way to root the institution in the affections of as many people as possible who, as contributors, become personally concerned, and thereafter may be counted on to give to the institution their watchful interest and coöperation. conditional gifts are often criticized, and sometimes, it may be, by people who have not thought the matter out fully. criticism which is deliberate, sober, and fair is always valuable and it should be welcomed by all who desire progress. i have had at least my full share of adverse criticism, but i can truly say that it has not embittered me, nor left me with any harsh feeling against a living soul. nor do i wish to be critical of those whose conscientious judgment, frankly expressed, differs from my own. no matter how noisy the pessimists may be, we know that the world is getting better steadily and rapidly, and that is a good thing to remember in our moments of depression or humiliation. the benevolent trusts to return to the subject of the benevolent trusts, which is a name for corporations to manage the business side of benefactions. the idea needs, and to be successful must have, the help of men who have been trained along practical lines. the best men of business should be attracted by its possibilities for good. when it is eventually worked out, as it will be in some form, and probably in a better one than we can now forecast, how worthy it will be of the efforts of our ablest men! we shall have the best charities supported generously and adequately, managed with scientific efficiency by the ablest men, who will gladly he held strictly accountable to the donors of the money, not only for the correct financing of the funds, but for the intelligent and effective use of every penny. to-day the whole machinery of benevolence is conducted upon more or less haphazard principles. good men and women are wearing out their lives to raise money to sustain institutions which are conducted by more less or unskilled methods. this is a tremendous waste of our best material. we cannot afford to have great souls who are capable of doing the most effective work slaving to raise the money. that should be a business man's task, and he should be supreme in managing the machinery of the expenses. the teachers, the workers, and the inspired leaders of the people should be relieved of these pressing and belittling money cares. they have more than enough to do in tilling their tremendous and never fully occupied field, and they should be free from any care which might in any wise divert them from that work. when these benevolent trusts come into active being, such organizations on broad lines will be sure to attract the brains of the best men we have in our commercial affairs, as great business opportunities attract them now. our successful business men as a class, and the exceptions only prove the truth of the assertion, have a high standard of honour. i have sometimes been tempted to say that our clergymen could gain by knowing the essentials of business life better. the closer association with men of affairs would, i think, benefit both classes. people who have had much to do with ministers and those who hold confidential positions in our churches have at times had surprising experiences in meeting what is sometimes practised in the way of ecclesiastical business, because these good men have had so little of business training in the work-a-day world. the whole system of proper relations, whether it be in commerce, or in the church, or in the sciences, rests on honour. able business men seek to confine their dealings to people who tell the truth and keep their promises; and the representatives of the church, who are often prone to attack business men as a type of what is selfish and mean, have some great lessons to learn, and they will gladly learn them as these two types of workers grow closer together. the benevolent trusts, when they come, will raise these standards; they will look the facts in the face; they will applaud and sustain the effective workers and institutions; and they will uplift the intelligent standard of good work in helping all the people chiefly to help themselves. there are already signs that these combinations are coming, and coming quickly, and in the directorates of these trusts you will eventually find the flower of our american manhood, the men who not only know how to make money, but who accept the great responsibility of administering it wisely. a few years ago, on the occasion of the decennial anniversary of the university of chicago, i was attending a university dinner, and having been asked to speak i had jotted down a few notes. when the time arrived to stand up and face these guests--men of worth and position--my notes meant nothing to me. as i thought of the latent power of good that rested with these rich and influential people i was greatly affected. i threw down my notes and started to plead for my benevolent trust plan. "you men," i said, "are always looking forward to do something for good causes. i know how very busy you are. you work in a treadmill from which you see no escape. i can easily understand that you feel that it is beyond your present power carefully to study the needs of humanity, and that you wait to give until you have considered many things and decided upon some course of action. now, why not do with what you can give to others as you do with what you want to keep for yourself and your children: put it into a trust? you would not place a fortune for your children in the hands of an inexperienced person, no matter how good he might be. let us be as careful with the money we would spend for the benefit of others as if we were laying it aside for our own family's future use. directors carry on these affairs in your behalf. let us erect a foundation, a trust, and engage directors who will make it a life work to manage, with our personal coöperation, this business of benevolence properly and effectively. and i beg of you, attend to it _now_, don't wait." i confess i felt most strongly on the subject, and i feel so now. the lion and the mouse by charles klein a story of an american life novelized from the play by arthur hornblow "judges and senates have been bought for gold; love and esteem have never been sold." pope contents chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii chapter xiii chapter xiv chapter xv chapter xvi the lion and the mouse chapter i there was unwonted bustle in the usually sleepy and dignified new york offices of the southern and transcontinental railroad company in lower broadway. the supercilious, well-groomed clerks who, on ordinary days, are far too preoccupied with their own personal affairs to betray the slightest interest in anything not immediately concerning them, now condescended to bestir themselves and, gathered in little groups, conversed in subdued, eager tones. the slim, nervous fingers of half a dozen haughty stenographers, representing as many different types of business femininity, were busily rattling the keys of clicking typewriters, each of their owners intent on reducing with all possible despatch the mass of letters which lay piled up in front of her. through the heavy plate-glass swinging doors, leading to the elevators and thence to the street, came and went an army of messengers and telegraph boys, noisy and insolent. through the open windows the hoarse shouting of news-venders, the rushing of elevated trains, the clanging of street cars, with the occasional feverish dash of an ambulance--all these familiar noises of a great city had the far-away sound peculiar to top floors of the modern sky-scraper. the day was warm and sticky, as is not uncommon in early may, and the overcast sky and a distant rumbling of thunder promised rain before night. the big express elevators, running smoothly and swiftly, unloaded every few moments a number of prosperous-looking men who, chatting volubly and affably, made their way immediately through the outer offices towards another and larger inner office on the glass door of which was the legend "directors room. private." each comer gave a patronizing nod in recognition of the deferential salutation of the clerks. earlier arrivals had preceded them, and as they opened the door there issued from the directors room a confused murmur of voices, each different in pitch and tone, some deep and deliberate, others shrill and nervous, but all talking earnestly and with animation as men do when the subject under discussion is of common interest. now and again a voice was heard high above the others, denoting anger in the speaker, followed by the pleading accents of the peace-maker, who was arguing his irate colleague into calmness. at intervals the door opened to admit other arrivals, and through the crack was caught a glimpse of a dozen directors, some seated, some standing near a long table covered with green baize. it was the regular quarterly meeting of the directors of the southern and transcontinental railroad company, but it was something more than mere routine that had called out a quorum of such strength and which made to-day's gathering one of extraordinary importance in the history of the road. that the business on hand was of the greatest significance was easily to be inferred from the concerned and anxious expression on the directors' faces and the eagerness of the employes as they plied each other with questions. "suppose the injunction is sustained?" asked a clerk in a whisper. "is not the road rich enough to bear the loss?" the man he addressed turned impatiently to the questioner: "that's all you know about railroading. don't you understand that this suit we have lost will be the entering wedge for hundreds of others. the very existence of the road may be at stake. and between you and me," he added in a lower key, "with judge rossmore on the bench we never stood much show. it's judge rossmore that scares 'em, not the injunction. they've found it easy to corrupt most of the supreme court judges, but judge rossmore is one too many for them. you could no more bribe him than you could have bribed abraham lincoln." "but the newspapers say that he, too, has been caught accepting $ , worth of stock for that decision he rendered in the great northwestern case." "lies! all those stories are lies," replied the other emphatically. then looking cautiously around to make sure no one overheard, he added contemptuously, "the big interests fear him, and they're inventing these lies to try and injure him. they might as well try to blow up gibraltar. the fact is the public is seriously aroused this time and the railroads are in a panic." it was true. the railroad, which heretofore had considered itself superior to law, had found itself checked in its career of outlawry and oppression. the railroad, this modern octopus of steam and steel which stretches its greedy tentacles out over the land, had at last been brought to book. at first, when the country was in the earlier stages of its development, the railroad appeared in the guise of a public benefactor. it brought to the markets of the east the produce of the south and west. it opened up new and inaccessible territory and made oases of waste places. it brought to the city coal, lumber, food and other prime necessaries of life, taking back to the farmer and the woodsman in exchange, clothes and other manufactured goods. thus, little by little, the railroad wormed itself into the affections of the people and gradually became an indispensable part of the life it had itself created. tear up the railroad and life itself is extinguished. so when the railroad found it could not be dispensed with, it grew dissatisfied with the size of its earnings. legitimate profits were not enough. its directors cried out for bigger dividends, and from then on the railroad became a conscienceless tyrant, fawning on those it feared and crushing without mercy those who were defenceless. it raised its rates for hauling freight, discriminating against certain localities without reason or justice, and favouring other points where its own interests lay. by corrupting government officials and other unlawful methods it appropriated lands, and there was no escape from its exactions and brigandage. other roads were built, and for a brief period there was held out the hope of relief that invariably comes from honest competition. but the railroad either absorbed its rivals or pooled interests with them, and thereafter there were several masters instead of one. soon the railroads began to war among themselves, and in a mad scramble to secure business at any price they cut each other's rates and unlawfully entered into secret compacts with certain big shippers, permitting the latter to enjoy lower freight rates than their competitors. the smaller shippers were soon crushed out of existence in this way. competition was throttled and prices went up, making the railroad barons richer and the people poorer. that was the beginning of the giant trusts, the greatest evil american civilization has yet produced, and one which, unless checked, will inevitably drag this country into the throes of civil strife. from out of this quagmire of corruption and rascality emerged the colossus, a man so stupendously rich and with such unlimited powers for evil that the world has never looked upon his like. the famous croesus, whose fortune was estimated at only eight millions in our money, was a pauper compared with john burkett ryder, whose holdings no man could count, but which were approximately estimated at a thousand millions of dollars. the railroads had created the trust, the ogre of corporate greed, of which ryder was the incarnation, and in time the trust became master of the railroads, which after all seemed but retributive justice. john burkett ryder, the richest man in the world--the man whose name had spread to the farthest corners of the earth because of his wealth, and whose money, instead of being a blessing, promised to become not only a curse to himself but a source of dire peril to all mankind--was a genius born of the railroad age. no other age could have brought him forth; his peculiar talents fitted exactly the conditions of his time. attracted early in life to the newly discovered oil fields of pennsylvania, he became a dealer in the raw product and later a refiner, acquiring with capital, laboriously saved, first one refinery, then another. the railroads were cutting each other's throats to secure the freight business of the oil men, and john burkett ryder saw his opportunity. he made secret overtures to the road, guaranteeing a vast amount of business if he could get exceptionally low rates, and the illegal compact was made. his competitors, undersold in the market, stood no chance, and one by one they were crushed out of existence. ryder called these manouvres "business"; the world called them brigandage. but the colossus prospered and slowly built up the foundations of the extraordinary fortune which is the talk and the wonder of the world today. master now of the oil situation, ryder succeeded in his ambition of organizing the empire trading company, the most powerful, the most secretive, and the most wealthy business institution the commercial world has yet known. yet with all this success john burkett ryder was still not content. he was now a rich man, richer by many millions that he had dreamed he could ever be, but still he was unsatisfied. he became money mad. he wanted to be richer still, to be the richest man in the world, the richest man the world had ever known. and the richer he got the stronger the idea grew upon him with all the force of a morbid obsession. he thought of money by day, he dreamt of it at night. no matter by what questionable device it was to be procured, more gold and more must flow into his already overflowing coffers. so each day, instead of spending the rest of his years in peace, in the enjoyment of the wealth he had accumulated, he went downtown like any twenty-dollar-a-week clerk to the tall building in lower broadway and, closeted with his associates, toiled and plotted to make more money. he acquired vast copper mines and secured control of this and that railroad. he had invested heavily in the southern and transcontinental road and was chairman of its board of directors. then he and his fellow-conspirators planned a great financial coup. the millions were not coming in fast enough. they must make a hundred millions at one stroke. they floated a great mining company to which the public was invited to subscribe. the scheme having the endorsement of the empire trading company no one suspected a snare, and such was the magic of john ryder's name that gold flowed in from every point of the compass. the stock sold away above par the day it was issued. men deemed themselves fortunate if they were even granted an allotment. what matter if, a few days later, the house of cards came tumbling down, and a dozen suicides were strewn along wall street, that sinister thoroughfare which, as a wit has said, has a graveyard at one end and the river at the other! had ryder any twinges of conscience? hardly. had he not made a cool twenty millions by the deal? yet this commercial pirate, this napoleon of finance, was not a wholly bad man. he had his redeeming qualities, like most bad men. his most pronounced weakness, and the one that had made him the most conspicuous man of his time, was an entire lack of moral principle. no honest or honourable man could have amassed such stupendous wealth. in other words, john ryder had not been equipped by nature with a conscience. he had no sense of right, or wrong, or justice where his own interests were concerned. he was the prince of egoists. on the other hand, he possessed qualities which, with some people, count as virtues. he was pious and regular in his attendance at church and, while he had done but little for charity, he was known to have encouraged the giving of alms by the members of his family, which consisted of a wife, whose timid voice was rarely heard, and a son jefferson, who was the destined successor to his gigantic estate. such was the man who was the real power behind the southern and transcontinental railroad. more than anyone else ryder had been aroused by the present legal action, not so much for the money interest at stake as that any one should dare to thwart his will. it had been a pet scheme of his, this purchase for a song, when the land was cheap, of some thousand acres along the line, and it is true that at the time of the purchase there had been some idea of laying the land out as a park. but real estate values had increased in astonishing fashion, the road could no longer afford to carry out the original scheme, and had attempted to dispose of the property for building purposes, including a right of way for a branch road. the news, made public in the newspapers, had raised a storm of protest. the people in the vicinity claimed that the railroad secured the land on the express condition of a park being laid out, and in order to make a legal test they had secured an injunction, which had been sustained by judge rossmore of the united states circuit court. these details were hastily told and re-told by one clerk to another as the babel of voices in the inner room grew louder, and more directors kept arriving from the ever-busy elevators. the meeting was called for three o'clock. another five minutes and the chairman would rap for order. a tall, strongly built man with white moustache and kindly smile emerged from the directors room and, addressing one of the clerks, asked: "has mr. ryder arrived yet?" the alacrity with which the employe hastened forward to reply would indicate that his interlocutor was a person of more than ordinary importance. "no, senator, not yet. we expect him any minute." then with a deferential smile he added: "mr. ryder usually arrives on the stroke, sir." the senator gave a nod of acquiescence and, turning on his heel, greeted with a grasp of the hand and affable smile his fellow-directors as they passed in by twos and threes. senator roberts was in the world of politics what his friend john burkett ryder was in the world of finance--a leader of men. he started life in wisconsin as an errand boy, was educated in the public schools, and later became clerk in a dry-goods store, finally going into business for his own account on a large scale. he was elected to the legislature, where his ability as an organizer soon gained the friendship of the men in power, and later was sent to congress, where he was quickly initiated in the game of corrupt politics. in he entered the united states senate. he soon became the acknowledged leader of a considerable majority of the republican senators, and from then on he was a figure to be reckoned with. a very ambitious man, with a great love of power and few scruples, it is little wonder that only the practical or dishonest side of politics appealed to him. he was in politics for all there was in it, and he saw in his lofty position only a splendid opportunity for easy graft. he did not hesitate to make such alliances with corporate interests seeking influence at washington as would enable him to accomplish this purpose, and in this way he had met and formed a strong friendship with john burkett ryder. each being a master in his own field was useful to the other. neither was troubled with qualms of conscience, so they never quarrelled. if the ryder interests needed anything in the senate, roberts and his followers were there to attend to it. just now the cohort was marshalled in defence of the railroads against the attacks of the new rebate bill. in fact, ryder managed to keep the senate busy all the time. when, on the other hand, the senators wanted anything--and they often did--ryder saw that they got it, lower rates for this one, a fat job for that one, not forgetting themselves. senator roberts was already a very rich man, and although the world often wondered where he got it, no one had the courage to ask him. but the republican leader was stirred with an ambition greater than that of controlling a majority in the senate. he had a daughter, a marriageable young woman who, at least in her father's opinion, would make a desirable wife for any man. his friend ryder had a son, and this son was the only heir to the greatest fortune ever amassed by one man, a fortune which, at its present rate of increase, by the time the father died and the young couple were ready to inherit, would probably amount to over six billions of dollars. could the human mind grasp the possibilities of such a colossal fortune? it staggered the imagination. its owner, or the man who controlled it, would be master of the world! was not this a prize any man might well set himself out to win? the senator was thinking of it now as he stood exchanging banal remarks with the men who accosted him. if he could only bring off that marriage he would be content. the ambition of his life would be attained. there was no difficulty as far as john ryder was concerned. he favoured the match and had often spoken of it. indeed, ryder desired it, for such an alliance would naturally further his business interests in every way. roberts knew that his daughter kate had more than a liking for ryder's handsome young son. moreover, kate was practical, like her father, and had sense enough to realize what it would mean to be the mistress of the ryder fortune. no, kate was all right, but there was young ryder to reckon with. it would take two in this case to make a bargain. jefferson ryder was, in truth, an entirely different man from his father. it was difficult to realize that both had sprung from the same stock. a college-bred boy with all the advantages his father's wealth could give him, he had inherited from the parent only those characteristics which would have made him successful even if born poor--activity, pluck, application, dogged obstinacy, alert mentality. to these qualities he added what his father sorely lacked--a high notion of honour, a keen sense of right and wrong. he had the honest man's contempt for meanness of any description, and he had little patience with the lax so-called business morals of the day. for him a dishonourable or dishonest action could have no apologist, and he could see no difference between the crime of the hungry wretch who stole a loaf of bread and the coal baron who systematically robbed both his employes and the public. in fact, had he been on the bench he would probably have acquitted the human derelict who, in despair, had appropriated the prime necessary of life, and sent the over-fed, conscienceless coal baron to jail. "do unto others as you would have others do unto you." this simple and fundamental axiom jefferson ryder had adopted early in life, and it had become his religion--the only one, in fact, that he had. he was never pious like his father, a fact much regretted by his mother, who could see nothing but eternal damnation in store for her son because he never went to church and professed no orthodox creed. she knew him to be a good lad, but to her simple mind a conduct of life based merely on a system of moral philosophy was the worst kind of paganism. there could, she argued, be no religion, and assuredly no salvation, outside the dogmatic teachings of the church. but otherwise jefferson was a model son and, with the exception of this bad habit of thinking for himself on religious matters, really gave her no anxiety. when jefferson left college, his father took him into the empire trading company with the idea of his eventually succeeding him as head of the concern, but the different views held by father and son on almost every subject soon led to stormy scenes that made the continuation of the arrangement impossible. senator roberts was well aware of these unfortunate independent tendencies in john ryder's son, and while he devoutly desired the consummation of jefferson's union with his daughter, he quite realized that the young man was a nut which was going to be exceedingly hard to crack. "hello, senator, you're always on time!" disturbed in his reflections, senator roberts looked up and saw the extended hand of a red-faced, corpulent man, one of the directors. he was no favourite with the senator, but the latter was too keen a man of the world to make enemies uselessly, so he condescended to place two fingers in the outstretched fat palm. "how are you, mr. grimsby? well, what are we going to do about this injunction? the case has gone against us. i knew judge rossmore's decision would be for the other side. public opinion is aroused. the press--" mr. grimsby's red face grew more apoplectic as he blurted out: "public opinion and the press be d---d. who cares for public opinion? what is public opinion, anyhow? this road can manage its own affairs or it can't. if it can't i for one quit railroading. the press! pshaw! it's all graft, i tell you. it's nothing but a strike! i never knew one of these virtuous outbursts that wasn't. first the newspapers bark ferociously to advertise themselves; then they crawl round and whine like a cur. and it usually costs something to fix matters." the senator smiled grimly. "no, no, grimsby--not this time. it's more serious than that. hitherto the road has been unusually lucky in its bench decisions--" the senator gave a covert glance round to see if any long ears were listening. then he added: "we can't expect always to get a favourable decision like that in the cartwright case, when franchise rights valued at nearly five millions were at stake. judge stollmann proved himself a true friend in that affair." grimsby made a wry grimace as he retorted: "yes, and it was worth it to him. a supreme court judge don't get a cheque for $ , every day. that represents two years' pay." "it might represent two years in jail if it were found out," said the senator with a forced laugh. grimsby saw an opportunity, and he could not resist the temptation. bluntly he said: "as far as jail's concerned, others might be getting their deserts there too." the senator looked keenly at grimsby from under his white eyebrows. then in a calm, decisive tone he replied: "it's no question of a cheque this time. the road could not buy judge rossmore with $ , . he is absolutely unapproachable in that way." the apoplectic face of mr. grimsby looked incredulous. it was hard for these men who plotted in the dark, and cheated the widow and the orphan for love of the dollar, to understand that there were in the world, breathing the same air as they, men who put honour, truth and justice above mere money-getting. with a slight tinge of sarcasm he asked: "is there any man in our public life who is unapproachable from some direction or other?" "yes, judge rossmore is such a man. he is one of the few men in american public life who takes his duties seriously. in the strictest sense of the term, he serves his country instead of serving himself. i am no friend of his, but i must do him that justice." he spoke sharply, in an irritated tone, as if resenting the insinuation of this vulgarian that every man in public life had his price. roberts knew that the charge was true as far as he and the men he consorted with were concerned, but sometimes the truth hurts. that was why he had for a moment seemed to champion judge rossmore, which, seeing that the judge himself was at that very moment under a cloud, was an absurd thing for him to do. he had known rossmore years before when the latter was a city magistrate in new york. that was before he, roberts, had become a political grafter and when the decent things in life still appealed to him. the two men, although having few interests in common, had seen a good deal of one another until roberts went to washington when their relations were completely severed. but he had always watched rossmore's career, and when he was made a judge of the supreme court at a comparatively early age he was sincerely glad. if anything could have convinced roberts that success can come in public life to a man who pursues it by honest methods it was the success of james rossmore. he could never help feeling that rossmore had been endowed by nature with certain qualities which had been denied to him, above all that ability to walk straight through life with skirts clean which he had found impossible himself. to-day judge rossmore was one of the most celebrated judges in the country. he was a brilliant jurist and a splendid after-dinner speaker. he was considered the most learned and able of all the members of the judiciary, and his decisions were noted as much for their fearlessness as for their wisdom. but what was far more, he enjoyed a reputation for absolute integrity. until now no breath of slander, no suspicion of corruption, had ever touched him. even his enemies acknowledged that. and that is why there was a panic to-day among the directors of the southern and transcontinental railroad. this honest, upright man had been called upon in the course of his duty to decide matters of vital importance to the road, and the directors were ready to stampede because, in their hearts, they knew the weakness of their case and the strength of the judge. grimsby, unconvinced, returned to the charge. "what about these newspaper charges? did judge rossmore take a bribe from the great northwestern or didn't he? you ought to know." "i do know," answered the senator cautiously and somewhat curtly, "but until mr. ryder arrives i can say nothing. i believe he has been inquiring into the matter. he will tell us when he comes." the hands of the large clock in the outer room pointed to three. an active, dapper little man with glasses and with books under his arm passed hurriedly from another office into the directors room. "there goes mr. lane with the minutes. the meeting is called. where's mr. ryder?" there was a general move of the scattered groups of directors toward the committee room. the clock overhead began to strike. the last stroke had not quite died away when the big swinging doors from the street were thrown open and there entered a tall, thin man, gray-headed, and with a slight stoop, but keen eyed and alert. he was carefully dressed in a well-fitting frock coat, white waistcoat, black tie and silk hat. it was john burkett ryder, the colossus. chapter ii at fifty-six, john burkett ryder was surprisingly well preserved. with the exception of the slight stoop, already noted, and the rapidly thinning snow-white hair, his step was as light and elastic, and his brain as vigorous and alert, as in a man of forty. of old english stock, his physical make-up presented all those strongly marked characteristics of our race which, sprung from anglo-saxon ancestry, but modified by nearly years of different climate and customs, has gradually produced the distinct and true american type, as easily recognizable among the family of nations as any other of the earth's children. tall and distinguished-looking, ryder would have attracted attention anywhere. men who have accomplished much in life usually bear plainly upon their persons the indefinable stamp of achievement, whether of good or evil, which renders them conspicuous among their fellows. we turn after a man in the street and ask, who is he? and nine times out of ten the object of our curiosity is a man who has made his mark--a successful soldier, a famous sailor, a celebrated author, a distinguished lawyer, or even a notorious crook. there was certainly nothing in john ryder's outward appearance to justify lombroso's sensational description of him: "a social and physiological freak, a degenerate and a prodigy of turpitude who, in the pursuit of money, crushes with the insensibility of a steel machine everyone who stands in his way." on the contrary, ryder, outwardly at least, was a prepossessing-looking man. his head was well-shaped, and he had an intellectual brow, while power was expressed in every gesture of his hands and body. every inch of him suggested strength and resourcefulness. his face, when in good humour, frequently expanded in a pleasant smile, and he had even been known to laugh boisterously, usually at his own stories, which he rightly considered very droll, and of which he possessed a goodly stock. but in repose his face grew stern and forbidding, and when his prognathous jaw, indicative of will-power and bull-dog tenacity, snapped to with a click-like sound, those who heard it knew that squalls were coming. but it was john ryder's eyes that were regarded as the most reliable barometer of his mental condition. wonderful eyes they were, strangely eloquent and expressive, and their most singular feature was that they possessed the uncanny power of changing colour like a cat's. when their owner was at peace with the world, and had temporarily shaken off the cares of business, his eyes were of the most restful, beautiful blue, like the sky after sunrise on a spring morning, and looking into their serene depths it seemed absurd to think that this man could ever harm a fly. his face, while under the spell of this kindly mood, was so benevolent and gentle, so frank and honest that you felt there was nothing in the world--purse, honour, wife, child--that, if needs be, you would not entrust to his keeping. when this period of truce was ended, when the plutocrat was once more absorbed in controlling the political as well as the commercial machinery of the nation, then his eyes took on a snakish, greenish hue, and one could plainly read in them the cunning, the avariciousness, the meanness, the insatiable thirst for gain that had made this man the most unscrupulous money-getter of his time. but his eyes had still another colour, and when this last transformation took place those dependent on him, and even his friends, quaked with fear. for they were his eyes of anger. on these dreaded occasions his eyes grew black as darkest night and flashed fire as lightning rends the thundercloud. almost ungovernable fury was, indeed, the weakest spot in john ryder's armour, for in these moments of appalling wrath he was reckless of what he said or did, friendship, self-interest, prudence--all were sacrificed. such was the colossus on whom all eyes were turned as he entered. instantly the conversations, stopped as by magic. the directors nudged each other and whispered. instinctively, ryder singled out his crony, senator roberts, who advanced with effusive gesture: "hello, senator!" "you're punctual as usual, mr. ryder. i never knew you to be late!" the great man chuckled, and the little men standing around, listening breathlessly, chuckled in respectful sympathy, and they elbowed and pushed one another in their efforts to attract ryder's notice, like so many cowardly hyenas not daring to approach the lordly wolf. senator roberts made a remark in a low tone to ryder, whereupon the latter laughed. the bystanders congratulated each other silently. the great man was pleased to be in a good humour. and as ryder turned with the senator to enter the directors room the light from the big windows fell full on his face, and they noticed that his eyes were of the softest blue. "no squalls to-day," whispered one. "wait and see," retorted a more experienced colleague. "those eyes are more fickle than the weather." outside the sky was darkening, and drops of rain were already falling. a flash of lightning presaged the coming storm. ryder passed on and into the directors room followed by senator roberts and the other directors, the procession being brought up by the dapper little secretary bearing the minutes. the long room with its narrow centre table covered with green baize was filled with directors scattered in little groups and all talking at once with excited gesture. at the sight of ryder the chattering stopped as if by common consent, and the only sound audible was of the shuffling of feet and the moving of chairs as the directors took their places around the long table. with a nod here and there ryder took his place in the chairman's seat and rapped for order. then at a sign from the chair the dapper little secretary began in a monotonous voice to read the minutes of the previous meeting. no one listened, a few directors yawned. others had their eyes riveted on ryder's face, trying to read there if he had devised some plan to offset the crushing blow of this adverse decision, which meant a serious loss to them all. he, the master mind, had served them in many a like crisis in the past. could he do so again? but john ryder gave no sign. his eyes, still of the same restful blue, were fixed on the ceiling watching a spider marching with diabolical intent on a wretched fly that had become entangled in its web. and as the secretary ambled monotonously on, ryder watched and watched until he saw the spider seize its helpless prey and devour it. fascinated by the spectacle, which doubtless suggested to him some analogy to his own methods, ryder sat motionless, his eyes fastened on the ceiling, until the sudden stopping of the secretary's reading aroused him and told him that the minutes were finished. quickly they were approved, and the chairman proceeded as rapidly as possible with the regular business routine. that disposed of, the meeting was ready for the chief business of the day. ryder then calmly proceeded to present the facts in the case. some years back the road had acquired as an investment some thousands of acres of land located in the outskirts of auburndale, on the line of their road. the land was bought cheap, and there had been some talk of laying part of it out as a public park. this promise had been made at the time in good faith, but it was no condition of the sale. if, afterwards, owing to the rise in the value of real estate, the road found it impossible to carry out the original idea, surely they were masters of their own property! the people of auburndale thought differently and, goaded on by the local newspapers, had begun action in the courts to restrain the road from diverting the land from its alleged original purpose. they had succeeded in getting the injunction, but the road had fought it tooth and nail, and finally carried it to the supreme court, where judge rossmore, after reserving his opinion, had finally sustained the injunction and decided against the railroad. that was the situation, and he would now like to hear from the members of the board. mr. grimsby rose. self-confident and noisily loquacious, as most men of his class are in simple conversation, he was plainly intimidated at speaking before such a crowd. he did not know where to look nor what to do with his hands, and he shuffled uneasily on his feet, while streams of nervous perspiration ran down his fat face, which he mopped repeatedly with a big coloured handkerchief. at last, taking courage, he began: "mr. chairman, for the past ten years this road has made bigger earnings in proportion to its carrying capacity than any other railroad in the united states. we have had fewer accidents, less injury to rolling stock, less litigation and bigger dividends. the road has been well managed and"--here he looked significantly in ryder's direction--"there has been a big brain behind the manager. we owe you that credit, mr. ryder!" cries of "hear! hear!" came from all round the table. ryder bowed coldly, and mr. grimsby continued: "but during the last year or two things have gone wrong. there has been a lot of litigation, most of which has gone against us, and it has cost a heap of money. it reduced the last quarterly dividend very considerably, and the new complication--this auburndale suit, which also has gone against us--is going to make a still bigger hole in our exchequer. gentlemen, i don't want to be a prophet of misfortune, but i'll tell you this--unless something is done to stop this hostility in the courts you and i stand to lose every cent we have invested in the road. this suit which we have just lost means a number of others. what i would ask our chairman is what has become of his former good relations with the supreme court, what has become of his influence, which never failed us. what are these rumours regarding judge rossmore? he is charged in the newspapers with having accepted a present from a road in whose favour he handed down a very valuable decision. how is it that our road cannot reach judge rossmore and make him presents?" the speaker sat down, flushed and breathless. the expression on every face showed that the anxiety was general. the directors glanced at ryder, but his face was expressionless as marble. apparently he took not the slightest interest in this matter which so agitated his colleagues. another director rose. he was a better speaker than mr. grimsby, but his voice had a hard, rasping quality that smote the ears unpleasantly. he said: "mr. chairman, none of us can deny what mr. grimsby has just put before us so vividly. we are threatened not with one, but with a hundred such suits, unless something is done either to placate the public or to render its attacks harmless. rightly or wrongly, the railroad is hated by the people, yet we are only what railroad conditions compel us to be. with the present fierce competition, no fine question of ethics can enter into our dealings as a business organization. with an irritated public and press on one side, and a hostile judiciary on the other, the outlook certainly is far from bright. but is the judiciary hostile? is it not true that we have been singularly free from litigation until recently, and that most of the decisions were favourable to the road? judge rossmore is the real danger. while he is on the bench the road is not safe. yet all efforts to reach him have failed and will fail. i do not take any stock in the newspaper stories regarding judge rossmore. they are preposterous. judge rossmore is too strong a man to be got rid of so easily." the speaker sat down and another rose, his arguments being merely a reiteration of those already heard. ryder did not listen to what was being said. why should he? was he not familiar with every possible phase of the game? better than these men who merely talked, he was planning how the railroad and all his other interests could get rid of this troublesome judge. it was true. he who controlled legislatures and dictated to supreme court judges had found himself powerless when each turn of the legal machinery had brought him face to face with judge rossmore. suit after suit had been decided against him and the interests he represented, and each time it was judge rossmore who had handed down the decision. so for years these two men had fought a silent but bitter duel in which principle on the one side and attempted corruption on the other were the gauge of battle. judge rossmore fought with the weapons which his oath and the law directed him to use, ryder with the only weapons he understood--bribery and trickery. and each time it had been rossmore who had emerged triumphant. despite every manoeuvre ryder's experience could suggest, notwithstanding every card that could be played to undermine his credit and reputation, judge rossmore stood higher in the country's confidence than when he was first appointed. so when ryder found he could not corrupt this honest judge with gold, he decided to destroy him with calumny. he realized that the sordid methods which had succeeded with other judges would never prevail with rossmore, so he plotted to take away from this man the one thing he cherished most--his honour. he would ruin him by defaming his character, and so skilfully would he accomplish his work that the judge himself would realize the hopelessness of resistance. no scruples embarrassed ryder in arriving at this determination. from his point of view he was fully justified. "business is business. he hurts my interests; therefore i remove him." so he argued, and he considered it no more wrong to wreck the happiness of this honourable man than he would to have shot a burglar in self-defence. so having thus tranquillized his conscience he had gone to work in his usually thorough manner, and his success had surpassed the most sanguine expectations. this is what he had done. like many of our public servants whose labours are compensated only in niggardly fashion by an inconsiderate country, judge rossmore was a man of but moderate means. his income as justice of the supreme court was $ , a year, but for a man in his position, having a certain appearance to keep up, it little more than kept the wolf from the door. he lived quietly but comfortably in new york city with his wife and his daughter shirley, an attractive young woman who had graduated from vassar and had shown a marked taste for literature. the daughter's education had cost a good deal of money, and this, together with life insurance and other incidentals of keeping house in new york, had about taken all he had. yet he had managed to save a little, and those years when he could put by a fifth of his salary the judge considered himself lucky. secretly, he was proud of his comparative poverty. at least the world could never ask him "where he got it." ryder was well acquainted with judge rossmore's private means. the two men had met at a dinner, and although ryder had tried to cultivate the acquaintance, he never received much encouragement. ryder's son jefferson, too, had met miss shirley rossmore and been much attracted to her, but the father having more ambitious plans for his heir quickly discouraged all attentions in that direction. he himself, however, continued to meet the judge casually, and one evening he contrived to broach the subject of profitable investments. the judge admitted that by careful hoarding and much stinting he had managed to save a few thousand dollars which he was anxious to invest in something good. quick as the keen-eyed vulture swoops down on its prey the wily financier seized the opportunity thus presented. and he took so much trouble in answering the judge's inexperienced questions, and generally made himself so agreeable, that the judge found himself regretting that he and ryder had, by force of circumstances, been opposed to each other in public life so long. ryder strongly recommended the purchase of alaskan mining stock, a new and booming enterprise which had lately become very active in the market. ryder said he had reasons to believe that the stock would soon advance, and now there was an opportunity to get it cheap. a few days after he had made the investment the judge was surprised to receive certificates of stock for double the amount he had paid for. at the same time he received a letter from the secretary of the company explaining that the additional stock was pool stock and not to be marketed at the present time. it was in the nature of a bonus to which he was entitled as one of the early shareholders. the letter was full of verbiage and technical details of which the judge understood nothing, but he thought it very liberal of the company, and putting the stock away in his safe soon forgot all about it. had he been a business man he would have scented peril. he would have realized that he had now in his possession $ , worth of stock for which he had not paid a cent, and furthermore had deposited it when a reorganization came. but the judge was sincerely grateful for ryder's apparently disinterested advice and wrote two letters to him, one in which he thanked him for the trouble he had taken, and another in which he asked him if he was sure the company was financially sound, as the investment he contemplated making represented all his savings. he added in the second letter that he had received stock for double the amount of his investment, and that being a perfect child in business transactions he had been unable to account for the extra $ , worth until the secretary of the company had written him assuring him that everything was in order. these letters ryder kept. from that time on the alaskan mining company underwent mysterious changes. new capitalists gained control and the name was altered to the great northwestern mining company. then it became involved in litigation, and one suit, the outcome of which meant millions to the company, was carried to the supreme court, where judge rossmore was sitting. the judge had by this time forgotten all about the company in which he owned stock. he did not even recall its name. he only knew vaguely that it was a mine and that it was situated in alaska. could he dream that the great northwestern mining company and the company to which he had entrusted his few thousands were one and the same? in deciding on the merits of the case presented to him right seemed to him to be plainly with the northwestern, and he rendered a decision to that effect. it was an important decision, involving a large sum, and for a day or two it was talked about. but as it was the opinion of the most learned and honest judge on the bench no one dreamed of questioning it. but very soon ugly paragraphs began to appear in the newspapers. one paper asked if it were true that judge rossmore owned stock in the great northwestern mining company which had recently benefited so signally by his decision. interviewed by a reporter, judge rossmore indignantly denied being interested in any way in the company. thereupon the same paper returned to the attack, stating that the judge must surely be mistaken as the records showed a sale of stock to him at the time the company was known as the alaskan mining company. when he read this the judge was overwhelmed. it was true then! they had not slandered him. it was he who had lied, but how innocently--how innocently! his daughter shirley, who was his greatest friend and comfort, was then in europe. she had gone to the continent to rest, after working for months on a novel which she had just published. his wife, entirely without experience in business matters and somewhat of an invalid, was helpless to advise him. but to his old and tried friend, ex-judge stott, judge rossmore explained the facts as they were. stott shook his head. "it's a conspiracy!" he cried. "and john b. ryder is behind it." rossmore refused to believe that any man could so deliberately try to encompass another's destruction, but when more newspaper stories came out he began to realize that stott was right and that his enemies had indeed dealt him a deadly blow. one newspaper boldly stated that judge rossmore was down on the mining company's books for $ , more stock than he had paid for, and it went on to ask if this were payment for the favourable decision just rendered. rossmore, helpless, child-like as he was in business matters, now fully realized the seriousness of his position. "my god! my god!" he cried, as he bowed his head down on his desk. and for a whole day he remained closeted in his library, no one venturing near him. as john ryder sat there sphinx-like at the head of the directors' table he reviewed all this in his mind. his own part in the work was now done and well done, and he had come to this meeting to-day to tell them of his triumph. the speaker, to whom he had paid such scant attention, resumed his seat, and there followed a pause and an intense silence which was broken only by the pattering of the rain against the big windows. the directors turned expectantly to ryder, waiting for him to speak. what could the colossus do now to save the situation? cries of "the chair! the chair!" arose on every side. senator roberts leaned over to ryder and whispered something in his ear. with an acquiescent gesture, john ryder tapped the table with his gavel and rose to address his fellow directors. instantly the room was silent again as the tomb. one might have heard a pin drop, so intense was the attention. all eyes were fixed on the chairman. the air itself seemed charged with electricity, that needed but a spark to set it ablaze. speaking deliberately and dispassionately, the master dissembler began. they had all listened carefully, he said, to what had been stated by previous speakers. the situation no doubt was very critical, but they had weathered worse storms and he had every reason to hope they would outlive this storm. it was true that public opinion was greatly incensed against the railroads and, indeed, against all organized capital, and was seeking to injure them through the courts. for a time this agitation would hurt business and lessen the dividends, for it meant not only smaller annual earnings but that a lot of money must be spent in washington. the eyes of the listeners, who were hanging on every word, involuntarily turned in the direction of senator roberts, but the latter, at that moment busily engaged in rummaging among a lot of papers, seemed to have missed this significant allusion to the road's expenses in the district of columbia. ryder continued: in his experience such waves of reform were periodical and soon wear themselves out, when things go on just as they did before. much of the agitation, doubtless, was a strike for graft. they would have to go down in their pockets, he supposed, and then these yellow newspapers and these yellow magazines that were barking at their heels would let them go. but in regard to the particular case now at issue--this auburndale decision--there had been no way of preventing it. influence had been used, but to no effect. the thing to do now was to prevent any such disasters in future by removing the author of them. the directors bent eagerly forward. had ryder really got some plan up his sleeve after all? the faces around the table looked brighter, and the directors cleared their throats and settled themselves down in their chairs as audiences do in the theatre when the drama is reaching its climax. the board, continued ryder with icy calmness, had perhaps heard, and also seen in the newspapers, the stories regarding judge rossmore and his alleged connection with the great northwestern company. perhaps they had not believed these stories. it was only natural. he had not believed them himself. but he had taken the trouble to inquire into the matter very carefully, and he regretted to say that the stories were true. in fact, they were no longer denied by judge rossmore himself. the directors looked at each other in amazement. gasps of astonishment, incredulity, satisfaction were heard all over the room. the rumours were true, then? was it possible? incredible! investigation, ryder went on, had shown that judge rossmore was not only interested in the company in whose favour, as judge of the supreme court, he had rendered an important decision, but what was worse, he had accepted from that company a valuable gift--that is, $ , worth of stock--for which he had given absolutely nothing in return unless, as some claimed, the weight of his influence on the bench. these facts were very ugly and so unanswerable that judge rossmore did not attempt to answer them, and the important news which he, the chairman, had to announce to his fellow-directors that afternoon, was that judge rossmore's conduct would be made the subject of an inquiry by congress. this was the spark that was needed to ignite the electrically charged air. a wild cry of triumph went up from this band of jackals only too willing to fatten their bellies at the cost of another man's ruin, and one director, in his enthusiasm, rose excitedly from his chair and demanded a vote of thanks for john ryder. ryder coldly opposed the motion. no thanks were due to him, he said deprecatingly, nor did he think the occasion called for congratulations of any kind. it was surely a sad spectacle to see this honoured judge, this devoted father, this blameless citizen threatened with ruin and disgrace on account of one false step. let them rather sympathize with him and his family in their misfortune. he had little more to tell. the congressional inquiry would take place immediately, and in all probability a demand would be made upon the senate for judge rossmore's impeachment. it was, he added, almost unnecessary for him to remind the board that, in the event of impeachment, the adverse decision in the auburndale case would be annulled and the road would be entitled to a new trial. ryder sat down, and pandemonium broke loose, the delighted directors tumbling over each other in their eagerness to shake hands with the man who had saved them. ryder had given no hint that he had been a factor in the working up of this case against their common enemy, in fact he had appeared to sympathise with him, but the directors knew well that he and he alone had been the master mind which had brought about the happy result. on a motion to adjourn, the meeting broke up, and everyone began to troop towards the elevators. outside the rain was now coming down in torrents and the lights that everywhere dotted the great city only paled when every few moments a vivid flash of lightning rent the enveloping gloom. ryder and senator roberts went down in the elevator together. when they reached the street the senator inquired in a low tone: "do you think they really believed rossmore was influenced in his decision?" ryder glanced from the lowering clouds overhead to his electric brougham which awaited him at the curb and replied indifferently: "not they. they don't care. all they want to believe is that he is to be impeached. the man was dangerous and had to be removed--no matter by what means. he is our enemy--my enemy--and i never give quarter to my enemies!" as he spoke his prognathous jaw snapped to with a click-like sound, and in his eyes now coal-black were glints of fire. at the same instant there was a blinding flash, accompanied by a terrific crash, and the splinters of the flag-pole on the building opposite, which had been struck by a bolt, fell at their feet. "a good or a bad omen?" asked the senator with a nervous laugh. he was secretly afraid of lightning but was ashamed to admit it. "a bad omen for judge rossmore!" rejoined ryder coolly, as he slammed to the door of the cab, and the two men drove rapidly off in the direction of fifth avenue. chapter iii of all the spots on this fair, broad earth where the jaded globe wanderer, surfeited with hackneyed sight-seeing, may sit in perfect peace and watch the world go by, there is none more fascinating nor one presenting a more brilliant panorama of cosmopolitan life than that famous corner on the paris boulevards, formed by the angle of the boulevard des capucines and the place de l'opera. here, on the "terrace" of the cafe de la paix, with its white and gold facade and long french windows, and its innumerable little marble-topped tables and rattan chairs, one may sit for hours at the trifling expense of a few sous, undisturbed even by the tip-seeking garcon, and, if one happens to be a student of human nature, find keen enjoyment in observing the world-types, representing every race and nationality under the sun, that pass and re-pass in a steady, never ceasing, exhaustless stream. the crowd surges to and fro, past the little tables, occasionally toppling over a chair or two in the crush, moving up or down the great boulevards, one procession going to the right, in the direction of the church of the madeleine, the other to the left heading toward the historic bastille, both really going nowhere in particular, but ambling gently and good humouredly along enjoying the sights--and life! paris, queen of cities! light-hearted, joyous, radiant paris--the playground of the nations, the mecca of the pleasure-seekers, the city beautiful! paris--the siren, frankly immoral, always seductive, ever caressing! city of a thousand political convulsions, city of a million crimes--her streets have run with human blood, horrors unspeakable have stained her history, civil strife has scarred her monuments, the german conqueror insolently has bivouaced within her walls. yet, like a virgin undefiled, she shows no sign of storm and stress, she offers her dimpled cheek to the rising sun, and when fall the shadows of night and a billion electric bulbs flash in the siren's crown, her resplendent, matchless beauty dazzles the world! as the supreme reward of virtue, the good american is promised a visit to paris when he dies. those, however, of our sagacious fellow countrymen who can afford to make the trip, usually manage to see lutetia before crossing the river styx. most americans like paris--some like it so well that they have made it their permanent home--although it must be added that in their admiration they rarely include the frenchman. for that matter, we are not as a nation particularly fond of any foreigner, largely because we do not understand him, while the foreigner for his part is quite willing to return the compliment. he gives the yankee credit for commercial smartness, which has built up america's great material prosperity; but he has the utmost contempt for our acquaintance with art, and no profound respect for us as scientists. is it not indeed fortunate that every nation finds itself superior to its neighbour? if this were not so each would be jealous of the other, and would cry with envy like a spoiled child who cannot have the moon to play with. happily, therefore, for the harmony of the world, each nation cordially detests the other and the much exploited "brotherhood of man" is only a figure of speech. the englishman, confident that he is the last word of creation, despises the frenchman, who, in turn, laughs at the german, who shows open contempt for the italian, while the american, conscious of his superiority to the whole family of nations, secretly pities them all. the most serious fault which the american--whose one god is mammon and chief characteristic hustle--has to find with his french brother is that he enjoys life too much, is never in a hurry and, what to the yankee mind is hardly respectable, has a habit of playing dominoes during business hours. the frenchman retorts that his american brother, clever person though he be, has one or two things still to learn. he has, he declares, no philosophy of life. it is true that he has learned the trick of making money, but in the things which go to satisfy the soul he is still strangely lacking. he thinks he is enjoying life, when really he is ignorant of what life is. he admits it is not the american's fault, for he has never been taught how to enjoy life. one must be educated to that as everything else. all the american is taught is to be in a perpetual hurry and to make money no matter how. in this mad daily race for wealth, he bolts his food, not stopping to masticate it properly, and consequently suffers all his life from dyspepsia. so he rushes from the cradle to the grave, and what's the good, since he must one day die like all the rest? and what, asks the foreigner, has the american hustler accomplished that his slower-going continental brother has not done as well? are finer cities to be found in america than in europe, do americans paint more beautiful pictures, or write more learned or more entertaining books, has america made greater progress in science? is it not a fact that the greatest inventors and scientists of our time--marconi, who gave to the world wireless telegraphy, professor curie, who discovered radium, pasteur, who found a cure for rabies, santos-dumont, who has almost succeeded in navigating the air, professor rontgen who discovered the x-ray--are not all these immortals europeans? and those two greatest mechanical inventions of our day, the automobile and the submarine boat, were they not first introduced and perfected in france before we in america woke up to appreciate their use? is it, therefore, not possible to take life easily and still achieve? the logic of these arguments, set forth in le soir in an article on the new world, appealed strongly to jefferson ryder as he sat in front of the cafe de la paix, sipping a sugared vermouth. it was five o'clock, the magic hour of the aperitif, when the glutton taxes his wits to deceive his stomach and work up an appetite for renewed gorging. the little tables were all occupied with the usual before-dinner crowd. there were a good many foreigners, mostly english and americans and a few frenchmen, obviously from the provinces, with only a sprinkling of real parisians. jefferson's acquaintance with the french language was none too profound, and he had to guess at half the words in the article, but he understood enough to follow the writer's arguments. yes, it was quite true, he thought, the american idea of life was all wrong. what was the sense of slaving all one's life, piling up a mass of money one cannot possibly spend, when there is only one life to live? how much saner the man who is content with enough and enjoys life while he is able to. these frenchmen, and indeed all the continental nations, had solved the problem. the gaiety of their cities, and this exuberant joy of life they communicated to all about them, were sufficient proofs of it. fascinated by the gay scene around him jefferson laid the newspaper aside. to the young american, fresh from prosaic money-mad new york, the city of pleasure presented indeed a novel and beautiful spectacle. how different, he mused, from his own city with its one fashionable thoroughfare--fifth avenue--monotonously lined for miles with hideous brownstone residences, and showing little real animation except during the saturday afternoon parade when the activities of the smart set, male and female, centred chiefly in such exciting diversions as going to huyler's for soda, taking tea at the waldorf, and trying to outdo each other in dress and show. new york certainly was a dull place with all its boasted cosmopolitanism. there was no denying that. destitute of any natural beauty, handicapped by its cramped geographical position between two rivers, made unsightly by gigantic sky-scrapers and that noisy monstrosity the elevated railroad, having no intellectual interests, no art interests, no interest in anything not immediately connected with dollars, it was a city to dwell in and make money in, but hardly a city to live in. the millionaires were building white-marble palaces, taxing the ingenuity and the originality of the native architects, and thus to some extent relieving the general ugliness and drab commonplaceness, while the merchant princes had begun to invade the lower end of the avenue with handsome shops. but in spite of all this, in spite of its pretty girls--and jefferson insisted that in this one important particular new york had no peer--in spite of its comfortable theatres and its wicked tenderloin, and its rialto made so brilliant at night by thousands of elaborate electric signs, new york still had the subdued air of a provincial town, compared with the exuberant gaiety, the multiple attractions, the beauties, natural and artificial, of cosmopolitan paris. the boulevards were crowded, as usual at that hour, and the crush of both vehicles and pedestrians was so great as to permit of only a snail-like progress. the clumsy three-horse omnibuses--madeleine-bastille--crowded inside and out with passengers and with their neatly uniformed drivers and conductors, so different in appearance and manner from our own slovenly street-car rowdies, were endeavouring to breast a perfect sea of fiacres which, like a swarm of mosquitoes, appeared to be trying to go in every direction at once, their drivers vociferating torrents of vituperous abuse on every man, woman or beast unfortunate enough to get in their way. as a dispenser of unspeakable profanity, the paris cocher has no equal. he is unique, no one can approach him. he also enjoys the reputation of being the worst driver in the world. if there is any possible way in which he can run down a pedestrian or crash into another vehicle he will do it, probably for the only reason that it gives him another opportunity to display his choice stock of picturesque expletives. but it was a lively, good-natured crowd and the fashionably gowned women and the well-dressed men, the fakirs hoarsely crying their catch-penny devices, the noble boulevards lined as far as the eye could reach with trees in full foliage, the magnificent opera house with its gilded dome glistening in the warm sunshine of a june afternoon, the broad avenue directly opposite, leading in a splendid straight line to the famous palais royal, the almost dazzling whiteness of the houses and monuments, the remarkable cleanliness and excellent condition of the sidewalks and streets, the gaiety and richness of the shops and restaurants, the picturesque kiosks where they sold newspapers and flowers--all this made up a picture so utterly unlike anything he was familiar with at home that jefferson sat spellbound, delighted. yes, it was true, he thought, the foreigner had indeed learned the secret of enjoying life. there was assuredly something else in the world beyond mere money-getting. his father was a slave to it, but he would never be. he was resolved on that. yet, with all his ideas of emancipation and progress, jefferson was a thoroughly practical young man. he fully understood the value of money, and the possession of it was as sweet to him as to other men. only he would never soil his soul in acquiring it dishonourably. he was convinced that society as at present organized was all wrong and that the feudalism of the middle ages had simply given place to a worse form of slavery--capitalistic driven labour--which had resulted in the actual iniquitous conditions, the enriching of the rich and the impoverishment of the poor. he was familiar with the socialistic doctrines of the day and had taken a keen interest in this momentous question, this dream of a regenerated mankind. he had read karl marx and other socialistic writers, and while his essentially practical mind could hardly approve all their programme for reorganizing the state, some of which seemed to him utopian, extravagant and even undesirable, he realised that the socialistic movement was growing rapidly all over the world and the day was not far distant when in america, as to-day in germany and france, it would be a formidable factor to reckon with. but until the socialistic millennium arrived and society was reorganized, money, he admitted, would remain the lever of the world, the great stimulus to effort. money supplied not only the necessities of life but also its luxuries, everything the material desire craved for, and so long as money had this magic purchasing power, so long would men lie and cheat and rob and kill for its possession. was life worth living without money? could one travel and enjoy the glorious spectacles nature affords--the rolling ocean, the majestic mountains, the beautiful lakes, the noble rivers--without money? could the book-lover buy books, the art-lover purchase pictures? could one have fine houses to live in, or all sorts of modern conveniences to add to one's comfort, without money? the philosophers declared contentment to be happiness, arguing that the hod-carrier was likely to be happier in his hut than the millionaire in his palace; but was not that mere animal contentment, the happiness which knows no higher state, the ignorance of one whose eyes have never been raised to the heights? no, jefferson was no fool. he loved money for what pleasure, intellectual or physical, it could give him, but he would never allow money to dominate his life as his father had done. his father, he knew well, was not a happy man, neither happy himself nor respected by the world. he had toiled all his life to make his vast fortune and now he toiled to take care of it. the galley slave led a life of luxurious ease compared with john burkett ryder. baited by the yellow newspapers and magazines, investigated by state committees, dogged by process-servers, haunted by beggars, harassed by blackmailers, threatened by kidnappers, frustrated in his attempts to bestow charity by the cry "tainted money"--certainly the lot of the world's richest man was far from being an enviable one. that is why jefferson had resolved to strike out for himself. he had warded off the golden yoke which his father proposed to put on his shoulders, declining the lucrative position made for him in the empire trading company, and he had gone so far as to refuse also the private income his father offered to settle on him. he would earn his own living. a man who has his bread buttered for him seldom accomplishes anything he had said, and while his father had appeared to be angry at this open opposition to his will, he was secretly pleased at his son's grit. jefferson was thoroughly in earnest. if needs be, he would forego the great fortune that awaited him rather than be forced into questionable business methods against which his whole manhood revolted. jefferson ryder felt strongly about these matters, and gave them more thought than would be expected of most young men with his opportunities. in fact, he was unusually serious for his age. he was not yet thirty, but he had done a great deal of reading, and he took a keen interest in all the political and sociological questions of the hour. in personal appearance, he was the type of man that both men and women like--tall and athletic looking, with smooth face and clean-cut features. he had the steel-blue eyes and the fighting jaw of his father, and when he smiled he displayed two even rows of very white teeth. he was popular with men, being manly, frank and cordial in his relations with them, and women admired him greatly, although they were somewhat intimidated by his grave and serious manner. the truth was that he was rather diffident with women, largely owing to lack of experience with them. he had never felt the slightest inclination for business. he had the artistic temperament strongly developed, and his personal tastes had little in common with wall street and its feverish stock manipulating. when he was younger, he had dreamed of a literary or art career. at one time he had even thought of going on the stage. but it was to art that he turned finally. from an early age he had shown considerable skill as a draughtsman, and later a two years' course at the academy of design convinced him that this was his true vocation. he had begun by illustrating for the book publishers and for the magazines, meeting at first with the usual rebuffs and disappointments, but, refusing to be discouraged, he had kept on and soon the tide turned. his drawings began to be accepted. they appeared first in one magazine, then in another, until one day, to his great joy, he received an order from an important firm of publishers for six washdrawings to be used in illustrating a famous novel. this was the beginning of his real success. his illustrations were talked about almost as much as the book, and from that time on everything was easy. he was in great demand by the publishers, and very soon the young artist, who had begun his career of independence on nothing a year so to speak, found himself in a handsomely appointed studio in bryant park, with more orders coming in than he could possibly fill, and enjoying an income of little less than $ , a year. the money was all the sweeter to jefferson in that he felt he had himself earned every cent of it. this summer he was giving himself a well-deserved vacation, and he had come to europe partly to see paris and the other art centres about which his fellow students at the academy raved, but principally--although this he did not acknowledge even to himself--to meet in paris a young woman in whom he was more than ordinarily interested--shirley rossmore, daughter of judge rossmore, of the united states supreme court, who had come abroad to recuperate after the labours on her new novel, "the american octopus," a book which was then the talk of two hemispheres. jefferson had read half a dozen reviews of it in as many american papers that afternoon at the new york herald's reading room in the avenue de l'opera, and he chuckled with glee as he thought how accurately this young woman had described his father. the book had been published under the pseudonym "shirley green," and he alone had been admitted into the secret of authorship. the critics all conceded that it was the book of the year, and that it portrayed with a pitiless pen the personality of the biggest figure in the commercial life of america. "although," wrote one reviewer, "the leading character in the book is given another name, there can be no doubt that the author intended to give to the world a vivid pen portrait of john burkett ryder. she has succeeded in presenting a remarkable character-study of the most remarkable man of his time." he was particularly pleased with the reviews, not only for miss rossmore's sake, but also because his own vanity was gratified. had he not collaborated on the book to the extent of acquainting the author with details of his father's life, and his characteristics, which no outsider could possibly have learned? there had been no disloyalty to his father in doing this. jefferson admired his father's smartness, if he could not approve his methods. he did not consider the book an attack on his father, but rather a powerfully written pen picture of an extraordinary man. jefferson had met shirley rossmore two years before at a meeting of the schiller society, a pseudo-literary organization gotten up by a lot of old fogies for no useful purpose, and at whose monthly meetings the poet who gave the society its name was probably the last person to be discussed. he had gone out of curiosity, anxious to take in all the freak shows new york had to offer, and he had been introduced to a tall girl with a pale, thoughtful face and firm mouth. she was a writer, miss rossmore told him, and this was her first visit also to the evening receptions of the schiller society. half apologetically she added that it was likely to be her last, for, frankly, she was bored to death. but she explained that she had to go to these affairs, as she found them useful in gathering material for literary use. she studied types and eccentric characters, and this seemed to her a capital hunting ground. jefferson, who, as a rule, was timid with girls and avoided them, found this girl quite unlike the others he had known. her quiet, forceful demeanour appealed to him strongly, and he lingered with her, chatting about his work, which had so many interests in common with her own, until refreshments were served, when the affair broke up. this first meeting had been followed by a call at the rossmore residence, and the acquaintance had kept up until jefferson, for the first time since he came to manhood, was surprised and somewhat alarmed at finding himself strangely and unduly interested in a person of the opposite sex. the young artist's courteous manner, his serious outlook on life, his high moral principles, so rarely met with nowadays in young men of his age and class, could hardly fail to appeal to shirley, whose ideals of men had been somewhat rudely shattered by those she had hitherto met. above all, she demanded in a man the refinement of the true gentleman, together with strength of character and personal courage. that jefferson ryder came up to this standard she was soon convinced. he was certainly a gentleman: his views on a hundred topics of the hour expressed in numerous conversations assured her as to his principles, while a glance at his powerful physique left no doubt possible as to his courage. she rightly guessed that this was no poseur trying to make an impression and gain her confidence. there was an unmistakable ring of sincerity in all his words, and his struggle at home with his father, and his subsequent brave and successful fight for his own independence and self-respect, more than substantiated all her theories. and the more shirley let her mind dwell on jefferson ryder and his blue eyes and serious manner, the more conscious she became that the artist was encroaching more upon her thoughts and time than was good either for her work or for herself. so their casual acquaintance grew into a real friendship and comradeship. further than that shirley promised herself it should never go. not that jefferson had given her the slightest hint that he entertained the idea of making her his wife one day, only she was sophisticated enough to know the direction in which run the minds of men who are abnormally interested in one girl, and long before this shirley had made up her mind that she would never marry. firstly, she was devoted to her father and could not bear the thought of ever leaving him; secondly, she was fascinated by her literary work and she was practical enough to know that matrimony, with its visions of slippers and cradles, would be fatal to any ambition of that kind. she liked jefferson immensely--more, perhaps, than any man she had yet met--and she did not think any the less of him because of her resolve not to get entangled in the meshes of cupid. in any case he had not asked her to marry him--perhaps the idea was far from his thoughts. meantime, she could enjoy his friendship freely without fear of embarrassing entanglements. when, therefore, she first conceived the idea of portraying in the guise of fiction the personality of john burkett ryder, the colossus of finance whose vast and ever-increasing fortune was fast becoming a public nuisance, she naturally turned to jefferson for assistance. she wanted to write a book that would be talked about, and which at the same time would open the eyes of the public to this growing peril in their midst--this monster of insensate and unscrupulous greed who, by sheer weight of his ill-gotten gold, was corrupting legislators and judges and trying to enslave the nation. the book, she argued, would perform a public service in awakening all to the common danger. jefferson fully entered into her views and had furnished her with the information regarding his father that she deemed of value. the book had proven a success beyond their most sanguine expectations, and shirley had come to europe for a rest after the many weary months of work that it took to write it. the acquaintance of his son with the daughter of judge rossmore had not escaped the eagle eye of ryder, sr., and much to the financier's annoyance, and even consternation, he had ascertained that jefferson was a frequent caller at the rossmore home. he immediately jumped to the conclusion that this could mean only one thing, and fearing what he termed "the consequences of the insanity of immature minds," he had summoned jefferson peremptorily to his presence. he told his son that all idea of marriage in that quarter was out of the question for two reasons: one was that judge rossmore was his most bitter enemy, the other was that he had hoped to see his son, his destined successor, marry a woman of whom he, ryder, sr., could approve. he knew of such a woman, one who would make a far more desirable mate than miss rossmore. he alluded, of course, to kate roberts, the pretty daughter of his old friend, the senator. the family interests would benefit by this alliance, which was desirable from every point of view. jefferson had listened respectfully until his father had finished and then grimly remarked that only one point of view had been overlooked--his own. he did not care for miss roberts; he did not think she really cared for him. the marriage was out of the question. whereupon ryder, sr., had fumed and raged, declaring that jefferson was opposing his will as he always did, and ending with the threat that if his son married shirley rossmore without his consent he would disinherit him. jefferson was cogitating on these incidents of the last few months when suddenly a feminine voice which he quickly recognised called out in english: "hello! mr. ryder." he looked up and saw two ladies, one young, the other middle aged, smiling at him from an open fiacre which had drawn up to the curb. jefferson jumped from his seat, upsetting his chair and startling two nervous frenchmen in his hurry, and hastened out, hat in hand. "why, miss rossmore, what are you doing out driving?" he asked. "you know you and mrs. blake promised to dine with me to-night. i was coming round to the hotel in a few moments." mrs. blake was a younger sister of shirley's mother. her husband had died a few years previously, leaving her a small income, and when she had heard of her niece's contemplated trip to europe she had decided to come to paris to meet her and incidentally to chaperone her. the two women were stopping at the grand hotel close by, while jefferson had found accommodations at the athenee. shirley explained. her aunt wanted to go to the dressmaker's, and she herself was most anxious to go to the luxembourg gardens to hear the music. would he take her? then they could meet mrs. blake at the hotel at seven o'clock and all go to dinner. was he willing? was he? jefferson's face fairly glowed. he ran back to his table on the terrasse to settle for his vermouth, astonished the waiter by not stopping to notice the short change he gave him, and rushed back to the carriage. a dirty little italian girl, shrewd enough to note the young man's attention to the younger of the american women, wheedled up to the carriage and thrust a bunch of flowers in jefferson's face. "achetez des fleurs, monsieur, pour la jolie dame?" down went jefferson's hand in his pocket and, filling the child's hand with small silver, he flung the flowers in the carriage. then he turned inquiringly to shirley for instructions so he could direct the cocher. mrs. blake said she would get out here. her dressmaker was close by, in the rue auber, and she would walk back to the hotel to meet them at seven o'clock. jefferson assisted her to alight and escorted her as far as the porte-cochere of the modiste's, a couple of doors away. when he returned to the carriage, shirley had already told the coachman where to go. he got in and the fiacre started. "now," said shirley, "tell me what you have been doing with yourself all day." jefferson was busily arranging the faded carriage rug about shirley, spending more time in the task perhaps than was absolutely necessary, and she had to repeat the question. "doing?" he echoed with a smile, "i've been doing two things--waiting impatiently for seven o'clock and incidentally reading the notices of your book." chapter iv "tell me, what do the papers say?" settling herself comfortably back in the carriage, shirley questioned jefferson with eagerness, even anxiety. she had been impatiently awaiting the arrival of the newspapers from "home," for so much depended on this first effort. she knew her book had been praised in some quarters, and her publishers had written her that the sales were bigger every day, but she was curious to learn how it had been received by the reviewers. in truth, it had been no slight achievement for a young writer of her inexperience, a mere tyro in literature, to attract so much attention with her first book. the success almost threatened to turn her head, she had told her aunt laughingly, although she was sure it could never do that. she fully realized that it was the subject rather than the skill of the narrator that counted in the book's success, also the fact that it had come out at a timely moment, when the whole world was talking of the money peril. had not president roosevelt, in a recent sensational speech, declared that it might be necessary for the state to curb the colossal fortunes of america, and was not her hero, john burkett ryder, the richest of them all? any way they looked at it, the success of the book was most gratifying. while she was an attractive, aristocratic-looking girl, shirley rossmore had no serious claims to academic beauty. her features were irregular, and the firm and rather thin mouth lines disturbed the harmony indispensable to plastic beauty. yet there was in her face something far more appealing--soul and character. the face of the merely beautiful woman expresses nothing, promises nothing. it presents absolutely no key to the soul within, and often there is no soul within to have a key to. perfect in its outlines and coloring, it is a delight to gaze upon, just as is a flawless piece of sculpture, yet the delight is only fleeting. one soon grows satiated, no matter how beautiful the face may be, because it is always the same, expressionless and soulless. "beauty is only skin deep," said the philosopher, and no truer dictum was ever uttered. the merely beautiful woman, who possesses only beauty and nothing else, is kept so busy thinking of her looks, and is so anxious to observe the impression her beauty makes on others, that she has neither the time nor the inclination for matters of greater importance. sensible men, as a rule, do not lose their hearts to women whose only assets are their good looks. they enjoy a flirtation with them, but seldom care to make them their wives. the marrying man is shrewd enough to realize that domestic virtues will be more useful in his household economy than all the academic beauty ever chiselled out of block marble. shirley was not beautiful, but hers was a face that never failed to attract attention. it was a thoughtful and interesting face, with an intellectual brow and large, expressive eyes, the face of a woman who had both brain power and ideals, and yet who, at the same time, was in perfect sympathy with the world. she was fair in complexion, and her fine brown eyes, alternately reflective and alert, were shaded by long dark lashes. her eyebrows were delicately arched, and she had a good nose. she wore her hair well off the forehead, which was broader than in the average woman, suggesting good mentality. her mouth, however, was her strongest feature. it was well shaped, but there were firm lines about it that suggested unusual will power. yet it smiled readily, and when it did there was an agreeable vision of strong, healthy-looking teeth of dazzling whiteness. she was a little over medium height and slender in figure, and carried herself with that unmistakable air of well-bred independence that bespeaks birth and culture. she dressed stylishly, and while her gowns were of rich material, and of a cut suggesting expensive modistes, she was always so quietly attired and in such perfect taste, that after leaving her one could never recall what she had on. at the special request of shirley, who wanted to get a glimpse of the latin quarter, the driver took a course down the avenue de l'opera, that magnificent thoroughfare which starts at the opera and ends at the theatre francais, and which, like many others that go to the beautifying of the capital, the parisians owe to the much-despised napoleon iii. the cab, jefferson told her, would skirt the palais royal and follow the rue de rivoli until it came to the chatelet, when it would cross the seine and drive up the boulevard st. michel--the students' boulevard--until it reached the luxembourg gardens. like most of his kind, the cocker knew less than nothing of the art of driving, and he ran a reckless, zig-zag flight, in and out, forcing his way through a confusing maze of vehicles of every description, pulling first to the right, then to the left, for no good purpose that was apparent, and averting only by the narrowest of margins half a dozen bad collisions. at times the fiacre lurched in such alarming fashion that shirley was visibly perturbed, but when jefferson assured her that all paris cabs travelled in this crazy fashion and nothing ever happened, she was comforted. "tell me," he repeated, "what do the papers say about the book?" "say?" he echoed. "why, simply that you've written the biggest book of the year, that's all!" "really! oh, do tell me all they said!" she was fairly excited now, and in her enthusiasm she grasped jefferson's broad, sunburnt hand which was lying outside the carriage rug. he tried to appear unconscious of the contact, which made his every nerve tingle, as he proceeded to tell her the gist of the reviews he had read that afternoon. "isn't that splendid!" she exclaimed, when he had finished. then she added quickly: "i wonder if your father has seen it?" jefferson grinned. he had something on his conscience, and this was a good opportunity to get rid of it. he replied laconically: "he probably has read it by this time. i sent him a copy myself." the instant the words were out of his mouth he was sorry, for shirley's face had changed colour. "you sent him a copy of 'the american octopus?'" she cried. "then he'll guess who wrote the book." "oh, no, he won't," rejoined jefferson calmly. "he has no idea who sent it to him. i mailed it anonymously." shirley breathed a sigh of relief. it was so important that her identity should remain a secret. as daughter of a supreme court judge she had to be most careful. she would not embarrass her father for anything in the world. but it was smart of jefferson to have sent ryder, sr., the book, so she smiled graciously on his son as she asked: "how do you know he got it? so many letters and packages are sent to him that he never sees himself." "oh, he saw your book all right," laughed jefferson. "i was around the house a good deal before sailing, and one day i caught him in the library reading it." they both laughed, feeling like mischievous children who had played a successful trick on the hokey-pokey man. jefferson noted his companion's pretty dimples and fine teeth, and he thought how attractive she was, and stronger and stronger grew the idea within him that this was the woman who was intended by nature to share his life. her slender hand still covered his broad, sunburnt one, and he fancied he felt a slight pressure. but he was mistaken. not the slightest sentiment entered into shirley's thoughts of jefferson. she regarded him only as a good comrade with whom she had secrets she confided in no one else. to that extent and to that extent alone he was privileged above other men. suddenly he asked her: "have you heard from home recently?" a soft light stole into the girl's face. home! ah, that was all she needed to make her cup of happiness full. intoxicated with this new sensation of a first literary success, full of the keen pleasure this visit to the beautiful city was giving her, bubbling over with the joy of life, happy in the almost daily companionship of the man she liked most in the world after her father, there was only one thing lacking--home! she had left new york only a month before, and she was homesick already. her father she missed most. she was fond of her mother, too, but the latter, being somewhat of a nervous invalid, had never been to her quite what her father had been. the playmate of her childhood, companion of her girlhood, her friend and adviser in womanhood, judge rossmore was to his daughter the ideal man and father. answering jefferson's question she said: "i had a letter from father last week. everything was going on at home as when i left. father says he misses me sadly, and that mother is ailing as usual." she smiled, and jefferson smiled too. they both knew by experience that nothing really serious ailed mrs. rossmore, who was a good deal of a hypochondriac, and always so filled with aches and pains that, on the few occasions when she really felt well, she was genuinely alarmed. the fiacre by this time had emerged from the rue de rivoli and was rolling smoothly along the fine wooden pavement in front of the historic conciergerie prison where marie antoinette was confined before her execution. presently they recrossed the seine, and the cab, dodging the tram car rails, proceeded at a smart pace up the "boul' mich'," which is the familiar diminutive bestowed by the students upon that broad avenue which traverses the very heart of their beloved quartier latin. on the left frowned the scholastic walls of the learned sorbonne, in the distance towered the majestic dome of the pantheon where rousseau, voltaire and hugo lay buried. like most of the principal arteries of the french capital, the boulevard was generously lined with trees, now in full bloom, and the sidewalks fairly seethed with a picturesque throng in which mingled promiscuously frivolous students, dapper shop clerks, sober citizens, and frisky, flirtatious little ouvrieres, these last being all hatless, as is characteristic of the work-girl class, but singularly attractive in their neat black dresses and dainty low-cut shoes. there was also much in evidence another type of female whose extravagance of costume and boldness of manner loudly proclaimed her ancient profession. on either side of the boulevard were shops and cafes, mostly cafes, with every now and then a brasserie, or beer hall. seated in front of these establishments, taking their ease as if beer sampling constituted the only real interest in their lives, were hundreds of students, reckless and dare-devil, and suggesting almost anything except serious study. they all wore frock coats and tall silk hats, and some of the latter were wonderful specimens of the hatter's art. a few of the more eccentric students had long hair down to their shoulders, and wore baggy peg-top trousers of extravagant cut, which hung in loose folds over their sharp-pointed boots. on their heads were queer plug hats with flat brims. shirley laughed outright and regretted that she did not have her kodak to take back to america some idea of their grotesque appearance, and she listened with amused interest as jefferson explained that these men were notorious poseurs, aping the dress and manners of the old-time student as he flourished in the days of randolph and mimi and the other immortal characters of murger's bohemia. nobody took them seriously except themselves, and for the most part they were bad rhymesters of decadent verse. shirley was astonished to see so many of them busily engaged smoking cigarettes and imbibing glasses of a pale-green beverage, which jefferson told her was absinthe. "when do they read?" she asked. "when do they attend lectures?" "oh," laughed jefferson, "only the old-fashioned students take their studies seriously. most of the men you see there are from the provinces, seeing paris for the first time, and having their fling. incidentally they are studying life. when they have sown their wild oats and learned all about life--provided they are still alive and have any money left--they will begin to study books. you would be surprised to know how many of these young men, who have been sent to the university at a cost of goodness knows what sacrifices, return to their native towns in a few months wrecked in body and mind, without having once set foot in a lecture room, and, in fact, having done nothing except inscribe their names on the rolls." shirley was glad she knew no such men, and if she ever married and had a son she would pray god to spare her that grief and humiliation. she herself knew something about the sacrifices parents make to secure a college education for their children. her father had sent her to vassar. she was a product of the much-sneered-at higher education for women, and all her life she would be grateful for the advantages given her. her liberal education had broadened her outlook on life and enabled her to accomplish the little she had. when she graduated her father had left her free to follow her own inclinations. she had little taste for social distractions, and still she could not remain idle. for a time she thought of teaching to occupy her mind, but she knew she lacked the necessary patience, and she could not endure the drudgery of it, so, having won honors at college in english composition, she determined to try her hand at literature. she wrote a number of essays and articles on a hundred different subjects which she sent to the magazines, but they all came back with politely worded excuses for their rejection. but shirley kept right on. she knew she wrote well; it must be that her subjects were not suitable. so she adopted new tactics, and persevered until one day came a letter of acceptance from the editor of one of the minor magazines. they would take the article offered--a sketch of college life--and as many more in similar vein as miss rossmore could write. this success had been followed by other acceptances and other commissions, until at the present time she was a well-known writer for the leading publications. her great ambition had been to write a book, and "the american octopus," published under an assumed name, was the result. the cab stopped suddenly in front of beautiful gilded gates. it was the luxembourg, and through the tall railings they caught a glimpse of well-kept lawns, splashing fountains and richly dressed children playing. from the distance came the stirring strains of a brass band. the coachman drove up to the curb and jefferson jumped down, assisting shirley to alight. in spite of shirley's protest jefferson insisted on paying. "combien?" he asked the cocher. the jehu, a surly, thick-set man with a red face and small, cunning eyes like a ferret, had already sized up his fares for two sacre foreigners whom it would be flying in the face of providence not to cheat, so with unblushing effrontery he answered: "dix francs, monsieur!" and he held up ten fingers by way of illustration. jefferson was about to hand up a ten-franc piece when shirley indignantly interfered. she would not submit to such an imposition. there was a regular tariff and she would pay that and nothing more. so, in better french than was at jefferson's command, she exclaimed: "ten francs? pourquoi dix francs? i took your cab by the hour. it is exactly two hours. that makes four francs." then to jefferson she added: "give him a franc for a pourboire--that makes five francs altogether." jefferson, obedient to her superior wisdom, held out a five-franc piece, but the driver shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. he saw that the moment had come to bluster so he descended from his box fully prepared to carry out his bluff. he started in to abuse the two americans whom in his ignorance he took for english. "ah, you sale anglais! you come to france to cheat the poor frenchman. you make me work all afternoon and then pay me nothing. not with this coco! i know my rights and i'll get them, too." all this was hurled at them in a patois french, almost unintelligible to shirley, and wholly so to jefferson. all he knew was that the fellow's attitude was becoming unbearably insolent and he stepped forward with a gleam in his eye that might have startled the man had he not been so busy shaking his fist at shirley. but she saw jefferson's movement and laid her hand on his arm. "no, no, mr. ryder--no scandal, please. look, people are beginning to come up! leave him to me. i know how to manage him." with this the daughter of a united states supreme court judge proceeded to lay down the law to the representative of the most lazy and irresponsible class of men ever let loose in the streets of a civilised community. speaking with an air of authority, she said: "now look here, my man, we have no time to bandy words here with you. i took your cab at . . it is now . . that makes two hours. the rate is two francs an hour, or four francs in all. we offer you five francs, and this includes a franc pourboire. if this settlement does not suit you we will get into your cab and you will drive us to the nearest police-station where the argument can be continued." the man's jaw dropped. he was obviously outclassed. these foreigners knew the law as well as he did. he had no desire to accept shirley's suggestion of a trip to the police-station, where he knew he would get little sympathy, so, grumbling and giving vent under his breath to a volley of strange oaths, he grabbed viciously at the five-franc piece jefferson held out and, mounting his box, drove off. proud of their victory, they entered the gardens, following the sweet-scented paths until they came to where the music was. the band of an infantry regiment was playing, and a large crowd had gathered. many people were sitting on the chairs provided for visitors for the modest fee of two sous; others were promenading round and round a great circle having the musicians in its centre. the dense foliage of the trees overhead afforded a perfect shelter from the hot rays of the sun, and the place was so inviting and interesting, so cool and so full of sweet perfumes and sounds, appealing to and satisfying the senses, that shirley wished they had more time to spend there. she was very fond of a good brass band, especially when heard in the open air. they were playing strauss's blue danube, and the familiar strains of the delightful waltz were so infectious that both were seized by a desire to get up and dance. there was constant amusement, too, watching the crowd, with its many original and curious types. there were serious college professors, with gold-rimmed spectacles, buxom nounous in their uniform cloaks and long ribbon streamers, nicely dressed children romping merrily but not noisily, more queer-looking students in shabby frock coats, tight at the waist, trousers too short, and comical hats, stylishly dressed women displaying the latest fashions, brilliantly uniformed army officers strutting proudly, dangling their swords--an attractive and interesting crowd, so different, thought the two americans, from the cheap, evil-smelling, ill-mannered mob of aliens that invades their own central park the days when there is music, making it a nuisance instead of a pleasure. here everyone belonged apparently to the better class; the women and children were richly and fashionably dressed, the officers looked smart in their multi-coloured uniforms, and, no matter how one might laugh at the students, there was an atmosphere of good-breeding and refinement everywhere which shirley was not accustomed to see in public places at home. a sprinkling of workmen and people of the poorer class were to be seen here and there, but they were in the decided minority. shirley, herself a daughter of the revolution, was a staunch supporter of the immortal principles of democracy and of the equality of man before the law. but all other talk of equality was the greatest sophistry and charlatanism. there could be no real equality so long as some people were cultured and refined and others were uneducated and vulgar. shirley believed in an aristocracy of brains and soap. she insisted that no clean person, no matter how good a democrat, should be expected to sit close in public places to persons who were not on speaking terms with the bath-tub. in america this foolish theory of a democracy, which insists on throwing all classes, the clean and the unclean, promiscuously together, was positively revolting, making travelling in the public vehicles almost impossible, and it was not much better in the public parks. in france--also a republic--where they likewise paraded conspicuously the clap-trap "egalite, fraternite," they managed these things far better. the french lower classes knew their place. they did not ape the dress, nor frequent the resorts of those above them in the social scale. the distinction between the classes was plainly and properly marked, yet this was not antagonistic to the ideal of true democracy; it had not prevented the son of a peasant from becoming president of the french republic. each district in paris had its own amusement, its own theatres, its own parks. it was not a question of capital refusing to fraternize with labour, but the very natural desire of persons of refinement to mingle with clean people rather than to rub elbows with the great unwashed. "isn't it delightful here?" said shirley. "i could stay here forever, couldn't you?" "with you--yes," answered jefferson, with a significant smile. shirley tried to look angry. she strictly discouraged these conventional, sentimental speeches which constantly flung her sex in her face. "now, you know i don't like you to talk that way, mr. ryder. it's most undignified. please be sensible." quite subdued, jefferson relapsed into a sulky silence. presently he said: "i wish you wouldn't call me mr. ryder. i meant to ask you this before. you know very well that you've no great love for the name, and if you persist you'll end by including me in your hatred of the hero of your book." shirley looked at him with amused curiosity. "what do you mean?" she asked. "what do you want me to call you?" "oh, i don't know," he stammered, rather intimidated by this self-possessed young woman who looked him calmly through and through. "why not call me jefferson? mr. ryder is so formal." shirley laughed outright, a merry, unrestrained peal of honest laughter, which made the passers-by turn their heads and smile, too, commenting the while on the stylish appearance of the two americans whom they took for sweethearts. after all, reasoned shirley, he was right. they had been together now nearly every hour in the day for over a month. it was absurd to call him mr. ryder. so, addressing him with mock gravity, she said: "you're right, mr. ryder--i mean jefferson. you're quite right. you are jefferson from this time on, only remember"--here she shook her gloved finger at him warningly--"mind you behave yourself! no more such sentimental speeches as you made just now." jefferson beamed. he felt at least two inches taller, and at that moment he would not have changed places with any one in the world. to hide the embarrassment his gratification caused him he pulled out his watch and exclaimed: "why, it's a quarter past six. we shall have all we can do to get back to the hotel and dress for dinner." shirley rose at once, although loath to leave. "i had no idea it was so late," she said. "how the time flies!" then mockingly she added: "come, jefferson--be a good boy and find a cab." they passed out of the gardens by the gate facing the theatre de l'odeon, where there was a long string of fiacres for hire. they got into one and in fifteen minutes they were back at the grand hotel. at the office they told shirley that her aunt had already come in and gone to her room, so she hurried upstairs to dress for dinner while jefferson proceeded to the hotel de l'athenee on the same mission. he. had still twenty-five minutes before dinner time, and he needed only ten minutes for a wash and to jump into his dress suit, so, instead of going directly to his hotel, he sat down at the cafe de la paix. he was thirsty, and calling for a vermouth frappe he told the garcon to bring him also the american papers. the crowd on the boulevard was denser than ever. the business offices and some of the shops were closing, and a vast army of employes, homeward bound, helped to swell the sea of humanity that pushed this way and that. but jefferson had no eyes for the crowd. he was thinking of shirley. what singular, mysterious power had this girl acquired over him? he, who had scoffed at the very idea of marriage only a few months before, now desired it ardently, anxiously! yes, that was what his life lacked--such a woman to be his companion and helpmate! he loved her--there was no doubt of that. his every thought, waking and sleeping, was of her, all his plans for the future included her. he would win her if any man could. but did she care for him? ah, that was the cruel, torturing uncertainty! she appeared cold and indifferent, but perhaps she was only trying him. certainly she did not seem to dislike him. the waiter returned with the vermouth and the newspapers. all he could find were the london times, which he pronounced t-e-e-m-s, and some issues of the new york herald. the papers were nearly a month old, but he did not care for that. jefferson idly turned over the pages of the herald. his thoughts were still running on shirley, and he was paying little attention to what he was reading. suddenly, however, his eyes rested on a headline which made him sit up with a start. it read as follows: judge rossmore impeached justice of the supreme court to be tried on bribery charges the despatch, which was dated washington two weeks back, went on to say that serious charges affecting the integrity of judge rossmore had been made the subject of congressional inquiry, and that the result of the inquiry was so grave that a demand for impeachment would be at once sent to the senate. it added that the charges grew out of the recent decision in the great northwestern mining company case, it being alleged that judge rossmore had accepted a large sum of money on condition of his handing down a decision favourable to the company. jefferson was thunderstruck. he read the despatch over again to make sure there was no mistake. no, it was very plain--judge rossmore of madison avenue. but how preposterous, what a calumny! the one judge on the bench at whom one could point and say with absolute conviction: "there goes an honest man!" and this judge was to be tried on a charge of bribery! what could be the meaning of it? something terrible must have happened since shirley's departure from home, that was certain. it meant her immediate return to the states and, of course, his own. he would see what could be done. he would make his father use his great influence. but how could he tell shirley? impossible, he could not! she would not believe him if he did. she would probably hear from home in some other way. they might cable. in any case he would say nothing yet. he paid for his vermouth and hurried away to his hotel to dress. it was just striking seven when he re-entered the courtyard of the grand hotel. shirley and mrs. blake were waiting for him. jefferson suggested having dinner at the cafe de paris, but shirley objected that as the weather was warm it would be more pleasant to dine in the open air, so they finally decided on the pavilion d'armonville where there was music and where they could have a little table to themselves in the garden. they drove up the stately champs elysees, past the monumental arc de triomphe, and from there down to the bois. all were singularly quiet. mrs. blake was worrying about her new gown, shirley was tired, and jefferson could not banish from his mind the terrible news he had just read. he avoided looking at shirley until the latter noticed it and thought she must have offended him in some way. she was more sorry than she would have him know, for, with all her apparent coldness, jefferson was rapidly becoming very indispensable to her happiness. they dined sumptuously and delightfully with all the luxury of surroundings and all the delights of cooking that the french culinary art can perfect. a single glass of champagne had put shirley in high spirits and she had tried hard to communicate some of her good humour to jefferson who, despite all her efforts, remained quiet and preoccupied. finally losing patience she asked him bluntly: "jefferson, what's the matter with you to-night? you've been sulky as a bear all evening." pleased to see she had not forgotten their compact of the afternoon in regard to his name, jefferson relaxed somewhat and said apologetically: "excuse me, i've been feeling a bit seedy lately. i think i need another sea voyage. that's the only time when i feel really first-class--when i'm on the water." the mention of the sea started shirley to talk about her future plans. she wasn't going back to america until september. she had arranged to make a stay of three weeks in london and then she would be free. some friends of hers from home, a man and his wife who owned a steam yacht, were arranging a trip to the mediterranean, including a run over to cairo. they had asked her and mrs. blake to go and she was sure they would ask jefferson, too. would he go? there was no way out of it. jefferson tried to work up some enthusiasm for this yachting trip, which he knew very well could never come off, and it cut him to the heart to see this poor girl joyously making all these preparations and plans, little dreaming of the domestic calamity which at that very moment was hanging over her head. it was nearly ten o'clock when they had finished. they sat a little longer listening to the gipsy music, weird and barbaric. very pointedly, shirley remarked: "i for one preferred the music this afternoon." "why?" inquired jefferson, ignoring the petulant note in her voice. "because you were more amiable!" she retorted rather crossly. this was their first misunderstanding, but jefferson said nothing. he could not tell her the thoughts and fears that had been haunting him all night. soon afterward they re-entered their cab and returned to the boulevards which were ablaze with light and gaiety. jefferson suggested going somewhere else, but mrs. blake was tired and shirley, now quite irritated at what she considered jefferson's unaccountable unsociability, declined somewhat abruptly. but she could never remain angry long, and when they said good-night she whispered demurely: "are you cross with me, jeff?" he turned his head away and she saw that his face was singularly drawn and grave. "cross--no. good-night. god bless you!" he said, hoarsely gulping down a lump that rose in his throat. then grasping her hand he hurried away. completely mystified, shirley and her companion turned to the office to get the key of their room. as the man handed it to shirley he passed her also a cablegram which had just come. she changed colour. she did not like telegrams. she always had a dread of them, for with her sudden news was usually bad news. could this, she thought, explain jefferson's strange behaviour? trembling, she tore open the envelope and read: come home at once, mother. chapter v. rolling, tumbling, splashing, foaming water as far as the eye could reach in every direction. a desolate waste, full of life, movement and colour, extending to the bleak horizon and like a vast ploughed field cut up into long and high liquid ridges, all scurrying in one direction in serried ranks and with incredible speed as if pursued by a fearful and unseen enemy. serenely yet boisterously, gracefully yet resistlessly, the endless waves passed on--some small, others monstrous, with fleecy white combs rushing down their green sides like toy niagaras and with a seething, boiling sound as when flame touches water. they went by in a stately, never ending procession, going nowhere, coming from nowhere, but full of dignity and importance, their breasts heaving with suppressed rage because there was nothing in their path that they might destroy. the dancing, leaping water reflected every shade and tint--now a rich green, then a deep blue and again a dirty gray as the sun hid for a moment behind a cloud, and as a gust of wind caught the top of the combers decapitating them at one mad rush, the spray was dashed high in the air, flashing out all the prismatic colours. here and yonder, the white caps rose, disappeared and came again, and the waves grew and then diminished in size. then others rose, towering, became larger, majestic, terrible; the milk-like comb rose proudly, soared a brief moment, then fell ignominiously, and the wave diminished passed on humiliated. over head, a few scattered cirrus clouds flitted lazily across the blue dome of heaven, while a dozen mother carey chickens screamed hoarsely as they circled in the air. the strong and steady western breeze bore on its powerful pinions the sweet and eternal music of the wind and sea. shirley stood at the rail under the bridge of the ocean greyhound that was carrying her back to america with all the speed of which her mighty engines were capable. all day and all night, half naked stokers, so grimed with oil and coal dust as to lose the slightest semblance to human beings, feverishly shovelled coal, throwing it rapidly and evenly over roaring furnaces kept at a fierce white heat. the vast boilers, shaken by the titanic forces generating in their cavern-like depths, sent streams of scalding, hissing steam through a thousand valves, cylinders and pistons, turning wheels and cranks as it distributed the tremendous power which was driving the steel monster through the seas at the prodigious speed of four hundred miles in the twenty-four hours. like a pulsating heart in some living thing, the mammoth engines throbbed and panted, and the great vessel groaned and creaked as she rose and fell to the heavy swell, and again lurched forward in obedience to each fresh propulsion from her fast spinning screws. out on deck, volumes of dense black smoke were pouring from four gigantic smoke stacks and spread out in the sky like some endless cinder path leading back over the course the ship had taken. they were four days out from port. two days more and they would sight sandy hook, and shirley would know the worst. she had caught the north german lloyd boat at cherbourg two days after receiving the cablegram from new york. mrs. blake had insisted on coming along in spite of her niece's protests. shirley argued that she had crossed alone when coming; she could go back the same way. besides, was not mr. ryder returning home on the same ship? he would be company and protection both. but mrs. blake was bent on making the voyage. she had not seen her sister for many years and, moreover, this sudden return to america had upset her own plans. she was a poor sailor, yet she loved the ocean and this was a good excuse for a long trip. shirley was too exhausted with worry to offer further resistance and by great good luck the two women had been able to secure at the last moment a cabin to themselves amidships. jefferson, less fortunate, was compelled, to his disgust, to share a stateroom with another passenger, a fat german brewer who was returning to cincinnati, and who snored so loud at night that even the thumping of the engines was completely drowned by his eccentric nasal sounds. the alarming summons home and the terrible shock she had experienced the following morning when jefferson showed her the newspaper article with its astounding and heart rending news about her father had almost prostrated shirley. the blow was all the greater for being so entirely unlooked for. that the story was true she could not doubt. her mother would not have cabled except under the gravest circumstances. what alarmed shirley still more was that she had no direct news of her father. for a moment her heart stood still--suppose the shock of this shameful accusation had killed him? her blood froze in her veins, she clenched her fists and dug her nails into her flesh as she thought of the dread possibility that she had looked upon him in life for the last time. she remembered his last kind words when he came to the steamer to see her off, and his kiss when he said good-bye and she had noticed a tear of which he appeared to be ashamed. the hot tears welled up in her own eyes and coursed unhindered down her cheeks. what could these preposterous and abominable charges mean? what was this lie they had invented to ruin her father? that he had enemies she well knew. what strong man had not? indeed, his proverbial honesty had made him feared by all evil-doers and on one occasion they had gone so far as to threaten his life. this new attack was more deadly than all--to sap and destroy his character, to deliberately fabricate lies and calumnies which had no foundation whatever. of course, the accusation was absurd, the senate would refuse to convict him, the entire press would espouse the cause of so worthy a public servant. certainly, everything would be done to clear his character. but what was being done? she could do nothing but wait and wait. the suspense and anxiety were awful. suddenly she heard a familiar step behind her, and jefferson joined her at the rail. the wind was due west and blowing half a gale, so where they were standing--one of the most exposed parts of the ship--it was difficult to keep one's feet, to say nothing of hearing anyone speak. there was a heavy sea running, and each approaching wave looked big enough to engulf the vessel, but as the mass of moving water reached the bow, the ship rose on it, light and graceful as a bird, shook off the flying spray as a cat shakes her fur after an unwelcome bath, and again drove forward as steady and with as little perceptible motion as a railway train. shirley was a fairly good sailor and this kind of weather did not bother her in the least, but when it got very rough she could not bear the rolling and pitching and then all she was good for was to lie still in her steamer chair with her eyes closed until the water was calmer and the pitching ceased. "it's pretty windy here, shirley," shouted jefferson, steadying himself against a stanchion. "don't you want to walk a little?" he had begun to call her by her first name quite naturally, as if it were a matter of course. indeed their relations had come to be more like those of brother and sister than anything else. shirley was too much troubled over the news from home to have a mind for other things, and in her distress she had turned to jefferson for advice and help as she would have looked to an elder brother. he had felt this impulse to confide in him and consult his opinion and it had pleased him more than he dared betray. he had shown her all the sympathy of which his warm, generous nature was capable, yet secretly he did not regret that events had necessitated this sudden return home together on the same ship. he was sorry for judge rossmore, of course, and there was nothing he would not do on his return to secure a withdrawal of the charges. that his father would use his influence he had no doubt. but meantime he was selfish enough to be glad for the opportunity it gave him to be a whole week alone with shirley. no matter how much one may be with people in city or country or even when stopping at the same hotel or house, there is no place in the world where two persons, especially when they are of the opposite sex, can become so intimate as on shipboard. the reason is obvious. the days are long and monotonous. there is nowhere to go, nothing to see but the ocean, nothing to do but read, talk or promenade. seclusion in one's stuffy cabin is out of the question, the public sitting rooms are noisy and impossible, only a steamer chair on deck is comfortable and once there snugly wrapped up in a rug it is surprising how quickly another chair makes its appearance alongside and how welcome one is apt to make the intruder. thus events combined with the weather conspired to bring shirley and jefferson more closely together. the sea had been rough ever since they sailed, keeping mrs. blake confined to her stateroom almost continuously. they were, therefore, constantly in one another's company, and slowly, unconsciously, there was taking root in their hearts the germ of the only real and lasting love--the love born of something higher than mere physical attraction, the nobler, more enduring affection that is born of mutual sympathy, association and companionship. "isn't it beautiful?" exclaimed shirley ecstatically. "look at those great waves out there! see how majestically they soar and how gracefully they fall!" "glorious!" assented jefferson sharing her enthusiasm. "there's nothing to compare with it. it's nature's grandest spectacle. the ocean is the only place on earth that man has not defiled and spoiled. those waves are the same now as they were on the day of creation." "not the day of creation. you mean during the aeons of time creation was evolving," corrected shirley. "i meant that of course," assented jefferson. "when one says 'day' that is only a form of speech." "why not be accurate?" persisted shirley. "it was the use of that little word 'day' which has given the theologians so many sleepless nights." there was a roguish twinkle in her eye. she well knew that he thought as she did on metaphysical questions, but she could not resist teasing him. like jefferson, she was not a member of any church, although her nature was deeply religious. hers was the religion the soul inculcates, not that which is learned by rote in the temple. she was a christian because she thought christ the greatest figure in world history, and also because her own conduct of life was modelled upon christian principles and virtues. she was religious for religion's sake and not for public ostentation. the mystery of life awed her and while her intelligence could not accept all the doctrines of dogmatic religion she did not go so far as jefferson, who was a frank agnostic. she would not admit that we do not know. the longings and aspirations of her own soul convinced her of the existence of a supreme being, first cause, divine intelligence--call it what you will--which had brought out of chaos the wonderful order of the universe. the human mind was, indeed, helpless to conceive such a first cause in any form and lay prostrate before the unknown, yet she herself was an enthusiastic delver into scientific hypothesis and the teachings of darwin, spencer, haeckel had satisfied her intellect if they had failed to content her soul. the theory of evolution as applied to life on her own little planet appealed strongly to her because it accounted plausibly for the presence of man on earth. the process through which we had passed could be understood by every intelligence. the blazing satellite, violently detached from the parent sun starting on its circumscribed orbit--that was the first stage, the gradual subsidence of the flames and the cooling of the crust--the second stage: the gases mingling and forming water which covered the earth--the third stage; the retreating of the waters and the appearance of the land--the fourth stage; the appearance of vegetation and animal life--the fifth stage; then, after a long interval and through constant evolution and change the appearance of man, which was the sixth stage. what stages still to come, who knows? this simple account given by science was, after all, practically identical with the biblical legend! it was when shirley was face to face with nature in her wildest and most primitive aspects that this deep rooted religious feeling moved her most strongly. at these times she felt herself another being, exalted, sublimated, lifted from this little world with its petty affairs and vanities up to dizzy heights. she had felt the same sensation when for the first time she had viewed the glories of the snow clad matterhorn, she had felt it when on a summer's night at sea she had sat on deck and watched with fascinated awe the resplendent radiance of the countless stars, she felt it now as she looked at the foaming, tumbling waves. "it is so beautiful," she murmured as she turned to walk. the ship was rolling a little and she took jefferson's arm to steady herself. shirley was an athletic girl and had all the ease and grace of carriage that comes of much tennis and golf playing. barely twenty-four years old, she was still in the first flush of youth and health, and there was nothing she loved so much as exercise and fresh air. after a few turns on deck, there was a ruddy glow in her cheeks that was good to see and many an admiring glance was cast at the young couple as they strode briskly up and down past the double rows of elongated steamer chairs. they had the deck pretty much to themselves. it was only four o'clock, too early for the appetite-stimulating walk before dinner, and their fellow passengers were basking in the sunshine, stretched out on their chairs in two even rows like so many mummies on exhibition. some were reading, some were dozing. two or three were under the weather, completely prostrated, their bilious complexion of a deathly greenish hue. at each new roll of the ship, they closed their eyes as if resigned to the worst that might happen and their immediate neighbours furtively eyed each of their movements as if apprehensive of what any moment might bring forth. a few couples were flirting to their heart's content under the friendly cover of the life-boats which, as on most of the transatlantic liners, were more useful in saving reputations than in saving life. the deck steward was passing round tea and biscuits, much to the disgust of the ill ones, but to the keen satisfaction of the stronger stomached passengers who on shipboard never seem to be able to get enough to eat and drink. on the bridge, the second officer, a tall, handsome man with the points of his moustache trained upwards a la kaiser wilhelm, was striding back and forth, every now and then sweeping the horizon with his glass and relieving the monotony of his duties by ogling the better looking women passengers. "hello, shirley!" called out a voice from a heap of rugs as shirley and jefferson passed the rows of chairs. they stopped short and discovered mrs. blake ensconced in a cozy corner, sheltered from the wind. "why, aunt milly," exclaimed shirley surprised. "i thought you were downstairs. i didn't think you could stand this sea." "it is a little rougher than i care to have it," responded mrs. blake with a wry grimace and putting her hand to her breast as if to appease disturbing qualms. "it was so stuffy in the cabin i could not bear it. it's more pleasant here but it's getting a little cool and i think i'll go below. where have you children been all afternoon?" jefferson volunteered to explain. "the children have been rhapsodizing over the beauties of the ocean," he laughed. with a sly glance at shirley, he added, "your niece has been coaching me in metaphysics." shirley shook her finger at him. "now jefferson, if you make fun of me i'll never talk seriously with you again." "wie geht es, meine damen?" shirley turned on hearing the guttural salutation. it was captain hegermann, the commander of the ship, a big florid saxon with great bushy golden whiskers and a basso voice like edouard de reszke. he was imposing in his smart uniform and gold braid and his manner had the self-reliant, authoritative air usual in men who have great responsibilities and are accustomed to command. he was taking his afternoon stroll and had stopped to chat with his lady passengers. he had already passed mrs. blake a dozen times and not noticed her, but now her pretty niece was with her, which altered the situation. he talked to the aunt and looked at shirley, much to the annoyance of jefferson, who muttered things under his breath. "when shall we be in, captain?" asked mrs. blake anxiously, forgetting that this was one of the questions which according to ship etiquette must never be asked of the officers. but as long as he could ignore mrs. blake and gaze at shirley capt. hegermann did not mind. he answered amiably: "at the rate we are going, we ought to sight fire island sometime to-morrow evening. if we do, that will get us to our dock about o'clock friday morning, i fancy." then addressing shirley direct he said: "and you, fraulein, i hope you won't be glad the voyage is over?" shirley sighed and a worried, anxious look came into her face. "yes, captain, i shall be very glad. it is not pleasure that is bringing me back to america so soon." the captain elevated his eyebrows. he was sorry the young lady had anxieties to keep her so serious, and he hoped she would find everything all right on her arrival. then, politely saluting, he passed on, only to halt again a few paces on where his bewhiskered gallantry met with more encouragement. mrs. blake rose from her chair. the air was decidedly cooler, she would go downstairs and prepare for dinner. shirley said she would remain on deck a little longer. she was tired of walking, so when her aunt left them she took her chair and told jefferson to get another. he wanted nothing better, but before seating himself he took the rugs and wrapped shirley up with all the solicitude of a mother caring for her first born. arranging the pillow under her head, he asked: "is that comfortable?" she nodded, smiling at him. "you're a good boy, jeff. but you'll spoil me." "nonsense," he stammered as he took another chair and put himself by her side. "as if any fellow wouldn't give his boots to do a little job like that for you!" she seemed to take no notice of the covert compliment. in fact, she already took it as a matter of course that jefferson was very fond of her. did she love him? she hardly knew. certainly she thought more of him than of any other man she knew and she readily believed that she could be with him for the rest of her life and like him better every day. then, too, they had become more intimate during the last few days. this trouble, this unknown peril had drawn them together. yes, she would be sorry if she were to see jefferson paying attention to another woman. was this love? perhaps. these thoughts were running through her mind as they sat there side by side isolated from the main herd of passengers, each silent, watching through the open rail the foaming water as it rushed past. jefferson had been casting furtive glances at his companion and as he noted her serious, pensive face he thought how pretty she was. he wondered what she was thinking of and suddenly inspired no doubt by the mysterious power that enables some people to read the thoughts of others, he said abruptly: "shirley, i can read your thoughts. you were thinking of me." she was startled for a moment but immediately recovered her self possession. it never occurred to her to deny it. she pondered for a moment and then replied: "you are right, jeff, i was thinking of you. how did you guess?" he leaned over her chair and took her hand. she made no resistance. her delicate, slender hand lay passively in his big brown one and met his grasp frankly, cordially. he whispered: "what were you thinking of me--good or bad?" "good, of course. how could i think anything bad of you?" she turned her eyes on him in wonderment. then she went on: "i was wondering how a girl could distinguish between the feeling she has for a man she merely likes, and the feeling she has for a man she loves." jefferson bent eagerly forward so as to lose no word that might fall from those coveted lips. "in what category would i be placed?" he asked. "i don't quite know," she answered, laughingly. then seriously, she added: "jeff, why should we act like children? your actions, more than your words, have told me that you love me. i have known it all along. if i have appeared cold and indifferent it is because"--she hesitated. "because?" echoed jefferson anxiously, as if his whole future depended on that reason. "because i was not sure of myself. would it be womanly or honourable on my part to encourage you, unless i felt i reciprocated your feelings? you are young, one day you will be very rich, the whole world lies before you. there are plenty of women who would willingly give you their love." "no--no!" he burst out in vigorous protest, "it is you i want, shirley, you alone." grasping her hand more closely, he went on, passion vibrating in every note of his voice. "i love you, shirley. i've loved you from the very first evening i met you. i want you to be my wife." shirley looked straight up into the blue eyes so eagerly bent down on hers, so entreating in their expression, and in a gentle voice full of emotion she answered: "jefferson, you have done me the greatest honour a man can do a woman. don't ask me to answer you now. i like you very much--i more than like you. whether it is love i feel for you--that i have not yet determined. give me time. my present trouble and then my literary work---" "i know," agreed jefferson, "that this is hardly the time to speak of such matters. your father has first call on your attention. but as to your literary work. i do not understand." "simply this. i am ambitious. i have had a little success--just enough to crave for more. i realize that marriage would put an extinguisher on all aspirations in that direction." "is marriage so very commonplace?" grumbled jefferson. "not commonplace, but there is no room in marriage for a woman having personal ambitions of her own. once married her duty is to her husband and her children--not to herself." "that is right," he replied; "but which is likely to give you greater joy--a literary success or a happy wifehood? when you have spent your best years and given the public your best work they will throw you over for some new favorite. you'll find yourself an old woman with nothing more substantial to show as your life work than that questionable asset, a literary reputation. how many literary reputations to-day conceal an aching heart and find it difficult to make both ends meet? how different with the woman who married young and obeys nature's behest by contributing her share to the process of evolution. her life is spent basking in the affection of her husband and the chubby smiles of her dimpled babes, and when in the course of time she finds herself in the twilight of her life, she has at her feet a new generation of her own flesh and blood. isn't that better than a literary reputation?" he spoke so earnestly that shirley looked at him in surprise. she knew he was serious but she had not suspected that he thought so deeply on these matters. her heart told her that he was uttering the true philosophy of the ages. she said: "why, jefferson, you talk like a book. perhaps you are right, i have no wish to be a blue stocking and deserted in my old age, far from it. but give me time to think. let us first ascertain the extent of this disaster which has overtaken my father. then if you still care for me and if i have not changed my mind," here she glanced slyly at him, "we will resume our discussion." again she held out her hand which he had released. "is it a bargain?" she asked. "it's a bargain," he murmured, raising the white hand to his lips. a fierce longing rose within him to take her in his arms and kiss passionately the mouth that lay temptingly near his own, but his courage failed him. after all, he reasoned, he had not yet the right. a few minutes later they left the deck and went downstairs to dress for dinner. that same evening they stood again at the rail watching the mysterious phosphorescence as it sparkled in the moonlight. her thoughts travelling faster than the ship, shirley suddenly asked: "do you really think mr. ryder will use his influence to help my father?" jefferson set his jaw fast and the familiar ryder gleam came into his eyes as he responded: "why not? my father is all powerful. he has made and unmade judges and legislators and even presidents. why should he not be able to put a stop to these preposterous proceedings? i will go to him directly we land and we'll see what can be done." so the time on shipboard had passed, shirley alternately buoyed up with hope and again depressed by the gloomiest forebodings. the following night they passed fire island and the next day the huge steamer dropped anchor at quarantine. chapter vi. a month had passed since the memorable meeting of the directors of the southern and transcontinental railroad in new york and during that time neither john burkett ryder nor judge rossmore had been idle. the former had immediately set in motion the machinery he controlled in the legislature at washington, while the judge neglected no step to vindicate himself before the public. ryder, for reasons of his own--probably because he wished to make the blow the more crushing when it did fall--had insisted on the proceedings at the board meeting being kept a profound secret and some time elapsed before the newspapers got wind of the coming congressional inquiry. no one had believed the stories about judge rossmore but now that a quasi-official seal had been set on the current gossip, there was a howl of virtuous indignation from the journalistic muck rakers. what was the country coming to? they cried in double leaded type. after the embezzling by life insurance officers, the rascality of the railroads, the looting of city treasuries, the greed of the trusts, the grafting of the legislators, had arisen a new and more serious scandal--the corruption of the judiciary. the last bulwark of the nation had fallen, the country lay helpless at the mercy of legalized sandbaggers. even the judges were no longer to be trusted, the most respected one among them all had been unable to resist the tempter. the supreme court, the living voice of the constitution, was honeycombed with graft. public life was rotten to the core! neither the newspapers nor the public stopped to ascertain the truth or the falsity of the charges against judge rossmore. it was sufficient that the bribery story furnished the daily sensation which newspaper editors and newspaper readers must have. the world is ever more prompt to believe ill rather than good of a man, and no one, except in rossmore's immediate circle of friends, entertained the slightest doubt of his guilt. it was common knowledge that the "big interests" were behind the proceedings, and that judge rossmore was a scapegoat, sacrificed by the system because he had been blocking their game. if rossmore had really accepted the bribe, and few now believed him spotless, he deserved all that was coming to him. senator roberts was very active in washington preparing the case against judge rossmore. the latter being a democrat and "the interests" controlling a republican majority in the house, it was a foregone conclusion that the inquiry would be against him, and that a demand would at once be made upon the senate for his impeachment. almost prostrated by the misfortune which had so suddenly and unexpectedly come upon him, judge rossmore was like a man demented. his reason seemed to be tottering, he spoke and acted like a man in a dream. naturally he was entirely incapacitated for work and he had applied to washington to be temporarily relieved from his judicial duties. he was instantly granted a leave of absence and went at once to his home in madison avenue, where he shut himself up in his library, sitting for hours at his desk wrestling with documents and legal tomes in a pathetic endeavour to find some way out, trying to elude this net in which unseen hands had entangled him. what an end to his career! to have struggled and achieved for half a century, to have built up a reputation year by year, as a man builds a house brick by brick, only to see the whole crumble to his feet like dust! to have gained the respect of the country, to have made a name as the most incorruptible of public servants and now to be branded as a common bribe taker! could he be dreaming? it was too incredible! what would his daughter say--his shirley? ah, the thought of the expression of incredulity and wonder on her face when she heard the news cut him to the heart like a knife thrust. yet, he mused, her very unwillingness to believe it should really be his consolation. ah, his wife and his child--they knew he had been innocent of wrong doing. the very idea was ridiculous. at most he had been careless. yes, he was certainly to blame. he ought to have seen the trap so carefully prepared and into which he had walked as if blindfolded. that extra $ , worth of stock, on which he had never received a cent interest, had been the decoy in a carefully thought out plot. they, the plotters, well knew how ignorant he was of financial matters and he had been an easy victim. who would believe his story that the stock had been sent to him with a plausibly-worded letter to the effect that it represented a bonus on his own investment? now he came to think of it, calmly and reasonably, he would not believe it himself. as usual, he had mislaid or destroyed the secretary's letter and there was only his word against the company's books to substantiate what would appear a most improbable if not impossible occurrence. it was his conviction of his own good faith that made his present dilemma all the more cruel. had he really been a grafter, had he really taken the stock as a bribe he would not care so much, for then he would have foreseen and discounted the chances of exposure. yes, there was no doubt possible. he was the victim of a conspiracy, there was an organized plot to ruin him, to get him out of the way. the "interests" feared him, resented his judicial decisions and they had halted at nothing to accomplish their purpose. how could he fight them back, what could he do to protect himself? he had no proofs of a conspiracy, his enemies worked in the dark, there was no way in which he could reach them or know who they were. he thought of john burkett ryder. ah, he remembered now. ryder was the man who had recommended the investment in alaskan stock. of course, why did he not think of it before? he recollected that at the time he had been puzzled at receiving so much stock and he had mentioned it to ryder, adding that the secretary had told him it was customary. oh, why had he not kept the secretary's letter? but ryder would certainly remember it. he probably still had his two letters in which he spoke of making the investment. if those letters could be produced at the congressional inquiry they would clear him at once. so losing no time, and filled with renewed hope he wrote to the colossus a strong, manly letter which would have melted an iceberg, urging mr. ryder to come forward now at this critical time and clear him of this abominable charge, or in any case to kindly return the two letters he must have in his possession, as they would go far to help him at the trial. three days passed and no reply from ryder. on the fourth came a polite but frigid note from mr. ryder's private secretary. mr. ryder had received judge rossmore's letter and in reply begged to state that he had a vague recollection of some conversation with the judge in regard to investments, but he did not think he had advised the purchase of any particular stock, as that was something he never did on principle, even with his most intimate friends. he had no wish to be held accountable in case of loss, etc. as to the letter which judge rossmore mentioned as having written to mr. ryder in regard to having received more stock than he had bought, of that mr. ryder had no recollection whatsoever. judge rossmore was probably mistaken as to the identity of his correspondent. he regretted he could not be of more service to judge rossmore, and remained his very obedient servant. it was very evident that no help was to be looked for in that quarter. there was even decided hostility in ryder's reply. could it be true that the financier was really behind these attacks upon his character, was it possible that one man merely to make more money would deliberately ruin his fellow man whose hand he had grasped in friendship? he had been unwilling to believe it when his friend ex-judge stott had pointed to ryder as the author of all his misfortunes, but this unsympathetic letter with its falsehoods, its lies plainly written all over its face, was proof enough. yes, there was now no doubt possible. john burkett ryder was his enemy and what an enemy! many a man had committed suicide when he had incurred the enmity of the colossus. judge rossmore, completely discouraged, bowed his head to the inevitable. his wife, a nervous, sickly woman, was helpless to comfort or aid him. she had taken their misfortune as a visitation of an inscrutable deity. she knew, of course, that her husband was wholly innocent of the accusations brought against him and if his character could be cleared and himself rehabilitated before the world, she would be the first to rejoice. but if it pleased the almighty in his wisdom to sorely try her husband and herself and inflict this punishment upon them it was not for the finite mind to criticise the ways of providence. there was probably some good reason for the apparent cruelty and injustice of it which their earthly understanding failed to grasp. mrs. rossmore found much comfort in this philosophy, which gave a satisfactory ending to both ends of the problem, and she was upheld in her view by the rector of the church which she had attended regularly each sunday for the past five and twenty years. christian resignation in the hour of trial, submission to the will of heaven were, declared her spiritual adviser, the fundamental principles of religion. he could only hope that mrs. rossmore would succeed in imbuing her husband with her christian spirit. but when the judge's wife returned home and saw the keen mental distress of the man who had been her companion for twenty-five long years, the comforter in her sorrows, the joy and pride of her young wifehood, she forgot all about her smug churchly consoler, and her heart went out to her husband in a spontaneous burst of genuine human sympathy. yes, they must do something at once. where men had failed perhaps a woman could do something. she wanted to cable at once for shirley, who was everything in their household--organizer, manager, adviser--but the judge would not hear of it. no, his daughter was enjoying her holiday in blissful ignorance of what had occurred. he would not spoil it for her. they would see; perhaps things would improve. but he sent for his old friend ex-judge stott. they were life-long friends, having become acquainted nearly thirty years ago at the law school, at the time when both were young men about to enter on a public career. stott, who was rossmore's junior, had begun as a lawyer in new york and soon acquired a reputation in criminal practice. he afterwards became assistant district attorney and later, when a vacancy occurred in the city magistrature, he was successful in securing the appointment. on the bench he again met his old friend rossmore and the two men once more became closely intimate. the regular court hours, however, soon palled on a man of judge stott's nervous temperament and it was not long before he retired to take up once more his criminal practice. he was still a young man, not yet fifty, and full of vigor and fight. he had a blunt manner but his heart was in the right place, and he had a record as clean as his close shaven face. he was a hard worker, a brilliant speaker and one of the cleverest cross-examiners at the bar. this was the man to whom judge rossmore naturally turned for legal assistance. stott was out west when he first heard of the proceedings against his old friend, and this indignity put upon the only really honest man in public life whom he knew, so incensed him that he was already hurrying back to his aid when the summons reached him. meantime, a fresh and more serious calamity had overwhelmed judge rossmore. everything seemed to combine to break the spirit of this man who had dared defy the power of organized capital. hardly had the news of the congressional inquiry been made public, than the financial world was startled by an extraordinary slump in wall street. there was nothing in the news of the day to justify a decline, but prices fell and fell. the bears had it all their own way, the big interests hammered stocks all along the line, "coppers" especially being the object of attack. the market closed feverishly and the next day the same tactics were pursued. from the opening, on selling orders coming from no one knew where, prices fell to nothing, a stampede followed and before long it became a panic. pandemonium reigned on the floor of the stock exchange. white faced, dishevelled brokers shouted and struggled like men possessed to execute the orders of their clients. big financial houses, which stood to lose millions on a falling market, rallied and by rush orders to buy, attempted to stem the tide, but all to no purpose. one firm after another went by the board unable to weather the tempest, until just before closing time, the stock ticker announced the failure of the great northwestern mining co. the drive in the market had been principally directed against its securities, and after vainly endeavoring to check the bear raid, it had been compelled to declare itself bankrupt. it was heavily involved, assets nil, stock almost worthless. it was probable that the creditors would not see ten cents on the dollar. thousands were ruined and judge rossmore among them. all the savings of a lifetime--nearly $ , were gone. he was practically penniless, at a time when he needed money most. he still owned his house in madison avenue, but that would have to go to settle with his creditors. by the time everything was paid there would only remain enough for a modest competence. as to his salary, of course he could not touch that so long as this accusation was hanging over his head. and if he were impeached it would stop altogether. the salary, therefore, was not to be counted on. they must manage as best they could and live more cheaply, taking a small house somewhere in the outskirts of the city where he could prepare his case quietly without attracting attention. stott thought this was the best thing they could do and he volunteered to relieve his friend by taking on his own hands all the arrangements of the sale of the house and furniture, which offer the judge accepted only too gladly. meantime, mrs. rossmore went to long island to see what could be had, and she found at the little village of massapequa just what they were looking for--a commodious, neatly-furnished two-story cottage at a modest rental. of course, it was nothing like what they had been accustomed to, but it was clean and comfortable, and as mrs. rossmore said, rather tactlessly, beggars cannot be choosers. perhaps it would not be for long. instant possession was to be had, so deposit was paid on the spot and a few days later the rossmores left their mansion on madison avenue and took up their residence in massapequa, where their advent created quite a fluster in local social circles. massapequa is one of the thousand and one flourishing communities scattered over long island, all of which are apparently modelled after the same pattern. each is an exact duplicate of its neighbour in everything except the name--the same untidy railroad station, the same sleepy stores, the same attractive little frame residences, built for the most part on the "why pay rent? own your own home" plan. a healthy boom in real estate imparts plenty of life to them all and massapequa is particularly famed as being the place where the cat jumped to when manhattan had to seek an outlet for its congested population and ever-increasing army of home seekers. formerly large tracts of flat farm lands, only sparsely shaded by trees, massapequa, in common with other villages of its kind, was utterly destitute of any natural attractions. there was the one principal street leading to the station, with a few scattered stores on either side, a church and a bank. happily, too, for those who were unable to survive the monotony of the place, it boasted of a pretty cemetery. there were also a number of attractive cottages with spacious porches hung with honeysuckle and of these the rossmores occupied one of the less pretentious kind. but although massapequa, theoretically speaking, was situated only a stone's throw from the metropolis, it might have been situated in the great sahara so far as its inhabitants took any active interest in the doings of gay gotham. local happenings naturally had first claim upon massapequa's attention--the prowess of the local baseball team, mrs. robinson's tea party and the highly exciting sessions of the local pinochle club furnishing food for unlimited gossip and scandal. the newspapers reached the village, of course, but only the local news items aroused any real interest, while the women folk usually restricted their readings to those pages devoted to daily hints for the home, mrs. sayre's learned articles on health and beauty and fay stanton's daily fashions. it was not surprising, therefore, that the fame of judge rossmore and the scandal in which he was at present involved had not penetrated as far as massapequa and that the natives were considerably mystified as to who the new arrivals in their midst might be. stott had been given a room in the cottage so that he might be near at hand to work with the judge in the preparation of the defence, and he came out from the city every evening. it was now june. the senate would not take action until it convened in december, but there was a lot of work to be done and no time to be lost. the evening following the day of their arrival they were sitting on the porch enjoying the cool evening air after dinner. the judge was smoking. he was not a slave to the weed, but he enjoyed a quiet pipe after meals, claiming that it quieted his nerves and enabled him to think more clearly. besides, it was necessary to keep at bay the ubiquitous long island mosquito. mrs. rossmore had remained for a moment in the dining-room to admonish eudoxia, their new and only maid-of-all-work, not to wreck too much of the crockery when she removed the dinner dishes. suddenly stott, who was perusing an evening paper, asked: "by the way, where's your daughter? does she know of this radical change in your affairs?" judge rossmore started. by what mysterious agency had this man penetrated his own most intimate thoughts? he was himself thinking of shirley that very moment, and by some inexplicable means--telepathy modern psychologists called it--the thought current had crossed to stott, whose mind, being in full sympathy, was exactly attuned to receive it. removing the pipe from his mouth the judge replied: "shirley's in paris. poor girl, i hadn't the heart to tell her. she has no idea of what's happened. i didn't want to spoil her holiday." he was silent for a moment. then, after a few more puffs he added confidentially in a low tone, as if he did not care for his wife to hear: "the truth is, stott, i couldn't bear to have her return now. i couldn't look my own daughter in the face." a sound as of a great sob which he had been unable to control cut short his speech. his eyes filled with tears and he began to smoke furiously as if ashamed of this display of emotion. stott, blowing his nose with suspicious vigor, replied soothingly: "you mustn't talk like that. everything will come out all right, of course. but i think you are wrong not to have told your daughter. her place is here at your side. she ought to be told even if only in justice to her. if you don't tell her someone else will, or, what's worse, she'll hear of it through the newspapers." "ah, i never thought of that!" exclaimed the judge, visibly perturbed at the suggestion about the newspapers. "don't you agree with me?" demanded stott, appealing to mrs. rossmore, who emerged from the house at that instant. "don't you think your daughter should be informed of what has happened?" "most assuredly i do," answered mrs. rossmore determinedly. "the judge wouldn't hear of it, but i took the law into my own hands. i've cabled for her." "you cabled for shirley?" cried the judge incredulously. he was so unaccustomed to seeing his ailing, vacillating wife do anything on her own initiative and responsibility that it seemed impossible. "you cabled for shirley?" he repeated. "yes," replied mrs. rossmore triumphantly and secretly pleased that for once in her life she had asserted herself. "i cabled yesterday. i simply couldn't bear it alone any longer." "what did you say?" inquired the judge apprehensively. "i just told her to come home at once. to-morrow we ought to get an answer." stott meantime had been figuring on the time of shirley's probable arrival. if the cablegram had been received in paris the previous evening it would be too late to catch the french boat. the north german lloyd steamer was the next to leave and it touched at cherbourg. she would undoubtedly come on that. in a week at most she would be here. then it became a question as to who should go to meet her at the dock. the judge could not go, that was certain. it would be too much of an ordeal. mrs. rossmore did not know the lower part of the city well, and had no experience in meeting ocean steamships. there was only one way out--would stott go? of course he would and he would bring shirley back with him to massapequa. so during the next few days while stott and the judge toiled preparing their case, which often necessitated brief trips to the city, mrs. rossmore, seconded with sulky indifference by eudoxia, was kept busy getting a room ready for her daughter's arrival. eudoxia, who came originally from county cork, was an irish lady with a thick brogue and a husky temper. she was amiable enough so long as things went to her satisfaction, but when they did not suit her she was a termagant. she was neither beautiful nor graceful, she was not young nor was she very clean. her usual condition was dishevelled, her face was all askew, and when she dressed up she looked like a valentine. her greatest weakness was a propensity for smashing dishes, and when reprimanded she would threaten to take her traps and skidoo. this news of the arrival of a daughter failed to fill her with enthusiasm. firstly, it meant more work; secondly she had not bargained for it. when she took the place it was on the understanding that the family consisted only of an elderly gentleman and his wife, that there was practically no work, good wages, plenty to eat, with the privilege of an evening out when she pleased. instead of this millennium she soon found stott installed as a permanent guest and now a daughter was to be foisted on her. no wonder hard working girls were getting sick and tired of housework! as already hinted there was no unhealthy curiosity among massapequans regarding their new neighbors from the city but some of the more prominent people of the place considered it their duty to seek at least a bowing acquaintance with the rossmores by paying them a formal visit. so the day following the conversation on the porch when the judge and stott had gone to the city on one of their periodical excursions, mrs. rossmore was startled to see a gentleman of clerical appearance accompanied by a tall, angular woman enter their gate and ring the bell. the rev. percival pontifex beetle and his sister miss jane beetle prided themselves on being leaders in the best social circle in massapequa. the incumbent of the local presbyterian church, the rev. deetle, was a thin, sallow man of about thirty-five. he had a diminutive face with a rather long and very pointed nose which gave a comical effect to his physiognomy. theology was written all over his person and he wore the conventional clerical hat which, owing to his absurdly small face, had the unfortunate appearance of being several sizes too large for him. miss deetle was a gaunt and angular spinster who had an unhappy trick of talking with a jerk. she looked as if she were constantly under self-restraint and was liable at any moment to explode into a fit of rage and only repressed herself with considerable effort. as they came up the stoop, eudoxia, already instructed by mrs. rossmore, was ready for them. with her instinctive respect for the priestly garb she was rather taken back on seeing a clergyman, but she brazened it out: "mr. rossmore's not home." then shaking her head, she added: "they don't see no visitors." unabashed, the rev. deetle drew a card from a case and handing it to the girl said pompously: "then we will see mrs. rossmore. i saw her at the window as we came along. here, my girl, take her this card. tell her that the reverend pontifex deetle and miss deetle have called to present their compliments." brushing past eudoxia, who vainly tried to close the door, the rev. deetle coolly entered the house, followed by his sister, and took a seat in the parlour. "she'll blame me for this," wailed the girl, who had not budged and who stood there fingering the rev. deetle's card. "blame you? for what?" demanded the clerical visitor in surprise. "she told me to say she was out--but i can't lie to a minister of the gospel--leastways not to his face. i'll give her your card, sir." the reverend caller waited until eudoxia had disappeared, then he rose and looked around curiously at the books and pictures. "hum--not a bible or a prayer book or a hymn book, not a picture or anything that would indicate the slightest reverence for holy things." he picked up a few papers that were lying on the table and after glancing at them threw them down in disgust. "law reports--wall street reports--the god of this world. evidently very ordinary people, jane." he looked at his sister, but she sat stiffly and primly in her chair and made no reply. he repeated: "didn't you hear me? i said they are ordinary people." "i've no doubt," retorted miss deetle, "and as such they will not thank us for prying into their affairs." "prying, did you say?" said the parson, resenting this implied criticism of his actions. "just plain prying," persisted his sister angrily. "i don't see what else it is." the rev. pontifex straightened up and threw out his chest as he replied: "it is protecting my flock. as leader of the unified all souls baptismal presbytery, it is my duty to visit the widows and orphans of this community." "these people are neither widows or orphans," objected miss deetle. "they are strangers," insisted the rev. pontifex, "and it is my duty to minister to them--if they need it. furthermore it is my duty to my congregation to find out who is in their midst. no less than three of the lady trustees of my church have asked me who and what these people are and whence they came." "the lady trustees are a pack of old busybodies," growled his sister. her brother raised his finger warningly. "jane, do you know you are uttering a blasphemy? these rossmore people have been here two weeks they have visited no one, no one visits them. they have avoided a temple of worship, they have acted most mysteriously. who are they? what are they hiding? is it fair to my church, is it fair to my flock? it is not a bereavement, for they don't wear mourning. i'm afraid it may be some hidden scandal--" further speculations on his part were interrupted by the entrance of mrs. rossmore, who thought rightly that the quickest way to get rid of her unwelcome visitors was to hurry downstairs as quickly as possible. "miss deetle--mr. deetle. i am much honoured," was her not too effusive greeting. the reverend pontifex, anxious to make a favourable impression, was all smiles and bows. the idea of a possible scandal had for the moment ceased to worry him. "the honour is ours," he stammered. "i--er--we--er--my sister jane and i called to--" "won't you sit down?" said mrs. rossmore, waving him to a chair. he danced around her in a manner that made her nervous. "thank you so much," he said with a smile that was meant to be amiable. he took a seat at the further end of the room and an awkward pause followed. finally his sister prompted him: "you wanted to see mrs. rossmore about the festival," she said. "oh, of course, i had quite forgotten. how stupid of me. the fact is, mrs. rossmore," he went on, "we are thinking of giving a festival next week--a festival with strawberries--and our trustees thought, in fact it occurred to me also that if you and mr. rossmore would grace the occasion with your presence it would give us an opportunity--so to speak--get better acquainted, and er--" another awkward pause followed during which he sought inspiration by gazing fixedly in the fireplace. then turning on mrs. rossmore so suddenly that the poor woman nearly jumped out of her chair he asked: "do you like strawberries?" "it's very kind of you," interrupted mrs. rossmore, glad of the opportunity to get a word in edgeways. "indeed, i appreciate your kindness most keenly but my husband and i go nowhere, nowhere at all. you see we have met with reverses and--" "reverses," echoed the clerical visitor, with difficulty keeping his seat. this was the very thing he had come to find out and here it was actually thrown at him. he congratulated himself on his cleverness in having inspired so much confidence and thought with glee of his triumph when he returned with the full story to the lady trustees. simulating, therefore, the deepest sympathy he tried to draw his hostess out: "dear me, how sad! you met with reverses." turning to his sister, who was sitting in her corner like a petrified mummy, he added: "jane, do you hear? how inexpressibly sad! they have met with reverses!" he paused, hoping that mrs. rossmore would go on to explain just what their reverses had been, but she was silent. as a gentle hint he said softly: "did i interrupt you, madam?" "not at all, i did not speak," she answered. thus baffled, he turned the whites of his eyes up to the ceiling and said: "when reverses come we naturally look for spiritual consolation. my dear mrs. rossmore, in the name of the unified all souls baptismal presbytery i offer you that consolation." mrs. rossmore looked helplessly from one to the other embarrassed as to what to say. who were these strangers that intruded on her privacy offering a consolation she did not want? miss deetle, as if glad of the opportunity to joke at her brother's expense, said explosively: "my dear pontifex, you have already offered a strawberry festival which mrs. rossmore has been unable to accept." "well, what of it?" demanded mr. deetle, glaring at his sister for the irrelevant interruption. "you are both most kind," murmured mrs. rossmore; "but we could not accept in any case. my daughter is returning home from paris next week." "ah, your daughter--you have a daughter?" exclaimed mr. deetle, grasping at the slightest straw to add to his stock of information. "coming from paris, too! such a wicked city!" he had never been to paris, he went on to explain, but he had read enough about it and he was grateful that the lord had chosen massapequa as the field of his labours. here at least, life was sweet and wholesome and one's hopes of future salvation fairly reasonable. he was not a brilliant talker when the conversation extended beyond massapequa but he rambled on airing his views on the viciousness of the foreigner in general, until mrs. rossmore, utterly wearied, began to wonder when they would go. finally he fell back upon the weather. "we are very fortunate in having such pleasant weather, don't you think so, madam? oh, massapequa is a lovely spot, isn't it? we think it's the one place to live in. we are all one happy family. that's why my sister and i called to make your acquaintance." "you are very good, i'm sure. i shall tell my husband you came and he'll be very pleased." having exhausted his conversational powers and seeing that further efforts to pump mrs. rossmore were useless, the clerical visitor rose to depart: "it looks like rain. come, jane, we had better go. good-bye, madam, i am delighted to have made this little visit and i trust you will assure mr. rossmore that all souls unified baptismal presbytery always has a warm welcome for him." they bowed and mrs. rossmore bowed. the agony was over and as the door closed on them mrs. rossmore gave a sigh of relief. that evening stott and the judge came home earlier than usual and from their dejected appearance mrs. rossmore divined bad news. the judge was painfully silent throughout the meal and stott was unusually grave. finally the latter took her aside and broke it to her gently. in spite of their efforts and the efforts of their friends the congressional inquiry had resulted in a finding against the judge and a demand had already been made upon the senate for his impeachment. they could do nothing now but fight it in the senate with all the influence they could muster. it was going to be hard but stott was confident that right would prevail. after dinner as they were sitting in silence on the porch, each measuring the force of this blow which they had expected yet had always hoped to ward off, the crunching sound of a bicycle was heard on the quiet country road. the rider stopped at their gate and came up the porch holding out an envelope to the judge, who, guessing the contents, had started forward. he tore it open. it was a cablegram from paris and read as follows: am sailing on the kaiser wilhelm to-day. shirley. chapter vii. the pier of the north german lloyd steamship company, at hoboken, fairly sizzled with bustle and excitement. the kaiser wilhelm had arrived at sandy hook the previous evening and was now lying out in midstream. she would tie up at her dock within half an hour. employes of the line, baggage masters, newspaper reporters, custom house officers, policemen, detectives, truck drivers, expressmen, longshoremen, telegraph messengers and anxious friends of incoming passengers surged back and forth in seemingly hopeless confusion. the shouting of orders, the rattling of cab wheels, the shrieking of whistles was deafening. from out in the river came the deep toned blasts of the steamer's siren, in grotesque contrast with the strident tooting of a dozen diminutive tugs which, puffing and snorting, were slowly but surely coaxing the leviathan into her berth alongside the dock. the great vessel, spick and span after a coat of fresh paint hurriedly put on during the last day of the voyage, bore no traces of gale, fog and stormy seas through which she had passed on her , mile run across the ocean. conspicuous on the bridge, directing the docking operations, stood capt. hegermann, self satisfied and smiling, relieved that the responsibilities of another trip were over, and at his side, sharing the honours, was the grizzled pilot who had brought the ship safely through the dangers of gedney's channel, his shabby pea jacket, old slouch hat, top boots and unkempt beard standing out in sharp contrast with the immaculate white duck trousers, the white and gold caps and smart full dress uniforms of the ship's officers. the rails on the upper decks were seen to be lined with passengers, all dressed in their shore going clothes, some waving handkerchiefs at friends they already recognized, all impatiently awaiting the shipping of the gangplank. stott had come early. they had received word at massapequa the day before that the steamer had been sighted off fire island and that she would be at her pier the next morning at o'clock. stott arrived at . and so found no difficulty in securing a front position among the small army of people, who, like himself, had come down to meet friends. as the huge vessel swung round and drew closer, stott easily picked out shirley. she was scanning eagerly through a binocular the rows of upturned faces on the dock, and he noted that a look of disappointment crossed her face at not finding the object of her search. she turned and said something to a lady in black and to a man who stood at her side. who they might be stott had no idea. fellow passengers, no doubt. one becomes so intimate on shipboard; it seems a friendship that must surely last a lifetime, whereas the custom officers have not finished rummaging through your trunks when these easily-made steamer friends are already forgotten. presently shirley took another look and her glass soon lighted on him. instantly she recognized her father's old friend. she waved a handkerchief and stott raised his hat. then she turned quickly and spoke again to her friends, whereupon they all moved in the direction of the gangplank, which was already being lowered. shirley was one of the first to come ashore. stott was waiting for her at the foot of the gangplank and she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. he had known her ever since she was a little tot in arms, and bystanders who noticed them meet had no doubt that they were father and daughter. shirley was deeply moved; a great lump in her throat seemed to choke her utterance. so far she had been able to bear up, but now that home was so near her heart failed her. she had hoped to find her father on the dock. why had he not come? were things so bad then? she questioned judge stott anxiously, fearfully. he reassured her. both her mother and father were well. it was too long a trip for them to make, so he had volunteered. "too long a trip," echoed shirley puzzled. "this is not far from our house. madison avenue is no distance. that could not have kept father away." "you don't live on madison avenue any longer. the house and its contents have been sold," replied stott gravely, and in a few words he outlined the situation as it was. shirley listened quietly to the end and only the increasing pallor of her face and an occasional nervous twitching at the corner of her mouth betrayed the shock that this recital of her father's misfortunes was to her. ah, this she had little dreamed of! yet why not? it was but logic. when wrecked in reputation, one might as well be wrecked in fortune, too. what would their future be, how could that proud, sensitive man her father bear this humiliation, this disgrace? to be condemned to a life of obscurity, social ostracism, and genteel poverty! oh, the thought was unendurable! she herself could earn money, of course. if her literary work did not bring in enough, she could teach and what she earned would help out. certainly her parents should never want for anything so long as she could supply it. she thought bitterly how futile now were plans of marriage, even if she had ever entertained such an idea seriously. henceforward, she did not belong to herself. her life must be devoted to clearing her father's name. these reflections were suddenly interrupted by the voice of mrs. blake calling out: "shirley, where have you been? we lost sight of you as we left the ship, and we have been hunting for you ever since." her aunt, escorted by jefferson ryder, had gone direct to the customs desk and in the crush they had lost trace of her. shirley introduced stott. "aunt milly, this is judge stott, a very old friend of father's. mrs. blake, my mother's sister. mother will be surprised to see her. they haven't met for ten years." "this visit is going to be only a brief one," said mrs. blake. "i really came over to chaperone shirley more than anything else." "as if i needed chaperoning with mr. ryder for an escort!" retorted shirley. then presenting jefferson to stott, she said: "this is mr. jefferson ryder--judge stott. mr. ryder has been very kind to me abroad." the two men bowed and shook hands. "any relation to j.b.?" asked stott good humouredly. "his son--that's all," answered jefferson laconically. stott now looked at the young man with more interest. yes, there was a resemblance, the same blue eyes, the fighting jaw. but how on earth did judge rossmore's daughter come to be travelling in the company of john burkett ryder's son? the more he thought of it the more it puzzled him, and while he cogitated, shirley and her companions wrestled with the united states customs, and were undergoing all the tortures invented by uncle sam to punish americans for going abroad. shirley and mrs. blake were fortunate in securing an inspector who was fairly reasonable. of course, he did not for a moment believe their solemn statement, already made on the ship, that they had nothing dutiable, and he rummaged among the most intimate garments of their wardrobe in a wholly indecent and unjustifiable manner, but he was polite and they fared no worse than all the other women victims of this, the most brutal custom house inspection system in the world. jefferson had the misfortune to be allotted an inspector who was half seas over with liquor and the man was so insolent and threatening in manner that it was only by great self-restraint that jefferson controlled himself. he had no wish to create a scandal on the dock, nor to furnish good "copy" for the keen-eyed, long-eared newspaper reporters who would be only too glad of such an opportunity for a "scare head". but when the fellow compelled him to open every trunk and valise and then put his grimy hands to the bottom and by a quick upward movement jerked the entire contents out on the dock, he interfered: "you are exceeding your authority," he exclaimed hotly. "how dare you treat my things in this manner?" the drunken uniformed brute raised his bloodshot, bleary eyes and took jefferson in from tip to toe. he clenched his fist as if about to resort to violence, but he was not so intoxicated as to be quite blind to the fact that this passenger had massive square shoulders, a determined jaw and probably a heavy arm. so contenting himself with a sneer, he said: "this ain't no country for blooming english docks. you're not in england now you know. this is a free country. see?" "i see this," replied jefferson, furious, "that you are a drunken ruffian and a disgrace to the uniform you wear. i shall report your conduct immediately," with which he proceeded to the customs desk to lodge a complaint. he might have spared himself the trouble. the silver-haired, distinguished looking old officer in charge knew that jefferson's complaint was well founded, he knew that this particular inspector was a drunkard and a discredit to the government which employed him, but at the same time he also knew that political influence had been behind his appointment and that it was unsafe to do more than mildly reprimand him. when, therefore, he accompanied jefferson to the spot where the contents of the trunks lay scattered in confusion all over the dock, he merely expostulated with the officer, who made some insolent reply. seeing that it was useless to lose further time, jefferson repacked his trunks as best he could and got them on a cab. then he hurried over to shirley's party and found them already about to leave the pier. "come and see us, jeff," whispered shirley as their cab drove through the gates. "where," he asked, "madison avenue?" she hesitated for a moment and then replied quickly: "no, we are stopping down on long island for the summer--at a cute little place called massapequa. run down and see us." he raised his hat and the cab drove on. there was greater activity in the rossmore cottage at massapequa than there had been any day since the judge and his wife went to live there. since daybreak eudoxia had been scouring and polishing in honour of the expected arrival and a hundred times mrs. rossmore had climbed the stairs to see that everything was as it should be in the room which had been prepared for shirley. it was not, however, without a passage at arms that eudoxia consented to consider the idea of an addition to the family. mrs. rossmore had said to her the day before: "my daughter will be here to-morrow, eudoxia." a look expressive of both displeasure and astonishment marred the classic features of the hireling. putting her broom aside and placing her arms akimbo she exclaimed in an injured tone: "and it's a dayther you've got now? so it's three in family you are! when i took the place it's two you tould me there was!" "well, with your kind permission," replied mrs. rossmore, "there will be three in future. there is nothing in the constitution of the united states that says we can't have a daughter without consulting our help, is there?" the sarcasm of this reply did not escape even the dull-edged wits of the irish drudge. she relapsed into a dignified silence and a few minutes later was discovered working with some show of enthusiasm. the judge was nervous and fidgety. he made a pretence to read, but it was plain to see that his mind was not on his book. he kept leaving his chair to go and look at the clock; then he would lay the volume aside and wander from room to room like a lost soul. his thoughts were on the dock at hoboken. by noon every little detail had been attended to and there was nothing further to do but sit and wait for the arrival of stott and shirley. they were to be expected any moment now. the passengers had probably got off the steamer by eleven o'clock. it would take at least two hours to get through the customs and out to massapequa. the judge and his wife sat on the porch counting the minutes and straining their ears to catch the first sound of the train from new york. "i hope stott broke the news to her gently," said the judge. "i wish we had gone to meet her ourselves," sighed his wife. the judge was silent and for a moment or two he puffed vigorously at his pipe, as was his habit when disturbed mentally. then he said: "i ought to have gone, martha, but i was afraid. i'm afraid to look my own daughter in the face and tell her that i am a disgraced man, that i am to be tried by the senate for corruption, perhaps impeached and turned off the bench as if i were a criminal. shirley won't believe it, sometimes i can't believe it myself. i often wake up in the night and think of it as part of a dream, but when the morning comes it's still true--it's still true!" he smoked on in silence. then happening to look up he noticed that his wife was weeping. he laid his hand gently on hers. "don't cry, dear, don't make it harder for me to bear. shirley must see no trace of tears." "i was thinking of the injustice of it all," replied mrs. rossmore, wiping her eyes. "fancy shirley in this place, living from hand to mouth," went on the judge. "that's the least," answered his wife. "she's a fine, handsome girl, well educated and all the rest of it. she ought to make a good marriage." no matter what state of mind mrs. rossmore might be in, she never lost sight of the practical side of things. "hardly with her father's disgrace hanging over her head," replied the judge wearily. "who," he added, "would have the courage to marry a girl whose father was publicly disgraced?" both relapsed into another long silence, each mentally reviewing the past and speculating on the future. suddenly mrs. rossmore started. surely she could not be mistaken! no, the clanging of a locomotive bell was plainly audible. the train was in. from the direction of the station came people with parcels and hand bags and presently there was heard the welcome sound of carriage wheels crunching over the stones. a moment later they saw coming round the bend in the road a cab piled up with small baggage. "here they are! here they are!" cried mrs. rossmore. "come, eudoxia!" she called to the servant, while she herself hurried down to the gate. the judge, fully as agitated as herself, only showing his emotion in a different way, remained on the porch pale and anxious. the cab stopped at the curb and stott alighted, first helping out mrs. blake. mrs. rossmore's astonishment on seeing her sister was almost comical. "milly!" she exclaimed. they embraced first and explained afterwards. then shirley got out and was in her mother's arms. "where's father?" was shirley's first question. "there--he's coming!" the judge, unable to restrain his impatience longer, ran down from the porch towards the gate. shirley, with a cry of mingled grief and joy, precipitated herself on his breast. "father! father!" she cried between her sobs. "what have they done to you?" "there--there, my child. everything will be well--everything will be well." her head lay on his shoulder and he stroked her hair with his hand, unable to speak from pent up emotion. mrs. rossmore could not recover from her stupefaction on seeing her sister. mrs. blake explained that she had come chiefly for the benefit of the voyage and announced her intention of returning on the same steamer. "so you see i shall bother you only a few days," she said. "you'll stay just as long as you wish," rejoined mrs. rossmore. "happily we have just one bedroom left." then turning to eudoxia, who was wrestling with the baggage, which formed a miniature matterhorn on the sidewalk, she gave instructions: "eudoxia, you'll take this lady's baggage to the small bedroom adjoining miss shirley's. she is going to stop with us for a few days." taken completely aback at the news of this new addition, eudoxia looked at first defiance. she seemed on the point of handing in her resignation there and then. but evidently she thought better of it, for, taking a cue from mrs. rossmore, she asked in the sarcastic manner of her mistress: "four is it now, m'm? i suppose the constitootion of the united states allows a family to be as big as one likes to make it. it's hard on us girls, but if it's the law, it's all right, m'm. the more the merrier!" with which broadside, she hung the bags all over herself and staggered off to the house. stott explained that the larger pieces and the trunks would come later by express. mrs. rossmore took him aside while mrs. blake joined shirley and the judge. "did you tell shirley?" asked mrs. rossmore. "how did she take it?" "she knows everything," answered stott, "and takes it very sensibly. we shall find her of great moral assistance in our coming fight in the senate," he added confidently. realizing that the judge would like to be left alone with shirley, mrs. rossmore invited mrs. blake to go upstairs and see the room she would have, while stott said he would be glad of a washup. when they had gone shirley sidled up to her father in her old familiar way. "i've just been longing to see you, father," she said. she turned to get a good look at him and noticing the lines of care which had deepened during her absence she cried: "why, how you've changed! i can scarcely believe it's you. say something. let me hear the sound of your voice, father." the judge tried to smile. "why, my dear girl, i---" shirley threw her arms round his neck. "ah, yes, now i know it's you," she cried. "of course it is, shirley, my dear girl. of course it is. who else should it be?" "yes, but it isn't the same," insisted shirley. "there is no ring to your voice. it sounds hollow and empty, like an echo. and this place," she added dolefully, "this awful place--" she glanced around at the cracked ceilings, the cheaply papered walls, the shabby furniture, and her heart sank as she realized the extent of their misfortune. she had come back prepared for the worst, to help win the fight for her father's honour, but to have to struggle against sordid poverty as well, to endure that humiliation in addition to disgrace--ah, that was something she had not anticipated! she changed colour and her voice faltered. her father had been closely watching for just such signs and he read her thoughts. "it's the best we can afford, shirley," he said quietly. "the blow has been complete. i will tell you everything. you shall judge for yourself. my enemies have done for me at last." "your enemies?" cried shirley eagerly. "tell me who they are so i may go to them." "yes, dear, you shall know everything. but not now. you are tired after your journey. to-morrow sometime stott and i will explain everything." "very well, father, as you wish," said shirley gently. "after all," she added in an effort to appear cheerful, "what matter where we live so long as we have each other?" she drew away to hide her tears and left the room on pretence of inspecting the house. she looked into the dining-room and kitchen and opened the cupboards, and when she returned there were no visible signs of trouble in her face. "it's a cute little house, isn't it?" she said. "i've always wanted a little place like this--all to ourselves. oh, if you only knew how tired i am of new york and its great ugly houses, its retinue of servants and its domestic and social responsibilities! we shall be able to live for ourselves now, eh, father?" she spoke with a forced gaiety that might have deceived anyone but the judge. he understood the motive of her sudden change in manner and silently he blessed her for making his burden lighter. "yes, dear, it's not bad," he said. "there's not much room, though." "there's quite enough," she insisted. "let me see." she began to count on her fingers. "upstairs--three rooms, eh? and above that three more--" "no," smiled the judge, "then comes the roof?" "of course," she laughed, "how stupid of me--a nice gable roof, a sloping roof that the rain runs off beautifully. oh, i can see that this is going to be awfully jolly--just like camping out. you know how i love camping out. and you have a piano, too." she went over to the corner where stood one of those homely instruments which hardly deserve to be dignified by the name piano, with a cheap, gaudily painted case outside and a tin pan effect inside, and which are usually to be found in the poorer class of country boarding houses. shirley sat down and ran her fingers over the keys, determined to like everything. "it's a little old," was her comment, "but i like these zither effects. it's just like the sixteenth-century spinet. i can see you and mother dancing a stately minuet," she smiled. "what's that about mother dancing?" demanded mrs. rossmore, who at that instant entered the room. shirley arose and appealed to her: "isn't it absurd, mother, when you come to think of it, that anybody should accuse father of being corrupt and of having forfeited the right to be judge? isn't it still more absurd that we should be helpless and dejected and unhappy because we are on long island instead of madison avenue? why should manhattan island be a happier spot than long island? why shouldn't we be happy anywhere; we have each other. and we do need each other. we never knew how much till to-day, did we? we must stand by each other now. father is going to clear his name of this preposterous charge and we're going to help him, aren't we, mother? we're not helpless just because we are women. we're going to work, mother and i." "work?" echoed mrs. rossmore, somewhat scandalized. "work," repeated shirley very decisively. the judge interfered. he would not hear of it. "you work, shirley? impossible!" "why not? my book has been selling well while i was abroad. i shall probably write others. then i shall write, too, for the newspapers and magazines. it will add to our income." "your book--'the american octopus,' is selling well?" inquired the judge, interested. "so well," replied shirley, "that the publishers wrote me in paris that the fourth edition was now on the press. that means good royalties. i shall soon be a fashionable author. the publishers will be after me for more books and we'll have all the money we want. oh, it is so delightful, this novel sensation of a literary success!" she exclaimed with glee. "aren't you proud of me, dad?" the judge smiled indulgently. of course he was glad and proud. he always knew his shirley was a clever girl. but by what strange fatality, he thought to himself, had his daughter in this book of hers assailed the very man who had encompassed his own ruin? it seemed like the retribution of heaven. neither his daughter nor the financier was conscious of the fact that each was indirectly connected with the impeachment proceedings. ryder could not dream that "shirley green", the author of the book which flayed him so mercilessly, was the daughter of the man he was trying to crush. shirley, on the other hand, was still unaware of the fact that it was ryder who had lured her father to his ruin. mrs. rossmore now insisted on shirley going to her room to rest. she must be tired and dusty. after changing her travelling dress she would feel refreshed and more comfortable. when she was ready to come down again luncheon would be served. so leaving the judge to his papers, mother and daughter went upstairs together, and with due maternal pride mrs. rossmore pointed out to shirley all the little arrangements she had made for her comfort. then she left her daughter to herself while she hurried downstairs to look after eudoxia and luncheon. when, at last, she could lock herself in her room where no eye could see her, shirley threw herself down on the bed and burst into a torrent of tears. she had kept up appearances as long as it was possible, but now the reaction had set in. she gave way freely to her pent up feelings, she felt that unless she could relieve herself in this way her heart would break. she had been brave until now, she had been strong to hear everything and see everything, but she could not keep it up forever. stott's words to her on the dock had in part prepared her for the worst, he had told her what to expect at home, but the realization was so much more vivid. while hundreds of miles of ocean still lay between, it had all seemed less real, almost attractive as a romance in modern life, but now she was face to face with the grim reality--this shabby cottage, cheap neighbourhood and commonplace surroundings, her mother's air of resignation to the inevitable, her father's pale, drawn face telling so eloquently of the keen mental anguish through which he had passed. she compared this pitiful spectacle with what they had been when she left for europe, the fine mansion on madison avenue with its rich furnishings and well-trained servants, and her father's proud aristocratic face illumined with the consciousness of his high rank in the community, and the attention he attracted every time he appeared on the street or in public places as one of the most brilliant and most respected judges on the bench. then to have come to this all in the brief space of a few months! it was incredible, terrible, heart rending! and what of the future? what was to be done to save her father from this impeachment which she knew well would hurry him to his grave? he could not survive that humiliation, that degradation. he must be saved in the senate, but how--how? she dried her eyes and began to think. surely her woman's wit would find some way. she thought of jefferson. would he come to massapequa? it was hardly probable. he would certainly learn of the change in their circumstances and his sense of delicacy would naturally keep him away for some time even if other considerations, less unselfish, did not. perhaps he would be attracted to some other girl he would like as well and who was not burdened with a tragedy in her family. her tears began to flow afresh until she hated herself for being so weak while there was work to be done to save her father. she loved jefferson. yes, she had never felt so sure of it as now. she felt that if she had him there at that moment she would throw herself in his arms crying: "take me, jefferson, take me away, where you will, for i love you! i love you!" but jefferson was not there and the rickety chairs in the tiny bedroom and the cheap prints on the walls seemed to jibe at her in her misery. if he were there, she thought as she looked into a cracked mirror, he would think her very ugly with her eyes all red from crying. he would not marry her now in any case. no self-respecting man would. she was glad that she had spoken to him as she had in regard to marriage, for while a stain remained upon her father's name marriage was out of the question. she might have yielded on the question of the literary career, but she would never allow a man to taunt her afterwards with the disgrace of her own flesh and blood. no, henceforth her place was at her father's side until his character was cleared. if the trial in the senate were to go against him, then she could never see jefferson again. she would give up all idea of him and everything else. her literary career would be ended, her life would be a blank. they would have to go abroad, where they were not known, and try and live down their shame, for no matter how innocent her father might be the world would believe him guilty. once condemned by the senate, nothing could remove the stigma. she would have to teach in order to contribute towards the support, they would manage somehow. but what a future, how unnecessary, how unjust! suddenly she thought of jefferson's promise to interest his father in their case and she clutched at the hope this promise held out as a drowning man clutches at a drifting straw. jefferson would not forget his promise and he would come to massapequa to tell her of what he had done. she was sure of that. perhaps, after all, there was where their hope lay. why had she not told her father at once? it might have relieved his mind. john burkett ryder, the colossus, the man of unlimited power! he could save her father and he would. and the more she thought about it, the more cheerful and more hopeful she became, and she started to dress quickly so that she might hurry down to tell her father the good news. she was actually sorry now that she had said so many hard things of mr. ryder in her book and she was worrying over the thought that her father's case might be seriously prejudiced if the identity of the author were ever revealed, when there came a knock at her door. it was eudoxia. "please, miss, will you come down to lunch?" chapter viii a whirling maelstrom of human activity and dynamic energy--the city which above all others is characteristic of the genius and virility of the american people--new york, with its congested polyglot population and teeming millions, is assuredly one of the busiest, as it is one of the most strenuous and most noisy places on earth. yet, despite its swarming streets and crowded shops, ceaselessly thronged with men and women eagerly hurrying here and there in the pursuit of business or elusive pleasure, all chattering, laughing, shouting amid the deafening, multisonous roar of traffic incidental to gotham's daily life, there is one part of the great metropolis where there is no bustle, no noise, no crowd, where the streets are empty even in daytime, where a passer-by is a curiosity and a child a phenomenon. this deserted village in the very heart of the big town is the millionaires' district, the boundaries of which are marked by carnegie hill on the north, fiftieth street on the south, and by fifth and madison avenues respectively on the west and east. there is nothing more mournful than the outward aspect of these princely residences which, abandoned and empty for three-quarters of the year, stand in stately loneliness, as if ashamed of their isolation and utter uselessness. their blinds drawn, affording no hint of life within, enveloped the greater part of the time in the stillness and silence of the tomb, they appear to be under the spell of some baneful curse. no merry-voiced children romp in their carefully railed off gardens, no sounds of conversation or laughter come from their hermetically closed windows, not a soul goes in or out, at most, at rare intervals, does one catch a glimpse of a gorgeously arrayed servant gliding about in ghostly fashion, supercilious and suspicious, and addressing the chance visitor in awed whispers as though he were the guardian of a house of affliction. it is, indeed, like a city of the dead. so it appeared to jefferson as he walked up fifth avenue, bound for the ryder residence, the day following his arrival from europe. although he still lived at his father's house, for at no time had there been an open rupture, he often slept in his studio, finding it more convenient for his work, and there he had gone straight from the ship. he felt, however, that it was his duty to see his mother as soon as possible; besides he was anxious to fulfil his promise to shirley and find what his father could do to help judge rossmore. he had talked about the case with several men the previous evening at the club and the general impression seemed to be that, guilty or innocent, the judge would be driven off the bench. the "interests" had forced the matter as a party issue, and the republicans being in control in the senate the outcome could hardly be in doubt. he had learned also of the other misfortunes which had befallen judge rossmore and he understood now the reason for shirley's grave face on the dock and her little fib about summering on long island. the news had been a shock to him, for, apart from the fact that the judge was shirley's father, he admired him immensely as a man. of his perfect innocence there could, of course, be no question: these charges of bribery had simply been trumped up by his enemies to get him off the bench. that was very evident. the "interests" feared him and so had sacrificed him without pity, and as jefferson walked along central park, past the rows of superb palaces which face its eastern wall, he wondered in which particular mansion had been hatched this wicked, iniquitous plot against a wholly blameless american citizen. here, he thought, were the citadels of the plutocrats, america's aristocracy of money, the strongholds of her coal, railroad, oil, gas and ice barons, the castles of her monarchs of steel, copper, and finance. each of these million-dollar residences, he pondered, was filled from cellar to roof with costly furnishings, masterpieces of painting and sculpture, priceless art treasures of all kinds purchased in every corner of the globe with the gold filched from a trust-ridden people. for every stone in those marble halls a human being, other than the owner, had been sold into bondage, for each of these magnificent edifices, which the plutocrat put up in his pride only to occupy it two months in the year, ten thousand american men, women and children had starved and sorrowed. europe, thought jefferson as he strode quickly along, pointed with envy to america's unparalleled prosperity, spoke with bated breath of her great fortunes. rather should they say her gigantic robberies, her colossal frauds! as a nation we were not proud of our multi-millionaires. how many of them would bear the search-light of investigation? would his own father? how many millions could one man make by honest methods? america was enjoying unprecedented prosperity, not because of her millionaires, but in spite of them. the united states owed its high rank in the family of nations to the country's vast natural resources, its inexhaustible vitality, its great wheat fields, the industrial and mechanical genius of its people. it was the plain american citizen who had made the greatness of america, not the millionaires who, forming a class by themselves of unscrupulous capitalists, had created an arrogant oligarchy which sought to rule the country by corrupting the legislature and the judiciary. the plutocrats--these were the leeches, the sores in the body politic. an organized band of robbers, they had succeeded in dominating legislation and in securing control of every branch of the nation's industry, crushing mercilessly and illegally all competition. they were the money power, and such a menace were they to the welfare of the people that, it had been estimated, twenty men in america had it in their power, by reason of the vast wealth which they controlled, to come together, and within twenty-four hours arrive at an understanding by which every wheel of trade and commerce would be stopped from revolving, every avenue of trade blocked and every electric key struck dumb. those twenty men could paralyze the whole country, for they controlled the circulation of the currency and could create a panic whenever they might choose. it was the rapaciousness and insatiable greed of these plutocrats that had forced the toilers to combine for self-protection, resulting in the organization of the labor unions which, in time, became almost as tyrannical and unreasonable as the bosses. and the breach between capital on the one hand and labour on the other was widening daily, masters and servants snarling over wages and hours, the quarrel ever increasing in bitterness and acrimony until one day the extreme limit of patience would be reached and industrial strikes would give place to bloody violence. meantime the plutocrats, wholly careless of the significant signs of the times and the growing irritation and resentment of the people, continued their illegal practices, scoffing at public opinion, snapping their fingers at the law, even going so far in their insolence as to mock and jibe at the president of the united states. feeling secure in long immunity and actually protected in their wrong doing by the courts--the legal machinery by its very elaborateness defeating the ends of justice--the trust kings impudently defied the country and tried to impose their own will upon the people. history had thus repeated itself. the armed feudalism of the middle ages had been succeeded in twentieth century america by the tyranny of capital. yet, ruminated the young artist as he neared the ryder residence, the american people had but themselves to blame for their present thralldom. forty years before abraham lincoln had warned the country when at the close of the war he saw that the race for wealth was already making men and women money-mad. in he wrote these words: "yes, we may congratulate ourselves that this cruel war is nearing its close. it has cost a vast amount of treasure and blood. the best blood of the flower of american youth has been freely offered upon our country's altar that the nation might live. it has been indeed a trying hour for the republic, but i see in the near future a crisis approaching that unnerves me and causes me to tremble for the safety of my country. as a result of the war, corporations have been enthroned and an era of corruption in high places will follow and the money power of the country will endeavor to prolong its reign by working upon the prejudices of the people until all the wealth is aggregated in a few hands and the republic is destroyed." truly prophetic these solemn words were to-day. forgetting the austere simplicity of their forebears, a love of show and ostentation had become the ruling passion of the american people. money, money, _money_! was to-day the only standard, the only god! the whole nation, frenzied with a wild lust for wealth no matter how acquired, had tacitly acquiesced in all sorts of turpitude, every description of moral depravity, and so had fallen an easy victim to the band of capitalistic adventurers who now virtually ruled the land. with the thieves in power, the courts were powerless, the demoralization was general and the world was afforded the edifying spectacle of an entire country given up to an orgy of graft--treason in the senate--corruption in the legislature, fraudulent elections, leaks in government reports, trickery in wall street, illegal corners in coal, meat, ice and other prime necessaries of life, the deadly horrors of the beef and drug trusts, railroad conspiracies, insurance scandals, the wrecking of savings banks, police dividing spoils with pickpockets and sharing the wages of prostitutes, magistrates charged with blackmailing--a foul stench of social rottenness and decay! what, thought jefferson, would be the outcome--socialism or anarchy? still, he mused, one ray of hope pierced the general gloom--the common sense, the vigour and the intelligence of the true american man and woman, the love for a "square deal" which was characteristic of the plain people, the resistless force of enlightened public opinion. the country was merely passing through a dark phase in its history, it was the era of the grafters. there would come a reaction, the rascals would be exposed and driven off, and the nation would go on upward toward its high destiny. the country was fortunate, too, in having a strong president, a man of high principles and undaunted courage who had already shown his capacity to deal with the critical situation. america was lucky with her presidents. picked out by the great political parties as mere figureheads, sometimes they deceived their sponsors, and showed themselves men and patriots. such a president was theodore roosevelt. after beginning vigorous warfare on the trusts, attacking fearlessly the most rascally of the band, the chief of the nation had sounded the slogan of alarm in regard to the multi-millionaires. the amassing of colossal fortunes, he had declared, must be stopped--a man might accumulate more than sufficient for his own needs and for the needs of his children, but the evil practice of perpetuating great and ever-increasing fortunes for generations yet unborn was recognized as a peril to the state. to have had the courage to propose such a sweeping and radical restrictive measure as this should alone, thought jefferson, ensure for theodore roosevelt a place among america's greatest and wisest statesmen. he and americans of his calibre would eventually perform the titanic task of cleansing these augean stables, the muck and accumulated filth of which was sapping the health and vitality of the nation. jefferson turned abruptly and went up the wide steps of an imposing white marble edifice, which took up the space of half a city block. a fine example of french renaissance architecture, with spire roofs, round turrets and mullioned windows dominating the neighbouring houses, this magnificent home of the plutocrat, with its furnishings and art treasures, had cost john burkett ryder nearly ten millions of dollars. it was one of the show places of the town, and when the "rubber neck" wagons approached the ryder mansion and the guides, through their megaphones, expatiated in awe-stricken tones on its external and hidden beauties, there was a general craning of vertebrae among the "seeing new york"-ers to catch a glimpse of the abode of the richest man in the world. only a few privileged ones were ever permitted to penetrate to the interior of this ten-million-dollar home. ryder was not fond of company, he avoided strangers and lived in continual apprehension of the subpoena server. not that he feared the law, only he usually found it inconvenient to answer questions in court under oath. the explicit instructions to the servants, therefore, were to admit no one under any pretext whatever unless the visitor had been approved by the hon. fitzroy bagley, mr. ryder's aristocratic private secretary, and to facilitate this preliminary inspection there had been installed between the library upstairs and the front door one of those ingenious electric writing devices, such as are used in banks, on which a name is hastily scribbled, instantly transmitted elsewhere, immediately answered and the visitor promptly admitted or as quickly shown the door. indeed the house, from the street, presented many of the characteristics of a prison. it had massive doors behind a row of highly polished steel gates, which would prove as useful in case of attempted invasion as they were now ornamental, and heavily barred windows, while on either side of the portico were great marble columns hung with chains and surmounted with bronze lions rampant. it was unusual to keep the town house open so late in the summer, but mr. ryder was obliged for business reasons to be in new york at this time, and mrs. ryder, who was one of the few american wives who do not always get their own way, had good-naturedly acquiesced in the wishes of her lord. jefferson did not have to ring at the paternal portal. the sentinel within was at his post; no one could approach that door without being seen and his arrival and appearance signalled upstairs. but the great man's son headed the list of the privileged ones, so without ado the smartly dressed flunkey opened wide the doors and jefferson was under his father's roof. "is my father in?" he demanded of the man. "no, sir," was the respectful answer. "mr. ryder has gone out driving, but mr. bagley is upstairs." then after a brief pause he added: "mrs. ryder is in, too." in this household where the personality of the mistress was so completely overshadowed by the stronger personality of the master the latter's secretary was a more important personage to the servants than the unobtrusive wife. jefferson went up the grand staircase hung on either side with fine old portraits and rare tapestries, his feet sinking deep in the rich velvet carpet. on the first landing was a piece of sculptured marble of inestimable worth, seen in the soft warm light that sifted through a great pictorial stained-glass window overhead, the subject representing ajax and ulysses contending for the armour of achilles. to the left of this, at the top of another flight leading to the library, was hung a fine full-length portrait of john burkett ryder. the ceilings here as in the lower hall were richly gilt and adorned with paintings by famous modern artists. when he reached this floor jefferson was about to turn to the right and proceed direct to his mother's suite when he heard a voice near the library door. it was mr. bagley giving instructions to the butler. the honourable fitzroy bagley, a younger son of a british peer, had left his country for his country's good, and in order to turn an honest penny, which he had never succeeded in doing at home, he had entered the service of america's foremost financier, hoping to gather a few of the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table and disguising the menial nature of his position under the high-sounding title of private secretary. his job called for a spy and a toady and he filled these requirements admirably. excepting with his employer, of whom he stood in craven fear, his manner was condescendingly patronizing to all with whom he came in contact, as if he were anxious to impress on these american plebeians the signal honour which a fitzroy, son of a british peer, did them in deigning to remain in their "blarsted" country. in mr. ryder's absence, therefore, he ran the house to suit himself, bullying the servants and not infrequently issuing orders that were contradictory to those already given by mrs. ryder. the latter offered no resistance, she knew he was useful to her husband and, what to her mind was a still better reason for letting him have his own way, she had always had the greatest reverence for the british aristocracy. it would have seemed to her little short of vulgarity to question the actions of anyone who spoke with such a delightful english accent. moreover, he dressed with irreproachable taste, was an acknowledged authority on dinner menus and social functions and knew his burke backwards--altogether an accomplished and invaluable person. jefferson could not bear the sight of him; in fact, it was this man's continual presence in the house that had driven him to seek refuge elsewhere. he believed him to be a scoundrel as he certainly was a cad. nor was his estimate of the english secretary far wrong. the man, like his master, was a grafter, and the particular graft he was after now was either to make a marriage with a rich american girl or to so compromise her that the same end would be attained. he was shrewd enough to realize that he had little chance to get what he wanted in the open matrimonial market, so he determined to attempt a raid and carry off an heiress under her father's nose, and the particular proboscis he had selected was that of his employer's friend, senator roberts. the senator and miss roberts were frequently at the ryder house and in course of time the aristocratic secretary and the daughter had become quite intimate. a flighty girl, with no other purpose in life beyond dress and amusement and having what she termed "a good time," kate thought it excellent pastime to flirt with mr. bagley, and when she discovered that he was serious in his attentions she felt flattered rather than indignant. after all, she argued, he was of noble birth. if his two brothers died he would be peer of england, and she had enough money for both. he might not make a bad husband. but she was careful to keep her own counsel and not let her father have any suspicion of what was going on. she knew that his heart was set on her marrying jefferson ryder and she knew better than anyone how impossible that dream was. she herself liked jefferson quite enough to marry him, but if his eyes were turned in another direction--and she knew all about his attentions to miss rossmore--she was not going to break her heart about it. so she continued to flirt secretly with the honourable fitzroy while she still led the ryders and her own father to think that she was interested in jefferson. "jorkins," mr. bagley was saying to the butler, "mr. ryder will occupy the library on his return. see that he is not disturbed." "yes, sir," replied the butler respectfully. the man turned to go when the secretary called him back. "and, jorkins, you will station another man at the front entrance. yesterday it was left unguarded, and a man had the audacity to address mr. ryder as he was getting out of his carriage. last week a reporter tried to snapshot him. mr. ryder was furious. these things must not happen again, jorkins. i shall hold you responsible." "very good, sir." the butler bowed and went downstairs. the secretary looked up and saw jefferson. his face reddened and his manner grew nervous. "hello! back from europe, jefferson? how jolly! your mother will be delighted. she's in her room upstairs." declining to take the hint, and gathering from bagley's embarrassed manner that he wanted to get rid of him, jefferson lingered purposely. when the butler had disappeared, he said: "this house is getting more and more like a barracks every day. you've got men all over the place. one can't move a step without falling over one." mr. bagley drew himself up stiffly, as he always did when assuming an air of authority. "your father's personality demands the utmost precaution," he replied. "we cannot leave the life of the richest and most powerful financier in the world at the mercy of the rabble." "what rabble?" inquired jefferson, amused. "the common rabble--the lower class--the riff-raff," explained mr. bagley. "pshaw!" laughed jefferson. "if our financiers were only half as respectable as the common rabble, as you call them, they would need no bars to their houses." mr. bagley sneered and shrugged his shoulders. "your father has warned me against your socialistic views." then, with a lofty air, he added: "for four years i was third groom of the bedchamber to the second son of england's queen. i know my responsibilities." "but you are not groom of the bedchamber here," retorted jefferson. "whatever i am," said mr. bagley haughtily, "i am answerable to your father alone." "by the way, bagley," asked jefferson, "when do you expect father to return? i want to see him." "i'm afraid it's quite impossible," answered the secretary with studied insolence. "he has three important people to see before dinner. there's the national republican committee and sergeant ellison of the secret service from washington--all here by appointment. it's quite impossible." "i didn't ask you if it were possible. i said i wanted to see him and i will see him," answered jefferson quietly but firmly, and in a tone and manner which did not admit of further opposition. "i'll go and leave word for him on his desk," he added. he started to enter the library when the secretary, who was visibly perturbed, attempted to bar his way. "there's some one in there," he said in an undertone. "someone waiting for your father." "is there?" replied jefferson coolly. "i'll see who it is," with which he brushed past mr. bagley and entered the library. he had guessed aright. a woman was there. it was kate roberts. "hello, kate! how are you?" they called each other by their first names, having been acquainted for years, and while theirs was an indifferent kind of friendship they had always been on good terms. at one time jefferson had even begun to think he might do what his father wished and marry the girl, but it was only after he had met and known shirley rossmore that he realized how different one woman can be from another. yet kate had her good qualities. she was frivolous and silly as are most girls with no brains and nothing else to do in life but dress and spend money, but she might yet be happy with some other fellow, and that was why it made him angry to see this girl with $ , in her own right playing into the hands of an unscrupulous adventurer. he had evidently disturbed an interesting tete-a-tete. he decided to say nothing, but mentally he resolved to spoil mr. bagley's game and save kate from her own folly. on hearing his voice kate turned and gave a little cry of genuine surprise. "why, is it you, jeff? i thought you were in europe." "i returned yesterday," he replied somewhat curtly. he crossed over to his father's desk where he sat down to scribble a few words, while mr. bagley, who had followed him in scowling, was making frantic dumb signs to kate. "i fear i intrude here," said jefferson pointedly. "oh, dear no, not at all," replied kate in some confusion. "i was waiting for my father. how is paris?" she asked. "lovely as ever," he answered. "did you have a good time?" she inquired. "i enjoyed it immensely. i never had a better one." "you probably were in good company," she said significantly. then she added: "i believe miss rossmore was in paris." "yes, i think she was there," was his non-committal answer. to change the conversation, which was becoming decidedly personal, he picked up a book that was lying on his father's desk and glanced at the title. it was "the american octopus." "is father still reading this?" he asked. "he was at it when i left." "everybody is reading it," said kate. "the book has made a big sensation. do you know who the hero is?" "who?" he asked with an air of the greatest innocence. "why, no less a personage than your father--john burkett ryder himself! everybody says it's he--the press and everybody that's read it. he says so himself." "really?" he exclaimed with well-simulated surprise. "i must read it." "it has made a strong impression on mr. ryder," chimed in mr. bagley. "i never knew him to be so interested in a book before. he's trying his best to find out who the author is. it's a jolly well written book and raps you american millionaires jolly well--what?" "whoever wrote the book," interrupted kate, "is somebody who knows mr. ryder exceedingly well. there are things in it that an outsider could not possibly know." "phew!" jefferson whistled softly to himself. he was treading dangerous ground. to conceal his embarrassment, he rose. "if you'll excuse me, i'll go and pay my filial respects upstairs. i'll see you again." he gave kate a friendly nod, and without even glancing at mr. bagley left the room. the couple stood in silence for a few moments after he disappeared. then kate went to the door and listened to his retreating footsteps. when she was sure that he was out of earshot she turned on mr. bagley indignantly. "you see what you expose me to. jefferson thinks this was a rendezvous." "well, it was to a certain extent," replied the secretary unabashed. "didn't you ask me to see you here?" "yes," said kate, taking a letter from her bosom, "i wanted to ask you what this means?" "my dear miss roberts--kate--i"--stammered the secretary. "how dare you address me in this manner when you know i and mr. ryder are engaged?" no one knew better than kate that this was not true, but she said it partly out of vanity, partly out of a desire to draw out this englishman who made such bold love to her. "miss roberts," replied mr. bagley loftily, "in that note i expressed my admiration--my love for you. your engagement to mr. jefferson ryder is, to say the least, a most uncertain fact." there was a tinge of sarcasm in his voice that did not escape kate. "you must not judge from appearances," she answered, trying to keep up the outward show of indignation which inwardly she did not feel. "jeff and i may hide a passion that burns like a volcano. all lovers are not demonstrative, you know." the absurdity of this description as applied to her relations with jefferson appealed to her as so comical that she burst into laughter in which the secretary joined. "then why did you remain here with me when the senator went out with mr. ryder, senior?" he demanded. "to tell you that i cannot listen to your nonsense any longer," retorted the girl. "what?" he cried, incredulously. "you remain here to tell me that you cannot listen to me when you could easily have avoided listening to me without telling me so. kate, your coldness is not convincing." "you mean you think i want to listen to you?" she demanded. "i do," he answered, stepping forward as if to take her in his arms. "mr. bagley!" she exclaimed, recoiling. "a week ago," he persisted, "you called me fitzroy. once, in an outburst of confidence, you called me fitz." "you hadn't asked me to marry you then," she laughed mockingly. then edging away towards the door she waved her hand at him playfully and said teasingly: "good-bye, mr. bagley, i am going upstairs to mrs. ryder. i will await my father's return in her room. i think i shall be safer." he ran forward to intercept her, but she was too quick for him. the door slammed in his face and she was gone. meantime jefferson had proceeded upstairs, passing through long and luxuriously carpeted corridors with panelled frescoed walls, and hung with grand old tapestries and splendid paintings, until he came to his mother's room. he knocked. "come in!" called out the familiar voice. he entered. mrs. ryder was busy at her escritoire looking over a mass of household accounts. "hello, mother!" he cried, running up and hugging her in his boyish, impulsive way. jefferson had always been devoted to his mother, and while he deplored her weakness in permitting herself to be so completely under the domination of his father, she had always found him an affectionate and loving son. "jefferson!" she exclaimed when he released her. "my dear boy, when did you arrive?" "only yesterday. i slept at the studio last night. you're looking bully, mother. how's father?" mrs. ryder sighed while she looked her son over proudly. in her heart she was glad jefferson had turned out as he had. her boy certainly would never be a financier to be attacked in magazines and books. answering his question she said: "your father is as well as those busybodies in the newspapers will let him be. he's considerably worried just now over that new book 'the american octopus.' how dare they make him out such a monster? he's no worse than other successful business men. he's richer, that's all, and it makes them jealous. he's out driving now with senator roberts. kate is somewhere in the house--in the library, i think." "yes, i found her there," replied jefferson dryly. "she was with that cad, bagley. when is father going to find that fellow out?" "oh, jefferson," protested his mother, "how can you talk like that of mr. bagley. he is such a perfect gentleman. his family connections alone should entitle him to respect. he is certainly the best secretary your father ever had. i'm sure i don't know what we should do without him. he knows everything that a gentleman should." "and a good deal more, i wager," growled jefferson. "he wasn't groom of the backstairs to england's queen for nothing." then changing the topic, he said suddenly: "talking about kate, mother, we have got to reach some definite understanding. this talk about my marrying her must stop. i intend to take the matter up with father to-day." "oh, of course, more trouble!" replied his mother in a resigned tone. she was so accustomed to having her wishes thwarted that she was never surprised at anything. "we heard of your goings on in paris. that miss rossmore was there, was she not?" "that has got nothing to do with it," replied jefferson warmly. he resented shirley's name being dragged into the discussion. then more calmly he went on: "now, mother, be reasonable, listen. i purpose to live my own life. i have already shown my father that i will not be dictated to, and that i can earn my own living. he has no right to force this marriage on me. there has never been any misunderstanding on kate's part. she and i understand each other thoroughly." "well, jefferson, you may be right from your point of view," replied his mother weakly. she invariably ended by agreeing with the last one who argued with her. "you are of age, of course. your parents have only a moral right over you. only remember this: it would be foolish of you to do anything now to anger your father. his interests are your interests. don't do anything to jeopardize them. of course, you can't be forced to marry a girl you don't care for, but your father will be bitterly disappointed. he had set his heart on this match. he knows all about your infatuation for miss rossmore and it has made him furious. i suppose you've heard about her father?" "yes, and it's a dastardly outrage," blurted out jefferson. "it's a damnable conspiracy against one of the most honourable men that ever lived, and i mean to ferret out and expose the authors. i came here to-day to ask father to help me." "you came to ask your father to help you?" echoed his mother incredulously. "why not?" demanded jefferson. "is it true then that he is selfishness incarnate? wouldn't he do that much to help a friend?" "you've come to the wrong house, jeff. you ought to know that. your father is far from being judge rossmore's friend. surely you have sense enough to realize that there are two reasons why he would not raise a finger to help him. one is that he has always been his opponent in public life, the other is that you want to marry his daughter." jefferson sat as if struck dumb. he had not thought of that. yes, it was true. his father and the father of the girl he loved were mortal enemies. how was help to be expected from the head of those "interests" which the judge had always attacked, and now he came to think of it, perhaps his own father was really at the bottom of these abominable charges! he broke into a cold perspiration and his voice was altered as he said: "yes, i see now, mother. you are right." then he added bitterly: "that has always been the trouble at home. no matter where i turn, i am up against a stone wall--the money interests. one never hears a glimmer of fellow-feeling, never a word of human sympathy, only cold calculation, heartless reasoning, money, money, money! oh, i am sick of it. i don't want any of it. i am going away where i'll hear no more of it." his mother laid her hand gently on his shoulder. "don't talk that way, jefferson. your father is not a bad man at heart, you know that. his life has been devoted to money making and he has made a greater fortune than any man living or dead. he is only what his life has made him. he has a good heart. and he loves you--his only son. but his business enemies--ah! those he never forgives." jefferson was about to reply when suddenly a dozen electric bells sounded all over the house. "what's that?" exclaimed jefferson, alarmed, and starting towards the door. "oh, that's nothing," smiled his mother. "we have had that put in since you went away. your father must have just come in. those bells announce the fact. it was done so that if there happened to be any strangers in the house they could be kept out of the way until he reached the library safely." "oh," laughed jefferson, "he's afraid some one will kidnap him? certainly he would be a rich prize. i wouldn't care for the job myself, though. they'd be catching a tartar." his speech was interrupted by a timid knock at the door. "may i come in to say good-bye?" asked a voice which they recognized as kate's. she had successfully escaped from mr. bagley's importunities and was now going home with the senator. she smiled amiably at jefferson and they chatted pleasantly of his trip abroad. he was sincerely sorry for this girl whom they were trying to foist on him. not that he thought she really cared for him, he was well aware that hers was a nature that made it impossible to feel very deeply on any subject, but the idea of this ready-made marriage was so foreign, so revolting to the american mind! he thought it would be a kindness to warn her against bagley. "don't be foolish, kate," he said. "i was not blind just now in the library. that man is no good." as is usual when one's motives are suspected, the girl resented his interference. she knew he hated mr. bagley and she thought it mean of him to try and get even in this way. she stiffened up and replied coldly: "i think i am able to look after myself, jefferson. thanks, all the same." he shrugged his shoulders and made no reply. she said good-bye to mrs. ryder, who was again immersed in her tradespeople bills, and left the room, escorted by jefferson, who accompanied her downstairs and on to the street where senator roberts was waiting for her in the open victoria. the senator greeted with unusual cordiality the young man whom he still hoped to make his son-in-law. "come and see us, jefferson," he said. "come to dinner any evening. we are always alone and kate and i will be glad to see you." "jefferson has so little time now, father. his work and--his friends keep him pretty busy." jefferson had noted both the pause and the sarcasm, but he said nothing. he smiled and the senator raised his hat. as the carriage drove off the young man noticed that kate glanced at one of the upper windows where mr. bagley stood behind a curtain watching. jefferson returned to the house. the psychological moment had arrived. he must go now and confront his father in the library. chapter ix the library was the most important room in the ryder mansion, for it was there that the colossus carried through his most important business deals, and its busiest hours were those which most men devote to rest. but john burkett ryder never rested. there could be no rest for any man who had a thousand millions of dollars to take care of. like macbeth, he could sleep no more. when the hum of business life had ceased down town and he returned home from the tall building in lower broadway, then his real work began. the day had been given to mere business routine; in his own library at night, free from inquisitive ears and prying eyes, he could devise new schemes for strengthening his grip upon the country, he could evolve more gigantic plans for adding to his already countless millions. here the money moloch held court like any king, with as much ceremony and more secrecy, and having for his courtiers some of the most prominent men in the political and industrial life of the nation. corrupt senators, grafting congressmen, ambitious railroad presidents, insolent coal barons who impudently claimed they administered the coal lands in trust for the almighty, unscrupulous princes of finance and commerce, all visited this room to receive orders or pay from the head of the "system." here were made and unmade governors of states, mayors of cities, judges, heads of police, cabinet ministers, even presidents. here were turned over to confidential agents millions of dollars to overturn the people's vote in the national elections; here were distributed yearly hundreds of thousands of dollars to grafters, large and small, who had earned it in the service of the "interests." here, secretly and unlawfully, the heads of railroads met to agree on rates which by discriminating against one locality in favour of another crushed out competition, raised the cost to the consumer, and put millions in the pockets of the trust. here were planned tricky financial operations, with deliberate intent to mislead and deceive the investing public, operations which would send stocks soaring one day, only a week later to put wall street on the verge of panic. half a dozen suicides might result from the coup, but twice as many millions of profits had gone into the coffers of the "system." here, too, was perpetrated the most heinous crime that can be committed against a free people--the conspiring of the trusts abetted by the railroads, to arbitrarily raise the prices of the necessaries of life--meat, coal, oil, ice, gas--wholly without other justification than that of greed, which, with these men, was the unconquerable, all-absorbing passion. in short, everything that unscrupulous leaders of organized capital could devise to squeeze the life blood out of the patient, defenceless toiler was done within these four walls. it was a handsome room, noble in proportions and abundantly lighted by three large and deeply recessed, mullioned windows, one in the middle of the room and one at either end. the lofty ceiling was a marvellously fine example of panelled oak of gothic design, decorated with gold, and the shelves for books which lined the walls were likewise of oak, richly carved. in the centre of the wall facing the windows was a massive and elaborately designed oak chimney-piece, reaching up to the ceiling, and having in the middle panel over the mantel a fine three-quarter length portrait of george washington. the room was furnished sumptuously yet quietly, and fully in keeping with the rich collection of classic and modern authors that filled the bookcases, and in corners here and there stood pedestals with marble busts of shakespeare, goethe and voltaire. it was the retreat of a scholar rather than of a man of affairs. when jefferson entered, his father was seated at his desk, a long black cigar between his lips, giving instructions to mr. bagley. mr. ryder looked up quickly as the door opened and the secretary made a movement forward as if to eject the intruder, no matter who he might be. they were not accustomed to having people enter the sanctum of the colossus so unceremoniously. but when he saw who it was, mr. ryder's stern, set face relaxed and he greeted his son amiably. "why, jeff, my boy, is that you? just a moment, until i get rid of bagley, and i'll be with you." jefferson turned to the book shelves and ran over the titles while the financier continued his business with the secretary. "now, bagley. come, quick. what is it?" he spoke in a rapid, explosive manner, like a man who has only a few moments to spare before he must rush to catch a train. john ryder had been catching trains all his life, and he had seldom missed one. "governor rice called. he wants an appointment," said mr. bagley, holding out a card. "i can't see him. tell him so," came the answer, quick as a flash. "who else?" he demanded. "where's your list?" mr. bagley took from the desk a list of names and read them over. "general abbey telephoned. he says you promised--" "yes, yes," interrupted ryder impatiently, "but not here. down town, to-morrow, any time. next?" the secretary jotted down a note against each name and then said: "there are some people downstairs in the reception room. they are here by appointment." "who are they?" "the national republican committee and sergeant ellison of the secret service from washington," replied mr. bagley. "who was here first?" demanded the financier. "sergeant ellison, sir." "then i'll see him first, and the committee afterwards. but let them all wait until i ring. i wish to speak with my son." he waved his hand and the secretary, knowing well from experience that this was a sign that there must be no further discussion, bowed respectfully and left the room. jefferson turned and advanced towards his father, who held out his hand. "well, jefferson," he said kindly, "did you have a good time abroad?" "yes, sir, thank you. such a trip is a liberal education in itself." "ready for work again, eh? i'm glad you're back, jefferson. i'm busy now, but one of these days i want to have a serious talk with you in regard to your future. this artist business is all very well--for a pastime. but it's not a career--surely you can appreciate that--for a young man with such prospects as yours. have you ever stopped to think of that?" jefferson was silent. he did not want to displease his father; on the other hand, it was impossible to let things drift as they had been doing. there must be an understanding sooner or later. why not now? "the truth is, sir," he began timidly, "i'd like a little talk with you now, if you can spare the time." ryder, sr., looked first at his watch and then at his son, who, ill at ease, sat nervously on the extreme edge of a chair. then he said with a smile: "well, my boy, to be perfectly frank, i can't--but--i will. come, what is it?" then, as if to apologize for his previous abruptness, he added, "i've had a very busy day, jeff. what with trans-continental and trans-atlantic and southern pacific, and wall street, and rate bills, and washington i feel like atlas shouldering the world." "the world wasn't intended for one pair of shoulders to carry, sir," rejoined jefferson calmly. his father looked at him in amazement. it was something new to hear anyone venturing to question or comment upon anything he said. "why not?" he demanded, when he had recovered from his surprise. "julius caesar carried it. napoleon carried it--to a certain extent. however, that's neither here nor there. what is it, boy?" unable to remain a moment inactive, he commenced to pick among the mass of papers on his desk, while jefferson was thinking what to say. the last word his father uttered gave him a cue, and he blurted out protestingly: "that's just it, sir. you forget that i'm no longer a boy. it's time to treat me as if i were a man." ryder, sr., leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily. "a man at twenty-eight? that's an excellent joke. do you know that a man doesn't get his horse sense till he's forty?" "i want you to take me seriously," persisted jefferson. ryder, sr., was not a patient man. his moments of good humour were of brief duration. anything that savoured of questioning his authority always angered him. the smile went out of his face and he retorted explosively: "go on--damn it all! be serious if you want, only don't take so long about it. but understand one thing. i want no preaching, no philosophical or socialistic twaddle. no tolstoi--he's a great thinker, and you're not. no bernard shaw--he's funny, and you're not. now go ahead." this beginning was not very encouraging, and jefferson felt somewhat intimidated. but he realized that he might not have another such opportunity, so he plunged right in. "i should have spoken to you before if you had let me," he said. "i often--" "if i let you?" interrupted his father. "do you expect me to sit and listen patiently to your wild theories of social reform? you asked me one day why the wages of the idle rich was wealth and the wages of hard work was poverty, and i told you that i worked harder in one day than a tunnel digger works in a life-time. thinking is a harder game than any. you must think or you won't know. napoleon knew more about war than all his generals put together. i know more about money than any man living to-day. the man who knows is the man who wins. the man who takes advice isn't fit to give it. that's why i never take yours. come, don't be a fool, jeff--give up this art nonsense. come back to the trading company. i'll make you vice-president, and i'll teach you the business of making millions." jefferson shook his head. it was hard to have to tell his own father that he did not think the million-making business quite a respectable one, so he only murmured: "it's impossible, father. i am devoted to my work. i even intend to go away and travel a few years and see the world. it will help me considerably." ryder, sr., eyed his son in silence for a few moments; then he said gently: "don't be obstinate, jeff. listen to me. i know the world better than you do. you mustn't go away. you are the only flesh and blood i have." he stopped speaking for a moment, as if overcome by a sudden emotion over which he had no control. jefferson remained silent, nervously toying with a paper cutter. seeing that his words had made no effect, ryder thumped his desk with his fist and cried: "you see my weakness. you see that i want you with me, and now you take advantage--you take advantage--" "no, father, i don't," protested jefferson; "but i want to go away. although i have my studio and am practically independent, i want to go where i shall be perfectly free--where my every move will not be watched--where i can meet my fellow-man heart to heart on an equal basis, where i shall not be pointed out as the son of ready money ryder. i want to make a reputation of my own as an artist." "why not study theology and become a preacher?" sneered ryder. then, more amiably, he said: "no, my lad, you stay here. study my interests--study the interests that will be yours some day." "no," said jefferson doggedly, "i'd rather go--my work and my self-respect demand it." "then go, damn it, go!" cried his father in a burst of anger. "i'm a fool for wasting my time with an ungrateful son." he rose from his seat and began to pace the room. "father," exclaimed jefferson starting forward, "you do me an injustice." "an injustice?" echoed mr. ryder turning round. "ye gods! i've given you the biggest name in the commercial world; the most colossal fortune ever accumulated by one man is waiting for you, and you say i've done you an injustice!" "yes--we are rich," said jefferson bitterly. "but at what a cost! you do not go into the world and hear the sneers that i get everywhere. you may succeed in muzzling the newspapers and magazines, but you cannot silence public opinion. people laugh when they hear the name ryder--when they do not weep. all your millions cannot purchase the world's respect. you try to throw millions to the public as a bone to a dog, and they decline the money on the ground that it is tainted. doesn't that tell you what the world thinks of your methods?" ryder laughed cynically. he went back to his desk, and, sitting facing his son, he replied: "jefferson, you are young. it is one of the symptoms of youth to worry about public opinion. when you are as old as i am you will understand that there is only one thing which counts in this world--money. the man who has it possesses power over the man who has it not, and power is what the ambitious man loves most." he stopped to pick up a book. it was "the american octopus." turning again to his son, he went on: "do you see this book? it is the literary sensation of the year. why? because it attacks me--the richest man in the world. it holds me up as a monster, a tyrant, a man without soul, honour or conscience, caring only for one thing--money; having but one passion--the love of power, and halting at nothing, not even at crime, to secure it. that is the portrait they draw of your father." jefferson said nothing. he was wondering if his sire had a suspicion who wrote it and was leading up to that. but ryder, sr., continued: "do i care? the more they attack me the more i like it. their puny pen pricks have about the same effect as mosquito bites on the pachyderm. what i am, the conditions of my time made me. when i started in business a humble clerk, forty years ago, i had but one goal--success; i had but one aim--to get rich. i was lucky. i made a little money, and i soon discovered that i could make more money by outwitting my competitors in the oil fields. railroad conditions helped me. the whole country was money mad. a wave of commercial prosperity swept over the land and i was carried along on its crest. i grew enormously rich, my millions increasing by leaps and bounds. i branched out into other interests, successful always, until my holdings grew to what they are to-day--the wonder of the twentieth century. what do i care for the world's respect when my money makes the world my slave? what respect can i have for a people that cringe before money and let it rule them? are you aware that not a factory wheel turns, not a vote is counted, not a judge is appointed, not a legislator seated, not a president elected without my consent? i am the real ruler of the united states--not the so-called government at washington. they are my puppets and this is my executive chamber. this power will be yours one day, boy, but you must know how to use it when it comes." "i never want it, father," said jefferson firmly. "to me your words savour of treason. i couldn't imagine that american talking that way." he pointed to the mantel, at the picture of george washington. ryder, sr., laughed. he could not help it if his son was an idealist. there was no use getting angry, so he merely shrugged his shoulders and said: "all right, jeff. we'll discuss the matter later, when you've cut your wisdom teeth. just at present you're in the clouds. but you spoke of my doing you an injustice. how can my love of power do you an injustice?" "because," replied jefferson, "you exert that power over your family as well as over your business associates. you think and will for everybody in the house, for everyone who comes in contact with you. yours is an influence no one seems able to resist. you robbed me of my right to think. ever since i was old enough to think, you have thought for me; ever since i was old enough to choose, you have chosen for me. you have chosen that i should marry kate roberts. that is the one thing i wished to speak to you about. the marriage is impossible." ryder, sr., half sprang from his seat. he had listened patiently, he thought, to all that his headstrong son had said, but that he should repudiate in this unceremonious fashion what was a tacit understanding between the two families, and, what was more, run the risk of injuring the ryder interests--that was inconceivable. leaving his desk, he advanced into the centre of the room, and folding his arms confronted jefferson. "so," he said sternly, "this is your latest act of rebellion, is it? you are going to welsh on your word? you are going to jilt the girl?" "i never gave my word," answered jefferson hotly. "nor did kate understand that an engagement existed. you can't expect me to marry a girl i don't care a straw about. it would not be fair to her." "have you stopped to think whether it would be fair to me?" thundered his father. his face was pale with anger, his jet-black eyes flashed, and his white hair seemed to bristle with rage. he paced the floor for a few moments, and then turning to jefferson, who had not moved, he said more calmly: "don't be a fool, jeff. i don't want to think for you, or to choose for you, or to marry for you. i did not interfere when you threw up the position i made for you in the trading company and took that studio. i realized that you were restless under the harness, so i gave you plenty of rein. but i know so much better than you what is best for you. believe me i do. don't--don't be obstinate. this marriage means a great deal to my interests--to your interests. kate's father is all powerful in the senate. he'll never forgive this disappointment. hang it all, you liked the girl once, and i made sure that--" he stopped suddenly, and the expression on his face changed as a new light dawned upon him. "it isn't that rossmore girl, is it?" he demanded. his face grew dark and his jaw clicked as he said between his teeth: "i told you some time ago how i felt about her. if i thought that it was rossmore's daughter! you know what's going to happen to him, don't you?" thus appealed to, jefferson thought this was the most favourable opportunity he would have to redeem his promise to shirley. so, little anticipating the tempest he was about to unchain, he answered: "i am familiar with the charges that they have trumped up against him. needless to say, i consider him entirely innocent. what's more, i firmly believe he is the victim of a contemptible conspiracy. and i'm going to make it my business to find out who the plotters are. i came to ask you to help me. will you?" for a moment ryder was speechless from utter astonishment. then, as he realized the significance of his son's words and their application to himself he completely lost control of himself. his face became livid, and he brought his fist down on his desk with a force that shook the room. "i will see him in hell first!" he cried. "damn him! he has always opposed me. he has always defied my power, and now his daughter has entrapped my son. so it's her you want to go to, eh? well, i can't make you marry a girl you don't want, but i can prevent you throwing yourself away on the daughter of a man who is about to be publicly disgraced, and, by god, i will." "poor old rossmore," said jefferson bitterly. "if the history of every financial transaction were made known, how many of us would escape public disgrace? would you?" he cried. ryder, sr., rose, his hands working dangerously. he made a movement as if about to advance on his son, but by a supreme effort he controlled himself. "no, upon my word, it's no use disinheriting you, you wouldn't care. i think you'd be glad; on my soul, i do!" then calming down once more, he added: "jefferson, give me your word of honour that your object in going away is not to find out this girl and marry her unknown to me. i don't mind your losing your heart, but, damn it, don't lose your head. give me your hand on it." jefferson reluctantly held out his hand. "if i thought you would marry that girl unknown to me, i'd have rossmore sent out of the country and the woman too. listen, boy. this man is my enemy, and i show no mercy to my enemies. there are more reasons than one why you cannot marry miss rossmore. if she knew one of them she would not marry you." "what reasons?" demanded jefferson. "the principal one," said ryder, slowly and deliberately, and eyeing his son keenly as if to judge of the effect of his words, "the principal one is that it was through my agents that the demand was made for her father's impeachment." "ah," cried jefferson, "then i guessed aright! oh, father, how could you have done that? if you only knew him!" ryder, sr., had regained command of his temper, and now spoke calmly enough. "jefferson, i don't have to make any apologies to you for the way i conduct my business. the facts contained in the charge were brought to my attention. i did not see why i should spare him. he never spared me. i shall not interfere, and the probabilities are that he will be impeached. senator roberts said this afternoon that it was a certainty. you see yourself how impossible a marriage with miss rossmore would be, don't you?" "yes, father, i see now. i have nothing more to say." "do you still intend going away?" "yes," replied jefferson bitterly. "why not? you have taken away the only reason why i should stay." "think it well over, lad. marry kate or not, as you please, but i want you to stay here." "it's no use. my mind is made up," answered jefferson decisively. the telephone rang, and jefferson got up to go. mr. ryder took up the receiver. "hallo! what's that? sergeant ellison? yes, send him up." putting the telephone down, ryder, sr., rose, and crossing the room accompanied his son to the door. "think it well over, jeff. don't be hasty." "i have thought it over, sir, and i have decided to go." a few moments later jefferson left the house. ryder, sr., went back to his desk and sat for a moment in deep thought. for the first time in his life he was face to face with defeat; for the first time he had encountered a will as strong as his own. he who could rule parliaments and dictate to governments now found himself powerless to rule his own son. at all costs, he mused, the boy's infatuation for judge rossmore's daughter must be checked, even if he had to blacken the girl's character as well as the father's, or, as a last resort, send the entire family out of the country. he had not lost sight of his victim since the carefully prepared crash in wall street, and the sale of the rossmore home following the bankruptcy of the great northwestern mining company. his agents had reported their settlement in the quiet little village on long island, and he had also learned of miss rossmore's arrival from europe, which coincided strangely with the home-coming of his own son. he decided, therefore, to keep a closer watch on massapequa now than ever, and that is why to-day's call of sergeant ellison, a noted sleuth in the government service, found so ready a welcome. the door opened, and mr. bagley entered, followed by a tall, powerfully built man whose robust physique and cheap looking clothes contrasted strangely with the delicate, ultra-fashionably attired english secretary. "take a seat, sergeant," said mr. ryder, cordially motioning his visitor to a chair. the man sat down gingerly on one of the rich leather-upholstered chairs. his manner was nervous and awkward, as if intimidated in the presence of the financier. "are the republican committee still waiting?" demanded mr. ryder. "yes, sir," replied the secretary. "i'll see them in a few minutes. leave me with sergeant ellison." mr. bagley bowed and retired. "well, sergeant, what have you got to report?" he opened a box of cigars that stood on the desk and held it out to the detective. "take a cigar," he said amiably. the man took a cigar, and also the match which mr. ryder held out. the financier knew how to be cordial with those who could serve him. "thanks. this is a good one," smiled the sleuth, sniffing at the weed. "we don't often get a chance at such as these." "it ought to be good," laughed ryder. "they cost two dollars apiece." the detective was so surprised at this unheard of extravagance that he inhaled a puff of smoke which almost choked him. it was like burning money. ryder, with his customary bluntness, came right down to business. "well, what have you been doing about the book?" he demanded. "have you found the author of 'the american octopus'?" "no, sir, i have not. i confess i'm baffled. the secret has been well kept. the publishers have shut up like a clam. there's only one thing that i'm pretty well sure of." "what's that?" demanded ryder, interested. "that no such person as shirley green exists." "oh," exclaimed, the financier, "then you think it is a mere nom de plume?" "yes, sir." "and what do you think was the reason for preserving the anonymity?" "well, you see, sir, the book deals with a big subject. it gives some hard knocks, and the author, no doubt, felt a little timid about launching it under his or her real name. at least that's my theory, sir." "and a good one, no doubt," said mr. ryder. then he added: "that makes me all the more anxious to find out who it is. i would willingly give this moment a check for $ , to know who wrote it. whoever it is, knows me as well as i know myself. we must find the author." the sleuth was silent for a moment. then he said: "there might be one way to reach the author, but it will be successful only in the event of her being willing to be known and come out into the open. suppose you write to her in care of the publishers. they would certainly forward the letter to wherever she may be. if she does not want you to know who she is she will ignore your letter and remain in the background. if, on the contrary, she has no fear of you, and is willing to meet you, she will answer the letter." "ah, i never thought of that!" exclaimed ryder. "it's a good idea. i'll write such a letter at once. it shall go to-night." he unhooked the telephone and asked mr. bagley to come up. a few seconds later the secretary entered the room. "bagley," said mr. ryder, "i want you to write a letter for me to miss shirley green, author of that book 'the american octopus. we will address it care of her publishers, littleton & co. just say that if convenient i should like a personal interview with her at my office, no. broadway, in relation to her book, 'the american octopus.' see that it is mailed to-night. that's all." mr. bagley bowed and retired. mr. ryder turned to the secret service agent. "there, that's settled. we'll see how it works. and now, sergeant, i have another job for you, and if you are faithful to my interests you will not find me unappreciative. do you know a little place on long island called massapequa?" "yes," grinned the detective, "i know it. they've got some fine specimens of 'skeeters' there." paying no attention to this jocularity, mr. ryder continued: "judge rossmore is living there--pending the outcome of his case in the senate. his daughter has just arrived from europe. my son jefferson came home on the same ship. they are a little more friendly than i care to have them. you understand. i want to know if my son visits the rossmores, and if he does i wish to be kept informed of all that's going on. you understand?" "perfectly, sir. you shall know everything." mr. ryder took a blank check from his desk and proceeded to fill it up. then handing it to the detective, he said: "here is $ for you. spare neither trouble or expense." "thank you, sir," said the man as he pocketed the money. "leave it to me." "that's about all, i think. regarding the other matter, we'll see how the letter works." he touched a bell and rose, which was a signal to the visitor that the interview was at an end. mr. bagley entered. "sergeant ellison is going," said mr. ryder. "have him shown out, and send the republican committee up." chapter x "what!" exclaimed shirley, changing colour, "you believe that john burkett ryder is at the bottom of this infamous accusation against father?" it was the day following her arrival at massapequa, and shirley, the judge and stott were all three sitting on the porch. until now, by common consent, any mention of the impeachment proceedings had been avoided by everyone. the previous afternoon and evening had been spent listening to an account of shirley's experiences in europe and a smile had flitted across even the judge's careworn face as his daughter gave a humorous description of the picturesque paris student with their long hair and peg-top trousers, while stott simply roared with laughter. ah, it was good to laugh again after so much trouble and anxiety! but while shirley avoided the topic that lay nearest her heart, she was consumed with a desire to tell her father of the hope she had of enlisting the aid of john burkett ryder. the great financier was certainly able to do anything he chose, and had not his son jefferson promised to win him over to their cause? so, to-day, after mrs. rossmore and her sister had gone down to the village to make some purchases shirley timidly broached the matter. she asked stott and her father to tell her everything, to hold back nothing. she wanted to hear the worst. stott, therefore, started to review the whole affair from the beginning, explaining how her father in his capacity as judge of the supreme court had to render decisions, several of which were adverse to the corporate interests of a number of rich men, and how since that time these powerful interests had used all their influence to get him put off the bench. he told her about the transcontinental case and how the judge had got mysteriously tangled up in the great northern mining company, and of the scandalous newspaper rumours, followed by the news of the congressional inquiry. then he told her about the panic in wall street, the sale of the house on madison avenue and the removal to long island. "that is the situation," said stott when he had finished. "we are waiting now to see what the senate will do. we hope for the best. it seems impossible that the senate will condemn a man whose whole life is like an open book, but unfortunately the senate is strongly republican and the big interests are in complete control. unless support comes from some unexpected quarter we must be prepared for anything." support from some unexpected quarter! stott's closing words rang in shirley's head. was that not just what she had to offer? unable to restrain herself longer and her heart beating tumultuously from suppressed emotion, she cried: "we'll have that support! we'll have it! i've got it already! i wanted to surprise you! father, the most powerful man in the united states will save you from being dishonoured!" the two men leaned forward in eager interest. what could the girl mean? was she serious or merely jesting? but shirley was never more serious in her life. she was jubilant at the thought that she had arrived home in time to invoke the aid of this powerful ally. she repeated enthusiastically: "we need not worry any more. he has but to say a word and these proceedings will be instantly dropped. they would not dare act against his veto. did you hear, father, your case is as good as won!" "what do you mean, child? who is this unknown friend?" "surely you can guess when i say the most powerful man in the united states? none other than john burkett ryder!" she stopped short to watch the effect which this name would have on her hearers. but to her surprise neither her father nor stott displayed the slightest emotion or even interest. puzzled at this cold reception, she repeated: "did you hear, father--john burkett ryder will come to your assistance. i came home on the same ship as his son and he promised to secure his father's aid." the judge puffed heavily at his pipe and merely shook his head, making no reply. stott explained: "we can't look for help from that quarter, shirley. you don't expect a man to cut loose his own kite, do you?" "what do you mean?" demanded shirley, mystified. "simply this--that john burkett ryder is the very man who is responsible for all your father's misfortunes." the girl sank back in her seat pale and motionless, as if she had received a blow. was it possible? could jefferson's father have done them such a wrong as this? she well knew that ryder, sr., was a man who would stop at nothing to accomplish his purpose--this she had demonstrated conclusively in her book--but she had never dreamed that his hand would ever be directed against her own flesh and blood. decidedly some fatality was causing jefferson and herself to drift further and further apart. first, her father's trouble. that alone would naturally have separated them. and now this discovery that jefferson's father had done hers this wrong. all idea of marriage was henceforth out of the question. that was irrevocable. of course, she could not hold jefferson to blame for methods which he himself abhorred. she would always think as much of him as ever, but whether her father emerged safely from the trial in the senate or not--no matter what the outcome of the impeachment proceedings might be, jefferson could never be anything else than a ryder and from now on there would be an impassable gulf between the rossmores and the ryders. the dove does not mate with the hawk. "do you really believe this, that john ryder deliberately concocted the bribery charge with the sole purpose of ruining my father?" demanded shirley when she had somewhat recovered. "there is no other solution of the mystery possible," answered stott. "the trusts found they could not fight him in the open, in a fair, honest way, so they plotted in the dark. ryder was the man who had most to lose by your father's honesty on the bench. ryder was the man he hit the hardest when he enjoined his transcontinental railroad. ryder, i am convinced, is the chief conspirator." "but can such things be in a civilized community?" cried shirley indignantly. "cannot he be exposed, won't the press take the matter up, cannot we show conspiracy?" "it sounds easy, but it isn't," replied stott. "i have had a heap of experience with the law, my child, and i know what i'm talking about. they're too clever to be caught tripping. they've covered their tracks well, be sure of that. as to the newspapers--when did you ever hear of them championing a man when he's down?" "and you, father--do you believe ryder did this?" "i have no longer any doubt of it," answered the judge. "i think john ryder would see me dead before he would raise a finger to help me. his answer to my demand for my letters convinced me that he was the arch plotter." "what letters do you refer to?" demanded shirley. "the letters i wrote to him in regard to my making an investment. he advised the purchase of certain stock. i wrote him two letters at the time, which letters if i had them now would go a long way to clearing me of this charge of bribery, for they plainly showed that i regarded the transaction as a bona fide investment. since this trouble began i wrote to ryder asking him to return me these letters so i might use them in my defence. the only reply i got was an insolent note from his secretary saying that mr. ryder had forgotten all about the transaction, and in any case had not the letters i referred to." "couldn't you compel him to return them?" asked shirley. "we could never get at him," interrupted stott. "the man is guarded as carefully as the czar." "still," objected shirley, "it is possible that he may have lost the letters or even never received them." "oh, he has them safe enough," replied stott. "a man like ryder keeps every scrap of paper, with the idea that it may prove useful some day. the letters are lying somewhere in his desk. besides, after the transcontinental decision he was heard to say that he'd have judge rossmore off the bench inside of a year." "and it wasn't a vain boast--he's done it," muttered the judge. shirley relapsed into silence. her brain was in a whirl. it was true then. this merciless man of money, this ogre of monopolistic corporations, this human juggernaut had crushed her father merely because by his honesty he interfered with his shady business deals! ah, why had she spared him in her book? she felt now that she had been too lenient, not bitter enough, not sufficiently pitiless. such a man was entitled to no mercy. yes, it was all clear enough now. john burkett ryder, the head of "the system," the plutocrat whose fabulous fortune gave him absolute control over the entire country, which invested him with a personal power greater than that of any king, this was the man who now dared attack the judiciary, the corner stone of the constitution, the one safeguard of the people's liberty. where would it end? how long would the nation tolerate being thus ruthlessly trodden under the unclean heels of an insolent oligarchy? the capitalists, banded together for the sole purpose of pillage and loot, had already succeeded in enslaving the toiler. the appalling degradation of the working classes, the sordidness and demoralizing squalor in which they passed their lives, the curse of drink, the provocation to crime, the shame of the sweat shops--all which evils in our social system she had seen as a settlement worker, were directly traceable to centralized wealth. the labor unions regulated wages and hours, but they were powerless to control the prices of the necessaries of life. the trusts could at pleasure create famine or plenty. they usually willed to make it famine so they themselves might acquire more millions with which to pay for marble palaces, fast motor cars, ocean-going yachts and expensive establishments at newport. food was ever dearer and of poorer quality, clothes cost more, rents and taxes were higher. she thought of the horrors in the packing houses at chicago recently made the subject of a sensational government report--putrid, pestiferous meats put up for human food amid conditions of unspeakable foulness, freely exposed to deadly germs from the expectorations of work people suffering from tuberculosis, in unsanitary rotten buildings soaked through with blood and every conceivable form of filth and decay, the beef barons careless and indifferent to the dictates of common decency so long as they could make more money. and while our public gasped in disgust at the sickening revelations of the beef scandal and foreign countries quickly cancelled their contracts for american prepared meats, the millionaire packer, insolent in the possession of wealth stolen from a poisoned public, impudently appeared in public in his fashionable touring car, with head erect and self-satisfied, wholly indifferent to his shame. these and other evidences of the plutocracy's cruel grip upon the nation had ended by exasperating the people. there must be a limit somewhere to the turpitudes of a degenerate class of nouveaux riches. the day of reckoning was fast approaching for the grafters and among the first to taste the vengeance of the people would be the colossus. but while waiting for the people to rise in their righteous wrath, ryder was all powerful, and if it were true that he had instituted these impeachment proceedings her father had little chance. what could be done? they could not sit and wait, as stott had said, for the action of the senate. if it were true that ryder controlled the senate as he controlled everything else her father was doomed. no, they must find some other way. and long after the judge and stott had left for the city shirley sat alone on the porch engrossed in thought, taxing her brain to find some way out of the darkness. and when presently her mother and aunt returned they found her still sitting there, silent and preoccupied. if they only had those two letters, she thought. they alone might save her father. but how could they be got at? mr. ryder had put them safely away, no doubt. he would not give them up. she wondered how it would be to go boldly to him and appeal to whatever sense of honour and fairness that might be lying latent within him. no, such a man would not know what the terms "honour," "fairness" meant. she pondered upon it all day and at night when she went tired to bed it was her last thought as she dropped off to sleep. the following morning broke clear and fine. it was one of those glorious, ideal days of which we get perhaps half a dozen during the whole summer, days when the air is cool and bracing, champagne-like in its exhilarating effect, and when nature dons her brightest dress, when the atmosphere is purer, the grass greener, the sky bluer, the flowers sweeter and the birds sing in more joyous chorus, when all creation seems in tune. days that make living worth while, when one can forget the ugliness, the selfishness, the empty glitter of the man-made city and walk erect and buoyant in the open country as in the garden of god. shirley went out for a long walk. she preferred to go alone so she would not have to talk. hers was one of those lonely, introspective natures that resent the intrusion of aimless chatter when preoccupied with serious thoughts. long island was unknown territory to her and it all looked very flat and uninteresting, but she loved the country, and found keen delight in the fresh, pure air and the sweet scent of new mown hay waited from the surrounding fields. in her soft, loosefitting linen dress, her white canvas shoes, garden hat trimmed with red roses, and lace parasol, she made an attractive picture and every passer-by--with the exception of one old farmer and he was half blind--turned to look at this good-looking girl, a stranger in those parts and whose stylish appearance suggested fifth avenue rather than the commonplace purlieus of massapequa. every now and then shirley espied in the distance the figure of a man which she thought she recognized as that of jefferson. had he come, after all? the blood went coursing tumultuously through her veins only a moment later to leave her face a shade paler as the man came nearer and she saw he was a stranger. she wondered what he was doing, if he gave her a thought, if he had spoken to his father and what the latter had said. she could realize now what mr. ryder's reply had been. then she wondered what her future life would be. she could do nothing, of course, until the senate had passed upon her father's case, but it was imperative that she get to work. in a day or two, she would call on her publishers and learn how her book was selling. she might get other commissions. if she could not make enough money in literary work she would have to teach. it was a dreary outlook at best, and she sighed as she thought of the ambitions that had once stirred her breast. all the brightness seemed to have gone out of her life, her father disgraced, jefferson now practically lost to her--only her work remained. as she neared the cottage on her return home she caught sight of the letter carrier approaching the gate. instantly she thought of jefferson, and she hurried to intercept the man. perhaps he had written instead of coming. "miss shirley rossmore?" said the man eyeing her interrogatively. "that's i," said shirley. the postman handed her a letter and passed on. shirley glanced quickly at the superscription. no, it was not from jefferson; she knew his handwriting too well. the envelope, moreover, bore the firm name of her publishers. she tore it open and found that it merely contained another letter which the publishers had forwarded. this was addressed to miss shirley green and ran as follows: dear madam.--if convenient, i should like to see you at my office, no. broadway, in relation to your book "the american octopus." kindly inform me as to the day and hour at which i may expect you. yours truly, john burkett ryder, per b. shirley almost shouted from sheer excitement. at first she was alarmed--the name john burkett ryder was such a bogey to frighten bad children with, she thought he might want to punish her for writing about him as she had. she hurried to the porch and sat there reading the letter over and over and her brain began to evolve ideas. she had been wondering how she could get at mr. ryder and here he was actually asking her to call on him. evidently he had not the slightest idea of her identity, for he had been able to reach her only through her publishers and no doubt he had exhausted every other means of discovering her address. the more she pondered over it the more she began to see in this invitation a way of helping her father. yes, she would go and beard the lion in his den, but she would not go to his office. she would accept the invitation only on condition that the interview took place in the ryder mansion where undoubtedly the letters would be found. she decided to act immediately. no time was to be lost, so she procured a sheet of paper and an envelope and wrote as follows: mr. john burkett ryder, dear sir.--i do not call upon gentlemen at their business office. yours, etc., shirley green. her letter was abrupt and at first glance seemed hardly calculated to bring about what she wanted--an invitation to call at the ryder home, but she was shrewd enough to see that if ryder wrote to her at all it was because he was most anxious to see her and her abruptness would not deter him from trying again. on the contrary, the very unusualness of anyone thus dictating to him would make him more than ever desirous of making her acquaintance. so shirley mailed the letter and awaited with confidence for ryder's reply. so certain was she that one would come that she at once began to form her plan of action. she would leave massapequa at once, and her whereabouts must remain a secret even from her own family. as she intended to go to the ryder house in the assumed character of shirley green, it would never do to run the risk of being followed home by a ryder detective to the rossmore cottage. she would confide in one person only--judge stott. he would know where she was and would be in constant communication with her. but, otherwise, she must be alone to conduct the campaign as she judged fit. she would go at once to new york and take rooms in a boarding house where she would be known as shirley green. as for funds to meet her expenses, she had her diamonds, and would they not be filling a more useful purpose if sold to defray the cost of saving her father than in mere personal adornment? so that evening, while her mother was talking with the judge, she beckoned stott over to the corner where she was sitting: "judge stott," she began, "i have a plan." he smiled indulgently at her. "another friend like that of yesterday?" he asked. "no," replied the girl, "listen. i am in earnest now and i want you to help me. you said that no one on earth could resist john burkett ryder, that no one could fight against the money power. well, do you know what i am going to do?" there was a quiver in her voice and her nostrils were dilated like those of a thoroughbred eager to run the race. she had risen from her seat and stood facing him, her fists clenched, her face set and determined. stott had never seen her in this mood and he gazed at her half admiringly, half curiously. "what will you do?" he asked with a slightly ironical inflection in his voice. "i am going to fight john burkett ryder!" she cried. stott looked at her open-mouthed. "you?" he said. "yes, i," said shirley. "i'm going to him and i intend to get those letters if he has them." stott shook his head. "my dear child," he said, "what are you talking about? how can you expect to reach ryder? we couldn't." "i don't know just how yet," replied shirley, "but i'm going to try. i love my father and i'm going to leave nothing untried to save him." "but what can you do?" persisted stott. "the matter has been sifted over and over by some of the greatest minds in the country." "has any woman sifted it over?" demanded shirley. "no, but--" stammered stott. "then it's about time one did," said the girl decisively. "those letters my father speaks of--they would be useful, would they not?" "they would be invaluable." "then i'll get them. if not--" "but i don't understand how you're going to get at ryder," interrupted stott. "this is how," replied shirley, passing over to him the letter she had received that afternoon. as stott recognized the well-known signature and read the contents, the expression of his face changed. he gasped for breath and sank into a chair from sheer astonishment. "ah, that's different!" he cried, "that's different!" briefly shirley outlined her plan, explaining that she would go to live in the city immediately and conduct her campaign from there. if she was successful, it might save her father and if not, no harm could come of it. stott demurred at first. he did not wish to bear alone the responsibility of such an adventure. there was no knowing what might happen to her, visiting a strange house under an assumed name. but when he saw how thoroughly in earnest she was and that she was ready to proceed without him, he capitulated. he agreed that she might be able to find the missing letters or if not, that she might make some impression on ryder himself. she could show interest in the judge's case as a disinterested outsider and so might win his sympathies. from being a skeptic, stott now became enthusiastic. he promised to cooperate in every way and to keep shirley's whereabouts an absolute secret. the girl, therefore, began to make her preparations for departure from home by telling her parents that she had accepted an invitation to spend a week or two with an old college chum in new york. that same evening her mother, the judge, and stott went for a stroll after dinner and left her to take care of the house. they had wanted shirley to go, too, but she pleaded fatigue. the truth was that she wanted to be alone so she could ponder undisturbed over her plans. it was a clear, starlit night, with no moon, and shirley sat on the porch listening to the chirping of the crickets and idly watching the flashes of the mysterious fireflies. she was in no mood for reading and sat for a long time rocking herself, engrossed in her thoughts. suddenly she heard someone unfasten the garden gate. it was too soon for the return of the promenaders; it must be a visitor. through the uncertain penumbra of the garden she discerned approaching a form which looked familiar. yes, now there was no doubt possible. it was, indeed, jefferson ryder. she hurried down the porch to greet him. no matter what the father had done she could never think any the less of the son. he took her hand and for several moments neither one spoke. there are times when silence is more eloquent than speech and this was one of them. the gentle grip of his big strong hand expressed more tenderly than any words, the sympathy that lay in his heart for the woman he loved. shirley said quietly: "you have come at last, jefferson." "i came as soon as i could," he replied gently. "i saw father only yesterday." "you need not tell me what he said," shirley hastened to say. jefferson made no reply. he understood what she meant. he hung his head and hit viciously with his walking stick at the pebbles that lay at his feet. she went on: "i know everything now. it was foolish of me to think that mr. ryder would ever help us." "i can't help it in any way," blurted out jefferson. "i have not the slightest influence over him. his business methods i consider disgraceful--you understand that, don't you, shirley?" the girl laid her hand on his arm and replied kindly: "of course, jeff, we know that. come up and sit down." he followed her on the porch and drew up a rocker beside her. "they are all out for a walk," she explained. "i'm glad," he said frankly. "i wanted a quiet talk with you. i did not care to meet anyone. my name must be odious to your people." both were silent, feeling a certain awkwardness. they seemed to have drifted apart in some way since those delightful days in paris and on the ship. then he said: "i'm going away, but i couldn't go until i saw you." "you are going away?" exclaimed shirley, surprised. "yes," he said, "i cannot stand it any more at home. i had a hot talk with my father yesterday about one thing and another. he and i don't chin well together. besides this matter of your father's impeachment has completely discouraged me. all the wealth in the world could never reconcile me to such methods! i'm ashamed of the role my own flesh and blood has played in that miserable affair. i can't express what i feel about it." "yes," sighed shirley, "it is hard to believe that you are the son of that man!" "how is your father?" inquired jefferson. "how does he take it?" "oh, his heart beats and he can see and hear and speak," replied shirley sadly, "but he is only a shadow of what he once was. if the trial goes against him, i don't think he'll survive it." "it is monstrous," cried jefferson. "to think that my father should be responsible for this thing!" "we are still hoping for the best," added shirley, "but the outlook is dark." "but what are you going to do?" he asked. "these surroundings are not for you--" he looked around at the cheap furnishings which he could see through the open window and his face showed real concern. "i shall teach or write, or go out as governess," replied shirley with a tinge of bitterness. then smiling sadly she added: "poverty is easy; it is unmerited disgrace which is hard." the young man drew his chair closer and took hold of the hand that lay in her lap. she made no resistance. "shirley," he said, "do you remember that talk we had on the ship? i asked you to be my wife. you led me to believe that you were not indifferent to me. i ask you again to marry me. give me the right to take care of you and yours. i am the son of the world's richest man, but i don't want his money. i have earned a competence of my own--enough to live on comfortably. we will go away where you and your father and mother will make their home with us. do not let the sins of the fathers embitter the lives of the children." "mine has not sinned," said shirley bitterly. "i wish i could say the same of mine," replied jefferson. "it is because the clouds are dark about you that i want to come into your life to comfort you." the girl shook her head. "no, jefferson, the circumstances make such a marriage impossible. your family and everybody else would say that i had inveigled you into it. it is even more impossible now than i thought it was when i spoke to you on the ship. then i was worried about my father's trouble and could give no thought to anything else. now it is different. your father's action has made our union impossible for ever. i thank you for the honour you have done me. i do like you. i like you well enough to be your wife, but i will not accept this sacrifice on your part. your offer, coming at such a critical time, is dictated only by your noble, generous nature, by your sympathy for our misfortune. afterwards, you might regret it. if my father were convicted and driven from the bench and you found you had married the daughter of a disgraced man you would be ashamed of us all, and if i saw that it would break my heart." emotion stopped her utterance and she buried her face in her hands weeping silently. "shirley," said jefferson gently, "you are wrong. i love you for yourself, not because of your trouble. you know that. i shall never love any other woman but you. if you will not say 'yes' now, i shall go away as i told my father i would and one day i shall come back and then if you are still single i shall ask you again to be my wife." "where are you going?" she asked. "i shall travel for a year and then, may be, i shall stay a couple of years in paris, studying at the beaux arts. then i may go to rome. if i am to do anything worth while in the career i have chosen i must have that european training." "paris! rome!" echoed shirley. "how i envy you! yes, you are right. get away from this country where the only topic, the only thought is money, where the only incentive to work is dollars. go where there are still some ideals, where you can breathe the atmosphere of culture and art." forgetting momentarily her own troubles, shirley chatted on about life in the art centres of europe, advised jefferson where to go, with whom to study. she knew people in paris, rome and munich and she would give him letters to them. only, if he wanted to perfect himself in the languages, he ought to avoid americans and cultivate the natives. then, who could tell? if he worked hard and was lucky, he might have something exhibited at the salon and return to america a famous painter. "if i do," smiled jefferson, "you shall be the first to congratulate me. i shall come and ask you to be my wife. may i?" he added. shirley smiled gravely. "get famous first. you may not want me then." "i shall always want you," he whispered hoarsely, bending over her. in the dim light of the porch he saw that her tear-stained face was drawn and pale. he rose and held out his hand. "good-bye," he said simply. "good-bye, jefferson." she rose and put her hand in his. "we shall always be friends. i, too, am going away." "you going away--where to?" he asked surprised. "i have work to do in connection with my father's case," she said. "you?" said jefferson puzzled. "you have work to do--what work?" "i can't say what it is, jefferson. there are good reasons why i can't. you must take my word for it that it is urgent and important work." then she added: "you go your way, jefferson; i will go mine. it was not our destiny to belong to each other. you will become famous as an artist. and i--" "and you--" echoed jefferson. "i--i shall devote my life to my father. it's no use, jefferson--really--i've thought it all out. you must not come back to me--you understand. we must be alone with our grief--father and i. good-bye." he raised her hand to his lips. "good-bye, shirley. don't forget me. i shall come back for you." he went down the porch and she watched him go out of the gate and down the road until she could see his figure no longer. then she turned back and sank into her chair and burying her face in her handkerchief she gave way to a torrent of tears which afforded some relief to the weight on her heart. presently the others returned from their walk and she told them about the visitor. "mr. ryder's son, jefferson, was here. we crossed on the same ship. i introduced him to judge stott on the dock." the judge looked surprised, but he merely said: "i hope for his sake that he is a different man from his father." "he is," replied shirley simply, and nothing more was said. two days went by, during which shirley went on completing the preparations for her visit to new york. it was arranged that stott should escort her to the city. shortly before they started for the train a letter arrived for shirley. like the first one it had been forwarded by her publishers. it read as follows: miss shirley green, dear madam.--i shall be happy to see you at my residence--fifth avenue--any afternoon that you will mention. yours very truly, john burkett ryder, per b. shirley smiled in triumph as, unseen by her father and mother, she passed it over to stott. she at once sat down and wrote this reply: mr. john burkett ryder, dear sir.--i am sorry that i am unable to comply with your request. i prefer the invitation to call at your private residence should come from mrs. ryder. yours, etc., shirley green. she laughed as she showed this to stott: "he'll write me again," she said, "and next time his wife will sign the letter." an hour later she left massapequa for the city. chapter xi the hon. fitzroy bagley had every reason to feel satisfied with himself. his affaire de coeur with the senator's daughter was progressing more smoothly than ever, and nothing now seemed likely to interfere with his carefully prepared plans to capture an american heiress. the interview with kate roberts in the library, so awkwardly disturbed by jefferson's unexpected intrusion, had been followed by other interviews more secret and more successful, and the plausible secretary had contrived so well to persuade the girl that he really thought the world of her, and that a brilliant future awaited her as his wife, that it was not long before he found her in a mood to refuse him nothing. bagley urged immediate marriage; he insinuated that jefferson had treated her shamefully and that she owed it to herself to show the world that there were other men as good as the one who had jilted her. he argued that in view of the senator being bent on the match with ryder's son it would be worse than useless for him, bagley, to make formal application for her hand, so, as he explained, the only thing which remained was a runaway marriage. confronted with the fait accompli, papa roberts would bow to the inevitable. they could get married quietly in town, go away for a short trip, and when the senator had gotten over his first disappointment they would be welcomed back with open arms. kate listened willingly enough to this specious reasoning. in her heart she was piqued at jefferson's indifference and she was foolish enough to really believe that this marriage with a british nobleman, twice removed, would be in the nature of a triumph over him. besides, this project of an elopement appealed strangely to her frivolous imagination; it put her in the same class as all her favourite novel heroines. and it would be capital fun! meantime, senator roberts, in blissful ignorance of this little plot against his domestic peace, was growing impatient and he approached his friend ryder once more on the subject of his son jefferson. the young man, he said, had been back from europe some time. he insisted on knowing what his attitude was towards his daughter. if they were engaged to be married he said there should be a public announcement of the fact. it was unfair to him and a slight to his daughter to let matters hang fire in this unsatisfactory way and he hinted that both himself and his daughter might demand their passports from the ryder mansion unless some explanation were forthcoming. ryder was in a quandary. he had no wish to quarrel with his useful washington ally; he recognized the reasonableness of his complaint. yet what could he do? much as he himself desired the marriage, his son was obstinate and showed little inclination to settle down. he even hinted at attractions in another quarter. he did not tell the senator of his recent interview with his son when the latter made it very plain that the marriage could never take place. ryder, sr., had his own reasons for wishing to temporize. it was quite possible that jefferson might change his mind and abandon his idea of going abroad and he suggested to the senator that perhaps if he, the senator, made the engagement public through the newspapers it might have the salutary effect of forcing his son's hand. so a few mornings later there appeared among the society notes in several of the new york papers this paragraph: "the engagement is announced of miss katherine roberts, only daughter of senator roberts of wisconsin, to jefferson ryder, son of mr. john burkett ryder." two persons in new york happened to see the item about the same time and both were equally interested, although it affected them in a different manner. one was shirley rossmore, who had chanced to pick up the newspaper at the breakfast table in her boarding house. "so soon?" she murmured to herself. well, why not? she could not blame jefferson. he had often spoken to her of this match arranged by his father and they had laughed over it as a typical marriage of convenience modelled after the continental pattern. jefferson, she knew, had never cared for the girl nor taken the affair seriously. some powerful influences must have been at work to make him surrender so easily. here again she recognized the masterly hand of ryder, sr., and more than ever she was eager to meet this extraordinary man and measure her strength with his. her mind, indeed, was too full of her father's troubles to grieve over her own however much she might have been inclined to do so under other circumstances, and all that day she did her best to banish the paragraph from her thoughts. more than a week had passed since she left massapequa and what with corresponding with financiers, calling on editors and publishers, every moment of her time had been kept busy. she had found a quiet and reasonable priced boarding house off washington square and here stott had called several times to see her. her correspondence with mr. ryder had now reached a phase when it was impossible to invent any further excuses for delaying the interview asked for. as she had foreseen, a day or two after her arrival in town she had received a note from mrs. ryder asking her to do her the honour to call and see her, and shirley, after waiting another two days, had replied making an appointment for the following day at three o'clock. this was the same day on which the paragraph concerning the ryder-roberts engagement appeared in the society chronicles of the metropolis. directly after the meagre meal which in new york boarding houses is dignified by the name of luncheon, shirley proceeded to get ready for this portentous visit to the ryder mansion. she was anxious to make a favourable impression on the financier, so she took some pains with her personal appearance. she always looked stylish, no matter what she wore, and her poverty was of too recent date to make much difference to her wardrobe, which was still well supplied with paris-made gowns. she selected a simple close-fitting gown of gray chiffon cloth and a picture hat of leghorn straw heaped with red roses, shirley's favourite flower. thus arrayed, she sallied forth at two o'clock--a little gray mouse to do battle with the formidable lion. the sky was threatening, so instead of walking a short way up fifth avenue for exercise, as she had intended doing, she cut across town through ninth street, and took the surface car on fourth avenue. this would put her down at madison avenue and seventy-fourth street, which was only a block from the ryder residence. she looked so pretty and was so well dressed that the passers-by who looked after her wondered why she did not take a cab instead of standing on a street corner for a car. but one's outward appearance is not always a faithful index to the condition of one's pocketbook, and shirley was rapidly acquiring the art of economy. it was not without a certain trepidation that she began this journey. so far, all her plans had been based largely on theory, but now that she was actually on her way to mr. ryder all sorts of misgivings beset her. suppose he knew her by sight and roughly accused her of obtaining access to his house under false pretences and then had her ejected by the servants? how terrible and humiliating that would be! and even if he did not how could she possibly find those letters with him watching her, and all in the brief time of a conventional afternoon call? it had been an absurd idea from the first. stott was right; she saw that now. but she had entered upon it and she was not going to confess herself beaten until she had tried. and as the car sped along madison avenue, gradually drawing nearer to the house which she was going to enter disguised as it were, like a burglar, she felt cold chills run up and down her spine--the same sensation that one experiences when one rings the bell of a dentist's where one has gone to have a tooth extracted. in fact, she felt so nervous and frightened that if she had not been ashamed before herself she would have turned back. in about twenty minutes the car stopped at the corner of seventy-fourth street. shirley descended and with a quickened pulse walked towards the ryder mansion, which she knew well by sight. there was one other person in new york who, that same morning, had read the newspaper item regarding the ryder-roberts betrothal, and he did not take the matter so calmly as shirley had done. on the contrary, it had the effect of putting him into a violent rage. this was jefferson. he was working in his studio when he read it and five minutes later he was tearing up-town to seek the author of it. he understood its object, of course; they wanted to force his hand, to shame him into this marriage, to so entangle him with the girl that no other alternative would be possible to an honourable man. it was a despicable trick and he had no doubt that his father was at the back of it. so his mind now was fully made up. he would go away at once where they could not make his life a burden with this odious marriage which was fast becoming a nightmare to him. he would close up his studio and leave immediately for europe. he would show his father once for all that he was a man and expected to be treated as one. he wondered what shirley was doing. where had she gone, what was this mysterious work of which she had spoken? he only realized now, when she seemed entirely beyond his reach, how much he loved her and how empty his life would be without her. he would know no happiness until she was his wife. her words on the porch did not discourage him. under the circumstances he could not expect her to have said anything else. she could not marry into john ryder's family with such a charge hanging over her own father's head, but, later, when the trial was over, no matter how it turned out, he would go to her again and ask her to be his wife. on arriving home the first person he saw was the ubiquitous mr. bagley, who stood at the top of the first staircase giving some letters to the butler. jefferson cornered him at once, holding out the newspaper containing the offending paragraph. "say, bagley," he cried, "what does this mean? is this any of your doing?" the english secretary gave his employer's son a haughty stare, and then, without deigning to reply or even to glance at the newspaper, continued his instructions to the servant: "here, jorkins, get stamps for all these letters and see they are mailed at once. they are very important." "very good, sir." the man took the letters and disappeared, while jefferson, impatient, repeated his question: "my doing?" sneered mr. bagley. "really, jefferson, you go too far! do you suppose for one instant that i would condescend to trouble myself with your affairs?" jefferson was in no mood to put up with insolence from anyone, especially from a man whom he heartily despised, so advancing menacingly he thundered: "i mean--were you, in the discharge of your menial-like duties, instructed by my father to send that paragraph to the newspapers regarding my alleged betrothal to miss roberts? yes or no?" the man winced and made a step backward. there was a gleam in the ryder eye which he knew by experience boded no good. "really, jefferson," he said in a more conciliatory tone, "i know absolutely nothing about the paragraph. this is the first i hear of it. why not ask your father?" "i will," replied jefferson grimly, he was turning to go in the direction of the library when bagley stopped him. "you cannot possibly see him now," he said. "sergeant ellison of the secret service is in there with him, and your father told me not to disturb him on any account. he has another appointment at three o'clock with some woman who writes books." seeing that the fellow was in earnest, jefferson did not insist. he could see his father a little later or send him a message through his mother. proceeding upstairs he found mrs. ryder in her room and in a few energetic words he explained the situation to his mother. they had gone too far with this matchmaking business, he said, his father was trying to interfere with his personal liberty and he was going to put a stop to it. he would leave at once for europe. mrs. ryder had already heard of the projected trip abroad, so the news of this sudden departure was not the shock it might otherwise have been. in her heart she did not blame her son, on the contrary she admired his spirit, and if the temporary absence from home would make him happier, she would not hold him back. yet, mother like, she wept and coaxed, but nothing would shake jefferson in his determination and he begged his mother to make it very plain to his father that this was final and that a few days would see him on his way abroad. he would try and come back to see his father that afternoon, but otherwise she was to say good-bye for him. mrs. ryder promised tearfully to do what her son demanded and a few minutes later jefferson was on his way to the front door. as he went down stairs something white on the carpet attracted his attention. he stooped and picked it up. it was a letter. it was in bagley's handwriting and had evidently been dropped by the man to whom the secretary had given it to post. but what interested jefferson more than anything else was that it was addressed to miss kate roberts. under ordinary circumstances, a king's ransom would not have tempted the young man to read a letter addressed to another, but he was convinced that his father's secretary was an adventurer and if he were carrying on an intrigue in this manner it could have only one meaning. it was his duty to unveil a rascal who was using the ryder roof and name to further his own ends and victimize a girl who, although sophisticated enough to know better, was too silly to realize the risk she ran at the hands of an unscrupulous man. hesitating no longer, jefferson tore open the envelope and read: my dearest wife that is to be: i have arranged everything. next wednesday--just a week from to-day--we will go to the house of a discreet friend of mine where a minister will marry us; then we will go to city hall and get through the legal part of it. afterwards, we can catch the four o'clock train for buffalo. meet me in the ladies' room at the holland house wednesday morning at a.m. i will come there with a closed cab. your devoted fitz. "phew!" jefferson whistled. a close shave this for senator roberts, he thought. his first impulse was to go upstairs again to his mother and put the matter in her hands. she would immediately inform his father, who would make short work of mr. bagley. but, thought jefferson, why should he spoil a good thing? he could afford to wait a day or two. there was no hurry. he could allow bagley to think all was going swimmingly and then uncover the plot at the eleventh hour. he would even let this letter go to kate, there was no difficulty in procuring another envelope and imitating the handwriting--and when bagley was just preparing to go to the rendezvous he would spring the trap. such a cad deserved no mercy. the scandal would be a knock-out blow, his father would discharge him on the spot and that would be the last they would see of the aristocratic english secretary. jefferson put the letter in his pocket and left the house rejoicing. while the foregoing incidents were happening john burkett ryder was secluded in his library. the great man had come home earlier than usual, for he had two important callers to see by appointment that afternoon. one was sergeant ellison, who had to report on his mission to massapequa; the other was miss shirley green, the author of "the american octopus," who had at last deigned to honour him with a visit. pending the arrival of these visitors the financier was busy with his secretary trying to get rid as rapidly as possible of what business and correspondence there was on hand. the plutocrat was sitting at his desk poring over a mass of papers. between his teeth was the inevitable long black cigar and when he raised his eyes to the light a close observer might have remarked that they were sea-green, a colour they assumed when the man of millions was absorbed in scheming new business deals. every now and then he stopped reading the papers to make quick calculations on scraps of paper. then if the result pleased him, a smile overspread his saturnine features. he rose from his chair and nervously paced the floor as he always did when thinking deeply. "five millions," he muttered, "not a cent more. if they won't sell we'll crush them--" mr. bagley entered. mr. ryder looked up quickly. "well, bagley?" he said interrogatively. "has sergeant ellison come?" "yes, sir. but mr. herts is downstairs. he insists on seeing you about the philadelphia gas deal. he says it is a matter of life and death." "to him--yes," answered the financier dryly. "let him come up. we might as well have it out now." mr. bagley went out and returned almost immediately, followed by a short, fat man, rather loudly dressed and apoplectic in appearance. he looked like a prosperous brewer, while, as a matter of fact, he was president of a gas company, one of the shrewdest promoters in the country, and a big man in wall street. there was only one bigger man and that was john ryder. but, to-day, mr. herts was not in good condition. his face was pale and his manner flustered and nervous. he was plainly worried. "mr. ryder," he began with excited gesture, "the terms you offer are preposterous. it would mean disaster to the stockholders. our gas properties are worth six times that amount. we will sell out for twenty millions--not a cent less." ryder shrugged his shoulders. "mr. herts," he replied coolly, "i am busy to-day and in no mood for arguing. we'll either buy you out or force you out. choose. you have our offer. five millions for your gas property. will you take it?" "we'll see you in hell first!" cried his visitor exasperated. "very well," replied ryder still unruffled, "all negotiations are off. you leave me free to act. we have an offer to buy cheap the old germantown gas company which has charter rights to go into any of the streets of philadelphia. we shall purchase that company, we will put ten millions new capital into it, and reduce the price of gas in philadelphia to sixty cents a thousand. where will you be then?" the face of the colossus as he uttered this stand and deliver speech was calm and inscrutable. conscious of the resistless power of his untold millions, he felt no more compunction in mercilessly crushing this business rival than he would in trampling out the life of a worm. the little man facing him looked haggard and distressed. he knew well that this was no idle threat. he was well aware that ryder and his associates by the sheer weight of the enormous wealth they controlled could sell out or destroy any industrial corporation in the land. it was plainly illegal, but it was done every day, and his company was not the first victim nor the last. desperate, he appealed humbly to the tyrannical money power: "don't drive us to the wall, mr. ryder. this forced sale will mean disaster to us all. put yourself in our place--think what it means to scores of families whose only support is the income from their investment in our company." "mr. herts," replied ryder unmoved, "i never allow sentiment to interfere with business. you have heard my terms. i refuse to argue the matter further. what is it to be? five millions or competition? decide now or this interview must end!" he took out his watch and with his other hand touched a bell. beads of perspiration stood on his visitor's forehead. in a voice broken with suppressed emotion he said hoarsely: "you're a hard, pitiless man, john ryder! so be it--five millions. i don't know what they'll say. i don't dare return to them." "those are my terms," said ryder coldly. "the papers," he added, "will be ready for your signature to-morrow at this time, and i'll have a cheque ready for the entire amount. good-day." mr. bagley entered. ryder bowed to herts, who slowly retired. when the door had closed on him ryder went back to his desk, a smile of triumph on his face. then he turned to his secretary: "let sergeant ellison come up," he said. the secretary left the room and mr. ryder sank comfortably in his chair, puffing silently at his long black cigar. the financier was thinking, but his thoughts concerned neither the luckless gas president he had just pitilessly crushed, nor the detective who had come to make his report. he was thinking of the book "the american octopus," and its bold author whom he was to meet in a very few minutes. he glanced at the clock. a quarter to three. she would be here in fifteen minutes if she were punctual, but women seldom are, he reflected. what kind of a woman could she be, this shirley green, to dare cross swords with a man whose power was felt in two hemispheres? no ordinary woman, that was certain. he tried to imagine what she looked like, and he pictured a tall, gaunt, sexless spinster with spectacles, a sort of nightmare in the garb of a woman. a sour, discontented creature, bitter to all mankind, owing to disappointments in early life and especially vindictive towards the rich, whom her socialistic and even anarchistical tendencies prompted her to hate and attack. yet, withal, a brainy, intelligent woman, remarkably well informed as to political and industrial conditions--a woman to make a friend of rather than an enemy. and john ryder, who had educated himself to believe that with gold he could do everything, that none could resist its power, had no doubt that with money he could enlist this shirley green in his service. at least it would keep her from writing more books about him. the door opened and sergeant ellison entered, followed by the secretary, who almost immediately withdrew. "well, sergeant," said mr. ryder cordially, "what have you to tell me? i can give you only a few minutes. i expect a lady friend of yours." the plutocrat sometimes condescended to be jocular with his subordinates. "a lady friend of mine, sir?" echoed the man, puzzled. "yes--miss shirley green, the author," replied the financier, enjoying the detective's embarrassment. "that suggestion of yours worked out all right. she's coming here to-day." "i'm glad you've found her, sir." "it was a tough job," answered ryder with a grimace. "we wrote her half a dozen times before she was satisfied with the wording of the invitation. but, finally, we landed her and i expect her at three o'clock. now what about that rossmore girl? did you go down to massapequa?" "yes, sir, i have been there half a dozen times. in fact, i've just come from there. judge rossmore is there, all right, but his daughter has left for parts unknown." "gone away--where?" exclaimed the financier. this was what he dreaded. as long as he could keep his eye on the girl there was little danger of jefferson making a fool of himself; with her disappeared everything was possible. "i could not find out, sir. their neighbours don't know much about them. they say they're haughty and stuck up. the only one i could get anything out of was a parson named deetle. he said it was a sad case, that they had reverses and a daughter who was in paris--" "yes, yes," said ryder impatiently, "we know all that. but where's the daughter now?" "search me, sir. i even tried to pump the irish slavey. gee, what a vixen! she almost flew at me. she said she didn't know and didn't care." ryder brought his fist down with force on his desk, a trick he had when he wished to emphasize a point. "sergeant, i don't like the mysterious disappearance of that girl. you must find her, do you hear, you must find her if it takes all the sleuths in the country. had my son been seen there?" "the parson said he saw a young fellow answering his description sitting on the porch of the rossmore cottage the evening before the girl disappeared, but he didn't know who he was and hasn't seen him since." "that was my son, i'll wager. he knows where the girl is. perhaps he's with her now. maybe he's going to marry her. that must be prevented at any cost. sergeant, find that rossmore girl and i'll give you $ , ." the detective's face flushed with pleasure at the prospect of so liberal a reward. rising he said: "i'll find her, sir. i'll find her." mr. bagley entered, wearing the solemn, important air he always affected when he had to announce a visitor of consequence. but before he could open his mouth mr. ryder said: "bagley, when did you see my son, jefferson, last?" "to-day, sir. he wanted to see you to say good-bye. he said he would be back." ryder gave a sigh of relief and addressing the detective said: "it's not so bad as i thought." then turning again to his secretary he asked: "well, bagley, what is it?" "there's a lady downstairs, sir--miss shirley green." the financier half sprang from his seat. "oh, yes. show her up at once. good-bye, sergeant, good-bye. find that rossmore woman and the $ , is yours." the detective went out and a few moments later mr. bagley reappeared ushering in shirley. the mouse was in the den of the lion. chapter xii mr. ryder remained at his desk and did not even look up when his visitor entered. he pretended to be busily preoccupied with his papers, which was a favourite pose of his when receiving strangers. this frigid reception invariably served its purpose, for it led visitors not to expect more than they got, which usually was little enough. for several minutes shirley stood still, not knowing whether to advance or to take a seat. she gave a little conventional cough, and ryder looked up. what he saw so astonished him that he at once took from his mouth the cigar he was smoking and rose from his seat. he had expected a gaunt old maid with spectacles, and here was a stylish, good-looking young woman, who could not possibly be over twenty-five. there was surely some mistake. this slip of a girl could not have written "the american octopus." he advanced to greet shirley. "you wish to see me, madame?" he asked courteously. there were times when even john burkett ryder could be polite. "yes," replied shirley, her voice trembling a little in spite of her efforts to keep cool. "i am here by appointment. three o'clock, mrs. ryder's note said. i am miss green." "you--miss green?" echoed the financier dubiously. "yes, i am miss green--shirley green, author of 'the american octopus.' you asked me to call. here i am." for the first time in his life, john ryder was nonplussed. he coughed and stammered and looked round for a place where he could throw his cigar. shirley, who enjoyed his embarrassment, put him at his ease. "oh, please go on smoking," she said; "i don't mind it in the least." ryder threw the cigar into a receptacle and looked closely at his visitor. "so you are shirley green, eh?" "that is my nom-de-plume--yes," replied the girl nervously. she was already wishing herself back at massapequa. the financier eyed her for a moment in silence as if trying to gauge the strength of the personality of this audacious young woman, who had dared to criticise his business methods in public print; then, waving her to a seat near his desk, he said: "won't you sit down?" "thank you," murmured shirley. she sat down, and he took his seat at the other side of the desk, which brought them face to face. again inspecting the girl with a close scrutiny that made her cheeks burn, ryder said: "i rather expected--" he stopped for a moment as if uncertain what to say, then he added: "you're younger than i thought you were, miss green, much younger." "time will remedy that," smiled shirley. then, mischievously, she added: "i rather expected to see mrs. ryder." there was the faintest suspicion of a smile playing around the corners of the plutocrat's mouth as he picked up a book lying on his desk and replied: "yes--she wrote you, but i--wanted to see you about this." shirley's pulse throbbed faster, but she tried hard to appear unconcerned as she answered: "oh, my book--have you read it?" "i have," replied ryder slowly and, fixing her with a stare that was beginning to make her uncomfortable, he went on: "no doubt your time is valuable, so i'll come right to the point. i want to ask you, miss green, where you got the character of your central figure--the octopus, as you call him--john broderick?" "from imagination--of course," answered shirley. ryder opened the book, and shirley noticed that there were several passages marked. he turned the leaves over in silence for a minute or two and then he said: "you've sketched a pretty big man here--" "yes," assented shirley, "he has big possibilities, but i think he makes very small use of them." ryder appeared not to notice her commentary, and, still reading the book, he continued: "on page you call him 'the world's greatest individualized potentiality, a giant combination of materiality, mentality and money--the greatest exemplar of individual human will in existence to-day.' and you make indomitable will and energy the keystone of his marvellous success. am i right?" he looked at her questioningly. "quite right," answered shirley. ryder proceeded: "on page you say 'the machinery of his money-making mind typifies the laws of perpetual unrest. it must go on, relentlessly, resistlessly, ruthlessly making money-making money and continuing to make money. it cannot stop until the machinery crumbles.'" laying the book down and turning sharply on shirley, he asked her bluntly: "do you mean to say that i couldn't stop to-morrow if i wanted to?" she affected to not understand him. "you?" she inquired in a tone of surprise. "well--it's a natural question," stammered ryder, with a nervous little laugh; "every man sees himself in the hero of a novel just as every woman sees herself in the heroine. we're all heroes and heroines in our own eyes. but tell me what's your private opinion of this man. you drew the character. what do you think of him as a type, how would you classify him?" "as the greatest criminal the world has yet produced," replied shirley without a moment's hesitation. the financier looked at the girl in unfeigned astonishment. "criminal?" he echoed. "yes, criminal," repeated shirley decisively. "he is avarice, egotism, and ambition incarnate. he loves money because he loves power, and he loves power more than his fellow man." ryder laughed uneasily. decidedly, this girl had opinions of her own which she was not backward to express. "isn't that rather strong?" he asked. "i don't think so," replied shirley. then quickly she asked: "but what does it matter? no such man exists." "no, of course not," said ryder, and he relapsed into silence. yet while he said nothing, the plutocrat was watching his visitor closely from under his thick eyebrows. she seemed supremely unconscious of his scrutiny. her aristocratic, thoughtful face gave no sign that any ulterior motive had actuated her evidently very hostile attitude against him. that he was in her mind when she drew the character of john broderick there was no doubt possible. no matter how she might evade the identification, he was convinced he was the hero of her book. why had she attacked him so bitterly? at first, it occurred to him that blackmail might be her object; she might be going to ask for money as the price of future silence. yet it needed but a glance at her refined and modest demeanour to dispel that idea as absurd. then he remembered, too, that it was not she who had sought this interview, but himself. no, she was no blackmailer. more probably she was a dreamer--one of those meddling sociologists who, under pretence of bettering the conditions of the working classes, stir up discontent and bitterness of feeling. as such, she might prove more to be feared than a mere blackmailer whom he could buy off with money. he knew he was not popular, but he was no worse than the other captains of industry. it was a cut-throat game at best. competition was the soul of commercial life, and if he had outwitted his competitors and made himself richer than all of them, he was not a criminal for that. but all these attacks in newspapers and books did not do him any good. one day the people might take these demagogic writings seriously and then there would be the devil to pay. he took up the book again and ran over the pages. this certainly was no ordinary girl. she knew more and had a more direct way of saying things than any woman he had ever met. and as he watched her furtively across the desk he wondered how he could use her; how instead of being his enemy, he could make her his friend. if he did not, she would go away and write more such books, and literature of this kind might become a real peril to his interests. money could do anything; it could secure the services of this woman and prevent her doing further mischief. but how could he employ her? suddenly an inspiration came to him. for some years he had been collecting material for a history of the empire trading company. she could write it. it would practically be his own biography. would she undertake it? embarrassed by the long silence, shirley finally broke it by saying: "but you didn't ask me to call merely to find out what i thought of my own work." "no," replied ryder slowly, "i want you to do some work for me." he opened a drawer at the left-hand side of his desk and took out several sheets of foolscap and a number of letters. shirley's heart beat faster as she caught sight of the letters. were her father's among them? she wondered what kind of work john burkett ryder had for her to do and if she would do it whatever it was. some literary work probably, compiling or something of that kind. if it was well paid, why should she not accept? there would be nothing humiliating in it; it would not tie her hands in any way. she was a professional writer in the market to be employed by whoever could pay the price. besides, such work might give her better opportunities to secure the letters of which she was in search. gathering in one pile all the papers he had removed from the drawer, mr. ryder said: "i want you to put my biography together from this material. but first," he added, taking up "the american octopus," "i want to know where you got the details of this man's life." "oh, for the most part--imagination, newspapers, magazines," replied shirley carelessly. "you know the american millionaire is a very overworked topic just now--and naturally i've read--" "yes, i understand," he said, "but i refer to what you haven't read--what you couldn't have read. for example, here." he turned to a page marked in the book and read aloud: "as an evidence of his petty vanity, when a youth he had a beautiful indian girl tattooed just above the forearm." ryder leaned eagerly forward as he asked her searchingly: "now who told you that i had my arm tattooed when i was a boy?" "have you?" laughed shirley nervously. "what a curious coincidence!" "let me read you another coincidence," said ryder meaningly. he turned to another part of the book and read: "the same eternal long black cigar always between his lips..." "general grant smoked, too," interrupted shirley. "all men who think deeply along material lines seem to smoke." "well, we'll let that go. but how about this?" he turned back a few pages and read: "john broderick had loved, when a young man, a girl who lived in vermont, but circumstances separated them." he stopped and stared at shirley a moment and then he said: "i loved a girl when i was a lad and she came from vermont, and circumstances separated us. that isn't coincidence, for presently you make john broderick marry a young woman who had money. i married a girl with money." "lots of men marry for money," remarked shirley. "i said with money, not for money," retorted ryder. then turning again to the book, he said: "now, this is what i can't understand, for no one could have told you this but i myself. listen." he read aloud: "with all his physical bravery and personal courage, john broderick was intensely afraid of death. it was on his mind constantly." "who told you that?" he demanded somewhat roughly. "i swear i've never mentioned it to a living soul." "most men who amass money are afraid of death," replied shirley with outward composure, "for death is about the only thing that can separate them from their money." ryder laughed, but it was a hollow, mocking laugh, neither sincere nor hearty. it was a laugh such as the devil may have given when driven out of heaven. "you're quite a character!" he laughed again, and shirley, catching the infection, laughed, too. "it's me and it isn't me," went on ryder flourishing the book. "this fellow broderick is all right; he's successful and he's great, but i don't like his finish."' "it's logical," ventured shirley. "it's cruel," insisted ryder. "so is the man who reverses the divine law and hates his neighbour instead of loving him," retorted shirley. she spoke more boldly, beginning to feel more sure of her ground, and it amused her to fence in this way with the man of millions. so far, she thought, he had not got the best of her. she was fast becoming used to him, and her first feeling of intimidation was passing away. "um!" grunted ryder, "you're a curious girl; upon my word you interest me!" he took the mass of papers lying at his elbow and pushed them over to her. "here," he said, "i want you to make as clever a book out of this chaos as you did out of your own imagination." shirley turned the papers over carelessly. "so you think your life is a good example to follow?" she asked with a tinge of irony. "isn't it?" he demanded. the girl looked him square in the face. "suppose," she said, "we all wanted to follow it, suppose we all wanted to be the richest, the most powerful personage in the world?" "well--what then?" he demanded. "i think it would postpone the era of the brotherhood of man indefinitely, don't you?" "i never thought of it from that point of view," admitted the billionaire. "really," he added, "you're an extraordinary girl. why, you can't be more than twenty--or so." "i'm twenty-four--or so," smiled shirley. ryder's face expanded in a broad smile. he admired this girl's pluck and ready wit. he grew more amiable and tried to gain her confidence. in a coaxing tone he said: "come, where did you get those details? take me into your confidence." "i have taken you into my confidence," laughed shirley, pointing at her book. "it cost you $ . !" turning over the papers he had put before her she said presently: "i don't know about this." "you don't think my life would make good reading?" he asked with some asperity. "it might," she replied slowly, as if unwilling to commit herself as to its commercial or literary value. then she said frankly: "to tell you the honest truth, i don't consider mere genius in money-making is sufficient provocation for rushing into print. you see, unless you come to a bad end, it would have no moral." ignoring the not very flattering insinuation contained in this last speech, the plutocrat continued to urge her: "you can name your own price if you will do the work," he said. "two, three or even five thousand dollars. it's only a few months' work." "five thousand dollars?" echoed shirley. "that's a lot of money." smiling, she added: "it appeals to my commercial sense. but i'm afraid the subject does not arouse my enthusiasm from an artistic standpoint." ryder seemed amused at the idea of any one hesitating to make five thousand dollars. he knew that writers do not run across such opportunities every day. "upon my word," he said, "i don't know why i'm so anxious to get you to do the work. i suppose it's because you don't want to. you remind me of my son. ah, he's a problem!" shirley started involuntarily when ryder mentioned his son. but he did not notice it. "why, is he wild?" she asked, as if only mildly interested. "oh, no, i wish he were," said ryder. "fallen in love with the wrong woman, i suppose," she said. "something of the sort--how did you guess?" asked ryder surprised. shirley coughed to hide her embarrassment and replied indifferently. "so many boys do that. besides," she added with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, "i can hardly imagine that any woman would be the right one unless you selected her yourself!" ryder made no answer. he folded his arms and gazed at her. who was this woman who knew him so well, who could read his inmost thoughts, who never made a mistake? after a silence he said: "do you know you say the strangest things?" "truth is strange," replied shirley carelessly. "i don't suppose you hear it very often." "not in that form," admitted ryder. shirley had taken on to her lap some of the letters he had passed her, and was perusing them one after another. "all these letters from washington consulting you on politics and finance--they won't interest the world." "my secretary picked them out," explained ryder. "your artistic sense will tell you what to use." "does your son still love this girl? i mean the one you abject to?" inquired shirley as she went on sorting the papers. "oh, no, he does not care for her any more," answered ryder hastily. "yes, he does; he still loves her," said shirley positively. "how do you know?" asked ryder amazed. "from the way you say he doesn't," retorted shirley. ryder gave his caller a look in which admiration was mingled with astonishment. "you are right again," he said. "the idiot does love the girl." "bless his heart," said shirley to herself. aloud she said: "i hope they'll both outwit you." ryder laughed in spite of himself. this young woman certainly interested him more than any other he had ever known. "i don't think i ever met anyone in my life quite like you," he said. "what's the objection to the girl?" demanded shirley. "every objection. i don't want her in my family." "anything against her character?" to better conceal the keen interest she took in the personal turn the conversation had taken, shirley pretended to be more busy than ever with the papers. "yes--that is no--not that i know of," replied ryder. "but because a woman has a good character, that doesn't necessarily make her a desirable match, does it?" "it's a point in her favor, isn't it?" "yes--but--" he hesitated as if uncertain what to say. "you know men well, don't you, mr. ryder?" "i've met enough to know them pretty well," he replied. "why don't you study women for a change?" she asked. "that would enable you to understand a great many things that i don't think are quite clear to you now." ryder laughed good humouredly. it was decidedly a novel sensation to have someone lecturing him. "i'm studying you," he said, "but i don't seem to make much headway. a woman like you whose mind isn't spoiled by the amusement habit has great possibilities--great possibilities. do you know you're the first woman i ever took into my confidence--i mean at sight?" again he fixed her with that keen glance which in his business life had taught him how to read men. he continued: "i'm acting on sentiment--something i rarely do, but i can't help it. i like you, upon my soul i do, and i'm going to introduce you to my wife--my son--" he took the telephone from his desk as if he were going to use it. "what a commander-in-chief you would have made--how natural it is for you to command," exclaimed shirley in a burst of admiration that was half real, half mocking. "i suppose you always tell people what they are to do and how they are to do it. you are a born general. you know i've often thought that napoleon and caesar and alexander must have been great domestic leaders as well as imperial rulers. i'm sure of it now." ryder listened to her in amazement. he was not quite sure if she were making fun of him or not. "well, of all--" he began. then interrupting himself he said amiably: "won't you do me the honour to meet my family?" shirley smiled sweetly and bowed. "thank you, mr. ryder, i will." she rose from her seat and leaned over the manuscripts to conceal the satisfaction this promise of an introduction to the family circle gave her. she was quick to see that it meant more visits to the house, and other and perhaps better opportunities to find the objects of her search. ryder lifted the receiver of his telephone and talked to his secretary in another room, while shirley, who was still standing, continued examining the papers and letters. "is that you, bagley? what's that? general dodge? get rid of him. i can't see him to-day. tell him to come to-morrow. what's that? my son wants to see me? tell him to come to the phone." at that instant shirley gave a little cry, which in vain she tried to suppress. ryder looked up. "what's the matter?" he demanded startled. "nothing--nothing!" she replied in a hoarse whisper. "i pricked myself with a pin. don't mind me." she had just come across her father's missing letters, which had got mixed up, evidently without ryder's knowledge, in the mass of papers he had handed her. prepared as she was to find the letters somewhere in the house, she never dreamed that fate would put them so easily and so quickly into her hands; the suddenness of their appearance and the sight of her father's familiar signature affected her almost like a shock. now she had them, she must not let them go again; yet how could she keep them unobserved? could she conceal them? would he miss them? she tried to slip them in her bosom while ryder was busy at the 'phone, but he suddenly glanced in her direction and caught her eye. she still held the letters in her hand, which shook from nervousness, but he noticed nothing and went on speaking through the 'phone: "hallo, jefferson, boy! you want to see me. can you wait till i'm through? i've got a lady here. going away? nonsense! determined, eh? well, i can't keep you here if you've made up your mind. you want to say good-bye. come up in about five minutes and i'll introduce you to a very interesting person." he laughed and hung up the receiver. shirley was all unstrung, trying to overcome the emotion which her discovery had caused her, and in a strangely altered voice, the result of the nervous strain she was under, she said: "you want me to come here?" she looked up from the letters she was reading across to ryder, who was standing watching her on the other side of the desk. he caught her glance and, leaning over to take some manuscript, he said: "yes, i don't want these papers to get--" his eye suddenly rested on the letters she was holding. he stopped short, and reaching forward he tried to snatch them from her. "what have you got there?" he exclaimed. he took the letters and she made no resistance. it would be folly to force the issue now, she thought. another opportunity would present itself. ryder locked the letters up very carefully in the drawer on the left-hand side of his desk, muttering to himself rather than speaking to shirley: "how on earth did they get among my other papers?" "from judge rossmore, were they not?" said shirley boldly. "how did you know it was judge rossmore?" demanded ryder suspiciously. "i didn't know that his name had been mentioned." "i saw his signature," she said simply. then she added: "he's the father of the girl you don't like, isn't he?" "yes, he's the----" a cloud came over the financier's face; his eyes darkened, his jaws snapped and he clenched his fist. "how you must hate him!" said shirley, who observed the change. "not at all," replied ryder recovering his self-possession and suavity of manner. "i disagree with his politics and his methods, but--i know very little about him except that he is about to be removed from office." "about to be?" echoed shirley. "so his fate is decided even before he is tried?" the girl laughed bitterly. "yes," she went on, "some of the newspapers are beginning to think he is innocent of the things of which he is accused." "do they?" said ryder indifferently. "yes," she persisted, "most people are on his side." she planted her elbows on the desk in front of her, and looking him squarely in the face, she asked him point blank: "whose side are you on--really and truly?" ryder winced. what right had this woman, a stranger both to judge rossmore and himself, to come here and catechise him? he restrained his impatience with difficulty as he replied: "whose side am i on? oh, i don't know that i am on any side. i don't know that i give it much thought. i--" "do you think this man deserves to be punished?" she demanded. she had resumed her seat at the desk and partly regained her self-possession. "why do you ask? what is your interest in this matter?" "i don't know," she replied evasively; "his case interests me, that's all. its rather romantic. your son loves this man's daughter. he is in disgrace--many seem to think unjustly." her voice trembled with emotion as she continued: "i have heard from one source or another--you know i am acquainted with a number of newspaper men--i have heard that life no longer has any interest for him, that he is not only disgraced but beggared, that he is pining away slowly, dying of a broken heart, that his wife and daughter are in despair. tell me, do you think he deserves such a fate?" ryder remained thoughtful a moment, and then he replied: "no, i do not--no--" thinking that she had touched his sympathies, shirley followed up her advantage: "oh, then, why not come to his rescue--you, who are so rich, so powerful; you, who can move the scales of justice at your will--save this man from humiliation and disgrace!" ryder shrugged his shoulders, and his face expressed weariness, as if the subject had begun to bore him. "my dear girl, you don't understand. his removal is necessary." shirley's face became set and hard. there was a contemptuous ring to her words as she retorted: "yet you admit that he may be innocent!" "even if i knew it as a fact, i couldn't move." "do you mean to say that if you had positive proof?" she pointed to the drawer in the desk where he had placed the letters. "if you had absolute proof in that drawer, for instance? wouldn't you help him then?" ryder's face grew cold and inscrutable; he now wore his fighting mask. "not even if i had the absolute proof in that drawer?" he snapped viciously. "have you absolute proof in that drawer?" she demanded. "i repeat that even if i had, i could not expose the men who have been my friends. it's noblesse oblige in politics as well as in society, you know." he smiled again at her, as if he had recovered his good humour after their sharp passage at arms. "oh, it's politics--that's what the papers said. and you believe him innocent. well, you must have some grounds for your belief." "not necessarily--" "you said that even if you had the proofs, you could not produce them without sacrificing your friends, showing that your friends are interested in having this man put off the bench--" she stopped and burst into hysterical laughter. "oh, i think you're having a joke at my expense," she went on, "just to see how far you can lead me. i daresay judge rossmore deserves all he gets. oh, yes--i'm sure he deserves it." she rose and walked to the other side of the room to conceal her emotion. ryder watched her curiously. "my dear young lady, how you take this matter to heart!" "please forgive me," laughed shirley, and averting her face to conceal the fact that her eyes were filled with tears. "it's my artistic temperament, i suppose. it's always getting me into trouble. it appealed so strongly to my sympathies--this story of hopeless love between two young people--with the father of the girl hounded by corrupt politicians and unscrupulous financiers. it was too much for me. ah! ah! i forgot where i was!" she leaned against a chair, sick and faint from nervousness, her whole body trembling. at that moment there was a knock at the library door and jefferson ryder appeared. not seeing shirley, whose back was towards him, he advanced to greet his father. "you told me to come up in five minutes," he said. "i just wanted to say--" "miss green," said ryder, sr., addressing shirley and ignoring whatever it was that the young man wanted to say, "this is my son jefferson. jeff--this is miss green." jefferson looked in the direction indicated and stood as if rooted to the floor. he was so surprised that he was struck dumb. finally, recovering himself, he exclaimed: "shirley!" "yes, shirley green, the author," explained ryder, sr., not noticing the note of familiar recognition in his exclamation. shirley advanced, and holding out her hand to jefferson, said demurely: "i am very pleased to meet you, mr. ryder." then quickly, in an undertone, she added: "be careful; don't betray me!" jefferson was so astounded that he did not see the outstretched hand. all he could do was to stand and stare first at her and then at his father. "why don't you shake hands with her?" said ryder, sr., "she won't bite you." then he added: "miss green is going to do some literary work for me, so we shall see a great deal of her. it's too bad you're going away!" he chuckled at his own pleasantry. "father!" blurted out jefferson, "i came to say that i've changed my mind. you did not want me to go, and i feel i ought to do something to please you." "good boy," said ryder pleased. "now you're talking common sense." he turned to shirley, who was getting ready to make her departure: "well, miss green, we may consider the matter settled. you undertake the work at the price i named and finish it as soon as you can. of course, you will have to consult me a good deal as you go along, so i think it would be better for you to come and stay here while the work is progressing. mrs. ryder can give you a suite of rooms to yourself, where you will be undisturbed and you will have all your material close at hand. what do you say?" shirley was silent for a moment. she looked first at ryder and then at his son, and from them her glance went to the little drawer on the left-hand side of the desk. then she said quietly: "as you think best, mr. ryder. i am quite willing to do the work here." ryder, sr., escorted her to the top of the landing and watched her as she passed down the grand staircase, ushered by the gorgeously uniformed flunkies, to the front door and the street. chapter xiii shirley entered upon her new duties in the ryder household two days later. she had returned to her rooms the evening of her meeting with the financier in a state bordering upon hysteria. the day's events had been so extraordinary that it seemed to her they could not be real, and that she must be in a dream. the car ride to seventy-fourth street, the interview in the library, the discovery of her father's letters, the offer to write the biography, and, what to her was still more important, the invitation to go and live in the ryder home--all these incidents were so remarkable and unusual that it was only with difficulty that the girl persuaded herself that they were not figments of a disordered brain. but it was all true enough. the next morning's mail brought a letter from mrs. ryder, who wrote to the effect that mr. ryder would like the work to begin at once, and adding that a suite of rooms would be ready for her the following afternoon. shirley did not hesitate. everything was to be gained by making the ryder residence her headquarters, her father's very life depended upon the successful outcome of her present mission, and this unhoped for opportunity practically ensured success. she immediately wrote to massapequa. one letter was to her mother, saying that she was extending her visit beyond the time originally planned. the other letter was to stott. she told him all about the interview with ryder, informed him of the discovery of the letters, and after explaining the nature of the work offered to her, said that her address for the next few weeks would be in care of john burkett ryder. all was going better than she had dared to hope. everything seemed to favour their plan. her first step, of course, while in the ryder home, would be to secure possession of her father's letters, and these she would dispatch at once to massapequa, so they could be laid before the senate without delay. so, after settling accounts with her landlady and packing up her few belongings, shirley lost no time in transferring herself to the more luxurious quarters provided for her in the ten-million-dollar mansion uptown. at the ryder house she was received cordially and with every mark of consideration. the housekeeper came down to the main hall to greet her when she arrived and escorted her to the suite of rooms, comprising a small working library, a bedroom simply but daintily furnished in pink and white and a private bathroom, which had been specially prepared for her convenience and comfort, and here presently she was joined by mrs. ryder. "dear me," exclaimed the financier's wife, staring curiously at shirley, "what a young girl you are to have made such a stir with a book! how did you do it? i'm sure i couldn't. it's as much as i can do to write a letter, and half the time that's not legible." "oh, it wasn't so hard," laughed shirley. "it was the subject that appealed rather than any special skill of mine. the trusts and their misdeeds are the favourite topics of the hour. the whole country is talking about nothing else. my book came at the right time, that's all." although "the american octopus" was a direct attack on her own husband, mrs. ryder secretly admired this young woman, who had dared to speak a few blunt truths. it was a courage which, alas! she had always lacked herself, but there was a certain satisfaction in knowing there were women in the world not entirely cowed by the tyrant man. "i have always wanted a daughter," went on mrs. ryder, becoming confidential, while shirley removed her things and made herself at home; "girls of your age are so companionable." then, abruptly, she asked: "do your parents live in new york?" shirley's face flushed and she stooped over her trunk to hide her embarrassment. "no--not at present," she answered evasively. "my mother and father are in the country." she was afraid that more questions of a personal nature would follow, but apparently mrs. ryder was not in an inquisitive mood, for she asked nothing further. she only said: "i have a son, but i don't see much of him. you must meet my jefferson. he is such a nice boy." shirley tried to look unconcerned as she replied: "i met him yesterday. mr. ryder introduced him to me." "poor lad, he has his troubles too," went on mrs. ryder. "he's in love with a girl, but his father wants him to marry someone else. they're quarrelling over it all the time." "parents shouldn't interfere in matters of the heart," said shirley decisively. "what is more serious than the choosing of a life companion, and who are better entitled to make a free selection than they who are going to spend the rest of their days together? of course, it is a father's duty to give his son the benefit of his riper experience, but to insist on a marriage based only on business interests is little less than a crime. there are considerations more important if the union is to be a happy or a lasting one. the chief thing is that the man should feel real attachment for the woman he marries. two people who are to live together as man and wife must be compatible in tastes and temper. you cannot mix oil and water. it is these selfish marriages which keep our divorce courts busy. money alone won't buy happiness in marriage." "no," sighed mrs. ryder, "no one knows that better than i." the financier's wife was already most favourably impressed with her guest, and she chatted on as if she had known shirley for years. it was rarely that she had heard so young a woman express such common-sense views, and the more she talked with her the less surprised she was that she was the author of a much-discussed book. finally, thinking that shirley might prefer to be alone, she rose to go, bidding her make herself thoroughly at home and to ring for anything she might wish. a maid had been assigned to look exclusively after her wants, and she could have her meals served in her room or else have them with the family as she liked. but shirley, not caring to encounter mr. ryder's cold, searching stare more often than necessary, said she would prefer to take her meals alone. left to herself, shirley settled down to work in earnest. mr. ryder had sent to her room all the material for the biography, and soon she was completely absorbed in the task of sorting and arranging letters, making extracts from records, compiling data, etc., laying the foundations for the important book she was to write. she wondered what they would call it, and she smiled as a peculiarly appropriate title flashed through her mind--"the history of a crime." yet she thought they could hardly infringe on victor hugo; perhaps the best title was the simplest "the history of the empire trading company." everyone would understand that it told the story of john burkett ryder's remarkable career from his earliest beginnings to the present time. she worked feverishly all that evening getting the material into shape, and the following day found her early at her desk. no one disturbed her and she wrote steadily on until noon, mrs. ryder only once putting her head in the door to wish her good morning. after luncheon, shirley decided that the weather was too glorious to remain indoors. her health must not be jeopardized even to advance the interests of the colossus, so she put on her hat and left the house to go for a walk. the air smelled sweet to her after being confined so long indoor, and she walked with a more elastic and buoyant step than she had since her return home. turning down fifth avenue, she entered the park at seventy-second street, following the pathway until she came to the bend in the driveway opposite the casino. the park was almost deserted at that hour, and there was a delightful sense of solitude and a sweet scent of new-mown hay from the freshly cut lawns. she found an empty bench, well shaded by an overspreading tree, and she sat down, grateful for the rest and quiet. she wondered what jefferson thought of her action in coming to his father's house practically in disguise and under an assumed name. she must see him at once, for in him lay her hope of obtaining possession of the letters. certainly she felt no delicacy or compunction in asking jefferson to do her this service. the letters belonged to her father and they were being wrongfully withheld with the deliberate purpose of doing him an injury. she had a moral if not a legal right to recover the letters in any way that she could. she was so deeply engrossed in her thoughts that she had not noticed a hansom cab which suddenly drew up with a jerk at the curb opposite her bench. a man jumped out. it was jefferson. "hello, shirley," he cried gaily; "who would have expected to find you rusticating on a bench here? i pictured you grinding away at home doing literary stunts for the governor." he grinned and then added: "come for a drive. i want to talk to you." shirley demurred. no, she could not spare the time. yet, she thought to herself, why was not this a good opportunity to explain to jefferson how he came to find her in his father's library masquerading under another name, and also to ask him to secure the letters for her? while she pondered jefferson insisted, and a few minutes later she found herself sitting beside him in the cab. they started off at a brisk pace, shirley sitting with her head back, enjoying the strong breeze caused by the rapid motion. "now tell me," he said, "what does it all mean? i was so startled at seeing you in the library the other day that i almost betrayed you. how did you come to call on father?" briefly shirley explained everything. she told him how mr. ryder had written to her asking her to call and see him, and how she had eagerly seized at this last straw in the hope of helping her father, she told him about the letters, explaining how necessary they were for her father's defence and how she had discovered them. mr. ryder, she said, had seemed to take a fancy to her and had asked her to remain in the house as his guest while she was compiling his biography, and she had accepted the offer, not so much for the amount of money involved as for the splendid opportunity it afforded her to gain possession of the letters. "so that is the mysterious work you spoke of--to get those letters?" said jefferson. "yes, that is my mission. it was a secret. i couldn't tell you; i couldn't tell anyone. only judge stott knows. he is aware i have found them and is hourly expecting to receive them from me. and now," she said, "i want your help." his only answer was to grasp tighter the hand she had laid in his. she knew that she would not have to explain the nature of the service she wanted. he understood. "where are the letters?" he demanded. "in the left-hand drawer of your father's desk," she answered. he was silent for a few moments, and then he said simply: "i will get them." the cab by this time had got as far as claremont, and from the hill summit they had a splendid view of the broad sweep of the majestic hudson and the towering walls of the blue palisades. the day was so beautiful and the air so invigorating that jefferson suggested a ramble along the banks of the river. they could leave the cab at claremont and drive back to the city later. shirley was too grateful to him for his promise of cooperation to make any further opposition, and soon they were far away from beaten highways, down on the banks of the historic stream, picking flowers and laughing merrily like two truant children bent on a self-made holiday. the place they had reached was just outside the northern boundaries of harlem, a sylvan spot still unspoiled by the rude invasion of the flat-house builder. the land, thickly wooded, sloped down sharply to the water, and the perfect quiet was broken only by the washing of the tiny surf against the river bank and the shrill notes of the birds in the trees. although it was late in october the day was warm, and shirley soon tired of climbing over bramble-entangled verdure. the rich grass underfoot looked cool and inviting, and the natural slope of the ground affording an ideal resting-place, she sat there, with jefferson stretched out at her feet, both watching idly the dancing waters of the broad hudson, spangled with gleams of light, as they swept swiftly by on their journey to the sea. "shirley," said jefferson suddenly, "i suppose you saw that ridiculous story about my alleged engagement to miss roberts. i hope you understood that it was done without my consent." "if i did not guess it, jeff," she answered, "your assurance would be sufficient. besides," she added, "what right have i to object?" "but i want you to have the right," he replied earnestly. "i'm going to stop this roberts nonsense in a way my father hardly anticipates. i'm just waiting a chance to talk to him. i'll show him the absurdity of announcing me engaged to a girl who is about to elope with his private secretary!" "elope with the secretary?" exclaimed shirley. jefferson told her all about the letter he had found on the staircase, and the hon. fitzroy bagley's plans for a runaway marriage with the senator's wealthy daughter. "it's a godsend to me," he said gleefully. "their plan is to get married next wednesday. i'll see my father on tuesday; i'll put the evidence in his hands, and i don't think," he added grimly, "he'll bother me any more about miss roberts." "so you're not going away now?" said shirley, smiling down at him. he sat up and leaned over towards her. "i can't, shirley, i simply can't," he replied, his voice trembling. "you are more to me than i dreamed a woman could ever be. i realize it more forcibly every day. there is no use fighting against it. without you, my work, my life means nothing." shirley shook her head and averted her eyes. "don't let us speak of that, jeff," she pleaded gently. "i told you i did not belong to myself while my father was in peril." "but i must speak of it," he interrupted. "shirley, you do yourself an injustice as well as me. you are not indifferent to me--i feel that. then why raise this barrier between us?" a soft light stole into the girl's eyes. ah, it was good to feel there was someone to whom she was everything in the world! "don't ask me to betray my trust, jeff," she faltered. "you know i am not indifferent to you--far from it. but i--" he came closer until his face nearly touched hers. "i love you--i want you," he murmured feverishly. "give me the right to claim you before all the world as my future wife!" every note of his rich, manly voice, vibrating with impetuous passion, sounded in shirley's ear like a soft caress. she closed her eyes. a strange feeling of languor was stealing over her, a mysterious thrill passed through her whole body. the eternal, inevitable sex instinct was disturbing, for the first time, a woman whose life had been singularly free from such influences, putting to flight all the calculations and resolves her cooler judgment had made. the sensuous charm of the place--the distant splash of the water, the singing of the birds, the fragrance of the trees and grass--all these symbols of the joy of life conspired to arouse the love-hunger of the woman. why, after all, should she not know happiness like other women? she had a sacred duty to perform, it was true; but would it be less well done because she declined to stifle the natural leanings of her womanhood? both her soul and her body called out: "let this man love you, give yourself to him, he is worthy of your love." half unconsciously, she listened to his ardent wooing, her eyes shut, as he spoke quickly, passionately, his breath warm upon her cheek: "shirley, i offer you all the devotion a man can give a woman. say the one word that will make me the happiest or the most wretched of men. yes or no! only think well before you wreck my life. i love you--i love you! i will wait for you if need be until the crack of doom. say--say you will be my wife!" she opened her eyes. his face was bent close over hers. their lips almost touched. "yes, jefferson," she murmured, "i do love you!" his lips met hers in a long, passionate kiss. her eyes closed and an ecstatic thrill seemed to convulse her entire being. the birds in the trees overhead sang in more joyful chorus in celebration of the betrothal. chapter xiv it was nearly seven o'clock when shirley got back to seventy-fourth street. no one saw her come in, and she went direct to her room, and after a hasty dinner, worked until late into the night on her book to make up for lost time. the events of the afternoon caused her considerable uneasiness. she reproached herself for her weakness and for having yielded so readily to the impulse of the moment. she had said only what was the truth when she admitted she loved jefferson, but what right had she to dispose of her future while her father's fate was still uncertain? her conscience troubled her, and when she came to reason it out calmly, the more impossible seemed their union from every point of view. how could she become the daughter-in-law of the man who had ruined her own father? the idea was preposterous, and hard as the sacrifice would be, jefferson must be made to see it in that light. their engagement was the greatest folly; it bound each of them when nothing but unhappiness could possibly come of it. she was sure now that she loved jefferson. it would be hard to give him up, but there are times and circumstances when duty and principle must prevail over all other considerations, and this she felt was one of them. the following morning she received a letter from stott. he was delighted to hear the good news regarding her important discovery, and he urged her to lose no time in securing the letters and forwarding them to massapequa, when he would immediately go to washington and lay them before the senate. documentary evidence of that conclusive nature, he went on to say, would prove of the very highest value in clearing her father's name. he added that the judge and her mother were as well as circumstances would permit, and that they were not in the least worried about her protracted absence. her aunt milly had already returned to europe, and eudoxia was still threatening to leave daily. shirley needed no urging. she quite realized the importance of acting quickly, but it was not easy to get at the letters. the library was usually kept locked when the great man was away, and on the few occasions when access to it was possible, the lynx-eyed mr. bagley was always on guard. short as had been her stay in the ryder household, shirley already shared jefferson's antipathy to the english secretary, whose manner grew more supercilious and overbearing as he drew nearer the date when he expected to run off with one of the richest catches of the season. he had not sought the acquaintance of his employer's biographer since her arrival, and, with the exception of a rude stare, had not deigned to notice her, which attitude of haughty indifference was all the more remarkable in view of the fact that the hon. fitzroy usually left nothing unturned to cultivate a flirtatious intimacy with every attractive female he met. the truth was that what with mr. ryder's demands upon his services and his own preparations for his coming matrimonial venture, in which he had so much at stake, he had neither time nor inclination to indulge his customary amorous diversions. miss roberts had called at the house several times, ostensibly to see mrs. ryder, and when introduced to shirley she had condescended to give the latter a supercilious nod. her conversation was generally of the silly, vacuous sort, concerning chiefly new dresses or bonnets, and shirley at once read her character--frivolous, amusement-loving, empty-headed, irresponsible--just the kind of girl to do something foolish without weighing the consequences. after chatting a few moments with mrs. ryder she would usually vanish, and one day, after one of these mysterious disappearances, shirley happened to pass the library and caught sight of her and mr. bagley conversing in subdued and eager tones. it was very evident that the elopement scheme was fast maturing. if the scandal was to be prevented, jefferson ought to see his father and acquaint him with the facts without delay. it was probable that at the same time he would make an effort to secure the letters. meantime she must be patient. too much hurry might spoil everything. so the days passed, shirley devoting almost all her time to the history she had undertaken. she saw nothing of ryder, sr., but a good deal of his wife, to whom she soon became much attached. she found her an amiable, good-natured woman, entirely free from that offensive arrogance and patronizing condescension which usually marks the parvenue as distinct from the thoroughbred. mrs. ryder had no claims to distinguished lineage; on the contrary, she was the daughter of a country grocer when the then rising oil man married her, and of educational advantages she had had little or none. it was purely by accident that she was the wife of the richest man in the world, and while she enjoyed the prestige her husband's prominence gave her, she never allowed it to turn her head. she gave away large sums for charitable purposes and, strange to say, when the gift came direct from her, the money was never returned on the plea that it was "tainted." she shared her husband's dislike for entertaining, and led practically the life of a recluse. the advent of shirley, therefore, into her quiet and uneventful existence was as welcome as sunshine when it breaks through the clouds after days of gloom. quite a friendship sprang up between the two women, and when tired of writing, shirley would go into mrs. ryder's room and chat until the financier's wife began to look forward to these little impromptu visits, so much she enjoyed them. nothing more had been said concerning jefferson and miss roberts. the young man had not yet seen his father, but his mother knew he was only waiting an opportunity to demand an explanation of the engagement announcements. her husband, on the other hand, desired the match more than ever, owing to the continued importunities of senator roberts. as usual, mrs. ryder confided these little domestic troubles to shirley. "jefferson," she said, "is very angry. he is determined not to marry the girl, and when he and his father do meet there'll be another scene." "what objection has your son to miss roberts?" inquired shirley innocently. "oh, the usual reason," sighed the mother, "and i've no doubt he knows best. he's in love with another girl--a miss rossmore." "oh, yes," answered shirley simply. "mr. ryder spoke of her." mrs. ryder was silent, and presently she left the girl alone with her work. the next afternoon shirley was in her room busy writing when there came a tap at her door. thinking it was another visit from mrs. ryder, she did not look up, but cried out pleasantly: "come in." john ryder entered. he smiled cordially and, as if apologizing for the intrusion, said amiably: "i thought i'd run up to see how you were getting along." his coming was so unexpected that for a moment shirley was startled, but she quickly regained her composure and asked him to take a seat. he seemed pleased to find her making such good progress, and he stopped to answer a number of questions she put to him. shirley tried to be cordial, but when she looked well at him and noted the keen, hawk-like eyes, the cruel, vindictive lines about the mouth, the square-set, relentless jaw--wall street had gone wrong with the colossus that day and he was still wearing his war paint--she recalled the wrong this man had done her father and she felt how bitterly she hated him. the more her mind dwelt upon it, the more exasperated she was to think she should be there, a guest, under his roof, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that she remained civil. "what is the moral of your life?" she demanded bluntly. he was quick to note the contemptuous tone in her voice, and he gave her a keen, searching look as if he were trying to read her thoughts and fathom the reason for her very evident hostility towards him. "what do you mean?" he asked. "i mean, what can you show as your life work? most men whose lives are big enough to call for biographies have done something useful--they have been famous statesmen, eminent scientists, celebrated authors, great inventors. what have you done?" the question appeared to stagger him. the audacity of any one putting such a question to a man in his own house was incredible. he squared his jaws and his clenched fist descended heavily on the table. "what have i done?" he cried. "i have built up the greatest fortune ever accumulated by one man. my fabulous wealth has caused my name to spread to the four corners of the earth. is that not an achievement to relate to future generations?" shirley gave a little shrug of her shoulders. "future generations will take no interest in you or your millions," she said calmly. "our civilization will have made such progress by that time that people will merely wonder why we, in our day, tolerated men of your class so long. now it is different. the world is money-mad. you are a person of importance in the eyes of the unthinking multitude, but it only envies you your fortune; it does not admire you personally. when you die people will count your millions, not your good deeds." he laughed cynically and drew up a chair near her desk. as a general thing, john ryder never wasted words on women. he had but a poor opinion of their mentality, and considered it beneath the dignity of any man to enter into serious argument with a woman. in fact, it was seldom he condescended to argue with anyone. he gave orders and talked to people; he had no patience to be talked to. yet he found himself listening with interest to this young woman who expressed herself so frankly. it was a decided novelty for him to hear the truth. "what do i care what the world says when i'm dead?" he asked with a forced laugh. "you do care," replied shirley gravely. "you may school yourself to believe that you are indifferent to the good opinion of your fellow man, but right down in your heart you do care--every man does, whether he be multi-millionaire or a sneak thief." "you class the two together, i notice," he said bitterly. "it is often a distinction without a difference," she rejoined promptly. he remained silent for a moment or two toying nervously with a paper knife. then, arrogantly, and as if anxious to impress her with his importance, he said: "most men would be satisfied if they had accomplished what i have. do you realize that my wealth is so vast that i scarcely know myself what i am worth? what my fortune will be in another fifty years staggers the imagination. yet i started with nothing. i made it all myself. surely i should get credit for that." "how did you make it?" retorted shirley. "in america we don't ask how a man makes his money; we ask if he has got any." "you are mistaken," replied shirley earnestly. "america is waking up. the conscience of the nation is being aroused. we are coming to realize that the scandals of the last few years were only the fruit of public indifference to sharp business practice. the people will soon ask the dishonest rich man where he got it, and there will have to be an accounting. what account will you be able to give?" he bit his lip and looked at her for a moment without replying. then, with a faint suspicion of a sneer, he said: "you are a socialist--perhaps an anarchist!" "only the ignorant commit the blunder of confounding the two," she retorted. "anarchy is a disease; socialism is a science." "indeed!" he exclaimed mockingly, "i thought the terms were synonymous. the world regards them both as insane." herself an enthusiastic convert to the new political faith that was rising like a flood tide all over the world, the contemptuous tone in which this plutocrat spoke of the coming reorganization of society which was destined to destroy him and his kind spurred her on to renewed argument. "i imagine," she said sarcastically, "that you would hardly approve any social reform which threatened to interfere with your own business methods. but no matter how you disapprove of socialism on general principles, as a leader of the capitalist class you should understand what socialism is, and not confuse one of the most important movements in modern world-history with the crazy theories of irresponsible cranks. the anarchists are the natural enemies of the entire human family, and would destroy it were their dangerous doctrines permitted to prevail; the socialists, on the contrary, are seeking to save mankind from the degradation, the crime and the folly into which such men as you have driven it." she spoke impetuously, with the inspired exaltation of a prophet delivering a message to the people. ryder listened, concealing his impatience with uneasy little coughs. "yes," she went on, "i am a socialist and i am proud of it. the whole world is slowly drifting toward socialism as the only remedy for the actual intolerable conditions. it may not come in our time, but it will come as surely as the sun will rise and set tomorrow. has not the flag of socialism waved recently from the white house? has not a president of the united states declared that the state must eventually curb the great fortunes? what is that but socialism?" "true," retorted ryder grimly, "and that little speech intended for the benefit of the gallery will cost him the nomination at the next presidential election. we don't want in the white house a president who stirs up class hatred. our rich men have a right to what is their own; that is guaranteed them by the constitution." "is it their own?" interrupted shirley. ryder ignored the insinuation and proceeded: "what of our boasted free institutions if a man is to be restricted in what he may and may not do? if i am clever enough to accumulate millions who can stop me?" "the people will stop you," said shirley calmly. "it is only a question of time. their patience is about exhausted. put your ear to the ground and listen to the distant rumbling of the tempest which, sooner or later, will be unchained in this land, provoked by the iniquitous practices of organized capital. the people have had enough of the extortions of the trusts. one day they will rise in their wrath and seize by the throat this knavish plutocracy which, confident in the power of its wealth to procure legal immunity and reckless of its danger, persists in robbing the public daily. but retribution is at hand. the growing discontent of the proletariat, the ever-increasing strikes and labour disputes of all kinds, the clamour against the railroads and the trusts, the evidence of collusion between both--all this is the writing on the wall. the capitalistic system is doomed; socialism will succeed it." "what is socialism?" he demanded scornfully. "what will it give the public that it has not got already?" shirley, who never neglected an opportunity to make a convert, no matter how hardened he might be, picked up a little pamphlet printed for propaganda purposes which she had that morning received by mail. "here," she said, "is one of the best and clearest definitions of socialism i have ever read: "socialism is common ownership of natural resources and public utilities, and the common operation of all industries for the general good. socialism is opposed to monopoly, that is, to private ownership of land and the instruments of labor, which is indirect ownership of men; to the wages system, by which labor is legally robbed of a large part of the product of labor; to competition with its enormous waste of effort and its opportunities for the spoliation of the weak by the strong. socialism is industrial democracy. it is the government of the people by the people and for the people, not in the present restricted sense, but as regards all the common interests of men. socialism is opposed to oligarchy and monarchy, and therefore to the tyrannies of business cliques and money kings. socialism is for freedom, not only from the fear of force, but from the fear of want. socialism proposes real liberty, not merely the right to vote, but the liberty to live for something more than meat and drink. "socialism is righteousness in the relations of men. it is based on the fundamentals of religion, the fatherhood of god and the brotherhood of men. it seeks through association and equality to realize fraternity. socialism will destroy the motives which make for cheap manufacturers, poor workmanship and adulterations; it will secure the real utility of things. use, not exchange, will be the object of labour. things will be made to serve, not to sell. socialism will banish war, for private ownership is back of strife between men. socialism will purify politics, for private capitalism is the great source of political corruption. socialism will make for education, invention and discovery; it will stimulate the moral development of men. crime will have lost most of its motive and pauperism will have no excuse. that," said shirley, as she concluded, "is socialism!" ryder shrugged his shoulders and rose to go. "delightful," he said ironically, "but in my judgment wholly utopian and impracticable. it's nothing but a gigantic pipe dream. it won't come in this generation nor in ten generations if, indeed, it is ever taken seriously by a majority big enough to put its theories to the test. socialism does not take into account two great factors that move the world--men's passions and human ambition. if you eliminate ambition you remove the strongest incentive to individual effort. from your own account a socialistic world would be a dreadfully tame place to live in--everybody depressingly good, without any of the feverish turmoil of life as we know it. such a world would not appeal to me at all. i love the fray--the daily battle of gain and loss, the excitement of making or losing millions. that is my life!" "yet what good is your money to you?" insisted shirley. "you are able to spend only an infinitesimal part of it. you cannot even give it away, for nobody will have any of it." "money!" he hissed rather than spoke, "i hate money. it means nothing to me. i have so much that i have lost all idea of its value. i go on accumulating it for only one purpose. it buys power. i love power--that is my passion, my ambition, to rule the world with my gold. do you know," he went on and leaning over the desk in a dramatic attitude, "that if i chose i could start a panic in wall street to-morrow that would shake to their foundations every financial institution in the country? do you know that i practically control the congress of the united states and that no legislative measure becomes law unless it has my approval?" "the public has long suspected as much," replied shirley. "that is why you are looked upon as a menace to the stability and honesty of our political and commercial life." an angry answer rose to his lips when the door opened and mrs. ryder entered. "i've been looking for you, john," she said peevishly. "mr. bagley told me you were somewhere in the house. senator roberts is downstairs." "he's come about jefferson and his daughter, i suppose," muttered ryder. "well, i'll see him. where is he?" "in the library. kate came with him. she's in my room." they left shirley to her writing, and when he had closed the door the financier turned to his wife and said impatiently: "now, what are we going to do about jefferson and kate? the senator insists on the matter of their marriage being settled one way or another. where is jefferson?" "he came in about half an hour ago. he was upstairs to see me, and i thought he was looking for you," answered the wife. "well," replied ryder determinedly, "he and i have got to understand each other. this can't go on. it shan't." mrs. ryder put her hand on his arm, and said pleadingly: "don't be impatient with the boy, john. remember he is all we have. he is so unhappy. he wants to please us, but--" "but he insists on pleasing himself," said ryder completing the sentence. "i'm afraid, john, that his liking for that miss rossmore is more serious than you realize--" the financier stamped his foot and replied angrily: "miss rossmore! that name seems to confront me at every turn--for years the father, now the daughter! i'm sorry, my dear," he went on more calmly, "that you seem inclined to listen to jefferson. it only encourages him in his attitude towards me. kate would make him an excellent wife, while what do we know about the other woman? are you willing to sacrifice your son's future to a mere boyish whim?" mrs. ryder sighed. "it's very hard," she said, "for a mother to know what to advise. miss green says--" "what!" exclaimed her husband, "you have consulted miss green on the subject?" "yes," answered his wife, "i don't know how i came to tell her, but i did. i seem to tell her everything. i find her such a comfort, john. i haven't had an attack of nerves since that girl has been in the house." "she is certainly a superior woman," admitted ryder. "i wish she'd ward that rossmore girl off. i wish she--" he stopped abruptly as if not venturing to give expression to his thoughts, even to his wife. then he said: "if she were kate roberts she wouldn't let jeff slip through her fingers." "i have often wished," went on mrs. ryder, "that kate were more like shirley green. i don't think we would have any difficulty with jeff then." "kate is the daughter of senator roberts, and if this marriage is broken off in any way without the senator's consent, he is in a position to injure my interests materially. if you see jefferson send him to me in the library. i'll go and keep roberts in good humour until he comes." he went downstairs and mrs. ryder proceeded to her apartments, where she found jefferson chatting with kate. she at once delivered ryder sr.'s message. "jeff, your father wants to see you in the library." "yes, i want to see him," answered the young man grimly, and after a few moments more badinage with kate he left the room. it was not a mere coincidence that had brought senator roberts and his daughter and the financier's son all together under the ryder roof at the same time. it was part of jefferson's well-prepared plan to expose the rascality of his father's secretary, and at the same time rid himself of the embarrassing entanglement with kate roberts. if the senator were confronted publicly with the fact that his daughter, while keeping up the fiction of being engaged to ryder jr., was really preparing to run off with the hon. fitzroy bagley, he would have no alternative but to retire gracefully under fire and relinquish all idea of a marriage alliance with the house of ryder. the critical moment had arrived. to-morrow, wednesday, was the day fixed for the elopement. the secretary's little game had gone far enough. the time had come for action. so jefferson had written to senator roberts, who was in washington, asking him if it would be convenient for him to come at once to new york and meet himself and his father on a matter of importance. the senator naturally jumped to the conclusion that jefferson and ryder had reached an amicable understanding, and he immediately hurried to new york and with his daughter came round to seventy-fourth street. when ryder sr. entered the library, senator roberts was striding nervously up and down the room. this, he felt, was an important day. the ambition of his life seemed on the point of being attained. "hello, roberts," was ryder's cheerful greeting. "what's brought you from washington at a critical time like this? the rossmore impeachment needs every friend we have." "just as if you didn't know," smiled the senator uneasily, "that i am here by appointment to meet you and your son!" "to meet me and my son?" echoed ryder astonished. the senator, perplexed and beginning to feel real alarm, showed the financier jefferson's letter. ryder read it and he looked pleased. "that's all right," he said, "if the lad asked you to meet us here it can mean only one thing--that at last he has made up his mind to this marriage." "that's what i thought," replied the senator, breathing more freely. "i was sorry to leave washington at such a time, but i'm a father, and kate is more to me than the rossmore impeachment. besides, to see her married to your son jefferson is one of the dearest wishes of my life." "you can rest easy," said ryder; "that is practically settled. jefferson's sending for you proves that he is now ready to meet my wishes. he'll be here any minute. how is the rossmore case progressing?" "not so well as it might," growled the senator. "there's a lot of maudlin sympathy for the judge. he's a pretty sick man by all accounts, and the newspapers seem to be taking his part. one or two of the western senators are talking corporate influence and trust legislation, but when it comes to a vote the matter will be settled on party lines." "that means that judge rossmore will be removed?" demanded ryder sternly. "yes, with five votes to spare," answered the senator. "that's not enough," insisted ryder. "there must be at least twenty. let there be no blunders, roberts. the man is a menace to all the big commercial interests. this thing must go through." the door opened and jefferson appeared. on seeing the senator talking with his father, he hesitated on the threshold. "come in, jeff," said his father pleasantly. "you expected to see senator roberts, didn't you?" "yes, sir. how do you do, senator?" said the young man, advancing into the room. "i got your letter, my boy, and here i am," said the senator smiling affably. "i suppose we can guess what the business is, eh?" "that he's going to marry kate, of course," chimed in ryder sr. "jeff, my lad, i'm glad you are beginning to see my way of looking at things. you're doing more to please me lately, and i appreciate it. you stayed at home when i asked you to, and now you've made up your mind regarding this marriage." jefferson let his father finish his speech, and then he said calmly: "i think there must be some misapprehension as to the reason for my summoning senator roberts to new york. it had nothing to do with my marrying miss roberts, but to prevent her marriage with someone else." "what!" exclaimed ryder, sr. "marriage with someone else?" echoed the senator. he thought he had not heard aright, yet at the same time he had grave misgivings. "what do you mean, sir?" taking from his pocket a copy of the letter he had picked up on the staircase, jefferson held it out to the girl's father. "your daughter is preparing to run away with my father's secretary. to-morrow would have been too late. that is why i summoned you. read this." the senator took the letter, and as he read his face grew ashen and his hand trembled violently. at one blow all his ambitious projects for his daughter had been swept away. the inconsiderate act of a silly, thoughtless girl had spoiled the carefully laid plans of a lifetime. the only consolation which remained was that the calamity might have been still more serious. this timely warning had saved his family from perhaps an even greater scandal. he passed the letter in silence to ryder, sr. the financier was a man of few words when the situation called for prompt action. after he had read the letter through, there was an ominous silence. then he rang a bell. the butler appeared. "tell mr. bagley i want him." the man bowed and disappeared. "who the devil is this bagley?" demanded the senater. "english--blue blood--no money," was ryder's laconic answer. "that's the only kind we seem to get over here," growled the senator. "we furnish the money--they furnish the blood--damn his blue blood! i don't want any in mine." turning to jefferson, he said: "jefferson, whatever the motives that actuated you, i can only thank you for this warning. i think it would have broken my heart if my girl had gone away with that scoundrel. of course, under the circumstances, i must abandon all idea of your becoming my son-in-law. i release you from all obligations you may have felt yourself bound by." jefferson bowed and remained silent. ryder, sr. eyed his son closely, an amused expression hovering on his face. after all, it was not so much he who had desired this match as roberts, and as long as the senator was willing to withdraw, he could make no objection. he wondered what part, if any, his son had played in bringing about this sensational denouement to a match which had been so distasteful to him, and it gratified his paternal vanity to think that jefferson after all might be smarter than he had given him credit for. at this juncture mr. bagley entered the room. he was a little taken aback on seeing the senator, but like most men of his class, his self-conceit made him confident of his ability to handle any emergency which might arise, and he had no reason to suspect that this hasty summons to the library had anything to do with his matrimonial plans. "did you ask for me, sir? he demanded, addressing his employer. "yes, mr. bagley," replied ryder, fixing the secretary with a look that filled the latter with misgivings. "what steamers leave to-morrow for england?" "to-morrow?" echoed mr. bagley. "i said to-morrow," repeated ryder, slightly raising his voice. "let me see," stammered the secretary, "there is the white star, the north german lloyd, the atlantic transport--" "have you any preference?" inquired the financier. "no, sir, none at all." "then you'll go on board one of the ships to-night," said ryder. "your things will be packed and sent to you before the steamer sails to-morrow." the hon. fitzroy bagley, third son of a british peer, did not understand even yet that he was discharged as one dismisses a housemaid caught kissing the policeman. he could not think what mr. ryder wanted him to go abroad for unless it were on some matter of business, and it was decidedly inconvenient for him to sail at this time. "but, sir," he stammered. "i'm afraid--i'm afraid----" "yes," rejoined ryder promptly, "i notice that--your hand is shaking." "i mean that i----" "you mean that you have other engagements!" said ryder sternly. "oh no--no but----" "no engagement at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning?" insisted ryder. "with my daughter?" chimed in the senator. mr. bagley now understood. he broke out in a cold perspiration and he paled visibly. in the hope that the full extent of his plans were not known, he attempted to brazen it out. "no, certainly not, under no circumstances," he said. ryder, sr. rang a bell. "perhaps she has an engagement with you. we'll ask her." to the butler, who entered, he said: "tell miss roberts that her father would like to see her here." the man disappeared and the senator took a hand in cross-examining the now thoroughly uncomfortable secretary. "so you thought my daughter looked pale and that a little excursion to buffalo would be a good thing for her? well, it won't be a good thing for you, young man, i can assure you of that!" the english aristocrat began to wilt. his assurance of manner quite deserted him and he stammered painfully as he floundered about in excuses. "not with me--oh dear, no," he said. "you never proposed to run away with my daughter?" cried the irate father. "run away with her?" stammered bagley. "and marry her?" shouted the senator, shaking his fist at him. "oh say--this is hardly fair--three against one--really--i'm awfully sorry, eh, what?" the door opened and kate roberts bounced in. she was smiling and full of animal spirits, but on seeing the stern face of her father and the pitiable picture presented by her faithful fitz she was intelligent enough to immediately scent danger. "did you want to see me, father?" she inquired boldly. "yes, kate," answered the senator gravely, "we have just been having a talk with mr. bagley, in which you were one of the subjects of conversation. can you guess what it was?" the girl looked from her father to bagley and from him to the ryders. her aristocratic lover made a movement forward as if to exculpate himself but he caught ryder's eye and remained where he was. "well?" she said, with a nervous laugh. "is it true?" asked the senator, "that you were about to marry this man secretly?" she cast down her eyes and answered: "i suppose you know everything." "have you anything to add?" asked her father sternly. "no," said kate shaking her head. "it's true. we intended to run away, didn't we fitz?" "never mind about mr. bagley," thundered her father. "haven't you a word of shame for this disgrace you have brought upon me?" "oh papa, don't be so cross. jefferson did not care for me. i couldn't be an old maid. mr. bagley has a lovely castle in england, and one day he'll sit in the house of lords. he'll explain everything to you." "he'll explain nothing," rejoined the senator grimly. "mr. bagley returns to england to-night. he won't have time to explain anything." "returns to england?" echoed kate dismayed. "yes, and you go with me to washington at once." the senator turned to ryder. "good-bye ryder. the little domestic comedy is ended. i'm grateful it didn't turn out a drama. the next time i pick out a son-in-law i hope i'll have better luck." he shook hands with jefferson, and left the room followed by his crestfallen daughter. ryder, who had gone to write something at his desk, strode over to where mr. bagley was standing and handed him a cheque. "here, sir, this settles everything to date. good-day." "but i--i--" stammered the secretary helplessly. "good-day, sir." ryder turned his back on him and conversed with his son, while mr. bagley slowly, and as if regretfully, made his exit. chapter xv it was now december and the senate had been in session for over a week. jefferson had not forgotten his promise, and one day, about two weeks after mr. bagley's spectacular dismissal from the ryder residence, he had brought shirley the two letters. she did not ask him how he got them, if he forced the drawer or procured the key. it sufficed for her that the precious letters--the absolute proof of her father's innocence--were at last in her possession. she at once sent them off by registered mail to stott, who immediately acknowledged receipt and at the same time announced his departure for washington that night. he promised to keep her constantly informed of what he was doing and how her father's case was going. it could, he thought, be only a matter of a few days now before the result of the proceedings would be known. the approach of the crisis made shirley exceedingly nervous, and it was only by the exercise of the greatest self-control that she did not betray the terrible anxiety she felt. the ryder biography was nearly finished and her stay in seventy-fourth street would soon come to an end. she had a serious talk with jefferson, who contrived to see a good deal of her, entirely unsuspected by his parents, for mr. and mrs. ryder, had no reason to believe that their son had any more than a mere bowing acquaintance with the clever young authoress. now that mr. bagley was no longer there to spy upon their actions these clandestine interviews had been comparatively easy. shirley brought to bear all the arguments she could think of to convince jefferson of the hopelessness of their engagement. she insisted that she could never be his wife; circumstances over which they had no control made that dream impossible. it were better, she said, to part now rather than incur the risk of being unhappy later. but jefferson refused to be convinced. he argued and pleaded and he even swore--strange, desperate words that shirley had never heard before and which alarmed her not a little--and the discussion ended usually by a kiss which put shirley completely hors de combat. meantime, john ryder had not ceased worrying about his son. the removal of kate roberts as a factor in his future had not eliminated the danger of jefferson taking the bit between his teeth one day and contracting a secret marriage with the daughter of his enemy, and when he thought of the mere possibility of such a thing happening he stormed and raved until his wife, accustomed as she was to his choleric outbursts, was thoroughly frightened. for some time after bagley's departure, father and son got along together fairly amicably, but ryder, sr. was quick to see that jefferson had something on his mind which was worrying him, and he rightly attributed it to his infatuation for miss rossmore. he was convinced that his son knew where the judge's daughter was, although his own efforts to discover her whereabouts had been unsuccessful. sergeant ellison had confessed absolute failure; miss rossmore, he reported, had disappeared as completely as if the earth had swallowed her, and further search was futile. knowing well his son's impulsive, headstrong disposition, ryder, sr. believed him quite capable of marrying the girl secretly any time. the only thing that john ryder did not know was that shirley rossmore was not the kind of a girl to allow any man to inveigle her into a secret marriage. the colossus, who judged the world's morals by his own, was not of course aware of this, and he worried night and day thinking what he could do to prevent his son from marrying the daughter of the man he had wronged. the more he pondered over it, the more he regretted that there was not some other girl with whom jefferson could fall in love and marry. he need not seek a rich girl--there was certainly enough money in the ryder family to provide for both. he wished they knew a girl, for example, as attractive and clever as miss green. ah! he thought, there was a girl who would make a man of jefferson--brainy, ambitious, active! and the more he thought of it the more the idea grew on him that miss green would be an ideal daughter-in-law, and at the same time snatch his son from the clutches of the rossmore woman. jefferson, during all these weeks, was growing more and more impatient. he knew that any day now shirley might take her departure from their house and return to massapequa. if the impeachment proceedings went against her father it was more than likely that he would lose her forever, and if, on the contrary, the judge were acquitted, shirley never would be willing to marry him without his father's consent; and this, he felt, he would never obtain. he resolved, therefore, to have a final interview with his father and declare boldly his intention of making miss rossmore his wife, regardless of the consequences. the opportunity came one evening after dinner. ryder, sr. was sitting alone in the library, reading, mrs. ryder had gone to the theatre with a friend, shirley as usual was writing in her room, giving the final touches to her now completed "history of the empire trading company." jefferson took the bull by the horns and boldly accosted his redoubtable parent. "may i have a few minutes of your time, father?" ryder, sr. laid aside the paper he was reading and looked up. it was unusual for his son to come to him on any errand, and he liked to encourage it. "certainly, jefferson. what is it?" "i want to appeal to you, sir. i want you to use your influence, before it is too late, to save judge rossmore. a word from you at this time would do wonders in washington." the financier swung half-round in his chair, the smile of greeting faded out of his face, and his voice was hard as he replied coldly: "again? i thought we had agreed not to discuss judge rossmore any further?" "i can't help it, sir," rejoined jefferson undeterred by his sire's hostile attitude, "that poor old man is practically on trial for his life. he is as innocent of wrongdoing as a child unborn, and you know it. you could save him if you would." "jefferson," answered ryder, sr., biting his lip to restrain his impatience, "i told you before that i could not interfere even if i would; and i won't, because that man is my enemy. important business interests, which you cannot possibly know anything about, demand his dismissal from the bench." "surely your business interests don't demand the sacrifice of a man's life!" retorted jefferson. "i know modern business methods are none too squeamish, but i should think you'd draw the line at deliberate murder!" ryder sprang to his feet and for a moment stood glaring at the young man. his lips moved, but no sound came from them. suppressed wrath rendered him speechless. what was the world coming to when a son could talk to his father in this manner? "how dare you presume to judge my actions or to criticise my methods?" he burst out, finally. "you force me to do so," answered jefferson hotly. "i want to tell you that i am heartily ashamed of this whole affair and your connection with it, and since you refuse to make reparation in the only way possible for the wrong you and your associates have done judge rosmore--that is by saving him in the senate--i think it only fair to warn you that i take back my word in regard to not marrying without your consent. i want you to know that i intend to marry miss rossmore as soon as she will consent to become my wife, that is," he added with bitterness, "if i can succeed in overcoming her prejudices against my family--" ryder, sr. laughed contemptuously. "prejudices against a thousand million dollars?" he exclaimed sceptically. "yes," replied jefferson decisively, "prejudices against our family, against you and your business practices. money is not everything. one day you will find that out. i tell you definitely that i intend to make miss rossmore my wife." ryder, sr. made no reply, and as jefferson had expected an explosion, this unnatural calm rather startled him. he was sorry he had spoken so harshly. it was his father, after all. "you've forced me to defy you, father," he added. "i'm sorry---" ryder, sr. shrugged his shoulders and resumed his seat. he lit another cigar, and with affected carelessness he said: "all right, jeff, my boy, we'll let it go at that. you're sorry--so am i. you've shown me your cards--i'll show you mine." his composed unruffled manner vanished. he suddenly threw off the mask and revealed the tempest that was raging within. he leaned across the desk, his face convulsed with uncontrollable passion, a terrifying picture of human wrath. shaking his fist at his son he shouted: "when i get through with judge rossmore at washington, i'll start after his daughter. this time to-morrow he'll be a disgraced man. a week later she will be a notorious woman. then we'll see if you'll be so eager to marry her!" "father!" cried jefferson. "there is sure to be something in her life that won't bear inspection," sneered ryder. "there is in everybody's life. i'll find out what it is. where is she to-day? she can't be found. no one knows where she is--not even her own mother. something is wrong--the girl's no good!" jefferson started forward as if to resent these insults to the woman he loved, but, realizing that it was his own father, he stopped short and his hands fell powerless at his side. "well, is that all?" inquired ryder, sr. with a sneer. "that's all," replied jefferson, "i'm going. good-bye." "good-bye," answered his father indifferently; "leave your address with your mother." jefferson left the room, and ryder, sr., as if exhausted by the violence of his own outburst, sank back limp in his chair. the crisis he dreaded had come at last. his son had openly defied his authority and was going to marry the daughter of his enemy. he must do something to prevent it; the marriage must not take place, but what could he do? the boy was of age and legally his own master. he could do nothing to restrain his actions unless they put him in an insane asylum. he would rather see his son there, he mused, than married to the rossmore woman. presently there was a timid knock at the library door. ryder rose from his seat and went to see who was there. to his surprise it was miss green. "may i come in?" asked shirley. "certainly, by all means. sit down." he drew up a chair for her, and his manner was so cordial that it was easy to see she was a welcome visitor. "mr. ryder," she began in a low, tremulous voice, "i have come to see you on a very important matter. i've been waiting to see you all evening--and as i shall be here only a short time longer i--want to ask yon a great favour--perhaps the greatest you were ever asked--i want to ask you for mercy--for mercy to--" she stopped and glanced nervously at him, but she saw he was paying no attention to what she was saying. he was puffing heavily at his cigar, entirely preoccupied with his own thoughts. her sudden silence aroused him. he apologized: "oh, excuse me--i didn't quite catch what you were saying." she said nothing, wondering what had happened to render him so absent-minded. he read the question in her face, for, turning towards her, he exclaimed: "for the first time in my life i am face to face with defeat--defeat of the most ignominious kind--incapacity--inability to regulate my own internal affairs. i can rule a government, but i can't manage my own family--my own son. i'm a failure. tell me," he added, appealing to her, "why can't i rule my own household, why can't i govern my own child?" "why can't you govern yourself?" said shirley quietly. ryder looked keenly at her for a moment without answering her question; then, as if prompted by a sudden inspiration, he said: "you can help me, but not by preaching at me. this is the first time in my life i ever called on a living soul for help. i'm only accustomed to deal with men. this time there's a woman in the case--and i need your woman's wit--" "how can i help you?" asked shirley. "i don't know," he answered with suppressed excitement. "as i told you, i am up against a blank wall. i can't see my way." he gave a nervous little laugh and went on: "god! i'm ashamed of myself--ashamed! did you ever read the fable of the lion and the mouse? well, i want you to gnaw with your sharp woman's teeth at the cords which bind the son of john burkett ryder to this rossmore woman. i want you to be the mouse--to set me free of this disgraceful entanglement." "how? asked shirley calmly. "ah, that's just it--how?" he replied. "can't you think--you're a woman--you have youth, beauty--brains." he stopped and eyed her closely until she reddened from the embarrassing scrutiny. then he blurted out: "by george! marry him yourself--force him to let go of this other woman! why not? come, what do you say?" this unexpected suggestion came upon shirley with all the force of a violent shock. she immediately saw the falseness of her position. this man was asking for her hand for his son under the impression that she was another woman. it would be dishonorable of her to keep up the deception any longer. she passed her hand over her face to conceal her confusion. "you--you must give me time to think," she stammered. "suppose i don't love your son--i should want something--something to compensate." "something to compensate?" echoed ryder surprised and a little disconcerted. "why, the boy will inherit millions--i don't know how many." "no--no, not money," rejoined shirley; "money only compensates those who love money. it's something else--a man's honour--a man's life! it means nothing to you." he gazed at her, not understanding. full of his own project, he had mind for nothing else. ignoring therefore the question of compensation, whatever she might mean by that, he continued: "you can win him if you make up your mind to. a woman with your resources can blind him to any other woman." "but if--he loves judge rossmore's daughter?" objected shirley. "it's for you to make him forget her--and you can," replied the financier confidently. "my desire is to separate him from this rossmore woman at any cost. you must help me." his sternness relaxed somewhat and his eyes rested on her kindly. "do you know, i should be glad to think you won't have to leave us. mrs. ryder has taken a fancy to you, and i myself shall miss you when you go." "you ask me to be your son's wife and you know nothing of my family," said shirley. "i know you--that is sufficient," he replied. "no--no you don't," returned shirley, "nor do you know your son. he has more constancy--more strength of character than you think--and far more principle than you have." "so much the greater the victory for you," he answered good humouredly. "ah," she said reproachfully, "you do not love your son." "i do love him," replied ryder warmly. "it's because i love him that i'm such a fool in this matter. don't you see that if he marries this girl it would separate us, and i should lose him. i don't want to lose him. if i welcomed her to my house it would make me the laughing-stock of all my friends and business associates. come, will you join forces with me?" shirley shook her head and was about to reply when the telephone bell rang. ryder took up the receiver and spoke to the butler downstairs: "who's that? judge stott? tell him i'm too busy to see anyone. what's that? a man's life at stake? what's that to do with me? tell him--" on hearing stott's name, shirley nearly betrayed herself. she turned pale and half-started up from her chair. something serious must have happened to bring her father's legal adviser to the ryder residence at such an hour! she thought he was in washington. could it be that the proceedings in the senate were ended and the result known? she could hardly conceal her anxiety, and instinctively she placed her hand on ryder's arm. "no, mr. ryder, do see judge stott! you must see him. i know who he is. your son has told me. judge stott is one of judge rossmore's advisers. see him. you may find out something about the girl. you may find out where she is. if jefferson finds out you have refused to see her father's friend at such a critical time it will only make him sympathize more deeply with the rossmores, and you know sympathy is akin to love. that's what you want to avoid, isn't it?" ryder still held the telephone, hesitating what to do. what she said sounded like good sense. "upon my word--" he said. "you may be right and yet--" "am i to help you or not?" demanded shirley. "you said you wanted a woman's wit." "yes," said ryder, "but still--" "then you had better see him," she said emphatically. ryder turned to the telephone. "hello, jorkins, are you there? show judge stott up here." he laid the receiver down and turned again to shirley. "that's one thing i don't like about you," he said. "i allow you to decide against me and then i agree with you." she said nothing and he went on looking at her admiringly. "i predict that you'll bring that boy to your feet within a month. i don't know why, but i seem to feel that he is attracted to you already. thank heaven! you haven't a lot of troublesome relations. i think you said you were almost alone in the world. don't look so serious," he added laughing. "jeff is a fine fellow, and believe me an excellent catch as the world goes." shirley raised her hand as if entreating him to desist. "oh, don't--don't--please! my position is so false! you don't know how false it is!" she cried. at that instant the library door was thrown open and the butler appeared, ushering in stott. the lawyer looked anxious, and his dishevelled appearance indicated that he had come direct from the train. shirley scanned his face narrowly in the hope that she might read there what had happened. he walked right past her, giving no sign of recognition, and advanced direct towards ryder, who had risen and remained standing at his desk. "perhaps i had better go?" ventured shirley, although tortured by anxiety to hear the news from washington. "no," said ryder quickly, "judge stott will detain me but a very few moments." having delivered himself of this delicate hint, he looked towards his visitor as if inviting him to come to the point as rapidly as possible. "i must apologize for intruding at this unseemly hour, sir," said stott, "but time is precious. the senate meets to-morrow to vote. if anything is to be done for judge rossmore it must be done to-night." "i fail to see why you address yourself to me in this matter, sir," replied ryder with asperity. "as judge rossmore's friend and counsel," answered stott, "i am impelled to ask your help at this critical moment." "the matter is in the hands of the united states senate, sir," replied ryder coldly. "they are against him!" cried stott; "not one senator i've spoken to holds out any hope for him. if he is convicted it will mean his death. inch by inch his life is leaving him. the only thing that can save him is the good news of the senate's refusal to find him guilty." stott was talking so excitedly and loudly that neither he nor ryder heard the low moan that came from the corner of the room where shirley was standing listening. "i can do nothing," repeated ryder coldly, and he turned his back and began to examine some papers lying on his desk as if to notify the caller that the interview was ended. but stott was not so easily discouraged. he went on: "as i understand it, they will vote on strictly party lines, and the party in power is against him. he's a marked man. you have the power to help him." heedless of ryder's gesture of impatience he continued: "when i left his bedside to-night, sir, i promised to return to him with good news; i have told him that the senate ridicules the charges against him. i must return to him with good news. he is very ill to-night, sir." he halted for a moment and glanced in shirley's direction, and slightly raising his voice so she might hear, he added: "if he gets worse we shall send for his daughter." "where is his daughter?" demanded ryder, suddenly interested. "she is working in her father's interests," replied stott, and, he added significantly, "i believe with some hope of success." he gave shirley a quick, questioning look. she nodded affirmatively. ryder, who had seen nothing of this by-play, said with a sneer: "surely you didn't come here to-night to tell me this?" "no, sir, i did not." he took from his pocket two letters--the two which shirley had sent him--and held them out for ryder's inspection. "these letters from judge rossmore to you," he said, "show you to be acquainted with the fact that he bought those shares as an investment--and did not receive them as a bribe." when he caught sight of the letters and he realized what they were, ryder changed colour. instinctively his eyes sought the drawer on the left-hand side of his desk. in a voice that was unnaturally calm, he asked: "why don't you produce them before the senate?" "it was too late," explained stott, handing them to the financier. "i received them only two days ago. but if you come forward and declare--" ryder made an effort to control himself. "i'll do nothing of the kind. i refuse to move in the matter. that is final. and now, sir," he added, raising his voice and pointing to the letters, "i wish to know how comes it that you had in your possession private correspondence addressed to me?" "that i cannot answer," replied stott promptly. "from whom did you receive these letters?" demanded ryder. stott was dumb, while shirley clutched at her chair as if she would fall. the financier repeated the question. "i must decline to answer," replied stott finally. shirley left her place and came slowly forward. addressing ryder, she said: "i wish to make a statement." the financier gazed at her in astonishment. what could she know about it, he wondered, and he waited with curiosity to hear what she was going to say. but stott instantly realized that she was about to take the blame upon herself, regardless of the consequences to the success of their cause. this must be prevented at all hazards, even if another must be sacrificed, so interrupting her he said hastily to ryder: "judge rossmore's life and honour are at stake and no false sense of delicacy must cause the failure of my object to save him. these letters were sent to me by--your son." "from my son'" exclaimed ryder, starting. for a moment he staggered as if he had received a blow; he was too much overcome to speak or act. then recovering himself, he rang a bell, and turned to stott with renewed fury: "so," he cried, "this man, this judge whose honour is at stake and his daughter, who most likely has no honour at stake, between them have made a thief and a liar of my son! false to his father, false to his party; and you, sir, have the presumption to come here and ask me to intercede for him!" to the butler, who entered, he said: "see if mr. jefferson is still in the house. if he is, tell him i would like to see him here at once." the man disappeared, and ryder strode angrily up and down the room with the letters in his hand. then, turning abruptly on stott, he said: "and now, sir, i think nothing more remains to be said. i shall keep these letters, as they are my property." "as you please. good night, sir." "good night," replied ryder, not looking up. with a significant glance at shirley, who motioned to him that she might yet succeed where he had failed, stott left the room. ryder turned to shirley. his fierceness of manner softened down as he addressed the girl: "you see what they have done to my son--" "yes," replied shirley, "it's the girl's fault. if jefferson hadn't loved her you would have helped the judge. ah, why did they ever meet! she has worked on his sympathy and he--he took these letters for her sake, not to injure you. oh, you must make some allowance for him! one's sympathy gets aroused in spite of oneself; even i feel sorry for--these people." "don't," replied ryder grimly, "sympathy is often weakness. ah, there you are!" turning to jefferson, who entered the room at that moment. "you sent for me, father?" "yes," said ryder, sr., holding up the letters. "have you ever seen these letters before?" jefferson took the letters and examined them, then he passed them back to his father and said frankly: "yes, i took them out of your desk and sent them to mr. stott in the hope they would help judge rossmore's case." ryder restrained himself from proceeding to actual violence only with the greatest difficulty. his face grew white as death, his lips were compressed, his hands twitched convulsively, his eyes flashed dangerously. he took another cigar to give the impression that he had himself well under control, but the violent trembling of his hands as he lit it betrayed the terrific strain he was under. "so!" he said, "you deliberately sacrificed my interests to save this woman's father--you hear him, miss green? jefferson, my boy, i think it's time you and i had a final accounting." shirley made a motion as if about to withdraw. he stopped her with a gesture. "please don't go, miss green. as the writer of my biography you are sufficiently well acquainted with my family affairs to warrant your being present at the epilogue. besides, i want an excuse for keeping my temper. sit down, miss green." turning to jefferson, he went on: "for your mother's sake, my boy, i have overlooked your little eccentricities of character. but now we have arrived at the parting of the ways--you have gone too far. the one aspect of this business i cannot overlook is your willingness to sell your own father for the sake of a woman." "my own father," interrupted jefferson bitterly, "would not hesitate to sell me if his business and political interests warranted the sacrifice!" shirley attempted the role of peacemaker. appealing to the younger man, she said: "please don't talk like that, mr. jefferson." then she turned to ryder, sr.: "i don't think your son quite understands you, mr. ryder, and, if you will pardon me, i don't think you quite understand him. do you realize that there is a man's life at stake--that judge rossmore is almost at the point of death and that favourable news from the senate to-morrow is perhaps the only thing that can save him?" "ah, i see," sneered ryder, sr. "judge stott's story has aroused your sympathy." "yes, i--i confess my sympathy is aroused. i do feel for this father whose life is slowly ebbing away--whose strength is being sapped hourly by the thought of the disgrace--the injustice that is being done him! i do feel for the wife of this suffering man!" "ah, its a complete picture!" cried ryder mockingly. "the dying father, the sorrowing mother--and the daughter, what is she supposed to be doing?" "she is fighting for her father's life," cried shirley, "and you, mr. jefferson, should have pleaded--pleaded--not demanded. it's no use trying to combat your father's will." "she is quite right, father i should have implored you. i do so now. i ask you for god's sake to help us!" ryder was grim and silent. he rose from his seat and paced the room, puffing savagely at his cigar. then he turned and said: "his removal is a political necessity. if he goes back on the bench every paltry justice of the peace, every petty official will think he has a special mission to tear down the structure that hard work and capital have erected. no, this man has been especially conspicuous in his efforts to block the progress of amalgamated interests." "and so he must be sacrificed?" cried shirley indignantly. "he is a meddlesome man," insisted ryder "and--" "he is innocent of the charges brought against him," urged jefferson. "mr. ryder is not considering that point," said shirley bitterly. "all he can see is that it is necessary to put this poor old man in the public pillory, to set him up as a warning to others of his class not to act in accordance with the principles of truth and justice--not to dare to obstruct the car of juggernaut set in motion by the money gods of the country!" "it's the survival of the fittest, my dear," said ryder coldly. "oh!" cried shirley, making a last appeal to the financier's heart of stone, "use your great influence with this governing body for good, not evil! urge them to vote not in accordance with party policy and personal interest, but in accordance with their consciences--in accordance with truth and justice! ah, for god's sake, mr. ryder! don't permit this foul injustice to blot the name of the highest tribunal in the western world!" ryder laughed cynically. "by jove! jefferson, i give you credit for having secured an eloquent advocate!" "suppose," went on shirley, ignoring his taunting comments, "suppose this daughter promises that she will never--never see your son again--that she will go away to some foreign country!" "no!" burst in jefferson, "why should she? if my father is not man enough to do a simple act of justice without bartering a woman's happiness and his son's happiness, let him find comfort in his self-justification!" shirley, completely unnerved, made a move towards the door, unable longer to bear the strain she was under. she tottered as though she would fall. ryder made a quick movement towards his son and took him by the arm. pointing to shirley he said in a low tone: "you see how that girl pleads your cause for you! she loves you, my boy!" jefferson started. "yes, she does," pursued ryder, sr. "she's worth a thousand of the rossmore woman. make her your wife and i'll--" "make her my wife!" cried jefferson joyously. he stared at his parent as if he thought he had suddenly been bereft of his senses. "make her my wife?" he repeated incredulously. "well, what do you say?" demanded ryder, sr. the young man advanced towards shirley, hands outstretched. "yes, yes, shir--miss green, will you?" seeing that shirley made no sign, he said: "not now, father; i will speak to her later." "no, no, to-night, at once!" insisted ryder. addressing shirley, he went on: "miss green, my son is much affected by your disinterested appeal in his behalf. he--he--you can save him from himself--my son wishes you--he asks you to become his wife! is it not so, jefferson?" "yes, yes, my wife!" advancing again towards shirley. the girl shrank back in alarm. "no, no, no, mr. ryder, i cannot, i cannot!" she cried. "why not?" demanded ryder, sr. appealingly. "ah, don't--don't decide hastily--" shirley, her face set and drawn and keen mental distress showing in every line of it, faced the two men, pale and determined. the time had come to reveal the truth. this masquerade could go on no longer. it was not honourable either to her father or to herself. her self-respect demanded that she inform the financier of her true identity. "i cannot marry your son with these lies upon my lips!" she cried. "i cannot go on with this deception. i told you you did not know who i was, who my people were. my story about them, my name, everything about me is false, every word i have uttered is a lie, a fraud, a cheat! i would not tell you now, but you trusted me and are willing to entrust your son's future, your family honour in my keeping, and i can't keep back the truth from you. mr. ryder, i am the daughter of the man you hate. i am the woman your son loves. i am shirley rossmore!" ryder took his cigar from his lips and rose slowly to his feet. "you? you?" he stammered. "yes--yes, i am the rossmore woman! listen, mr. ryder. don't turn away from me. go to washington on behalf of my father, and i promise you i will never see your son again--never, never!" "ah, shirley!" cried jefferson, "you don't love me!" "yes, jeff, i do; god knows i do! but if i must break my own heart to save my father i will do it." "would you sacrifice my happiness and your own?" "no happiness can be built on lies, jeff. we must build on truth or our whole house will crumble and fall. we have deceived your father, but he will forgive that, won't you?" she said, appealing to ryder, "and you will go to washington, you will save my father's honour, his life, you will--?" they stood face to face--this slim, delicate girl battling for her father's life, arrayed against a cold-blooded, heartless, unscrupulous man, deaf to every impulse of human sympathy or pity. since this woman had deceived him, fooled him, he would deal with her as with everyone else who crossed his will. she laid her hand on his arm, pleading with him. brutally, savagely, he thrust her aside. "no, no, i will not!" he thundered. "you have wormed yourself into my confidence by means of lies and deceit. you have tricked me, fooled me to the very limit! oh, it is easy to see how you have beguiled my son into the folly of loving you! and you--you have the brazen effrontery to ask me to plead for your father? no! no! no! let the law take its course, and now miss rossmore--you will please leave my house to-morrow morning!" shirley stood listening to what he had to say, her face white, her mouth quivering. at last the crisis had come. it was a fight to the finish between this man, the incarnation of corporate greed and herself, representing the fundamental principles of right and justice. she turned on him in a fury: "yes, i will leave your house to-night! do you think i would remain another hour beneath the roof of a man who is as blind to justice, as deaf to mercy, as incapable of human sympathy as you are!" she raised her voice; and as she stood there denouncing the man of money, her eyes flashing and her head thrown back, she looked like some avenging angel defying one of the powers of evil. "leave the room!" shouted ryder, beside himself, and pointing to the door. "father!" cried jefferson, starting forward to protect the girl he loved. "you have tricked him as you have me!" thundered ryder. "it is your own vanity that has tricked you!" cried shirley contemptuously. "you lay traps for yourself and walk into them. you compel everyone around you to lie to you, to cajole you, to praise you, to deceive you! at least, you cannot accuse me of flattering you. i have never fawned upon you as you compel your family and your friends and your dependents to do. i have always appealed to your better nature by telling you the truth, and in your heart you know that i am speaking the truth now." "go!" he commanded. "yes, let us go, shirley!" said jefferson. "no, jeff, i came here alone and i'm going alone!" "you are not. i shall go with you. i intend to make you my wife!" ryder laughed scornfully. "no," cried shirley. "do you think i'd marry a man whose father is as deep a discredit to the human race as your father is? no, i wouldn't marry the son of such a merciless tyrant! he refuses to lift his voice to save my father. i refuse to marry his son!" she turned on ryder with all the fury of a tiger: "you think if you lived in the olden days you'd be a caesar or an alexander. but you wouldn't! you'd be a nero--a nero! sink my self-respect to the extent of marrying into your family!" she exclaimed contemptuously. "never! i am going to washington without your aid. i am going to save my father if i have to go on my knees to every united states senator. i'll go to the white house; i'll tell the president what you are! marry your son--no, thank you! no, thank you!" exhausted by the vehemence of her passionate outburst, shirley hurried from the room, leaving ryder speechless, staring at his son. chapter xvi when shirley reached her rooms she broke down completely, she threw herself upon a sofa and burst into a fit of violent sobbing. after all, she was only a woman and the ordeal through which she had passed would have taxed the strongest powers of endurance. she had borne up courageously while there remained the faintest chance that she might succeed in moving the financier to pity, but now that all hopes in that direction were shattered and she herself had been ordered harshly from the house like any ordinary malefactor, the reaction set in, and she gave way freely to her long pent-up anguish and distress. nothing now could save her father--not even this journey to washington which she determined to take nevertheless, for, according to what stott had said, the senate was to take a vote that very night. she looked at the time--eleven o'clock. she had told mr. ryder that she would leave his house at once, but on reflection it was impossible for a girl alone to seek a room at that hour. it would be midnight before she could get her things packed. no, she would stay under this hated roof until morning and then take the first train to washington. there was still a chance that the vote might be delayed, in which case she might yet succeed in winning over some of the senators. she began to gather her things together and was thus engaged when she heard a knock at her door. "who's there?" she called out. "it's i," replied a familiar voice. shirley went to the door and opening it found jefferson on the threshold. he made no attempt to enter, nor did she invite him in. he looked tired and careworn. "of course, you're not going to-night?" he asked anxiously. "my father did not mean to-night." "no, jeff," she said wearily; "not to-night. it's a little too late. i did not realize it. to-morrow morning, early." he seemed reassured and held out his hand: "good-night, dearest--you're a brave girl. you made a splendid fight." "it didn't do much good," she replied in a disheartened, listless way. "but it set him thinking," rejoined jefferson. "no one ever spoke to my father like that before. it did him good. he's still marching up and down the library, chewing the cud--" noticing shirley's tired face and her eyes, with great black circles underneath, he stopped short. "now don't do any more packing to-night," he said. "go to bed and in the morning i'll come up and help you. good night!" "good night, jeff," she smiled. he went downstairs, and after doing some more packing she went to bed. but it was hours before she got to sleep, and then she dreamed that she was in the senate chamber and that she saw ryder suddenly rise and denounce himself before the astonished senators as a perjurer and traitor to his country, while she returned to massapequa with the glad news that her father was acquitted. meantime, a solitary figure remained in the library, pacing to and fro like a lost soul in purgatory. mrs. ryder had returned from the play and gone to bed, serenely oblivious of the drama in real life that had been enacted at home, the servants locked the house up for the night and still john burkett ryder walked the floor of his sanctum, and late into the small hours of the morning the watchman going his lonely rounds, saw a light in the library and the restless figure of his employer sharply silhouetted against the white blinds. for the first time in his life john ryder realized that there was something in the world beyond self. he had seen with his own eyes the sacrifice a daughter will make for the father she loves, and he asked himself what manner of a man that father could be to inspire such devotion in his child. he probed into his own heart and conscience and reviewed his past career. he had been phenomenally successful, but he had not been happy. he had more money than he knew what to do with, but the pleasures of the domestic circle, which he saw other men enjoy, had been denied to him. was he himself to blame? had his insensate craving for gold and power led him to neglect those other things in life which contribute more truly to man's happiness? in other words, was his life a mistake? yes, it was true what this girl charged, he had been merciless and unscrupulous in his dealings with his fellow man. it was true that hardly a dollar of his vast fortune had been honestly earned. it was true that it had been wrung from the people by fraud and trickery. he had craved for power, yet now he had tasted it, what a hollow joy it was, after all! the public hated and despised him; even his so-called friends and business associates toadied to him merely because they feared him. and this judge--this father he had persecuted and ruined, what a better man and citizen he was, how much more worthy of a child's love and of the esteem of the world! what had judge rossmore done, after all, to deserve the frightful punishment the amalgamated interests had caused him to suffer? if he had blocked their game, he had done only what his oath, his duty commanded him to do. such a girl as shirley rossmore could not have had any other kind of a father. ah, if he had had such a daughter he might have been a better man, if only to win his child's respect and affection. john ryder pondered long and deeply and the more he ruminated the stronger the conviction grew upon him that the girl was right and he was wrong. suddenly, he looked at his watch. it was one o'clock. roberts had told him that it would be an all night session and that a vote would probably not be taken until very late. he unhooked the telephone and calling "central" asked for "long distance" and connection with washington. it was seven o'clock when the maid entered shirley's room with her breakfast and she found its occupant up and dressed. "why you haven't been to bed, miss!" exclaimed the girl, looking at the bed in the inner room which seemed scarcely disturbed. "no, theresa i--i couldn't sleep." hastily pouring out a cup of tea she added. "i must catch that nine o'clock train to washington. i didn't finish packing until nearly three." "can i do anything for you, miss?" inquired the maid. shirley was as popular with the servants as with the rest of the household. "no," answered shirley, "there are only a few, things to go in my suit case. will you please have a cab here in half an hour?" the maid was about to go when she suddenly thought of something she had forgotten. she held out an envelope which she had left lying on the tray. "oh, miss, mr. jorkins said to give you this and master wanted to see you as soon as you had finished your breakfast." shirley tore open the envelope and took out the contents. it was a cheque, payable to her order for $ , and signed "john burkett ryder." a deep flush covered the girl's face as she saw the money--a flush of annoyance rather than of pleasure. this man who had insulted her, who had wronged her father, who had driven her from his home, thought he could throw his gold at her and insolently send her her pay as one settles haughtily with a servant discharged for impertinence. she would have none of his money--the work she had done she would make him a present of. she replaced the cheque in the envelope and passed it back to theresa. "give this to mr. ryder and tell him i cannot see him." "but mr. ryder said--" insisted the girl. "please deliver my message as i give it," commanded shirley with authority. "i cannot see mr. ryder." the maid withdrew, but she had barely closed the door when it was opened again and mrs. ryder rushed in, without knocking. she was all flustered with excitement and in such a hurry that she had not even stopped to arrange her toilet. "my dear miss green," she gasped; "what's this i hear--going away suddenly without giving me warning?" "i wasn't engaged by the month," replied shirley drily. "i know, dear, i know. i was thinking of myself. i've grown so used to you--how shall i get on without you--no one understands me the way you do. dear me! the whole house is upset. mr. ryder never went to bed at all last night. jefferson is going away, too--forever, he threatens. if he hadn't come and woke me up to say good-bye, i should never have known you intended to leave us. my boy's going--you're going--everyone's deserting me!" mrs. ryder was not accustomed to such prolonged flights of oratory and she sank exhausted on a chair, her eyes filling with tears. "did they tell you who i am--the daughter of judge rossmore?" demanded shirley. it had been a shock to mrs. ryder that morning when jefferson burst into his mother's room before she was up and acquainted her with the events of the previous evening. the news that the miss green whom she had grown to love, was really the miss rossmore of whose relations with jefferson her husband stood in such dread, was far from affecting the financier's wife as it had ryder himself. to the mother's simple and ingenuous mind, free from prejudice and ulterior motive, the girl's character was more important than her name, and certainly she could not blame her son for loving such a woman as shirley. of course, it was unfortunate for jefferson that his father felt this bitterness towards judge rossmore, for she herself could hardly have wished for a more sympathetic daughter-in-law. she had not seen her husband since the previous evening at dinner so was in complete ignorance as to what he thought of this new development, but the mother sighed as she thought how happy it would make her to see jefferson happily married to the girl of his own choice, and in her heart she still entertained the hope that her husband would see it that way and thus prevent their son from leaving them as he threatened. "that's not your fault, my dear," she replied answering shirley's question. "you are yourself--that's the main thing. you mustn't mind what mr. ryder says? business and worry makes him irritable at times. if you must go, of course you must--you are the best judge of that, but jefferson wants to see you before you leave." she kissed shirley in motherly fashion, and added: "he has told me everything, dear. nothing would make me happier than to see you become his wife. he's downstairs now waiting for me to tell him to come up." "it's better that i should not see him," replied shirley slowly and gravely. "i can only tell him what i have already told him. my father comes first. i have still a duty to perform." "that's right, dear," answered mrs. ryder. "you're a good, noble girl and i admire you all the more for it. i'll let jefferson be his own advocate. you'll see him for my sake!" she gave shirley another affectionate embrace and left the room while the girl proceeded with her final preparations for departure. presently there was a quick, heavy step in the corridor outside and jefferson appeared in the doorway. he stood there waiting for her to invite him in. she looked up and greeted him cordially, yet it was hardly the kind of reception he looked for or that he considered he had a right to expect. he advanced sulkily into the room. "mother said she had put everything right," he began. "i guess she was mistaken." "your mother does not understand, neither do you," she replied seriously. "nothing can be put right until my father is restored to honour and position." "but why should you punish me because my father fails to regard the matter as we do?" demanded jefferson rebelliously. "why should i punish myself--why should we punish those nearest and dearest?" answered shirley gently, "the victims of human injustice always suffer where their loved ones are tortured. why are things as they are--i don't know. i know they are--that's all." the young man strode nervously up and down the room while she gazed listlessly out of the window, looking for the cab that was to carry her away from this house of disappointment. he pleaded with her: "i have tried honourably and failed--you have tried honourably and failed. isn't the sting of impotent failure enough to meet without striving against a hopeless love?" he approached her and said softly: "i love you shirley--don't drive me to desperation. must i be punished because you have failed? it's unfair. the sins of the fathers should not be visited upon the children." "but they are--it's the law," said shirley with resignation. "the law?" he echoed. "yes, the law," insisted the girl; "man's law, not god's, the same unjust law that punishes my father--man's law which is put into the hands of the powerful of the earth to strike at the weak." she sank into a chair and, covering up her face, wept bitterly. between her sobs she cried brokenly: "i believed in the power of love to soften your father's heart, i believed that with god's help i could bring him to see the truth. i believed that truth and love would make him see the light, but it hasn't. i stayed on and on, hoping against hope until the time has gone by and it's too late to save him, too late! what can i do now? my going to washington is a forlorn hope, a last, miserable, forlorn hope and in this hour, the darkest of all, you ask me to think of myself--my love, your love, your happiness, your future, my future! ah, wouldn't it be sublime selfishness?" jefferson kneeled down beside the chair and taking her hand in his, tried to reason with her and comfort her: "listen, shirley," he said, "do not do something you will surely regret. you are punishing me not only because i have failed but because you have failed too. it seems to me that if you believed it possible to accomplish so much, if you had so much faith--that you have lost your faith rather quickly. i believed in nothing, i had no faith and yet i have not lost hope." she shook her head and gently withdrew her hand. "it is useless to insist, jefferson--until my father is cleared of this stain our lives--yours and mine--must lie apart." someone coughed and, startled, they both looked up. mr. ryder had entered the room unobserved and stood watching them. shirley immediately rose to her feet indignant, resenting this intrusion on her privacy after she had declined to receive the financier. yet, she reflected quickly, how could she prevent it? he was at home, free to come and go as he pleased, but she was not compelled to remain in the same room with him. she picked up the few things that lay about and with a contemptuous toss of her head, retreated into the inner apartment, leaving father and son alone together. "hum," grunted ryder, sr. "i rather thought i should find you here, but i didn't quite expect to find you on your knees--dragging our pride in the mud." "that's where our pride ought to be," retorted jefferson savagely. he felt in the humor to say anything, no matter what the consequences. "so she has refused you again, eh?" said ryder, sr. with a grin. "yes," rejoined jefferson with growing irritation, "she objects to my family. i don't blame her." the financier smiled grimly as he answered: "your family in general--me in particular, eh? i gleaned that much when i came in." he looked towards the door of the room in which shirley had taken refuge and as if talking to himself he added: "a curious girl with an inverted point of view--sees everything different to others--i want to see her before she goes." he walked over to the door and raised his hand as if he were about to knock. then he stopped as if he had changed his mind and turning towards his son he demanded: "do you mean to say that she has done with you?" "yes," answered jefferson bitterly. "finally?" "yes, finally--forever!" "does she mean it?" asked ryder, sr., sceptically. "yes--she will not listen to me while her father is still in peril." there was an expression of half amusement, half admiration on the financier's face as he again turned towards the door. "it's like her, damn it, just like her!" he muttered. he knocked boldly at the door. "who's there?" cried shirley from within. "it is i--mr. ryder. i wish to speak to you." "i must beg you to excuse me," came the answer, "i cannot see you." jefferson interfered. "why do you want to add to the girl's misery? don't you think she has suffered enough?" "do you know what she has done?" said ryder with pretended indignation. "she has insulted me grossly. i never was so humiliated in my life. she has returned the cheque i sent her last night in payment for her work on my biography. i mean to make her take that money. it's hers, she needs it, her father's a beggar. she must take it back. it's only flaunting her contempt for me in my face and i won't permit it." "i don't think her object in refusing that money was to flaunt contempt in your face, or in any way humiliate you," answered jefferson. "she feels she has been sailing under false colours and desires to make some reparation." "and so she sends me back my money, feeling that will pacify me, perhaps repair the injury she has done me, perhaps buy me into entering into her plan of helping her father, but it won't. it only increases my determination to see her and her--" suddenly changing the topic he asked: "when do you leave us?" "now--at once--that is--i--don't know," answered jefferson embarrassed. "the fact is my faculties are numbed--i seem to have lost my power of thinking. father," he exclaimed, "you see what a wreck you have made of our lives!" "now, don't moralize," replied his father testily, "as if your own selfishness in desiring to possess that girl wasn't the mainspring of all your actions!" waving his son out of the room he added: "now leave me alone with her for a few moments. perhaps i can make her listen to reason." jefferson stared at his father as if he feared he were out of his mind. "what do you mean? are you--?" he ejaculated. "go--go leave her to me," commanded the financier. "slam the door when you go out and she'll think we've both gone. then come up again presently." the stratagem succeeded admirably. jefferson gave the door a vigorous pull and john ryder stood quiet, waiting for the girl to emerge from sanctuary. he did not have to wait long. the door soon opened and shirley came out slowly. she had her hat on and was drawing on her gloves, for through her window she had caught a glimpse of the cab standing at the curb. she started on seeing ryder standing there motionless, and she would have retreated had he not intercepted her. "i wish to speak to you miss--rossmore," he began. "i have nothing to say," answered shirley frigidly. "why did you do this?" he asked, holding out the cheque. "because i do not want your money," she replied with hauteur. "it was yours--you earned it," he said. "no, i came here hoping to influence you to help my father. the work i did was part of the plan. it happened to fall my way. i took it as a means to get to your heart." "but it is yours, please take it. it will be useful." "no," she said scornfully, "i can't tell you how low i should fall in my own estimation if i took your money! money," she added, with ringing contempt, "why, that's all there is to you! it's your god! shall i make your god my god? no, thank you, mr. ryder!" "am i as bad as that?" he asked wistfully. "you are as bad as that!" she answered decisively. "so bad that i contaminate even good money?" he spoke lightly but she noticed that he winced. "money itself is nothing," replied the girl, "it's the spirit that gives it--the spirit that receives it, the spirit that earns it, the spirit that spends it. money helps to create happiness. it also creates misery. it's an engine of destruction when not properly used, it destroys individuals as it does nations. it has destroyed you, for it has warped your soul!" "go on," he laughed bitterly, "i like to hear you!" "no, you don't, mr. ryder, no you don't, for deep down in your heart you know that i am speaking the truth. money and the power it gives you, has dried up the well-springs of your heart." he affected to be highly amused at her words, but behind the mask of callous indifference the man suffered. her words seared him as with a red hot iron. she went on: "in the barbaric ages they fought for possession, but they fought openly. the feudal barons fought for what they stole, but it was a fair fight. they didn't strike in the dark. at least, they gave a man a chance for his life. but when you modern barons of industry don't like legislation you destroy it, when you don't like your judges you remove them, when a competitor outbids you you squeeze him out of commercial existence! you have no hearts, you are machines, and you are cowards, for you fight unfairly." "it is not true, it is not true," he protested. "it is true," she insisted hotly, "a few hours ago in cold blood you doomed my father to what is certain death because you decided it was a political necessity. in other words he interfered with your personal interests--your financial interests--you, with so many millions you can't count them!" scornfully she added: "come out into the light--fight in the open! at least, let him know who his enemy is!" "stop--stop--not another word," he cried impatiently, "you have diagnosed the disease. what of the remedy? are you prepared to reconstruct human nature?" confronting each other, their eyes met and he regarded her without resentment, almost with tenderness. he felt strangely drawn towards this woman who had defied and accused him, and made him see the world in a new light. "i don't deny," he admitted reluctantly, "that things seem to be as you describe them, but it is part of the process of evolution." "no," she protested, "it is the work of god!" "it is evolution!" he insisted. "ah, that's it," she retorted, "you evolve new ideas, new schemes, new tricks--you all worship different gods--gods of your own making!" he was about to reply when there was a commotion at the door and theresa entered, followed by a man servant to carry down the trunk. "the cab is downstairs, miss," said the maid. ryder waved them away imperiously. he had something further to say which he did not care for servants to hear. theresa and the man precipitately withdrew, not understanding, but obeying with alacrity a master who never brooked delay in the execution of his orders. shirley, indignant, looked to him for an explanation. "you don't need them," he exclaimed with a quiet smile in which was a shade of embarrassment. "i--i came here to tell you that i--" he stopped as if unable to find words, while shirley gazed at him in utter astonishment. "ah," he went on finally, "you have made it very hard for me to speak." again he paused and then with an effort he said slowly: "an hour ago i had senator roberts on the long distance telephone, and i'm going to washington. it's all right about your father. the matter will be dropped. you've beaten me. i acknowledge it. you're the first living soul who ever has beaten john burkett ryder." shirley started forward with a cry of mingled joy and surprise. could she believe her ears? was it possible that the dreaded colossus had capitulated and that she had saved her father? had the forces of right and justice prevailed, after all? her face transfigured, radiant she exclaimed breathlessly: "what, mr. ryder, you mean that you are going to help my father?" "not for his sake--for yours," he answered frankly. shirley hung her head. in her moment of triumph, she was sorry for all the hard things she had said to this man. she held out her hand to him. "forgive me," she said gently, "it was for my father. i had no faith. i thought your heart was of stone." impulsively ryder drew her to him, he clasped her two hands in his and looking down at her kindly he said, awkwardly: "so it was--so it was! you accomplished the miracle. it's the first time i've acted on pure sentiment. let me tell you something. good sentiment is bad business and good business is bad sentiment--that's why a rich man is generally supposed to have such a hard time getting into the kingdom of heaven." he laughed and went on, "i've given ten millions apiece to three universities. do you think i'm fool enough to suppose i can buy my way? but that's another matter. i'm going to washington on behalf of your father because i--want you to marry my son. yes, i want you in the family, close to us. i want your respect, my girl. i want your love. i want to earn it. i know i can't buy it. there's a weak spot in every man's armour and this is mine--i always want what i can't get and i can't get your love unless i earn it." shirley remained pensive. her thoughts were out on long island, at massapequa. she was thinking of their joy when they heard the news--her father, her mother and stott. she was thinking of the future, bright and glorious with promise again, now that the dark clouds were passing away. she thought of jefferson and a soft light came into her eyes as she foresaw a happy wifehood shared with him. "why so sober," demanded ryder, "you've gained your point, your father is to be restored to you, you'll marry the man you love?" "i'm so happy!" murmured shirley. "i don't deserve it. i had no faith." ryder released her and took out his watch. "i leave in fifteen minutes for washington," he said. "will you trust me to go alone?" "i trust you gladly," she answered smiling at him. "i shall always be grateful to you for letting me convert you." "you won me over last night," he rejoined, "when you put up that fight for your father. i made up my mind that a girl so loyal to her father would be loyal to her husband. you think," he went on, "that i do not love my son--you are mistaken. i do love him and i want him to be happy. i am capable of more affection than people think. it is wall street," he added bitterly, "that has crushed all sentiment out of me." shirley laughed nervously, almost hysterically. "i want to laugh and i feel like crying," she cried. "what will jefferson say--how happy he will be!" "how are you going to tell him?" inquired ryder uneasily. "i shall tell him that his dear, good father has relented and--" "no, my dear," he interrupted, "you will say nothing of the sort. i draw the line at the dear, good father act. i don't want him to think that it comes from me at all." "but," said shirley puzzled, "i shall have to tell him that you--" "what?" exclaimed ryder, "acknowledge to my son that i was in the wrong, that i've seen the error of my ways and wish to repent? excuse me," he added grimly, "it's got to come from him. he must see the error of his ways." "but the error of his way," laughed the girl, "was falling in love with me. i can never prove to him that that was wrong!" the financier refused to be convinced. he shook his head and said stubbornly: "well, he must be put in the wrong somehow or other! why, my dear child," he went on, "that boy has been waiting all his life for an opportunity to say to me: 'father, i knew i was in the right, and i knew you were wrong.' can't you see," he asked, "what a false position it places me in? just picture his triumph!" "he'll be too happy to triumph," objected shirley. feeling a little ashamed of his attitude, he said: "i suppose you think i'm very obstinate." then, as she made no reply, he added: "i wish i didn't care what you thought." shirley looked at him gravely for a moment and then she replied seriously: "mr. ryder, you're a great man--you're a genius--your life is full of action, energy, achievement. but it appears to be only the good, the noble and the true that you are ashamed of. when your money triumphs over principle, when your political power defeats the ends of justice, you glory in your victory. but when you do a kindly, generous, fatherly act, when you win a grand and noble victory over yourself, you are ashamed of it. it was a kind, generous impulse that has prompted you to save my father and take your son and myself to your heart. why are you ashamed to let him see it? are you afraid he will love you? are you afraid i shall love you? open your heart wide to us--let us love you." ryder, completely vanquished, opened his arms and shirley sprang forward and embraced him as she would have embraced her own father. a solitary tear coursed down the financier's cheek. in thirty years he had not felt, or been touched by, the emotion of human affection. the door suddenly opened and jefferson entered. he started on seeing shirley in his father's arms. "jeff, my boy," said the financier, releasing shirley and putting her hand in his son's, "i've done something you couldn't do--i've convinced miss green--i mean miss rossmore--that we are not so bad after all!" jefferson, beaming, grasped his father's hand. "father!" he exclaimed. "that's what i say--father!" echoed shirley. they both embraced the financier until, overcome with emotion, ryder, sr., struggled to free himself and made his escape from the room crying: "good-bye, children--i'm off for washington!" the end distributed proofreaders canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net (this file was produced from images generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) at his gates. a novel. by mrs oliphant, author of 'chronicles of carlingford,' etc., etc. in three volumes. vol. i. london: tinsley brothers, , catherine st., strand. . [_all rights reserved_] john childs and son, printers. at his gates. chapter i. mr and mrs robert drummond lived in a pretty house in the kensington district; a house, the very external aspect of which informed the passer-by who they were, or at least what the husband was. the house was embowered in its little garden; and in spring, with its lilacs and laburnums, looked like a great bouquet of bloom--as such houses often do. but built out from the house, and occupying a large slice of the garden at the side, was a long room, lighted with sky windows, and not by any means charming to look at outside, though the creepers, which had not long been planted, were beginning to climb upon the walls. it was connected with the house by a passage which acted as a conservatory, and was full of flowers; and everything had been done that could be done to render the new studio as beautiful in aspect as it was in meaning. but it was new, and had scarcely yet begun, as its proprietor said, to 'compose' with its surroundings. robert drummond, accordingly, was a painter, a painter producing, in the mean time, pictures of the class called _genre_; but intending to be historical, and to take to the highest school of art as soon as life and fame would permit. he was a very good painter; his subjects were truly 'felt' and exquisitely manipulated; but there was no energy of emotion, no originality of genius about them. a great many people admired them very much; other painters lingered over them lovingly, with that true professional admiration of 'good work' which counteracts the jealousy of trade in every honest mind. they were very saleable articles, indeed, and had procured a considerable amount of prosperity for the young painter. it was almost certain that he would be made an associate at the next vacancy, and an academician in time. but with all this, he was well aware that he was no genius, and so was his wife. the knowledge of this fact acted upon them in very different ways; but that its effect may be fully understood, the difference in their characters and training requires to be known. robert drummond had never been anything but a painter; attempts had been made in his youth to fix him to business, his father having been the senior clerk, much respected and utterly respectable, of a great city house; and the attempt might have been successful but that accident had thrown him among artists, a kind of society very captivating to a young man, especially when he has a certain command of a pencil. he threw himself into art, accordingly, with all his soul. he was the sort of man who would have thrown himself into anything with all his soul; not for success or reward, but out of an infinite satisfaction in doing good work, and seeing beautiful things grow under his hand. he was of a very sanguine mind, a mind which seldom accepted defeat, but which, with instinctive unconscious wisdom, hesitated to dare the highest flights, and to put itself in conflict with those final powers which either vanquish a man or assure his triumph. perhaps it was because there was some hidden possibility of wild despair and downfall in the man's mind, of which only himself was aware, that he was thus cautious of putting his final fortune to the touch. but the fact was that he painted his pictures contentedly, conscientiously, doing everything well, and satisfied with the perfection of his work as work, though he was not unaware of the absence from it of any spark of divinity. he did not say it in so many words, but the sentiment of his mind was this:--'it is good work, work no man need be ashamed of. i am not a raphael, alas! and i cannot help it. what is the good of being unhappy about a thing i cannot mend? i am doing my best; it is honest work, which i know i don't slight or do carelessly; and i can give her everything she wants except that. i should be too happy myself if she were but content.' but she was not content, and thus his happiness was brought down to the moderate pitch allowed to mortal bliss. she was very different from her robert. she had been a young lady of very good connections when she first met the rising young artist. i do not say that her connections were splendid, or that she made an absolute _mésalliance_, for that would be untrue. her people, however, had been rich people for several generations. they had begun in merchandise, and by merchandise they had kept themselves up; but to have been rich from the time of your great-grandfather, with never any downfall or even break in the wealth, has perhaps more effect on the mind than that pride which springs from family. well-descended people are aware that every family now and then gets into trouble, and may even fall into poverty without sacrificing any of its pretensions. but well-off people have not that source of enlightenment. when they cease to be very well off, they lose the great point of eminence on which they have taken their stand; and, consequently, success is more absolutely necessary to them than it is to any other class in the community. helen burton besides was very proud, very ambitious, and possessed of that not unusual form of _amour propre_ which claims distinction as a right--though she had not anything particular in herself to justify her claim. she had, or believed she had, an utter contempt for that money which was the foundation of her family pride; and she was, at the same time, too well endowed in mind, and too generous in temper, to be able to give herself up sincerely to worship of that rank, which, as their only perpetual superior, tantalizes the imagination of the plebeian rich, and thrusts itself constantly before them. helen could have married the son of a poor lord, and become the honourable mrs somebody, with her mother's blessing, had she so willed. but as her will took a totally different direction, she had defied and alienated her mother, who was also a woman of high spirit, and only some seventeen years older than her only child; the consequence was that when mrs burton found herself abandoned and left alone in the world, she married too, as truly out of pique as a girl sometimes does when deserted by her lover; and at her death left everything she had to her husband and the two small babies, one of them younger than helen's little norah, whom she left behind. so that a little tragedy, of a kind not much noted by the world, had woven itself around the beginning of her married life. the mother's second marriage had not been a success, but was helen to blame for that? nobody said she was, no one around her; but sometimes in the silence of the night, when she alone was awake, and all her household slept so peacefully--robert, good robert, was not a success either, not such a man as she had hoped. she loved him sincerely, was grateful to him for his love, and for his constant regard to her wishes. but yet, in the depths of her heart,--no, not despised him, the expression is too strong,--but felt a minute shade of indignation mingled in her disappointment with him for not being a great genius. _why_ was he not a raphael, a titian? she had married him with the full understanding that he was such, that he would bring her sweet fame and distinction. and why had not he done it? every time she looked at his pictures she found out the want of inspiration in them. she did not say anything. she was very kind, praising the pretty bits of detail, the wonderful perfection of painting; but robert felt that he would rather have the president and all the hanging committee to pass judgment on his pictures than his wife. her sense that he had somehow defrauded her by not mounting at once to the very height of his profession, seemed to endow her with a power of judgment a hundred-fold more than was justified by her knowledge of art. she saw the want of any soul in them at the first glance, from under her half-closed eyelids--and it seemed to robert that in her heart she said: 'another pretty piece of mediocrity, a thing to sell, not to live--with no genius, no genius in it.' these were the words robert seemed to himself to hear, but they were not the real words which, in her heart, helen uttered. these were rather as follows:--'it is just the same as the last. it is no better, no better. and now everybody says he is at his best. oh! when his worst begins to come, what will become of us?' but she never said an uncivil word. she praised what she could, and she went her way languidly into the drawing-room. she had come down out of her sphere to give herself to him, and he had not repaid her as she expected. he had given her love--oh, yes; but not fame. she was mrs drummond only; she was not pointed out where she went as the wife of the great painter. 'her husband is an artist' was all that anybody ever said. the effect of this upon poor robert, however, was much worse even than it was upon his wife. some time elapsed, it is true, before he discovered it. it took him even years to make out what it was that shadowed his little household over and diminished its brightness. but gradually a sense of the absence of that sympathetic backing up which a man expects in his own house, and without which both men and women who have work to do are so apt to pine and faint, stole over him like a chill. when anything was said against his pictures outside, a gloom in his wife's face would show him that worse was thought within. he had no domestic shield from adverse criticism. it was not kept in the outer circle of his mind, but was allowed to penetrate down to his heart, and envelop him in a heavy discouragement. even applause did not exhilarate him. '_she_ does not think i deserve it,' was what he would say to himself; and the sense of this criticism which never uttered a word weighed upon the poor fellow's soul. it made his hand unsteady many a day when his work depended on a firm touch--and blurred the colours before his eyes, and dulled his thoughts. two or three times he made a spasmodic effort to break through his mediocrity, and then the critics (who were very well pleased on the whole with his mediocrity) shook their heads, and warned him against the sensational. but helen neither approved nor condemned the change. to her it was all alike, always second-rate. she did her very best to applaud, but she could not brighten up into genuine admiration the blank composure in her eyes. what could she do? there was something to be said for her, as well as for him. she could not affect to admire what she felt to be commonplace. nature had given her a good eye, and intense feeling had strengthened and corrected it. she saw all the weakness, the flatness, with fatal certainty. what, then, could she say? but poor robert, though he was not a great artist, was the most tender-hearted, amiable, affectionate of men; and this mode of criticism stole the very heart out of him. there is no such want in the world as that want of backing up. it is the secret of weakness and failure, just as strong moral support and sympathy is the very secret of strength. he stood steady and robust to the external eye, painting many pictures every year, getting very tolerable prices, keeping his household very comfortable, a man still under forty, healthy, cheerful, and vigorous; but all the time he was sapped at the foundations. he had lost his confidence in himself, and it was impossible to predict how he would have borne any sudden blow. it was about this time that mr reginald burton, a cousin of helen's, who had once, it was supposed, desired to be something nearer to her, found out the house in kensington, and began to pay them visits. the circumstances of her marriage had separated her from her own people. the elder among them had thought helen unkind to her mother; the younger ones had felt that nothing had come of it to justify so romantic a story. so that when reginald burton met the pair in society it was the reopening of an altogether closed chapter of her life. mr burton was a man in the city in very extensive business. he was chairman of ever so many boards, and his name, at the head of one company or another, was never out of the newspapers. he had married since his cousin did, and had a very fine place in the country, and was more well off still than it was natural for the burtons to be. helen, who had never liked him very much, and had not even been grateful to him for loving her, received his visits now without enthusiasm; but drummond, who was open-hearted like his kind, and who had no sort of jealousy about 'helen's friends,' received him with a cordiality which seemed to his wife much too effusive. she would not accept the invitation which mrs burton sent to pay a long visit to dura, their country place; but she could not be less than civil to her cousin when he insisted upon calling, nor could she openly resist when he carried off her husband to city dinners, or unfolded to him the benefits of this or that new society. drummond had done very well in his profession, notwithstanding helen's dissatisfaction with his work; and also notwithstanding her dissatisfaction, she was a good housewife, doing her duty wisely. she had a hundred a year of her own, which drummond had taken care to have settled upon herself; but since they had grown richer he had insisted upon letting this accumulate as 'a portion for norah,' and the two had laid by something besides. for painter-folk it will be readily seen they were at the very height of comfort--a pretty house, one pretty child, a little reserve of money, slowly but pleasantly accumulating. and money, though it is an ignoble thing, has so much to do with happiness! drummond, who had been quite content to think that there was a portion saving up for norah, and to whom it had not occurred that his little capital could be made use of, and produce twenty and a hundred-fold, gradually grew interested, without being aware of it, in the proceedings of mr burton. he began to talk, half laughingly, half with intention, of the wonderful difference between the slowly-earned gains of labour and those dazzling results of speculation. 'these fellows seem simply to coin money,' he said, 'half in jest and whole in earnest;' 'everything they touch seems to become gold. it looks incredible----' and he wound up with a nervous laugh, in which there was some agitation. helen had all a woman's conservatism on this point. 'it _is_ incredible, you may be sure,' she said. 'how can they invent money? some one will have to pay for it somewhere;' which was a sentence of profound wisdom, much deeper than she thought. 'so one would say,' said drummond, still laughing; 'but nobody seems to suffer. by jove! as much as--not to say i, who am one of the rank and file--but as welby or hartwell home get for one of their best pictures, your cousin will clear in five minutes, without taking the slightest trouble. when one sees it, one feels hugely tempted'--he added, looking at her. he was one of those men who like to carry their people's sympathy with them. he wanted not acquiescence simply, but approval; and notwithstanding that he was very well used to the absence of it, sought it still. she would not--could not, perhaps--enter warmly into the subject of his pictures; but here was a new matter. he looked up at her with a certain longing--ready, poor fellow, to plunge into anything if she would but approve. 'i hope you won't let yourself be tempted to anything, robert, that you don't see the end of,' she said; but so gently that her husband's heart rose. 'trust me for that,' he said joyously, 'and you shall have the first fruits, my darling. i have not as fine a house for you as your cousin can give to his wife, but for all that----' 'for all that,' she said, laughing, 'i would not change with mrs reginald burton. i am not tempted by the fine house.' 'i have thought how we can make this one a great deal better,' he said, as he stooped to kiss her before he went out. he looked back upon her fondly as he left the room, and said to himself that if he wished for gain it was for her sake--his beautiful helen! he had painted her furtively over and over again, though she never would sit to him. a certain shadow of her was in all his pictures, showing with more or less distinctness according as he loved or did not love his temporary heroine: but he knew that when this was pointed out to her she did not like it. she was anxious that everybody should know she did not sit to him. she was very indignant at the idea that a painter's wife might serve her husband as a model. 'why should a painter's profession, which ought to be one of the noblest in the world, be obtruded upon the outer world at every step?' she said. but yet as he was a painter, every inch of him, his eye caught the _pose_ of her head as she moved, and made a mental note of it. and yet she was not, strictly speaking, a beautiful woman. she was not the large juno, who is our present type of beauty; she was not blazing with colour--red, and white, and golden--like the rubens-heroines of the studio; nor was she of the low-browed, sleepy-eyed, sensuous, classic type. she was rather colourless on the contrary. her hair was olive brown, which is so harmonious with a pale complexion; her eyes hazel-grey; her colour evanescent, coming and going, and rarely at any time more than a rose tint; her very lips, though beautifully formed, were only rose--not scarlet--and her figure was slight and deficient in 'grand curves.' her great characteristic was what the french call _distinction_; a quality to which in point of truth she had no claim--for helen, it must be remembered, was no long-descended lady. she was the produce of three generations of money, and a race which could be called nothing but philistine; and from whence came her highbred look, her fanciful pride, her unrealisable ambition, it would be difficult to say. she went over the house with a little sigh after robert was gone, professedly in the ordinary way of a housewife's duty, but really with reference to his last words. yes, the house might be made a great deal better. the drawing-room was a very pretty one--quite enough for all their wants--but the dining-room was occupied by drummond as his studio, according to an arrangement very common among painters. this, it will be perceived, was before the day of the new studio. the dining-room was thus occupied, and a smaller room, such as in most suburban houses is appropriated generally to the often scanty books of the family, was the eating-room of the drummonds. it was one of those things which made helen's pride wince--a very petty subject for pride, you will say--but, then, pride is not above petty things; and it wounded her to be obliged to say apologetically to her cousin--'the real dining-room of the house is mr drummond's studio. we content ourselves with this in the mean time.' 'oh, yes; i see; of course he must want space and light,' reginald burton had replied with patronising complacency, and a recollection of his own banqueting-hall at dura. how helen hated him at that moment, and how much aggravated she felt with poor robert smiling opposite to her, and feeling quite comfortable on the subject! 'we painters are troublesome things,' he even said, as if it was a thing to smile at. helen went and looked in at the studio on this particular morning, and made a rapid calculation how it could be 'made better.' it would have to be improved off the face of the earth, in the first place, as a studio; and then carpeted, and tabled, and mirrored, and ornamented to suit its new destination. it would take a good deal of money to do it, but that was not the first consideration. the thing was, where was robert to go? she, for her part, would have been reconciled to it easily, could he have made up his mind to have a studio apart from the house, and come home when his work was done. that would be an advantage in every way. it would secure that in the evening, at least, his profession should be banished. he would have to spend the evening as gentlemen usually do, yawning his head off if he pleased, but not professional for ever. it would no longer be possible for him to put on an old coat, and steal away into that atmosphere of paint, and moon over his effects, as he loved to do now. he liked helen to go with him, and she did so often, and was tried almost beyond her strength by his affectionate lingerings over the canvas, which, in her soul, she felt would never be any better, and his appeals to her to suggest and to approve. nothing would teach him not to appeal to her. though he divined what she felt, though it had eaten into his very life, yet still he would try again. perhaps this time she might like it better--perhaps---- 'if he would only have his studio out of doors,' helen reflected. she was too sure of him to be checked by the thought that his heart might perhaps learn to live out of doors too as well as his pictures, did she succeed in driving them out. no such doubt ever crossed her mind. he loved her, and nobody else, she knew. his mind had never admitted another idea but hers. she was a woman who would have scorned to be jealous in any circumstances--but she had no temptation to be jealous. he was only a moderate painter. he would never be as splendid as titian, with a prince to pick up his pencil--which is what helen's semi-philistine pride would have prized. but he loved her so as no man had ever surpassed. she knew that, and was vaguely pleased by it; yet not as she might have been had there ever been any doubt about the matter. she was utterly sure of him, and it did not excite her one way or another. but his words had put a little gentle agitation in her mind. she put down her calculation on paper when she went back to the drawing-room after her morning occupations were over, and called norah to her music. sideboard so much, old carved oak, to please him, though for herself she thought it gloomy; curtains, for these luxuries he had not admitted to spoil his light; a much larger carpet--she made her list with some pleasure while norah played her scales. and that was the day on which the painter's commercial career began. chapter ii. drummond's first speculations were very successful, as is so often the case with the innocent and ignorant dabbler in commercial gambling. mr burton instructed him what to do with his little capital, and he did it. he knew nothing about business, and was docile to the point of servility to his disinterested friend, who smiled at his two thousand pounds, and regarded it with amused condescension. two thousand pounds! it meant comfort, ease of mind, moral strength, to drummond. it made him feel that in the contingency of a bad year, or a long illness, or any of the perils to which men and artists are liable, he would still be safe, and that his wife and child would not suffer; but to the rich city man it was a bagatelle scarcely worth thinking of. when he really consented to employ his mind about it, he made such use of it as astonished and delighted the innocent painter. all that his simple imagination had ever dreamed seemed likely to be carried out. this was indeed money-making he felt--trade spelt with a very big capital, and meaning something much more splendid than anything he had hitherto dreamt of. but then he could not have done it by himself or without instruction. burton could not have been more at a loss in drummond's studio than he would have felt in his friend's counting-house. mr burton was 'a merchant;' a vague term which nevertheless satisfied the painter's mind. he was understood to be one of the partners in rivers's bank, but his own business was quite independent of that. money was the material he dealt in--his stock-in-trade. he understood the funds as a doctor understands a patient whose pulse he feels every day. he could divine when they were going to rise and when they were going to fall. and there were other ways in which his knowledge told still more wonderfully. he knew when a new invention, a new manufacture, was going to be popular, by some extraordinary magic which drummond could not understand. he would catch a speculation of this sort at its tide, and take his profit from it, and bound off again uninjured before the current began to fall. in all these matters he was knowing beyond most men; and he lent to his cousin's husband all the benefit of his experience. for several years drummond went on adding to his store in a manner so simple and delightful, that his old way of making money, the mode by which months of labour went to the acquisition of a few hundred pounds, looked almost laughable to him. he continued it because he was fond of his art, and loved her for herself alone; but he did it with a sort of banter, smiling at the folly of it, as an enlightened old lady might look at her spinning-wheel. the use of it? well, as for that, the new ways of spinning were better and cheaper; but still not for the use, but for the pleasure of it!--so drummond clung to his profession, and worked almost as hard at it as ever. and in the additional ease of his circumstances, not needing to hurry anything for an exhibition, or sacrifice any part of his design for the fancy of a buyer, he certainly painted better than usual, and was made an associate, to the general satisfaction of his brethren. these were the happy days in which the studio was built. it was connected with the house, as i have said, by a conservatory, a warm, glass-covered, fragrant, balmy place, bright with flowers. 'there must always be violets, and there must always be colour!' he had said to the nurseryman who supplied and kept his fairy palace in order, after the fashion of london. and if ever there was a flowery way contrived into the thorny haunts of art it was this. it would perhaps be rash to say that this was the happy time of drummond's married life, for they had always been happy, with only that one drawback of helen's dissatisfaction with her husband's work. they had loved each other always, and their union had been most true and full. but the effect of wealth was mollifying, as it so often is. prosperity has been railed at much, as dangerous and deadening to the higher being; but prosperity increases amiability and smooths down asperities as nothing else can. it did not remove that one undisclosed and untellable grievance which prevented mrs drummond's life from attaining perfection, but it took away ever so many little points of irritation which aggravated that. she got, for one thing, the dining-room she wanted--a prosaic matter, yet one which helen considered important--and she got, what she had not bargained for, that pretty conservatory, and a bunch of violets every day--a lover-like gift which pleased her. things, in short, went very well with them at this period of their existence. her discontents were more lulled to sleep than they had ever been before. she still saw the absence of any divine meaning in her husband's pictures; but she saw it with gentler eyes. the pictures did not seem so entirely his sole standing-ground. if he could not grow absolutely illustrious by that or any personal means of acquiring fame, he might still hold his own in the world by other means. helen sighed over her titian-dream, but to a great extent she gave it up. greatness was not to be; but comfort and even luxury were probable. her old conditions of life seemed to be coming back to her. it was not what she had dreamed of; but yet it was better to have mediocrity with ease and modest riches, and pleasant surroundings, than mediocrity without those alleviations. to do her justice, had her husband been a great unsuccessful genius, in whom she had thoroughly believed, she would have borne privation proudly and with a certain triumph. but that not being so, she returned to her old starting-ground with a sigh that was not altogether painful, saying to herself that she must learn to be content with what she had, and not long for what she could not have. thus they were happier, more hopeful, more at their ease. they went more into society, and received more frequent visits from their friends. the new studio made many social pleasures possible that had not been possible. of itself it implied a certain rise in the world. it gave grace and completeness to their little house. nobody could say any longer that it was half a house and half a workshop, as helen, under her breath, in her impatience, had sometimes declared it to be. the workshop phase was over, the era of self-denial gone--and yet robert was not driven from the art he loved, nor prevented from putting on his old coat and stealing away in the evenings to visit the mistress who was dearer to him than anything else except his wife. this was the state of affairs when the painter one day entered helen's drawing-room in a state of considerable excitement. he was full of a new scheme, greater than anything he had as yet been engaged in. rivers's bank, which was half as old as london, which held as high repute as the bank of england, which was the favourite depository of everybody's money, from ministers of state down to dressmakers, was going to undergo a revolution. the riverses themselves had all died out, except, indeed, the head of the house, who was now lord rivers, and had no more than a nominal connection with the establishment which had been the means of bringing him to his present high estate. the other partners had gradually got immersed in other business. mr burton, for instance, confessed frankly that he had not time to attend to the affairs of the bank, and the others were in a similar condition:--they had come in as secondaries, and they found themselves principals, and it was too much for them. they had accordingly decided to make rivers's a joint-stock bank. this was the great news that drummond brought home to his wife. 'i will put everything we have into it,' he said in his enthusiasm, 'unless you object, helen. we can never have such another chance. most speculations have a doubtful element in them. but this is not at all doubtful. there is an enormous business ready made to our hands, and all the traditions of success and the best names in the city to head our list--for of course the old partners hold shares, and will be made directors of the new company----and--you will laugh, helen, but for you and the child i feel able to brave anything--i am to be a director too.' 'you!' cried helen, with a surprise which had some mixture of dismay. 'but you don't know anything about business. you can't even----' 'reckon up my own accounts,' said the painter placidly--'quite true; but you see it is a great deal easier to calculate on a large scale than on a small scale. i assure you i understand the banking system--at least, i shall when i have given my mind to it. i shouldn't mind even,' he said laughing, 'making an effort to learn the multiplication table. norah might teach me. besides, to speak seriously, it doesn't matter in the least: there are clerks and a manager to do all that, and other directors that know all about it, and i shall learn in time.' 'but, then, why be a director at all?' said helen. she said this more from a woman's natural hesitation at the thought of change, than from any dislike of the idea; for she belonged to the race from which directors come by nature. poor drummond could not give any very good reason why he desired this distinction; but he looked very wise, and set before her with gravity all the privileges involved. 'it brings something in,' he said, 'either in the way of salary, or special profits, or something. ask your cousin. i don't pretend to know very much about it. but i assure you he is very great upon the advantages involved. he says it will be the making of me. it gives position and influence and all that--' 'to a painter!' said helen: and in her heart she groaned. her dream came back like a mist, and wove itself about her head. what distinction would it have given to raphael or to titian, or even to gainsborough or sir joshua reynolds, to be made directors of a bank? she groaned in her heart, and then she came back to herself, and caught her husband's eyes looking at her with that grieved and wondering look, half aware of the disappointment he had caused her, humbled, sorry, suspicious, yet almost indignant, the look with which he had sometimes regarded her from among his pictures in the day when art reigned alone over his life. helen came abruptly to herself when she met that glance, and said hurriedly, 'it cannot change your position much, robert, in our world.' 'no,' he said, with a glance of sudden brightness in his eyes which she did not understand; 'but, my darling, our world may expand. i should like you to be something more than a poor painter's wife, helen--you who might be a princess! i should not have ventured to marry you if i had not hoped to make you a kind of princess; but you don't believe i can; do you?' here he paused, and, she thought, regarded her with a wistful look, asking her to contradict him. but how could she contradict him? it was true. the wife of a pleasant mediocre painter, associate, or in time academician--that was all. not a thorough lady of art such as--such as----such as whom? poor andrea's lucrezia, who ruined him? that was the only painter's wife that occurred to helen. 'dear robert,' she said earnestly, 'never mind me: so long as i have you and norah, i care very little about princesses. we are very well and very happy as we are. i think you should be careful, and consider well before you make any change.' but by this time the brightness that had been hanging about him came back again like a gleam of sunshine. he kissed her with a joyous laugh. 'you are only a woman,' he said, 'after all. you don't understand what it is to be a british director. fancy marching into the bank with a lordly stride, and remembering the days when one was thankful to have a balance of five pounds to one's credit! you don't see the fun of it, helen; and the best of the whole is that an r.a. on the board of directors will be an advantage, burton says. why, heaven knows. i suppose he thinks it will conciliate the profession. we painters, you see, are known to have so much money floating about! but anyhow, he thinks an r.a.----' 'but, robert! you are not an r.a.' 'not yet. i forgot to tell you,' he added, lowering his voice, and putting on a sudden look of gravity, which was half real, half innocently hypocritical. 'old welby died last night.' then there was a little pause. they were not glad that old welby was dead. a serious shade came over both their faces for the moment--the homage, partly natural, partly conventional, that human nature pays to death. and then they clasped each other's hands in mutual congratulation. the vacant place would come to drummond in the course of nature. he was known to be the first on the list of associates. thus he had obtained the highest honours of his profession, and it was this and not the bank directorship which had filled him with triumph. his wife's coldness, however, checked his delight. his profession and the public adjudged the honour to him; but helen had not adjudged it. if the prize had been hers to bestow, she would not have given it to him. this made his heart contract even in the moment of his triumph. but yet he was triumphant. to him it was the highest honour in the world. 'poor old welby!' he said. 'he was a great painter; and now that he is dead, he will be better understood. he was fifty before he entered the academy,' the painter continued, with half-conscious self-glorification. 'he was a long time making his way.' 'and you are more than ten years younger,' said helen. surely that might have changed her opinion if anything could. 'robert, are you to be put upon this bank because you are an r.a.?' 'and for my business talents generally,' he said, with a laugh. his spirits were too high to be subdued. he would not hear reason, nor, indeed, anything except the confused delightful chatter about his new elevation, in which the fumes of happiness get vent. he plunged into an immediate revelation of what he would do in his new capacity. 'it will be odd if one can't make the hanging committee a little more reasonable,' he said. 'i shall set my face against that hideous habit of filling up "the line" with dozens of bad pictures because the men have r.a. at their names. do you remember, helen, that year when i was hung up at the ceiling? it nearly broke my heart. it was the year before we were married.' 'they were your enemies then,' said helen, with some visionary remnant of the old indignation which she had felt about that base outrage before she was robert drummond's wife. she had not begun to criticise him then--to weigh his pictures and find them wanting; and she could still remember her disgust and hatred of the hanging committee of that year. now no hanging committee could do any harm. it had changed its opinion and applauded the painter, but she--had changed her opinion too. then this artist-pair did as many such people do. by way of celebrating the occasion they went away to the country, and spent the rest of the day like a pair of lovers. little norah, who was too small to be carried off on such short notice, was left at home with her governess, but the father and mother went away to enjoy the bright summer day, and each other, and the event which had crowned them with glory. even helen's heart was moved with a certain thrill of satisfaction when it occurred to her that some one was pointing her husband out as 'drummond the painter--the new r.a.' he had won his blue ribbon, and won it honestly, and nobody in england, nobody in the world, was above him in his own profession. he was as good as a duke, or even superior, for a duke (poor wretch!) cannot help himself, whereas a painter achieves his own distinction. helen let this new softness steal into her soul. she even felt that when she looked at the pictures next time they would have a light in them which she had not yet been able to perceive. and the bank, though it was so much more important, sank altogether into the background, while the two rowed down the river in the summer evening, with a golden cloud of pleasure and glory around them. they had gone to richmond, where so many happy people go to realise their gladness. and were the pair of lovers new betrothed, who crossed their path now and then without seeing them, more blessed than the elder pair? 'i wonder if they will be as happy ten years hence?' helen said, smiling at them with that mingling of sweet regret and superiority with which we gaze at the reflection of a happiness we have had in our day. 'yes,' said the painter, 'if she is as sweet to him as my wife has been to me.' what more could a woman want to make her glad? if helen had not been very happy in his love, it would have made her heart sick to think of all her failures towards him; but she was very happy; and happiness is indulgent not only to its friends, but even to itself. chapter iii. mr burton, however, was soon restored to pre-eminence in the affairs of the drummonds. the very next day he dined with them, and entered on the whole question. the glory which the painter had achieved was his own affair, and consequently its interest was soon exhausted to his friend, who, for his part, had a subject of his own, of which the interest was inexhaustible. mr burton was very explanatory, in his genial, mercantile way. he made it clear even to helen, who was not above the level of ordinary womankind in her understanding of business. he had no difficulty in convincing her that robert drummond, r.a., would be an addition to the list of directors; but it was harder to make the reasons apparent why 'rivers's' should change its character. if it was so firmly established, so profitable, and so popular, why should the partners desire to share their good fortune with others? mrs drummond asked. her husband laughed with the confidence of a man who knew all about it, at the simplicity of such a question, but mr burton, on the contrary, took the greatest pains to explain all. he pointed out to her all the advantages of 'new blood.' the bank was doing well, and making enormous profits; but still it might do better with more energetic management. mr burton described and deplored pathetically his own over-burdened condition. sometimes he was detained in the city while the guests at a state dinner-party awaited him at home. his carriage had waited for him for two hours together at the railway, while he was busy in town, toiling over the arrears of work at rivers's. 'we have a jewel of a manager,' he said, 'or we never could get on at all. you know golden, drummond? there never was such a fellow for work--and a head as clear as steel; never forgets anything; never lets an opportunity slip him. but for him, we never could have got on so long in this way. but every man's strength has its limits. and we must have "new blood."' thus helen gradually came to an understanding of the whole, or at least thought she did. at all events, she understood about the 'new blood.' her own robert was new blood of the most valuable kind. his name would be important, for the business of 'rivers's' was to a considerable extent a private business. and his good sense and industry would be important too. 'talk about business talent,' mr burton said; 'business talent means good sense and prudence. it means the capacity to see what ought to be done, and the spirit to do it; and if you add to this discretion enough not to go too far, you have everything a man of business needs. of course, all technical knowledge has to be acquired, but that is easily done.' 'but is robert so accomplished as all this?' helen said, opening her eyes. she would not, for all england, have disclosed to her cousin that robert, in her eyes, was anything less than perfect. she would not, for her life, have had him know that her husband was not the first of painters and of men; but yet an exclamation of wonder burst from her. she was not herself so sure of his clear-sightedness and discretion. and when robert laughed with a mixture of vanity and amusement at the high character imagined for him, helen flushed also with something between anger and shame. 'your own profession is a different thing,' she said hastily. 'you have been trained for that. but to be an r.a. does not make you a man of business--and painting is your profession, robert. more will be expected from you now, instead of less.' 'but we are not going to interfere with his time, my dear helen,' said her cousin cheerfully. 'a meeting of directors once a week or so--a consultation when we meet--his advice, which we can always come to ask. bless my soul, we are not going to sweep up a great painter for our small concern. no, no; you may make yourself quite easy. in the mean time drummond is not to give us much more than the benefit of his name.' 'and all his money,' helen said to herself as she withdrew to the drawing-room, where her little norah awaited her. his money had increased considerably since this new era in their lives began. it was something worth having now--something that would make the little girl an heiress in a humble way. and he was going to risk it all. she went into the conservatory in the twilight and walked up and down and pondered--wondering if it was wise to do it; wondering if some new danger was about to swallow them up. her reasonings, however, were wholly founded upon matters quite distinct from the real question. she discussed it with herself, just as her husband would discuss it with himself, in a way common to women, and painters, and other unbusiness-like persons, on every ground but the real one. first, he had followed reginald burton's advice in all his speculations, and had gained. would it be honourable for him to give up following his advice now, especially in a matter which he had so much at heart? secondly, by every means in his power, reginald burton took occasion to throw in _her_ face (helen's) the glories and splendour of his wife, and of the home he had given her, and all her high estate. helen herself was conscious of having refused these glories and advantages. she had chosen to be robert drummond's wife, and thrown aside the other; but still the mention of mrs burton and her luxuries had a certain stinging and stimulating effect upon her. she scorned, and yet would have been pleased to emulate that splendour. the account of it put her out of patience with her own humility, notwithstanding that she took pride in that humility, and felt it more consistent with the real dignity of her position than any splendour. and then, thirdly, the thought would come in that even the magic title of r.a. had not thrown any celestial light into robert's pictures. that very morning she had stood for half an hour, while he was out, in front of the last, which still stood on his easel, and tried to reason herself into love of it. it was a picture which ought to have been great. it was francesca and paolo, in the story, reading together at the crisis of their fate. the glow and ardour of suppressed passion had somehow toned down in drummond's hands to a gentle light. there was a sunset warmth of colour about the pair, which stood in place of that fiercer illumination; and all the maze of love and madness, all the passion and misery and delight, all the terror of fate involved, and shadow of the dark, awful world beyond, had sunk into a tender picture of a pair of lovers, innocent and sweet. helen had stood before it with a mixture of discouragement and longing impossible to put into words. oh, if she could but breathe upon it, and breathe in the lacking soul! oh, if she could but reflect into drummond's eyes the passion of humiliation and impatience and love which was in her own! but she could not. as helen paced up and down the pretty ornamented space, all sweet with flowers, which her husband's love had made for her, this picture rose before her like a ghost. he who painted it was an r.a. it was exquisitely painted--a very miracle of colour and manipulation. there was not a detail which could be improved, nor a line which was out of drawing. he would never do anything better, never, never! then why should he go on trying, proving, over and over, how much he could, and how much he could not do? better, far better, to throw it aside for ever, to grow rich, to make himself a name in another way. thus helen reasoned in the vehemence of her thoughts. she was calm until she came to this point. she thought she was very calm, reasonable to the highest pitch, in everything; and yet the blood began to boil and course through her veins as she pursued the subject. sometimes she walked as far as the door of the studio, and pausing to look in, saw that picture glimmering on the easel, and all the unframed canvases about upon the walls. many of them were sketches of herself, made from memory, for she never would sit--studies of her in her different dresses, in different characters, according as her husband's fond fancy represented her to himself. she could not see them for the darkness, but she saw them all in her heart. was that all he could do? not glorify her by his greatness, but render her the feeble homage of this perpetual, ineffectual adoration. why was not he like the other painters; like--her memory failed her for an example; of all the great painters she could think of only rubens' bacchanalian beauties and that lucrezia would come to her mind. it was about the time of mr browning's poem, that revelation of andrea del sarto, which elucidates the man like a very ray from heaven. she was not very fond of poetry, nor anything of a critic; but the poem had seized upon her, partly because of her intense feeling on the subject. sometimes she felt as if she herself was andrea--not robert, for robert had none of that heart-rending sense of failure. was she lucrezia rather, the wife that goaded him into misery? no, no! she could not so condemn herself. when her thoughts reached this point she forsook the studio and the conservatory, and rushed back to the drawing-room, where little norah, with her head pressed close against the window to take advantage of the last glimmer of light, was reading a book of fairy tales. great painters had not wives. those others--leonardo, and angelo, and the young urbinese--had none of them wives. was that the reason? but not to be as great as michel angelo, not to win the highest honours of art, would robert give up his wife and his child. therefore was it not best that he should give up being a painter, and become a commercial man instead, and grow rich! helen sat down in the gathering darkness and looked at the three windows glimmering with their mist of white curtains, and little norah curled up on the carpet, with her white face and her brown curls relieved against the light. some faint sounds came in soft as summer and evening made them, through the long casement, which was open, and with it a scent of mignonette, and of the fresh earth in the flower-beds, refreshed by watering and dew. sometimes the voices of her husband and cousin from the adjoining room would reach her ear; but where she was all was silent, nothing to disturb her thoughts. no, he would never do better. he had won his crown. helen was proud and glad that he had won it; but in her heart did not consent. he had won and he had not won. his victory was because he had caught the _banal_ fancy of the public, and pleased his brethren by his beautiful work; but he had failed because--because--why had he failed? because he was not raphael or leonardo--nor even that poor andrea--but only robert drummond, painting his pictures not out of any inspiration within him, but for money and fame. he had gained these as men who seek them frankly so often seem to do. but it was better, far better, that he should make money now, by legitimate means, without pursuing a profession in which he never could be great. these were not like a wife's reasonings; but they were helen's, though she was loyal to her husband as ever woman was. she would have liked so much better to worship his works and himself, as most women do; and that would have done him good more than anything else in earth or heaven. but she could not. it was her hard fate that made her eye so keen and so true. it felt like infidelity to him, to come to such a conclusion in his own house, with his kind voice sounding in her ear. but so it was, and she could not make it different, do what she would. he was so pleased when he found she did not oppose his desires, so grateful to her, so strongly convinced that she was yielding her own pleasure to his, that his thanks were both lavish and tender. when their visitor had left them, and they were alone, he poured out his gratitude like a lover. 'i know you are giving in to me,' he said, 'my love, my self-forgetting helen! it is like you. you always have given up your pleasure to mine. am i a brute to accept it, and take my own way?' 'i am not making any sacrifice, robert. don't thank me, please. it is because i think you have judged right, and this is best.' 'and you think i am so blind and stupid not to see why you say that,' he said in his enthusiasm. 'helen, i often wonder what providence was thinking of to give you only such a poor fellow as i am. i wish i was something better for your sake, something more like you; but i have not a wish or a hope in the world, my darling, except for you. if i want to be rich, helen, it is only for you. you know that, at least.' 'and for norah,' she said, smiling. 'for norah, but most for norah's mother, who trusted me when i was nobody, and gave me herself when i had little chance of being either rich or great,' said drummond. he said it, poor fellow, with a swelling of his heart. his new dignity had for the moment delivered him even from the chill of his wife's unexpressed indifference to his work. with a certain trustful simplicity, which it would have been impossible to call vanity, he accepted the verdict of his profession--even though he had doubts himself as to his own eminence, they must know. he had won the greatness he wanted most, he had acquired a distinction which could not but vanquish his own doubts and hers. and as he was now, he would not change positions with any man in england. he was great, and please god, for helen's sake, he would be rich too. he put his arm round his wife and drew her into the open conservatory. the moon was up, and shone down upon them, lighting up with a wan and spiritual light the colourless silent flowers. it was curious to see them, with all their leaves silvered, and all their identity gone, yet pouring forth their sweet scents silently, no one noting them. 'how sweet it is here,' said the painter, drawing a long breath in his happiness. it was a moment that lived in his mind, and remained with him, as moments do which are specially happy, detaching themselves from the common tenor of life with all the more distinctness that they are so few. 'yes, it is the place i love best,' said helen, whose heart was touched too, 'because you made it for me, robert. the rest is ordinary and comfortable, but this is different. it is your sonnet to me, like that we were reading of--like raphael's sonnet and dante's angel.' this she said with a little soft enthusiasm, which perhaps went beyond the magnitude of the fact. but then she was compunctious about her sins towards him; and his fondness, and the moonlight, and the breath of the flowers, moved her, and the celestial fumes of mr browning's book of poetry had gone to helen's head, as the other influences went to her heart. 'my darling! it will be hard upon me if i don't give you better yet,' he said. and then with a change in his voice--cheerful, yet slightly deprecating, 'come and have a look at "francesca,"' he said. it was taking an unfair advantage of her; but she could not refuse him at such a moment. he went back to the drawing-room for the lamp, and returned carrying it, drawing flecks of colour round him from all the flowers as he passed flashing the light on them. helen felt her own portrait look at her reproachfully as she went in with reluctant steps following him, wondering what she could say. it made her heart sick to look at his pet picture, in its beauty and feebleness; but he approached it lovingly, with a heart full of satisfaction and content. he held up the lamp in his hand, though it was heavy, that the softened light might fall just where it ought, and indicated to her the very spot where she ought to stand to have the full advantage of all its beauties. 'i don't think there is much to find fault with in the composition,' he said, looking at it fondly. 'give me your honest opinion, helen. do you think it would be improved by a little heightening of those lights?' helen gazed at it with confused eyes and an aching heart. it was his diploma picture, the one by which most probably he would be known best to posterity, and she said to herself that he, a painter, ought to know better than she did. but that reflection did not affect her feelings. her impulse was to snatch the lamp from his hand, and say, 'dear robert, dearest husband, come and make money, come and be a banker, or sweep a crossing, and let francesca alone for ever!' but she could not say that. what she did say faltering was--'you must know so much better than i do, robert; but i think the light is very sweet. it is best not to be too bright.' 'do you think so?' he said anxiously. 'i am not quite sure. i think it would be more effective with a higher tone just here; and this line of drapery is a little stiff--just a little stiff. could you hold the lamp for a moment, helen? there! that is better. now paolo's foot is free, and the attitude is more distinct. follow the line of the chalk and tell me what you think. that comes better now?' 'yes, it is better,' said helen; and then she paused and summoned all her courage. 'don't you think,' she faltered, 'that francesca--is--almost too innocent and sweet?' 'too innocent!' said poor robert, opening his honest eyes. 'but, dear, you forget! she was innocent. why, surely, you are not the one to go in for anything sensational, helen! this is not francesca in the inferno, but francesca in the garden, before any harm had come near her. i don't like your impassioned women.' he had grown a little excited, feeling, perhaps, more in the suggestion than its mere words; but now he came to a stop, and his voice regained its easy tone. 'the whole thing wants a great deal of working up,' he said; 'all this foreground is very imperfect--it is too like an english garden. i acknowledge my weakness; my ideal always smacks of home.' helen said no more. how could she. he was ready laughingly to allow that england came gliding into his pencil and his thoughts when he meant to paint italy: a venial, kindly error. but candid and kind as he was, he could not bear criticism on the more vital points. she held the lamp for him patiently, though it strained her arm, and tried to make what small suggestions she could about the foreground; and in her heart, as she stood trembling with pain and excitement, would have liked to thrust the flame through that canvas in very love for the painter. perhaps some painter's wife who reads this page, some author's wife, some woman jealous and hungry for excellence in the productions of those she loves, will understand better than i can describe it how helen felt. when he had finished those fond scratches of chalk upon the picture, and had taken the lamp from her hand to relieve her, drummond was shocked to find his wife so tremulous and pale. he made her sit down in his great chair, and called himself a brute for tiring her. 'now let us have a comfortable talk over the other matter,' he said. the lamp, which he had placed on a table littered with portfolios and pigments, threw a dim light through the large studio. there were two ghostly easels standing up tall and dim in the background, and the lay figure ghostliest of all, draped with a gleaming silvery stuff, pale green with lines of silver, shone eerily in the distance. drummond sat down by his wife, and took her hand in his. 'you are quite chilly,' he said tenderly; 'are you ill, helen? if it worries you like this, a hundred directorships would not tempt me. tell me frankly, my darling--do you dislike it so much as this?' 'i don't dislike it at all,' she said eagerly. 'i am chilly because the night is cold. listen how the wind is rising! that sound always makes me miserable. it is like a child crying or some one wailing out of doors. it affects my nerves--i don't know why.' 'it is nothing but the sound of rain,' he said, 'silly little woman! i wonder why it is that one likes a woman to be silly now and then? it restores the balance between us, i suppose; for generally, alas! helen, you are wiser than i am, which is a dreadful confession for a man to make.' 'no, no, it is not true,' she said with indescribable remorse. but he only laughed and put his arm round her, seeing that she trembled still. 'it is quite true; but i like you to be silly now and then--like this. it gives one a glimmer of superiority. there! lean upon me and feel comfortable. you are only a woman after all. you want your husband's arm to keep you safe.' 'what is that?' said helen with a start. it was a simple sound enough; one of the many unframed, unfinished drawings which covered the walls had fallen down. robert rose and picked it up, and brought it forward to the light. 'it is nothing,' he said; and then with a laugh, looking at it, added, '_absit omen!_ it is my own portrait. and very lucky, too, that it was nothing more important. it is not hurt. let us talk about the bank.' 'oh, robert, your portrait!' she said with sudden unreasonable terror, clutching at it, and gazing anxiously into the serene painted face. 'my portrait does not mind in the least,' he said, laughing; 'and it might have been yours, helen. i must have all those fastenings seen to to-morrow. now, let us talk about the bank.' 'oh, robert,' she said, 'let us have nothing to do with it. it _is_ an omen, a warning. we are very well as we are. give up all these business things which you don't understand. how can you understand them? give it up, and let us be as we are.' 'because a nail has come out of the wall?' he said. 'do you suppose the nail knew, helen, or the bit of painted canvas? nonsense, dear. i defy all omens for my part.' and just then the wind rose and gave a wailing cry, like a spirit in pain. helen burst into tears which she could not keep back. no; it was quite true, the picture could not know, the wind could not know what was to come. and yet---- drummond had never seen his wife suffer from nerves or fancies, and it half-amused, half-affected him, and went to his heart. he was even pleased, the simple-minded soul, and flattered by the sense of protection and strength which he felt in himself. he liked nothing better than to caress and soothe her. he took her back to the drawing-room and placed her on a sofa, and read the new book of poetry to her which she had taken such a fancy to. dear foolishness of womankind! he liked to feel her thus dependent upon his succour and sympathy; and smiled to think of any omen that could lie in the howling of the wind, or the rising of a summer storm. chapter iv. it is needless to say that helen's superstition about the fall of the picture and the sighing of the wind vanished with the night, and that in the morning her nervousness was gone, and her mind had returned to its previous train of thought. her passing weakness, however, had left one trace behind. while he was soothing her fanciful terrors, robert had said, in a burst of candour and magnanimity, 'i will tell you what i will do, helen. i will not act on my own judgment. i'll ask haldane and maurice for their advice,' 'but i do not care for their advice,' she had said, with a certain pathos. 'yes, to be sure,' robert had answered; for, good as he was, he liked his own way, and sometimes was perverse. 'they are my oldest friends; they are the most sensible fellows i know. i will tell them all the circumstances, and they will give me their advice.' this was a result which probably would have come whether helen had been nervous or not; for haldane and maurice were the two authorities whom the painter held highest after his wife. but helen had never been able to receive them with her husband's faith, or to agree to them as sharers of her influence over him. it said much for her that she had so tolerated them and schooled herself in their presence that poor drummond had no idea of the rebellion which existed against them in her heart. but both of them were instinctively aware of it, and felt that they were not loved by their friend's wife. he made the same announcement to her next morning with cheerful confidence, and a sense that he deserved nothing but applause for his prudence. 'i am going to keep my promise,' he said. 'you must not think i say anything to please you which i don't mean to carry out. i am going to speak to haldane and maurice. maurice is very knowing about business, and as for stephen, his father was in an office all his life.' 'but, robert, i don't want you to ask their advice. i have no faith in them. i would rather a hundred times you judged for yourself.' 'yes, my darling,' said robert; 'they are the greatest helps to a man in making such a decision. i know my own opinion, and i know yours; and our two good friends, who have no bias, will put everything right.' and he went out with his hat brushed and a new pair of gloves, cheerful and respectable as if he were already a bank director, cleansed of the velvet coats and brigand hats and all the weaknesses of his youth. and his wife sat down with an impatient sigh to hear norah play her scales, which was not exhilarating, for norah's notions of time and harmony were as yet but weakly developed. while the child made direful havoc among the black notes, helen was sounding a great many notes quite as black in her inmost mind. what could they know about it? what were they to him in comparison with herself? why should he so wear his heart upon his sleeve? it raised a kind of silent exasperation within her, so good as he was, so kind, and tender, and loving; and yet this was a matter in which she had nothing to do but submit. these two cherished friends of robert's were not men after helen's heart. the first, stephen haldane, was a dissenting minister, a member of a class which all prejudices were in arms against. it was not that she cared for his religious opinions or views, which differed from her own. she was not theological nor ecclesiastical in her turn of mind, and, to tell the truth, was not given to judging her acquaintances by an intellectual standard, much less a doctrinal one. but she shrank from his intimacy because he was a dissenter--a man belonging to a class not acknowledged in society, and of whom she understood vaguely that they were very careless about their h's, and were not gentlemen. the fact that stephen haldane was a gentleman as much as good manners, and good looks, and a tolerable education could make him, did not change her sentiments. she was too much of an idealist (without knowing it) to let proof invalidate theory. accordingly, she doubted his good manners, mistrusted his opinions, and behaved towards him with studied civility, and a protest, carefully veiled but never forgotten, against his admission to her society. he had no right to be there; he was an intruder, an inferior. such was her conclusion in a social point of view; and her husband's inclination to consult him on most important matters in their history was very galling to her. the two had come to know each other in their youth, when haldane was going through the curious incoherent education which often leads a young man temporarily to the position of dissenting minister. he had started in life as a bluecoat boy, and had shown what people call 'great talent,' but not in the academical way. as a young man he had loved modern literature better than ancient. had he been born to an estate of ten thousand a year, or had he been born in a rank which would have secured him diplomatic or official work, he would have had a high character for accomplishments and ability; but he was born only of a poor dissenting family, without a sixpence, and when his school career was over he did not know what to do with himself. he took to writing, as such men do, by nature, and worked his way into the newspapers. thus he began to earn a little money, while vaguely playing with a variety of careers. once he thought he would be a doctor, and it was while in attendance at an anatomical class that he met drummond. but haldane was soon sick of doctoring. then he became a lecturer, getting engagements from mechanics' institutions and literary societies, chiefly in the country. it was at one of these lectures that he fell under the notice of a certain mr baldwin, a kind of lay bishop in a great dissenting community. mr baldwin was much 'struck' by the young lecturer. he agreed with his views, and applauded his eloquence; and when the lecture was over had himself introduced to the speaker. this good man had a great many peculiarities, and was rich enough to be permitted to indulge them. one of these peculiarities was an inclination to find out and encourage 'rising talent.' and he told everybody he had seldom been so much impressed as by the talents of this young man, who was living (innocently) by his wits, and did not know what to do with himself. it is not necessary to describe the steps by which young haldane ripened from a lecturer upon miscellaneous subjects, literary and philosophical, into a most esteemed preacher. he pursued his studies for a year or two at mr baldwin's cost, and at the end of that time was promoted, not of course nominally, but very really, by mr baldwin's influence, to the pulpit of the flourishing and wealthy congregation of which that potentate was the head. this was stephen haldane's history; but he was not the sort of man to be produced naturally by such a training. he was full of natural refinement, strangely blended with a contented adherence to all the homely habits of his early life. he had not attempted, had not even thought of, 'bettering' himself. he lived with his mother and sister, two homely dissenting women, narrow as the little house they lived in, who kept him, his table, and surroundings, on exactly the same model as his father's house had been kept. all the luxuries of the wealthy chapel folks never tempted him to imitation. he did not even claim to himself the luxury of a private study in which to write his sermons, but had his writing-table in the common sitting-room, in order that his womankind might preserve the cold fiction of a 'best room' in which to receive visitors. to be sure, he might have been able to afford a larger house; but then mrs haldane and miss jane would have been out of place in a larger house. they lived in victoria villas, one of those smaller streets which copy and vulgarize the better ones in all london suburbs. it was close to st mary's road, in which drummond's house was situated, and the one set of houses was a copy of the other in little. the arrangement of the rooms, the shape of the garden, the outside aspect was the same, only so many degrees smaller. and this, it must be allowed, was one of the reasons why the haldanes were unpalatable neighbours to mrs drummond; for, as a general rule, the people who lived in st mary's road did not know the inferior persons who inhabited victoria villas. the smaller copied the greater, and were despised by them in consequence. it was 'a different class,' everybody said. and it may be supposed that it was very hard upon poor helen to have it known that her husband's closest friend, the man whose opinion he asked about most things, and whom he believed in entirely, was one who combined in himself almost all the objectionable qualities possible. he was a dissenter--a dissenting minister--sprung of a poor family, and adhering to all their shabby habits--and lived in victoria villas. the very address of itself was enough to condemn a man; no one who had any respect for his friends would have retained it for an hour. yet it was this man whom robert had gone to consult at the greatest crisis of his life. the other friend upon whom poor drummond relied was less objectionable in a social point of view. he was a physician, and not in very great practice, being a crotchety man given to inventions and investigations, but emphatically 'a gentleman' according to helen's own sense of the word. this was so far satisfactory; but if he was less objectionable, he was also much less interesting than stephen haldane. he was a shy man, knowing little about women and caring less. he lived all by himself in a great house in one of the streets near berkeley square, a house twice as big as the drummonds', which he inhabited in solitary state, in what seemed to helen the coldest, dreariest loneliness. she was half sorry for, half contemptuous of him in his big, solemn, doubly-respectable hermitage. he was rich, and had nothing to do with his money. he had few friends and no relations. he was as unlike the painter as could be conceived; and yet in him too robert believed. their acquaintance dated back to the same anatomical lectures which had brought haldane and drummond together, but dr maurice was a lover of art, and had bought robert's first picture, and thus occupied a different ground with him. perhaps the irritating influence he had upon helen was greater than that exercised by haldane, because it was an irritation produced by his character, not by his circumstances. haldane paid her a certain shy homage, feeling her to be different from all the women who surrounded himself; but maurice treated her with formal civility and that kind of conventional deference which old-fashioned people show to the wishes and tastes of an inferior, that he may be set at his ease among them. there were times when she all but hated the doctor, with his courtesy and his silent air of criticism--but the minister she could not hate. at the same time it must be allowed that to see her husband set out with his new gloves to ask the opinion of these two men, after all the profound thought she had herself given to the subject, and the passionate feeling it had roused within her, was hard upon helen. to them it would be nothing more than a wise or unwise investment of money, but to her it was a measure affecting life and honour. perhaps she exaggerated, she was willing to allow--but they would not fail to underrate its importance; they could not--heaven forbid they ever should!--feel as she did, that robert, though an r.a., had failed in his profession. they would advise him to hold fast by that profession and leave business alone, which was as much as condemning him to a constant repetition of the despairs and discontents of the past; or they would advise him to accept the new opening held out to him and sever himself from art, which would be as good as a confession of failure. thus it is evident, whatever his friends might happen to advise, helen was prepared to resent. at this moment mrs drummond's character was the strangest mixture of two kinds of being. she was, though a mature woman, like a flower bursting out of a rough husk. the old conventional nature, the habits and prejudices of the rich _bourgeois_ existence to which she had been born, had survived all that had as yet happened to her in life. the want of a dining-room, which has been already noted, had been not a trivial accident but a real humiliation to her. she sighed when she thought of the great dinner-parties with mountains of silver on table and sideboard, and many men in black or more gorgeous beings in livery to wait, which she had been accustomed to in her youth; and when she was obliged to furnish a supper for a group of painters who had been smoking half the night in the studio, and who were not in evening dress, she felt almost disgraced. robert enjoyed that impromptu festivity more than all the dinner-parties; but helen felt that if any of her old friends or even the higher class of her present acquaintances were to look in and see her, seated at the head of the table, where half a dozen bearded men in morning coats were devouring cold beef and salad, she must have sunk through the floor in shame and dismay. robert was strangely, sadly without feeling in such matters. it never occurred to him that they could be a criterion of what his wife called 'position;' and he would only laugh in the most hearty way when helen insisted upon the habits proper to 'people of our class.' but her pride, such as it was, was terribly wounded by all such irregular proceedings. the middle-class custom of dining early and making a meal of 'tea,' a custom in full and undisturbed operation round the corner in victoria villas, affected her with a certain horror as if it had been a crime. had she yielded to it she would have felt that she had 'given in,' and voluntarily descended in the social scale. 'late dinners' were to her as a bulwark against that social downfall which in her early married life had seemed always imminent. this curious raising up of details into the place of principles had given helen many an unnecessary prick. it had made her put up with much really inferior society in the shape of people of gentility whose minds were all absorbed in the hard struggle to keep up appearances, and live as people lived with ten times their income, while it cut her off from a great many to whom appearances were less important, and who lived as happened to be most convenient to them, without asking at what hour dukes dined or millionnaires. the dukes probably would have been as indifferent, but not the millionnaires, and it was from the latter class that helen came. but in the midst of all these all-important details and the trouble they caused her, had risen up, she knew not how, a passionate, obstinately ideal soul. perhaps at first her thirst for fame had been but another word for social advancement and distinction in the world, but that feeling had changed by means of the silent anguish which had crept on her as bit by bit she understood her husband's real weakness. love in her opened, it did not blind, her eyes. her heart cried out for excellence, for power, for genius in the man she loved; and with this longing there came a hundred subtle sentiments which she did not understand, and which worked and fermented in her without any will of hers. along with the sense that he was no genius, there rose an unspeakable remorse and hatred of herself who had found it out; and along with her discontent came a sense of her own weakness--a growing humility which was a pain to her, and against which her pride fought stoutly, keeping, up to this time, the upper hand--and a regretful, self-reproachful, half-adoration of her husband and his goodness, produced by the very consciousness that he was not so strong nor so great as she had hoped. these mingled elements of the old and the new in helen's mind made it hard to understand her, hard to realise and follow her motives; yet they explained the irritability which possessed her, her impatience of any suggestion from outside, along with her longing for something new, some change which might bring a new tide into the life which had fallen into such dreary, stagnant, unreal ways. while she waited at home with all these thoughts whirling about her, robert went out cheerfully seeking advice. he did it in the spirit which is habitual to men who consult their friends on any important matter. he made up his mind first. as he turned lightly round the corner, swinging his cane, instead of wondering what his friend would say to him, he was making up his mind what he himself would do with all the unusual power and wealth which would come to him through the bank. for instance, at once, there was poor chance, the sculptor, whose son he could find a place for without more ado. poor chance had ten children, and was no genius, but an honest, good fellow, who would have made quite a superior stonemason had he understood his own gifts. here was one immediate advantage of that bank-directorship. he went in cheerful and confident in this thought to the little house in victoria villas. haldane had been ill; he had spent the previous winter in italy, and his friends had been in some anxiety about his health; but he had improved again, and robert went in without any apprehensions into the sitting-room at the back, which looked into the little garden. he had scarcely opened the door before he saw that something had happened. the writing-table was deserted, and a large sofa drawn near the window had become, it was easy to perceive, the centre of the room and of all the interests of its inhabitants. mrs haldane, a homely old woman in a black dress and a widow's cap, rose hastily as he came in, with her hand extended, as if to forbid his approach. she was very pale and tremulous; the arm which she raised shook as she held it out, and fell down feebly by her side when she saw who it was. 'oh, come in, mr drummond, he will like to see _you_,' she said in a whisper. robert went forward with a pang of alarm. his friend was lying on the sofa with his eyes closed, with an ashy paleness on his face, and the features slightly, very slightly, distorted. he was not moved by the sound of robert's welcome nor by his mother's movements. his eyes were closed, and yet he did not seem to be asleep. his chest heaved regularly and faintly, or the terrified bystander would have thought he was dead. robert clutched at the hand which the old lady stretched out to him again. 'has he fainted?' he cried in a whisper. 'have you had the doctor? let me go for the doctor. do you know what it is?' poor mrs haldane looked down silently and cried. two tears fell out of her old eyes as if they were full and had overflowed. 'i thought he would notice you,' she said. 'he always was so fond of you. oh, mr drummond, my boy's had a stroke!' 'a stroke!' said drummond under his breath. all his own visions flitted out of his mind like a shadow. his friend lay before him like a fallen tower, motionless, speechless. 'good god!' he said, as men do unawares, with involuntary appeal to him who (surely) has to do with those wild contradictions of nature. 'when did it happen? who has seen him?' he asked, growing almost as pale as was the sufferer, and feeling faint and ill in the sense of his own powerlessness to help. 'it was last night, late,' said the mother. oh, mr drummond, this has been what was working on him. i knew it was never the lungs. not one of us, either his father's family or mine, was ever touched in the lungs. dr mixwell saw him directly. he said not to disturb him, or i would have had him in bed. i know he ought to be in bed.' 'i'll go and fetch maurice,' cried robert. 'i shall be back directly,' and he rushed out of the room which he had entered so jauntily. as he flew along the street, and jumped into the first cab he could find, the bank and his directorship went as completely out of his mind as if they had been a hundred years off. he dashed at the great solemn door of dr maurice's house when he reached it and rushed in, upsetting the decorous servant. he seized the doctor by the shoulder, who was seated calmly at breakfast. 'come along with me directly,' he said. 'i have a cab at the door.' 'what is the matter?' said dr maurice. he had no idea of being disturbed so unceremoniously. 'is mrs drummond ill? sit down and tell me what is wrong.' 'i can't sit down. i want you to come with me. there is a cab at the door,' said robert panting. 'it is poor haldane. he has had a fit--come at once.' 'a fit! i knew that was what it was,' said dr maurice calmly. he waved his hand to the importunate petitioner, and swallowed the rest of his breakfast in great mouthfuls. 'i'm coming; hold your tongue, drummond. i knew the lungs was all nonsense--of course that is what it was.' 'come then,' cried robert. 'good heavens, come! don't let him lie there and die.' 'he will not die. more's the pity, poor fellow!' said the doctor. 'i said so from the beginning. john, my hat. lungs, nonsense! he was as sound in the lungs as either you or i.' 'for god's sake, come then,' said the impatient painter, and he rushed to the door and pushed the calm physician into his cab. he had come to consult him about something? yes, to be sure, about poor haldane--not to consult him--to carry him off, to compel, to drag that other back from the verge of the grave. if there was anything more in his mind when he started drummond had clean forgotten it. he did not remember it again till two hours later, when, having helped to carry poor haldane up-stairs, and rushed here and there for medicines and conveniences, he at last went home, weary with excitement and sympathetic pain. 'i have surely forgotten something,' he said, when he had given an account of all his doings to his wife. 'good heavens! i forgot altogether that i went to ask somebody's advice.' chapter v. mr burton called next morning to ascertain drummond's decision, and found that he had been sitting up half the night with stephen haldane, and was wholly occupied by his friend's illness. the merchant suffered a little vexation to be visible in his smooth and genial aspect. he was a middle-aged man, with a bland aspect and full development, not fat but ample. he wore his whiskers long, and had an air that was always jovial and comfortable. the cleanness of the man was almost aggressive. he impressed upon you the fact that he not only had his bath every morning, but that his bath was constructed on the newest principles, with water-pipes which wandered through all the house. he wore buff waistcoats and light trousers, and the easiest of overcoats. his watch-chain was worthy of him, and so were the heavy gold buttons at his sleeves. he looked and moved and spoke like wealth, with a roll in his voice, which is only attainable in business, and when business goes very well with you. consequently the shade of vexation which came over him was very perceptible. he found the drummonds only at breakfast, though he had breakfasted two hours before, and this mingled in his seriousness a certain tone of virtuous reproof. 'my dear fellow, i don't want to disturb you,' he said; 'but how you can make this sort of thing pay i can't tell. _i_ breakfasted at eight; but then, to be sure, i am only a city man, and can't expect my example to be much thought of at the west-end.' 'is this the west-end?' said robert, laughing. 'but if you breakfasted at eight, you must want something more by this time. sit down and have some coffee. we are late because we have been up half the night.' and he told his new visitor the story of poor stephen and his sudden illness. mr burton was moderately concerned, for he had married mr baldwin's only daughter, and was bound to take a certain interest in his father-in-law's _protégé_. he heard the story to an end with admirable patience, and shook his head, and said, 'poor fellow! i am very sorry for him,' with due gravity. but he was soon tired of stephen's story. he took out his watch, and consulted it seriously, muttering something about his appointments. 'my dear good people,' he said, 'it may be all very well for you to spend your time and your emotions on your friends, but a man of business cannot so indulge himself. i thought i should have had a definite answer from you, drummond, yes or no.' 'yes,' said robert with professional calmness. 'i am very sorry. so i intended myself; but this business about poor haldane put everything else out of my head.' 'well,' said mr burton, rising and walking to the fireplace, according to british habit, though there was no fire, 'you know best what you can do. i, for my part, should not be able to neglect my business if my best friend was on his death-bed. of course you understand rivers's is not likely to go begging for partners. such an offer is not made to every one. i am certain that you should accept it for your own sake; but if you do not think it of importance, there is not another word to say.' 'my dear fellow,' cried robert, 'of course i think it of importance; and i know i owe it to your consideration. don't think me ungrateful, pray.' 'as for gratitude, that is neither here nor there,' said the merchant; 'there is nothing to be grateful about. but we have a meeting to-day to arrange the preliminaries, and probably everything will be settled then. i should have liked to place your name at once on the list. to leave such things over, unless you mean simply to abandon them, is a great mistake.' 'i am sure i don't see any particular reason why we should leave it over,' robert said, faltering a little; and then he looked at his wife. helen's face was clouded and very pale. she was watching him with a certain furtive eagerness, but she did not meet his eye. there was a tremulous pause, which seemed like an hour to both of them, during the passing of which the air seemed to rustle and beat about helen's ears. her husband gazed at her, eagerly questioning her; but she could not raise her eyes--something prevented her, she could not tell what; her eyelids seemed heavy and weighed them down. it was not weakness or fear or a desire to avoid the responsibility of immediate action, but positive physical inability. he looked at her for, perhaps, a full minute by the clock, and then he said slowly, 'i see no reason to delay. i think helen and i are agreed. this matter put the other out of my head; but it is natural you should be impatient. i think i will accept your kind offer, burton, without any more delay.' how easy it is to say such words! the moment they were spoken robert felt them so simple, so inevitable, and knew that all along he had meant to say them. but still he was somewhat excited; a curious feeling came into his mind, such as a king may feel when he has crossed his neighbour's frontier with an invading army. half-a-dozen steps were enough to do it; but how to get back again? and what might pass before the going back! the thought caught at his breath, and gave him a tremendous thrill through all his frame. 'very well,' said burton, withdrawing his hands from under his coat-tails, and drawing a slightly long breath, which the other in his excitement did not observe. mr burton did not show any excitement, except that long breath, which, after all, might have been accidental; no sign or indication of feeling had been visible in him. it was a great, a very great matter to the drummonds; but it was a small matter to one who had been for years a partner in rivers's. 'very well. i will submit your name to the directors to-day. i don't think you need fear that the result will be doubtful. and i am very glad you have come to such a wise decision. helen, when your husband is rich, as i trust he soon will be, i hope you will fancy a little house at dura, and be our neighbour. it would be like old times. i should like it more than i can say.' 'i never was fond of dura,' said helen, with some abruptness. this reference to his greatness irritated her, as it always did; for whatever new-comer might take a little house at dura, he was the lord of the place, supreme in the great house, and master of everything. such an allusion always stirred up what was worst in her, and gave to her natural pride a certain tone of spitefulness and envy, which disgusted and wounded herself. but it did not wound her cousin, it pleased him. he laughed with a suppressed enjoyment and triumph. 'well,' he said, 'dura is my home, and a very happy one, therefore, of course, i am fond of it. and it has a great many associations too, some of them, perhaps, not so agreeable. but it is always pleasant to feel, as i do, that everything that has happened to one has been for the best.' 'the conversation has taken a highly edifying tone,' said robert with some surprise. he saw there was more meant than met the eye, but he did not know what it was. 'we shall all be thanking providence next, as people do chiefly, i observe, in celebration of the sufferings of others. well, since you think i am on the fair way to be rich, perhaps i had better thank providence by anticipation. must i go with you to-day?' 'not to-day. you will have full intimation when your presence is wanted. you forget--nothing is settled yet,' said mr burton; 'the whole arrangement may come to nothing yet, for what i know. but i must be going; remember me to poor haldane when he is able to receive good wishes. i hope he'll soon be better. some of these days i'll call and see him. good morning, helen. good-bye, drummond. i'm glad you've made up your mind. my conviction is, it will turn out the best day's work you ever did in your life.' 'is he true, i wonder?' helen said to herself as the two men left the room, and stood talking in the hall. it was the first time the idea had crossed her mind, and now it took its origin more from the malicious shaft her cousin had shot at herself than from any indication of double-dealing she had seen in him. it was against all the traditions of the burtons to imagine that he could be anything but true. they had been business people as long as they had been anything, and commercial honour had been their god. it went against her to imagine that 'a relation of mine!' could be other than perfect in this particular; and she sighed, and dismissed the idea from her mind, blaming herself, as she often did now, for ill-temper and suspiciousness. 'it was mean to make that allusion to the past, but it is meaner of me to doubt him on that account,' she said to herself, with a painful sigh. it was so hard in her to overcome nature, and subdue those rebellious feelings that rose in her unawares. 'why should i care?' she thought, 'it is my vanity. i suppose if the man had never got over my rejection of him i should have been pleased. i should have thought better of him! such a man as that! after all, we women must be fools indeed.' this was the edifying sentiment in her mind when robert came back. 'well, helen, the die is cast,' he said, half cheerfully, half sadly. 'however we come to shore, the ship has set out. if it were not for poor stephen i should make to-day a holiday and take you somewhere. this day ought to be distinguished from the rest.' 'i hope he is true. i wonder if he is true?' helen repeated to herself, half unconsciously, beneath her breath. 'whom? your cousin!!' said robert, with quite two notes of admiration in his tone. 'why, helen, what a cynic you are growing. you will suspect me next.' 'am i a cynic?' she said, looking up at him with a sudden tear in her eye. 'it is because i am beginning to be so wretchedly doubtful about myself.' this admission burst from her she could not tell how. she had no intention of making it. and she was sorry the moment the words were said. but as for robert, he gazed at her first in consternation, then laughed, then took her in his kind arms with those laughing accusations of love which are more sweet than any eulogy. 'yes,' he said, 'you are a very suspicious character altogether, you know so much harm of yourself that it is evident you must think badly of others. what a terrible business for me to have such a wife!' thus ended the episode in their lives which was to colour them to their very end, and decide everything else. they had been very solemn about it at the beginning, and had made up their minds to proceed very warily, and ask everybody's advice; but, as so often happens in human affairs, the decision which was intended to be done so seriously had been accomplished in a moment, without consideration, almost without thought. and, being done, it was a weight off the minds of both. they had no longer this disturbing matter between them to be discussed and thought over. robert dismissed it out of simple light-heartedness, and that delightful economy of sensation which is fortunately so common among the artist class: 'it is done, and all the thinking in the world will not make any difference. why should i bother myself about it?' if this _insouciance_ sometimes does harm, heaven knows it does a great deal of good sometimes, and gives the artist power to work where a man who felt his anxieties more heavily would fail. helen had not this happy temper; but she was a woman, more occupied with personal feelings than with any fact, however important. the fact was outside, and never, she thought, could vanquish her--her enemies were within. time passed very quietly after this great decision. there was a lull, during which stephen haldane grew better, and mrs drummond learned to feel a certain friendliness and sympathy for the lonely mother and sister, who were flattered by her inquiries after him. she came even to understand her husband's jokes about miss jane, the grim and practical person who ruled the little house in victoria villas--whom she sometimes laughed at, but whom little norah took a violent fancy for, which much mollified her mother. and then, in the matter of rivers's bank, there began to rise a certain agreeable excitement and importance in their life. 'drummond among the list of bank directors! _drummond!_ what does it mean?' this question ran through all the studios, and came back in amusing colours to the two who knew all about it. 'his wife belongs to that sort of people, and has hosts of business connections,' said one. 'the fellow is rich,' said another: 'don't you know what a favourite he is with all the dealers, and has been for ever so long?' 'his wife has money,' was the judgment of a third; 'take my word for it, that is the way to get on in this world. a rich wife keeps you going till you've made a hit--if you are ever going to make a hit--and helps you on.' 'it is all that cousin of hers,' another would say, 'that fellow burton whom one meets there. he bought my last picture, so i have reason to know, and has a palace in the country, like the rest of those city fellows.' 'what luck some men have!' sighed the oldest of all. 'i am older than drummond, but none of these good things ever came my way.' and this man was a better painter than drummond, and knew it, but somehow had never caught the tide. drummond's importance rose with every new report. when he secured that clerkship for bob chance, chance the sculptor's son, he made one family happy, and roused a certain excitement in many others; for poor artists, like poor clergymen and other needy persons, insist upon having large families. two or three of the men who were robert's contemporaries, who had studied with him in the schools, or had guided his early labours, went to see him--while others wrote--describing promising boys who would soon be ready for business, and for whom they would gladly secure something less precarious than the life of art. these applications were from the second class of artists, the men who are never very successful, yet who 'keep on,' as they themselves would say, rambling from exhibition to exhibition, painting as well as a man can be taught to paint who has no natural impulse, or turning out in conscientious marble fair limbs of nymphs that ought, as the only reason for their being, to have sprung ethereal from the stone. and these poor painters and sculptors were often so good, so kindly, and unblamable as men; fond of their families, ready to do anything to push on the sons and daughters who showed 'talent,' or had any means offered of bettering themselves. how gladly robert would have given away a dozen clerkships! how happy it would have made him to scatter upon them all some share of his prosperity! but he could not do this, and it was the first disagreeable accompaniment of his new position. he had other applications, however, of a different kind. those in the profession who had some money to invest came and asked for his advice, feeling that they could have confidence in him. 'rivers's has a name like the bank of england,' they said; and he had the privilege of some preference shares to allot to them. all this advanced him in his own opinion, in his wife's, in that of all the world. he was no longer a man subject to utter demolition at the hands of an ill-natured critic; but a man endowed with large powers in addition to his genius, whom nobody could demolish or even seriously harm. perhaps, however, the greatest height of drummond's triumph was reached when, the year having crept round from summer to autumn, his friend dr maurice came to call one evening after a visit to haldane. it was that moment between the two lights which is dear to all busy people. the first fire of the year was lit in helen's drawing-room, which of itself was a little family event. robert had strayed in from the studio in his painting coat, which he concealed by sitting in the shade by the side of the chimney. the autumn evenings had been growing wistful and eerie for some time back, the days shortening, yet the season still too mild for fires--so that the warm interior, all lit by the kindly, fitful flame, was a novelty and a pleasure. the central figure in the picture was norah, in a thick white piqué frock, with her brown hair falling on her shoulders, reading by the firelight. the little white figure rose from the warm carpet into the rosy firelight, herself less vividly tinted, a curious little abstract thing, the centre of the life around her, yet taking no note of it. she had shielded her cheek with one of her hands, and was bending her brows over the open book, trying to shade the light which flickered and danced, and made the words dance too before her. the book was too big for her, filling her lap and one crimsoned arm which held its least heavy side. the new-comer saw nothing but norah against the light as he came in. he stopped, in reality because he was fond of norah, with a disapproving word. 'at it again!' he said. 'that child will ruin her eyesight and her complexion, and i don't know what besides.' 'never fear,' said drummond, with a laugh, out of the corner, revealing himself, and helen rose from the other side. she had been invisible too in a shady corner. a certain curious sensation came over the man who was older, richer, and felt himself wiser, than the painter. all this drummond had for his share, though he had not done much to deserve it--whereas in the big library near berkeley square there was no fire, no child pushing a round shoulder out of her frock, and roasting her cheeks, no gracious woman rising softly out of the shadows. of course, dr maurice might have been married too, and had not chosen; but nevertheless it was hard to keep from a momentary envy of the painter who could come home to enjoy himself between the lights, and for whom every night a new pose arranged itself of that child reading before the fire. dr maurice was a determined old bachelor, and thought more of the child than of the wife. 'haldane is better to-day,' he said, seating himself behind norah, who looked up dreamily, with hungry eyes possessed by her tale, to greet him, at her mother's bidding. 'nearly as well as he will ever be. we must amuse him with hopes of restoration, i suppose; but he will never budge out of that house as long as he lives.' 'but he will live?' said robert. 'yes, if you can call it living. fancy, drummond! a man about your own age, a year or two younger than i am--a man fond of wandering, fond of movement; and yet shut up in that dreary prison--for life!' a silence fell upon them all as he spoke. they were too much awed to make any response, the solemnity being beyond words. norah woke up at the pause. their voices did not disturb her; but the silence did. 'who is to be in the dreary prison?' she said, looking round upon them with her big brown wondering eyes. 'hush! poor mr haldane, dear,' said the mother, under her breath. then norah burst into a great cry. 'oh, who has done it--who has done it? it is a shame--it is a sin! he is so good.' 'my child,' said the doctor, with something like a sob, 'it is god who has done it. if it had been a man, we would have throttled him before he touched poor stephen. now, heaven help us! what can we do? i suppose it is god.' 'maurice, don't speak so before the child,' said robert from a corner. 'how can i help it?' he cried. 'if it was a man's doing, what could we say bad enough? norah, little one, you don't know what i mean. go back to your book.' 'norah, go up-stairs and get dressed for dinner,' said helen. 'but you cannot, you must not be right, doctor. oh, say you are sometimes deceived. things happen that you don't reckon on. it is not for his life?' dr maurice shook his head. he looked after norah regretfully as she went out of the room with the big book clasped in her arms. 'you might have let the child stay,' he said reproachfully. 'there was nothing that could have disturbed _her_ in what i said.' and then for a moment or two the sound of the fire flickering its light about, making sudden leaps and sudden downfalls like a living thing, was the only sound heard; and it was in this pensive silence, weighted and subdued by the neighbourhood of suffering, that the visitor suddenly introduced a subject so different. he said abruptly-- 'i have to congratulate you on becoming a great man, drummond. i don't know how you have done it. but this bank, i suppose, will make your fortune. i want to venture a little in it on my own account.' 'you, maurice? my dear fellow!' said robert, getting up with sudden enthusiasm, and seizing his friend by both his hands, '_you_ going in for rivers's! i never was so glad in my life!' 'you need not be violent,' said the doctor. 'have i said anything very clever, mrs drummond? i am going in for rivers's because it seems such a capital investment. i can't expect, of course, to get put on the board of directors, or to sit at the receipt of custom, like such a great man as you are. don't shake my hands off, my good fellow. what is there wonderful in this?' 'nothing wonderful,' said robert; 'but the best joke i ever heard in my life. fancy, helen, i was going to him humbly, hat in hand, to ask his advice, thinking perhaps he would put his veto on it, and prevent me from making my fortune. and now he is a shareholder like the rest. you may not see it, but it is the best joke! you must stay to dinner, old fellow, and we will talk business all the evening. helen, we cannot let him go to-night.' and helen smiled too as she repeated her husband's invitation. robert had been wiser than his friends, though he had asked nobody's advice but hers. it was a salve to her often-wounded pride. the doctor did not like it half so much. his friend had stolen a march upon him, reversed their usual positions, gone first, and left the other to follow. he stayed to dinner, however, all the same, and pared apples for norah, and talked over rivers's afterwards over his wine. but when he left the door to go home, he shrugged his shoulders with a half-satisfied prophecy. 'he will never paint another good picture,' maurice said, with a certain tone of friendly vengeance. 'when wealth comes in good-bye to art.' chapter vi. it was on an october day, mellow and bright, when robert drummond, with a smile on his face, and a heavy heart in his breast, reached the house in victoria villas, to superintend poor stephen's return to the sitting-room, as he had superintended his removal to his bed. the sitting-room was larger, airier, and less isolated, than the mournful chamber up-stairs, in which he had spent half the summer. it was a heart-rending office, and yet it was one from which his friend could not shrink. before he went up-stairs the painter paused, and took hold of miss jane's hand, and wept, as people say, 'like a child;' but a child's hot thunder-shower of easily-dried tears are little like those few heavy drops that come to the eyes of older people, concentrating in themselves so much that words could not express. miss jane, for her part, did not weep. her gray countenance, which was grayer than ever, was for a moment convulsed, and then she pushed her brother's friend away. 'don't you see i daren't cry?' she said, almost angrily, with one hard sob. her brother stephen was the one object of her life. all the romance of which she was capable, and a devotion deeper than that of twenty lovers, was in her worship of him. and this was what it was coming to! she hurried into the room which she had been preparing for him, which was henceforward to be his dwelling day and night, and shut the door upon the too sympathetic face. as for robert, he went into his friend's little chamber with cheery salutations: 'well, old fellow, so you are coming back to the world!' he said. poor haldane was seated in his dressing-gown in an easy-chair. to look at him, no chance spectator would have known that he was as incapable of moving out of it as if he had been bound with iron, and everybody about him had been loud in their congratulations on the progress he was making. they thought they deceived him, as people so often think who flatter the incurable with hopes of recovery. he smiled as robert spoke, and shook his head. 'i am changing my prison,' he said; 'nothing more. i know that as well as the wisest of you, drummond. you kind, dear souls, do you think those cheery looks you have made such work to keep up, deceive me?' 'what cheery looks? i am as sulky as a bear,' said robert. 'and as for your prison, maurice doesn't think so. you heard what he said?' 'maurice doesn't say so,' said poor haldane. 'but never mind, it can't last for ever; and we need not be doleful for that.' the painter groaned within himself as they moved the helpless man down-stairs. 'it will last for ever,' he thought. he was so full of life and consolation himself that he could not realise the end which his friend was thinking of--the 'for ever' which would release him and every prisoner. when they carried the invalid into the room below he gave a wistful look round him. for life--that was what he was thinking. he looked at the poor walls and commonplace surroundings, and a sigh burst from his lips. but he said immediately, to obliterate the impression of the sigh, 'what a cheerful room it is, and the sun shining! i could not have had a more hopeful day for my first coming down-stairs.' and then they all looked at each other, heart-struck by what seemed to them the success of their deception. old mrs haldane fell into a sudden outburst of weeping: 'oh, my poor boy! my poor boy!' she said; and again a quick convulsion passed over miss jane's face. even dr maurice, the arch-deceiver, felt his voice choked in his throat. they did not know that their patient was smiling at them and their transparent devices, in the sadness and patience of his heart. the room had been altered in many particulars for his reception, and fitted with contrivances, every one of which contradicted the promises of restoration which were held out to him. he had known it was so, but yet the sight of all the provisions made for his captivity gave him a new pang. he could have cried out, too, to earth and heaven. but what would have been the good? at the end all must submit. 'now that you are comfortable, stephen,' said his sister, with a harsh rattle in her voice, which made her appear less amiable than ever, and in reality came out of the deep anguish of her heart, 'there is some one waiting to see you. the chapel people have been very kind. besides the deputation that came with the purse for you, there are always private members asking how you are, and if they can see you, and how they miss you--till you are able to go back.' 'that will be never, jane.' 'how do you know? how can any one tell? it is impious to limit god's mercies,' cried miss jane harshly; then, suddenly calming down, 'it is mr baldwin's son-in-law who has called to-day. they are in the country, and this mr burton has come to carry them news of you. may he come in?' 'that is your cousin--your director?' said the invalid with some eagerness. 'i should like to see him. i want you to invest my money for me, drummond. there is not much; but you must have it, and make something of it in your new bank.' mr burton came in before drummond could answer. he came in on tiptoe, with an amount of caution which exasperated all the bystanders who loved stephen. he looked stronger, richer, more prosperous than ever as he sat down, sympathetically, close to stephen's chair. there he sat and talked, as it were, smoothing the sick man down. 'we must have patience;' he said soothingly. 'after such an illness it will take so long to get up your strength. the sea-side would have been the best thing, but, unfortunately, it is a little late. i am so glad to hear your people are showing you how much they prize such a man as you among them; and i hope, with one thing and another--the pension, and so forth--you will be very comfortable? i would not venture to ask such a question, if it were not for mr baldwin. he takes so much interest in all your concerns.' 'i am very glad you have spoken of it,' said haldane, 'for i want to invest what little money i have in this bank i hear so much of--yours and drummond's. i feel so much like a dying man--' 'no, no,' said mr burton in a deprecating tone, 'nothing half so bad. providence, you may be sure, has something different in store for you. we must not think of that.' 'at all events, i want to make the best of the money, for my mother and sister,' said stephen. and then he entered into business, telling them what he had, and how it was invested. his mind had been very full of this subject for some time past. the money was not much, but if he died, it would be all his mother and sister would have to depend upon, and the purse which his congregation had collected for him would increase his little, very little capital. dr maurice had gone away, and the two women, though they heard everything, were withdrawn together into a corner. mrs haldane had attempted several times to interrupt the conversation. 'what do we care for money!' she had said, with tears in her eyes. 'let him alone, mother, it will make him happier,' miss jane had said in the voice that was so harsh with restrained emotion. and stephen, with his two visitors beside him, and a flush upon his wan face, expounded all his affairs, and put his fortune into their hands. 'between you, you will keep my poor little nest-egg warm,' he said, smiling upon them. his illness had refined his face, and gave him a certain pathetic dignity, and there was something that affected both in this appeal. 'i will sit on it myself sooner than let it cool,' drummond had said with a laugh, yet with the tears in his eyes, with an attempt to lighten the seriousness of the moment. 'dear old fellow, don't be afraid. your sacred money will bring a blessing on the rest.' 'that is all very pretty and poetical,' said mr burton, with a curious shade passing over his face; 'but if haldane has the slightest doubt on the subject, he should not make the venture. of course, we are all prepared in the way of business to win or to lose. if we lose, we must bear it as well as we can. of course, i think the investment as safe as the bank of england--but at the same time, drummond, it would be a very different thing to you or me from what it would be to him.' 'very different,' said drummond; but the mere suggestion of loss had made him pale. 'these are uncomfortable words,' he went on with a momentary laugh. 'for my part, i go in to win, without allowing the possibility of loss. loss! why i have been doing a great deal in ways less sure than rivers's, and i have not lost a penny yet, thanks to you.' 'i am not infallible,' said burton. 'of course, in everything there is a risk. i cannot make myself responsible. if haldane has the least doubt or hesitation----' 'if i had, your caution would have reassured me,' said the invalid. 'people who feel their responsibility so much, don't throw away their neighbour's money. it is all my mother has, and all i have. when you are tempted to speculate, think what a helpless set of people are involved--and no doubt there will be many more just as helpless. i think perhaps it would exercise a good influence on mercantile men,' he added, with perhaps a reminiscence of his profession, 'if they knew something personally of the people whose lives are, so to speak, in their hands.' 'haldane,' said mr burton hastily, 'i don't think we ought to take your money. it is too great a risk. trade has no heart and no bowels. we can't work in this way, you know, it would paralyse any man. money is money, and has to be dealt with on business principles. god bless me! if i were to reflect about the people whose lives, &c--i could never do anything! we can't afford to take anything but the market into account.' 'i don't see that,' said the painter, who knew as much about business as mr burton's umbrella. 'i agree with haldane. we should be less ready to gamble and run foolish risks, if we remembered always what trusts we have in our hands,--the honour of honest men, and the happiness of families.' he was still a little pale, and spoke with a certain emotion, having suddenly realised, with a mixture of nervous boldness and terror, the other side of the question. mr burton turned away with a shrug of his shoulders. 'it suits you two to talk sentiment instead of business,' he said, 'but that is not in my line. so long as my own credit is concerned, i find that a much greater stimulant than anybody else's. self-interest is the root of everything--in business; and if you succeed for yourself, which of course is your first motive, you succeed for your neighbours as well. i don't take credit for any fine sentiments. that is my commercial creed. number one includes all the other numbers, and the best a man can do for his friends is to take care of himself.' he got up with a slight show of impatience as he spoke. his face was overcast, and he had the half-contemptuous air which a practical man naturally assumes when he listens to anything high-flown. he, for his part, professed to be nothing but a man of business, and had confidence enough in his friends' knowledge of him to be able to express the most truculent sentiments. so, at least, haldane thought, who smiled at this transparent cynicism. 'i suppose, then, we are justified in thinking anything that is bad of you, and ought not to trust you with a penny?' he said. 'if you trust anything to me personally, of course i shall take care of it,' answered the merchant. 'but what we were talking of was rivers's--business, not personal friendship. and business cannot afford such risks. you must examine into it, and judge of its claims for yourself. come, let us dismiss the subject. i will tell mr baldwin i found you looking a great deal better than i hoped.' 'but i don't want to dismiss the subject,' said haldane. 'i am satisfied. i am anxious----' 'think it over once more, at least,' said the other hastily; and he went away with but scant leave-taking. mrs haldane, who was a wise woman, and, without knowing it, a physiognomist, shook her head. 'that man means what he says,' she said with some emphasis. 'he is telling you his real principles. if i were you, stephen, i would take him at his word.' 'my dear mother, he is one of the men who take pleasure in putting the worst face on human nature, and attributing everything to selfish motives,' said the sick man. 'i very seldom believe those who put such sentiments so boldly forth.' 'but i do,' said his mother, shaking her head with that obstinate conviction which takes up its position at once and defies all reason. her son made no answer. he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. the momentary excitement was over, the friends were gone, and the new and terrible life settled down upon him. he did not say a word to indicate what was passing through his mind, but he thought of the ship which drifted between the sunset and the mariner, and the nightmare life-in-death casting her dies with the less appalling skeleton. it was she who had won. in the mean time the two directors of rivers's bank walked out together; one of them recovering all his self-confidence the moment he left the house, the other possessed by a certain tremulous excitement. the idea of risk was new to the painter. he felt a certain half-delightful, half-alarming agitation when he made his first ventures, but that had soon yielded to his absolute confidence in the man who now, with his own lips, had named the fatal word. robert's imagination, the temperament of the artist, which is so often fantastically moved by trifles, while strong to resist the presence of fact and certainty, had sustained a shock. he did not say anything while they walked up the road under the faded autumnal leaves which kept dropping through the still air upon their heads. in this interval he had gone over within himself all the solid guarantees, all the prestige, all the infallibility (for had it not attained that point?) of rivers's. sure as the bank of england! such were the words that rose continually to everybody's lips on hearing of it. robert propped himself up as he went along with one support or another, till he felt ashamed that he could be capable of entertaining a shadow of doubt. but the impression made upon his nerves was not to be overcome by simple self-argument. time was wanted to calm it down. he felt a certain thrill and jar communicated through all the lines of life. the sensation ran to his very finger-points, and gave a sharp electric shock about the roots of his hair. and it set his heart and his pulse beating, more likely organs to be affected. loss! that was to say, helen and the child deprived of the surroundings that made their life so fair; driven back to the poor little lodgings, perhaps, in which his career began, or to something poorer still. perhaps to want, perhaps to----'what a fool i am!' he said to himself. 'do you really object to haldane as one of our shareholders?' he said, with a certain hesitation, at last. 'object--the idiot!' said mr burton. 'i beg your pardon, drummond, i know he's a great friend of yours; but all that nonsense exasperates me. why, god bless me, his body is sick, but his mind is as clear as yours or mine. why can't he judge for himself? i am quite ready to give him, or you, or any one that interests me, the benefit of my experience; but to take you on my shoulders, drummond, you know, would be simply absurd. i can't foresee what may happen. i am ready to run the risk myself. that's the best guarantee i can give, don't you think? but i won't run any sentimental risks. you may, if you like; they are out of my line.' 'i don't know what you mean by sentimental risks.' 'oh, as for that, it is easy to explain. the man is very ill: he will never be of any use in life again, and loss would be destruction to him. therefore i won't take the responsibility. why, there may be a revolution in england next year for anything i can tell. there may be an invasion. our funds may be down to zero, and our business paralysed. how can i tell? all these things are within the bounds of possibility, and if they happened, and we went to smash, as we should infallibly, what would haldane do?' 'if there is nothing to alarm us closer at hand than a revolution or an invasion--' said drummond with a smile. 'how can we tell? if i were asked to insure england, i should only do it on a very heavy premium, i can tell you. and look here, drummond, take my advice, always let a man judge for himself, never take the responsibility. if you do, you'll be sorry after. i never knew a good man of business yet who went in, as i said, for sentimental risks.' 'i fear i shall never be a good man of business,' said the painter, with a certain sickness at his heart. 'but tell me now, suppose you were guardian to orphans, what should you do with their money? i suppose that is what you would call a very sentimental risk.' 'not so bad as haldane,' said burton. 'they would be young and able to make their way if the worst came to the worst. if they were entirely in my own hands i should invest the money as i thought best; but if there were other guardians or relations to make a fuss, i should put it in the three per cents.' 'i really--don't--quite see what--difference that would make--' robert commenced, but his companion stopped him almost roughly. 'the question won't bear discussing, drummond. if i go in with you, will your wife give me some lunch? i have lost my whole morning to please my father-in-law. don't you bother yourself about haldane. he is a clear-headed fellow, and perfectly able to judge for himself.' then no more was said. if a passing cloud had come over the rich man, it fled at sight of the table spread for luncheon, and the sherry, upon which poor robert (knowing almost as little about that as he did about business) prided himself vastly. mr burton applauded the sherry. he was more conversational even than usual, and very anxious that drummond should look at a country-house in his neighbourhood. 'if you can't afford it now you very soon will,' he said, and without referring to rivers's kept up such a continued strain of allusions to the good fortune which was about to pour upon the house, that robert's nerves were comforted, he could scarcely have told how. but he went and worked all the afternoon in the studio when the city man went off to his business. he laboured hard at francesca, fixing his whole mind upon her, not even whistling in his profound preoccupation. he had been absent from the studio for some time, and the _feel_ of the old beloved tools was delightful to him. but when the early twilight came and interrupted his work, he went out and took a long walk by himself, endeavouring to shake off the tremor which still lingered about him. it was in his veins and in his nerves, tingling all over him. he reasoned with himself, shook himself up roughly, took himself to task, but yet did not get over it. 'bah! it is simple sensation!' he said at last, and with a violent effort turned his thoughts in another direction. but the shock had left a tremor about him which was not quite dissipated for days after; for a man who is made of fanciful artist-stuff, is not like a business man with nerves of steel. chapter vii. nothing happened, however, to justify drummond's fears. the success of rivers's in its new form was as great and as steady to all appearance as that of its ancient phase. people vied with each other in rushing into it, in crowding its coffers and its share lists. stephen haldane, 'left to himself,' according to mr burton's instructions, had long since deposited all he had in its hands; and almost all of robert's professional friends who had any money to invest, invested it in the bank which had an r.a. upon the roll of directors. people came to him to ask his advice who in other times would have given him theirs freely, with no such respect for his judgment. but though this was the case, and though ignorant persons in society sometimes wondered how he could make the two occupations compatible, and carry on business and art together, yet the fact was that business and robert had very little to do with each other. he went to the meetings of the directors now and then. he was blandly present sometimes at an auditing of accounts. he listened at times to the explanations given by mr golden, the manager, and found them everything that was reasonable and wise. but beyond that he cannot be said to have taken much part in the management. for this mild part he was abundantly rewarded--so abundantly that he sometimes felt half ashamed, reflecting that the clerks in the offices actually contributed more to the success of the place than he did, though they did not profit half so much. he felt himself justified in taking a nice house in the country, though not at dura, at the end of the first season, and he gave his wife a pretty little carriage with two ponies on her birthday, in which she drove about with a pleasure perhaps more real than that which any other circumstance of their prosperity gave her. they did not leave their house in st mary's road, for it was dear to them in many ways, and still satisfied all their wants; and robert could not tolerate the idea of another painter using the studio he had built, or another woman enjoying the conservatory which had been made for helen. 'however rich we may grow--even if we should ever be able to afford that house in park lane--we must keep this,' he said; 'no profane foot must come in, no stranger intrude upon our household gods; and norah must have it after us, the house she was born in.' thus they planned their gentle romance, though they had been a dozen years married and more, and bought the house they loved with their first disposable money. and robert still loved his work and kept to it, though he did not need now to trouble about the exhibitions and push on his picture, working from the early morning down to twilight to get it ready. he got a little lazy about finished pictures, to tell the truth. even francesca, though he loved her, had been put aside on the spare easel, and never completed. 'i will get up early and set to work in earnest to-morrow,' he always said; but to-morrow generally found him like the day before, making a study of something--sketching in now one subject, now another--tormenting his wife with questions as to which was best. she had a good deal to put up with in this period; but she kept up under it and bore it all smilingly. and robert, like so many more, made his sketches much better than his pictures, and put ideas upon his canvas which, if he could but have carried them out, might have been great. thus two years passed over the pair; and there were times when helen thought, with a leap of her heart, that ease and leisure had done what care and toil could not do--had roused a spark of divine genius in her husband's breast. now and then he drew something that went right to her heart, and it was she who had always been his harshest critic. when she said to him one day suddenly, without purpose or meaning, 'i like that, robert,' he turned round upon her all flushed and glowing, more radiant than when he was made an r.a. it was not that he had supreme confidence in her knowledge of art, but that her backing of him, the support which he had longed for all these years, was more than the highest applause, and invigorated his very soul. but he was so pleased to have pleased her, that he set up his sketch upon a bigger canvas, and worked at it and improved it till he had improved the soul out of it, and helen applauded no more. he was much mortified and disappointed at this failure; but then in his humility he said to himself, 'what does it matter now? i am an r.a., which is the best i could be in my profession, so far as the world is concerned, and we have something else to stand upon besides the pictures.' thus he consoled himself, and so did she. and, in the mean time, norah kept growing, and became a more distinct feature in the household. she was a feature more than an agent still; though she was nearly twelve, not much was heard of her except the scales, which she still rattled over dutifully every morning, and the snatches of songs she would sing in the lightness of her heart as she went or came. on most ordinary occasions she simply composed such a foreground to the family picture as maurice had seen that october night. she sat on a stool or on the floor somewhere, with a book clasped in her arms, reading; in summer she and her book together crouched themselves against the window in the room, getting the last gleam of daylight, and in winter she read by the firelight, which crimsoned her all over with a ruddy glow, and scorched her cheeks. perhaps it was because she was kept conscientiously at work all day that norah thus devoured all the books she could lay hands on in the evenings. she sat in her corner and read, and heard what was going on all the same, and took no notice. she read everything, from grimm's tales and the arabian nights to shakspere, and from shakspere to tennyson, with an undiscriminating, all-devouring appetite; and as she sat in a dream, lost in one volume after another, the current of life flowed past, and she was aware of it, and heard a hundred things she was unconscious of hearing, yet remembered years after. she heard discussions between her father and mother which she was supposed to pay no attention to. and she did not pay any attention to them: but only innocently--an unconscious eavesdropper--heard everything, and received it into her mind. this was the child's position in the house; she was the centre of the picture--everything somehow bore a reference to her; she alone was silent in the midst. the other two--who loved her, talked of her, planned for her, contrived that everything that was pretty and pleasant and sweet should surround her waking and sleeping--had yet no immediate need of norah. they were each other's companions, and she was the third--the one left out. but she was too young to feel any jealousy, or to struggle for a place between them. she had her natural place, always in the foreground, a silent creature, unconsciously observing, laying up provision for her life. 'are you not afraid to talk of everything before your daughter?' mr golden said one day when she had left the room. 'you know the old proverb, "little pitchers have long ears."' 'afraid of--norah?' said robert. the idea was so extraordinary that he laughed first, though the moment after he felt disposed to be angry. 'my child understands what honour is, though she is so young,' he said with paternal pride, and then laughed, and added, 'that is high-flown of course, but you don't understand her, golden; how should you? she is a thousand times too deeply occupied to care for what we are saying. pardon me, but the suggestion, to one who knows her, is so very absurd.' 'ah, you never know where simplicity ends and sense begins,' said the bank manager. he had become a frequent guest at st mary's road. he was a man of mr burton's type, but younger, slightly bald, perfectly brushed, clean, and perfumed, and decorous. he was a little too heavy for the _rôle_ of a young man in society: and yet he danced and flirted with the best when an opportunity offered. he never spoke of the city when he could help it: but he spoke a great deal about lady so-and-so's party, and the fine people he knew. it was difficult to make out how he knew them; but yet he visited, or professed to visit, at a great many of what are called 'good houses.' as manager of the bank he had every man's good opinion--he was at once so enterprising and so prudent, with the most wonderful head for business. there was no one like him for interpreting the 'movements' on the stock exchange, or the fluctuations of the funds. he explained business matters so lucidly that even drummond understood them, or at least thought he did. but there were a good many people who did not like mr golden. helen for one had a natural antipathy to the man. she allowed that she had no reason for it; that he was very civil, sometimes amusing, and had never done anything she could find fault with. but she disliked him all the same. norah was more decided in her sentiments, and had a clearer foundation for them. he had insisted on disturbing her from her book one afternoon to shake hands with her; on another he had offered to kiss her, as a child, and she nearly twelve! 'but then you are so little of your age, miss norah. i dare say the gentleman took you for nine,' said the maid--an explanation which did not render norah more favourably inclined towards the manager. and now he was trying to libel her, to traduce her to her father! even robert himself was moved by this enormity; it shook his opinion of his counsellor. 'that is all he knows,' drummond said to himself; and he resumed his conversation more distinctly than ever when norah came back. in the mean time the haldanes had thriven too, in their way. stephen was as helpless, as far from any hope of moving, as ever; but he was well off, which alleviates much suffering. the walls of his room were hung with drummond's sketches, half a dozen of them, among which were two pictures of norah. he lived in an arm-chair elaborately fitted with every possible contrivance, with a reading-desk attached to its arm, and a table close by, which could be raised to any height: and his helpless limbs were covered with a silken quilt of mrs haldane's own working. there he passed the day and night without change: but thanks to miss jane and her mother, no strange eye had looked upon the helpless man's humiliation; they moved him from his chair to his bed, and did everything for him. the bed was closed up by day, so that no stranger might suspect its existence; and the room was kept airy and bright by the same unwearied watchers. here he lived, making no complaint. whatever his feelings might be, whatever the repinings in his mind, he said nothing of them to mortal ear. a shade of weariness the more upon his face, a deeper line than usual between his eyes, were the only tokens that now and then the deep waters overflowed his soul. and as for the mother and sister, who were his slaves and attendants, they had forgotten that there was anything unusual in his condition--they had become accustomed to it. it seemed to them in some sort the course of nature. and god knows whether unconsciously a feeling that it was 'for the best' might not sometimes steal into their minds. he was theirs for ever; no one could step in between them, or draw his heart from their love. had it been suggested to miss jane that such a sentiment was possible, she would have rejected it with horror; and yet in the depths of her heart it was there, out of her own sight. and he had an occupation in his seclusion which was a blessing to him. he had become the editor of a little magazine, which belonged to his 'denomination,' before he fell ill, and he had been allowed to retain the post. this was the refuge of his mind in his trouble. poor stephen, he pleased himself with the idea of still influencing somebody, of preserving his intercourse with the outer world. it had been a very homely little publication when it came into his hands--a record of what the 'denomination' was doing; the new chapels it was building; the prayer-meetings gathered here and there, which might grow into congregations; and the tea-parties, which furnished at once intellectual and social enjoyment for the people. but stephen had changed that; he had put his mind into it, and worked it into a sort of literary organ. there were reviews in it, and essays, and a great deal of discussion of the questions of the day. these were approached from the standing-ground of the denomination, it is true, but the discussions were often far from being denominational. up to this time, however, the community gave no signs of disapproval. mr baldwin favoured the magazine, and the writer of it was still popular, and not yet forgotten. they gave him some fifty pounds a year for this hard though blessed work which kept his mind alive; and his late congregation gave him fifty pounds; and the money in rivers's bank had last quarter paid ten per cent. of profit. he was well off, he was indeed rich for his wants, though he was not rolling in wealth like drummond. money makes no man happy, but how much good it does! nothing could make this poor man happy, rooted thus in his immovable calm; but his ten per cent. kept him in comfort, it gave him worship in the eyes of his people, who were not fond of poverty; it procured to him his only consolation. he had no need to be indebted to any one; he could even help the poor people of his former flock, and feel himself independent. he could buy books, and give such quiet comforts and pleasures as they could enjoy to the women who were so good to him. all these were great alleviations of the sick man's lot. but for rivers's how different would his position have been! he would have been subject to the constant inspection of deacons and brethren; he would have been interfered with in respect to his magazine. all the comfort and freedom which remained to him were the result of the little more which made him independent and put him above criticism. what a poor thing money is, which cannot buy either health or happiness! and yet what a great thing! only the poor know how great. this time of prosperity had lasted for two years, when mr burton withdrew from the direction of the bank. he had enlarged his business greatly in another way, and had no longer time to bestow upon this; and, indeed, he had professed all along his desire to be free. this had been the object of the old company in taking in 'new blood,' and now the new company was able to proceed alone upon its triumphant way. 'it is your turn to get into harness, drummond,' he said, with a glance in which there was some contempt. robert did not see the scorn, but he laughed with perhaps a little gentle confidence in his own power to be of use if he should choose to exert himself. 'i must put myself into training first,' he said. 'golden will do that for you. golden is the best coach for business i have ever come across,' said mr burton. 'he will put you up to everything, good and bad--the dodges as well as the legitimate line. golden is not a common man of business--he is a great artist in trade.' there was a certain elation in his air and words. was he glad to have shaken off the bonds of rivers's, though they were golden bonds? this was the question which helen asked herself with a little surprise. the two men were dining at st mary's road on the night after burton's withdrawal, and she was still at table, though they had begun to talk of business. as usual, she who took no part was the one most instructed by the conversation. but she was bewildered, not instructed, by this. she could not make out what it meant. she knew by the best of all proofs that the bank was profitable and flourishing. why, then, did her cousin show such high spirits? what was his elation about? long after, she remembered that she had noted this, and then was able to divine the mystery. but now it only surprised her vaguely, like a foreign phrase in the midst of the language she knew. 'the dodges are amusing,' said mr golden. 'the legitimate drama is more dignified and imposing, but i rather think there is more fun in the work when you are living on the very edge of ruin. the hairbreadth escapes one has--the sense that it is one's own cleverness that carries one through--the delight of escaping from the destruction that seemed down upon you! there is nothing like that,' he said with a laugh, 'in the steady platitudes of ordinary trade.' and mr burton laughed too, and a glance passed between them, such as might have passed between two old soldiers who had gone many a campaign together. there was a twinkle in their eyes, and the 'do you remember?' seemed to be on their very lips. but then they stopped short, and went no further. helen, still vaguely surprised, had to get up and go away to the drawing-room; and what more experiences these two might exchange, or whether her husband would be any the wiser for them, she was no longer able to see. norah waited her in the other room. she had just come to the end of a book, and, putting it down with a sigh, came and sat by her mother's side. they were alike in general features and complexion, though not in the character of their faces. norah's hair was brighter, and her expression less stately and graceful than helen's--she had not so much _distinction_, but she had more life. such a woman as her mother she was never likely to be, but her attractions would be great in her own way. 'how nice your velvet gown is, mamma!' said norah, who was given to long monologues when she spoke at all. 'i like to put my cheek upon it. when i am grown up, i will always wear black velvet in winter, and white muslin in summer. they are the nicest of all. i do not think that you are too old for white. i like you in white, with red-ribbons. when i am a little bigger i should like to dress the same as you, as if we were two sisters. mayn't we? everybody says you look so young. but, mamma, ain't you glad to get away from those men, and come in here to me?' 'you vain child!' said helen. 'i can see you whenever i like, so it is no novelty to me; while papa's friends--' 'do you think they are papa's friends? i suppose there are no villains now-a-days, like what there are in books?' said norah. 'the world is rather different from books somehow. there you can always see how everything happens; and there is always somebody clever enough to find out the villains. villains themselves are not very clever, they always let themselves be found out.' 'but, my dear, we are not talking of villains,' said helen. 'no, mamma, only of that mr golden. i _hate_ him! if you and i were awfully clever, and could see into him, what he means--' 'you silly little girl! you have read too many novels,' said helen. 'in the world people are often selfish, and think of their own advantage first; but they don't try to ruin others out of pure malice, as they do in stories. even norah drummond sometimes thinks of herself first. i don't know if she is aware of it, but still it happens; and though it is not always a sin to do that, still it is the way that most sins come about.' this purely maternal and moral turn of the conversation did not amuse norah. she put her arm round her mother's waist, and laid her cheek against the warm velvet of helen's gown. 'mamma, it is not fair to preach when no one is expecting it,' she said in an injured tone; 'and just when i have you all to myself! i don't often have you to myself. papa thinks you belong to him most. often and often i want to come and talk, but papa is so greedy: you ought to think you belong to me too.' 'but, my darling, you have always a book,' said helen, not insensible to the sweet flattery. 'when i can't have you, what else am i to do?' said crafty norah; and when the gentlemen came into the drawing-room, the two were still sitting together, talking of a hundred things. mr golden came up, and tried very hard to be admitted into the conversation, but norah walked away altogether, and went into her favourite corner, and mrs drummond did not encourage his talk. she looked at him with a certain flutter of excited curiosity, wondering if there was anything under that smooth exterior which was dangerous and meant harm; and smiled at herself and said, no, no; enemies and villains exist only in books. the worst of this man would be that he would pursue his own ends, let them suffer who might; and his own ends could not harm drummond--or so at least helen thought. chapter viii. it was in the summer of the third year of his bank directorship that robert made his first personal entry into business. the occasion of it was this. one of his early friends who had been at school with him, and with whom he had kept up a precarious and often interrupted intercourse, came to him one morning with an anxious face. he was in business himself, with a little office in one of the dreary lanes in the city, a single clerk, and very limited occupation. he had married young, and had a large family; and drummond was already aware that while the lines had fallen to himself in pleasant places, poor markham's lot had been hard and full of thorns. he was now at the very crisis of his troubles. he gave a glance round the painter's handsome studio when he entered, at the pictures on the walls and the costly things about, and the air of evident luxury that pervaded everything, and sighed. his own surroundings were poor and scant enough. and yet he could and did remember that drummond had started in life a poorer man, with less hopeful prospects than himself. such a contrast is not lively or inspiriting, and it requires a generous mind to take it kindly, and refrain from a passing grudge at the old companion who has done so much better for himself. poor markham had come with a petition, on which, he said, all his future life depended. he had made a speculation which would pay him largely could he only hold out for three months; but without help from his friends this was impossible. it was a large sum that he wanted--more than any private friend would be likely to give him--something between two and three thousand pounds. the welfare of his family, his very existence in a business point of view, and the hopes of his children depended on his ability to tide those three months over. for old friendship's sake, for all the associations of their youth, would drummond help him? robert listened with his kindly heart full of sympathy. long before the story was done, he began to calculate what he had at his disposal, how much he could give; but the sum startled him. he could not produce at a moment's notice a sum of nearly three thousand pounds. with a troubled heart he shook his head and said it was impossible--he had not so much money at his disposal--he could not do it. then markham eagerly explained. it was not from his friend's own purse that he had hoped for it; but the bank! on drummond's introduction, the bank would do it. rivers's could save him. no such request had ever been made to robert before. very few of his friends were business men. their needs were private needs, and not the spasmodic wants of trade. there were people who had borrowed from himself personally, and some who had been helped by him in other ways; but this was the first appeal made to his influence in the bank. he was startled by it in his innocence of business habits. it seemed to him as if it was like asking a private favour, turning over his own petitioner to a third person. 'he is my friend, give him three thousand pounds.' it seemed to him the strangest way of being serviceable to his neighbour. but poor markham had all the eloquence of a partially ruined man. he made it clear to robert, not only that such things were, but they happened continually, and were in the most ordinary course of nature. the end was that they went out together, and had an interview with mr golden at the bank. and then robert found that his acquaintance had not exaggerated, that the matter was even easier than he had represented it, and that there would not be the slightest difficulty in 'accommodating' the man who was mr drummond's friend. markham and he parted at the door of the bank, the one with tears of gratitude in his eyes, blessing god and robert for saving him, and the other with a bewildered sense of power which he had not realised. he had not known before how much he could do, nor what privileges his directorship put in his hands, and he was confused by the discovery. it bewildered him, as a man might be bewildered to know that he could bestow fertility or barrenness on his fields by a glance: how strange the power was, how sweet in this instance, how--dangerous! yes, that was the word. he felt afraid of himself as he went home. if such plaints came to him often, it would be so difficult to resist them; and then a kind of horrible dread came over his mind. would the money ever be paid back that he had got so easily? the thought made his hand shake when he went back to the peaceable work at which no such bewildering risks were run. when the three months were over, markham's money was not paid; on the contrary he had fled to australia, he and all his children, leaving nothing but some wretched old furniture behind him. poor drummond was nearly beside himself. he rushed to the bank when he heard the news, and protested that the loss must be his. it was his fault, and of course he must repay it. mr golden smiled at him with a genuine admiration of his simplicity. he told him in a fatherly way of a speculation which had been very successful, which had cleared nearly the same sum of money. 'putting the one to the other, we are none the worse,' he said; 'every commercial concern must make some bad debts.' drummond went away with more bewilderment still, with many new thoughts buzzing in his head, thoughts which troubled the composure of his life. he himself being but an artist, and not a merchant, was afraid of money. he touched it warily, trafficked in it with a certain awe. he knew how much labour it required to earn it, and how hard it was to be without it. he could not understand the levity with which burton and golden treated that potent thing. to them it was like common merchandise, sugar or salt. a heap of it, as much as would make a poor man's fortune, melted away in a moment, and the bland manager thought nothing of it--it was a bad debt. all this was so strange to him, that he did not know what to make of it. he himself was guilty, he felt, of having thrown away so much which belonged to other people. and every other director on the board had the same power which he had with a painful pleasure discovered himself to have. and they knew better about it than he did; and what check could there be upon them? if every other man among them had been art and part in losing three thousand pounds, what could robert say? it would not be for him to throw the first stone. he felt like christian in the story, when, upon the calm hill-side, he suddenly saw a door through which there appeared, open and visible, the mouth of hell. it occurred to robert to go down to the next meeting of directors, to tell them his own story, and beg that the money lost through his means should be subtracted from his private share of the capital, and to beg all of them to do likewise. he quite made up his mind to this in the first tumult of his thoughts. but before the time for that meeting came, a sense of painful ridicule, that bugbear of the englishman, had daunted him. they would call him a fool, they would think he was 'canting,' or taking an opportunity to display his own disinterestedness. and accordingly he accepted the misfortune, and was content to permit it to be called a bad debt. but the enlightenment which it threw on the business altogether gave robert a shock which he did not easily recover. it seemed to show him a possible chasm opening at his very feet, and not at his only, but at the feet of all the ignorant simple people, the poor painters, the poor women, the sick men like haldane, who had placed their little seed-corn of money in rivers's bank. these thoughts were hot in his heart at the time of this misadventure with markham; and then there came a lull, and he partially forgot them. when no harm is visible, when the tranquil ordinary course of affairs seems to close over a wrong or a blunder, it is so difficult to imagine that everything will not go well. he said as little as possible to helen on the subject, and she did not take fright fortunately, having many things to occupy her now-a-days. there was her own enlarged and fuller household; the duties of society; her charities, for she was very good to the poor people near southlees, their house in the country, and kept watch over them even from st mary's road. and she had now many friends who came and occupied her time, and carried her off from her husband; so that he had not that resource of talking about it which so often lightens our anxiety, and so often deepens it. in this instance, perhaps, it was as well that he could not awaken her fears to increase and stimulate his own. and thus everything fell into its usual quietness. life was so pleasant for them. they had so much real happiness to cushion the angles of the world, and make them believe that all would always be well. those who have been experienced in pain are apt to tremble and doubt the continuance of happiness when they attain it; but to those who have had no real sorrows it seems eternal. why should it ever come to an end? this the drummonds felt with an instinctive confidence. it was easier to believe in any miracle of good than in the least prognostic of evil. the sun was shining upon them; summer was sweet and winter pleasant. they had love, they had ease, they had wealth, as much as they desired, and they believed in it. the passing cloud rolled away from robert's mind. he reflected that if there was danger there, there was danger in everything; every day, he said to himself, every man may be in some deadly peril without knowing it. we pass beneath the arch that falls next moment; we touch against some one's shoulder unaware, whose touch of infection might be death; we walk over the mined earth, and breathe air which might breed a pestilence, and yet nothing happens to us. human nature is against everything violent. somehow she holds a balance, which no one breaks down, though it is possible to be broken down at any moment. the directors might ruin the bank in a week, but they would not, any more than the elements, which are ever ready for mischief, would clash together and produce an earthquake. such things might be: but never--or so seldom as to be next to never--are. in the early autumn of that year, however, another shock came upon the ignorant painter. his wife and norah were at southlees, where he himself had been. business had brought him up against his will, business of the gentler kind, concerning art and the academy, not the bank. he was alone at st mary's road, chafing a little over his solitude, and longing for home and the pleasant fields. london, the london he knew and cared for, had gone out of town. august was blazing upon the parks and streets; the grass was the colour of mud, and the trees like untanned leather. the great people were all away in their great houses, and among his own profession those who could afford it had started for switzerland or some other holiday region, and those who could not had gone for their annual whiff of sea-air. robert was seated by himself at breakfast, mournfully considering how another day had to be got over, before he could go home, when a hansom dashed up to the door, and mr golden, bland and clean as ever, but yet with a certain agitation in his face, came in. he explained eagerly that he had come to drummond only because the other directors were out of town. 'the fact is,' he said, 'i want you to come with me, not to give you much trouble or detain you long, but to stand by me, if you will, in a crisis. we have had some losses. those people in calcutta who chose to stop payment, like fools, and the sullivans' house at liverpool.--it is only temporary.--but the bank of england has made itself disagreeable about an advance, and i want you to come with me and see the governor.' 'an advance! is rivers's in difficulties? is there anything wrong? you take away my breath.' 'there is no occasion for taking away your breath,' said mr golden; 'it is only for the moment. but it is an awkward time of the year, for everybody is out of town. i should not have troubled you, knowing you were not a business man, but of course the presence of a director gives authority. don't be alarmed, i beg. i will tell you all about it as we drive along.' but what mr golden told was very inarticulate to robert, what with the wild confusion produced in his own mind, and the noise and dust of the sultry streets. it was the most temporary difficulty; it was not worth speaking of; it was a simple misunderstanding on the part of the authorities of the bank of england. 'why we are worth twenty times the money, and everybody knows it,' said mr golden. his words, instead of making robert confident, made him sick. his sin in that matter of markham came darkly before him; and, worse even than that, the manager's words recalled markham's to him. in his case, too, it was to have been merely a temporary difficulty. drummond's imaginative mind rushed at once to the final catastrophe. he saw ruin staring him in the face--and not only him. the interview with the authorities of the bank of england did not make things much clearer to the amateur. they talked of previous advances; of their regret that the sacred name of 'rivers's' should be falling into mist and darkness; of their desire to have better securities, and a guarantee which would be more satisfactory: to all of which robert listened with consternation in his soul. but at last the object was attained. mr golden wiped the moisture from his forehead as they left the place. 'that has been a tough battle,' he said, 'but thank heaven! it is done, and we are tided over. i knew they would not be such fools as to refuse.' 'but, good god!' said robert, 'what have you been doing? what is the meaning of it? why do you require to go hat in hand to any governor? is rivers's losing its position? what has happened? why don't you call the shareholders together and tell them if anything is wrong?' 'my dear mr drummond!' said mr golden. he could scarcely do more than smile and say the words. 'don't smile at me,' said drummond in the ardour of his heart. 'do you consider that you have the very lives of hundreds of people in your hands? call them together, and let them know what remains, for god's sake! i will make good what was lost through me.' 'you are mad,' said golden, when he saw that his gentle sneer had failed; 'such a step would be ruin. call together the shareholders! why, the shareholders--mr drummond, for heaven's sake, let people manage it who know what they are about.' 'for heaven's sake! for hell's sake, you mean,' said robert in his despair. and the words reverberated in his ears, rang out of all the echoes, sounded through the very streets, 'it would be ruin!' ruin! that was the word. it deafened him, muttering and ringing in his ears. and yet even after this outburst he was calmed down. mr golden explained it to him. it was business; it was the common course of affairs, and only his own entire inexperience made it so terrible to him. to the others it was not in the least terrible, and yet he had no right to conclude that his colleagues were indifferent either to their own danger, or to the danger of the shareholders of whom he thought so much. 'the shareholders of course know the risks of business as well as we do,' mr golden said. 'we must act for the best, both for them and for ourselves.' and the painter was silenced if not convinced. this was in the autumn, and during the entire winter which followed the bank went on like a ship in a troubled sea. after a while such a crisis as the one which had so infinitely alarmed him became the commonest of incidents even to drummond. now that his eyes had been once enlightened, it was vain to attempt any further concealment. one desperate struggle he did indeed make, when in the very midst of all this anxiety a larger dividend than usual was declared. the innocent man fought wildly against this practical lie, but his resistance was treated as utter folly by the business board, who were, as they said, 'fighting the ship.' 'do you want to create a panic and a run upon us?' they asked him. he had to be silent, overpowered by the judgment of men who knew better than himself. and then something of the excitement involved in that process of 'fighting the ship' stole into his veins. somehow by degrees, nobody had been quite aware how, the old partners of rivers's had gone out of the concern. it was true there had been but three or four to start with; now there was but one left--lord rivers, the head of the house, who never took any share in the business, and was as ignorant as the smallest shareholder. the new directors, the fighting directors, were men of a very different class. as the winter went on the ship laboured more and more. sometimes it seemed to go down altogether, and then rose again with a buoyancy which almost seemed to justify hope. '_tout peut se rétablir_,' they said to each other. 'after all we shall tide it over.' and even robert began to feel that thrill of delight and relief when a danger was 'tided over,' that admiration, not of his own cleverness, but of the cleverness of others, which golden had once described. golden came out now in his true colours; his resources were infinite, his pluck extraordinary. but he enjoyed the struggle in the midst of his excitement and exertion, and drummond did not enjoy it, which made an immense difference between them. things became worse and worse as spring came on. by that time, so far as drummond was concerned, all hope was over. he felt himself sucked into the terrible whirlpool whence nothing but destruction could come. with a heart unmanned by anxiety, and a hand shaking with suppressed excitement, how could he go into his peaceable studio and work at that calmest work, of art? that phase of his existence seemed to have been over for years. when he went into the room he loved it looked to him like some place he had known in his youth--it was fifty years off or more, though the colour was scarcely dry on the picture which stood idly on the easel. when he was called to academy meetings, to consultations over an old master, or a new rule, a kind of dull amazement filled his soul. did people still care for such things--was it still possible that beauty and pleasantness remained in life? there were people in these days who felt even that the painter had fallen into bad ways. they saw his eyes bloodshot and his hand trembling. he was never seen with his wife now when she drove her ponies through the park--even in society helen went sometimes out alone. and they had been so united, so happy a pair. 'drummond will have nothing ready in april,' the painters said to each other--'even his diploma picture has never been finished--prosperity has not agreed with _him_.' when he was visible at all, his vacant air, his tremulous look, the deep lines under his eyes, frightened all his friends. dr maurice had spoken to him very seriously, begging that he would be candid and tell his ailments. 'you cannot go on like this,' he said. 'you are killing yourself, drummond.' 'how much can a man go through without being killed, i wonder?' poor robert asked, with an unsteady smile, and even his friend stopped short in dismay and perplexity. was it dissipation? was it some concealed misery? could his wife have anything to do with it? these suggestions flitted vaguely through the doctor's mind without bringing any certainty with them. once he seemed to be getting a clue to the mystery, when robert rushed in upon him one day, and with a show of levity suggested that haldane's money should be taken out of the bank. 'i know a better investment, and he should have the very best that is going,' said drummond. dr maurice was somewhat startled, for he had money in rivers's too. 'where is there a better investment?' he asked. 'in the three per cents.,' said robert, with a hoarse laugh. was he mad? was he----drunk? the doctor took a day to consider it, to think whether there could be anything in it. but he looked at the dividend papers, showing that rivers's that year had paid ten per cent. and he called upon dr bradcliffe, and asked him to go with him privately, _accidentally_, one of these days, to see a friend whose brain was going, he feared. the two physicians shook their heads, and said to each other mournfully how common that was becoming. but fate moved faster than dr maurice, and the accidental call was never made. chapter ix. the life which helen drummond lived during this winter would be very hard to describe. something wrong had happened, she saw, on that rapid visit to town which robert had made on academical business in october, leaving her at southlees. no anxiety about business matters connected with the bank had ever been suggested to her mind. she had long ago accepted, as a matter of course, the fact that wealth was to come from that source, with an ease and regularity very different from the toilsome and slow bread-winning which was done by means of art. she was not surprised by it as robert was; and enough of the _bourgeois_ breeding was left in her to make her pleased that her husband should see the difference between the possibilities of his profession and of the commerce which she had been wont to hear lauded in her youth. she was almost proud that trade had done so much for him. trade came from her side, it was she who had the hereditary connection with it; and the innate idealism of her mind was able to cling to the old-fashioned fanciful conception of beneficent commerce, such as we have all heard of in our educational days. but her pride was not sensitive on this point. what really touched her was the praise or the blame which fell upon him as a painter, and the dread that instantly sprang into her mind was that he had met with something painful to him in this respect--that his opinion had not been received as of weight in the deliberations of the academy, or his works been spoken of with less respect than they ought to have secured. this was the foolish fancy that took hold of her mind. she questioned him about the academy meeting till poor robert--his thoughts occupied about things so very different--grew sick of the subject. yet he was almost glad of some subject on which to vent a little of his excitement. yes, they were a set of old fogies, he said, with audacious freedom. they pottered about things they did not understand. they puzzled and hesitated over that rembrandt, which any one with half an eye could see had been worked at by some inferior hand. they threw cold water upon that loveliest francia which nobody could see without recognising. they did what they ought not to do, and neglected what was their duty. 'we all do that every day of our lives,' said helen; 'but what was there that specially vexed you, robert?' 'nothing,' he said, looking up at her with eyes full of astonishment; but there was more than astonishment in them. there was pain, dread, anxiety--a wistful, restless look of suffering. he will not tell me: he will keep it to himself and suffer by himself, not to vex me, helen said in her own thoughts. and though the autumn was lovely, robert could not be happy at southlees that year. he had been very happy the two previous summers. the house was situated on the thames beyond teddington. it was rustic and old, with various additions built to it; a red-brick house, grown over with all manner of lichens, irregular in form and harmonious with its position, a house which had grown--which had not been artificially made. the family had lived on the lawn, or on the river, in those halcyon days that were past. there was a fringe of trees at every side except that, shutting in the painter's retirement; but on the river side nothing but a few bright flower-beds, and the green velvet lawn, sloping towards the softly flowing water. one long-leaved willow drooped over the stone steps at which the boat was lying. it was a place where a pair of lovers might have spent their honeymoon, or where the weary and sick might have come to get healing. it was not out of character either with the joy or the grief. nature was so sweet, so silent, so meditative and calm. the river ran softly, brooding over its own low liquid gurgle. the stately swans sailed up and down. the little fishes darted about in the clear water, and myriads of flying atoms, nameless insect existences, fluttered above. boating parties going down the stream would pause, with a sigh of gentle envy, to look at the group upon the lawn; the table with books and work on it, with sometimes a small easel beside it or big drawing pad supported on a stand; a low chair with helen's red shawl thrown over it, and norah, with her red ribbons, nestled on the sunny turf. they sat there, and worked, and talked, or were silent, with an expansion of their hearts towards everything that breathed and moved; or they spent long days on the river, catching the morning lights upon those nooks which are only known to dwellers on the stream; or pursuing water-lilies through all the golden afternoon in the back-waters which these retired flowers love. the river was their life, and carried them along, day after day. such a scene could not but be sweet to every lover of nature; but it is doubly sweet when the dumb poetic imagination has by its side that eye of art which sees everything. the painter is a better companion even than the poet--just as seeing is better than saying that you see. robert was not a genius in art; but he had the artist's animated, all-perceiving eye. nothing escaped him--he saw a hundred beautiful things which would have been imperceptible to ordinary men--a dew-drop on a blade of grass at his feet charmed him as much as a rainbow--his 'look, helen!' was more than volumes of descriptive poetry. they were out and about at all times, 'watching the lights,' as he said in his pleasant professional jargon: in the early mornings, when all was silvery softness and clearness, and the birds were trying over their choicest trills before men woke to hear; in the evening when twilight came gently on, insinuating her filmy impenetrable veil between them and the sunset; and even at full noon, when day is languid at the height of perfection, knowing that perfectness is brother to decadence. the painter and his wife lived in the middle of all these changes, and took them in, every one, to the firmament in their hearts. why do we stop in this record of trouble to babble about sunset skies and running waters? is it not natural? the 'sound as of a hidden brook in the leafy month of june' comes in, by right, among all weird, mysterious harmonies of every tragical fate. 'the oaten pipe and pastoral reed' have their share even in the hurly-burly of cities and noisy discord of modern existence. robert drummond had his good things as well as his evil things. for these two summers never man had been more happy--and it is but few who can say so much. his wife was happy with him, her old ghosts exorcised, and a new light suffusing her life. it seemed a new life altogether, a life without discontents, full of happiness, and tranquillity, and hope. but this autumn robert was not happy at southlees. he could not stay there peaceably as he had done before. he had to go to town 'on business,' he said, sometimes twice a week. he took no pleasure in his old delights. though he could not help seeing still, his 'look, helen!' was no longer said in a tone of enthusiasm; and when he had uttered the familiar exclamation he would turn away and sigh. sometimes she found him with his face hidden in his hands, and pressed against the warm greensward. it was as if he were knocking for admission at the gates of the grave, helen thought, in that fancifulness which comes of fear as much as of hope. when she questioned him he would deny everything, and work with pretended gaiety. every time he went to town it seemed to her that five years additional of line and cloud had been added to the lines on his forehead. his hair began to get grey; perhaps that was no wonder, for he was forty, a pilgrim already in the sober paths of middle age, but helen was nearly ten years younger, and this sign of advancing years seemed unnatural to her. besides, he was a young man in his heart, a man who would be always young; yet he was growing old before his time. but notwithstanding his want of enjoyment in it he was reluctant that his wife should leave southlees sooner than usual. he would go into town himself, he declared. he would do well enough--what did it matter for a few weeks? 'for the sake of business it is better that i should go--but the winter is long enough if you come in the end of the month. no, helen, take the good of it as long as you can--this year.' 'what good shall i get of it alone, and how can i let you live for weeks by yourself?' said helen. 'you may think it is fine to be independent; but you could not get on without norah and me.' 'no,' he said, with a shudder. 'god knows life would be a poor thing without norah and you! but when it is a question of three weeks--i'll go and see my friends; i'll live a jovial bachelor life----' 'did you see the haldanes,' she asked, 'when you were in town last?' it was the most innocent, unmeaning question; but it made him grow pale to the very lips. did he tremble? helen was so startled that she did not even realise how it was he looked. 'how cold the wind blows,' he said, with a shiver. 'i must have caught cold, i suppose, last night. the haldanes? no; i had no time.' 'robert, something worries you,' she said earnestly. 'tell me what it is. whatever it is, it will not be so heavy when you have told me. you have always said so--since ever we have been together.' 'and truly, my darling,' he said. he took her hand and held it tenderly, but he did not look at her. 'i cannot tell you of worries that don't exist, can i?' he added, with an exaggerated cheerfulness. 'i have to pay a little attention to business now the other men are out of town. and business bores me. i don't understand it. i am not clever at it. but it is not worth while to call it a worry. by-and-by they will come back, and i shall be free.' when he said this he really believed it, not being then fully aware of the tormenting power of the destruction which was about to overwhelm him. he thought the other directors would come back from their holidays, and that he himself would be able to plunge back into that abyss of ignorance which was bliss. but helen did not believe it: not from any true perception of the state of affairs, but because she could not believe it was business at all that troubled him. was robert the kind of man to be disturbed about business? he who cared nothing for it but as a means, who liked money's worth, not money, whose mind was diametrically opposite to all the habits and traditions of trade? she would as soon have believed that her cousin reginald burton would be disturbed by a criticism or troubled to get a true balance of light and shade. no, it was not that. it was some _real_ trouble which she did not know of, something that struck deeper than business, and was more important than anything that belonged to bank or market. such were helen's thoughts,--they are the thoughts that come most natural to a woman,--that he had been betrayed into some wrong-doing or inadvertent vice--that he had been tempted, and somehow gone astray. this, because it was so much more terrible than anything about business, was the bugbear that haunted her. it was to save her pain, as he thought, that poor robert kept his secret from her. he did as so many men do, thinking it kindness; and thus left her with a host of horrible surmises to fight against, any one of which was (to her) harder than the truth. there is no way in which men, in their ignorance, inflict more harm upon women than this way. helen watched in her fear and ignorance with a zealous eagerness that never lost a word, and gave exaggerated importance to many an idle incident. she was doubly roused by her fear of the something coming, against which her defences would not stand, and by her absolute uncertainty what this something was. the three weeks her husband was in town by himself were like three years to her. not that a shade of jealousy or doubt of his love to herself ever crossed her mind. she was too pure-minded, too proud, to be jealous. but something had come on him, some old trouble out of the past--some sudden horrible temptation; something, in short, which he feared to tell her. that money could be the cause of it, never crossed her thoughts. and when she went home, things were no better; the house looked bare to her--she could not tell why. it was more than a month before she found out that the botticelli was gone, which was the light of her husband's eyes; and that little madonna of the umbrian school, which he delighted to think raphael must have had some hand in, in his youth. this discovery startled her much; but worse had come before she made sure of that. the absence of the pictures was bewildering, but still more so was the change in her husband's habits. he would get up early, breakfast hurriedly before she had come down, and go out, leaving a message with the servants. sometimes he went without breakfast. he avoided her, avoided the long evening talks they had loved, and even avoided her eye, lest she should read more in his face than he meant her to see. all this was terrible to helen. the fears that overwhelmed her were ridiculous, no doubt; but amid the darkness and tragic gloom which surrounded her, what was she to think? things she had read in books haunted her; fictitious visions which at this touch of personal alarm began to look real. she thought he might have to bribe some one who knew some early secret in his life, or some secret that was not his--something that belonged to his friends. oh, if he would but tell her! she could bear anything--she could forgive the past, whatever it might be. she had no bitterness in her feelings towards her husband. she used to sit for hours together in his deserted studio, imagining scenes in which she found out, or he was driven to confide to her, this mystery; scenes of anguish, yet consolation. the studio became her favourite haunt. was it possible that she had once entered it with languid interest, and been sensible of nothing but disappointment when she saw him working with his heart in his work? she would go all round it now, making her little comment upon every picture. she would have given everything she had in the world to see him back there, painting those pictures with which she had been so dissatisfied--the francesca, which still stood on its easel unfinished; the sketches of herself which she had once been so impatient of. the francesca still stood there behind backs; but most of the others had been cleared away, and stood in little stacks against the walls. the place was so orderly that it went to her heart to see it; nothing had been done, nothing disturbed, for weeks, perhaps months; the housemaid was free to go and come as if it had been a common parlour. all this was terribly sad to the painter's wife. the spring was coming on before she found the two sketches which afterwards she held so dearly. they bewildered her still more, and filled her with a thousand fears. one represented a pilgrim on a hilly road, in the twilight of a spring evening. everything was soft in this picture, clear sky and twinkling stars above; a quiet rural path over the grass; but just in front of the pilgrim, and revealing his uplifted hands and horror-stricken countenance, the opening of a glowing horrible cavern--the mouth of hell. the other was more mysterious still. it was a face full of anguish and love, with two clasped hands, looking up from the depths of a cave or well, to one blue spot of sky, one star that shone far above. helen did not know what these sketches meant; but they made her shiver with wonder and apprehension. they were all that he had done this year. and then something else, of a different kind, came in to bewilder her. robert, who avoided her, who of evenings no longer talked over his affairs with her, and who probably had forgotten all her wants, let the quarter-day pass without supplying her, as he was in the habit of doing. so great a host of fears and doubts were between the two, that helen did not remind him of his negligence. it pained her, but in a degree so different. what did that matter? but time went on, and it began to matter. she took her own little dividends, and kept silence; making what use of them she could to fill up the larger wants. she was as timid of speaking to him on this subject as if she had been a young girl. he had never obliged her to do so. she had been the general treasurer of the household in the old days; and even in recent times, he, who was so proud of his wife, had taken care to keep her always supplied with what she wanted. she never had needed to go to him to ask money, and she did not know how to begin. thus they both went their different way; suffering, perhaps, about equally. his time seemed to himself to be spent in a feverish round of interviews with people who could supply money, or wildly signing his name to papers which he scarcely understood--to bills which he could never dream of paying; they would be paid somehow when the time came, or they could be renewed, or something would be done, he was told. he had carried everything he could make money by away before this time; the title-deeds of his house, his pictures, even, and--this was done with a very heavy heart--his policies of life insurance. everything was gone. events went faster as the crisis approached, and drummond became conscious of little more than his wife's pale face wondering at him, with questioning eyes more pathetic than words, and golden's face encouraging, or trying to encourage. between the two was a wild abyss of work, of despair, of tiding over. every escape more hairbreadth than the last! the wild whirl growing wilder! the awful end, ruin and fell destruction, coming nearer and more near! it happened at length that helen one day, in desperation, broke the silence. she came before him when he was on his way out, and asked him to wait, in a hollow voice. 'i don't want to trouble you,' she said, 'since you will not trust me, robert. i have been trying not to harass you more; but--i have no money left--i am getting into debt--the servants want their wages. robert--i thought you had forgotten--perhaps----' he stood and looked at her for a moment, with his hat in his hand, ready to go out. how pale he was! how the lines had contracted in his face! he looked at her, trying to be calm. and then, as he stood, suddenly burst, without warning, into momentary terrible tears, of a passion she could not understand. 'robert! oh, what is the matter?' she cried, throwing her arms round him. he put his head down on her shoulder, and held her fast, and regained control over himself, holding her to him as if she had been something healing. in her great wonder and pity she raised his head with her hands, and gazed wistfully into his face through her tears. 'is it money?' she cried, with a great load taken off her heart. 'oh, robert, tell me! is that all?' 'all!' he said: 'my god!' and then kissed her passionately, and put her away from him. 'to-morrow,' he said hoarsely, 'perhaps--i hope--i will tell you everything to-morrow.' he did not venture to look at her again. he went out straight, without turning to the right or left. 'the end must be near now,' he said to himself audibly, as he went out like a blind man. to-morrow! would to-morrow ever come? 'the end must be near now.' the end was nearer than he thought. when he reached the bank he found everything in disorder. mr golden was not there, nor any one who could give information to the panic-stricken inquirers who were pouring in. it was said the manager had absconded. rivers's was at an end. for the first ten minutes after drummond heard the news that awaited him, it was almost a relief to know that the worst had come. chapter x. it was a relief for ten minutes, as every catastrophe is; the terrible suspense is cut short--the worst at least is known. but after those ten minutes are over, when the reality suddenly seizes upon the sufferer--when all the vague speechless terrors which he had pushed off from him, with the hope that they might never come, arrive in a flood, and place themselves in one frightful circle round him, like furies, only not merciful enough to have a medusa among them to freeze him into stone; when every shadowy, gloomy prevision of evil which ever flashed across his mind, to be put away with a shudder, returns with the right of fact, to remain; when not only that thing has happened which has been his dread by day and the horror of his dreams, but a host of other things, circumstances which penetrate to every detail of his life, and affect every creature and every thing he loves, have followed in its train--when all this rushes upon a man after the first tranquillising stupor of despair, who or what is there that can console him? poor drummond was helpless in the midst of this great crash of ruin; he was so helpless that the thunder-stricken shareholders and excited clerks who had fallen upon him at first as the only authority to be found, let him slip from among them, hopeless of any help from him. they had driven him wild with questions and appeals--him, a poor fellow who could explain nothing, who had never been of much use except to denude himself of everything he possessed, and pledge his humble name, and be swept into ruin; but they soon saw the uselessness of the appeal. as soon as he could disengage himself he stole away, drawing his hat over his eyes, feeling as if he were a criminal, with the sensation as of a hot fire burning in his heart, and buzzing and crackling in his ears. was he a criminal? was it his doing? he was stunned by this terrible calamity; and yet, now that it had come, he felt that he had known it was coming, and everything about it, all his life. his whole existence had tended to this point since he was a boy; he knew it, he felt it, he even seemed to remember premonitions of it, which had come to him in his dreams from his earliest days. he went out into the streets in that dumb quiescent state which is so often the first consequence of a great calamity. he offered no remonstrance against his fate. he did not even say to himself that it was hard. he said nothing to himself, indeed, except to croon over, like a chorus, one endless refrain, 'i knew this was how it would be!' he wandered along, not knowing where he went, till he came to the river, and paused there, looking over the bridge. he did not even know what made him pause, until all at once the fancy jumped into his brain that it would be best to stop there, and cut in one moment the knotted, tangled thread which it was certain no effort of his could ever unravel. he stopped, and the suggestion flashed across him (whether out of his own mind, whether thrown at him by some mocking demon, who could tell?), and then shook his head sadly. no; it was broad day, and there would be a commotion, and he would be rescued--or if not, he, at least his body, would be rescued and carried to helen, giving her a last association with him which it was insupportable to think of. no, no, he said to himself with a shudder, not now. just then a hand was laid upon his shoulder; he turned round with the start of a man who feels that nothing is impossible, that everything that is terrible has become likely. had it been a policeman to arrest him for having murdered somebody he would scarcely have been surprised. but it was not a policeman: it was mr burton, fresh and clean and nicely dressed, newly come up from the country, in his light summer clothes, the image of prosperity, and comfort, and cleanliness, and self-satisfaction. a certain golden atmosphere surrounded the man of wealth, like the background on which early painters set a saint; but there was nothing saintly about that apparition. poor drummond fell back more than he would have done had it been an arrest for murder. he gave an involuntary glance at himself, feeling in contrast with mr burton, as if he must look to the external eye the beggar he was, as if he must be dirty, tattered, miserable, with holes in his shoes and rags at his elbows. perhaps his woebegone, excited face startled the smooth philistine at his side as much as if those outward signs of wretchedness had been there. 'good god, what have you been doing with yourself?' he cried. 'nothing,' said drummond vaguely, and then by degrees his senses returned to him. 'if you had been in town yesterday you might have helped us; but it does not matter. shenken in liverpool stopped payment yesterday,' he went on, repeating drearily the dreary legend which he had heard at the bank. 'and rivers's--has stopped payment too.' 'good god!' said mr burton again. it was a shock to him, as every event is when it comes. but he was not surprised. as for robert, it did not occur to him to consider whether the other was surprised or not, or to be curious how it affected him. he turned his head away and looked at the river again. what attraction there remained for him in this world seemed to lie there. 'drummond,' said the merchant, looking at him with a certain alarm, 'are you sure you know what you are saying? my god! rivers's stopped payment! if you had said there had been an earthquake in london it would scarcely be as bad as that.' robert did not make any reply. he nodded his head without looking round. what interested him was something black which kept appearing and disappearing in the middle of the turbid muddy stream. it was like a man's head, he thought, and almost felt that he might have taken the plunge without knowing it, and that it might be himself. 'i have felt this was coming,' said burton. 'i warned golden you were going on in the wildest way. what could be expected when you fellows who know nothing about money would interfere? good heavens! to think what a business that was; and all ruined in three years! drummond! are you mad? can't you turn round and speak to me? i am one of the shareholders, and i have a right to be answered how it was.' 'shall you lose much?' said drummond dreamily, and he turned round without meaning anything and looked in his companion's face. his action was simply fantastical, one of those motiveless movements which the sick soul so often makes; but it was quite unexpected by the other, who fell a step back, and grew red all over, and faltered in his reply. 'much? i--i--don't know--what you call much. good heavens, drummond! are you mad? have you been drinking? where is golden?--he at least must know what he is about!' 'yes,' said the painter fiercely, 'golden knows what he is about--he has gone off, out of reach of questions--and you--oh--hound!' he gave a sudden cry and made a step forward. a sudden light seemed to burst upon him. he gazed with his dilated bloodshot eyes at the flushed countenance which could not face him. the attitude of the two men was such that the bystanders took note of it; two or three lingered and looked round holding themselves in readiness to interfere. the slight figure of the painter, his ghastly pale face and trembling hand, made him no antagonist for the burly well-to-do merchant; but english sentiment is always on the side of the portly and respectable, and mr burton had an unmistakable air of fright upon his face. 'now, drummond!--now, drummond!' he said, with a certain pleading tone. the painter stood still, feeling as if a horrible illumination had suddenly flashed upon the man before him, and the history of their intercourse. he did in that moment of his despair what he could not have done with his ordinary intelligence. he made a rapid summary of the whole and saw how it was. had he been happy, he would have been too friendly, too charitable, too kind in his thoughts to have drawn such a conclusion. but at this moment he had no time for anything but the terrible truth. 'i see it all,' he said. 'i see it all! it was ruined when you gave it over to us. i see it in every line of your face. oh, hound! hounds all of you! skulking, dastardly demons, that kill a crowd of honest men to save yourselves--your miserable selves. i see it all!' 'drummond! i tell you you are mad!' 'hound!' said robert again between his clenched teeth. he stood looking at him for a moment with his hands clenched too, and a sombre fire in his eyes. whether he might have been led into violence had he stood there a moment longer it would be impossible to say. but all the habits of his life were against it, and his very despair restrained him. when he had stood there for a second, he turned round suddenly on his heel without any warning, and almost knocking down a man who was keeping warily behind him ready for any emergency, went away in the opposite direction without saying a word. burton stood still gazing after him with a mixture of consternation and concern, and something very like hatred. but his face changed when the spectators drew round him to wonder and question. 'something wrong with that poor gentleman, i fear, sir,' said one. mr burton put on a look of regret, sighed deeply, put his hand to his forehead, shook his head, murmured--'poor fellow!' and--walked away. what could he do? he was not his brother's keeper, much less was he responsible for his cousin's husband--the paltry painter-fellow she had preferred to _him_. what would helen think of her bargain now? mad or drunk, it did not matter which--a pleasant companion for a woman. he preferred to think of this for the moment, rather than of the other question, which was in reality so much more important. rivers's! thank heaven he was no money loser, no more than was respectable. he had seen what was coming. even to himself, this was all that mr burton said. he hurried on, however, to learn what people were saying of it, with more anxiety in his mind than seemed necessary. he went to the bank itself with the air of a man going to a funeral. 'the place i have known so long!' he said to another mournful victim who had appeared on the field of the lost battle, but who was not mad like robert. 'and to think that golden should have betrayed your confidence! a man i have known since he was _that_ height--a man i could have answered for with my life!' meanwhile drummond strayed on he knew not where. he went back into the city, into the depths of those lanes and narrow streets which he had left so lately, losing himself in a bewildering maze of warehouse walls and echoing traffic. great waggons jammed him up against the side, loads dangled over his head that would have crushed him in a moment, open cellars yawned for his unsteady feet; but he walked as safe through all those perils as if he had borne a charmed life, though he neither looked nor cared where he was going. his meeting with burton was forced out of his mind in a few minutes as if it had not been. for the moment it had startled him into mad excitement; but so strong was the stupor of his despair, that in five minutes it was as if it had never been. for hours he kept wandering round and round the scene of his ruin, coming and going in a circle, as if his feet were fast and he could not escape. it had been morning when he left his house. it was late afternoon when he got back. oh why was it summer and the days so long? if only that scorching sun would have set and darkness fallen over the place. he stole in under cover of the lilac trees, which had grown so big and leafy, and managed to glide down the side-way to the garden and get to the studio door, which he could open with his key. he had been doing nothing but think--think--all the time; but 'now, at least, i shall have time to think,' he said to himself, as he threw himself down on a chair close to the door--the nearest seat--it no longer mattered where he placed himself or how. he sat huddled up against the wall as sometimes a poor model did, waiting wistfully to know if he was wanted,--some poor wretch to whom a shilling was salvation. this fancy, with a thousand others equally inappropriate, flashed across his mind as he sat there, still with his hat pulled down on his brows in the sunny luxurious warmth of the afternoon. the mere atmosphere, air, and sky, and sunshine would have been paradise to the artist in the poorest time he had ever known before, but they did not affect him now. he sat there in his stupor for perhaps an hour, not even able to rouse himself so far as to shut the door of communication into the conservatory, through which he heard now and then the softened stir of the household. he might have been restored to the sense of life and its necessities, might have been brought back out of the delirium of his ruin at that moment, had any one in the house known he was there. helen was in the drawing-room, separated from him only by that flowery passage which he had made for her, to tempt her to visit him at his work. she was writing notes, inviting some half-dozen people to dinner, as had been arranged between them, but with a heavy and anxious heart, full of misgiving. she had risen from her writing table three or four times to go to the window and look out for her husband, wondering why he should be so long of coming--while he sat so near her. mrs drummond's heart was very heavy. she did not understand what he said to her in the morning--could not imagine how it could be. it must be a temporary cloud, a failure of some speculation, something unconnected with the ordinary course of life, she said to herself. money!--he was not a business man--it could not be money. if it was only money, why that was nothing. such was the course of her thoughts. and she paused over her invitations, wondering was it right to give them if robert had been losing money. but they were old friends whom she was inviting--only half a dozen people--and it was for his birthday. she had just finished the last note, when norah came dancing into the room, claiming her mother's promise to go out with her; and after another long gaze from her window, helen made up her mind to go. it was her voice speaking to the maid which roused robert. 'if mr drummond comes in before i return,' he heard her say, 'tell him i shall not be long. i am going with miss norah to the gardens for an hour, and then to ask for mr haldane; but i shall be back by half-past six.' he heard the message--he for whom it was intended--and rose up softly and went to his studio window, and peeped stealthily out to watch them as they went away. norah came first, with a skip and gambol, and then helen. his wife gave a wistful look back at the house as she opened the little gate under the leafy dusty lilacs. was it with some premonition of what she should find when she came back? he hid himself so that he could not be seen, and gazed at the two, feeling as if that moment was all that life had yet to give him. it was his farewell look. his wife and child disappeared, and he could hear their footsteps outside on the pavement going farther and farther away on their harmless, unimportant walk, while he----he woke up as if it had been out of sleep or out of a trance. she would return by half-past six, and it was now approaching five. for all he had to do there was so little, so very little time. so he said to himself, and yet when he said it he had no clear idea what he was going to do. he had not only to do it, whatever it was, but to make up his mind, all in an hour and a half; and for the first five minutes of that little interval he was like a man dreaming, stretching out his hands to catch any straw, trying to believe he might yet be saved. could he leave them--those two who had just left the door--to struggle through the rest of life by themselves? helen was just over thirty, and her daughter nearly twelve. it was a mature age for a woman; but yet for a woman who has been protected and taken care of all her life, how bitter a moment to be left alone!--the moment when life is at its fullest, demands most, feels most warmly, and has as yet given up nothing. helen had had no training to teach her that happiness was not her right. she had felt it to be her right, and her whole soul rose up in rebellion against any infringement of that great necessity of being. how was she to live when all was taken from her, even the support of her husband's arm? robert had never known so much of his wife's character before, but in this awful moment it became clear to him as by an inspiration. how was she to bear it? credit, honour, money, living--and her husband, too, who could still work for her, shield her. he went to his easel and uncovered the half-finished picture on it, and gazed at it with something that was in reality a dumb appeal to the dumb canvas to help him. but it did not help him. on the contrary, it brought suddenly up before him his work of the past, his imperfect successes, and helen's kind, veiled, hidden, but unconcealable dissatisfaction. the look of suppressed pain in her face, the subdued tone, the soft languid praise of some detail or accessory, the very look of her figure when she turned away from it, came all before him. her habit was, when she turned away, to talk to him of other things. how clearly that oft-repeated scene came before him in his despair! she was dutiful, giving him her attention conscientiously as long as was needful; but when he fell back into the fond babble of the maker, and tried to interest her in some bit of drapery, or effect of light, or peculiarity of grouping, she would listen to him sweetly, and--change the subject as soon as possible. it all returned to him--he remembered even the trivial little words she had spoken, the languid air of half fatigue which would come over her. that--along with the meagrest poverty, the hardest homely struggles for daily bread. could she bear to go back to it? she would lose everything, the house and all that was in it, everything that could be called hers or supposed hers. the only thing that could not be taken from her would be her £ a year, her little fortune which was settled on her. 'they could live on that,' poor drummond went on in his dreary miserable thoughts. 'they could exist, it is possible, better without me than with me. would they be happier to have me in prison, disgraced, and dishonoured, a drag hanging about their neck--or to hear the worst at once, to know that everything was over, that at least their pittance would be theirs, and their peace respected? everything would be over. nobody could have any pretext for annoying her about it. they would be sorry for her--even they would be sorry for me. my policies would go to make up something--to clear my name a little. and they would let her alone. she could go to the country. she is so simple in her real tastes. they could live on what she has, if they were only rid of me.' a sigh that was almost a sob interrupted him in his musing. he was so worn out; and was it the grave-chill that was invading him already and making him shiver? he took the canvas on the easel and held it up to the light. 'the drawing is good enough,' he said to himself, 'it is not the drawing. she always owns that. it is--something else. and how can i tell after this that i could even draw? i could not now, if i were to try. my hand shakes like an old man's. i might fall ill like poor haldane! ah, my god!' the canvas fell out of his hands upon the floor--a sudden spasm contracted his heart. haldane! it was the first time that day that he had thought of him. his ruin would be the ruin of his friend too--his friend who was helpless, sick, and yet the support of others. 'oh, my god, my god!' he wailed with a cry of despair. and there was no one near to hear him, no one to defend him from himself and from the devil, to lay hands upon him, to bid him live and hope and work, and help them to exist whom he had helped to ruin. he was left all alone in that moment of his agony. god, to whom he had appealed, was beyond the clouds, beyond that which is more unfathomable than any cloud, the serene, immeasurable, impenetrable blue, and held out no hand, sent no voice of comfort. the man fell down where his work had fallen, prone upon the ground, realising in a moment all the misery of the years that were to come. and it was his doing, his doing!--though consciously he would have given himself to be cut to pieces, would have toiled his life out, to make it up now to his friend,--how much more to his wife! what passed in his mind in that awful interval is not to be told. it was the supreme struggle between life and despair, and it was despair that won. when he rose up his face was like the face of an old man, haggard and furrowed with deep lines. he stood still for a moment, looking round him vaguely, and then made a little pilgrimage round the room, looking at everything, with a motive, without a motive, who can tell? his whole faculties absorbed in the exaltation, and bewildering, sombre excitement of such a crisis as can come but once to any man. then he sat down at his writing-table, and sought out some letter-paper (there were so many scraps of drawing-paper that came first to hand), and slowly wrote a few lines. he had to search for a long time before he could find an envelope to enclose this, and his time was getting short. at last he put it up, and, after another pause, stole through the conservatory, walking stealthily like a thief, and placed the white envelope on a little crimson table, where it shone conspicuous to everybody who should enter. he did more than that; he went and bent over the chair which helen had pushed away when she rose from it--the chair she always sat on--and kissed it. there was a little bright-coloured handkerchief lying on the sofa, which was norah's. he took that up and kissed it too, and thrust it into his breast. did he mean to carry it with him into the dark and silent country where he was going? god knows what was the thought in his mind. the pretty clock on the mantelpiece softly chimed the quarter as he did this, and he started like a thief. then he took an old great-coat from the wall, an old travelling hat, which hung beside it, and went back to the studio. there was no more time for thought. he went out, leaving the door unlocked, brushing stealthily through the lilacs. the broad daylight played all around him, revealing him to every one, showing to the world how he stole away out of his own house. he had put up the collar of his coat and drawn his hat down over his brows to disguise himself in case he met any one he knew. any one he knew! it was in case he met his wife, to whom he had just said farewell for ever, and his child, whose little kerchief he was going to take with him into this dismal ruin, into the undiscovered world. all this might have been changed had he met them; and they were crossing the next street coming home, helen growing more and more anxious as they approached the door. had he been going out about some simple everyday business, of course they would have met; but not now, when it might have saved one life from destruction and another from despair. he had watched for a moment to make sure they were not in sight before he went out; and the servants had caught a glimpse of a man whom they did not recognise hiding among the bushes, and were frightened; so, it turned out afterwards, had various other passers-by. but drummond saw no one--no one. the multitudes in the noisier streets upon which he emerged after a while, were nothing to him. they pushed against him, but he did not see them; the only two figures he could have seen were henceforward to be invisible to him for ever. for ever! for ever! was it for ever? would this crime he was about to commit, this last act of supreme rebellion against the will of that god to whom he seemed to have appealed in vain, would it sever him from them not only in this world, but in the world to come? should he have to gaze upward, like poor dives, and see, in the far serene above him, these two walking in glory and splendour, who were no longer his? perhaps surrounded by angels, stately figures of the blessed, without a thought to spare in the midst of that glory for the poor soul who perished for love of them. could that be true? was it damnation as well as death he was going to face? was it farewell for ever, and ever, and ever? so the awful strain ran on, buzzing in his ears, drowning for him the voices of the crowd--for ever, for ever, for ever. dives forlorn and far away--and up, up high in the heavens, blazing above him, like a star-- like that star in the soft sky of the evening which came out first and shone down direct upon him in his wretchedness. how it shone! how she shone!--was it she?--as it grew darker drawing a silver line for him upon the face of the darkening water. was that to be the spot? but it took years to get dark that night. he lived and grew old while he was waiting thus to die. at last there was gloom enough. he got a boat, and rowed it out to that white glistening line, the line that looked like a silver arrow, shining where the spot was-- the boat drifted ashore that night as the tide fell. in that last act, at least, nature helped him to be honest, poor soul! chapter xi. 'the studio door is open, mamma,' said little norah dancing in before her mother, through the lilac bushes. the words seemed to take a weight off helen's heart. 'then papa must have come in,' she said, and ran up the steps to the door, which was opened before she could knock by an anxious, half-frightened maid. 'mr drummond has come in?' she said, in her anxiety, hasting to pass jane, who held fast by the door. 'no, ma'am, please, ma'am; but rebecca and me see a man about not five minutes ago, and i can't find master's topcoat as was a-hanging in the hall--rebecca says, ma'am, as she thought she see--' 'papa has not been home after all,' helen said to her little daughter; 'perhaps mr drummond wore his great-coat last night, jane. never mind just now; he will tell us when he comes in.' 'but i see the man, and george was out, as he always is when he's wanted. me and rebecca--' said jane. 'never mind just now,' said helen languidly. she went into the drawing-room with the load heavier than ever on her heart. what could have kept him so long? what could be making him so miserable? oh, how cruel, cruel it was not to know! she sat down with a heart like lead on that chair which poor robert had kissed--not fifteen minutes since, and he was scarcely out of reach now. 'oh, mamma,' cried norah, moving about with a child's curiosity; 'here is a letter for you on the little red table. it is so funny, and blurred, and uneven. i can write better than that--look! isn't it from papa?' helen had not paid much attention to what the child said, but now she started up and stretched out her hand. the name on the outside was scarcely legible, it was blurred and uneven, as norah said; and it was very clear to see, could only be a message of woe. but her worst fears, miserable as she felt, had not approached the very skirts of the misery that now awaited her. she tore the envelope open, with her heart beating loud in her ears, and her whole body tingling with agitation. and this was what she read:-- 'my helen, my own helen,--i have nothing in the world to do now but to bid you good-bye. i have ruined you, and more than you. if i lived i should only be a disgrace and a burden, and your little money that you have will support you by yourself. oh, my love, to think i should leave you like this! i who have loved you so. but i have never been good enough for you. when you are an angel in heaven, if you see me among the lost, oh, bestow a little pity upon me, my helen! i shall never see you again, but as dives saw lazarus. oh, my wife, my baby, my own, you will be mine no longer; but have a little pity upon me! give me one look, helen, out of heaven. 'i am not mad, dear. i am doing it knowing it will be for the best. god forgive me if i take it upon me to know better than him. it is not presumption, and perhaps he may know what i mean, though even you don't know. oh my own, my darlings, my only ones--good-bye, good-bye!' there was no name signed, no stops to make the sense plain. it was written as wildly as it had been conceived; and helen, in her terrible excitement, did not make out at first what it could mean. what could it mean? where was he going? the words about dives and lazarus threw no light upon it at first. he had gone away. she gave a cry, and dropped her hands upon her lap, with the letter in them, and looked round her--looked at her child, to make sure to herself that she was not dreaming. gone away! but where, where, and why this parting? 'i don't understand it--he has gone and left us,' she said feebly, when norah, in her curiosity, came rushing to her to know what it was. 'i don't know what it means. o god, help us!' she said, with an outburst of miserable tears. she was confused to the very centre of her being. where had he gone?' 'may i read it, mamma?' little norah asked, with her arms round her mother's neck. but helen had the feeling that it was not fit for the child. 'run and ask who brought it,' she said, glad to be alone; and then read over again, with a mind slowly awakening to its reality, that outburst of love and despair. the letter shook in her hands, salt tears fell upon it as she read. 'if i lived:--_i am doing it, knowing._' god, god, what was it he had gone to do? just then she heard a noise in the studio, and starting to her feet rushed to the conservatory door, crying, 'robert! robert!' she was met by jane and norah, coming from it; the child was carrying her father's hat in her arms, with a strange look of wonder and dismay on her face. 'mamma, no one brought the letter,' she said in a subdued, horror-struck tone; 'and here is papa's hat--and the picture is lying dashed down on the floor with its face against the carpet. it is all spoiled, mamma,' sobbed little norah--'papa's picture! and here is his hat. oh, mamma, mamma!' norah was frightened at her mother's face. she had grown ghastly pale. 'get me a cab,' she said to the maid, whose curiosity was profoundly excited. then she sat down and took her child in her arms. 'norah, my darling,' she said, making a pause between every two words, 'something dreadful has happened. i don't know what. i must go--and see. i must go--and find him--o my god, where am i to go?' 'and me, too,' said the child, clinging to her fast; 'me, too--let us go to the city, mamma!' 'not you, norah. it will soon be your bedtime. oh, my pet, go and kneel down and pray--pray for poor papa.' 'i can pray just as well in the cab,' said norah; 'god hears all the same. i am nearly twelve--i am almost grown up. you shall not, shall not go without me. i will never move nor say a word. i will run up and get your cloak and mine. we'll easily find him. he never would have the heart to go far away from you and me.' 'he never would have the heart,' helen murmured the words over after her. surely not. surely, surely, he would not have the heart! his resolution would fail. how could he go and leave the two whom he loved best--the two whom alone he loved in this world. 'run, then, dear, and get your cloak,' she said faintly. the child seemed a kind of anchor to her, holding her to something, to some grasp of solid earth. they drove off in a few minutes, norah holding fast her mother's hand. they overtook, if they had but known it, and passed in the crowd, the despairing man they sought; and he with his dim eyes saw the cab driving past, and wondered even who was in it--some other sufferer, in the madness of excitement or despair. how was he to know it was his wife and child? they drove to the city, but found no one there. they went to his club, to one friend's house after another, to the picture-dealers, to the railway stations. there, two or three bystanders had seen such a man, and he had gone to brighton, to scotland, to paris, they said. coming home, they drove over the very bridge where he had been standing waiting for the dark. it was dark by that time, and helen's eye caught the line of light on the water, with that intuitive wish so common to a painter's wife, that robert had seen it. ah, good lord! he had seen and more than seen. the summer night was quite dark when they got home. those gleams of starlight were lost in clouds, and all was gloom about the pretty house. instead of the usual kindly gleam from the windows, nothing was visible as they drew up to the door but the light of a single candle which showed its solitary flame through the bare window of the dining-room. no blind was drawn, or curtain closed, and like the taper of a watcher shone this little miserable light. it chilled helen in her profound discouragement and fatigue, and yet it gave her a forlorn hope that perhaps he had come. norah had fallen fast asleep leaning against her. it was all she could do to wake the child as they approached the door; and jane came out to open the gate with a scared face. 'no, ma'am, master's never been back,' she answered to helen's eager question; but dr maurice, he's here.' mrs drummond put norah into the woman's arms, and rushed into the house. dr maurice met her with a face almost as white as her own, and took her hands compassionately. 'you have heard from him? what have you heard? where is he?' said poor helen. 'hush, hush!' he said, 'perhaps it is not so bad as it appears. i don't understand it. rest a little, and i will show you what he has written to me.' 'i cannot rest,' she said; 'how can i rest when robert----let me see it. let me see it. i am sure to understand what he means. he never had any secrets before. oh, show it me--show it me!--am not i his wife?' 'poor wife, poor wife!' said the compassionate doctor, and then he put her into an easy-chair and went and asked for some wine. 'i will show it you only when you have drank this,' he said; 'only when you have heard what i have to say. drummond is very impulsive you know. he might not do really as he said. a hundred things would come in to stop him when he had time to think. his heart has been broken by this bank business; but when he felt that it was understood he was not to blame----' 'give me your letter,' she said, holding out her hand to him. she was capable of no more. 'he would soon find that out,' said the doctor. 'who could possibly blame _him_? my dear mrs drummond, you must take this into account. you must not give him up at once. i have set on foot all sorts of inquiries----' 'the letter, the letter!' she said hoarsely, holding out her hand. he was obliged to yield to her at last, but not without the consciousness which comforted him that she had heard a great deal of what he had to say. she had not listened voluntarily; but still she had not been able to keep herself from hearing. this was not much comfort to poor helen, but it was to him. he had made her swallow the wine too; he had done his best for her; and now he could but stand by mournfully while she read her sentence, the words which might be death. * * * * * 'maurice, i want you to go to my wife. before you get this, or at least before you have got to her, i shall be dead. it's a curious thing to say, but it's true. there has been a great crash at the bank, and i am ruined and all i care for. if i lived i could do no good, only harm; but they will be sorry for her if i die. i have written to her, poor darling, to tell her; but i want you to go and stand by her. she'll want some one; and kiss the child for me. if they find me, bury me anywhere. i hope they will never find me, though, for helen's sake. and poor haldane. tell him i knew nothing of it; nothing, nothing! i would have died sooner than let them risk his money. god help us, and god forgive me! maurice, you are a good fellow; be kind to my poor wife.' * * * * * there was a postscript which nobody read or paid any attention to: that is to say, they read it and it died from their minds for the moment as if it meant nothing. it was this, written obliquely like an after-thought-- '_the bank was ruined from the first; there was never a chance for us. i found this out only to-day. burton and golden have done it all._' these were the words that helen read, with dr maurice standing mournfully behind watching her every movement. she kept staring at the letter for a long time, and then fell back with a hysterical sob, but without any relief of tears. dr maurice stood by her as his friend had asked him. he soothed her, adding every possible reason he could think of (none of which he himself believed in the smallest degree) to show that 'poor drummond' might change his mind. this was written in the first impulse of despair, but when he came to think----helen did not listen; but she heard what dr maurice said vaguely, and she heard his account of what he had done; he had given information at once to the police; he had engaged people everywhere to search and watch. news would be heard of him to-morrow certainly, if not to-night. helen rose while he was speaking. she collected herself and restrained herself, exerting all the strength she possessed. 'will you come with me?' she said. 'where? where? mrs drummond, i entreat you to believe i have done everything----' 'oh, i am sure of it!' she said faintly; 'but i must go. i cannot--cannot rest. i must go somewhere--anywhere--where he may have gone----' 'but, mrs drummond----' 'you are going to say i have been everywhere. so we have, norah and i--she fell asleep at last, poor child--she does not need me--i must go----' 'it is getting late,' he said; 'it is just ten; if news were to come you would not like to be out of the way. stay here and rest, and i will go to-morrow; you will want all your strength.' 'i want it all now,' she said, with a strange smile. 'who thinks of to-morrow? it may never, never come. it may----you are very kind--but i cannot rest.' she was in the cab again before he could say another word. but fortunately at that moment one of his messengers came in hot haste to say that they thought they had found some trace of 'the gentleman.' he had come off to bring the news, and probably by this time the others were on their way bringing him home. this intelligence furnished maurice with a weapon against helen. she allowed herself to be led into the house again, not believing it, feeling in her heart that her husband would never be brought back, yet unable to resist the reasonable conclusion that she must stay to receive him. the short summer darkness passed over her thus; the awful dawn came and looked her in the face. one of the maids sat up, or rather dozed in her chair in the kitchen, keeping a fire alight in case anything might be wanted. and helen sat and listened to every sound; sat at the window gazing out, hearing carriage wheels and footsteps miles off, as it seemed to her, and now and then almost deceived into hope by the sound of some one returning from a dance or late party. how strange it seemed to her that life should be going on in its ordinary routine, and people enjoying themselves, while she sat thus frozen into desperation, listening for him who would never come again! her mind was wandering after him through every kind of dreadful scene; and yet it was so difficult, so impossible to associate him with anything terrible. he, always so reasonable, so tender of others, so free from selfish folly. the waking of the new day stole upon the watcher before she was aware; those sounds which are so awful in their power, which show how long it is since last night, how life has gone on, casting aside old burdens, taking on new ones. it was just about ten o'clock, when the morning was at its busiest outside, and helen, refusing to acknowledge the needs of the new day, still sat at the window watching, with eyes that were dry and hot and bloodshot, with the room all in mournful disorder round her, when dr maurice's brougham drew up to the door. he sprang out of it, carrying a coat on his arm; a rough fellow in a blue jersey and sailor's hat followed him. maurice came in with that look so different from the look of anxiety, that fatal air, subdued and still and certain, which comes only from knowledge. whatever might have happened he was in doubt no more. helen's long vigil had worn her into that extremity of emotion which can no longer avail itself of ordinary signs. she had not even risen to meet the news. she held out her hand feebly, and gave him a piteous look of inquiry, which her dry lips refused to sound. she looked as if it were possible that she had grown into an idiot as she sat there. he came forward to her, and took her hand in his. 'dear mrs drummond,' he said, 'you will need all your courage; you must not give way; you must think of your child.' 'i know,' she said; her hand dropped out of his as if by its mere weight. she bowed her head as if to let this great salt bitter wave go over her--bowed it down till it sank upon her lap hidden in her clasped hands. there was nothing to be said further, not a word was necessary. she knew. and yet there was a story to tell. it was told to her very gently, and she had to listen to it, with her face hidden in her hands. she shuddered now and then as she listened. sometimes a long convulsive sob escaped her, and shook her whole frame; but she was far beyond the ordinary relief of weeping. it was poor robert's coat which dr maurice had brought with him, making all further doubt impossible. the gentleman had thrown it off when he took that boat at chelsea. it was too warm, he said; 'and sure enough it was mortal warm,' the man added who had come to verify the mournful story. the gentleman had taken a skiff for a row. it was a clear, beautiful night, and he had been warned to keep out of the way of steamers and barges. if any harm came to him, the boatman said, it was not for want of knowing how to manage a boat. the little skiff had drifted in bottom up, and had been found that morning a mile down stream. that was all. jane, who was the housemaid, went away crying, and drew down all the blinds except that of the room in which her mistress was. 'surely missis will have the thought to do that,' she said. but poor helen had not the thought. and thus it all came to an end--their love, their prosperity, and that mitigated human happiness which they had enjoyed together--happiness not too perfect, and yet how sweet! norah still slept through the bright morning, neglected by her usual attendant, and tired out by her unusual exertions on the previous night. 'she ought to know,' the maids said to each other, with that eagerness to make evil tidings known which is so strangely common; but the old nurse, who loved the child, would not have her disturbed. it was only when helen rejected all their entreaties to lie down and rest that martin consented to rouse the little girl. she came down, with her bright hair all about her shoulders, wrapped in a little white dressing-gown, flying with noiseless bare feet down the staircase, and, without a word of warning, threw herself upon her mother. it was not to console her mother, but to seek her own natural refuge in this uncomprehended calamity. 'oh, mamma!' said norah; 'oh, mamma, mamma!' she could find no other words of consolation. torrents of youthful tears gushed from the child's eyes. she wept for both, while helen sat tearless. and the blinds were not down nor the shutters closed in that room, as the servants recollected with horror, and the great golden light of morn shone in. thus they were left undisturbed in the full day, in the sweet sunshine; scarcely knowing, in the first stupor of misery, how it was that darkness had gathered in the midst of all their world of light. chapter xii. helen had not remarked that postscript to her husband's letter, but dr maurice had done so, to whom it was addressed; and while she was hiding her head and bearing the first agony of her grief without thought of anything remaining that she might yet have to bear, many things had been going on in the world outside of which helen knew nothing. dr maurice had been robert's true friend; and after that mournful morning a day and night had passed in which he did not know how to take comfort. he had no way of expressing himself as women have. he could not weep; it even seemed to him that to close out the cheerful light, as he was tempted to do (for the sight of all that brightness made his heart sick), would have been an ostentation of sorrow, a show of sentiment which he had no right to indulge in. he could not weep, but there was something else he could do; and that was to sift poor robert's accusation, if there was any truth in it; and, if there was, pursue--to he could not tell what end--the murderers of his friend. it is the old savage way; and dr maurice set his teeth, and found a certain relief in the thought. he lay down on the sofa in his library, and ordered his servant to close his doors to all the world, and tried to snatch a little sleep after the watch of the previous night. but sleep would not come to him. the library was a large, lofty room, well furnished, and full with books. it was red curtained and carpeted, and the little bit of the wall which was not covered with book-cases was red too, red which looked dark and heavy in the may sunshine, but was very cozy in winter days. the one spot of brightness in the room was a picture of poor drummond's--a young picture, one of those which he was painting while he courted helen, the work of youth and love, at a time when the talent in him was called promise, and that which it promised was genius. this little picture caught the doctor's eye as he lay on his sofa, resting the weary frame which had known no rest all night. a tear came as he looked at it--a tear which flowed back again to its fountain, not being permitted to fall, but which did him good all the same. 'poor fellow! he never did better than that,' dr maurice said to himself with a sigh; and then he closed up his eyes tight, and tried to go to sleep. half an hour after, when he opened them again, the picture was once more the first thing he saw. 'better!' he said, 'he never did so well. and killed by those infernal curs!' the doctor took himself off his sofa after this failure. it was of no use trying to sleep. he gathered his boots from the corner into which he had hurled them, and drew them on again. he thought he would go and have a walk. and then he remarked for the first time that though he had taken his coat off, the rest of his dress was the same as he had put on last night to go out to dinner. when he went to his room to change this, the sight of himself in the glass was a wonder to him. was that red-eyed, dishevelled man, with glittering studs in his shirt, and a head heavy with watching and grief--was that the trim and irreproachable dr maurice? he gave a grin of horror and fierce mockery at himself, and then sat down in his easy-chair, and hid his face in his hands; and thus, all contorted and doubled up, went to sleep unawares. he was good for nothing that day. the next morning, before he could go out, mr burton called upon him. he was the man whom dr maurice most wanted to see. yet he felt himself jump as he was announced, and knew that in spite of himself his countenance had changed. mr burton came in undisturbed in manner or appearance, but with a broad black hatband on his hat--a band which his hatter had assured him was much broader than he had any occasion for--'deep enough for a brother.' this gave him a certain air of solemnity, as it came in in front of him. it was 'a mark of respect' which dr maurice had not thought of showing; and maurice, after poor haldane, was, as it were, robert's next friend. 'i have come to speak to you about poor drummond,' said mr burton, taking a chair. 'what a terrible business this has been! i met with him accidentally that morning--the very day it happened. i do not know when i have had such a shock!' 'you met him on the day he took his life?' 'the day he--died, dr maurice. i am his relative, his wife's nearest friend. why should we speak so? let us not be the people to judge him. he died--god knows how. it is in god's hands.' 'god knows i don't judge him,' said dr maurice; and there was a pause. 'i cannot hear that any one saw him later,' said mr burton. 'i hear from the servants at st mary's road that he was not there. he talked very wildly, poor fellow. i almost thought--god forgive me!--that he had been drinking. it must have been temporary insanity. it is a kind of consolation to reflect upon that _now_.' the doctor said nothing. he rustled his papers about, and played impatiently with the pens and paper-cutter on his table. he bore it all until his visitor heaved a demonstrative sigh. that he could not bear. 'if you thought he spoke wildly, you might have looked after him a little,' he said. 'it was enough to make any man look wild; and you, who knew so well all about it----' 'that is the very thing. i did not know about it. i had been out of town, and had heard nothing. a concern i was so much interested in--by which i am myself a loser----' 'do you lose much?' said dr maurice, looking him in the face. it was the same question poor robert had asked, and it produced the same results. an uneasy flush came on the rich man's countenance. 'we city men do not publish our losses,' he said. 'we prefer to keep the amount of them, when we can, to ourselves. you were in yourself, i believe? ah! i warned poor drummond! i told him he knew nothing of business. he should have taken the advice of men who knew. how strange that an ignorant, inexperienced man, quite unaware what he was doing, should be able to ruin such a vast concern!' 'ruin such a vast concern!' dr maurice repeated, stupefied. 'who?--drummond? this is a serious moment and a strangely-chosen subject for a jest. i can't suppose that you take me for a fool----' 'we have all been fools, letting him play with edge tools,' said mr burton, almost sharply. 'golden tells me he would never take advice. golden says----' 'golden! where is he?' cried maurice. 'the fellow who absconded? by jove, tell me but where to lay my hands on him----' 'softly,' said mr burton, putting his hand on maurice's arm, with an air of soothing him which made the doctor's blood boil. 'softly, doctor. he is to be found where he always was, at the office, making the best he can of a terribly bad job, looking fifteen years older, poor fellow. where are you going? let me have my ten minutes first!' 'i am going to get hold of him, the swindler!' cried maurice, ringing the bell furiously. 'john, let the brougham be brought round directly. my god! if i was not the most moderate man in existence i should say murderer too. golden says, forsooth! we shall see what he will say before a jury----' 'my dear dr maurice--listen a little--take care what you are doing. golden is as honourable a man as you or i----' 'speak for yourself,' said the doctor roughly. 'he has absconded--that's the word. it was in the papers yesterday morning; and it was the answer i myself received at the office. golden, indeed! if you're a friend of drummond's, you will come with me and give that fellow into custody. this is no time for courtesy now.' 'how glad i am i came!' said mr burton. 'you have not seen, then, what is in the papers to-day? dr maurice, you must listen to me; this is simply madness. golden, poor fellow, has been very nearly made the victim of his own unsuspicious character. don't be impatient, but listen. when i tell you he was simply absent on tuesday on his own affairs--gone down to the country, as i might have been myself, if not, alas! as i sometimes think, sent out of the way. the news of shenken's bankruptcy arrived that morning. well, i don't mean to say drummond could have helped that; but he seized the opportunity. heaven knows how sorry i am to suggest such a thing; it has nearly broken golden's heart. but these are the facts; what can you make of them? maurice, listen to me. what did he go and do _that_ for? he was still a young man; he had his profession. if he could have faced the world, why did he do _that_?' dr maurice replied with an oath. i can make no excuse for him. he stood on his own hearth, with his hand clenched, and blasphemed. there are moments in which a man must either do that, or go down upon his knees and appeal to god, who now-a-days sends no lightning from heaven to kill the slayer of men's souls where he stands. the doctor saw it all as if by a gleam of that same lightning which he invoked in vain. he saw the spider's web they had woven, the way of escape for themselves which they had built over the body of the man who was dead, and could not say a word in reply. but his friend could not find a word to say. scorn, rage, stupefaction, came upon him. it was so false, so incredible in its falsity. he could no more have defended robert from such an accusation than he would have defended himself from the charge of having murdered him. but it would be believed: the world did not know any better. he could not say another word--such a horror and disgust came over him, such a sickening sense of the power of falsehood, the feebleness of manifest, unprovable truth. 'this is not a becoming way in which to treat such a subject,' said mr burton, rising too. 'no subject could be more painful to me. i feel almost as if, indirectly, i myself was to blame. it was i who introduced him into the concern. i am a busy man, and i have a great deal on my hands, but could i have foreseen what was preparing for rivers's, my own interest should have gone to the wall. and that he should be my own relation too--my cousin's husband! ah, poor helen, what a mistake she made!' 'have you nearly done, sir?' said the doctor fiercely. 'i shall have done at once, if what i say is received with incivility,' said mr burton, with spirit. 'it was to prevent any extension of the scandal that i came here.' 'there are some occasions upon which civility is impossible,' said maurice. 'i happen to know robert drummond; which i hope you don't, for your own sake. and, remember, a great many people know him besides me. i mean no incivility when i say that i don't believe one word of this, mr burton; and that is all i have to say about it. not one word----' 'you mean, i lie!' 'i mean nothing of the sort. i hope you are deceived. i mean that this fellow golden is an atrocious scoundrel, and _he_ lies, if you will. and having said that, i have not another word to say.' then they both stopped short, looking at each other. a momentary doubt was, perhaps, in burton's mind what to say next--whether to pursue the subject or to let it drop. but no doubt was in maurice's. he stood rigid, with his back to the vacant fireplace, retired within himself. 'it is very warm,' he said; 'not favourable weather for walking. can i set you down anywhere? i see my brougham has come round.' 'thanks,' said the other shortly. and then he added, 'dr maurice, you have taken things in a manner very different from what i expected. i thought you would take an interest in saving our poor friend's memory as far as we can--' 'i take no interest in it, sir, whatever.' 'and the feelings of his widow,' said mr burton. 'well, well, very well. friendship is such a wide word--sometimes meaning so much, sometimes so little. i suppose i must do the best i can for poor helen by myself, and in my own way.' the obdurate doctor bowed. he held fast by his formula. he had not another word to say. 'in that case i need not trouble you any longer,' said mr burton. but when he was on his way to the door he paused and turned round. 'she is not likely to be reading the papers just now,' he said, 'and i hope i may depend on you not to let these unfortunate particulars, or anything about it, come to the ears of mrs drummond. i should like her to be saved that if possible. she will have enough to bear.' 'i shall not tell mrs drummond,' said the doctor. and then the door opened and closed, and the visitor was gone. the brougham stood before dr maurice's window for a long time that morning. the old coachman grumbled, broiling on the box; the horses grumbled, pawing with restless feet, and switching the flies off with more and more impatient swingings of their tails. john grumbled indoors, who could not 'set things straight' until his master was out of the way. but the doctor neglected them all. not one of all the four, horses or men, would have changed places with him could they have seen him poring over the newspaper, which he had not cared to look at that morning, with the wrinkles drawn together on his forehead. there was fury in his soul, that indignation beyond words, beyond self-command, with which a man perceives the rise and growth of a wrong which is beyond his setting right--a lie which he can only ineffectively contradict, struggle, or rage against, but cannot drive out of the minds of men. they had it in their own hands to say what they would. dr maurice knew that during all the past winter his friend had been drawn into the work of the bank. he had even cautioned robert, though in ignorance of the extent of his danger. he had said, 'don't forget that you are unaccustomed to the excitements of business. they will hurt you, though they don't touch the others. it is not your trade.' these words came back to his mind with the bitterest sense of that absence of foresight which is common to man. 'if i had but known!' he said. and then he remembered, with a bitter smile, his visit to dr bradcliffe, his request to him to see poor drummond 'accidentally,' his dread for his friend's brain. this it was which had affected poor robert, worse than disease, worse than madness; for in madness or disease there would have been no human agency to blame. the papers, as burton had said, were full of this exciting story. outside in the very streets there were great placards up with headings in immense capitals, '_great bankruptcy in the city.--suicide of a bank director._' the absconding of the manager, which had been the news the day before, was thrown into the background by this new fact, which was so much more tragical and important. 'the latest information' was given by some in a second edition, so widespread was the commotion produced by the catastrophe; and even those of the public who did not care much for rivers's, cared for the exciting tale, or for the fate of the unhappy professional man who had rashly involved himself in business, and ruined not only himself, but so many more. the story was so dramatically complete that public opinion decided upon it at once. it did not even want the grieved, indignant letter which mr golden, injured man, wrote to the _times_, begging that the report against him should be contradicted. this letter was printed in large type, and its tone was admirable. 'i will not prejudge any man, more especially one whose premature end has thrown a cloud of horror over the unfortunate business transactions of the bank with which i have had the honour of being connected for fifteen years,' mr golden wrote, 'but i cannot permit my temporary, innocent, and much-regretted absence to be construed into an evidence that i had deserted my post. with the help of providence, i will never desert it, so long as i can entertain the hope of saving from the wreck a shilling of the shareholders' money.' it was a very good letter, very creditable to mr golden; and everybody had read it, and accepted it as gospel, before dr maurice got his hand upon it. in the _daily semaphore_, which the doctor did not see, there was already an article on the subject, very eloquent and slightly discursive, insisting strongly upon the wickedness and folly of men who without capital, or even knowledge of business, thus ventured to play with the very existence of thousands of people. 'could the unfortunate man who has hidden his shame in a watery grave look up this morning from that turbid bed and see the many homes which he has filled with desolation, who can doubt that the worst and deepest hell fabled by the great italian poet would lose something of its intensity in comparison?--the ineffectual fires would pale; a deeper and a more terrible doom would be that of looking on at all the misery--all the ruined households and broken hearts which cry out to-day over all england for justice on their destroyer.' fortunately dr maurice did not read this article; but he did read the _times_ and its editorial comments. 'there can be little doubt,' that journal said, 'that the accidental absence of mr golden, the manager, whose letter explaining all the circumstances will be found in another column, determined drummond to his final movement. it left him time to secure the falsified books, and remove all evidence of his guilt. it is not for us to explain by what caprice of despair, after taking all this trouble, the unhappy man should have been driven to self-destruction. the workings of a mind in such an unnatural condition are too mysterious to be discussed here. perhaps he felt that when all was done, death was the only complete exemption from those penalties which follow the evil-doer on this earth. we can only record the fact; we cannot explain the cause. the manager and the remaining directors, hastily summoned to meet the emergency, have been labouring ever since, we understand, with the help of a well-known accountant, to make up the accounts of the company, as well as that can be done in the absence of the books which there is every reason to suppose were abstracted by drummond before he left the office. it has been suggested that the river should be dragged for them as well as for the body of the unhappy man, which up to this time has not been recovered. but we doubt much whether, even should such a work be successful, the books would be legible after an immersion even of two or three days. we believe that no one, even the persons most concerned, are yet able to form an estimate of the number of persons to whom this lamentable occurrence will be ruin.' dr maurice put down the paper with a gleam in his face of that awful and heart-rending rage which indignation is apt to rise into when it feels itself most impotent. what could he do to stop such a slander? he could contradict it; he could say, 'i know robert drummond; he was utterly incapable of this baseness.' alas! who was he that the world should take his word for it? he might bring a counter-charge against golden; he might accuse him of abstracting the books, and being the author of all the mischief; but what proof had he to substantiate his accusation? he had no evidence--not a hair's-breadth. he could not prove, though he believed, that this was all a scheme suggested to the plotters, if there were more than one, or to golden himself, if he were alone in his villany, by the unlooked-for chance of drummond's suicide. this was what he believed. all the more for the horrible _vraisemblance_ of the story, could he see the steps by which it had been put together. golden had absconded, taking with him everything that was damning in the way of books. he had lain hidden somewhere near at hand waiting an opportunity to get away. he had heard of poor drummond's death, and an opportunity of a different kind, a devilish yet brilliantly successful way of escape, had suddenly appeared for him. all this burst upon dr maurice as by a revelation while he sat with those papers before him gnawing his nails and clutching the leading journal as if it had been golden's throat. he saw it all. it came out before him like a design in phosphorus, twinkling and glowing through the darkness. he was sure of it; but--what to do? this man had a touch in him of the antique friendship--the bond for which men have encountered all odds and dared death, and been happy in their sacrifice. but even disinterestedness, even devotion, do not give a man the mental power to meet such foes, or to frame a plan by which to bring them to confusion. he grew himself confused with the thought. he could not make out what to do first--how he should begin. he had forgotten how the hours went--what time of the day it was--while he pondered these subjects. the fire in his veins, instead of acting as a simple stimulant, acted upon him like intoxication. his brain reeled under the pressure. 'will you have lunch, sir, before you go out?' said john, with restrained wrath, but a pretence of stateliness. 'lunch!--how dare you come into my room, sir, before i ring!' cried his master, waking up and looking at him with what seemed to john murderous eyes. and then he sprang up, tore the papers into little pieces, crammed them into the fireplace, and, seizing his hat, rushed out to the carriage. the coachman was nodding softly on the box. the heat, and the stillness, and the monotony had triumphed even over the propriety of a man who knew all london, he was fond of saying, as well as he knew his own hands. the coachman almost dropped from his box when maurice, throwing the door of the little carriage open, startled him suddenly from his slumber. the horses, which were half asleep too, woke also with much jarring of harness and prancing of hoof and head. 'to the _times_ office,' was what the doctor said. he could not go and clutch that villain by the throat, though that might be the best way. it was another kind of lion which he was about to beard in his den. chapter xiii. none of the persons chiefly concerned in this history, except himself, knew as yet whether reginald burton was good or bad. but one thing is certain, that there were good intentions in his mind when he startled dr maurice with this extraordinary tale. he had a very busy morning, driving from place to place in his hansom, giving up so many hours of his day without much complaint. he had expected maurice to know what the papers would have told him, had he been less overwhelmed with the event itself of which they gave so strange a version, and he had intended to have a friendly consultation with him about mrs drummond's means of living, and what was to be done for her. something must be done for her, there was no doubt about that. she could not be allowed to starve. she was his own cousin, once helen burton; and, no doubt, by this time she had found out her great mistake. it must not be supposed that this thought brought with it any lingering fondness of recollection, any touch of the old love with which he himself had once looked upon her. it would have been highly improper had it done anything of the kind. he had a mrs burton of his own, who of course possessed his entire affections, and he was not a man to indulge in any illegitimate emotion. but still he had been thinking much of helen since this bewildering event occurred. it was an event which had taken him quite by surprise. he did not understand it. he felt that he himself could never be in such despair, could never take 'a step so rash'--the only step a man could take which left no room for repentance. it had been providential, no doubt, for some things. but helen had been in his mind since ever he had time to think. there was a little glitter in his eye, a little complacent curl about the corners of his mouth, as he thought of her, and her destitute condition, and her helplessness. what a mistake she had made! she had chosen a wretched painter, without a penny, instead of himself. and this was what it had come to. now at least she must have found out what a fool she had been. but yet he intended to be good to her in his way. he vowed to himself, with perhaps some secret compunction in the depths of his heart, that if she would let him he would be very good to her. nor was helen the only person to whom he intended to be good. he went to the haldanes as well, with kindest sympathy and offers of help. 'perhaps you may think i was to blame in recommending such an investment of your money?' he said to stephen, with that blunt honesty which charms so many people. 'but my first thought was of you when i heard of the crash. i wish i had bitten my tongue out sooner than recommended it. the first people who came into my head were my cousin helen and you.' dismay and trouble were in the haldanes' little house. they had not recovered from the shock. they were like three ghosts--each endeavouring to hide the blackness from each other which had fallen upon their souls.--miss jane and her mother, however, had begun to get a little relief in talking over the great misery which had fallen upon them. they had filled the room with newspapers, in which they devoured every scrap of news which bore on that one subject. they sat apart in a corner and read them to each other, while stephen closed his poor sad eyes and withdrew into himself. it was the only retirement he had, his only way of escape from the monotonous details of their family life, and the constant presence of his nurses and attendants. this man had such attendants--unwearying, uncomplaining, always ready whatever he wanted, giving up their lives to his service--as few men have; and yet there were moments when he would have given the world to be free of them,--now and then, for half an hour, to be able to be alone. he had been sitting thus in his oratory, his place of retirement having shut his doors, and gone into his chamber by that single action of closing his eyes, when mr burton came in. the women had been reading those papers to him till he had called to them to stop. they had made his heart sore, as our hearts are being made sore now by tales of wrong and misery which we cannot help, cannot stop, can do nothing but weep for, or listen to with hearts that burn and bleed. stephen haldane's heart was so--it was sore, quivering with the stroke it had sustained, feeling as if it would burst out of his breast. people say that much invoked and described organ is good only for tough physical uses, and knows no sentiment; but surely such people have never had _a sore heart_. poor stephen's heart was sore: he could feel the great wound in it through which the life-blood stole. yesterday he had been stupefied. to-day he had begun to wonder why, if a sacrifice was needed, it should not have been him? he who was good for nothing, a burden on the earth; and not robert, the kindest, truest----god bless him! yes, god bless him down yonder at the bottom of the river, down with dives in a deeper depth if that might be--anywhere, everywhere, even in hell or purgatory, god bless him! this was what his friend said, not afraid. and the women in the corner, in the mean while, read all the details, every one--about the dragging of the river, about the missing books, about mr golden, who had been so wronged. mrs haldane believed it every word, having a dread of human nature and a great confidence in the newspapers; but miss jane was tormented with an independent opinion, and hesitated and could not believe. it had almost distracted their attention from the fact which there could be no question about, which all knew for certain--their own ruin. rivers's had stopped payment, whoever was in fault, and everything this family had--their capital, their income, everything was gone. it had stunned them all the first day, but now they were beginning to call together their forces and live again; and when mr burton made the little sympathetic speech above recorded it went to their hearts. 'i am sure it is very kind, very kind of you to say so,' said mrs haldane. 'we never thought of blaming--you.' 'i don't go so far as that,' said miss jane. 'i always speak my mind. i blame everybody, mother; one for one thing, one for another. there is nobody that has taken thought for stephen, not one. stephen ought to have been considered, and that he was not able to move about and see to things for himself like other men.' 'it is very true, it is very true!' said mr burton, sighing. he shook his head, and he made a little movement of his hand, as if deprecating blame. he held up his hat with the mourning band upon it, and looked as if he might have wept. 'when you consider all that has happened,' he said in a low tone of apology. 'some who have been in fault have paid for it dearly, at least----' it was stephen's voice which broke in upon this apology, in a tone as different as could be imagined--high-pitched, almost harsh. when he was the popular minister of ormond street chapel it was one of the standing remarks made by his people to strangers, 'has not he a beautiful voice?' but at this moment all the tunefulness and softness had gone out of it. 'mr burton,' he said, 'what do you mean to do to vindicate drummond? it seems to me that _that_ comes first.' 'to vindicate drummond!' mr burton looked up with a sudden start, and then he added hurriedly, with an impetuosity which secured the two women to his side, 'haldane, you are too good for this world. don't let us speak of drummond. i will forgive him--if i can.' 'how much have you to forgive him?' said the preacher. once more, how much? by this time mr burton felt that he had a right to be angry with the question. 'how much?' he said; 'really i don't feel it necessary to go into my own business affairs with everybody who has a curiosity to know. i am willing to allow that my losses are as nothing to yours. pray don't let us go into this question, for i don't want to lose my temper. i came to offer any assistance that was in my power--to you.' 'oh, mr burton, stephen is infatuated about that miserable man,' said the mother; 'he cannot see harm in him; and even now, when he has taken his own life and proved himself to be----' 'stephen has a right to stand up for his friend,' said miss jane. 'if i had time i would stand up for him too; but stephen's comfort has to be thought of first. mr burton, the best assistance you could give us would be to get me something to do. i can't be a governess, and needlework does not pay; neither does teaching, for that matter, even if i could do it. i am a good housekeeper, though i say it. i can keep accounts with anybody. i am not a bad cook even. and i'm past forty, and never was pretty in my life, so that i don't see it matters whether i am a woman or a man. i don't care what i do or where i go, so long as i can earn some money. can you help me to that? don't groan, stephen; do you think i mind it? and don't you smile, mr burton. i am in earnest for my part.' stephen had groaned in his helplessness. mr burton smiled in his superiority, in his amused politeness of contempt for the plain woman past forty. 'we can't let you say that,' he answered jocosely, with a look at her which reminded miss jane that she was a woman after all, and filled her with suppressed fury. but what did such covert insult matter? it did not harm her; and the man who sneered at her homeliness might help her to work for her brother, which was the actual matter in hand. 'it is very difficult to know of such situations for ladies,' said mr burton. 'if anything should turn up, of course--but i fear it would not do to depend upon that.' 'stephen has his pension from the chapel,' said miss jane. she was not delicate about these items, but stated her case loudly and plainly, without even considering what stephen's feelings might be. 'it was to last for five years, and nearly three of them are gone; and he has fifty pounds a year for the magazine--that is not much mr burton, for all the trouble; they might increase that. and mother and i are trying to let the house furnished, which would always be something. we could remove into lodgings, and if nothing more is to be got, of course we must do upon what we have.' here mr burton cast a look upon the invalid who was surrounded by so many contrivances of comfort. it was a compassionate glance, but it stung poor stephen. 'don't think of me,' he said hoarsely; 'my wants, though i look such a burden upon everybody, are not many after all. don't think of me.' 'we could do with what we have,' miss jane went on--she was so practical, she rode over her brother's susceptibilities and ignored them, which perhaps was the best thing that could have been done--'if you could help us with a tenant for our house, mr burton, or get the magazine committee to give him a little more than fifty pounds. the work it is! what with writing--and i am sure he writes half of it himself--and reading those odious manuscripts which ruin his eyes, and correcting proofs, and all that. it is a shame that he has only fifty pounds----' 'but he need not take so much trouble unless he likes, jane,' said mrs haldane, shaking her head. 'i liked it as it was.' 'never mind, mother; stephen knows best, and it is him that we have got to consider. now, mr burton, here is what you can do for us--i should not have asked anything, but since you have offered, i suppose you mean it--something for me to do, or some one to take the house, or a little more money for the magazine. then we could do. i don't like anything that is vague. i suppose you prefer that i should tell you plain?' 'to be sure,' said mr burton; and he smiled, looking at her with that mixture of contemptuous amusement and dislike with which a plain middle-aged woman so often inspires a vulgar-minded man. that the women who want to work are always old hags, was one of the articles of his creed; and here was an illustration. miss jane troubled herself very little about his amusement or his contempt. she did not much believe in his good-will. but if he did mean it, why, it was best to take advantage of his offer. this was her practical view of the subject. mr burton turned from her to stephen, who had taken no part in the talk. necessity had taught to the sick man its stern philosophy. he had to listen to such discussions twenty times in a day, and he had steeled his heart to hear them, and make no sign. 'what would you say to life in the country?' he said. 'the little help i came to offer in these sad circumstances is not in any of the ways miss jane suggests. i don't know anybody that wants to take just this kind of house:' and he glanced round at it with a smile. he to know a possible tenant for such a nutshell! 'and i don't know any situation that would suit your sister, though i am sure she would be invaluable. my father-in-law is the man to speak about the magazine business. possibly he could manage that. but what i would offer you if you like, would be a lodging in the country. i have a house down at dura, which is of no use to me. there is good air and a garden, and all that. you are as welcome as possible if you like to come.' 'a house in the country,' said mrs haldane. 'oh, my boy! oh, mr burton! he might get well there.' poor soul! it was her delusion that stephen was to get well. she took up this new hope with eyes which, old as they were, flashed out with brightness and consolation. 'what will all our losses matter if stephen gets well?' she went on, beginning to cry. and miss jane rose up hastily and went away with a tremulous harshness, shutting her lips up tight, to the other side of the room, to get her work, which she had been neglecting. miss jane was like a man in this, that she could not bear tears. she set her face against them, holding herself in, lest she too might have been tempted to join. of all the subjects of discussion in this world, stephen's recovery was the only one she could not bear; for she loved her brother like a poet, like a starved and frozen woman who has had but one love in her life. the old mother was more manageable to mr burton's mind than miss jane. her tears and gratitude restored him to what he felt was his proper place,--that of a benefactor and guardian angel. he sat for half an hour longer, and told mrs haldane all about the favour he was willing to confer. 'it is close to the gates of my own house, but you must not think that will be an annoyance to us,' he said. 'on the contrary, i don't mean to tell my father-in-law till he sees you there. it will be a pleasant surprise for him. he has always taken so much interest in haldane. don't say anything, i beg. i am very glad you should have it, and i hope it will make you feel this dreadful calamity less. ah yes; it is wretched for us; but what must it be for my poor cousin? i am going to see her now.' 'i don't know her,' said mrs haldane. 'she has called at the door to ask for stephen, very regular. that i suppose was because of the friendship between----but i have only seen her once or twice on a formal call. if all is true that i hear, she will take it hard, being a proud woman. oh! pride's sinful at the best of times; but in a time like this----' 'mother!' 'yes, stephen, i know; and i am sure i would not for the world say a word against friends of yours; but----' 'i must go now,' said mr burton, rising. 'good-bye, haldane. i will write to you about the house, and when you can come in. on second thoughts, i will not prevent you from mentioning it to mr baldwin, if you please. he is sure to ask what you are going to do, and he will be glad to know.' he went out from victoria villas pleased with himself. he had been very good to these people, who really were nothing to him. he was not even a dissenter, but a staunch churchman, and had no sympathy for the sick minister. what was his motive, then? but it was his wife who made it her business to investigate his motives, and we may wait for the result of her examination. all this was easy enough. the kindness he had offered was one which would cost him little, and he had not suffered in this interview as he had done in that which preceded it. but now he had occasion for all his strength; now came the tug of war, the real strain. he was going to see helen. she had been but three days a widow, and no doubt would be in the depth of that darkness which is the recognized accompaniment of grief. would she see him? could she have seen the papers, or heard any echo of their news? on this point he was nervous. before he went to st mary's road, though it was close at hand, he went to the nearest hotel, and had a glass of wine and a biscuit. for such a visit he required all his strength. but these precautions were unnecessary. the shutters were all closed in st mary's road. the lilacs were waving their plumy fragrant branches over a door which no one entered. mrs drummond was at home, but saw no one. even when the maid carried his message to her, the answer was that she could see no one, that she was quite well, and required nothing. 'not even the clergyman, sir,' said the maid. 'he's been, but she would not see him. she is as white as my apron, and her poor hands you could see the light through 'em. we all think as she'll die too.' 'does she read the papers?' said mr burton anxiously. he was relieved when the woman said 'no.' he gave her half-a-crown, and bade her admit none to the house till he came again. rebecca promised and curtsied, and went back to the kitchen to finish reading that article in the _daily semaphore_. the fact that it was 'master' who was there called 'this unfortunate man' and 'this unhappy wretch,' gave the strongest zest to it. 'la! to think he could have had all that on his mind,' they said to each other. george was the only one who considered it might be 'a made-up story,' and he was believed to say so more from 'contrariness,' and a desire to set up for superior wisdom, than because he had any real doubt on the subject. 'a person may _say_ a thing, but i never heard of one yet as would go for to put it in print, if it wasn't true,' was rebecca's comment. 'i'm sorry for poor master, all the same,' said jane the housemaid, who was tender-hearted, and who had put on an old black gown of her own accord. the servants were not to get mourning, which was something unheard of; and they had all received notice, and, as soon as mrs drummond was able to move, were to go away. for that matter, helen was able to move then--able to go to the end of the earth, as she felt with a certain horror of herself. it is so natural to suppose that physical weakness should come in the train of grief; but often it does not, and the elastic delicate strength of helen's frame resisted all the influences of her sorrow. she scarcely ate at all; she slept little; the world had grown to her one great sea of darkness and pain and desolation: and yet she could not lie down and die as she had thought she would, but felt such a current of feverish energy in all her veins as she had never felt before. she could have done anything--laboured, travelled, worked with her hands, fought even, not like a man, but like twenty men. she was conscious of this, and it grieved and horrified her. she felt as a woman brought up in conventional proprieties would naturally feel, that her health ought to have been affected, that her strength should have failed her. but it had not done so. her grief inflamed her rather, and set her heart on fire. even now, in these early days, when custom decreed that she ought to be incapable of exertion, 'keeping her bed,' she felt herself in possession of a very flood of energy and excited strength. she was miserable, but she was not weak. she shut herself up in the darkened house all day, but half the night would walk about in her garden, in her despair, trying to tame down the wild life which had come with calamity. poor little norah crept about everywhere after her, and lay watching with great wide-open eyes, through the silvery half-darkness of the summer night, till she should come to bed. but norah was not old enough to understand her mother, and was herself half frightened by this extraordinary change in her, which affected the child's imagination more than the simple disappearance of her father did, though she wept and longed for him with a dreary sense that unless he came back life never could be as of old, and that he would never, never come back. but all the day long mrs drummond sat in her darkened room, and 'was not able to see any one.' she endured the vigil, and would have done so, if she had died of it. that was what was called 'proper respect:' it was called the conventional necessity of the moment. mr burton called again and again, but it was more than a fortnight before he was admitted. and in the mean time he too had certain preparations to go through. chapter xiv. mr burton was a man who was accustomed in his own house to have, in a great degree, his own way; but this was not because his wife was disinclined to hold, or incapable of forming, an opinion of her own. on the contrary, it was because he was rather afraid of her than otherwise, and thought twice before he promulgated any sentiments or started any plan which was likely to be in opposition to hers. but he had neither consulted her, nor, indeed, thought much of what she would say, in the sudden proposal he had made to the haldanes. he was not a hasty man; but dr maurice's indignation had made an impression upon him, and he had felt all at once that in going to the haldanes and to helen, he must not, if he would preserve his own character, go with merely empty sympathy, but must show practically his pity for them. it was perhaps the only time in his life that he had acted upon a hasty idea without taking time to consider; and a chill doubt, as to what clara would say, was in his mind as he turned his face homewards. dura was about twenty miles from town, in the heart of one of the leafiest of english counties; the station was a mile and a half from the great house, half of which distance, however, was avenue; and mr burton's phaeton, with the two greys--horses which matched to a hair, and were not equalled in the stables of any potentate in the county--was waiting for him when the train arrived. he liked to drive home in this glorious way, rousing the village folks and acting as a timepiece for them, just as he liked the great dinner-bell, which the old harcourts sounded only on great occasions, to be rung every day, letting the whole neighbourhood know that their local lord, their superior, the master of the great house, was going to dinner. he liked the thought that his return was an event in the place almost justifying the erection of a standard, as it was erected in a royal castle not very far off, when the sovereign went and came. our rich man had not gone so far as yet, but he would have liked it, and felt it natural. the village of dura was like a collection of beads threaded on the long white thread of road which ran from the station to the house--and occupied the greater part of the space, with single houses straggling at either end, and a cluster in the middle. the straggling houses at the end next the station were white villas, built for people whose business was in town, and who came home to dinner by the same train which brought mr burton, though their arrival was less imposing; but where the clump of dwelling-places thickened, the houses toned down into old-fashioned, deeply-lichened brick, with here and there a thatched roof to deepen, or a white-washed gable to relieve, the composition. at the end nearest the great house the village made a respectful pause, and turned off along a slanting path, which showed the tower of the church behind over the trees. the rectory, however, a pretty house buried in shrubberies, fronted the high road with modest confidence; and opposite it was another dwelling-place, in front of which mr burton drew up his horses for a moment, inspecting it with a careful and anxious eye. his heart beat a little quicker as he looked. his own gate was in sight, and these were the very grounds of dura house, into which the large walled garden of this one intruded like a square wedge. in front there were no shrubberies, no garden, nothing to divide it from the road. a double row of pollard limes--one on the edge of the foot-path, one close to the house--indicated and shaded, but did not separate it from the common way. the second row of limes was level with the fence of the dura grounds, and one row of white flagstones lay between them and the two white steps, the green door, and shining brass knocker of the gatehouse. it was a house which had been built in the reign of the first george, of red brick, with a great many windows, three-storied, and crowned by a pediment, with that curious mixture of the useful and (supposed) ornamental, which by this time has come to look almost picturesque by reason of age. it had been built for the mother of one of the old harcourts, a good woman who had been born the rector's daughter of the place, and loved it and its vicinity, and the sight of its comings and goings. this was the origin of the gatehouse; but since the days of mrs dunstable harcourt it had rarely been inhabited by any of the family, and had been a trouble more than an advantage to them. it was too near the hall to be inhabited by strangers, and people do not always like to establish their own poor relations and dependents at their very gates. as the harcourts dwindled and money became important to them, they let it at a small rate to a maiden household, two or three old ladies of limited means, and blood as blue as their own. and when dura ceased, except on county maps, to be harcourt-dura, and passed into the hands of the rich merchant, he, too, found the gatehouse a nuisance. there had been talk of pulling it down, but that would have been waste; and there had been attempts made to let it to 'a suitable tenant,' but no suitable tenant had been found. genteel old ladies of blue blood had not found the vicinity of the burtons a comfort to them as they did that of the harcourts. and there it stood empty, echoing, void, a place where the homeless might be sheltered. did mr burton's heart glow with benevolent warmth as he paused, drawing up his greys, and looked at it, with all its windows twinkling in the sun? to one of these windows a woman came forward at the sound of his pause, and, putting her face close to the small pane, looked out at him wondering. he gave her a nod, and sighed; and then flourished his whip, and the greys flew on. in another moment they had turned into the avenue and went dashing up the gentle ascent. it was a pretty avenue, though the trees were not so old as most of the dura trees. the sunset gleamed through it, slanting down under the lowest branches, scattering the brown mossy undergrowth with lumps of gold. a little pleasant tricksy wind shook the branches and dashed little mimic showers of rain in the master's face: for it had been raining in the afternoon, and the air was fresh and full of a hundred nameless odours; but mr burton gave forth another big sigh before he reached the house. he was a little afraid of what his wife would say, and he was afraid of what he had done. he did not say anything about it, however, till dinner was over. the most propitious moment seemed that gentle hour of dessert, when the inner man is strengthened and comforted, and there is time to dally over the poetic part of the meal--not that either of the burtons were poetical. they were alone, not even the children being with them, for mrs burton disapproved of children coming to dessert; but all the same, she was beautifully dressed; he liked it, and so did she. she made very little difference in this particular between her most imposing dinner parties and those evenings which she spent _tête-à-tête_ with her husband. when her aunts, who had old-fashioned ideas about extravagance, remonstrated with her, she defended herself, saying she could afford it, and he liked to see her well dressed. mr burton hated to have any scrap of capital unemployed; and the only interest you could get from your jewels was the pleasure of wearing them, and seeing them worn, he said. so mrs burton dined with her husband in a costume which a french lady of fashion would have considered appropriate to a ball or royal reception, with naked shoulders and arms, and lace and ornaments. madame la duchesse might have thought it much too fine, but mrs burton did not. she was a pale little woman, small and thin, but not without beauty. her hair was not very abundant, but it was exquisitely smooth and neat. her uncovered shoulders were white, and her arms round and well-formed; and she had clear blue eyes, so much brighter than anybody expected, that they took the world by surprise: they were cold in their expression, but they were full of intelligence, and a hundred times more vivid and striking than anything else about her, so that everybody observed and admired mrs burton's eyes. 'what has been going on to-day? what have you been doing?' she asked, when the servants went away. the question sounded affectionate, and showed at least that there was confidence between the husband and wife. 'very much as usual,' mr burton said, with colloquial ease; and then he stopped and cleared his throat. 'but for my own part i have done something rather foolish,' he said, with an almost imperceptible tremor in his voice. 'indeed?' she gave a quick glance up at him; but she was not excited, and went on calmly eating her strawberries. he was not the kind of man of whose foolish actions a wife is afraid. 'i have been to see the haldanes to-day,' he said, once more clearing his throat; 'and i have been to helen drummond's, but did not see her. the one, of course, i did out of regard for your father; the other----i was so distressed by the sight of that poor fellow in his helplessness, that i acted on impulse, clara. i know it's a foolish thing to do. i said to myself, here are two families cast out of house and home, and there is the gatehouse----' 'the gatehouse!' 'yes, i was afraid you would be startled; but reflect a moment: it is of no use to us. we have got nobody to occupy it. you know, indeed, how alarmed you were when your aunt louisa took a fancy to it; and i have tried for a tenant in vain. then, on the other hand, one cannot but be sorry for these poor people. helen is my cousin; she has no nearer friend than i am. and your father is so much interested in the haldanes----' 'i don't quite understand,' said mrs burton, with undisturbed composure; 'my father's interest in the haldanes has nothing to do with the gatehouse. are they to live there?' 'that was what i thought,' said her husband, 'but not, of course, if you have any serious dislike to it--not if you decidedly object----' 'why should i decidedly object?' she said. 'i should if you were bringing them to live with me; but otherwise----it is not at all suitable--they will not be happy there. it will be a great nuisance to us. as it is, strangers rather admire it--it looks old-fashioned and pleasant; but if they made a squalid place of it, dirty windows, and cooking all over the house----' 'so far as _my_ cousin is concerned, you could have nothing of that kind to fear,' said mr burton, ceasing to be apologetic. he put a slight emphasis on the word _my_; perhaps upon this point he would not have been sorry to provoke his wife, but clara burton would not gratify her husband by any show of jealousy. she was not jealous, she was thinking solely of appearances, and of the possible decadence of the gatehouse. 'besides, susan must stay,' he continued, after a pause; 'she must remain in charge; the house must be kept as it ought to be. if that is your only objection, clara----' 'i have made no objection at all,' said mrs burton; and then she broke into a dry little laugh. 'what a curious establishment it will be--an old broken-down nurserymaid, a dissenting minister, and your cousin! mr burton, will she like it? i cannot say that i should feel proud if it were offered to me.' his face flushed a little. he was not anxious himself to spare helen's feelings. if he had found an opportunity, it would have been agreeable to him to remind her that she had made a mistake; but she was his own relation, and instinct prompted him to protect her from his wife. 'helen is too poor to allow herself to think whether she likes it or not,' he said. his wife gave a sharp glance at him across the table. what did he mean? did he intend to be kind, or to insult the desolate woman? clara asked herself the question as a philosophical question, not because she cared. 'and is your cousin willing to accept it from you, after--that story?' she said. 'what story? you mean about her husband. it is not my story. i have nothing to do with it; and even if i had, surely it is the man who does wrong, not the man who tells it, that should have the blame; besides, she does not know.' 'ah, that is the safest,' said clara. 'i think it is a very strange story, mr burton. it may be true, but it is not like the truth.' 'i have nothing to do with it,' he exclaimed. he spoke hotly, with a swelling of the veins on his temples. 'there are points of view in which his death was very providential,' he said. and once more clara gave him a sharp glance. 'it was the angel who watches over mr golden that provided the boat, no doubt,' she answered, with a contraction of her lips; then fell back into the former topic with perfect calm. 'i should insist upon the house being kept clean and nice,' she said, as she rose to go away. 'surely--surely; and you may tell your father when you write, that poor haldane is so far provided for.' he got up to open the door for her, and, detaining her for a moment, stooped down and kissed her forehead. 'i am so much obliged to you, clara, for consenting so kindly,' he said. a faint little cold smile came upon her face. she had been his wife for a dozen years; but in her heart she was contemptuous of the kiss which he gave her, as if she had been a child, as a reward for her acquiescence. it is to be supposed that she loved him after her fashion. she had married him of her free will, and had never quarrelled with him once in all their married life. but yet had he known how his kiss was received, the sting would have penetrated even through the tough covering which protected reginald burton's _amour propre_, if not his heart. mrs burton went away into the great drawing-room, where her children, dressed like little princes in a comedy, were waiting for her. the harcourts in the old days, had made a much smaller room their family centre; but the burtons always used the great drawing-room, and lived, as it were, in state from one year's end to another. here clara burton dwelt--a little anonymous spirit, known to none even of her nearest friends. they were all puzzled by her 'ways,' and by the blank many-sided surface like a prism which she presented to them, refusing to be influenced by any. she did not know any more about herself than the others did. outside she was all glitter and splendour; nobody dressed so well, nobody had such jewels, or such carriages, or such horses in all the county. she used every day, and in her homeliest moments, things which even princes reserve for their best. mrs burton made it a boast that she had no best things; she was the same always, herself--and not her guests or anything apart from herself--being the centre of life in her house and in all her arrangements. the dinner which the husband and wife had just eaten had been as varied and as dainty, as if twenty people had sat down to it. it was her principle throughout her life. and yet within herself the woman cared for none of these things. another woman's dress or jewels was nothing to her. she was totally indifferent to the external advantages which everybody else believed her to be absorbed in. clara was very worldly, her aunts said, holding up their hands aghast at her extravagance and costly habits; but the fact was, that clara made all her splendours common, not out of love for them, but contempt for them: a thing which nobody suspected. it is only a cynical soul that could feel thus, and mrs burton's cynicism went very deep. she thought meanly of human nature, and did not believe much in goodness; but she seldom disapproved, and never condemned. she would smile and cast about in her mind (unawares) for the motive of any doubtful action, and generally ended by finding out that it was 'very natural,' a sentence which procured her credit for large toleration and a most amiable disposition, but which sprang really from the cynical character of her mind. it did not seem to her worth while to censure or to sermonize. she did not believe in reformation; and incredulity was in her the twin-brother of despair; but not a tragical despair. she took it all very calmly, not feeling that it was worth while to be disturbed by it; and went on unconsciously tracking out the mean motives, the poor pretensions, the veiled selfishness of all around her. and she was not aware that she herself was any better, nor did she claim superiority--nay, she would even track her own impulses back to their root, and smile at them, though with a certain bitterness. but all this was so properly cloaked over that nobody suspected it. people gave her credit for wisdom because she generally believed the worst, and was so very often right; and they thought her tolerant because she would take pains to show how it was nature that was in fault, and not the culprit. no one suspected the terrible little cynic, pitiless and hopeless that she was in her heart. and yet this woman was the mother of children, and had taught them their prayers, and was capable at that or any other moment of giving herself to be torn in pieces for them, as a matter of course, a thing which would not admit a possibility of doubt. she had thought of that in her many thinkings, had attempted to analyze her own love, and to fathom how much it was capable of. 'as much as a tiger or a bear would do for her cubs,' she had said to herself, with her usual smile. the strangest woman to sit veiled by reginald burton's fireside, and take the head of his table, and go to church with him in the richest, daintiest garments which money and skill could get for her! she was herself to some degree behind the scenes of her own nature; but even she could not always discriminate, down among the foundations of her being, which was false and which was true. she went into the drawing-room, where her little clara and ned were waiting. ned was thirteen, a year older than norah drummond. mr burton had determined that he would not be behind the cousin who refused him, nor allow her to suppose that he was pining for her love, so that his marriage had taken place earlier than helen's. ned was a big boy, very active, and not given to book-learning; but clara, who was a year younger, was a meditative creature like her mother. the boy was standing outside the open window, throwing stones at the birds in the distant trees. little clara stood within watching him, and making her comments on the sport. 'suppose you were to kill a poor little bird. suppose one of the young ones--one of the baby ones--were to try and fly a little bit, and you were to hit it. suppose the poor papa when he comes home----' 'oh, that's enough of your supposes,' said the big boy. 'suppose i were to eat _you_? but i don't want to. i don't think you would be nice.' 'ned!' said a voice from behind clara, which thrilled him through and through, and made the stones fall from his hands as if they had been suddenly paralyzed, and were unable to grasp anything. 'i know it is natural to boys to be cruel, but i had rather not have it under my own eyes.' 'cruel!' cried ned, with some discontent. 'a parcel of wretched sparrows and things that can't sing a note. they have no business in our trees. they ought to know what they would get.' 'are boys always cruel, mamma?' said little clara, laying hold upon her mother's dress. she was like a little princess herself, all lace and embroidery and blue ribbons and beautifulness. mrs burton made no answer. she did not even wait to see that her boy took no more shots at the birds. she drew a chair close to the window, and sat down; and as she took her seat she gave vent to a little fretful sigh. she was thinking of helen, and was annoyed that she had actually no means of judging what were the motives that would move her should she come to dura. it was difficult for her to understand simple ignorance and unsuspiciousness, or to give them their proper place among the springs of human action. her worst fault philosophically was that of ignoring these commonest influences of all. 'mamma, you are thinking of something,' said little clara. 'why do you sigh, and why do you shake your head?' 'i have been trying to put together a puzzle,' said her mother, 'as you do sometimes; and i can't make it out.' 'ah, a puzzle,' said ned, coming in; 'they are not at all fun, mamma. that beastly dissected map aunt louisa gave me--by jove! i should like to take the little pieces and shy them at the birds.' 'but, mamma,' said clara, 'are you sure it is only that? i never saw you playing with toys.' 'i wonder if i ever did?' said mrs burton, with a little gleam of surprise. 'do you remember going to london once, clara, and seeing your cousin, norah drummond? should you like to have her here?' 'she was littler than me,' said clara, promptly, 'though she was older. papa told me. they lived in a funny little poky house. they had no carriages nor anything. she had never even tried to ride; fancy, mamma! when i told her i had a pony all to myself, she only stared. how different she would think it if she came here!' her mother looked at the child with a curious light in her cold blue eyes. she gave a little harsh laugh. 'if it were not that it is natural, and you cannot help it,' she said, 'i should like to whip you, my dear!' chapter xv. next morning the family at dura paid a visit to the gatehouse, to see all its capabilities, and arrange the changes which might be necessary. it was a bright morning after the rain, and they walked together down the dewy avenue, where the sunshine played through the network of leaves, and the refreshed earth sent up sweet odours. all was pleasant to sight and sound, and made a lightsome beginning to the working day. mr burton was pleased with himself and everything surrounding him. his children (he was very proud of his children) strolled along with their father and mother, and there was in ned a precocious imitation of his own walk and way of holding himself which at once amused and flattered the genial papa. he was pleased by his boy's appreciation of his own charms of manner and appearance; and little clara was like him, outwardly, at least, being of a larger mould than her mother. his influence was physically predominant in the family, and as for profounder influences these were not much visible as yet. mrs burton had a _toilette fraîche_ of the costliest simplicity. two or three dogs attended them on their walk--a handsome pointer and a wonderful hairy skye, and the tiniest of little maltese terriers, with a blue ribbon round its neck such as clara had, of whose colours her dog was a repetition. when she made a rush now and then along the road, herself like a great white and blue butterfly, the dogs ran too, throwing up their noses in the air, till ned, marching along in his knickerbockers, with his chest set out, and his head held up like his father's, whistled the bigger ones to his masculine side. it was quite a pretty picture this family procession; they were so well off, so perfectly supplied with everything that was pleasant and suitable, so happily above the world and its necessities. there was a look of wealth about them that might almost have seemed insolent to a poor man. the spectator felt sure that if fricasseed bank-notes had been good to eat, they must have had a little dish of that for breakfast. and the crown of all was that they were going to do a good action--to give shelter and help to the homeless. many simple persons would have wept over the spectacle, had they known it, out of pure delight in so much goodness--if mrs burton, looking on with those clear cold blue eyes of hers, had not thrown upon the matter something of a clearer light. the inspection was satisfactory enough, revealing space sufficient to have accommodated twice as many people. and mr burton found it amusing too; for susan, who was in charge, was very suspicious of their motives, and anxious to secure that she should not be put upon in any arrangement that might be made. there was a large, quaint old drawing-room, with five glimmering windows--three fronting to the road and two to the garden--not french sashes, cut down to the ground, but old-fashioned english windows with a sill to them, and a solid piece of wall underneath. the chimney had a high wooden mantelpiece with a little square of mirror let in, too high up for any purpose but that of giving a glimmer of reflection. the carpet, which was very much worn, was partially covered by a tightly strained white cloth, as if the room had been prepared for dancing. the furniture was very thin in the legs and angular in its proportions; some of the chairs were ebony, with bands of faded gilding and covers of minute old embroidery, into which whole lives had been worked. the curtains were of old-fashioned, big-patterned chintz--like that we call cretonne now-a-days--with brown linings. everything was very old and worn, but clean and carefully mended. the looker-on felt it possible that the entrance of a stranger might so break the spell that all might crumble into dust at a touch. but yet there was a quaint, old-fashioned elegance--not old enough to be antique, but yet getting venerable--about the silent old house. mr burton was of opinion that it would be better with new red curtains and some plain, solid mahogany; but, if the things would do, considered that it was unnecessary to incur further expense. when all the necessary arrangements had been settled upon, the family party went on to the railway station. this was a very frequent custom with them. mr burton liked to come home in state--to notify his arrival by means of the high-stepping greys and the commotion they made, to his subjects; but he was quite willing to leave in the morning with graceful humility and that exhibition of family affection which brings even the highest potentates to a level with common men. when he arrived with his wife and his children and his dogs at the station, it was touching to see the devotion with which the station-master and the porters and everybody about received the great man. the train seemed to have been made on purpose for him--to have come on purpose all the way out of the midland counties; the railway people ran all along its length as soon as it arrived to find a vacant carriage for their demigod. 'here you are, sir!' cried a smiling porter. 'here you are, sir!' echoed the station-master, rushing forward to open the door. the other porter, who was compelled by duty to stand at the little gate of exit and take the tickets, looked gloomily upon the active service of his brethren, but identified himself with their devotion by words at least, since nothing else was left him. 'what d'ye mean by being late?' he cried to the guard. 'a train didn't ought to be late as takes gentlemen to town for business. you're as slow, you are, as if you was the ladies' express.' mr burton laughed as he passed, and gladness stole into the porter's soul. oh, magical power of wealth! when it laughs, the world grows glad. to go into the grimy world of business, and be rubbed against in the streets by men who did him no homage, must be hard upon such a man, after the royal calm of the morning and all its pleasant circumstances. it was after just such another morning that he went again to st mary's road, and was admitted to see his cousin. she had shut herself up for a fortnight obstinately. she would have done so for a year, in defiance of herself and of nature, had it been possible, that all the world might know that robert had 'the respect' due to him. she would not have deprived him of one day, one fold of crape, one imbecility of grief, of her own will. she would have been ill, if she could, to do him honour. all this was quite independent of that misery of which the world could know nothing, which was deep as the sea in her own heart. that must last let her do what she would. but she would fain have given to her husband the outside too. the fortnight, however, was all that poor helen could give. already stern need was coming in, and the creditors, to whom everything she had belonged. when mr burton was admitted, the man had begun to make an inventory of the furniture. the pretty drawing-room was already dismantled, the plants all removed from the conservatory; the canvases were stacked against the wall in poor robert's studio, and a picture-dealer was there valuing them. they were of considerable value now--more than they would have been had it still been possible that they should be finished. people who were making collections of modern pictures would buy them readily as the only 'drummond' now to be had. mr burton went and looked at the pictures, and pointed out one that he would like to buy. his feelings were not very delicate, but yet it struck a certain chill upon him to go into that room. poor drummond himself was lying at the bottom of the river--he could not reproach any one, even allowing that it was not all his own fault. and yet--the studio was unpleasant to mr burton. it affected his nerves; and in anticipation of his interview with helen he wanted all his strength. but helen received him very gently, more so than he could have hoped. she had not seen the papers. the world and its interests had gone away from her. she had read nothing but the good books which she felt it was right to read during her seclusion. she was unaware of all that had happened, unsuspicious, did not even care. it had never occurred to her to think of dishonour as possible. all calamity was for her concentrated in the one which had happened, which had left her nothing more to fear. she was seated in a very small room opening on the garden, which had once been appropriated to norah and her playthings. she was very pale, with the white rim of her cap close round her face, and her hair concealed. norah was there too, seated close to her mother, giving her what support she could with instinctive faithfulness. mr burton was more overcome by the sight of them than he could have thought it possible to be. they were worse even than the studio. he faltered, he cleared his throat, he took helen's hand and held it--then let it drop in a confused way. he was overcome, she thought, with natural emotion, with grief and pity. and it made her heart soft even to a man she loved so little. 'thanks,' she murmured, as she sank down upon her chair. that tremor in his voice covered a multitude of sins. 'i have been here before,' he said. 'yes, so i heard; it was very kind. don't speak of _that_, please. i am not able to bear it, though it is kind, very kind of you.' 'everybody is sorry for you, helen,' he said, 'but i don't want to recall your grief to your mind----' 'recall!' she said, with a kind of miserable smile. 'that was not what i meant; but--reginald--my heart is too sore to bear talking. i--cannot speak, and--i would rather not cry--not just now.' she had not called him reginald before since they were boy and girl together; and that, and the piteous look she gave him, and her tremulous protest that she would rather not cry, gave the man such a twinge through his very soul as he had never felt before. he would have changed places at the moment with one of his own porters to get out of it--to escape from a position which he alone was aware of. norah was crying without restraint. it was such a scene as a man in the very height of prosperity and comfort would hesitate to plunge into, even if there had not risen before him those ghosts in the newspapers which one day or other, if not now, helen must find out. 'what i wanted to speak of was your own plans,' he said hastily, 'what you think of doing, and--if you will not think me impertinent--what you have to depend upon? i am your nearest relation, helen, and it is right i should know.' 'if everything has to be given up, i suppose i shall have nothing,' she said faintly. 'there was my hundred a year settled upon me. the papers came the other day. who must i give them to? i have nothing, i suppose.' 'if your hundred a year was settled on you, of course you have that, heaven be praised,' said mr burton, 'nobody can touch that. and, helen, if you like to come back to the old neighbourhood, i have part of a house i could offer you. it is of no use to me. i can't let it; so you might be quite easy in your mind about that. and it is furnished after a sort; and it would be rent free.' the tears which she had been restraining rushed to her eyes. 'how kind you are!' she said. 'oh, i can't say anything, but you are very, very kind.' 'never mind about that. you used to speak as if you did not like the old neighbourhood----' 'ah!' she said, 'that was when i cared. all neighbourhoods are the same to me now.' 'but you will get to care after a while,' he said. 'you will not always be as you are now.' she shook her head with that faint little gleam of the painfullest smile. to such a suggestion she could make no answer. she did not believe her grief would ever lighten. she did not wish to feel differently. she had not even that terrible experience which teaches some that the broken heart must heal one way or other--mend of its wound, or at least have its wound skinned over; for she had never been quite stricken down to the ground before. 'anyhow, you will think of it,' mr burton said in a soothing tone. 'norah, you would like to come and live in the country, where there was a nice large garden and plenty of room to run about. you must persuade your mother to come. i won't stay now to worry you, helen, and besides, my time is precious; but you will let me do this much for you, i hope.' she stood up in her black gown, which was so dismal and heavy, without any reflection of light in its dull blackness, and held out to him a hand which was doubly white by the contrast, and thin with fasting and watching. 'you are very kind,' she said again. 'if i ever was unjust to you, forgive me. i must have a home--for norah; and i have nowhere--nowhere to go!' 'then that is settled,' he said with eagerness. it was an infinite relief to him. never in his life had he been so anxious to serve another. was it because he had loved her once? because he was fond of her still? because she was his relation? his wife at that very moment was pondering on the matter, touching it as it were with a little sharp spear, which was not celestial like ithuriel's. being his wife, it would have been natural enough if some little impulse of jealousy had come across her, and moved her towards the theory that her husband did this out of love for his cousin. but mrs burton had not blood enough in her veins, and she had too clear an intelligence in her head, to be jealous. she came to such a very different conclusion, that i hesitate to repeat it; and she, too, half scared by the long journey she had taken, and her very imperfect knowledge of the way by which she had travelled, did not venture to put it into words. but the whisper at the bottom of her heart was, 'remorse! remorse!' mrs burton herself did not know for what, nor how far her husband was guilty towards his cousin. but it was a relief to all parties when this interview was over. mr burton went away drawing a long breath. and helen applied herself courageously to the work which was before her. she did not make any hardship to herself about those men who were taking the inventory. it had to be, and what was that--what was the loss of everything in comparison----the larger loss deadened her to the smaller ones, which is not always the case. she had her own and norah's clothes to pack, some books, a few insignificant trifles which she was allowed to retain, and the three unfinished pictures, which indeed, had they not been given to her, she felt she could have stolen. the little blurred sketch from the easel, a trifling subject, meaning little, but bearing in its smeared colours the last handwriting of poor robert's despair; and that wistful face looking up from the depths, up to the bit of blue sky far above and the one star. was that the dives he had thought of, the soul in pain so wistful, so sad, yet scarcely able to despair? it was like his letter, a sacred appeal to her not on this earth only, but beyond--an appeal which would outlast death and the grave. 'the door into hell,' she did not understand, but she knew it had something to do with her husband's last agony. these mournful relics were all she had to take with her into the changed world. a woman cannot weep violently when she is at work. tears may come into her eyes, tears may drop among the garments in which her past is still existing, but her movements to and fro, her occupations, stem the full tide and arrest it. helen was quite calm. while norah brought the things for her out of the drawers she talked to the child as ordinary people talk whose hearts are not broken. she had fallen into a certain stillness--a hush of feeling. it did her good to be astir. when the boxes were full and fastened she turned to her pictures, enveloping them carefully, protecting the edges with cushions of folded paper. norah was still very busy in finding the cord for her, and holding the canvases in their place. the child had rummaged out a heap of old newspapers, with which the packing was being done. suddenly she began to cry as she stood holding one in her hand. 'oh, mamma!' she said, looking up with big eyes in helen's face. crying was not so rare in the house as to surprise her mother. she said-- 'hush, my darling!' and went on. but when she felt the paper thrust into her hand, helen stopped short in her task and looked, not at it but at norah. the tears were hanging on the child's cheeks, but she had stopped crying. she pointed to one column in the paper and watched her mother with eyes like those of dives in the picture. helen gave a cry when she looked at it, 'ah!' as if some sharp blow had been given to her. it was the name, nothing but her husband's name, that had pierced her like a sudden dagger. but she read on, without doubting, without thinking. it was the article written two days before on the history of the painter drummond, 'the wretched man,' who had furnished a text for a sermon to the _daily semaphore_. norah had read only a sentence at the beginning which she but partially understood. it was something unkind, something untrue about 'poor papa.' but she read her mother now instead, comprehending it by her looks. helen went over the whole without drawing breath. it brought back the blood to her pale cheeks; it ran like a wild new life into every vein, into every nerve. she turned round in the twinkling of an eye, without a pause for thought, and put on the black bonnet with its overwhelming crape veil which had been brought to her that morning. she had not wanted it before. it was the first time in her life that she had required to look at the world through those folds of crape. 'may i come too, mamma?' said norah softly. she did not know where they were going; but henceforward where her mother was there was the place for norah, at home or abroad, sleeping or waking. the child clung to helen's hand as they opened the familiar door, and went out once again--after a lifetime--into the once familiar, the changed and awful world. a summer evening, early june, the bloom newly off the lilacs, the first roses coming on the trees; the strange daylight dazzled them, the sound of passing voices buzzed and echoed as if they had been the centre of a crowd. or rather, this was their effect upon helen. norah clinging to her hand, pressed close to her side, watched her, and thought of nothing more. dr maurice was going to his solitary dinner. he had washed his hands and made himself daintily nice and tidy, as he always was; but he had not changed his morning coat. he was standing with his back against the writing-table in his library, looking up dreamily at poor drummond's picture, and waiting for the sound of the bell which should summon him into the next room to his meal. when the door bell sounded instead impatience seized him. 'what fool can be coming now?' he said to himself, and turned round in time to see john's scared face peeping into the room before he introduced those two figures, those two with their dark black dresses, the one treading in the very steps of the other, moving with her movement. he gave a cry of surprise. he had not seen them since the day after drummond's death. he had gone to inquire, and had left anxious kind messages, but he, too, had conventional ideas in his mind and had thought the widow 'would not be able' to see any one. yet now she had come to him-- 'dr maurice,' she said, with no other preliminary, coming forward to the table with her newspaper, holding out no hand, giving him no salutation, while norah moved with her step for step, like a shadow. 'dr maurice, what does this mean?' chapter xvi. i would not like to say what despairing thought dr maurice might have had about his dinner in the first moment when he turned round and saw helen drummond's pale face under her crape veil, but there were many thoughts on the subject in his household, and much searchings of heart. john had been aghast at the arrival of visitors, and especially of such visitors, at such a moment; but his feelings would not permit him to carry up dinner immediately, or to sound the bell, the note of warning. 'i canna do it, i canna do it--don't ask me,' he said, for john was a north-country-man, and when his heart was moved fell back upon his old idiom. 'maybe the lady would eat a bit herself, poor soul,' the cook said in insinuating tones. 'i've known folks eat in a strange house, for the strangeness of it like, when they couldn't swallow a morsel in their own.' 'don't ask me!' said john, and he seized a stray teapot and began to polish it in the trouble of his heart. there was silence in the kitchen for ten minutes at least, for the cook was a mild woman till driven to extremities; but to see fish growing into wool and potatoes to lead was more than any one could be expected to bear. 'do you see that?' she said in despair, carrying the dish up to him, and thrusting it under his eyes. john threw down his teapot and fled. he went and sat on the stairs to be out of reach of her remonstrances. but the spectre of that fish went with him, and would not leave his sight; the half-hour chimed, the three-quarters-- 'i canna stand this no longer!' john said in desperation, and rushing up to the dining-room, sounded the dinner-bell. its clang disturbed the little party in the next room who were so differently occupied. helen was seated by the table with a pile of papers before her; her hands trembled as she turned from one to another, but her attention did not swerve. she was following through them every scrap that bore upon that one subject. dr maurice had procured them all for her. he had felt that one time or other she must know all, and that then her information must be complete. he himself was walking about the room with his hands in his pocket, now stopping to point out or explain something, now taking up a book, unsettled and unhappy, as a man generally looks when he has to wait, and has nothing to do. he had sought out a book for norah, to the attractions of which the poor child had gradually yielded. at first she had stood close by her mother. but the contents of those papers were not for norah's eye, and helen herself had sent her away. she had put herself in the window, her natural place; the ruddy evening light streamed in upon her, and found out between the black of her dress and that of her hat, a gleam of brown hair, to which it gave double brightness by the contrast; and gradually she fell into her old attitude, her old absorption. dr maurice walked about the room, and pondered a hundred things. he would have given half he possessed for that fatherless child who sat reading in the light, and forgetting her childish share of sorrow. the mother in her mature beauty was little to him--but the child--a child like that! and she was not his. she was robert drummond's, who lay drowned at the bottom of the river, and whose very name was drowned too in those bitter waters of calumny and shame. strange providence that metes so unequally to one and to another. the man did not think that he too might have had a wife and children had he so chosen; but his heart hankered for this that was his neighbour's, and which no magic, not even any subtle spell of love or protecting tenderness, could ever make his own. and helen, almost unconscious of the presence of either, read through those papers which had been preserved for her. she read golden's letter, and the comment upon it. she read the letter which dr maurice had written, contradicting those cruel assertions. she read the further comments upon that. how natural it was; how praiseworthy was the vehemence of friends in defence of the dead--and how entirely without proof! the newspaper pointed out with a cold distinctness, which looked like hatred to helen, that the fact of the disappearance of the books told fatally against 'the unhappy man.' why did he destroy those evidences which would no doubt have cleared him had he acted fairly and honestly? day by day she traced the course of this controversy which had been going on while she had shut herself up in the darkness. it gleamed across her as she turned from one to another that this was why her energy had been preserved and her strength sustained. she had not broken down like other women, for this cause. god had kept her up for this. the discussion had gone on down to that very morning, when a little editorial note, appended to a short letter--one of the many which had come from all sorts of people in defence of the painter--had announced that such a controversy could no longer be carried on 'in these pages.' 'no doubt the friends of mr drummond will take further steps to prove the innocence of which they are so fully convinced,' it said, 'and it must be evident to all parties that the columns of a newspaper is not the place for a prolonged discussion on a personal subject.' helen scarcely spoke while she read all these. she did not hear the dinner-bell. the noise of the door when dr maurice rushed to it with threatening word and look, to john's confusion, scarcely moved her. 'be quiet, dear,' she said unconsciously, when the doctor's voice in the hall, where he had fallen upon his servant, came faintly into her abstraction. 'you rascal! how dare you take such a liberty when you knew who was with me?' was what dr maurice was saying, with rage in his voice. but to helen it seemed as if little norah, forgetting the cloud of misery about her, had begun to talk more lightly than she ought. 'oh, my child, be quiet,' she repeated; 'be quiet!' all her soul was absorbed in this. she had no room for any other thought. dr maurice came back with a flush of anger on his face. 'these people would think it necessary to consider their miserable dishes if the last judgment were coming on,' he said. he was a kind man, and very sorry for his friend's widow. he would have given up much to help her; but perhaps he too was hungry, and the thought of the spoilt dishes increased his vehemence. she looked at him, putting back her veil with a blank look of absolute incomprehension. she had heard nothing, knew nothing. comfort, and dinners, and servants, and all the paraphernalia of ordinary life, were a hundred miles away from her thoughts. 'i have read them all,' she said in a tone so low that he had to stoop to hear her. 'oh, that i should have lost so much time in selfish grieving! i thought nothing more could happen after. dr maurice, do you know what i ought to do?' 'you!' he said. there was something piteous in her look of appeal. the pale face and the gleaming eyes, the helplessness and the energy, all struck him at a glance--a combination which he did not understand. 'yes--me! you will say what can i do? i cannot tell the world what he was, as you have done. thanks for that,' she said, holding out her hand to him. 'the wife cannot speak for her husband, and i cannot write to the papers. i am quite ignorant. dr maurice, tell me if you know. what can i do?' her gleam of wild indignation was gone. it had sunk before the controversy, the discussion which the newspapers would no longer continue. if poor robert had met with no defenders, she would have felt herself inspired. but his friends had spoken, friends who could speak. and deep depression fell over her. 'oh!' she said, clasping her hands, 'must we bear it? is there nothing--nothing i can do?' again and again had he asked himself the same question. 'mrs drummond,' he said, 'you can do nothing; try and make up your mind to it. i hoped you might never know. a lady can do nothing in a matter of business. you feel yourself that you cannot write or speak. and what good would it do even if you could? i say that a more honourable man never existed. you could say, i know, a great deal more than that; but what does it matter without proof? if we could find out about those books----' 'he did not know anything about books,' said helen; 'he could not even keep his own accounts--at least it was a trouble to him. oh, you know that; how often have we--laughed----oh, my god, my god!' laughed! the words brought the tears even to dr maurice's eyes. he put his hand on her arm and patted it softly, as if she had been a child. 'poor soul! poor soul!' he said: the tears had got into his voice too, and all his own thoughts went out of his mind in the warmth of his sympathy. he was a cautious man, not disposed to commit himself; but the touch of such emotion overpowered all his defences. 'look here, mrs drummond,' he said; 'i don't know what we may be able to do, but i promise you something shall be done--i give you my word. the shareholders are making a movement already, but so many of them are ruined, so many hesitate, as people say, to throw good money after the bad. i don't know why i should hesitate, i am sure. i have neither chick nor child.' he glanced at norah as he spoke--at norah lost in her book, with the light in her hair, and her outline clear against the window. but helen did not notice, did not think what he could mean, being absorbed in her own thoughts. she watched him, notwithstanding, with dilating eyes. she saw all that at that moment she was capable of seeing in his face--the rising resolution that came with it, the flash of purpose. 'it ought to be done,' he said, 'even for justice. i will do it--for that--and for robert's sake.' she held out both her hands to him in the enthusiasm of her ignorance. 'oh, god bless you! god reward you!' she said. it seemed to her as if she had accomplished all she had come for, and had cleared her husband's name. at least his friend had pledged himself to do it, and it seemed to helen so easy. he had only to refute the lies which had been told; to prove how true, how honest, how tender, how good, incapable of hurting a fly; even how simple and ignorant of business, more ignorant almost than she was, he had been; a man who never had kept any books, not even his own accounts; who had a profession of his own, quite different, at which he worked; who had not been five times in the city in his life before he came connected with the rivers's. after she had bestowed that blessing, it seemed to her almost as if she were making too much of it, as if she had but to go herself and tell it all, and prove his whitest innocence. to go herself--but she did not know where. dr maurice came down with a little tremulousness of excitement about him from the pinnacle of that resolution. he knew better what it was. her simple notion of 'going and telling' resolved itself, in his mind, to an action before the law-courts, to briefs, and witnesses, and expenditure. but he was a man without chick or child; he was not ruined by rivers's. the sum he had lost had been enough to give him an interest in the question, not enough to injure his powers of operation. and it was a question of justice, a matter which some man ought to take up. nevertheless it was a great resolution to take. it would revolutionize his quiet life, and waste the substance which he applied, he knew, to many good uses. he felt a little shaken when he came down. and then--his dinner, the poor friendly unfortunate man! 'let norah come and eat something with me,' he said, 'the child must be tired. come too and you shall have a chair to rest in, and we will not trouble you; and then i will see you home.' 'ah!' helen gave an unconscious cry at the word. but already, even in this one hour, she had learned the first hard lesson of grief, which is that it must not fatigue others with its eternal presence--that they who suffer most must be content often to suffer silently, and put on such smiles as are possible--the ghost must not appear at life's commonest board any more than at the banquet. it seemed like a dream when five minutes later she found herself seated in an easy-chair in dr maurice's dining-room, painfully swallowing some wine, while norah sat at the table by him and shared his dinner. it was like a dream; twilight had begun to fall by this time, and the lamp was lighted on the table--a lamp which left whole acres of darkness all round in the long dim room. helen sat and looked at the bright table and norah's face, which turning to her companion began to grow bright too, unawares. a fortnight is a long age of trouble to a child. norah's tears were still ready to come, but the bitterness was out of them. she was sad for sympathy now. and this change, the gleam of light, the smile of her old friend--his fond, half-mocking talk, felt like happiness come back. her mother looked on from the shady corner where she was sitting, and understood it all. robert's friend loved him; but was glad now to pass to other matters, to common life. and robert's child loved him; but she was a child, and she was ready to reply to the first touch of that same dear life. helen was growing wiser in her trouble. a little while ago she would have denounced this changeableness, and struggled against it. but now she understood and accepted what was out of her power to change. and then in the pauses of his talk with norah, which was sweet to him, dr maurice heard all their story--how the house was already in the creditors' hands, how they had prepared all their scanty possessions to go away, and how mr burton had been very kind. helen had not associated him in any way with the assault on her husband's memory. she spoke of him with a half gratitude which filled the doctor with suppressed fury. he had been very kind--he had offered her a house. 'i thought you disliked dura,' he said with an impatience which he could not restrain. 'and so i did,' she answered drearily, 'as long as i could. it does not matter now.' 'then you will still go?' 'still? oh, yes; where should we go else? the whole world is the same to us now,' said helen. 'and norah will be happier in the country; it is good air.' 'good air!' said dr maurice. 'good heavens, what can you be thinking of? and the child will grow up without any one to teach her, without a--friend. what is to be done for her education? what is to be done--mrs drummond, i beg your pardon. i hope you will forgive me. i have got into a way of interfering and making myself ridiculous, but i did not mean----' 'nay,' said helen gently, half because she felt so weary, half because there was a certain comfort in thinking that any one cared, 'i am not angry. i knew you would think of what is best for norah. but, dr maurice, we shall be very poor.' he did not make any reply; he was half ashamed of his vehemence, and yet withal he was unhappy at this new change. was it not enough that he had lost drummond, his oldest friend, but he must lose the child too, whom he had watched ever since she was born? he cast a glance round upon the great room, which might have held a dozen people, and in his mind surveyed the echoing chambers above, of which but one was occupied. and then he glanced at norah's face, still bright, but slightly clouded over, beside him, and thought of the pretty picture she had made in the library seated against the window. burton, who was their enemy, who had been the chief agent in bringing them to poverty, could give them a home to shelter their houseless heads. and why could not he, who had neither chick nor child, who had a house so much too big for him, why could not he take them in? just to have the child in the house, to see her now and then, to hear her voice on the stairs, or watch her running from room to room, would be all he should want. they could live there and harm nobody, and save their little pittance. this thought ran through his mind, and then he stopped and confounded burton. but burton had nothing to do with it. he had better have confounded the world, which would not permit him to offer shelter to his friend's widow. he gave a furtive glance at helen in the shadow. he did not want helen in his house. his friend's wife had never attracted him; and though he would have been the kindest of guardians to his friend's widow, still there was nothing in her that touched his heart. but he could not open his doors to her and say, 'come.' he knew if he did so how the men would grin and the women whisper; how impertinent prophecies would flit about, or slanders much worse than impertinent. no, he could not do it; he could not have norah by, to help on her education, to have a hand in her training, to make her a child of his own. he had no child. it was his lot to live alone and have no soft hand ever in his. all this was very ridiculous, for, as i have said before, dr maurice was very well off; he was not old nor bad-looking, and he might have married like other men. but then he did not want to marry. he wanted little norah drummond to be his child, and he wanted nothing more. helen leaned back in her chair without any thought of what was passing through his heart. that her child should have inspired a _grande passion_ at twelve had never entered her mind, and she took his words in their simplicity and pondered over them. 'i can teach her myself,' she said with a tremor in her voice. this man was not her friend, she knew. he had no partial good opinion of her, such as one likes one's friends to have, but judged her on her merits, which few people are vain enough to put much trust in; and she thought that very likely he would not think her worthy of such a charge. 'i _have_ taught her most of what she knows,' she added with a little more confidence. 'and then the great thing is, we shall be very poor.' 'forgive me!' he said; 'don't say any more. i was unpardonably rash--impertinent--don't think of what i said.' and then he ordered his carriage for them and sent them home. i do not know whether perhaps it did not occur to helen as she drove back through the summer dusk to her dismantled house what a difference there was between their destitution and poverty and all the warm glow of comfort and ease which surrounded this lonely man. but there can be no doubt that norah thought of it, who had taken in everything with her brown eyes, though she said little. while they were driving along in the luxurious smoothly-rolling brougham, the child crept close to her mother, clasping helen's arm with both her hands. 'oh, mamma,' she said, 'how strange it is that we should have lost everything and dr maurice nothing, that he should have that great house and this nice carriage, and us be driven away from st mary's road! what can god be thinking of, mamma?' 'oh, norah, my dear child, we have each other, and he has nobody,' said helen; and in her heart there was a frenzy of triumph over this man who was so much better off than she was. the poor so often have that consolation; and sometimes it is not much of a consolation after all. but helen felt it to the bottom of her heart as she drew her child to her, and felt the warm, soft clasp of hands, the round cheek against her own. two desolate, lonely creatures in their black dresses--but two, and together; whereas dr maurice, in his wealth, in his strength, in what the world would have called his happiness, was but one. chapter xvii. the pretty house in st mary's road--what a change had come upon it! there was a great painted board in front describing the desirable residence, with studio attached, which was to be let. the carpets were half taken up and laid in rolls along the floor, the chairs piled together, the costly, pretty furniture, so carefully chosen, the things which belonged to the painter's early life, and those which were the product of poor drummond's wealth, all removed and jumbled together, and ticketed 'lot ,' 'lot .' 'lot ' was the chair which had been helen's chair for years--the one poor robert had kissed. if she had known that, she would have spent her last shilling to buy it back out of the rude hands that turned it over. but even helen only knew half of the tragedy which had suddenly enveloped her life. they threaded their way up-stairs to their bed-room through all those ghosts. it was still early; but what could they do down-stairs in the house which no longer retained a single feature of home? helen put her child to bed, and then sat down by her, shading the poor little candle. it was scarcely quite dark even now. it is never dark in june. through the open window there came the sound of voices, people walking about the streets after their work was over. there are so many who have only the streets to walk in, so many to whom st mary's road, with its lilacs and laburnums and pretty houses, was pleasant and fresh as if it had been in the depths of the country. helen saw them from the window, coming and going, so often two, arm in arm, two who loitered and looked up at the lighted house, and spoke softly to each other, making their cheerful comments. the voices sounded mellow, the distant rattle of carriages was softened by the night, and a soft wind blew through the lilacs, and some stars looked wistfully out of the pale sky. why are they so sad in summer, those lustrous stars? helen looked out at them, and big tears fell softly out of her eyes. oh, face of dives looking up! oh, true and kind and just and gentle soul! must she not even think of him as in heaven, as hidden in god with the dead who depart in faith and peace, but gone elsewhere, banished for ever? the thought crossed her like an awful shadow, but did not sting. there are some depths of misery to which healthy nature refuses to descend, and this was one. had she _felt_ as many good people feel on this subject, and as she herself believed theoretically that she felt, i know what helen would have done. she would have gone down to that river and joined him in his own way, wherever he was, choosing it so. no doubt, she would have been wrong. but she did not descend into that abyss. she kept by her faith in god instinctively, not by any doctrine. did not god _know_? but even the edge of it, the shadow of the thought, was enough to chill her from head to foot. she stole in from the window, and sat down at the foot of the bed where norah lay, and tried to think. she had thought there could be no future change, no difference one way or other; but since this very morning what changes there were!--her last confidence shattered, her last comfort thrust from her. robert's good name! she sat quite silent for hours thinking it over while norah slept. sometimes for a moment it went nigh to make her mad. of all frantic things in the world, there is nothing like that sense of impotence--to feel the wrong and to be unable to move against it. it woke a feverish irritation in her, a _sourd_ resentment, a rage which she could not overcome, nor satisfy by any exertion. what could she do, a feeble woman, against the men who had cast this stigma on her husband? she did not even know who they were, except golden. it was he who was the origin of it all, and whose profit it was to prove himself innocent by the fable of robert's guilt! it was the most horrible farce, a farce which was a tragedy, which every one who knew him must laugh at wildly among their tears. but then the world did not know him; and the world likes to think the worst, to believe in guilt as the one thing always possible. that there were people who knew better had been proved to her--people who had ventured to call out indignantly, and say, 'this is not true,' without waiting to be asked. oh, god bless them! god bless them! but they were not the world. when the night was deeper, when the walkers outside had gone, when all was quiet, except now and then the hurried step of a late passer-by, helen went to the window once more, and looked out upon that world. what a little bit of a world it is that a woman can see from her window!--a few silent roofs and closed windows, one or two figures going and coming, not a soul whom she knew or could influence; but all those unknown people, when they heard her husband's name, if it were years and years hence, would remember the slander that had stained it, and would never know his innocence, his incapacity even for such guilt. this is what gives force to a lie, this is what gives bitterness, beyond telling, to the hearts of those who are impotent, whose contradiction counts for nothing, who have no proof, but only certainty. what a night it was!--like paradise even in london. the angels might have been straying through those blue depths of air, through the celestial warmth and coolness, without any derogation from their high estate. it was not moonlight, nor starlight, nor dawn, but some heavenly combination of all three which breathed over the blue arch above, so serene, so deep, so unfathomable; and down below the peopled earth lay like a child, defenceless and trustful in the arms of its maker. 'dear god, the very city seems asleep!' but here was one pair of eyes that no sleep visited, which dared not look up to heaven too closely lest her dead should not be there; which dared not take any comfort in the pity of earth, knowing that it condemned while it pitied. god help the solitary, the helpless, the wronged, those who can see no compensation for their sufferings, no possible alchemy that can bring good out of them! helen crept to bed at last, and slept. it was the only thing in which there remained any consolation; to be unconscious, to shut out life and light and all that accompanies them; to be for an hour, for a moment, as good as dead. there are many people always, to whom this is the best blessing remaining in the world. the morning brought a letter from mr burton, announcing that the house at dura was ready to receive his cousin. helen would have been thankful to go but for the discovery she had made on the previous day. after that it seemed to her that to be on the spot, to be where she could maintain poor robert's cause, or hear of others maintaining it, was all she wanted now in the world. but this was a mere fancy, such as the poor cannot indulge in. she arranged everything to go to her new home on the next day. it was time at least that she should leave this place in which her own room was with difficulty preserved to her for another night. all the morning the mother and daughter shut themselves up there, hearing the sounds of the commotion below--the furniture rolled about here and there, the heavy feet moving about the uncarpeted stairs and rooms that already sounded hollow and vacant. bills of the sale were in all the windows; the very studio, the place which now would have been sacred if they had been rich enough to indulge in fancies. but why linger upon such a scene? the homeliest imagination can form some idea of circumstances which in themselves are common enough. in the afternoon the two went out--to escape from the house more than anything else. 'we will go and see the haldanes,' helen said to her child; and norah wondered, but acquiesced gladly. mrs drummond had never taken kindly to the fact that her husband's chief friend lived in victoria villas, and was a dissenting minister with a mother and sister who could not be called gentlewomen. but all that belonged to the day of her prosperity, and now her heart yearned for some one who loved robert--some one who would believe in him--to whom no vindication, even in thought, would be necessary. and the haldanes had been ruined by rivers's. this was another bond of union. she had called but once upon them before, and then under protest; but now she went nimbly, almost eagerly, down the road, past the line of white houses with their railings. there had been much thought and many discussions over mr burton's proposal within those walls. they had heard of it nearly a fortnight since, but they had not yet made any formal decision; that is to say, mrs haldane was eager to go; miss jane had made a great many calculations, and decided that the offer ought to be accepted as a matter of duty; but stephen's extreme reluctance still kept them from settling. something, however, had occurred that morning which had added a sting to stephen's discouragement, and taken away the little strength with which he had faintly maintained his own way. in the warmth and fervour of his heart, he had used his little magazine to vindicate his friend. a number of it had been just going to the press when the papers had published drummond's condemnation, and haldane, who knew him so well--all his weakness and his strength--had dashed into the field and proclaimed, in the only way that was possible to him, the innocence and excellence of his friend. all his heart had been in it; he had made such a sketch of the painter, of his genius (poor stephen thought he had genius), of his simplicity and goodness and unimpeachable honour, as would have filled the whole denomination with delight, had the subject of the sketch been one of its potentates or even a member of mr haldane's chapel. but robert was not even a dissenter at all, he had nothing to do with the denomination; and, to tell the truth, his _éloge_ was out of place. perhaps stephen himself felt it was so after he had obeyed the first impulse which prompted it. but at least he was not left long in doubt. a letter had reached him from the magazine committee that morning. they had told him that they could not permit their organ to be made the vehicle of private feeling; they had suggested an apology in the next number; and they had threatened to take it altogether out of his hands. remonstrances had already reached them, they said, from every quarter as to the too secular character of the contents; and they ventured to remind mr haldane that this was not a mere literary journal, but the organ of the body, and intended to promote its highest, its spiritual interests. poor stephen! he was grieved, and he writhed under the pinch of this interference. and then the magazine not only brought him in the half of his income, but was the work of his life--he had hoped to 'do some good' that way. he had aimed at improving it, cutting short the gossip and scraps of local news, and putting in something of a higher character. in this way he had been able to persuade himself, through all his helplessness, that he still possessed some power of influence over the world. he had been so completely subdued by the attack, that he had given in about mr burton's house, and that very day the proposal had been accepted; but he had not yet got the assault itself out of his head. all the morning he had been sitting with the manuscripts and proofs before him which were to make up his new number, commenting upon them in the bitterness of his heart. 'i suppose i must put this in now, whether i like it or not,' he said. 'i never suspected before how many pangs ruin brings with it, mother; not one, but a legion. they never dreamt of interfering with me before. now look at this rabid, wretched thing. i would put it in the fire if i dared, and free the world of so much ill-tempered folly; but bateman wrote it, and i dare not. fancy, i _dare_ not! if i had been independent, i should have made a stand. and my magazine--all the little comfort i had--' 'oh, stephen, my dear! but what does it matter what you put in if they like it? you are always writing, writing, wearing yourself out. why shouldn't they have some of the trouble. you oughtn't to mind----' 'but i do mind,' he said, with a feeble smile. 'it is all i have to do, mother. it is to me what i am to you; you would not like to see me neglected, fed upon husks, like the prodigal.' 'oh, stephen dear, how can you talk so?--you neglected!' said his mother with tears in her eyes. 'well, that is what i feel, mother. i shall have to feed my child with husks--tea-meetings and reports of this and that chapel, and how much they give. they were afraid of me once; they dared not grumble when i rejected and cut out; but--it is i who dare not now.' mrs haldane wisely made no reply. in her heart she had liked the magazine better when it was all about the tea-meetings and the progress of the good cause. she liked the bits of sectarian gossip, and to know how much the different chapels subscribed, which congregation had given its minister a silver teapot, and which had given him his dismissal. all this was more interesting to her than all stephen's new-fangled discussions of public matters, his eagerness about education and thought, and a great many other things that did not concern his mother. but she held this opinion within herself, and was as indignant with the magazine committee as heart could desire. the two fell silent for some time, he going on with his literature, and she with her sewing, till the only servant they had left, a maiden, called _par excellence_ 'the girl,' came in with a tray laden with knives and forks to lay the cloth for dinner. the girl's eyes were red, and a dirty streak across one cheek showed where her tears had been wiped away with her apron. 'what is the matter?' said mrs haldane. 'oh, please, it's miss jane,' cried the handmaid. 'she didn't ought to speak so; oh, she didn't ought to. my mother's a seat-holder in our chapel, and i'm a member. i'm not a-going to bear it! we ain't folks to be pushed about.' 'lay the cloth, and do it quietly,' said the old lady. and with a silent exasperation, such as only a woman can feel, she watched the unhandy creature. 'thank heaven, we shall want no girl in the country,' she said to herself. but when her eye fell on stephen, he was actually smiling--smiling at the plea for exception, with that mingled sadness and bitterness which it pained his mother to see. the girl went on sniffing and sobbing all the same. she had already driven her other mistress almost frantic in the kitchen. miss jane had left a little stew, a savoury dish such as stephen's fanciful appetite required to tempt it, by the fire, slowly coming to perfection. 'the girl' had removed it to the fender, where it was standing, growing cold, just at the critical moment when all its juices should have been blending under the gentle, genial influence of the fire. common cooks cannot stew. they can boil, or they can burn; but they never catch the delicious medium between. only such persons as cook for love, or such as possess genius, can hit this more than golden mean. miss jane combined both characters. she did it _con amore_ and _per amore_; and when she found her fragrant dish set aside for the sake of 'the girl's' kettle, her feelings can be but faintly imagined by the uninitiated. 'i wish i could beat you,' she said, with natural exasperation. and this to 'a joined member,' a seat-holder's daughter! stephen laughed when the tale was repeated to him, with a laugh which was full of bitterness. he tried to swallow his portion of the stew, but it went against him. 'it is the same everywhere,' he said; 'the same subjection of the wise to the foolish, postponing of the best to the worst. rubbish to please the joined members--silence and uselessness to us.' 'oh, stephen!' said mrs haldane, 'you know i am not always of your way of thinking. after all there is something in it; for when a girl is a church member, she can't be quite without thought; and when she neglects her work, it is possible, you know, that she might be occupied with better things. i don't mean to say that it is an excuse.' 'i should think not, indeed,' said miss jane. 'i'd rather have some one that knew her work, and did it, than a dozen church members. a heathen to-day would have been as much use to me.' 'that may be very true,' said her mother; 'but i think, considering stephen's position, that such a thing should not be said by you or me. in my days a person stood up for chapel, through thick and thin, especially when he had a relation who was a minister. you think you are wiser, you young ones, and want to set up for being liberal, and think church as good as chapel, and the world, so far as i can make out, as good as either. but that way of thinking would never answer me.' 'well, thank heaven,' said miss jane in a tone of relief, 'in the country we shall not want any "girl."' 'that is what i have been thinking,' said mrs haldane with alacrity; and in the painful moment which intervened while the table was being cleared and the room put in order, she painted to herself a fancy picture of 'the country.' she was a londoner born, and had but an imperfect idea what the word meant. it was to her a vague vision of greenness, parks and trees and great banks of flowers. the village street was a thing she had no conception of. a pleasant dream of some pleasant room opening on a garden, and level with it, crossed her mind. it was a cottage of romance, one of those cottages which make their appearance in the stories which she half disapproved of, yet felt a guilty pleasure in reading. there had been one, an innocent short one, with the gentlest of good meanings, in the last number of stephen's magazine, with just such a cottage in it, where a sick heroine recovered. she thought she could see the room, and the invalid chair outside the door, in which he could be wheeled into the garden to the seat under the apple-tree. her heart overflowed with that pleasant thought. and stephen might get well! such a joy was at the end of every vista to mrs haldane. she sat and dreamed over this with a smile on her face while the room was being cleared; and her vision was only stayed by the unusual sound of helen's knock at the door. 'it will be some one to see the house,' said miss jane, and she went away hurriedly, with loud-whispered instructions to the girl, into 'the front drawing-room,' to be ready to receive any applicant; so that miss jane was not in the room when helen with her heart beating, and norah clinging close to her as her shadow, was shown abruptly into the invalid's room. 'the girl' thrust her in without a word of introduction or explanation. norah was familiar in the place, though her mother was a stranger. mrs haldane rose hastily to meet them, and an agitated speech was on helen's lips that she had come to say good-bye, that she was going away, that they might never meet again in this world,--when her eye caught the helpless figure seated by the window, turning a half-surprised, half-sympathetic look upon her. she had never seen poor stephen since his illness, and she was not prepared for this complete and lamentable overthrow. it drove her own thoughts, even her own sorrows, out of her mind for the moment. she gave a cry of mingled wonder and horror. she had heard all about it, but seeing is so very different from hearing. 'oh, mr haldane!' she said, going up to him, forgetting herself--with such pity in her voice as he had not heard for years. it drove out of his mind, too, the more recent and still more awful occasion he had to pity her. he looked at her with sudden gratitude in his eyes. 'yes, it is a change, is it not?' he said with a faint smile. he had been an alp-climber, a mighty walker, when she saw him last. some moments passed before she recovered the shock. she sat down by him trembling, and then she burst into sudden tears--not that she was a woman who cried much in her sorrow, but that her nerves were affected beyond her power of control. 'mr haldane, forgive me,' she faltered. 'i have never seen you since--and so much has happened--oh, so much!' 'ah, yes,' he said. 'i could cry too--not for myself, for that is an old story. i would have gone to you, had i been able--you know that; and it is very, very kind of you to come to me.' 'it is to say good-bye. we are going away to the country, norah and i,' said helen; 'there is no longer any place for us here. but i wanted to see you, to tell you--you seem--to belong--so much--to the old time.' ah, that old time! the time which softens all hearts. it had not been perfect while it existed, but now how fair it was! perhaps stephen haldane remembered it better than she did; perhaps it might even cross his mind that in that old time she had not cared much to see him, had not welcomed him to her house with any pleasure. but he was too generous to allow himself even to think such a thought, in her moment of downfall. the depths were more bitter to her even than to him. he would not let the least shadow even in his mind fret her in her great trouble. he put out his hand, and grasped hers with a sympathy which was more telling than words. 'and i hope your mother will forgive me too,' she said with some timidity. 'i thought i had more command of myself. we could not go without coming to say good-bye.' 'it is very kind--it is more than i had any right to expect,' said mrs haldane. 'and we are going to the country too. we are going to dura, to a house mr burton has kindly offered to us. oh, mrs drummond, now i think of it, probably we owe it to you.' 'no,' said helen, startled and mystified; and then she added slowly, 'i am going to dura too.' 'oh, how very lucky that is! oh, how glad i am!' said the old lady. 'stephen, do you hear? of course, mr burton is your cousin; it is natural you should be near him. stephen, this is good news for you. you will have miss norah, whom you were always so fond of, to come about you as she used to do--that is, if her mamma will allow her. oh, my dear, i am so glad! i must go and tell jane. jane, here is something that will make you quite happy. mrs drummond is coming too.' she went to the door to summon her daughter, and helen was left alone with the sick man. she had not loved him in the old time, but yet he looked a part of robert now, and her heart melted towards him. she was glad to have him to herself, as glad as if he had been a brother. she put her hand on the arm of his chair, laying a kind of doubtful claim to him. 'you have seen what they say?' she asked, looking in his face. 'yes, all; with fury,' he said, 'with indignation! oh my god, that i should be chained here, and good for nothing! they might as well have said it of that child.' 'oh, is it not cruel, cruel!' she said. these half-dozen words were all that passed between them, and yet they comforted her more than all dr maurice had said. he had been indignant too, it is true; but not with this fiery, visionary wrath--the rage of the helpless, who can do nothing. when miss jane came in with her mother, they did the most of the talking, and helen shrunk into herself; but when she had risen to go away, stephen thrust a little packet into her hand. 'read it when you go home,' he said. it was his little dissenting magazine, the insignificant brochure which she would have scorned so in the old days. with what tears, with what swelling of her heart, with what an agony of pride and love and sorrow she read it that night! and so the old house was closed, and the old life ended. henceforward, everything that awaited her was cold and sad and new. end of vol. i. john childs and son, printers. none "if you're smart--" by colin keith seems a pretty obvious crack for a business sharper to make to an inventor. "if you're so smart, why don't you make some money yourself?" maybe so. but this scientist had an even better answer-- [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from astounding science-fiction april . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "if you're so damn smart, why ain't you rich?" that hoary wisecrack must have been all of three centuries old when wolf carmichael pulled it on dr. claud kellog. the wolf of saturn loved it and used it often. that day he lay back in his swivel chair, chuckling offensively somewhere in the fatty depths of his triple chin, as he threw it. but his roving, piggish eyes showed no mirth. they were hard and scheming, the ruthless eyes that had made him master of all commerce and industry throughout the saturnian system. to his money-grubbing mentality, this question was the ultimate in triumphant repartee. "a scholar named archimedes was asked that question once," replied dr. kellog, flushing angrily, "and to prove he could be rich if he wished, he knocked off his important mathematical researches long enough to buy up all the wine presses in the country. it was winter, then, but when the next fall came the vintners had to have their presses back or else lose the grape crop. archimedes made a tidy profit." "never heard of him," snorted carmichael. "musta been some little fellow on venus. if he was a real big shot in the booze racket, he'd be on the board of interplanetary distillers. he aint." carmichael threw away the stump of the cigar he was smoking and lit another. "to get back to this gadget of yours," he resumed indifferently. "maybe it's as good as you say, maybe not. but george carmichael was always the boy to give a struggling inventor a chance--" kellog winced. yeah. wolf would back anything that promised sure profit and no loss--provided he was given control. "--so here's what i'm willing to do. your proposition to have me lend you enough to get your machines built is out--the machines might flop, then where'd i be? what we'll do is this--incorporate your whatchamacallit--" "antichron." "antichron, huh? we'll incorporate it first, then put it into production. i get fifty-five percent of the stock for promotion fee, we sell twenty to the public for working capital, and all the rest is yours. see?" kellog saw. it was a typical carmichael proposition. kellog would furnish the work and brains, the sucker public the money. if the venture failed, carmichael couldn't be hurt; if it succeeded, he would rake in the lion's share. kellog reached for his hat and jammed it on his head. "that's pure burglary, mr. carmichael," he said fairly evenly, mustering all his powers of self-restraint. "i'll see you in hell first." "tut, tut, my boy," said carmichael with a repetition of his nasty chuckle, "how fiery you are! that's bad. you should never mix emotion with business. take me. am i offended? no. i'll be here tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, ready to do business with you. you'll come back--they always do." kellog only glared at him, then strode from the room, boiling at the arrogance of the grasping capitalist. and as he angrily made his way down the main street of saturnport, everything he saw added to his rage--and to his gloom, too. for every enterprise of any magnitude on titan, or on any of the other saturnian satellites, was owned or controlled by carmichael. the list was an imposing one. carmichael was the president of the titanic trust co., the only bank. he owned the saturnport supply co. and titan shipyards outright. he had a fat finger in rhean ranches, miman mines, titan radio power, the dione angrauk packeries, and the ruby pits on enceladus. what burned up kellog the most was trans-saturnian lighter service. that line of small intersatellite freighters had been established and built by his father, years before. it supplied a much-needed service, for the great interplanetary ships stopped only at saturnport. the little lighters carried the slaughtered angrauks from rhea to the packeries of dione, and thence to the big port. they hauled ores from the mines of mimas to the smelters on titan, and did other chores of the kind. carmichael saw it was a profitable line and tried to buy into it. the elder kellog resisted. carmichael shut down his mines for a year, cutting off important revenue. a quarantine on angrauks was mysteriously promulgated; taxes on intersatellite shipping increased. the bank called kellog's notes. his lighter service was forced into bankruptcy. "and carmichael bought it for a song," muttered doc, bitterly, "had the new taxes repealed and the quarantine rescinded. it broke dad's heart." that was the way the wolf of saturn did things. honeyed words, cash advances, at first, anything for a foothold. then squeeze, squeeze until the enterprise was his. now that he had the colonies of the saturnian system well under his thumb, he was branching out into larger fields. he had ambitions of going back to the earth one day and taking his place among the mighty in wall street, where the systemic stock exchange was. he wanted to lock horns with such magnates as aalman, head of venus exploitation, inc., and chairman of the board of the tellurian master bank. he wanted a bigger say-so in the operation of the interplanetary transport co. and a directorship on etherways, the planets' communication system. therefore, when he was not in his office at the carmichael building, he could be found in the brokerage office of neville & beardsley, trading fiercely in securities, trying to match wits with aalman and the other tycoons. doc kellog knew all that and knew how hopeless his fight was. yet that illiterate taunt still rang in his ears. he was smart, but he wasn't rich. there must be something wrong with his approach to things. other men with half his brains got along and prospered; why couldn't he? that thought was uppermost in his mind when he reached his laboratory. "what luck, doc?" asked cheery billy wade, his chief assistant. "the usual," growled kellog. "he wants to hog the show, otherwise no dice. i told him to go to hell." "swell," grinned billy wade, admiringly, "but where do we get off? fold up and get jobs somewhere?" "maybe." doc kellog's anger had cooled somewhat and dejection had succeeded it. but he was not quite ready to surrender. the memory of that sneering challenge still rankled. kellog sat down and stared at the floor in deep thought. * * * * * things looked black. the single model of his antichron worked perfectly. it had proved that his theory was correct. he could warp space-time, given power enough, and bring all the planets together, just as centuries before the introduction of telegraph and radio brought all the countries of the earth together. but his money was gone, his bills mounting, and he was forced to deal with interlocking monopolies for all his supplies, power and credit. carmichael knew that as well as he did and was waiting for the plum to drop in his lap. kellog knew that carmichael would fight him tooth and nail unless he cut him in. and that kellog was resolved not to do. he had never thought of his invention in terms of money before, but rather in terms of the immense boon it would be to all humanity, taking it for granted that his own compensation would be just and adequate. but now he was racking his brain for a way to turn it into money--lots of money--and quickly. he had exhausted all his own resources in building the one model he had, and the power bills were eating him up. if they were not paid by the end of the week, titan power would attach his laboratory and its contents, which was the same as saying carmichael would. antichron--what were its chief virtues? what could he cash in on _now_? for he must not only save what he had, but construct other machines to introduce to the public. he sat up and looked at his model thoughtfully. it was a clumsy-looking device, a monster machine taking up the whole side of the room. its main feature was a six-foot-square crystal window, framed by shiny steel panels studded with knobs, dials, glowing tubes, buttons and cranks. the crystal resembled an ordinary televise scanner of the type used by etherways, except that it was thicker and double-faced. whatever form of energy, whether heat, electricity or light, impinged on one face was immediately transmitted to the other. where it differed from the standard models was that its two faces could be split apart when subjected to antichronic stresses, and separated by any number of millions of miles. but the same antichronic stresses also created a warp in space-time so that the interval seemed not to exist. it was a window that with the proper manipulations of its complex controls could be made to look upon any spot in the universe and receive energy impulse from it _then_. that "then" was its great virtue. long before space travel was an actuality, mathematicians had known that there was no such thing as simultaneity. time, like space, was relative. they had had their first practical demonstration of it when they tried to use two-way television between the earth and moon. radio waves took a little over a second to travel each way. a man would speak, then wait for two seconds before his answer began coming back to him. later, that time lag became almost intolerable. from callisto it was three quarters of an hour--you activated the machine, waited forty or so minutes for it to light up, and then you waited an equal period for the inquiring face looking at you to register understanding and begin his reply. obviously, where an hour and a half intervened between question and answer, sprightly conversation was impossible. the antichron would cure that. with the space between warped out of existence, instantaneous response could be had. "why ain't i rich, huh?" repeated kellog, sourly, and began thinking on how men got rich. not by inventing useful things or hard work, necessarily. he thought of carmichael's career, and aalman's, and those of others. they had one common denominator--they were men who bought and sold, bought cheap and sold dear. and where did they find their sellers and buyers? why, on the stock exchange, of course. kellog's eyes lit up and he almost trembled with excitement as the full implications of that chance thought dawned upon him. he jumped up and called wade to him. "how much money have we?" he asked excitedly. billy wade pulled out a wallet and squinted at its contents. "there's about a thousand here of my own and the three thousand you gave me to keep for the power bill." "willing to gamble?" wade just grinned and handed over the money. "quick, now. grab the current 'ephemerides' and find the earth's present position and rate of relative movement. then look up the exact latitude and longitude of the lower tip of manhattan island--that's in new york." kellog ran over to the antichron and began setting the dials as wade called out the figures. then he threw a master switch and the machine hummed into activity. in a moment the screen was glowing, then transparent. it was as if kellog were looking out of a window high over a green park surrounded on three sides by water. he adjusted the mechanism and caused the projected screen to lower itself to a great sprawling building that lay below. he forced it through a wall, and there he was--looking in on the trading floor of the nerve center of the solar system, the systemic stock exchange! thousands of men were milling about beneath, gesticulating and shouting. at the other end of the vast hall an immense annunciator board stood, on which names and numbers appeared. a flickering screen beside it was displaying news flashes. "a notebook! hurry!" exclaimed doc kellog. he jotted down quotations as he watched. callistan radioactives was high and climbing--a sale at - / , then another at , then at - / . a flash came over the screen saying martian gems had passed its dividend. martian gems promptly dropped twelve points. etherways and i. p. t. were strong. the market generally was strong. "let her run," doc shouted, shoving the book into his pocket. "damn the power bill. if i'm right, it won't matter; if i'm wrong, it won't matter either. i'll be seeing you." then he was out and gone, hurrying to neville & beardsley. * * * * * mr. neville took the money, but he looked at the young scientist dubiously. "small margin accounts are dangerous," he warned. "we accept them, but we don't solicit them. those wolves out there will take the shirt off your back so quick it will make your head swim." "fair enough," answered kellog cheerfully. "as a matter of fact, i am in the market for a few wolfskins myself. here, buy me some callistan radioactives and sell some martian gems; all you can for the money." neville grunted disapprovingly, but took the money. nobody but an ignorant fool would sell martian short, and callistan was no bargain above . kellog went on into the board room and sat down behind the group of local capitalists who were scanning the board in a listless, bored way. kellog had a hard time restraining his elation, for the figures on the board they were looking at were ancient history to him. his information was over an hour ahead of it. after a while he got up and phoned wade from a booth. "read me the latest dope," he said. then listened as wade gave him the quotations. martian had stopped falling; there was a flurry in oberon metals. he hung up and stopped at neville's desk on the way back to his chair. "cover that martian sale, then buy me some oberon." neville blinked. oberon had been inactive for days. but he noticed kellog had doubled his money on the martian transaction, and had a nice paper profit on his callistan stock. "beginner's luck," he cautioned, as he filed the order. when kellog got the day's close from wade, he closed out his line. it was not a bad day's work. his cash balance on neville's books was over fourteen thousand. he left it there; tomorrow was another day. the next day he ran the fourteen thousand up to forty-five. the day after that he finished up with a couple of hundred. he drew enough of it to pay the power bill, then walked on to the booking office of titan general shops. "last week," said kellog to the clerk, "i left an order here for some parts for a special televise machine--" "it's n. g.," said the insolent clerk. "credit disapproved." "i've got the money now," added kellog. but the clerk shook his head and walked away. over his shoulder he flung: "you gotta get wolf's o. k. he stopped it--personally." "oh," said kellog. so he wouldn't be permitted to develop his invention on titan _even_ if he had money! carmichael held the reins--the supply house, the shops, the power plant, transportation. kellog walked slowly back to his laboratory, thinking on the way what his next step would be. the following day he had better luck. when he looked from his antichron onto the clamoring mob of wall street brokers he knew at once that something unusual was afoot. pandemonium reigned, and often awed faces would turn to stare up at the quotation board with its ever-changing symbols of good and bad news. kellog read the last bulletin hurriedly. "following the suicide early this morning of charles bean, general manager of venus exploitation, rumors persist that the company's billion-dollar investment in mimil plantations has had to be written off as a total loss. the stock opened at , but fell off over a hundred points in the first few minutes of trading. the last sale was at --" kellog waited, tense. he watched exploitation sink rapidly to , , then . a gong rang and the screen lighted up again. "a correction to the last bulletin," it said. "president aalman has made a statement. he says that bean's suicide was due entirely to domestic difficulties. the mimil venture has been tremendously successful. so much so that the board of directors announce a one hundred percent stock dividend and an equal amount in cash. he further states that he will buy personally all the stock that is offered under ." at once the tumult on the floor increased to a howling typhoon of sound as the brokers suddenly reversed their position and began hunting sellers as fervidly as they had previously been hunting buyers. the bidding was wild, leaping by bounds to ever-higher figures. exploitation rose from its depths like a soaring skyrocket--up into the hundreds, past the five-hundred mark of aalman's bid, on to a thousand and upward. another gong. another announcement. "it is apparent that an effort is being made to corner venus exploitation. the exchange authorities have ordered, dealings in the stock suspended. speculators short of stock may settle at the rate of two thousand dollars per share." "wow!" yelled doc kellog, and a moment later he was burning up the road to neville & beardsley. * * * * * the board room was crowded when he got there. all the big shots of titan were present, not excepting carmichael. there was sheer panic in the faces of some as they stared at the earlier bulletins, for exploitation represented a heavy investment for most of them. even wolf's usually expressionless face showed concern as he saw his spare millions dwindle to half and less. he was so intent on following the damning figures that he did not notice the entrance of kellog, or that he sat down beside him in the chair vacated by a haggard man who had just rushed despairingly from the room. "it's more of aalman's skulduggery, the pirate!" growled carmichael to the fellow sitting on the other side. "he's looted the company, that's what. we're stuck. i'm getting out while i can." he wrote an order and beckoned to neville. "the hell of it is," wolf added, to his crafty-looking partner, "that while this order is getting to new york, the stock will drop forty points more. damn that time lag!" neville approached, bowed respectfully, and took the order. he looked at it, then remarked: "this is for more than you own. are you taking a short position?" "right! the stuff's wallpaper. when aalman milks 'em, they stay milked. tomorrow i can cover at three. get rid of this--quick." neville bowed again and turned away. kellog plucked him by the sleeve. he had sneaked a look at the order. the amount he had on balance would margin it. "i'll take that--at the current price," he whispered. "you needn't send it to new york." "you're crazy," said neville, but he noted the order. kellog sat back and waited, gloating. in a few minutes the news would come through that the market had reversed itself. he had made a brilliant double play. if carmichael's selling order had gone through in the regular way, when it hit new york his stock would have brought him hundreds of dollars a share; conversely, if his own buying order had, he would have had to pay the corresponding price. as it was, he got carmichael's stock at , close to the bottom, and for it wolf received but . "whipsawed!" carmichael yelled when aalman's bullish statement was broadcast. "the dirty rattlesnake. he started the rumors to depress the stock; now he's buying it in at a bargain. neville! cancel my selling orders." neville was late in coming. in the meantime the later flash showed on the screen--the one telling of suspension of trading and the penalties levied on short-sellers. "sorry, sir," said neville, as placatingly as possible, "but it is already executed. you said quick, so i disposed of it locally." carmichael snorted and looked about him. "what fool--" he began, but neville simply said, "the gentleman on your right." carmichael glared at kellog. kellog glared right back. "you!" howled wolf, his porcine eyes incredulous. "me," grinned kellog. "you owe me five thousand shares of exploitation, i believe. i want it." carmichael sputtered and gazed questioningly at neville. it must be a joke--this silly upstart of a scientist holding the whip hand over him. why, only a few days before he had come whining to his office for the loan of a miserable few thousand. now he was demanding ten million. preposterous! "if you haven't the cash, i'll settle for a deed to titan shops, lock, stock and barrel," offered kellog smoothly, but he could not conceal the triumph in his eyes. "i am rather anxious to get a little job done there, but up to now they haven't been very ... uh ... co-operative." carmichael grunted like a prodded boar, frowning. he was in a tight spot; he knew it. he had to settle and he did not have the cash. moreover, it hurt him to give up a property. but there seemed to be no choice, and he was aware that the other speculators in the room were watching him closely. he couldn't welsh--not openly. "done!" he exploded. * * * * * that night kellog took over the titan general shops. he and wade worked late, laying out the program for the following day. tomorrow they would start construction on the first batch of commercial antichrons. but just at midnight a messenger came, bearing a communication from the power company. it read: you are hereby notified that due to inadequate generating facilities, titan radio power finds itself compelled to curtail its service. since our contract to furnish your plant with power was made with mr. george carmichael personally and not with the titan general shops, the change of ownership voids it. all service will be discontinued within four hours. "the dirty rat!" blazed kellog. "wolf is the word," corrected billy wade with a sigh. "you can't beat him." "we'll see," said kellog grimly. "let's have a look at the electrical hook-up here. maybe we can use antichron in another way." neither he nor wade attempted to sleep that night. they were much too busy. the machine was retuned and put in search for the new york home of the general manager of tellurian power. they found him, aroused him and made their proposition. yes, the earth plants had unlimited power. yes, if kellog could project a receiving plate into one of tellurian's generating plants, its men would connect leads to it. the general manager doubted whether power could be transmitted from planet to planet--it had never been done before--but if they would pay for it, he would send it. kellog closed the deal. then he and wade went about altering the antichron for gathering pure current, not light. they marked the back face to show where the earthly electrodes should be placed. on the front they attached their own connections. those led to the shops. then they set the space-time warper to working. in a moment the back face was gone. no doubt, at that instant, startled engineers were puzzling over the bizarre outlet that had suddenly appeared in their plant. "say," said billy wade. "he said unlimited power, didn't he? and the rate there is a tenth what it is here. why not peddle some juice on the side?" "right!" yelped kellog, and he reached for a pad. power for sale, cheap owing to surplus productive capacity provided by new owners, titan general shops is in a position to furnish any quantity of power at the rate of ten cents a mega-watt hour. "get that to the saturnport _herald_ to be run in the next edition," he told wade. "this'll wash up titan power, if my guess is any good," remarked wade cheerfully. "they've been getting away with murder." "yep," said kellog dreamily. carmichael would have to write off another asset, for local power could not possibly compete with tellurian now that there was a way to transmit it. and the power monopoly was the biggest plum in wolf's basket. in an hour the first surges of energy were coming in from earth, flowing from the antichron into the local radio distributing emission set. the electricians at the plant simply tuned out on titan power and in on the laboratory set. the shift was made. * * * * * carmichael did not take the fresh assault upon him lying down. he promptly went about getting an injunction against the unfranchised sale of power, but it was several days before he could get it issued. in the meantime, with the full facilities of the shop at his disposal, kellog had completed a batch of sight-sound antichrons for use in communication. he hired and instructed operators. then the machines were focused on the various important planets, satellites and asteroids. at one stroke saturnport became the central clearing house of the solar system for news. if necessary, a pluto signal could be relayed through titan to earth in only the time necessary to make the connections. etherways was at once ruined. all its equipment was junk, except for nearby use. "that ought to hurt," observed billy wade, jubilantly. "they say wolf had a pile of etherways preferred." "probably," said kellog. but he was smarting under the injunction. the corrupt local court had forbidden the outside sale of power. not only that, the saturnport council--all creatures of carmichael--issued an edict prohibiting the importation of power generated outside of titan. this time the shops did have to close down until kellog could improvise some old-fashioned magnetic generators of the field-armature type. not content with inflicting those inconveniences on kellog, carmichael might be expected next to bring suit for personal damages ensuing from the collapse of etherways. etherways represented the investment of important money, and the men who lost were not the type who would console themselves that their company had been replaced by something incomparably better. "i've got to go all the way," concluded kellog, soberly. "if i don't get him, he'll get me." again he put his and wade's head together and designed a new type of antichron. it was three-dimensional--a cubical box, to be exact, with four sides and a bottom, but open at the top. it worked on the same principle as the flat screen, but with slight variations. it operated as a shuttle, not continuously. kellog put one of his television machines in focus with the mine on mimas. miman mines was only partly owned by carmichael; he controlled the industries on the lesser satellites by virtue of his strangle-hold on transportation. so the manager was willing to talk to kellog. "what do you pay that buccaneer to haul ore to titan?" asked kellog. "twenty cents a ton." "i'll haul it for two." "you can't," objected the manager. "the trans-saturnian lighter service's charter says--" "i know what it says," snapped back kellog. "my father drew it up. it confers a perpetual monopoly on all intersatellite _ship-borne_ commerce. now listen. clear a place about twenty feet square and arrange to dump ore in it from twenty feet or more above. mark it off with safety lines and don't ever let a man step across the lines. then watch my smoke." he cut the connection long enough to send similar instructions to the receiving station by the smelter. then he watched through the antichron while the preparations were being made at both ends of the line. when they were ready he turned the machine over to wade. wade sat down and got to work. his job was very much like that of the operator of a grab bucket. he kept his eyes on the visual screen, his hands on the controls of the cubical one. current!--the empty cube appears on mimas--an avalanche of ore fills it--shift current--it disappears from mimas, appears at the smelter on titan--the unloading cradle on which it materializes tips and dumps the ore--when it is upright again, shift current. mimas, fill; titan, dump. mimas, fill; titan, dump. that was all there was to it. hundreds of tons a minute, delivered in titan the day it is mined. "that shoots interplanetary transportation and trans-saturnian all to hell, i should say," drawled the editor of the _herald_, who had been invited to watch the demonstration. he was conducting a campaign to have carmichael's injunction revoked. now that the people knew cheap power was available, they were angry about it. "yes," continued the editor, "they're sunk. i'm going to stroll down to the bank and draw out my balance before the run starts." "what do you mean?" asked kellog. "plenty. the bank is really a sort of holding company for wolf. now that his companies are all shot, it'll crash. you may not know it yet, but carmichael is ruined. he will be a very sick wolf in an hour or so." * * * * * who is the wolf of saturn? people on titan will point out a blowzy, sodden old derelict who hangs out in a dive near the skyport and tell you that "carmy," as they call him now, used to wear that title. he was a big shot once, they say. but if you should ask any of the frequenters of the big building on lower manhattan who the wolf of saturn is, they will tell you instantly. it is a crackpot on titan by the name of kellog. he was the fellow who ruthlessly and without warning wrecked two of the biggest and most profitable enterprises in the universe--etherways, inc., and interplanetary transport--and many of the smartest financiers of the system with it. what a guy! not only that, but he wrecked the system's entire price structure with his cheap services. "benefactor?" they will squall. "he's a wild man--a wolf!" generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) high finance otto h. kahn address delivered at annual dinner american newspaper publishers association april , , waldorf-astoria, new york high finance i the term "high finance" derives its origin from the french "haute finance," which in france as elsewhere in europe designates the most eminently respectable, the most unqualifiedly trustworthy amongst financial houses. why has that term, in becoming acclimated in this country, gradually come to suggest a rather different meaning? why does there exist in the united states, alone amongst the great nations, a widespread attitude of suspicion, indeed in many quarters, of virtual hostility, toward the financial community and especially toward the financial activities which focus in new york, the country's financial capital? there are a number of causes and for some of them finance cannot be absolved from responsibility. but the primary underlying and continuing cause is lack of clear appreciation of what finance means and stands for and is needed for. and from this there has sprung a veritable host of misconceptions, prejudices, superstitions and catch-phrases. never was it of more importance than in the present emergency that the people should have a clear and correct understanding of the meaning and significance of finance, indeed of "high finance," and that they should approach the subject calmly and dispassionately and with untroubled vision, for when the european war is over and the period of reconstruction sets in, one of the most vital questions of the day will be that of finance and financing. the handling and adjustment of that question, although it primarily concerns europe, cannot fail to affect america favorably or unfavorably, according to the wisdom or lack of wisdom of our own attitude and actions. a great many things are being and have been charged in the popular view against finance, with which finance, properly understood, has nothing to do. the possession of wealth does not make a man a financier--just as little as the possession of a chest of tools makes a man a carpenter. finance does not mean speculation--although speculation when it does not degenerate into mere gambling has a proper and legitimate place in the scheme of things economic. finance most emphatically does not mean fleecing the public, nor fattening parasitically off the industry and commerce of the country. finance cannot properly be held responsible for the exploits, good, bad or indifferent, of the man who, having made money at manufacturing, or mining, or in other commercial pursuits, blows into town, either physically or by telephone or telegraph, and goes on a financial spree, more or less prolonged. finance means constructive work. it means mobilizing and organizing the wealth of the country so that the scattered monetary resources of the individuals may be united and guided into a mighty current of fruitful co-operation--a hundredfold, nay ten-thousandfold as potent as they would or could be in individual hands. finance means promoting and facilitating the country's trade at home and abroad, creating new wealth, making new jobs for workmen. it means continuous study of the conditions prevailing throughout the world. it means daring and imagination combined with care and foresight and integrity, and hard, wearing work--much of it not compensated, because of every ten propositions submitted to the scrutiny or evolved by the brain of the financier who is duly careful of his reputation and conscious of his responsibility to the public, it is safe to say that not more than three materialize. for the financial offspring of which he acknowledges parentage, or merely godfathership, he is held responsible by the public for better or for worse, and will continue to be held responsible notwithstanding certain ill-advised provisions of the recently enacted clayton anti-trust act which are bound to make it more difficult for him to discharge that responsibility. amongst other functions and duties, it is "up to him" to look ahead, so that such offspring may always be provided with nouriture, _i.e._, with funds to conduct their business. if for one reason or another they find themselves short of means in difficult times, it is his task and care to find ways and means to obtain what is needed, sometimes at great financial risk to himself. it is perhaps significant that almost all the railroad companies now in receivers' hands were among those for whose financial policy no one amongst the leading banking houses had a continuous and recognized responsibility, though i must not be understood as meaning to suggest that there were not other contributory causes for such receivership, involving responsibility and blame, amongst others, also on members of the banking fraternity. ii without going into shades of encyclopedic meaning, i would define, for the purpose of this discussion, a financier as a man who has some recognized relation and responsibility toward the larger monetary affairs of the public, either by administering deposits and loaning funds or by being a wholesale or retail distributor of securities. to all such the confidence of the financial community, which naturally knows them best, and of the investing public is absolutely vital. without it, they simply cannot live. to provide for the thousands of millions of dollars annually needed by our railroads and other industries, would vastly overtax the resources of all the greatest financial houses and groups taken together, and therefore the financier or group of financiers undertaking such transactions _must_ depend in the first instance upon the co-operation of the financial community at large. for this purpose such houses or groups associate with themselves for every transaction of considerable size, a large number of other houses, thus forming so-called syndicates. but even the resources thus combined of the entire financial community would fall far short of being sufficient to supply the needed funds for more than a very limited time, and appeal must therefore be made to the absorbing power of the country as a whole represented by the ultimate investor. now, let a financial house, either through lack of a high standard of integrity in dealing with the public, or through lack of thoroughness and care, or through bad judgment, forfeit the confidence of its neighbors or of the investing public, and the very roots of its being are cut. i do not mean to claim that high finance has not in some instances strayed from the highest standard, that it has not made mistakes, that it has not at times yielded to temptation--and the temptations which beset its path are indeed many--that there have not been some occurrences which every right thinking man must deplore and condemn. but i do say and claim that practically all such instances have occurred during what may be termed the country's industrial and economic pioneer period, a period of vast and unparalleled concentration of national energy and effort upon material achievement, of tremendous and turbulent surging towards tangible accomplishment, of sheer individualism, a period of lax enforcement of the laws by those in authority, of uncertainty regarding the meaning of the statutes relating to business and, consequently, of impatience at restraint and a weakened sense of the fear, respect and obedience due to the law. in the mighty and blinding rush of that whirlwind of enterprise and achievement things were done--generally without any attempt at concealment, in the open light of day for everyone to behold--which would not accord with our present ethical and legal standards, and public opinion permitted them to be done. to quote one instance out of many: campaign contributions by corporations were a recognized and almost universal practice. the acceptance of such contributions did not shock the most tender political conscience. now they are rightly forbidden, and what up to a few short years ago was not only not prohibited but sanctioned by the custom of a generation and more, is now made and considered a crime. then suddenly a mirror was held up by influences sufficiently powerful to cause the mad race to halt for a moment and to compel the concentrated attention of all the people. and that mirror clearly showed, perhaps it even magnified, the blemishes on that which it reflected. with their recognition came stern insistence upon change, and very quickly the realization of that demand. that is the normal process of civilization in its march forward and upward. and i claim that finance has been as quick and willing as any other element in the community to discern the moral obligations of the new era brought about within the last ten years and to align itself on their side. as soon as the meaning of the laws under which business was to be conducted had come to be reasonably defined, as soon as it became apparent that the latitude tacitly permitted during the pioneer period must end, finance fell into line with the new spirit and has kept in line. i say this notwithstanding the various investigations that have since taken place, nearly all of which have dealt with incidents that occurred several years ago. and in this connection i would add that it is difficult to imagine anything more unfair than the theory and method of these investigations as all too frequently conducted. the appeal all too often is to the gallery, hungry for sensation; the method--to wash as much soiled linen as possible in public (even, if necessary, to make clean linen appear soiled), and to use a profusion of soap and water quite out of proportion to the actual cleaning to be done. to innocent transactions it is sought to give a sinister meaning; what lapses, faults or wrongs may be discovered are given exaggerated portent and significance. the chairman is out to make a record, or to fortify a preconceived notion or accomplish a preconceived purpose. counsel is out to make a record. the principal witnesses are placed in the position of defendants at the bar without being protected by any of the safeguards which are thrown around defendants in a court of law. to complete the picture, i must--saving your presence--add this other patch of black: the reporting is very frequently, if not generally, done by young men not very familiar with matters of finance and in search of incident and of high light rather than of the neutral tints of a sober and even record; and the job of headlining seems somehow to be entrusted always to a mortal enemy of the particular witnesses of each session, selected with great care for his ingenuity in compressing the maximum of poison gases into a few explosive words. it may all be legitimate, according to political standards, but it is not justice, and what of benefit is accomplished could equally well be obtained, whatever of guilt is to be revealed could equally well and probably better be disclosed, without resorting to inflammatory appeal and without, by assault or innuendo, recklessly and often indiscriminately besmirching reputations and hurting before the whole world the good name of american business. i do not know of any similar method and practice and spirit of conducting investigations in any other country. by all means let us delve deep wherever we have reason to suspect that guilt lies buried. let us take short cuts to arrive at the truth, but let us be sure that it is the truth that we shall meet at the end of our road, and not a mongrel thing wearing some of the garments of truth, but some others, too, belonging to that trinity of unlovely sisters, passion, prejudice and self-seeking. iii in many ways, in many instances, wrong impressions about finance have been given to the public, sometimes from ignorance, sometimes with malice aforethought, sometimes for political purposes. the fact is that the men in charge of our financial affairs are, and to be successful, must be every whit as honorable, as patriotic, as right thinking, as anxious for the good opinions of their fellowmen as those in other walks of life. in every time of crisis or difficulty in the nation's history, from the war of independence to the present european war, financiers have given striking proof of their devotion of the public weal, and they may be depended upon to do so whenever and howsoever called upon. american finance has rendered immense services to the country, and its record--considering especially the gross faultiness of the laws under which it had to work before the passage of the federal reserve act, and in some respects still has to work--compares by no means unfavorably with that of finance in europe. there has been no gambling frenzy in the financial markets of america within the memory of this generation equalling the recklessness and magnitude of england's south african mining craze with its record of questionable episodes, some of them involving great names; no scandal comparable to the panama scandal, the copper collapse, the cronier failure, and similar events in france; no bank failure as disgraceful and ruinous as that of the leipziger bank and two or three others within the last dozen years in germany. no combination exists in this country remotely approaching the monopolistic control exercised by several of the so-called cartels and syndicates of europe. one of the reasons why finance so frequently has been the target for popular attack is that it deals with the tangible expression of wealth, and in the popular mind pre-eminently personifies wealth, and is widely looked upon as an easy way to acquire wealth without adequate service. yet it is a fact that there are very few financial houses of great wealth. all of the very greatest fortunes of the country, and in fact most of the great fortunes, have been made, not in finance, but in trade, industries and inventions. a similar exaggerated view prevails as to the power of finance. it is true there have been men in finance from time to time, though very rarely indeed, who did exercise exceedingly great power, such as, in our generation, the late j. p. morgan and e. h. harriman. but the power of those men rested not in their being financiers, but in the compelling force of their unique personalities. they were born leaders of men and they would have been acknowledged leaders and exercised the power of such leadership in whatever walk of life they might have selected as theirs. as i have said before, the capacity of the financier is dependent upon the confidence of the financial community and the investing public, just as the capacity of the banks is dependent upon the confidence of the depositing public. take away confidence and what remains is only that limited degree of power or influence which mere wealth may give. confidence cannot be compelled; it cannot be bequeathed--or, at most, only to a very limited extent. it is and always is bound to be voluntary and personal. i know of no other centre where the label counts for less, where the shine and potency of a great name is more quickly rubbed off if the bearer does not prove his worth, than in the great mart of finance. mere wealth indeed can be bequeathed, but the power of mere wealth--to paraphrase a famous dictum--has decreased, is decreasing and ought to be, and will be, further diminished. iv what, then, can and should finance do on its own part in order to gain and preserve for itself that repute and status with the public to which it is entitled, and which in the interest of the country, as well as itself, it ought to have? . conform to public opinion it must not only _do_ right, but it must also be particularly careful concerning the _appearance_ of its actions. finance should "omit no word or deed" to place itself in the right light before the people. it must carefully study and in good faith conform to public opinion. . publicity one of the characteristics of finance heretofore has been the cult of silence, some of its rites have been almost those of an occult science. to meet attacks with dignified silence, to maintain an austere demeanor, to cultivate an etiquette of reticence, has been one of its traditions. nothing could have been more calculated to irritate democracy, which dislikes and suspects secrecy and resents aloofness. and the instinct of democracy is right. men occupying conspicuous and leading places in finance as in every other calling touching the people's interests, are legitimate objects for public scrutiny in the exercise of their functions. if opportunity for such scrutiny is denied, if the people's legitimate desire for information is met with silence, secrecy, impatience and resentment, the public mind very naturally becomes infected with suspicion and lends a willing ear to all sorts of gossip and rumors. the people properly and justly insist that the same "fierce light that beats upon a throne" should also beat upon the high places of finance and commerce. it is for those occupying such places to show cause why they should be considered fit persons to be entrusted with them, the test being not merely ability, but just as much, if not more, character, self-restraint, fair-mindedness and due sense of duty towards the public. finance, instead of avoiding publicity in all of its aspects, should welcome it and seek it. publicity won't hurt its dignity. a dignity which can be preserved only by seclusion, which cannot hold its own in the market place, is neither merited nor worth having. we must more and more get out of the seclusion of our offices, out into the rough and tumble of democracy, out--to get to know the people and get known by them. not to know one another means but too frequently to misunderstand one another, and there is no more fruitful source of trouble than to misunderstand one another's kind and ways and motives. . service every man who by eminent success in commerce or finance raises himself beyond his peers is in the nature of things more or less of an "irritant" (i use the word in its technical meaning) to the community. it behooves him, therefore, to make his position as little jarring as possible upon that immense majority whose existence is spent in the lowlands of life so far as material circumstances are concerned. it behooves him to exercise self-restraint and to make ample allowance for the point of view and the feelings of others, to be patient, helpful, conciliatory. it behooves him to remember that many other men are working, and have worked all their lives, with probably as much effort and assiduous application, as much self-abnegation as he, but have not succeeded in raising themselves above mediocre stations in life, because to them has not been granted the possession of those peculiar gifts which beget conspicuous success, and to which, because they are very rare and because they are needed for the world's work, is given the incentive of liberal reward. he should beware of that insidious tendency of wealth to chill and isolate; he should be careful not to let his feelings, aspirations and sympathies become hardened or narrowed; lest he become estranged from his fellow men; and with this in view he should not only be approachable but should seek and welcome contact with the work-a-day world so as to remain part and parcel of it, to maintain and prove his homogeneity with his fellow men. and he should never forget that the advantages and powers which he enjoys are his on suffrance, so to speak, during good behavior, the basis of their conferment being the consideration that the community wants his talents and his work, and grants him generous compensation--including the privilege of passing it on to his children--in order to stimulate him to the effort of using his capacities, since it is in the public interest that they should be used to their fullest extent. he should never forget that the social edifice in which he occupies so desirable quarters, has been erected by human hands, the result of infinite effort, of sacrifice and compromise, the aim being the greatest good of society; and that if that aim is clearly shown to be no longer served by the present structure, if the successful man arrogates to himself too large or too choice a part, if, selfishly, he crowds out others, then, what human hands have built up by the patient work of many centuries, human hands can pull down in one hour of passion. the undisturbed possession of the material rewards now given to success, because success presupposes service, can be perpetuated only if its beneficiaries exercise moderation, self-restraint, and consideration for others in the use of their opportunities, and if their ability is exerted, not merely for their own advantage, but also for the public good and the weal of their fellow men. . stand up for convictions and organize in the political field, the ways not only of finance but of business in general have been often unfortunate and still more often ineffective. it is in conformity with the nature of things that the average man of business, responsible not only for his own affairs, but often trustee for the welfare of others, should lean towards that which has withstood the acid test of experience and should be somewhat diffident towards experiment and novel theory. but, making full allowance for this natural and proper disposition, it must, i believe, be admitted that business, and especially the representatives of large business, including high finance, have too often failed to recognize in time the need and to heed the call for changes from methods and conceptions which had become unsuitable to the time and out of keeping with rationally, progressive development; that they have too often permitted themselves to be guided by a tendency toward unyielding or at any rate apparently unyielding bourbonism instead of giving timely aid in a constructive way toward realizing just and wise modifications of the existing order of things. apart from these considerations and leaving aside practices formerly not uncommon, but which modern laws and modern standards of morality have made impossible, it may be said generally that business is doing too much kicking and not enough fighting. in fact, almost the only instance which i can remember of business asserting itself effectively on a large scale and by a genuine effort for its rights, its legitimate interests and its convictions was during the mckinley-bryan campaign, in saying which i do not mean to endorse some of the methods used in that campaign. and yet, the latent political power of business is enormous. wisely organized for proper and right purposes it would be irresistible. no political party could succeed against it. if this country is to take full advantage of the unparalleled opportunities which the developments of the last two years have opened up to it, if, in the severe competition which sooner or later after the close of the war is bound to set in for the world's trade, it is to hold its own, it must not only not be hampered by unwise and antiquated laws, as it now is, in certain respects, but it must be intelligently aided and fostered by the legislative and administrative powers. business in the leading european countries has been backed up by the respective governments in the past and will be backed up, more than ever, in the post-bellum period. everywhere else through the civilized world in matters of national policies as they affect business, the representatives of business are consulted and listened to with the respect which is due to expert knowledge. it is only in america that the views of business men in general (as distinct from the agitation of particular business men or organizations having a special object to serve, such as on the occasion of tariff making in former days) are ignored, their advice brushed aside or even resented, their representatives treated as interlopers. it is only in america that the exigencies of politics not infrequently, i might almost say habitually, are given precedence over the exigencies of business. objectionable methods and practices sometimes resorted to in the past by corporate interests in endeavoring to influence legislation and public opinion have been abandoned beyond resurrection. it is only fair that with them should be abandoned the habit of politicians, sometimes politicians in very high places, to denounce as "lobbying" every organized effort of large business to oppose tendencies and propositions of legislation deemed by it inimical to the best interests of business and of the country. it is only fair that there should be abandoned the habit of sneering at and suspecting organized efforts by business men to educate public opinion on questions affecting business and finance as improper attempts to "manufacture" or "accelerate" public opinion. v the people are fair-minded and when fully informed, almost invariably wise and right in their judgment, which cannot always be said of their representatives. when scolded, browbeaten, maligned and harassed, finance may well turn upon its professional fault-finders and challenge comparison. finance and financiers have had no mean share in creating organizations and institutions in this country which are models of efficiency and which men from all quarters of the globe come here to study and to admire. it is the critics of finance and business who--to mention but a few instances--have given to the army aeroplanes that are grossly defective, to the navy submarines that are in constant trouble, who have passed laws which have driven our ships off the seas in the world's trade, and other laws which have mainly brought it about that in the year less railroad mileage has been constructed in the united states than within any one year since the civil war. just as congress, by a series of laws, has imposed burdens and costs upon ships operating under the american flag which made it impossible for capital to invest in american ships for use in the world's trade and earn a fair return in normal times, so the federal and state legislatures, during the past ten years, have imposed upon the railroads all kinds of exactions, restrictions and increasing costs which have had the result of arresting progress, and which threaten, after the cessation of the present period of abnormal earnings, to seriously lame that vastly important industry. congress has done little to indicate that it recognizes the urgency and bigness and significance of the momentous situation which confronts the country. nor does it seem inclined to pay serious heed to the views of business--and by that i do not mean the views of business "magnates," but the consensus of opinion of business men in general. nor does past experience encourage us to believe that it will pay such heed unless impelled by the instinct of self-preservation. amongst the powers for which our friends of both political parties have a wholesome respect, one of the most potent is organization. let business then become militant, not to secure special privileges--it does not want any and does not need any--but to secure due regard for its views and its rights and its conceptions as to what measures will serve the best interests of the country, and what measures will harm and jeopardize such interests. without wishing to hold up the labor unions as offering a model for the spirit which should actuate us or the methods we should follow--because their class-consciousness and the resulting conduct are sometimes extreme and often shortsighted, i would urge upon business men to cultivate and demonstrate but a little of that cohesion and discipline and subordination of self in the furtherance of the common cause, that readiness to back up their spokesmen, that loyalty to their calling and to one another which working men practice and demonstrate daily, and which have secured for their representatives the respect and fear of political parties. let business men range themselves behind their spokesmen, such as the united states chamber of commerce in washington and the chambers of commerce and kindred associations in states and cities. let them get together now and in the future through a properly constituted permanent organization, and guided by practical knowledge, broad vision and patriotism, agree upon the essentials of legislation affecting affairs, which the situation calls for from time to time. let them pledge themselves to use their legitimate influence and their votes to realize such legislation and to oppose actively what they believe to be harmful lawmaking. let them strive, patiently and persistently, to gain the confidence of the people for their methods and their aims. let them meet false or irresponsible or ignorant assertion with plain and truthful explanation. let them take their case directly to the people--as the railroads have been doing of late with very encouraging results--and inaugurate a campaign of education in sound economics, sound finance and sound national business principles. let business men do these things, not sporadically, under the spur of some imminent menace, but systematically and persistently. let them be mindful that just as the price of liberty is eternal vigilance, so eternal effort in resisting fallacies and in disseminating true and tested doctrine is the price of right lawmaking in a democracy. scanned images of public domain material from the google print archive. mammon and co. by e. f. benson. * * * * * mammon and co. mo. cloth, $ . . this latest novel by a popular author deals with personages living in the same society that was characterized by "dodo" and "the rubicon." mr. benson is thoroughly acquainted with the society in which he places the scenes of his novels of london life. in "mammon and co." the good genius of the tale is an american girl. the book will be found to be one of exceeding interest throughout. dodo. _a detail of the day._ mo. paper, cents; cloth, $ . . "'dodo' is a delightfully witty sketch of the 'smart' people of society.... the writer is a true artist."--_london spectator._ the rubicon. mo. paper, cents; cloth, $ . . "the anticipations which must have been formed by all readers of 'dodo' will in no wise be disappointed by 'the rubicon.' the new work is well written, stimulating, unconventional, and, in a word, characteristic. intellectual force is never absent, and the keen observation and knowledge of character, of which there is abundant evidence, are aided by real literary power."--_birmingham post._ * * * * * d. appleton and company, new york. mammon and co. by e. f. benson author of dodo, the rubicon [illustration] new york d. appleton and company copyright, , by d. appleton and company. contents _book i_ chapter page i.--the city dinner ii.--sunday morning iii.--after the gee-gee party iv.--kit's little plan v.--toby vi.--toby's partner vii.--the solitary financier viii.--the simply nobody ix.--the plot miscarries x.--mrs. murchison's diplomacy xi.--mr. alington opens check xii.--the cottage by the sea xiii.--toby to the rescue xiv.--the chairman and the director xv.--the week by the sea _book ii_ i.--kit's meditations ii.--the first deal iii.--lily draws a cheque iv.--the darkened house v.--toby acts without speaking vi.--lily's desire vii.--the second deal viii.--mr. alington leaves london ix.--the slump x.--toby draws the moral _book i_ chapter i the city dinner "egotism is certainly the first," said lady conybeare with admirable firmness; "and your inclination towards your neighbour is the second." now, this was the sort of thing which alice haslemere liked; and she stopped abruptly in the middle of her rather languishing conversation with nobody in particular to ask for explanations. it sounded promising. "the first what, and the second what, kit?" she inquired. "the first and the second lessons," said lady conybeare promptly. "the first and the second social virtues, if you are particular. i am going to set up a school for the propagation of social virtues, where i shall teach the upper classes to be charming. there shall be a special class for royalty." lady haslemere was not generally known as being particularly particular, but she took her stand on kit's conditional, and defended it. "there is nothing like particularity--nothing," she said earnestly, with a sort of missionary zeal to disagree with somebody; "though some people try to get on without it." being a great friend of kit's, she knew that it was sufficient for her to state a generality of any kind to get it contradicted. she was not wrong in this instance. kit sighed with the air of a woman who meant to do her unpleasant duty like a sister and a christian. "dear alice," she said, "there is nothing so thoroughly irritating as particularity. i am not sure what you mean by it, but i suppose you allude either to people who are prudes or to people who are always letting fly precise information at one. they always want it back too. don't you know how the people who insist on telling one the exact time are just those who ask one for the exact time. i never know the exact time, and i never want to be told it. and i hate a prudish woman," she concluded with emphasis, "as much as i abhor a well-informed man." "put it the other way round," said lady haslemere, "and i agree with you. i loathe a prudish man, and i detest a well-informed woman." "there aren't any of either," said lady conybeare. she sat up very straight in her chair as she made this surprising assertion, and arranged the lace round her throat. her attitude gave one the impression somehow of a rakish frigate clearing for action, and on the moment came the first shot. "i am a prude," said a low, bass voice at her elbow. kit scarcely glanced round. "i know you are," she said, replying with a heavy broadside; "but then you are not a man." "that depends on what you mean by a man," said the voice again. the speaker was so hidden by the arms of the low chair in which he sat, that a knee, shin and foot, in a horizontal line on the invisible support of another knee, was all that could be seen of him. "i mean a human being who likes killing things," said kit without hesitation. "i killed a wasp yesterday," said the voice; "at least, i think it died afterwards. certainly i disabled it. oh, i am sure i killed it." "yes, and you remembered it to-day," said lady conybeare briskly. "you did not really kill it; it lives in your memory, and--and poisons your life. in time it will kill you. do you suppose jack remembers the grouse he killed yesterday?" "oh, but jack is like the oldest inhabitant," said lady haslemere. "he never remembers anything, just as the oldest inhabitant never remembers a flood or a thunderstorm or a famine at all like the one in question. that means they don't remember anything at all, for one famine is just like another; so are thunderstorms." kit paused a moment, with her head on one side, regarding the speaker. "no; forgetfulness is not characteristic of jack," she said, "any more than memory is. he remembers what he wants to remember, and forgets what he wants to forget. now, it's just the opposite with me. i forget what i want to remember--horrid stories about my friends, for instance--and i remember the sort of thing i want to forget--like--like sunday morning. isn't it so, jack?" a slightly amused laugh came from a man seated in the window, who was no other than the jack in question, and, incidentally, kit's husband. "it is true i make a point of forgetting unpleasant things," he said; "that is the only real use of having a memory decently under control. i forget kit's milliner's bills----" "so do i, darling," said kit with sudden affection. "no, you don't; you only remind me to forget them. i forget the names and faces of uninteresting people. i forget--no, i don't forget that----" "what don't you forget, jack?" demanded kit with some sharpness. "i don't believe it." "i don't forget that we've got to dine in the city at half-past seven. why ever there was such an hour as half-past seven to put into a christian clock i can't conjecture," he said in a tone of regretful wonder. "well, if you forget unpleasant things, and you don't forget that, perhaps it will be pleasant." "i am quite certain it will be infernal," said jack. "go and dress, kit." lady conybeare frowned impatiently. "oh, jack! when will you learn that i cannot do what you ask if you talk to me in that way?" she cried. "i was just going to dress. now i can't, and we shall both be late, which will be very tiresome. you will curse and swear at me like st. peter for keeping you waiting. how stupid you are, and how little you know me!" lord conybeare looked at his watch. "it is exactly three minutes to six," he said. "you needn't go for half an hour yet. there is loads of time--loads!" kit got up at once. "that's a dear boy," she said. "gracious! it's past the half-hour! i must fly! good-bye, alice; conybeare and i will look in on you after our dinner. i think you said you were going to have a nice round game with counters. good-bye, tom, and learn not to be a prude." "i'm sure you would teach me, if anybody could," said tom rather viciously. kit adjusted the lace round her throat again. "thanks for the compliment," she said; "but prudes are born, not made. you don't shoot, you don't hunt, you remember every wasp you have possibly killed. oh, tom, i am afraid you are hopeless. don't laugh. i mean what i say; at least, i think i mean the greater part of it." "i reserve the less, then," said tom. "i must go too. so alice and haslemere and i will see you to-night?" "yes; we'll escape as soon as we can from the dinner. mind you take some money with you, jack, for the round game. i must fly," she said again, and took her graceful presence very slowly out of the room. there was a short silence, broken by lord conybeare. "it is odd how you can tell a man by the hour at which he dines," he said. "seven is an impossible hour, and the people who dine at seven are as impossible as the hour. people who dine at half-past are those who are trying to dine at eight and cannot manage it. they are also trying not to be impossible, and cannot." lady haslemere got up. "i once knew a man who dined at ten minutes to eight," she said, "which struck me as extremely curious. he was an archdeacon. i believe all archdeacons dine at ten minutes to eight. and they call it a quarter to, which is even odder." "i don't know any archdeacons," said tom, with a touch of wistfulness in his voice. "introduce me to one to-night, alice." "archdeacons don't come to berkeley street," said she. "why not? how exclusive! do they expect berkeley street to come to them?" "probably. they are trained to believe nothing which is not incredible. it is exactly that which makes them impossible." "extremes meet," said lord conybeare. "the sceptic forces himself to believe everything that is perfectly credible. and he succeeds so well. sceptics believe that they once ate nuts--we've all eaten nuts once--and are descended from apes. and how obvious is their genealogy from their faces! if i was going to be anything, it should not be a sceptic." lady haslemere wandered once round the room, condemning the china silently. "i must positively go," she said. "do, alice!" said jack; "because i want to dress. but you are rather like kit. when she says she must fly, it means she has little intention of walking, just yet." lady haslemere laughed. "come, tom," she said. "we are not wanted. how deeply pathetic that is! they will want us some day, as the hangman said. well, jack, we shall see you later. i _am_ going." lord conybeare went upstairs to his dressing-room, revolving with some intentness the affair of this city dinner. the taking off his coat led him to wind up his watch, and he was so lost in thought that for a moment he looked surprisedly at his dress-clothes, which were laid out for him, as if pyjamas would have been a more likely find. but his linked and studded shirt was an irresistible reminder that it was dinner-time, not bedtime, and he proceeded to dress with a certain neat haste that was clearly characteristic of him. in stature he was somewhat below the average size, both in height and breadth; but one felt that an auctioneer of men might most truthfully have said, when he came to him at a sale: "here is a rather smaller specimen, gentlemen, but much more highly finished, and very strong!" the quick deftness of even unimportant movements certainly gave the impression of great driving power; everything he did was done unerringly; he had no fumblings with his studs, and his tie seemed to fashion a faultless, careless bow under a mere suggestion from his thin, taper-nailed fingers. he looked extremely well bred, and a certain mephistophelian sharpness about his face, though it might have warned those whom kit would have called prudes--for this was rather a sweeping word with her--that he might not be desirable as a friend, would certainly have warned the prudent that he would assuredly be much more undesirable as an enemy. on the whole, a prudent prude would have tried to keep on good terms with him. he appeared, in fact, even on so hasty and informal a glance as that which we are giving him as he arranges his tie, to be one of those lucky people to whom it is well to be pleasant, for it was difficult to imagine that he was afraid of anything or cared for anybody. certain happily-constituted folk have never had any doubt about the purpose of the world, so clearly was it designed to feed and amuse them. lord conybeare was one of these; and in justice to the world we must say that it performed its altruistic part very decently indeed. jack conybeare was still on the sunny side of thirty-five. he and kit had been married some seven years, and had no children, a privation for which they were touchingly thankful. they had, both of them, quite sufficient responsibilities, or, to speak more precisely, liabilities; and to be in any way responsible for any liabilities beyond their own would have seemed to them a vicarious burden of the most intolerable sort. their own, it is only fair to add, sat but lightly on them; kit, in particular, wore hers most gracefully, like a becoming mantle. chronic conditions, for the most part, tend to cease being acutely felt, and both she and jack would far sooner have had a couple of thousand pounds in hand, and fifty thousand pounds in debt, than not to have owed or owned a penny. kit had once even thought of advertising in the morning papers that a marchioness of pleasing disposition was willing to do anything in the world for a thousand pounds, and jack had agreed that there was something in the idea, though the flaw in it was cheapness: you should not give yourself away. he himself had mortgaged every possible acre of his property, and sold all that was available to sell, and the close of every day exhibited to a wondering world how it was possible to live in the very height of fashion and luxury without any means of living at all. had he and kit sat down for a moment by the side of a road, or loitered in park lane, they would probably have been haled, by the fatherly care of english law, to the nearest magistrate, for that they had no apparent means of sustenance. luckily they never thought of doing anything of the kind, finding it both safer and pleasanter to entertain princes and give the best balls in london. a want of money is an amiable failing, common to the saint and the sinner alike, and does not stand in the way of the _accusé_ acquiring great popularity. jack, it is true, had no friends, for the very simple reason that he did not in the least want them; kit, on the other hand, had enough for two. her rules of life were very uncomplicated, and they daily became more so. "you can't be too charming," was the chief of them. she took infinite pains to make herself almost universally agreeable, and was amply repaid, for she was almost universally considered to be so. this embracing desire had its drawbacks, but kit's remedies for them quite met the case. for instance, when any woman whom she did not happen to remember by sight greeted her, as often happened, effusively at some evening party, kit always kissed her with a corresponding effusion; if a man in the same circumstances did the same, she always said reproachfully, "you _never_ come to see us now." in this way her total ignorance of who they were became a trivial thing; both were charmed, and when people are charmed, their names become of notable insignificance. the finest inventions of all are the simplest, and the simplicity of jack's _modus vivendi_ rivalled its own subtlety and the subtlety of kit's. he loudly professed staunch conservative principles, always voted with the bishops in the house of lords on any question, and had made a special study of guano and church ritual. a method exposed always sounds a little crude, but the crudity often belongs not to the method but to its exposure. certainly jack's method answered, and no method can do more. the mammon of unrighteousness, not being deceived, but not being shocked at such duplicity, thought him very clever, and the unmammon of righteousness, being deceived, was not shocked at other things which were occasionally in the air about him. with perfect justice they labelled the world scandal-loving and uncharitable when they were told these other things, and asked jack to dinner, to show that they did not believe them. a further proof of his wisdom may be seen in the fact that he accepted such invitations, and if he and kit left early, it was not because they were going on elsewhere to play round games, but because the laying of foundation-stones and the opening of bazaars had been so fatiguing. but though both he and kit were fond of appearing other than they were to sets other than their own, they were on the whole singularly unsecretive to each other. in the first place, they both knew that the other was reasonably sharp, and while each respected the other for this sharpness, they realized that any attempt to deceive would probably be detected. in the second place, a far better reason, even on the lowest grounds, on which they took it, they knew that mutual lying is a rotten basis for married life. each allowed the other a wide latitude, and in consequence they were excellent friends, and always lent each other a helping hand if there was any scheme of mutual aggrandizement to be put through. there were just a few questions that kit never put to jack, nor he to her; each had a cupboard, a very little one, to which there was only one key, and they were wise enough never to ask each other for it. such, hitherto, had been their married life--a great deal of frankness and confidence, and an absolute respect for the privacy of the other's innermost sanctum. to-night there was a beautiful scheme in the egg ready to be hatched, or neither of them would have dreamed of dining in the city at half-past seven. attention was just beginning to be directed to west australian gold-mining, and the public had awoke to the fact that there were large fortunes to be made, or lost, in that direction. thus jack, having no fortune to lose, went into it with a light heart; he was clearly marked out as one of those who were destined to win. in pursuance of the laudable idea of avoiding a really serious financial crisis, they were dining at the drapers' company, where they would meet a mr. frank alington, who had a whole fleet of little paper companies, it was understood, ready to be floated. jack had met him once, and had taken this opportunity of meeting him again, hoping to find bread upon the waters. it was to be kit's business to make herself inimitably agreeable, ask him to park lane, and leave the rest to jack. she, of course, would have a finger in the profits. kit was delighted to take the part assigned to her. jack had looked into her bedroom as she was dressing, and through the half-open door had said, "very gorgeous, please, kit," and she had understood that this was a really important operation, and that a dazzling wife was part of the apparatus necessary. she had not meant to dress very particularly; plush and cairngorms, she had once said to jack, was the sort of thing the city really appreciated, but she was always ready, within reason, to do as jack wished, and she told her maid to get out a dress that had arrived from paris only that morning. but jack's remark to her as she was dressing was the sort of hint that kit always took. it cost so little to be pleasant in these ways, and how wise it was to obey one's husband in such matters! she had intended to keep this dress for a royal dinner a week hence, but she put it on without a murmur, and, indeed, her wifely devotion had its immediate reward. for the dress! that surpassing man jean worth had said once, not to herself, but to some other customer, and no friend of hers, that it was a real pleasure to dress lady conybeare; and lady conybeare, on her side, kindly considered it a real pleasure to be dressed by worth. thus the gratification was mutual, and it must have been a consolation to the dressmaker, if he had to whistle long and loud for his cheque, to have his artistic pleasure to fall back on. now kit--a rare accomplishment--could stand orange, and to stand orange means to be admirably suited to orange. she loved it herself, jean genuinely agreed with her, and in this dress four tints of orange chiffon, _dantè_, _faisan doré_, _vésuve_, and _pomme d'or_, blazed together. even worth, the greatly daring, had inwardly felt a qualm of audacity, but how admirably, when kit was inside the gown, had his audacity succeeded! "_réussi!_" he would have sighed had he seen it. over all was a fine net of pale mandarin yellow, to which was tacked a cusped acanthus pattern of sequins; and kit, looking at herself long and critically in her wardrobe glass, said "lor'!" her glorious red-gold hair, full of dusky flames, of a tint after which nature blindly gropes where paris leads the way, was the point to which worth had worked, and his success was beyond all approval or praise. next came the question of jewels, and hortense, her maid, with the artist's eye, thought that pearls and pearls only, _pas un diamant_, would be consummately chic. kit saw what she meant, and from an artistic point of view devoutly agreed, but she turned up her nose at the suggestion. "we don't want to be chic, my good woman," she said. "we want to hit 'em in the eye. the rubies, hortense!" now, the rubies were really fine, glorious molten lakes of colour, almost barbarically splendid, and being entailed, they had been forced to remain in the conybeare coffers. but if ever a woman and her dress were designed and built for rubies, kit and this creation were. hortense, moved beyond her wont, ejaculated "_mon dieu!_" as the gorgeous baubles were clasped on kit's dazzling neck; and her mistress, being as candid with herself as she was with her husband, smiled serenely at her own reflection. "a touch of rouge," she said to hortense, and when that was unerringly applied, "there," she murmured, "that will double up the city. and jack," she added to herself, "will then proceed to pick its pockets." she rustled across the floor, and tapped at the door of her husband's dressing-room. "are you ready, jack?" she asked. "yes, just. come in, kit." kit took from her table the orange-red fan which worth had sent with the dress, threw the door open and held her head very high. "the gold-miner's wife," she remarked. her husband looked at her a moment in blank admiration. seven years' husband as he was, kit still occasionally "knocked him over" as he expressed it, and she knocked him over now. then he laughed outright. "that ought to fetch 'em," he said frankly. "so i think," said kit; "but really, jack, it was a sacrifice putting this on. remember that, please. i was keeping it for the royalties next week, but you said 'very gorgeous,' and i obeyed." "oh, blow the royalties!" said jack. "dress in tartan plaid for them, or a kilt even. besides, it is bad form for a hostess to be better dressed than her guests. that dress wouldn't do at all, kit, in your own house. they would think you were an advanced radical." the india-rubber-tired brougham, with its little electric lamp in the roof (kit's only real extravagance for more than ten days, as she triumphantly told jack) was ready when they got downstairs, and they rolled off into the gaslit roar of the streets. this way and that flashed the gleaming lights of hansoms and carriages; it was like passing through an august shower of shooting-stars. long queues of waiting folk stretched like snakes from the pit-doors of theatres; newsboys roared their "'orrible and revoltin'" details; jewellers' shops with windows a blaze of gems signalled and winked across the streets; feathered women peacocked along, making eyes at the passers; loungers lounged; busy little men with black bags made scurrying bee-lines across the crowded roadway; buses, a plaster of advertisements, swung nodding on their way; and bicycles glided by them so spare and silent that they might have been incorporeal things. high up on house-roofs glowed the changing colours of prima-donna soaps, putting to shame the lesser lights of heaven; now an invisible gigantic penman would write _kodak_ with large flowing hand in red ink, then, dissatisfied, delete it, and try it again in yellow. here the crystal signs of music-halls flashed diamonds, or the open door of a restaurant cast a brilliant square of light on to the street. then for a moment a strident, diabolically-precise scale from a street-organ would overscore all other noises; but the hoofs and wheels which bore the hungry world to the houses of its friends to be fed reasserted itself with a crash and trample like some valkürie-ritt; the whole town was abroad, and humming like a swarming beehive. kit was never tired of the spectacle of life, provided it was gay, and varied, and full. the incessant movement, the infinite separate businesses, which went to make up the great major chord of london streets, the admirable pace at which the world moved, the marvel of its contrasts, the gas, the glitter, the sordidness and the splendour rubbing shoulders, all appealed to her tremendous _joie de vivre_, the best and the most unvarying factor in her very living character. she had once expressed a wish to be buried, like a suicide at cross-roads, in the very centre of piccadilly circus. "no country churchyards or knells of parting day for me, thank you," she had said. all down piccadilly she was silent, looking devouringly from the window of the brougham at the kaleidoscope outside, but when they turned out of trafalgar square down northumberland avenue, to avoid the strand, which at that hour spouts and bubbles with traffic like a weir in spring, she turned to her husband with a sigh of regret at leaving the fuller streets. "the outline of the plot, jack?" she said. "don't know it myself yet," said jack. "but the _vieux premier_ is alington--a heavy, solemn man, like a butler, rather tiresome, i'm afraid. very likely you will sit next him; he is a guest of the drapers' like ourselves. if not, get hold of him somehow. he might dine to-morrow." "but we give a dance to-morrow," said kit, "and we feed only the very brightest and best." "all the more reason for alington coming, perhaps," said jack. "i have heard it said that there are still a few people who care for a duke as such. it sounds odd, but let us hope he is one." "yes, those people are so easy to deal with," said kit thoughtfully. "but it will upset the table, jack." "of course, if you put your table as more important than possible thousands," said jack. "it is really a big thing then?" asked kit. "it is possibly a very big thing. i know no more than you yet. it may even run to a saturday till monday or more." "very good. i'll upset the whole apple-cart for it, as mr. rhodes says. here we are. let's get away early, jack. i said we'd go to berkeley street afterwards." "we'll go as early as we can," he replied. "but you mustn't risk not landing your fish because you don't play him long enough." "oh, jack, i am not a fool," she said. "order the carriage for ten. i'd undertake in this gown to land the whole house of laymen by ten without a gaff. dear jean worth! what a lot of money i owe him, and what a lot of pleasure he gives me! i should be puzzled to say which was the greater." chapter ii sunday morning mr. frank alington turned out to be a star of greater magnitude, in fact a saturday till monday star, almost a comet. lord conybeare found that the whirl and bustle of london did not allow of his seeing enough of him, so he phrased it, and thus it happened that, some ten days after the dinner at the drapers' company (kit's playing and landing of the fish having been masterly, for she had him dead-beat long before ten), mr. alington arrived on a saturday afternoon in june at what kit called their "cottage" in buckinghamshire. strictly speaking--though she did not often speak strictly--it was not a cottage at all; and it was certainly not in buckinghamshire, but in berkshire. but there was a rustic, almost bohemian, sound to kit's mind in buckinghamshire, whereas berkshire only reminded one of bacon, and a few miles either way made a very little difference. "and if i choose to call berkshire the malay archipelago," said kit, "who is to stop me?" however, to adopt kit's nomenclature, the cottage in question was a large red-brick elizabethan house on the banks of the thames, with a few acres of conservatories, and a charming flower-garden, leading down by green degrees and cut yew hedges to the river. but the cottage idea was not wholly absent, for they always dined in the room which had once certainly been the kitchen. the range had been removed, leaving an immense open fireplace, where it was sacrilege to burn anything but logs, and the most charming dark oak dressers, bearing under the new _régime_ quantities of old blue nankin ware, ran round the walls. following the same idea, they always sat in the big hall which opened straight on to the front-door, instead of in the drawing-room. "quite like hobnailed day-labourers," said kit. the analogy is obvious, and kit's admirable taste had made the likeness almost glaring. there was a grandfather's clock there, a couple of large oak settles on each side of the fireplace, which had bronze dogs for the fire-irons, and homely chippendale and basket chairs. a few persian rugs, it is true, which it would have tasked a connoisseur to price, happened to be lying on the floor, but otherwise it was quite uncarpeted, and you trod on real naked wooden boards of polished oak. in all the windows but one there were tiny diamond panes of old wavy glass, which made the features of the landscape outside go up and down like a switchback as you walked across the room; and in the other window, which gave light to the serving-up-room (a highly inconvenient arrangement, in which kit, in the _rôle_ of labourer, delighted), were real bottom-of-glasses panes, which looked charming. the roof was gabled and not even whitewashed (being also of oak), and altogether an unexacting labourer might have spent very fairly comfortable evenings in this simple room. the cottage idea was carried out in the garden also. the beds were all of old-fashioned flowers, hollyhocks, london-pride, poppies, wallflowers, dahlias, mignonette, quite rustic and herbaceous, with no pincushion italian beds, which kit said were very expensive and out of keeping with the prevalent simplicity. they also reminded her of badly-mixed salads. stern frugality further showed itself in the clothing of the red-brick walls which bounded the garden. here were no flaunting, flaming creepers, bright and profitless, but homely pear-trees and apricots, which bore quite excellent fruit. a common wooden punt lay moored at the end of the garden, useful and homely, fit for the carrying of the produce of the labourer's garden to market. a pile of embroidered cushions happened at that moment to be lying in it, and kit had also left her jewelled russian cigarette-case there, but that was all. even the cigarette-case was made of simple plaited straw, and the monogram and coronet set in very blue turquoises at one corner seemed to have got there by accident, as if they had been chips which had fallen out of the sky, and might be shortly expected to float back there again. it was sunday morning, obviously sunday morning, and nature was proceeding as usual on her simple but pleasant way. a brilliant sun, a gentle wind, the smooth, unruffled river, all testified to the tenderness and benignity of the powers of the air. spring, the watery, impetuous spring of the north, had now a month ago definitely given place to summer, leaving another year in which poets, with their extraordinary want of correct observation, might forget what it had really been like, and rhyme it a hundred undeserved and unfounded courtesies. but summer had come in earnest in the latter days of may, with a marked desire to make itself pleasant, and give to the sturdy british yeoman, who had till then complained (with statistics of rainfall) of the wetness of the spring, another excellent opportunity of vilifying the dryness of the summer. over such providence watches with a special care, and, knowing that the one thing worse than having a grievance is to have none, gives them a kindly interchange of wet springs, dry summers, wet summers, dry springs, secure of never pleasing anybody. a soft blue haze of heat and moisture hung over the river and the low-lying water-meadows on the far side, but as the hills beyond climbed upwards from the valley, they rose into an atmosphere extraordinarily clear. though the day was hot, there was a precision of outline about the woods that cut the sky almost suggestive of a frosty morning, and even here below the heat was of a brisk quality. everything was steeped in sunday content, and from the gray church-tower standing guardian among the huddled hamlet-roofs came the melodious jangle of bells ringing for the eleven o'clock service. the labourers' garden was in full luxuriance of midsummer flower (for a bright and cheerful garden should be within reach of the humblest), and a rainbow of colour bounded the close-shaven lawn. nothing, as is right, was ever done on this lawn, mossy to the foot, restful to the eye; no whitewash lines cut it up into horrible squares and oblongs, no frenzied tennis-balls ever did decapitation among the flower-beds that framed it, and you could wander about it at dusk immune from anxiety as to whether your next step would be tripped in a croquet-hoop or entangled in the snares of a drooped tennis-net. during the weeks of spring it had been a star-sown space of crocuses, like the meadow in fra angelico's annunciation, but these were over, and it had again become a green, living velvet. kit had developed that morning at breakfast a strange unreasoning desire to go to church, and until jack saw her eat he was almost afraid she was going to be ill. to church accordingly she had gone, dragging with her alice haslemere, who was staying with them. they had been put across the river in the punt, kit armed with a huge church service, and it was evident, so thought conybeare as he strolled down to the water's edge after the return of the punt, that kit had smoked a cigarette as she went across. this, by the standard of perfection, he considered a mistake. if you are going to do a thing at all, do it thoroughly, he argued to himself, and that a woman should smoke just before going to church was a lapse from the proper level. but he took the cigarette-case with its turquoise monogram from where it lay on the cushion, and put it into his pocket. as like as not kit would step on it when she got into the punt again. jack had enjoyed a long conversation with mr. alington after dinner the evening before, and he was now strolling about the garden expecting him to come out and continue it. alington was, as he had told kit, a heavy-looking man, but conversationally he had not found him in the least heavy. he had the air of a solid, intelligent englishman, whose mind had been considerably widened by extensive travel abroad, and took a large uninsular view of things. had he been disposed to apply for a situation as a butler, no householder could have reasonably hoped to find a more trustworthy or respectable-looking man. sobriety shone from his large mild eye, and the lines of his firm, somewhat full-lipped, mouth expressed steadiness in every curve. if as a butler he had been told that the whole of the royal family were coming to high tea in ten minutes, you would have felt yourself safe to bet that the intelligence would not flurry him, and that a sufficient high tea would somehow immediately appear. for so ample and well-furnished a man he had a curiously small voice, rather suggesting that it came from a distance, and he spoke his sentences in a precise manner, never correcting a word, as if he had thought them out before he opened his mouth. colour was given to this supposition by the fact that he always paused a moment before speaking. such a habit of speech, when worn by the majority, would predispose towards heaviness; but the result when it arrived was not, in the case of mr. alington, heavy. on the contrary, it was weighty--a far different thing. in the interval of reminding one of an admirable butler he irresistibly suggested a member of a conservative cabinet, safe of a peerage. it was only when considered as a floater of gold mines that his appearance was against him, and even then it was against him only on the score of probability, for it was impossible that even an imaginative public could invent a man in whom more _primâ-facie_ confidence should be reposed as a trustee of the moneys of widows and fatherless. jack strolled in the garden for nearly half an hour before he appeared, chucking pebbles into the thames and cigarette-ends into the flower-beds. at breakfast mr. alington had been dressed in a black frock-coat, but now when he made his unhurried exit from the low drawing-room french window he wore a straw hat and a suit of decorous tweed, the result, no doubt, of his observation that no one else wore sunday clothes. he carried a malacca cane in one hand; in the other a large tune hymn-book with edges red in one light, gold in another. "lady conybeare has started?" he inquired of jack. "yes; she has gone to church. she went nearly half an hour ago." mr. alington paused a moment. "i had meant to go with her," he said. "i had no idea it was so late." "there is the punt here," said jack. "you can go now if you like. i had no idea you meant to." "i thought everyone went to church on sunday morning in england when they were in the country," he said. "but i would sooner not go at all than arrive in the middle of the prayer of st. chrysostom." "and i would sooner arrive in the middle of the prayer of st. chrysostom than at the beginning of it," remarked jack. a slight look of pain crossed mr. alington's face, as if he had a twinge of neuralgia; but he made no further comment on jack's levity. he leaned his tune hymn-book carefully against the bottom of his basket-chair, after feeling that the lawn was dry, and lit a cigarette. "an exquisite morning," he said, after a moment's reflection. "the hills look as if they had been painted with cream for a medium, an effect so rare out of england." lord conybeare did not reply immediately, for he had not waited all this time in the garden for alington to hear him talk about cream. then he went straight to the point: "all you said last night interested me very much," he began, "and your kind offer to invest some money for me in your new group of mines----" mr. alington held up a large white, deprecating hand. on the little finger was a plain gold signet-ring, bearing the motto, _fortiter fideliter feliciter_. "it is nothing," he replied; "pray don't mention it. indeed, lord conybeare, if i may say so, i only made that offer as a sort of feeler. your reply to me then, your further reference to the subject now, show me that you are kind enough to be interested in my new undertakings." "profoundly," said lord conybeare; then, with disarming frankness: "money is the most interesting thing in the world and the most desirable. i often wish," he added, "that i saw more of it." alington flicked a morsel of ash off the end of his cigarette. "that confirms me in what i was thinking of saying to you," he replied. "now will you allow me to speak with your own frankness? ah, observe that beautiful line traced by that skein of starlings!" jack looked up. "lovely!" he said. "pray speak." "it is this then. my honest belief is that there are immense fortunes to be made in west australian mining. i believe also, again with absolute honesty, that these claims which i own are--some of them, at least, extremely rich. now, i wish very much that i was wealthy enough to work them by myself. i regret to say that i am not. i must therefore form a company. to form a company i must have directors." "surely your name----" began conybeare politely, but with only the faintest conjecture of what might be coming. "my name, as you so kindly suggest, will no doubt be a little assistance," said alington, "for i am not wholly unknown in such matters. but it is not enough. this company must be english; it must be formed here; the shareholders should be largely english. why? for a variety of reasons. in the first place, you can raise ten thousand pounds here more easily than you can raise one thousand in australia. again, the british public is getting ready to go mad about west australian mining, while in australia they regard australian mining without, well, without any premonitory symptoms of insanity. perhaps they underrate its future; i think they do. perhaps the british public overrates it; that also is possible. but i bring my wares to the best market. now i ask you, lord conybeare, will you be on my board? will you be my chairman?" he turned briskly round with the first quick movement that conybeare had yet seen him make. "i," he asked, "on a board of mining directors? i know about mines exactly what you told me, last night--that is to say, unless i have forgotten some of it." the ghost of a smile flickered across mr. alington's broad face, and he laid his large white hand on jack's knee. the latter seemed to regard it just as he might have regarded a harmless moth that had settled there. the poor thing did not hurt. "you saw that i smiled," he said. "i saw that you saw it. i smiled because you spoke so far from the point. that is frank enough, is it not, to show you that i am telling you the truth. there are further proofs also." both in his action with his hand and in his speech the plebeian showed plain, but jack did not resent it. he had not asked alington down to the cottage to enjoy his refined conversation and his well-bred presence, but to talk business. that he was doing. jack was quite pleased with him. "i do not follow you," he said. mr. alington lit another cigarette from the stump of his old one before replying, and rose to deposit the other out of sight in a garden-bed. "cigarette-ends are so terribly dissonant with this charming garden," he said. "now, i am speaking to you from a purely business point of view. i supposed--it was natural, was it not?--that you were so kind as to ask me to your delightful house in order to discuss these mines. you see how frank i am." conybeare let his eye travel slowly down a reach of the thames. "yes, that was the reason why i asked you," he said. "and i came for exactly the same reason. the pleasure of visiting you at your 'cottage,' as lady conybeare so playfully calls it, is great--very great; but plain business-men like me have little time for such pleasures. frankly, then, i should not have come unless i guessed your reason. i, too, wished to talk about these mines, lord conybeare, and i ask you again to be a director on my board." he took off his straw hat--for they were sitting in the shade--and propped it carefully up against his chair by the side of the large tune hymn-book. its removal showed a high white forehead and a circular baldness in the centre of flossy, light-brown hair, like a tonsure. "i am a plain business man," he went on, "and when i am engaged in business i do not offer an advantageous thing to others unless i get an advantage myself; for to introduce sentiment into business is to make a pleasure of it and a failure. you must remember, my dear lord conybeare, that england is essentially aristocratic in her ideas. at least, so far as your nobility is conservative, she is aristocratic. think if lord salisbury joined a board how the public would clamour for allotments! dear me, yes, the master of hatfield might be a very rich man--a very rich man indeed." jack conybeare was completely himself; he was not dazzled or unduly delighted at the offer. he merely wished to know what he got by it, taking for granted, and justly, that the man was sincere. "marquises still count, then," he said. "i give you my word i had no idea of it. i am glad i am a marquis. but what," he added, "do i get by it?" "a salary," said mr. alington, and his usual pause gave the remark considerable weight. "but we will pass over that," he went on. "directors, however, have the privilege of taking a great many shares before the concern is made public. in fact, in order to qualify for being a director, you must hold a considerable number." "i am very poor," said jack. "that, fortunately, can be remedied," said mr. alington. jack was immensely practical, and very quick, and it was obvious at once that this was capable of two interpretations. he took the right one. "you mean it is a certainty for me?" he said. again mr. alington let a perceptible pause intervene before he answered. "i mean this," he said, "if you want plain speaking, and i think you do; it also suits me better. you shall be allotted a certain number of shares, say ten thousand, in my new group of mines. you will probably only have to pay the first call. you will be a director of these mines--and, by the way, there is another name i have in my mind, the owner of which i should also like to have on my board. i had the pleasure of seeing him at your house in london. very well, i issue my prospectus, and my name, as you so kindly observed, counts for something. i, of course, as vendor, shall join the board after allotment. yours and another i hope will be there too. now, i feel certain in my own mind that such a board (with certain other names, which shall be my affair) will be advantageous to me. it will pay. i am certain also--i say this soberly--that between my prospectus and my board the shares will at once go up, so that if you choose you can sell out before the second call. thus you will not be without your advantage also. we do no favour to each other; we enter into partnership each for his own advantage." "and my duties?" asked jack. "attendance, regular attendance at the meetings of the company. on those occasions i shall want you to take the chair, read the report of the manager, if there is one to hand, make the statement of the affairs of the company, and congratulate the shareholders." "or condole?" asked jack. "i hope not. i should also ask you to immediately approach lord abbotsworthy, and ask him to be on the board. his is the other name i mentioned." "whatever do you want tom abbotsworthy for?" asked conybeare surprisedly. "for much the same reason as i want you. he is already an earl--he will be a duke. dear me, if i was not a man of business i should choose to be a duke." jack pondered a moment. "it is your own concern," he said. "i will ask him with pleasure, and i think very probably he will consent. oddly enough, he and i were talking about this sudden interest in west australia only yesterday morning." "i think that many other people will be talking of it before long," said alington. "i consent," said jack. mr. alington showed neither elation, relief, nor surprise. but he paused. "i think you will find it worth your while," he said. "and now, lord conybeare, there is another point. in the working of a big scheme like this--for, i assure you, this is no cottage-garden affair--there is, as you may imagine, an enormous deal of business. somebody has to be responsible for, or, at any rate, to sanction, all that is done. whether we put up fresh stamps, or whether we decide to use the cyanide process for tailings, or sink a deep level, or abandon a vein, or use the sulphide reduction, to take only a few obvious instances, somebody has to be able to answer all questions, difficult ones sometimes, possibly even awkward ones. now, are you willing to go into all this, or not? if you wish to have a voice in such matters you must go into it. on that i insist. i hear you are a first-rate authority on chemical manures--a most absorbing subject, i am sure. are you willing to learn as much about mines? on the other hand, it is open to you and lord abbotsworthy to leave the whole working of such affairs to me and certain business men whom i may appoint. but, having left it, you leave it altogether. you will have no right of being consulted at all about technical points unless you will make them your study. if you decide to leave these things to those whose life has been passed in them, good. you put implicit confidence in them, and if required, you will say so, honestly, at the meetings. if, on the other hand, you wish to have a voice in technical affairs, your voice must be justified. you must make mines, technically, your study. you must go out and see mines. you must acquire, not a superficial, but a thorough knowledge of them. you must be able to form some estimate of what relation one ounce of gold to the ton bears to the cost of working, and the capital on which such a yield will pay. now which? choose!" and mr. alington faced round squarely, a little exhausted on so hot a morning by a volubility which was rare with him, and looked jack in the face. "which do you advise?" asked the other. "i cannot undertake to advise you. i have merely given you the data of your choice, and i can do no more." "then spare me details," said jack. mr. alington nodded his head gravely. "i think you are wise," he said, "though i could not take the responsibility of influencing your own opinion. i pay you for your name. your name, to tell you the truth, is what i want. you delegate business to business men. i hope you will put the matter in the same light to lord abbotsworthy. with regard to your salary as chairman, i cannot make you a precise offer yet; tentatively, i should suggest five thousand a year." lord conybeare had to perfection that very useful point of good breeding, namely, the ability to preserve a perfectly wooden face when hearing the most surprising news. mr. alington, for all the effect this information apparently had on it, might have been speaking to the leg of a table. "that seems to me very handsome," he replied negligently. "it seems to me about fair," said mr. alington. lord conybeare was puzzled, and he wondered whether kit would understand it all. how his name on a "front page," as mr. alington called it, with attendance at a few meetings, at which he would read a report, could be worth five thousand a year, he did not see, though he felt quite certain that mr. alington thought it was. whether it would turn out to be so or not, he hardly cared at all; clearly that matter did not concern him. if anyone was willing to pay five thousand a year for his name they were perfectly welcome to have it; indeed, he would have taken a much smaller figure. he had no idea that marquises were at such a premium. his distinguished ancestry had suddenly become an industrial company, paying heavily. "the new esau," he thought to himself, "and a great improvement on the old. i only lend my birthright, and the pottage i receive is really considerable." some time before they had reached this point in their conversation the punt had been taken across the river again to fetch kit and alice haslemere back from church, and as mr. alington said his last words it had returned again with the jaded church-goers. he put on his straw hat, picked up the big tune hymn-book, and with conybeare strolled down to the bottom of the lawn to meet them. "devotion is so very fatiguing," said kit, in a harassed voice, as she stepped on to the grass. "alice and i feel as if we had been having the influenza--don't we, dear? and i've lost my cigarette-case. it is too tiresome, because i meant to pawn it. i am sure i left it in the punt." jack took it out of his pocket and returned it to her. "thank your dear husband you didn't step on it," he remarked. kit took it petulantly, and lit a cigarette. "oh, jack, i wish you wouldn't be so thoughtful," she said. "thoughtful people are such a nuisance. they always remind one of what one is doing one's best to forget, and put one's cherished things in safe places. oh, i'm so glad i'm not a clergyman. i should have to go to church again this evening. what's that book, mr. alington? oh, i see. have you and jack been singing hymns on the lawn? how dear of you! i didn't know you thought of going to church, or i would have waited for you. i understood you were going to talk business with jack. there is business in the air. just a trifle stuffy." mr. alington paused. "we have been having a long and interesting talk," he replied. "one can say more on sunday morning than in the whole of the rest of the week put together." "yes, that's so true," said kit, walking on ahead with him, and smoking violently. "the man who preached knew it too. it was like a night journey, i slept so badly. and was your talk satisfactory?" "to me, very," said mr. alington. "i am convinced it will also prove satisfactory to lord conybeare. he has kindly consented to become my chairman and a director of my new group of mines, the carmel mines, as they will be called." "what a nice name!" said kit. "and shall we all make our fortunes?" mr. alington nodded his massive head. "i shall be very much surprised if we do not get a modest competence out of the carmel mines," said he. chapter iii after the gee-gee party lady haslemere was entertaining what she called the "gee-gees" or "great grundys" one night at her house in berkeley street. the "gee-gee" party was an idea borrowed from jack, and all who were weightiest in society came to it, a large number of them to dine, and the rest to the evening party. just now her brother, tom abbotsworthy, was living with them, for his own house was being done up, and alice had easily persuaded him to stay with them, instead of living with the duke. indeed to live with the duke was nearly an impossibility; three women already had attempted to support the burden of being his duchess, but they had all collapsed before long, leaving him in each case eminently consolable. he could hurry a person into the grave, so it was said, sooner than any man or woman in the kingdom. the last time tom had seen him was about a week ago, at dinner somewhere, and the whole of his conversation had been to say loudly to him across the dinner-table at intervals of about two minutes, "why don't you marry?" tom's presence in the house was a great boon during the season; he relieved his brother-in-law of his duties as host in an easy, unostentatious manner, thereby earning his heartfelt gratitude, and discharging these duties, instead of leaving them undischarged. lord haslemere himself had a habit of being unreckoned with. he was an adept at doing wire puzzles, and played a remarkably good game at billiards, but otherwise there was nothing of him. he wore whiskers, spent the greater part of his day at the club, and was known as whisky-and-soda, not because he had intemperate leanings in that direction, but because there was really nothing else to call him. when his wife entertained, he shrank into what there was of himself, and the majority of his guests at an evening party did not generally know him by sight. his face was one stamped with the quality of obliviality; to see him once was to insure forgetting him at least twice. but at the "gee-gee" parties he was made tidy, which he usually was not, and put in prominent places. he had been very prominent this evening, and correspondingly unhappy. he had taken a parrot-hued duchess into dinner, and spilt a glass of wine over her new dress, and as her grace's temper was as high as the bridge of her nose, the evening had been unusually bitter. the "grundy" dinner-party was succeeded by a vast "grundy" at home, to which flocked all the solid people in london, including those who "bridle" when a very smart set is mentioned, and flock thirstily to their houses, like camels to a desert well, whenever they are asked. it was the usual thing. there had been a little first-rate music--during which everyone talked their loudest--and a great many pink and china-blue hydrangeas on the stairs, a positive coruscation of stars and orders and garters--for two royal princes had been included among the "gee-gees"--and about midnight lady haslemere was yawning dismally behind her fan, and wondering when people would begin to go away. in the intervals of her yawns, which she concealed most admirably, she spoke excellent and vivacious french to the hungarian ambassador, an old bald-headed little man, who only wanted a stick to make him into a monkey on one, and laughed riotously at his stuffy little monkey-house jokes, all of which she had frequently heard before. in consequence, he considered her an extremely agreeable woman, as indeed she was. kit and her husband were not at the dinner, both having refused point-blank to go, on the ground that they had done their duty to "grundy" already; but they turned up, having dined quietly at home, at about half-past eleven, with mr. alington in tow. he was not known to many people present, but lady haslemere instantly left her ambassador, having received instructions from kit, and led him about like a dancing bear. she introduced him to royalty, which asked him graciously whether he enjoyed england, or preferred australia, and other questions of a highly original and penetrating kind; she presented him to stars and orders and garters, and to all the finest "gee-gees" present, as if he had been the guest of the evening. kit's eye was on her all the time, though she was talking to two thousand people, and saw that she did her duty. the rooms were as pretty as decorated boxes can be, and hotter than one would have thought any boxes could possibly get. people stood packed together like sardines in a tin, cheek to jowl, and appeared to enjoy it. anæmic men dropped inaudible questions to robust females, and ethereal-looking _débutantes_ screamed replies to elderly conservatives. nobody sat down--indeed, there was not room to sit down--and the happiest of all the crowd, excepting those who had dined there, were the enviable mortals who had come on from one house, and were able to announce that they were going on to another. three small drawing-rooms opened out the one from the other, and the doorways were inflamed and congested. whoever took up most room seemed to stand there, and whoever took up most room seemed to be dressed in red. altogether, one could not imagine a more successful evening. politicians considered it a political party, those who were not quite so smart as lady haslemere's set considered it the smartest party of the year, and everybody who was nobody considered that everybody was there, and looked forward to buying the next issue of smart society, in order to see what "belle" or "amy" thought of it all. the noise of two or three hundred people all talking at once in small rooms causes a roar extraordinarily strident, and, as in the case of rooms full of tobacco-smoke, intolerable unless one contributes to it oneself. mr. alington had to raise his small, precise voice till it sounded as if he was intoning, and the effort was considerable. this particular way of passing a pleasant evening in the heat of the summer was hitherto unknown to him, and he looked about him in mild wonder. he felt himself reminded of those crates of ducks and fowls which are to be seen on the decks of ocean-going steamers, the occupants of which are so cruelly overcrowded, and of whom the most fortunate only can thrust their beaks through the wicker of their prison-house, and quack desolately to the breeze of the sea. lady haslemere's rooms seemed to him to resemble these bird-crates, the only difference being that people sought this suffocating imprisonment of their own free will, because they liked it, the birds because the passengers had to be fed. one or two very tall men had their heads free, a few others stood by windows, and could breathe; but the majority could neither breathe nor hear, nor see further than their immediate neighbours. they could only quack. and they quacked. by degrees the party thinned; an unwilling lane was cut through the crowd for the exit of the princes, and the great full-blown flowers in the hedges, so to speak, bobbed down in turn as they passed, like a field of poppies blown on by a passing wind. after them those lucky folk who were going on to another house, where they would stand shoulder to shoulder again with a slightly different crowd, and express extreme wonder that their neighbours had not been at lady haslemere's ("i thought everyone was there!"), made haste to follow. outside all down the street from berkeley square at one end to piccadilly at the other stretched the lines of carriage-lamps, looking like some gigantic double necklace. the congestion in the drawing-room developed into a really alarming inflammation in the cloak-room and the hall, and everyone wanted her carriage and was waiting for it, except the one unfortunate lady whose carriage stopped the whole of the way, as a stentorian policeman studiously informed her, but who could only find attached to her ticket a small opera hat instead of the cloak which should have covered her. people trod on each other's toes and heels, and entangled themselves in other folks' jewels and lace. rain had begun to fall heavily, the red carpet from the door to the curbstone was moist and muddy, contemptuous footmen escorted elderly ladies under carriage umbrellas to their broughams, and large drops of rain fell chill on the elderly ladies' backs. loungers of the streets criticised the outgoers with point and cockney laughter, but still the well-dressed crowd jostled and quacked and talked, and said how remarkably pleasant it had been, and how doubly delightful it was to have come here from somewhere else, and to go on somewhere else from here. half an hour after the departure of the princes, lady haslemere, who was fast ceasing to yawn, manoeuvred the two or three dozen people who still could not manage to tear themselves away, into the outermost of the three drawing-rooms, and nodded to a footman who lingered in the doorway, and had obvious orders to catch her eye. upon this he and another impassive giant glided into the innermost room, and took two green-baize-covered tables from where they had been folded against the wall, setting them in the middle of the room, and placed a dozen chairs round them; then, making use of a back staircase, so that they should not be seen by the remaining "grundys," they brought up and laid out a cold supper, consisting chiefly of jelly and frills and froth and glass and bottles and quails and cigarettes, put cards, counters, and candles on the green-baize tables, and withdrew. ten minutes later the last of the "grundys" withdrew also, and the rest, some dozen people who had stood about in attitudes of the deepest dejection for the last half-hour, while a bishop played the man of the world to kit, heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief, and brightened up considerably. automatically, or as if by the action of a current of air or a tide, they drifted into the inner room, and chalk lines were neatly drawn on the green-baize cloth. baccarat is a game admirably suited to people who have had a long day, and is believed to be a specific antidote to the gloom induced by huge "grundy" parties. it is an effort and a strain on the mind to talk to very solid people who are interested in great questions and delight in discussion; but at baccarat the mind, so to speak, lights a cigarette, throws itself into an armchair, and puts on its slippers. baccarat requires no judgment, no calculation, no previous knowledge of anything, and though it is full of pleasing excitement, it makes no demands whatever on the strongest or feeblest intellect. the players have only to put themselves blindly, as ladies dressing for dinner surrender themselves to a skilful maid, into the hands of luck, and the austere elemental forces which manage the winds and waves, and decree in what order nines and other cards are dealt from packs, do the rest. you buy your counters, and when they are all gone you buy some more. if, on the other hand, they behave as counters should, and increase and multiply like rabbits, you have the pleasure of presenting them to your host at the end of the evening or the beginning of the morning, as the case may be, and he very kindly gives you shining sterling gold and rich crackling bank-notes in exchange. tom abbotsworthy, since he had been staying with his sister, always took the place of host when this soothing game was being played at berkeley street; for lord haslemere, if he were not in bed, was by this time busily practising nursery cannons on the billiard-table. occasionally he looked in, with his fidgety manner, and trifled with the froth and frills, and if there was anyone present whose greatness demanded his attendance, he took a hesitating hand. but to-night he was spared; there was only a small, intimate party, who would have found him a bore. he was slow at cards, displayed an inordinate greed for his stake, and had been known at baccarat to consider whether he should have another. this, as already stated, is unnecessary. with certain numbers you must; with all the others you must not, and consideration delays the game. the hours passed much more pleasantly and briskly than during the period of the "grundy" party. it was a warm, still night, the windows were flung wide, and the candles burned unwaveringly. round the table were a dozen eager, attentive faces. luck, like some pied piper, was fluting to the nobility and gentry, and the nobility and gentry followed her like the children of hamelin. now and then one of them would rise and consult the side-table to the diminishment of frills and froth, or the crisp-smelling smoke of a cigarette would hold the room for a few minutes. most of those present had been idle all day, now they were employed and serious. outside the rain had ceased, and for a couple of hours the never-ending symphony of wheels sank to a pianissimo. occasionally, with a sharp-cut noise of hoofs and the jingle of a bell, a hansom would trot briskly past, and at intervals an iron-shod van made thunder in the street. but the siesta of noise was short, for time to the most is precious; barely had the world got home from its parties of the night, when those whose business it is to rise when their masters are going to bed, in order that the breakfast-table may not lack its flowers and fruits, began to get to the morning's work, and the loaded, fragrant vans went eastward. the candles had once burned down, and had been replaced by one of the impassive giants, when the hint of dawn, the same dawn that in the country illuminated with tremulous light the dewy hollows of untrodden ways, was whispered in the world. here it but changed the blank, dark faces of the houses opposite into a more visible gray; it sucked the fire from the candles, was strangely unbecoming to lady haslemere, who was calculated for artificial light, and out of the darkness was born day. there was no longer any need for the carriage-lamps to be lit when kit and her husband got into their brougham. a very pale-blue sky, smokeless and clear, was over the city, and the breath of the morning was deliciously chill. kit, whether from superior art or mere nature, did not look in the least out of keeping with the morning. she was a little flushed, but her flush was that of a child just awakened from a long night's rest more than that of a woman of twenty-five, excited by baccarat and sufficient--in no degree more than sufficient--champagne. her constant harmony with her surroundings was her most extraordinary characteristic; it seemed to be an instinct, acting automatically, just as the chameleon takes its colour from its surroundings. set her in a well-dressed mob of the world, she was the best dressed and most worldly woman there; among rosy-faced children she would look at the most a pupil teacher. just now in lady haslemere's drawing-room you would have called her gambler to her finger-tips; but as she stood for a moment on the pavement outside waiting for her carriage-door to be opened, she was a child of morning. she drew her cloak, lined with the plucked breast feathers that grow on the mother only in breeding-time, more closely about her, and drew the window half up. "you were in luck as well as i, were you not, jack?" she said. "i suppose i am mercenary, but i must confess i like winning other people's money. i feel as if i was earning something." "yes, we were both on the win to-night," said jack. then he stopped, but as if he had something more to say, and to kit as well as to him the silence was awkward. "you noticed something?" she asked. "yes; alington." "so did i. so did alice, i think. what a bore it is! what is to be done?" jack fidgeted on his seat, lit a cigarette, took two whiffs at it, and threw it away. "perhaps we are wrong," he said. "perhaps he didn't cheat." kit did not find it worth while to reply to so half-hearted a suggestion. "it's damned awkward," he continued, abandoning this himself. "i don't know what to do. you see, kit, what an awful position i am in. in any case, do let us have no scandal; that sort of thing has been tried once, and i don't know that it did any good to anybody." "of course we will have no scandal," said kit quickly. "if there was a scandal, you would have to break with him, and pop go the gold mines as far as we are concerned." jack started. his thoughts had been so absolutely identical with what his wife said, that it was as if he had heard a sudden echo. and though the thoughts had been his own, and kit had merely stated them, yet when she did so, so unreasonable is man, he felt inclined to repudiate what she said. the thing sounded crude when put like that. kit saw him start, divined the cause with intuitive accuracy, and felt a sudden impatient anger at him. she hated hypocritical cowardice of this kind, for, having plenty of immoral courage herself, she had no sympathy with those who were defective in it. jack, she knew very well, had no intention of breaking with alington, because the latter had cheated at baccarat. then, in heaven's name, even if you are too squeamish to be frank yourself, try to make an effort not to wince when somebody else is. "that is what a man calls his honour," she thought to herself with amused annoyance. "it is unlike jack, though." meantime her quick brain was spinning threads like a spider. "look here, jack," she said in a moment. "leave the thing entirely to me. it was stupid of me to mention it. you saw nothing: i saw nothing. you know nothing about it. there was no baccarat, no cheating, no nothing. come." "what are you going to do?" asked jack doubtfully. he had great confidence in kit, but this matter required consideration. "oh, jack, i am not a fool," said kit. "i only want you, officially, so to speak, to know nothing about this, just in case of accidents; but there will be no accidents if you let me manage it. if you want to know what i shall do, it is this: i shall go to alice to-morrow--to-day, rather--and tell her what i saw. i am sure she saw it herself, or i should say nothing to her. i shall also add how lucky it was that only she and i noticed it. then the whole thing shall be hushed up, though i dare say we shall watch alington play once more to be certain about it, and if we see him cheat again, make him promise to play no more. trust us for not letting it come out. i am in your galley about the mines, you see." "she is to understand that i saw nothing?" asked jack. "of course, of course," said kit. "that is the whole point of it. what is your scruple? i am really unable to understand. i know it is not nice to deal with a person who cheats at cards. you have always to be on the watch. you'll have to keep your eyes open in this business of the mines, but that is your own affair. clearly it is much better that alice should imagine you know nothing about the cheating. she might think you ought to break with the man; people are so queer and unexpected." "what about tom?" asked he. they had arrived at park lane, and kit stepped out. "jack, will you or will you not leave the whole matter in my hands--the whole matter, you understand--without interference?" he paused for a moment, still irresolute. "yes," he said at last; "but be careful." kit hardly heard this injunction; as soon as he had said "yes" she turned quickly from him, and went into the house. it was already after four, and the tops of the trees in the park had caught the first level rays of the eastern sun. the splendid, sordid town still lay asleep, and the road was glistening from the rain which had fallen earlier in the night, and empty of passengers. but the birds, those fit companions of the dawn, were awake, and the twittered morning hymn of sparrows pricked the air. kit went straight to her bedroom, where the rose-coloured blinds, drawn down over the wide-open windows, filled the room with soft, subdued light, and rang the bell which communicated with her maid's room. when she was likely to be out very late she always let her maid go to bed, and rang for her when she was wanted. often she even made an effort to get to bed without her help, but this morning she was preoccupied, and rang before she could determine whether she needed her. kit herself was one of those happily-constituted people who can do with very little sleep, though they can manage a great deal, and in these london months four or five hours during the night and a possible half-hour before dinner was sufficient to make her not only just awake, but excessively so at other times. in the country, it is true, she made up for unnatural hours by really bucolic behaviour. she took vigorous exercise every day in any weather, ate largely of wholesome things, hardly drank any wine, and slept her eight hours like a child. in this she was wiser than the majority of her world, who, in order to correct their errors in london, spend a month of digestive retirement at carlsbad. "live wholesomely six months of the year," said kit once, "and you will repair your damages. why should i listen to german bands and drink salt water?" instead, she fished all august and september, cut down her cigarettes, and lived, as she said, like a milkmaid. it would have been rather a queer sort of milkmaid, but people knew what she meant. before her maid came (kit's arrangement that she might go to bed was partly the result of kindness, partly of her disinclination to be waited on by a very sleepy attendant) she had taken off her jewels, and put them into her safe. there also she placed the very considerable sum of money which she had just won at baccarat, to join the rainy-day fund. jack did not know about the rainy-day fund--it was of kit's very private possessions; but it is only fair to her to say that if he had been in a financial _impasse_ it would have been at his disposal. no number of outstanding bills, however, constituted an _impasse_ till you were absolutely sued for debt; the simplest way of discharging them, a way naturally popular, was to continue ordering things at the same shops. kit and her husband did not meet at breakfast, but took that plebeian meal in their own rooms. and she, having told hortense to open the windows still wider, and bring her breakfast at half-past ten, put the key of her jewel-safe under her pillow, and lay down to sleep for five hours. she would want her victoria at twelve, and she scribbled a note to lady haslemere saying that she would be with her at a quarter past. outside the day grew ever brighter, and rivulets of traffic began to flow down park lane. the hour of the starting of the omnibuses brought a great accession of sound, but kit fell asleep as soon as she got into bed, and, the sleep of the just and the healthy being sound, she heard them not. she dreamed in a vague way that she had won a million pounds, but that as she was winning the last of them, which would mean eternal happiness, she cheated some undefined shadow of a penny, which, in the misty, unexplained fashion of dreams, took away the whole of her winnings. then the smell of tea and bacon and a sudden influx of light scattered these vain and inauspicious imaginings, and she woke to another day of her worthless, selfish, aimless life. chapter iv kit's little plan to many people the events of the day before, and the anticipations of the day to come, give with the most pedantic exactness an automatic colour to the waking moments. the first pulse of conscious consciousness, without apparent cause, is happy, unhappy, or indifferent. then comes a backward train of thought, the brain gropes for the reason of its pleasure or chagrin, something has happened, something is going to happen, and the instinct of the first moment is justified. the thing lay in the brain; it gave the colour of itself to the moment when reasoned thought was yet dormant. bacon and tea were the first savours of an outer world to kit when she awoke, for she had slept soundly, but simultaneously, and not referring to these excellent things, her brain said to her, "not nice!" now, this was odd: she shared with her husband his opinion of the paramount importance of money, and the night before she had locked up in her safe enough to pay for six gowns at least, and a year's dentist bills, for her teeth were very good. indeed, it was generally supposed that they were false, and though kit always laughed with an open mouth, she had been more than once asked who her dentist was. herein she showed less than her ordinary wisdom when she replied that she had not got one, for the malignity of the world, how incomparable she should have known, felt itself justified. yet in spite of that delightful round sum in her jewel-safe, the smell of bacon woke her to no sense of bliss beyond bacon. for a moment she challenged her instinct, and told herself that she was going to have tea with the carburys, and that coquelin was coming; that she was dining with the arbuthnots, where they were going to play a little french farce so screaming and curious that the censor would certainly have had a fit if he had known that such a piece had been performed within the bounds of his paternal care. all this was as it should be, yet as the river of thought began to flow more fully, she was even less pleased with the colour of the day. something unpleasant had happened; something unpleasant was still in the air--ah! that was it, and she sat up in bed and wondered exactly how she should put it to lady haslemere. anyhow she had _carte blanche_ from jack, and if between half-past ten and a quarter past twelve she could not think of something simple and sufficient, she was a fool, and that she knew she certainly was not. with her breakfast came the post. there were half a dozen cards of invitation to concerts and dinners and garden-parties; an autograph note from a very great personage about her guests at the banquet next week; a number of bills making a surprising but uninteresting total; another note, which she read with interest twice, and then tore into very small pieces; and a few lines from jack, scribbled on a half-sheet of paper. "do the best you can, kit," he said; "i am off to the city to see a. i shall behave as if i knew nothing." kit tore up this also, but not into small pieces, with a little sigh of relief. "sense cometh in the morning," she said to herself, and ate her breakfast with a very good appetite. whatever she had been doing, however unwisely she had supped, kit always "wanted" her breakfast, and as she took it the affair of the night before seemed to her to assume a somewhat different complexion. in her heart of hearts she began to be not very sorry for the lapse in social morality of which mr. alington had been guilty on the previous night. it seemed to her on post-prandial consideration that it might not be altogether a bad thing that she should have some little check upon him. it might even be called a blessing, with hardly any disguise at all, and she put the position to herself thus. when you went careering about in unexplored goldfields with the owner, a comparative stranger, harnessed to your cart, it was just as well to have some sort of a break ready to your hand. very likely it would be unnecessary to use it; indeed, she did not want to have to use it at all, but it was certainly preferable to know that it was there, and that if the comparative stranger took it into his head to bolt, he would find it suddenly clapped on. the only drawback was that alice knew about it too; at least, kit was morally certain that she had noticed mr. alington's surreptitious pushing forward of his stake after the declaration of his card, which was very clumsily done, and she would have preferred, had it been possible, that only jack and she should have known, for a secret has only one value, and the more it is shared the less valuable does each share become, on the simple arithmetical postulate that if you divide a unit into pieces, each piece is less than the original unit. indeed, the more she thought of it, the more convenient did it appear that mr. alington should have made this little mistake, and that she should have noticed it. and, after all, perhaps it would save trouble that alice should have noticed it too, for in all probability it would be necessary to make alington play again and watch him. for this she must have some accomplice, and as jack was not to come into the affair at all, there really was no better accomplice to have than alice. to lay this trap for the bland financier did not seem to kit to be in any way a discreditable proceeding. she put it to herself that, if a man cheated, he ought not to be allowed to play cards and win his friends' money, and that it was in justice to him that it was necessary to verify the suspicion. but that it was a low and loathsome thing to ask a man as a friend to play cards in order to see whether he cheated or not did not present itself to her. her mind--after all, it is a question of taste--was not constructed in such a way as to be able to understand this point of view, and she was not hide-bound or pedantic in her idea of the obligation entailed by hospitality. to cheat at cards was an impossible habit, it would not do in the least; for a rich man to cheat at cards was inexplicable. indeed, it would not be too much to say that kit was really shocked at the latter. in the course of an hour came an answer from lady haslemere. she was unavoidably out till two, but if kit would come to lunch then she would be at home. haslemere and tom were both out, and they could be alone. kit always found alice haslemere excellent company, and during lunch they blackened the reputations of their more intimate friends with all the mastery of custom, and a firm though gentle touch. like some deductive detective of unreadable fiction, kit could most plausibly argue guilt from cigarette ashes, muddy boots, cups of tea--anything, in fact, wholly innocent in itself. but luckier than he, she had not got to wrest verdicts from reluctant juries, but only to convince lady haslemere, which was a far lighter task, as she could without the slightest effort believe anything bad of anybody. kit, moreover, was a perfect genius at innuendo; it was one of the greatest charms of her conversation. after lunch they sat in the card-room and smoked gold-tipped, opium-tainted cigarettes, and when the servants had brought coffee and left them, kit went straight to the point, and asked alice whether she had seen anything irregular as they played baccarat the night before. lady haslemere took a sip of coffee and lit another cigarette; she intended to enjoy herself very much. "you mean the australian," she said. "well, i had suspicions; that is to say, last night i felt certain. it is so easy to feel certain about that sort of thing when one is losing." kit laughed a sympathetic laugh. "it _is_ a bore, losing," she said. "if there is one thing i dislike more than winning other people's money, it is losing my own. and the certainty of last night is still a suspicion to-day?" "ye-es. but you know a man may mean to stake, and yet not put the counters quite clear of that dear little chalk line. i am sure, in any case, that tom saw nothing, because i threw a hint at him this morning, which he would have understood if he had seen anything." "oh, tom never sees anything," said kit; "he is like jack." lady haslemere's natural conclusion was that jack had not seen anything either, and for the moment kit was saved from a more direct misstatement. not that she had any prudish horror of misstatements, but it was idle to make one unless it was necessary; it is silly to earn a reputation for habitual prevarication. lies are like drugs or stimulants, the more frequent use you make of them, the less effect they have, both on yourself and on other people. "well, then, kit," continued lady haslemere, "we have not yet got much to go on. you, tom, jack, and i are the only four people who could really have seen: jack and i because we were sitting directly opposite mr. alington, you and tom because you were sitting one on each side of him. and of us four, you alone really think that this--this unfortunate moral collapse, i think you called it, happened. and jack is so sharp. i don't at all agree that he never sees anything; there is nothing, rather, that he does not see. i attach as much weight to his seeing nothing as to anybody else seeing anything. you and i see things very quick, you know, dear," she added with unusual candour. "perhaps jack was lighting a cigarette or something," said kit. "indeed, now i come to think of it, i believe he was." "jack can see through cigarette smoke as well as most people," remarked alice. "but on the whole i agree with you, kit; we cannot leave it as it is. i believe the recognised thing to do is to get him to play again and watch him." "i believe so," said kit, with studied unconcern. here she made a mistake; the unconcern was a little overdone, and it caused lady haslemere to look up quickly. at that moment it occurred to her for the first time that kit was not being quite ingenuous. "but i don't like doing that sort of thing," she went on, throwing out a feeler. "but what else are we to do?" asked kit, who since breakfast had evolved from her inner consciousness several admirable platitudes. "it is really not fair to alington himself to leave it like this; to have lurking in one's mind--one can't help it--a suspicion against the man which may be quite erroneous. on the other hand, supposing it is not erroneous, supposing he did cheat, it is not fair on other people that he should be allowed to go on playing. he either did cheat or else he did not." there was no gainsaying the common-sense of this, and lady haslemere was silent a moment. "tell jack," she suggested at length, after racking her brains for something rather awkward to say. as a rule she and kit were excellent friends, and treated each other with immense frankness; but lady haslemere this morning had a very distinct impression that kit was keeping something back, which annoyed her. doubtless it was something quite trivial and unimportant, but she herself did not relish being kept in the dark about anything by anybody. but kit replied immediately. "i don't see why we should tell anybody, alice," she said; "and poor dear jack would pull his moustache off in his perplexity, if he were to know," she added, with a fine touch of local colour. "in any case, the last thing we want is a scandal, for it never looks well to see in the papers that the 'marchioness of conybeare, while entertaining a large baccarat party last night, detected one of her guests cheating. her ladyship now lies in a precarious state.' you know the sort of thing. then follow the names of the guests. i hate the public press!" she observed with dignity. "yes; it is like x rays," observed lady haslemere; "and enables the curious public to see one's bones. and however charming one may be, one's bones are not fit for public inspection. also the papers would put the name of one of the guests with dashes for vowels, and the excited reader would draw his conclusions. really, the upper class is terribly ill-used. it is the whipping-boy of the nation. supposing smith and jones had a baccarat-party, and smith cheated, no one would care, not even robinson." kit laughed. "that is just why i don't want to tell anybody," she said. "if three people are in a secret, the chances of it getting out are enormously greater than if only two are. not that anyone tells it exactly; but the atmosphere gets impregnated with it. you know what happened before. one has to keep the windows open, so to speak, and let in plenty of fresh air, politics, and so on. other people breathe the secret." "we can't tackle the man alone," said alice. "why not? a man always hates a scene, because a man is never any good at a scene; and, personally, i rather like them. i am at my best in a scene, dear; i really am ripping." again lady haslemere had a quite distinct sensation that kit was keeping something back. she seemed to wish to prove her case against alington, yet she did not want anybody else to know. it was puzzling why she desired a private handle against the man. perhaps--lady haslemere thought she had an inkling of the truth, and decided to take a shot at it. "of course it would be awkward for jack," she observed negligently, "to be connected in business with this man, if it became known that he knew that alington had cheated at baccarat." kit was off her guard. "that is just what he feels--what i feel," she said. she made this barefaced correction with the most silken coolness; she neither hurried nor hesitated, but lady haslemere burst out laughing. "my dear kit!" she said. kit sat silent a moment, and then perfectly naturally she laughed too. "oh, alice," she said, "how sharp you are! really, dear, if i had been a man and had married you, we should have been king and queen of england before you could say 'knife.' indeed, it was very quick of you, because i didn't correct myself at all badly. i was thinking i had carried my point, and so i got careless. now i'll apologize, dear, and i promise never to try to take you in again, partly because it's no use, and partly because you owe me one. jack does know, and he, at my request, left me to deal with it as if he didn't. it would be very awkward for him if he knew, so to speak, officially. at present, you see, he has only his suspicions. he could not be certain any more than you or i. as you so sensibly said, dear, we have only suspicions. but now, alice, let us leave jack out of it. don't let him know that you know that he knows. dear me, how complicated! you see, he would have to break with alington if he knew." lady haslemere laughed. "i suppose middle-class people would think us wicked?" she observed. "probably; and it would be so middle-class of them," said kit. "that is the convenient thing about the middle class; they are never anything else. now, there is no counting on the upper and lower class; at one time we both belong to the criminal class, at another we are both honest labourers. but the middle class preserves a perpetual monopoly of being shocked and thinking us wicked. and then it puts us in pillories and throws dirt. such fun it must be, too, because it thinks we mind. so don't let us have a scandal." lady haslemere pursed her pretty mouth up, and blew an excellent smoke-ring. she was a good-humoured woman, and her detection of kit took the sting out of the other's attempted deception. she was quite pleased with herself. "very well, i won't tell him," she said. "that's a dear!" said kit cordially; "and you must see that it would do no good to tell anybody else. jack would have to break with him if it got about, and when a reduced marquis is really wanting to earn his livelihood it is cruel to discourage him. so let's get alington to play again, and watch him, you and i, like two cats. then if we see him cheat again, we'll ask him to lunch and tell him so, and make him sign a paper, and stamp it and seal it and swear it, to say he'll never play again, amen." lady haslemere rose. "the two conspirators swear silence, then," she said. "but how awkward it will be, kit, if anyone else notices it on this second occasion!" "bluff it out!" said kit. "you and i will deny seeing anything at all, and say the thing is absurd. then we'll tell this alington that we know all about it, but that unless he misbehaves or plays again the incident will be clo-o-o-sed!" "i should be sorry to trust my money to that man," said alice. "oh, there you make a mistake," said kit. "you are cautious in the wrong place, and i shouldn't wonder if you joined us carmelites before long. for some reason he thinks that conybeare's name is worth having on his 'front page,' as he calls it, and i am convinced he will give him his money's worth. he may even give him more, especially as jack hasn't got any. he thinks jack is very sharp, and he is quite right. you are very sharp, too, alice, and so am i. how pleasant for us all, and how right we are to be friends! dear me! if you, jack, and i were enemies, we should soon make london too hot to hold any of us. as it is, the temperature is perfectly charming." "and is this bounder going to make you and jack very rich?" asked lady haslemere. "the bounder is going to do his best," laughed kit; "at least, jack thinks so. but it would need a very persevering sort of bounder to make us rich for long together. money is so restless; it is always flying about, and it so seldom flies in my direction." "it has caught the habit from the world, perhaps," said alice. "i dare say. certainly we are always flying about, and it is so tiresome having to pay ready money at booking-offices. jack quite forgot the other day when we were going to sandown, and he told the booking-office man to put it down to him, which he barbarously refused to do." "how unreasonable, dear!" "wasn't it? i'd give a lot to be able to run up a bill with railway companies. dear me, it's after three! i must fly. there's a bazaar for the prevention of something or the propagation of something at knightsbridge, and i am going to support princess frederick, who is going to open it, and eat a large tea. how they eat, those people! we are always propagating or preventing, and one can't cancel them against each other, because one wants to propagate exactly those things one wants not to prevent." "what are you going to propagate to-day?" "i forget. i believe it is the anti-propagation of prevention in general. do you go to the hungarian ball to-night? yes? we shall meet then. _au revoir!_" "you are so full of good works, kit," said lady haslemere, with no touch of regret in her tone. kit laughed loudly. "yes, isn't it sweet of me?" she said. "really, bazaars are an excellent policy, as good as honesty. and they tell so much more. if you have been to a bazaar it is put in the papers, whereas they don't put it in the papers if you have been honest. i often have. bazaars are soon over, too, and you feel afterwards as if you'd earned your ball, just as you feel you've earned your dinner after bicycling." kit rustled pleasantly downstairs, leaving alice in the card-room where they had talked. that lady had as keen a scent for money as kit herself, and evidently if kit denied herself the pleasure of causing a scandal over this cheating at baccarat (a piquant subject), she must have a strong reason for doing so. she wanted, so lady haslemere reasoned, to have alington under her very private thumb, not, so she concluded, to get anything definite out of him, for blackmail was not in kit's line, but as a precautionary measure. she followed her train of thought with admirable lucidity, and came to the very sensible conclusion that the interest that the conybeares had in alington was large. indeed, taking into consideration the utter want of cash in the conybeare establishment, it must be immense; for neither of them would have considered anything less than a fair settled income or a very large sum of money worth trying for. this being the case, she wished to have a hand in it, too. tom, she knew, had been approached by mr. alington and jack on the subject of his becoming a director, and she determined to persuade him to do so. at present he had not decided. anyhow, to win money out of mines was fully as respectable as to lose it at cards, and much more profitable. besides, the daily papers might become interesting if it was a personal matter whether bonanzas were up or rands down. tom had a large interest as it was in robinsons--whatever they were, and they sounded vulgar but rich--and she had occasionally read the reports of the money market from his financial paper, as an idle person may spell out words in some unknown language. the "ursine operators," "bulls," "flatness," "tightness," "realizations"--how interesting all these terms would become if they applied to one's own money! she had often noticed that the political outlook affected the money market, and during the fashoda time tom had been like a bear with a sore head. to know something about politics, to have, as she had, a conservative leader ready to whisper to her things that were not officially supposed to be whispered, would evidently be an advantage if you had an interest in prices. and the demon of speculation made his introductory bow to her. it is difficult for those who dwell on the level lands of sanity to understand the peaks and valleys of mania. to fully estimate the intolerable depression which ensues on the conviction that you have a glass leg, or the secret majesty which accompanies the belief that one is charles i., is impossible to anyone who does not know the heights and depths to which such creeds conduct the holder. but the mania for speculation--as surely a madness as either of these--is easier of comprehension. only common-sense of the crudest kind is required; if it is supposed that your country is on the verge of war, and you happen to know for certain that reassuring events will be made public to-morrow, it is a corollary to invest all you can lay hands on in the sunken consols in the certainty of a rise to-morrow. this is as simple as a b c, and your gains are only limited by the amount that you can invest. a step further and you have before you the enchanting plan of not paying for what you buy at all. buy merely. consols (of this you must be sure) will rise before next settling-day, and before next settling-day sell. and thus the secret of not taking up shares is yours. but consols are a slow gamble. they may conceivably rise two points in a day. instead of your hundred pounds you will have a hundred and two (minus brokerage), an inglorious spoil for so many shining sovereigns to lead home. but for the sake of those who desire to experience this fascinating form of excitement in less staid a manner there are other means supplied, and the chiefest and choicest is mines. a single mining share which, judiciously bought, cost a sterling sovereign may under advantageous circumstances be worth three or four in a week or two. how much more stirring an adventure! when we estimate this in hundreds and thousands, the prospect will be found to dazzle comparatively sober eyes. now, of the people concerned at present in this story, no less than five, as kit drove to her bazaar, were pondering these simple things. alington was always pondering them and acting on them; jack had been pondering them for a full week, kit for the same period, and tom abbotsworthy was on the point of consenting to become a director. and lady haslemere, thinking over her interview with kit, said to herself, with her admirable common-sense, that if there was a cake going, she might as well have a slice. she had immense confidence in the power of both kit and jack to take care of themselves, and knew well that neither would have stirred a finger for mr. alington, if they had not quite clearly considered it to be worth their while. and kit was stirring all her fingers; she was taking alington about as constantly as she took her pocket-handkerchief; she took him not merely to big parties and large grundy dinners, but to the intimate gatherings of the brightest and best. for she was a good wife to jack, and she at any rate believed that there was a cake going. chapter v toby lord evelyn ronald anstruther d'eyncourt massingbird was not usually known as all or any of this, but as toby. it would have been a difficult matter, requiring a faith of the most preposterous sort, to have stood in front of him and seriously said, "i believe you to be lord evelyn ronald anstruther d'eyncourt massingbird," and the results of so doing might have been quite disconcerting. but having been told he was toby, it would have been impossible to forget or to doubt it. the most vivid imagination could not conceive a more obvious toby; the identity might almost have been guessed by a total stranger or an intelligent foreigner. he was about twenty-four years old (the usual age of tobys), and he had a pleasantly ugly face, with a snub nose, slightly freckled. blue eyes, in no way beautiful, but very white as to the white and blue as to the blue, looked honestly out from under a typically unintellectual forehead, above which was a shock head of sandy hair, which stood up like a terrier's coat or a doormat, and on which no brush yet invented had been known to exert a flattening tendency. he was about five foot ten in height, and broad for that. his hat had a tendency to tilt towards the back of his head, and he had big, firm hands, callous on their insides with the constant use of weapons made for the violent propulsion of balls. he always looked comfortable in his clothes, and whether he was adorning the streets of london, immaculately dressed and hot and large, or trudging through heather in homespun, he was never anything but toby. a further incredible fact about him, in addition to his impossible baptismal name, was that he was jack conybeare's younger brother, and kit's brother-in-law. nature, that exquisite humorist who turns so many dissimilar little figures out of the same moulds, had never shown herself a more imaginative artist than when she ordained that jack and toby should have the same father and mother. the more you considered their relationship, the stranger that relationship appeared. jack, slim, aquiline, dark, with his fine, taper-fingered hands and the unmistakable marks of breeding in face and form, was sufficiently remote to all appearance from toby--fair, snub-nosed, squat, with his big gloves and his big boots, and his chair-filling build; but in character they were, considered as brothers, perfectly irreconcilable. the elder had what we may call a spider-mind. it wove a thread invisible almost to the eye, but strong enough to bear the weight of what it was meant to bear. obvious issues, the natural consequences of things, jack passed by in the manner of an express rushing through a wayside station, and before toby, to continue the metaphor, had drawn up, flushed and panting, at the platform, and read the name on the station board, jack would be a gray streamer of smoke on the horizon. but toby's grasp of the obvious was as sure as jack's keen appreciation of subtleties, and though he made no dragon-fly dartings through the air, nor vanished unaware on horizon points, he went very steadily along, right in the middle of the road, and was never in any danger of falling into obvious ditches, or colliding with anyone who did not unquestionably get in his way, or where he might be expected to go. toby was a person who got continually slapped on the back--a lovable habit, but one which no amount of diplomacy or thread-spinning will produce. to slap jack on the back, for instance, must always, from his earliest years, have been an impossibility. this was lucky, for he would have resented it. that nobody ever quarrelled with either of them appears at first sight a point in common; in reality it illustrates their dissimilarity. it was dangerous to quarrel with jack; it was blankly impossible to quarrel with toby. you dare not try it with the one; it was useless to try it with the other. at the present moment his sister-in-law was trying her utmost to do so, and failing pitiably. kit was not accustomed to fail or to be pitiable, and it irritated her. "you have no sense, toby," she was saying. "you cannot see, or you will not, where your interest lies--yes, and your duty, too." now, when kit talked about duty toby always smiled. when he smiled his eyes wrinkled up till they closed, and he showed a row of strong, clean, useful teeth. strength, cleanliness, and utility, in fact, were his most salient features. kit leaned back in her chair, waiting for his answer, for toby got confused unless you gave him time. they were sitting in the tented balcony of the hungarian embassy, and from within came the rhythm of dance music and a delicious murmur of voices. it was the evening of the day of the bazaar, and kit felt that she had earned her ball. the night was hot, and as she attempted the hopeless task of quarrelling with toby she fanned herself, partly, no doubt, for the sake of the current of air, but to a psychologist, judging by her face, not without the intention of fanning the embers of her wrath. she had sat out this dance with him on purpose, and she was beginning to think that she was wasting her time. toby's smile broadened. "when did you last do your duty, kit?" he asked. "my duty?" said kit sharply. "we are talking about yours." "and my duty is----" "not to go to that vulgar, stupid music-hall to-morrow night with that loutish friend of yours from oxford, but to dine with us, and meet miss murchison. you seem to forget that jack is your elder brother." "my duty towards jack----" began toby irreverently. "don't be profane. you are jack's only brother, and i tell you plainly that it is no fun being lord conybeare unless you have something to be lord conybeare with. putting money into the estate," said kit rather unwisely, "is like throwing it down a well." toby became thoughtful, and his eyes opened again. his mind worked slowly, but it soon occurred to him that he had never heard that his brother was famed for putting money into the estate. "and taking money out of the estate is like taking it out of a well," he remarked at length, with an air of a person who is sure of his facts, but does not mean to draw inferences of any kind whatever. kit stared at him a moment. it had happened once or twice before that she had suspected toby of dark sayings, and this sounded remarkably like another of them. he was so sensible that sometimes he was not at all stupid. she made a mental note of how admirable a thing is a perfectly impenetrable manner if you wish to make an innuendo; there was nothing so telling. "well?" she said at length. toby's face expressed nothing whatever. he took off a large eight and lit a cigarette. "that's all," he said--"nothing more." kit decided to pass on. "it's all very well for you now," she said, "for you have six or seven hundred a year, and you happen to like nothing so much as hitting round balls with pieces of wood and iron. it is an inexpensive taste, and you are lucky to find it amusing. in your position at present you have no calls upon you and no barrack of a house to keep up. but when you are lord conybeare you will find how different it is. besides, you must marry some time, and when you marry you must marry money. old bachelors are more absurd, if possible, than old spinsters. and goodness knows how ridiculous they are!" "my sister-in-law is a mercenary woman," remarked toby. "and aren't we getting on rather quick?" "quick!" screamed kit. "i am painfully trying to drag you a few steps forward, and you say we are getting on quick! now, toby, you are twenty-five----" "four," said toby. "oh, toby, you are enough to madden job! what difference does that make? i choose that you should be twenty-five! all your people marry early; they always did; and it is a most proper thing for a young man to do. really, young men are getting quite impossible. they won't dance--you aren't dancing; they won't marry--you aren't married; they spend all their lazy, selfish lives in amusing themselves and--and ruining other people." "it's better to amuse yourself than not to amuse yourself," said toby. this, as he knew, was a safe draw. if kit was at home, out she came. "that is your view. thank goodness there are other views," said kit, with extraordinary energy. "why, for instance, do you suppose that i went down to the wilds of kensington and opened a bazaar, as i did this afternoon?" "i can't think," said toby. "wasn't it awfully slow?" he began to grin again. "slow? yes, of course it was slow; but it is one's duty not to mind what is slow," continued kit rapidly, pumping up moral sentiments with surprising fluency. "why do you suppose jack goes to the house whenever there is a church bill on? why do i come and argue with you and quarrel with you like this?" toby opened his blue eyes as wide as kit's bazaar. "are you quarrelling with me?" he asked. "i didn't know. try not, kit." kit laughed. "dear toby, don't be so odious and tiresome," she said. "do be nice. you can behave so nicely if you like, and the princess was saying at the bazaar this afternoon what a dear boy you were." "so the bazaar wasn't so slow," thought toby, who knew that kit had a decided weakness, quite unaccountable, for princesses. but he was wise enough to say nothing. "and i've taken all the trouble to ask miss murchison to dinner just because of you," continued kit quickly, seeing her partner out of the corner of her eye careering wildly about in search of her. "she's perfectly charming, toby, and very pretty, and you always like talking to pretty girls, and quite right, too; and the millions--oh, the millions! you have no one to look after you but jack and me, and jack is a city man now; and what will happen to the conybeares if you don't marry money i don't know. you want money; she wants a marquis. there it is!" "did you ask her?" said toby parenthetically. "no, darling, i did not," said kit, with pardonable asperity. "i left that to you." toby sighed. "you go so quick, kit," he said. "you marry me to a person i've never yet seen." kit drew on her gloves; the partner was imminent. "come and see her, toby--come and see her. that is all i ask. oh, here you are, ted; i've been waiting for you for ages. i thought you had thrown me over. good-bye, toby; to-morrow at half-past eight, and i'll promise to order iced asparagus, which i know you like." the two went off, leaving toby alone. conversation of this kind with kit always reduced him to a state of breathless mental collapse. she caught him up, so to speak, and whirled him along through endless seas of prospective alliances, to drop him at the end, a mere lifeless lump, in unknown localities, with the prospect of iced asparagus as a restorative. this question of his marriage was not a new one between them. many times before kit had snatched him up like this, and plumped him down in front of some extraordinarily eligible maiden. but either he or the extraordinarily eligible maiden, or both, had walked away as soon as kit's eye was turned, and made themselves disconcerting to her schemes. but to-night kit had shown an unusual vigour and directness. selfish and unscrupulous as she was, she had, like everybody else, a soft spot for toby, and she could honestly think of nothing more conducive to his highest advantage than to procure him a wealthy wife. wealth was the _sine quâ non_--no other need apply; but in miss murchison she thought she had found very much more. the girl was a beauty--a real beauty; and though she was not of the type that appealed personally to kit, she might easily appeal immensely to toby. she had only come out that season, and kit had met her but once or twice before; but a very much duller eye than kit's could have seen that in all probability she would not be on view in the eligible department very long. she was american by origin, but had been brought up entirely in england; and her countrymen observed with pain, and the men of her adopted country with that patronizing approval over which our continental neighbours find it so hard to keep calm, that no one would have guessed her nationality. of her father little was known, but that little was good, for he was understood to be wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, having made a colossal pile in some porky or oily manner, and to have had the good taste not to beget any other children. she and her mother had been at the bazaar that afternoon, where they had run across the pervasive kit, who suddenly saw in her impulsive way that here at last was the very girl for toby, wondered at her blindness in not seeing it before, and engaged them to dine next evening. now, mrs. murchison had long sighed and pined for an invitation from kit, whom she considered to be the topmost flower of the smartest plant in the pleasant garden of society. at last her wish was fulfilled. princes had drunk her champagne, and danced or sat out to her fiddles, and made themselves agreeable under her palms; but a small and particular set in society in which kit most intimately moved had hitherto had nothing to say to her, and she accepted the invitation with effusion, though it meant an excuse or a subterfuge to a countess. but mrs. murchison had picked up the line of london life with astonishing swiftness and great perspicuity. her object was to get herself and her daughter, not into the cleverest or the most amusing, or, as she styled it, the "ducalest set," in london, but into what she and others, for want of a better name, called "the smart set," and she had observed, at first with surprise and pain, but unerringly, that rank counted for nothing there. she could not have told you, nor perhaps could they, what did count there, but she knew very well it was not rank. "why, we might play kiss-in-the-ring with the queen and royal family," she had observed once to her daughter, "but we should be no nearer for that." a year ago she would have hoarded a countess as being a step in the ladder she proposed to get to the top of, but now she knew that no countess, _quâ_ countess, mattered a straw in the attainment of the goal for which she aimed; and this particular one, whom she had already thrown over for kit, might as well have been a milkmaid in connecticut for all the assistance she could give her in her quest. the smart set was the smart set, here was her creed; americans had got there before, and americans, she fully determined, should get there again. what she expected to find there she did not know; whether it would be at all worth the pains she did not care, and she would not be at all disappointed if it was exactly like everything else, or perhaps duller. it would be sufficient for her to be there. in many ways mrs. murchison was a remarkable woman, and she had a kind and excellent heart. she had been the very pretty daughter of a man who had made a fair fortune in commerce, and had let his children grow up and get educated as god pleased; but from very early years this daughter of his had made up her mind that she was not going to revolve for the remainder of her life in commercial circles, and she had divided her money fairly evenly between adornments for the body and improvements for the mind. thus she had acquired a great fluency in french, and an accent as remarkable as it was incorrect. in the same way she had read a great deal of history, and the classical literature of both english tongues; and though she seldom managed to get her names quite right, both she and those who heard her were easily able to guess to whom she referred. thus, when she alluded to richard dent de lion, though the name sounded like a yellow flower with a milky stem, there could be no reasonable doubt that she was speaking of the crusader; or when she told you that her husband was as rich as croesum, those who had ever heard of croesus could not fail to see that they were hearing of him now. she was fond of allusions, and her conversation was as full of plums as a cake; but as she held the sensible and irrefutable view that conversation is but a means of making oneself understood, she was quite satisfied to do so. mrs. murchison was now a big handsome woman of about forty, fresh, of high colour, and beautifully dressed. in spite of her manifest absurdities and the surprising nature of her conversation, she was eminently likeable, and to her friends lovable. there was no mistaking the honesty and kindliness of her nature; she was a good woman, and in ways a wise one. lily, her daughter, who found herself on the verge of hysterics twenty times a day at her inimitable remarks, had the intensest affection for her mother, blindly reciprocated; and the daughter, to whom the wild chase after the smart set seemed perfectly incomprehensible, was willing that all the world should think her heart was in it sooner than that her mother should suspect it was not. mrs. murchison herself had begun to forget her french and history a little, for she was a mere slave to this new accomplishment, social success, and found it demanded all her time and attention. she worked at it from morning till night, and from night to morning she dreamed about it. only the night before she had thought with extraordinary vividness in her sleep that her maid had come to her bedside with a note containing a royal command to sing duets with the queen quite quietly at . that morning, and she had awoke with a pang of rapturous anxiety to find the vision unsubstantial, and that she need not get up to practise her scales. she made no secret of her ambitions, but rather paraded them, and told her dream to the princess frederick at the bazaar with huge _naïveté_. and to see lily married into the smart set would have caused her to say her nunc dimittis with a sober and grateful heart. but the smart set was a terribly baffling will-o'-the-wisp kind of affair, or so it had hitherto been to her. a married daughter, an unmarried daughter even, so she observed, might be steeped in the smart set, while the mother was, figuratively speaking, in bloomsbury. you might robe yourself from head to foot in balas rubies, you might be a double duchess, you might dance a cancan down piccadilly, you might be the most amiable of god's creatures, the wittiest, the most corrupt, or the most correct of the daughters of eve, and yet never get near it; but here was mrs. lancelot gordon, who never did anything, was not even an honourable, dressed rather worse than mrs. murchison's own maid, and yet was a pivot and centre of that charmed circle. mrs. murchison racked her brain over the problem, and came to the conclusion that no accomplishment could get you into it, no vice or virtue keep you out. that was a comfort, for she had no vices. but to-day kit had asked her to dinner; the mystic doors perhaps were beginning to turn on their hinges, and her discarded countess might continue to revolve on her unillumined orbit in decent and dull obscurity with her belted earl. chapter vi toby's partner toby finished his cigarette when kit left him, and threw the end over the balcony into the street. it went flirting through the air like a small firework, and he saw it pitch on the shoulder of an immense policeman below, who looked angrily round. and so it was that the discreet toby withdrew softly into the ballroom. it was only a little after one, and the dancing was at its height. everyone who intended to come had done so, and no one yet had thought of going away. from the band in the gallery came the enchanting lilt of the dance music, with its graceful stress and abatement, making it impossible not to dance. the light-hearted intoxication of rhythmic movement entering into the souls of many women whom one would naturally have supposed to have left their dancing days behind them, for reasons over which they had no control, had produced the same sort of effect in them as a warm november day does in the bluebottles who have outlived the summer, and they were deluding themselves into thinking that "june was not over, though past her full." the ballroom was ideally occupied; it was peopled enough, but not overcrowded, and like a whisper underneath the shouting band you could hear the sibilant rustle of skirts, and the "sip-sip" of shoes over the well-polished floor. kit and her partner were as well matched and graceful a pair as could be found in london--too well matched, the world said; but the world is never happy unless it is saying something of the sort, and the wiser there, among whom even her bitterest friends put kit, are accustomed to discount all that is said. to repeat fresh gossip without actually believing or disbelieving it, and to hear it in the same light-hearted spirit makes the world as fresh as a daily paper to someone just arrived from long sea, and kit's interest in what was said about her was of the most breezily superficial sort. she never intended that it should be ever so distantly possible that she should compromise herself, for she recognised with humble thankfulness how hard she was to compromise. she had done many risky things in her life, and there was safety in their very numbers. people would only say that her conduct with so-and-so had been much riskier, and yet it had come to nothing. probably, then, this intimacy with lord comber was equally innocent. other people had merely looked over hedges and been accused of stealing horses, while kit, so to speak, had been found before now with the stolen halter in her hand; and yet her excellent grace in giving it up at the proper moment to the proper owner had got her out of what might have been a scrape to a less accomplished adventurer. and to-night nobody talked more disagreeably than they had talked scores of times before. up to a certain point repetition is the soul of wit; at least, the point of a joke grows by dwelling on it, but the repetition in excess is wearisome, and to-night people scarcely said more than what a beautiful couple they were. about this there could scarcely be two opinions. kit was very tall and slenderly made, and there was a boyish spring and grace about her dancing which gave a peculiar spontaneousness to this pretty performance. ted comber, a fresh-faced, handsome youth, had no extra weight on his hands; the two moved with an exquisite unanimity of motion. amiable indiscretions and a course of life not indicated in the educational curriculum had led the authorities both at eton and christ church to make their parting with him take place sooner than he had himself intended, but, as kit said in her best manner, "he was only a boy then." he was in years not much more than a boy now; in appearance, especially by artificial light, he was a boy still, and the two numbered scarcely more than fifty years between them. but balls are not given in order to furnish a hunting-ground for the novelist and reformer, and to-night there were few such present. indeed, anyone must have had a soul of putty not to have laid criticism aside; not to have forgotten all that had been said before, and all that might be said afterwards, in the enchanting moment. this dance had been on the board some ten minutes when toby entered; people with winds and what is known, by an elegant periphrasis, as a superfluity of adipose tissue had paused; and for a few minutes there were not more than half a dozen couples on the floor. kit, secure in the knowledge that no one present except herself and jack had been to that city dinner a fortnight before, had put on again the same orange chiffon creation as she had worn that night, and she blazed out against the man's dark clothes; she was a flame in his encircling arm. the room was nearly square, and they danced not in straight lines up, across and down, but in one big circle, coming close to the walls only at four points in the middle of the sides of the room; like some beautiful twin star they moved round a centre, revolving also on a private axis of their own. indeed, the sight of them whirling fast and smoothly in perfect time to the delicious rhythm was so pretty that no one thought of alluding to their private axis at all. even the hungarian ambassador, as sprightly a young man of eighty or thereabouts as you could wish to see, and still accustomed to lead the cotillion, recognised the superiority of the performance. "decidedly all the rest of us cut a poor figure when those two are dancing," he said with unwonted modesty to lady haslemere. but in a few minutes the room grew crowded again. recovered couples sprang up like mushrooms on the floor, and the pace slowed. lord comber steered as no one else could steer, but checks infinitesimal but infinite could not but occur. it would have been good enough had it not just now been better. "we'll wait a moment, ted," said kit; "perhaps at the end it will be emptier again." she stopped opposite one of the doors. "shall we go on to the balcony?" he asked. "there will be no one there." "yes. oh, there is mrs. murchison! take me to her. i'll follow you in a moment." ted swore gently under his breath. "oh, leave the croesum alone," he said. "do come now, kit. this is my last dance with you this evening." but kit dropped his arm. "fetch toby," she said under her voice to lord comber; "fetch, you understand, and at once. he is over there." then, without a pause, "so we meet again," she said to mrs. murchison. "you were right and i was wrong, for i said, do you remember, that the one way not to meet a person was to go to the same dance. and did you get all those great purchases of yours home safely? you were quite too charitable! what will you do with a hundred and forty fire-screens?--or was it a hundred and forty-one? miss murchison, what magnificent pearls you have! they are too beautiful! now, if i wore pearls like yours, people would say they were not real, and they would be perfectly right." miss murchison was what kit would have called at first sight an uncomfortable sort of a girl, very pretty, beautiful indeed, but uncomfortable. what she should have said to kit's praise of her pearls kit could not have told you, but having made yourself agreeable to anyone, it is that person's business to reply in the same strain. else, what happens to social and festive meetings? but miss murchison looked neither gratified nor embarrassed. either would have shown a proper spirit. "they are good," she said shortly. kit kept a weather eye open for toby. she could see him near, and yet far, for the room was full, being reluctantly "fetched" by lord comber, who appeared to be expostulating with him. there were still some seconds to elapse before he could get to them, but kit had determined to introduce him then and there to miss murchison. perhaps her beauty would be more effective than her own arguments. "it is only quite a little dinner to-morrow," she said to mrs. murchison, in order to fill up the time naturally. "you will have to take a sort of pot-luck with us. a kind of 'no fish-knife' dinner." better and better. this was a promising beginning to the intimacy mrs. murchison craved. it was nothing, she said to herself, to be asked to a big dinner; the pot-luck dinner was far more to her taste. "well, i think that's perfectly charming of you, lady conybeare," she said. "if there's one thing i am _folle_ about, it's those quiet little dinners, and one gets so little of them. be it ever so humble, there's nothing like dining quietly with your friends." kit's face dimpled with merriment. "that's so sweet of you," she said. "oh, here's toby. toby, let me introduce you to mrs. murchison. oh, what's your name?--i always forget. it begins with evelyn. anyhow, he is conybeare's brother, you know, mrs. murchison." mrs. murchison did not know, but she was very happy to do so. also the informality was charming. but her happiness had a momentary eclipse. she knew that a man was introduced to a woman, and not the other way about, but might not some other rule hold when the case was between a plain miss and the brother of a marquis? english precedence seemed to her a fearful and wonderful thing. but kit relieved her of her difficulty. "and miss murchison, toby," she said. "charmed to have seen you again. till . to-morrow;" and she smiled and retreated with ted. blushing honours were raining thick on the enchanted lady. "one thing leads to another," she said to herself, and here was the brother of lord conybeare endorsing the happy meeting of this afternoon. then aloud: "very pleased to make your acquaintance," she said, for the phrase was ineradicable. she had searched in vain for a cisatlantic equivalent, but could not get hold of one. like the snake in spring, she had cast off the slough of many of her transatlanticisms, but "very pleased" was deeply engrained, and appeared involuntarily and inevitably. but toby's inflammable eye had caught the _filia pulchrior_. "my sister-in-law tells me you are dining with her to-morrow," he said genially. "that is delightful." he paused a moment, and racked his brain for another suitable remark; but, finding none, he turned abruptly to miss murchison. "may i have the pleasure?" he asked. "we shall just have time for a turn before this is over." "of course you may, lord evelyn," said her mother precipitately. miss murchison paused for a moment without replying, and toby, though naturally modest, told himself that her mother's ready acceptance for her justified the pause. "delighted," she said. toby might be described as a good, useful dancer, but no more. people who persist in describing one thing in terms suitable to another speak of the poetry and the melody of motion, and the dancing toby had no more poetry or melody in his motion than a motor car or a street piano. the tide of couples, as inexplicable in its ebb and flow as deep sea-currents, had gone down again, and they had a fairly free floor. but before they had made the circuit of the room twice kit and lord comber reappeared, and kit heaved a thankful sister-in-law's sigh. "toby is dancing with the murchison girl," she said; "and she hardly ever dances. now----" and they glided off on to the floor. "a design of yours?" asked ted. "yes, all my own. _ego fecit_, as mrs. murchison says. she has millions. if jack were dead and i was a man, i should try to marry her myself. simply millions, ted. don't you wish you had?" "certainly; but i am very content dancing with you. i prefer it." "that is silly," said kit. "no sane man really prefers dancing with--with anyone, to having millions." "why try the cynical _rôle_? do you really believe that, kit?" "yes, and i hate compliments. compliments should always be insincere, and i'm sure you mean what you say. if they are sincere they are unnecessary. oh, it's stopping. what a bore! six bars more. quicker--quicker!" the coda gathered up the dreamy threads of the valse into a vivid ever-quickening pattern of sound, and came to an end with a great blare. the industrious and heated toby wiped his forehead. "that was delicious," he said. "won't you have an ice or something, miss murchison? i say, it is sw--stewing hot, isn't it?" lily took his arm. "yes, do give me an ice," she said. "who is that dancing with lady conybeare?" toby looked round. "i don't see them," he said. "but i expect it's ted comber. kit usually dances with him. they are supposed to be the best dancers in london. oh yes, i see them. it is comber." "do you know him?" "yes, in the sort of way one knows fifty thousand people. we always say 'hulloa' to each other, and then we've finished, don't you know." "you don't like him, apparently." "i particularly dislike him," said toby, in a voice that was cheerful and had the real ring of sincerity. "why?" "don't know. he doesn't do any of the things he ought. he doesn't shoot, or ride, or play games. he stays at country houses, you see, and sits with the women in the drawing-room, or walks with them, and bicycles with them in the afternoon. not my sort." lily glanced at his ugly, pleasant face. "i quite agree with you," she said. "i hate men to sit on chairs and look beautiful. he was introduced to me just now, though i did not catch his name, and i felt he knew what my dress was made of, and how it was made, and what it cost." "oh, he knows all that sort of thing," said toby. "you should hear him and kit talking chiffon together. and you dislike that sort of inspection?" "intensely. but most women apparently don't." "no: isn't it funny! so many women don't seem to know a man when they see him. certainly comber is very popular with them. but a man ought to be liked by men." miss murchison smiled. toby had got two ices and was sitting opposite her, devouring his in large mouthfuls, as if it had been porridge. she had been brought up in the country and the open air, among horses and dogs, and other nice wholesome things, and this mode of life in london, as she saw it, under her mother's marchings and manoeuvres to storm the smart set, seemed to her at times to be little short of insane. if you were not putting on a dress, you were taking it off, and all this simply to sit on a chair in the park, to say half a dozen words to half a dozen people, to lunch at one house, to dine at another, and dance at a third. all that was only incidental in life seemed to her to be turned into its business; everything was topsy-turvy. she understood well enough that if you lived in the midst of your best friends, it would be delightful to see them there three times a day, in these pretty well-dressed settings, but to go to a house simply in order to have been there was inexplicable. mrs. murchison had given a ball only a few weeks before at her house in grosvenor square, about which even after the lapse of days people had scarcely ceased talking. royalty had been there, and mrs. murchison, in the true republican spirit, had entertained them royally. her cotillion presents had been really marvellous; there had been so many flowers that it was scarcely possible to breathe, and so many people that it was quite impossible to dance. but as success to mrs. murchison's and many other minds was measured by your crowd and your extravagance, she had been ecstatically satisfied, and had sent across to her husband several elegantly written accounts of the festivity clipped from society papers. the evening had been to her, as it were, a sort of signed certificate of her social standing. but to lily the ball had been more nearly a nightmare than a certificate: neither she nor her mother knew by sight half the people who came, and certainly half the people who came did not know them by sight. the whole thing seemed to her vulgar, wickedly wasteful, and totally unenjoyable. there are those, and her mother was one, who would cheerfully be asphyxiated in a sufficiently exalted crowd. to be found dead among a heap of duchesses would be to her what to a soldier is death in the forefront of the battle. a mob of fashionable people had eaten and drunk at her expense, listened to her band and marvelled at her orchids. she had also to a high degree that excellent though slightly barbarous virtue which is called hospitality. she liked to feed people. but the human soul, as poets are unanimous in telling us, is ever aspiring upwards, and this point reached, mrs. murchison, as has been already stated, desired more. her tastes became childlike again; she yearned for simple little dinners with the mystic few, those dinners which never even appeared in the papers, and were followed by no ball, perhaps not even by a "few people." cold roast beef or bits of common bacon on skewers are sometimes served in the middle of banquets. mrs. murchison longed for her bits of bacon in suitable company. it was very nice to have the prince asking after your dachshund's cough, but she had got past that. these things passed vaguely through miss murchison's mind, as she and toby ate their ices. he was like a whiff of fresh air, she thought, to one who had been breathing a close and vitiated atmosphere. he did not ask her where she had been last night, and where she had dined to-day, and who was in the park in the morning. he seemed to be as little of the world which danced and capered in the next room, chattering volubly about itself, as she was herself. on that point she would like information. "do you like london?" she asked, at length, and then thought herself inane for saying that. it sounded like one of the _banalités_ she found so desperately stupid. but toby understood. he had just finished his ice, and with his spoon he made a comprehensive circle in the air. "this sort of thing, do you mean?" he asked. "all these fine people?" "yes, just that. all these fine people." "it seems to me perfectly idiotic," he replied. "then why do you come?" "why? oh, because there are a lot of people i really do like--real friends of mine, you understand, whom i see in this way. and they come for the same reason, i suppose." lily looked at him a moment out of her big dark eyes, and then nodded gravely. "yes, that makes all the difference," she said. "if you have a lot of friends here, there is a reason for coming. but----" and she stopped loyally. toby guessed what was on the end of her tongue, and with a certain instinct of delicacy changed the subject, or rather led it away from what he imagined was in her mind. "i know what you mean," he said, "and everyone finds it a bore at times. one goes to a party hoping to see a particular person, and the particular person is not there. really, i often wish i was never in london at all. but, you see, i am private secretary to my cousin pangbourne, and while they are in office and the house is sitting i have to be in town. what would happen to the british constitution if i wasn't, i don't dare to think." miss murchison laughed. "that must be interesting, though," she said. "i should love to be in the middle of the wheels. i notice in england that a sudden hush always comes over a room whenever a politician enters. somebody describes the english as a race of shopkeepers. it is a very bad definition; they are much more a race of politicians. the shopkeepers come from america." toby shook his head. "i wish i could notice a hush whenever i came into a room," he said. "i should feel as if i was making a mark. but i don't." "but it is interesting, is it not?" asked miss murchison--"being secretary to a minister, i mean." toby considered. "last week," he said, "i looked over the bills for the flowers in hyde park. they were immense, so i hope you approve of the flowers. i also checked the food of the ducks in st. james's park, so i hope you do not think they are looking thin. those ducks are the bane of my existence. since then i have done nothing. my cousin comes into the secretaries' room every morning to see that we are working. he invariably finds us playing cricket with the fire-shovel. i am usually in." "that also is interesting," said miss murchison. "i love games. oh, there's my mother! i think she is looking for me." "but i may have this dance?" asked toby. "i am sure she would allow me," said the girl; and as they both thought of her mother's feverish acceptance for her of the last, their eyes met. "let us go," said toby gravely; and he gave her his arm back into the ballroom. miss murchison, when she left half an hour later with her mother, was conscious of having enjoyed herself much more than she usually did at such parties. for the most part they seemed to her sad and strange forms of amusement. she danced with a certain number of young men, who admired her pearls or her profile. it is true that both were admirable, especially her profile. but to talk to them was like talking to order through a telephone; it seemed impossible to get beyond the _banalités_ of the day. she was labelled, as she knew, as the heiress of the year; and it was as difficult to forget that as to forget that other people remembered it. no doubt when she got to know people more intimately it would be different; but these first weeks of débutancy could not, she thought, be considered amusing. but toby had been a most delightful change. here was an ordinary human young man, who did not seem to be merely a weary automaton for going from one party to another. he was fairly stupid--an unutterable relief; for if there was one mode of conversation she detested, it was cheap epigram; and he was quite sensible and natural, a relief more unutterable. her mother drove home with her in a state of elation. the mystic innermost shrine was going to be unlocked at last. "lady conybeare said that simply no one was coming to-morrow night," she said. "we shall be six or eight only. lord comber, i think, is coming, and lord evelyn. it will be quite an arcanum. she said she would wear only a tea-gown--i should say a tea-gown only. so _chic_. we will have a little tea-gown party before the end of the season, dear. you and lord evelyn quite hobnailed together. did you enjoy yourself, lily?" "yes, very much." "so glad, darling. i saw no pearls so good as yours. wear them to-morrow, dear. lady conybeare said she adored pearls. 'ah, margerita!'" and mrs. murchison hummed a bar or two of siebel's song in a variety of keys. "and the evening after we go to see 'tristram and isolde,'" she continued. "it is a gala night, and jean de risky plays tristram. how lucky we were to get the box next the royal box! i hope it won't be very hot, for i hear that everybody stops to the end in 'tristram.' there is a leitmotif--or is it liebstod?--at the end, which is quite marvellous, i am told. however, we can go late. i hope it will be in italian. italian is the only language for singing. i remember when i was a girl i used to sing 'la donna è nobile.' i forget who wrote it; those italian names are so alike. and what did you talk to lord evelyn about, dear? was he amusing? we might ask him to our box on thursday to see 'tristram.'" "i don't think he cares about wagner," said lily; "indeed, he told me so." "how very unfashionable! we all like wagner now. personally i think it is quite enchanting; but it always sends me fast asleep, though i enjoy it very much until. but there is a great sameness in the operas; they are like those novels i used to read by mrs. austen--'sense and sensibleness,' and all the rest of them about bath and other watering-places. i thought them very tedious; but i was told one must read them. or was it sir george eliot who wrote them? dear me, how stupid of me! sir george was there to-night, and i never once thought of telling him how much i enjoyed his charming novels!" "george eliot was a woman," remarked lily, leaning back in her corner, tremulous with heroically-repressed amusement. "you may be right, dear; but it isn't a common name for a woman. of course, there's george sand. but if you are right, how lucky i did not speak about his novels to sir george! he would not have liked being mistaken for someone else. some of those literary men are so sensitive." "but, you see, he did not write any of those novels," said lily, with a sudden little spasm of laughter. "no, dear, that is just what i was saying. how you catch one up! my dearest, i am so glad you enjoyed yourself this evening. sometimes i have thought you looked a little bored and tired. really, london is charming! so much _jeu d'esprit_ about it, is there not? and to-morrow we dine at lady conybeare's! how pleasant, and what a wonderful dress she had on this evening! she made me feel quite a dodo--i should say a dowdy." lily broke into a sudden peal of laughter, and her mother beamed good-humouredly. "laughing again at your poor mother," she said, patting her hand. "you are always laughing, lily; you are a perfect _fille de joie_. dear me! i'm always saying the wrong word. here we are, darling. get out very carefully, because my dress is all over." lily stepped out into a perfect mob of powdered footmen who lined the steps of the murchison mansion. mrs. murchison, when she took her house, gave what she called _bête noire_ to a celebrated firm of london decorators (meaning, it is to be supposed, _carte blanche_) to make it as elegant and refined as money could. the result was an impression of extraordinary opulence; and the eminent firm of decorators, wise in their generation, had pleased mrs. murchison very well. not the smallest part of her gratification was the immense sum she had to pay them. money meant almost nothing to her, but it meant a good deal to other people; and to be able to say truthfully that one ceiling had cost a couple of thousand pounds was a solid cause of self-congratulation. indeed, the contemplation of the cheque she had drawn pleased her nearly as much as what the cheque had accomplished. she paused a moment in the hall, while one footman took off her cloak and handed it to another, and looked contentedly round on the stamped leather and the old oak, the louis xiv. chairs, the nankin ware, and the persian rugs; and her mind went back for a second to the days of pitch-pine and horsehair, and in her excellent heart there rose a sudden thrill of thankfulness. lily was already on the stairs, and her mother's eye followed her, and rested there so long that the third footman had closed the door, and stood to attention, waiting for her to move. and one hair of lily's head was dearer to her than all the old oak and the opulence and the powdered footmen. she gave a heavy sigh, all mother. "put the lights out, william," she said, "or is it thomas?" chapter vii the solitary financier mr. alington had not been present at the ball at the hungarian embassy, although kit had taken the trouble to get him an invitation. by the evening mail had come a long report from his australian manager, and as the report required considerable digestion, he, as always, put business before pleasure, especially since he did not dance, and devoted the evening to digesting it. it was all a report should be, concise, clear, and full, and since he had hitherto known very little, technically speaking, about his new venture, it demanded long and solitary consideration. there was a very careful map sent with it, drawn to scale, with the reef where found marked in red, where conjectured in yellow. west australian mining at this time was but in its infancy. a few reports only had reached england about unexplored goldfields of extraordinary richness, and, as is incident to first reports, they had gained but slender credence. but mr. alington had only just come back from queensland; he had seen gold-bearing quartz, he had made a few tentative experiments to prove the richness of the ore, and had subsequently bought a very large number of claims at a comparatively low cost. some of these he fully expected would turn out to be worthless, or scarcely worth the working; others he soberly believed would be found to be very rich. and when he opened his manager's report on the night of the hungarian ball, he had no more certain information about them. the manager advised, consonantly with alington's own desire, that a group of five mines should be started, which together embraced all his claims. in number one (see map) there was, as alington would recollect, a very rich vein of gold, which had now been traced in bore-holes through numbers four and five. numbers two and three were outliers from the direct line of this vein, but in both a good deal of outcrop gold might be profitably worked. all, so said the manager, were, as far as could be at present seen, well worth working, for the two on which the deeper vein did not lie had gold in smaller veins close to the surface, which could be got at with comparatively little cost. it was not yet known whether there was any deeper vein in them. then followed a good deal of technical advice. the main difficulty, as mr. alington would remember, was water, and they must be prepared for heavy expenses in this item. but otherwise the property could not be better. of the specimens sent at random for examination, those from numbers one, four, and five were very rich, and the yield appeared to be not less than five ounces to the ton. this was very high, but such were the results. the reef from which they were taken was five feet thick. then followed some discussion as to processes; there was certainly much to be said for cyanide, but he would not recommend corrosion. it was tediously long, and there was some talk of prohibiting women from being employed in it. certainly the white lead produced by it would bring it under the head of dangerous trades. in numbers two and three the ore was very refractory, and it was curious to find a vein so difficult in the matter of gold extraction close by the vein of one, four, and five. hitherto, in spite of repeated experiments, they had only been able to recover per cent. of the gold it contained. but a new process was being tried in certain mines in the rand--the bülow, was it not?--perhaps mr. alington would go into it and cable results. the worst of these chemical processes was that they were so expensive. mr. alington looked more than ever like a butler of superior benevolence, as he sat at his table by a green-shaded reading-lamp, and made himself master of this excellent report. as he read, he inscribed from time to time neat little notes in pencil on the margin of the page, and from time to time jotted down some figures on his blotting-pad. his rooms, above a gunmaker's in st. james's street--a temporary premise only--were admirably furnished for the wants of a business man of refined tastes and simple desires. a large revolving bookcase full of works of reference stood at his elbow, and a telephone was on the table before him. he was something of a connoisseur in pictures, and in his house on the sussex downs, to which he was extensively adding, he had a really fine collection of english masters. but the london fogs and corrosive smoke spelled death to pigments, and here in his modest quarters in london he had only prints. but these were truly admirable. reynolds' lady crosby undulated over the fireplace; lady hamilton smiled irresistibly on him from under her crown of vine leaves if he looked at the opposite wall; by her sat marie antoinette in an old-gold frame of french work, and mrs. siddons was a first state with the coveted blotted edge. but to-night mr. alington had no eye for these enchanting ladies; he sat long and studiously with the report in front of him, his broad, intelligent face alert with his work. from time to time he reached out a firm, plump hand to take a cigarette from a silver box which stood by his telephone, but often he sat with it unlit for ten minutes or so, absorbed in the page; or, again, he would put it down still only half smoked, as he made one of his little calculations, forget about it, and reach his hand out absently for another. in this way before midnight there were some half-dozen in his ash-tray scarcely touched. a spirit-case and a siphon stood on a tray to his right, and an hour before he had mixed himself a mild whisky-and-soda, which he had not yet tasted. the silver bell of his sèvres clock had already struck one when he took up the report, folded it carefully, and put it back in its registered envelope. the map, however, he spread out on the table in front of him, and continued to study it very attentively for ten minutes more. that, too, he then put in the envelope, and, leaning back in his chair, lit a cigarette in earnest and smoked it through. he was a little short-sighted, and for reading, particularly at night, he wore gold-rimmed spectacles, which gave him a scholastic, almost a theologian aspect. but these had long ago been pushed up on his forehead; the theologian had evidently some great matter in debate. at length he rose, still slowly, and stood for a moment in profound thought. then, with a sudden briskness, as of a man who had made up his mind, he took the envelope, and, putting it into a drawer in his knee-hole table, turned the key upon it. "it will be one of the very biggest deals," he remarked to himself. a grand piano by bechstein stood at the other side of the room, and bach's st. matthew passion music was open upon it. mr. alington took it up and turned over the pages with a loving reverence. he paused a moment, and hummed in his beautiful tenor voice the recitative of "and peter went out," and then, lighting the candles, played a few crescendo chords, and plunged into the intricacies of the great double chorus of the lightnings and thunders. the sonorous and terrible fugue grew and grew under his deft hands, rising from crescendo to crescendo with its maddened, tumultuous ground-bass. a pause of a bar, and with a great burst he attacked the second part. he sang the air of "the bottomless pit" with full voice, while his hands quivered mistily in the frenzied chromatic accompaniment. the appalling terrors of the music possessed him; he seemed like a man demented. in the last six bars he doubled the bass as if written for pedals, and with the tierce de picardy finished in a crashing chord. mr. alington pushed his rather scanty hair back from his forehead and gave a great sigh full of reverential awe, the sigh of a religious artist. he was a true musician, and his own admirable performance of the wonderful text moved him; it smelled of the flames. then after a moment he turned to the last chorus, the most perfect piece of pathos ever translated into sound, and played it through with all the reticence and sobriety of his utmost art. the wailing cadences, the simple phrases, touched him profoundly. unlike mrs. murchison, he did not consider himself bound to worship wagner, although the operas did not sound to him the least alike. he would have told you that he thought him artistically immoral, that he violated the canons of music, as binding, so he considered, on musicians as is the moral code on a civilized society. "a brilliant savage," he said once of that master; "but i know i am unfashionable." he sat for a long minute perfectly still when he had finished the chorus, as absorbed in the thought of it as he had been in the mines half an hour before. unaffected moisture stood in the man's eye; his face was that of a stout and rapturous saint in a stained-glass window contemplating some beatific vision. he was alone, and perfectly honest with himself. at length he shut the piano very softly, as if afraid of disturbing the exquisite sweetness and melancholy beauty of the music by any other sound, and, candle in hand, went to his bedroom. an admirable reproduction of holman hunt's "lux mundi" hung over his fireplace; the "triumph of the innocents" was directly above his anchorite-looking bed. they were favourite pictures of his, not only for their subject, but for the genuineness of their feeling. they seemed to him to have grasped something of the simplicity of the real pre-raphaelite school--something of its soberness, its constant love of form, its childlike straightforwardness. there was an old oak _prie-dieu_ by his bedside, with several well-thumbed books of devotion on it, and he knelt there a full ten minutes before he got into bed. he was thankful for many things--his health, his wealth, his perseverance, his brains, his power of appreciating beautiful things; and he prayed for their long continuance and well-being fervently. mr. alington was a sound sleeper and an early riser, and neither his new and dizzy schemes nor the pathos of the passion music kept him awake. he had various appointments in the city on the following morning, and was going to lunch with lord conybeare at white's. jack was not there when he arrived, and he had to solace his waiting moments with the inspection of the room set aside for the reception of strangers. it was furnished with a table, on which stood an empty inkstand and a carafe of stale-looking water, two horsehair chairs, a weighing-machine, and a row of hat pegs hung up inside a shelfless bookcase. he hoped, however, that he would not in the future have to confine himself to the stranger's room when he made an appointment there, since jack had put him up for the membership of the club, got tom abbotsworthy to second him, and had induced a large number of members to append their noble names to his candidature. jack came in before long, looking as he always looked, even in the most broiling weather--perfectly cool, unharassed, and ill to quarrel with. he never seemed to get either hot or dirty, even in the underground; smuts passed him by, and settled on the noses of his less fortunate neighbours. "sorry to keep you waiting," he said. "let us have lunch at once. you have not been here long, i hope." "only a few moments," said alington; "and i fancy i was here before my time." "a fine habit," murmured jack. "how punctual we should be between us!" they entered the dining-room, which was rather empty, and took their seat at a small table a little removed from other lunchers. "i did not see you last night at the embassy," said jack. "i thought you were sure to be there. kit told me she had an invitation sent you, and busy men like you always seem to have time for everything." "one has all the time there is," said alington; "and i meant to go. but the mail brought me news--important news from australia." "indeed? good news, i hope." "excellent news. we shall very soon require your services." "ah! what will you drink?" "thanks, i never touch wine at lunch. a little water, please. i am a bit of an ascetic in certain ways. yes, the news was excellent. i shall get out a prospectus at once, and float the companies. out of the five mines, the same reef, a very rich one, runs through three. the other two are outliers from this reef, but there appears to be a good deal of surface gold. they ought to begin paying at once almost. i propose making two groups out of these five mines--one comprising the outliers, the other three the main reef. or we might amalgamate them later. i strongly recommend your purchasing these outliers in large quantities. that, at least, is what i intend to do myself." jack laughed. "it is easy to recommend my making large purchases," he said; "and i wonder if i could run up a bill for them. but circumstances over which i have long ceased to have any control----" mr. alington held up his large white hand. "you will not need to cover," he said. "pay the first call, or, at most, the first two calls. i assure you that that will be all that is necessary. unless i am much more mistaken than i have ever been in my life, the price will rise very soon and very considerably. you must remember that you draw a salary as a director. if you wish, i will advance that for this year." "that would be very convenient," observed jack with truth and candour. "the first call will be half a crown," continued alington. "a thousand pounds will thus enable you to command eight thousand shares." "it is a long time since i have had eight thousand anythings," remarked jack; "of course, i don't count debts. i never count debts. but what will happen to me if the shares do not go up?" "the shares will go up," said alington dryly. "i should advise you to put yourself entirely in my hands about this. i simply cannot be wrong. as a director, you are bound to hold shares. i recommend you to put the greater part of them into these two outlying mines." "i ask nothing better than to be guided by you," said jack. "many thanks for the hint." mr. alington waved the thanks away, as if they were disproportionately large to the favour bestowed. "and i should like to have a meeting of the directors on tuesday," he said, "if that will suit you and lord abbotsworthy. i am going to see him this afternoon. i propose to employ my own brokers, men whom i have dealt with for years." by degrees the room filled up, and, as the tables near them had begun to be occupied, they dismissed for the present the subject of the mines. jack was more than content to leave his own financial venture in alington's hands, for he felt convinced that he was playing fair with him. habitually somewhat cynical, he would have thought twice about going bail for his most intimate acquaintance; but he believed that alington, as he himself candidly said, was acting for his own interests in making it worth a marquis's while to join the board. about alington's ability he had found no two opinions; extensive inquiries showed him that on all hands he was considered the shrewdest of the shrewd. the market had already got hints about the new issue, and was waiting with some impatience for the publication of its prospectus. and the interest extended far beyond the professional operators; the british public, as alington had said, were nearly ripe to go mad on the subject of australian gold, and he had chosen his moment well. chapter viii the simply nobody the "quiet dinner, simply nobody," to which kit had invited the gratified mrs. murchison and her daughter the night before had grown like a rolling snowball during the hours of the hungarian ball. if you are having a quiet dinner, one more does not make any difference or change the character of the entertainment, and there had been many such. among others, kit had met alice haslemere in the park next morning, and the latter had made an appeal _ad misericordiam_ to her. "i am bidden to meet a serene transparency or a transparent serenity of some sort to-night," she had said. "who? oh, some second-class little royalty made in germany, and i don't intend to go, and have said so. i gave an excuse, kit; i gave you as my excuse, because you are a sort of privileged person, and even royalty lets you do as you choose. how do you manage it, dear? i wish you would tell me. anyhow, i said that you asked me to dine to-night six weeks ago. you see, i owe you one over that disingenuous way you treated me about jack and the baccarat. so you did ask me, didn't you?" kit slowed down; she was riding a white bicycle picked out with crimson. "seven weeks ago, alice," she said; "and if you had forgotten i should never have forgiven you. quite quietly, you know; and so we are quits. lady conybeare's dinner," she said with some ceremony, "will be served as usual at eight-thirty." they were both riding the wrong side of the road, and lady haslemere cast an offended look at her father's coachman, who did not recognise her, and made way for the carriage. "i knew it was an old, old engagement," she said, with feeling. "and who is coming? i forget; it is so long since you told me." "murchison _mère et fille_," said kit; "and the _fille_ is going to marry toby. you just see. also ted and toby and the baccarat man. jack is very thick with him just now, and my ladyship smells money. oh, alice, we might play baccarat again to-night; i was thinking that it would be rather tiresome having to play gooseberry to toby all the evening, but a hand at cards would help to pass the time, would it not? let's see, baccarat is the game where you have to try and get nine, isn't it? how pleasant! there are some other people coming, too, and there will probably be more before evening. i notice that when there are dinners for transparencies people ask me to ask them. i am a sort of refuge from royalty." "yes, and how transparent!" remarked lady haslemere. "isn't it? and what a bad joke! but wear a tea-gown, alice, because i told mrs. m. to do so. yes, we'll play detectives on the alington this evening. i hope he'll cheat again. it must be so amusing to be a real detective. i think i shall become one if all else fails. and most things have failed." "to see if shopping takes so long, and whether the club accounts for late hours," quoted lady haslemere, with a touch of regret. "but, kit, what a blessing it is that one does not feel bound to watch one's husband! haslemere is so safe, you know; one might as well watch st. paul's cathedral to see if it flirted with st. mary magdalene's. it would bore me to death watching him. only once have i seen him at all excited." "who was the happy lady?" asked kit, with interest. "it wasn't a lady at all--not even me. it was a wire puzzle, and he said it was mathematically impossible, and woke me up about three in the morning to tell me so. he was really quite feverish about it. but in demonstrating to me how impossible it was he accidentally did it, upon which he became perfectly normal, and we lived happily ever afterwards." they turned into the road north of the serpentine by the achilles statue, and quickened their pace. "one always does live happily ever afterwards," said kit thoughtfully. "truth is quite as strange as fiction. there's the old duchess--what a cat! and just look at her wig all sideways! but i am also thankful that one's husband is not a detective. jack would make such a bad one. i should be ashamed of him." "i suppose he would. he is clever," said alice, "and criminals are so short-sighted. they make the obvious mistakes. but jack would make a ripping criminal." "that is just it. as a detective jack would overlook the obvious things because they are so obvious. consequently, he would never find out anything, because criminals always make stupid mistakes, not clever ones. jack never found out that the mine man cheated at baccarat, for instance. oh, i forgot, you guessed that. look, there's ted. how badly he rides!" "and he never finds out about ted," remarked lady haslemere, with extreme dryness. "never. you see, there's nothing to find out. i always tell him what a darling ted is, and so he never thinks he is a darling. i'm very fond of ted, but--but---- after all, frankness pays better than anything else, especially when you have nothing to conceal." lady haslemere considered the proposition for a moment, but found nothing to say about it. "how is the mine man?" she asked abruptly. "green bay-trees. so he must be wicked. a few nights ago, when he dined with us, i asked him to sing after dinner, and he sang a sort of evening hymn in four sharps. don't you know the kind? he has a really beautiful voice, and it nearly made me cry, i felt so regretful for something i had forgotten. now, that shows he must be wicked. good people only make me yawn, because they try and adapt themselves to me and talk about worldly things. and it is only wicked people who sing hymns with real feeling, who make me want to cry. luckily, they are rare." "and the mines?" asked alice. "well, jack is excited about the mines, like haslemere with the wire puzzle, and when jack is excited it means a good deal. he told me that if things went decently we should be solvent again--it sounds like a chemical--in fact, the mines are playing up. for to make jack and me solvent, alice, means a lot." they had reached the serpentine, and kit dismounted and rested by the rails. it was a typically fine june day. the sky was cloudless, the trees were comparatively green, large wood-pigeons wandered fatly about, and childlike old gentlemen were sailing miniature yachts across the water. "what a pity one is not a person of simple pleasures!" remarked lady haslemere. "there is an old gentleman there who takes more delight in his silly little boat than you do in the prospect of solvency, or haslemere even in a new wire puzzle. how happy he must be and how dull! i think dulness is really synonymous with happiness. think of cows! you never found an absorbing cow, nor an unhappy one. the old gentleman has eaten a good breakfast; he will eat a good lunch. and he has probably got a balance at his bank." "it's all stomach," said kit regretfully--"all except the balance, i mean." "yes, that's what it comes to. so we shall play detectives to-night, kit." kit started; she was absorbed in the toy yacht. "detectives? oh, certainly," she replied. "but i almost wish we were wrong about the whole concern." "the mine man cheated," said alice, with decision. "i was thinking of asking tom whether he saw." "oh, don't do that," said kit. "we don't want a scandal. look!" a squall shattered the reflections in the calm water, and the old gentleman's toy yacht bowed to it and skimmed off like a swallow. "oh, how nice!" cried kit, who was rapidly taking the colour of her surroundings. "alice, shall we save up our money and buy a little toy yacht? think how happy we should be!" "if you are going to play the milkmaid, kit," said alice severely, "i shall go home. i won't play milkmaid for anybody. playing gooseberry to toby is nothing to it." kit sighed. "dear old gentleman!" she said. "alice, i would give anything to be an old gentleman with white whiskers and a silly little yacht. yes, i know, it is an impossible dream. about the baccarat, what were you saying?" "i have things to say, if you will be so kind as to attend. try to forget about your white whiskers, kit." "yes, i will. there were no such white whiskers." "last night," said lady haslemere, "i lost two hundred and forty pounds and sixpence." "how sixpence? what small stakes you must have been playing! was it the game where you try to get nine?" "yes," said alice, "and i lost the sixpence because i dropped it on the floor. i don't know how i got it, and i don't know what happened to it." "like melchisedech," put in kit. "exactly. anyhow, i dropped it, and it just shows what extraordinary people people are. we all took candles and grovelled on the ground looking for that sixpence. losing it annoyed me more than i can say. i didn't care so much about the rest." "i should have cared much more," said kit very fervently. "but you are quite right. and it explains to a certain extent how a very rich man like mr. alington can cheat over a few shillings." "i dreamed about the sixpence too," said alice. "i thought my salvation depended on it." kit did not reply at once. "that seems inexpensive," she said at length. "i would go as far as that. look at the yacht--oh, i forgot, i mustn't look at the yacht. alice, i believe these mines are a big affair. jack got up this morning at nine in order to be in the city by half-past eight, and it takes a lot to make him as punctual as that. are you going to take a hand in them?" "i want to, but tom says no. he says he has more opportunity of judging, or something tedious, and will make enough for us both. he is willing to invest for me, but that is no fun." "that is so like jack," said kit. "he wants me to have nothing to do with the mines. he expects to make enough for two, which is absurd, considering that nobody can possibly make enough for one. but i shall call myself miss de rougemont, spinster, care of the daily chronicle, or something, and so invest." "have you got a little nest-egg, dear?" asked alice sympathetically. "how nice! i always have, but the stupid cards ate a big piece of the yolk last night." "i know; they do. but, on the other hand, they fill it up again. i expect most women have nest-eggs of some sort. it may be money, or virtue, or vice, or secrets. well, i'm going to drop mine slap into the australian goldfields." "i intend to be cautious," said lady haslemere. "but just to spite tom i shall risk something. tom was most tiresome and interfering. he says women know nothing about business. a lot he knows himself! if i had to pick out one man eminently unfitted to be director of anything, it would be tom." "i can't have jack left out in the cold like that," said kit. "they are a pretty pair. tom's honest; that is all that can be said for him." kit screamed with laughter. "i bet you that jack is as honest as tom," she said. "but that is just the way with your family, dear. they all think that they have a monopoly of the cardinal virtues, just as mr. leiter thought he could have a corner in corn. but, seriously, i do hope and trust that alington's mines are sound. think how the radical papers would shout if something--well, if something untoward happened. salaries, you know! supposing the british public dropped a lot of money and there was an inquiry? personally, i think jack is rash to be chairman. he is paid for his name--he knows that perfectly well; but directors are supposed to be dimly responsible. and his boss cheats at baccarat! also i think he shouldn't have a salary as director; that doesn't look well." "that will surely be periphrased in the accounts, won't it?" asked alice. "i hope so; periphrasis covers a multitude of cheques." they had got round to hyde park corner again, and rode slowly through the gate into the roaring street. kit's eye brightened at the sight of life; she forgot about her dream of white whiskers. "i think gold-mines are an excellent form of gambling," remarked alice. "you can play directly after breakfast. now, one can't play cards directly after breakfast. i tried the other day, but it was a hopeless failure. even naturals looked horrid by daylight." "gold-mines are a tonic," said kit "you take them after breakfast like easton's syrup, and they pick you up wonderfully. you should see how brisk jack is getting in the morning." "well, _au revoir_, dear. half-past eight, isn't it? may tom come too?" "oh yes, and haslemere if you like," said kit, turning up park lane. "i don't like," called out alice shrilly, going straight on. kit giggled at intervals all the way home. mrs. murchison's cup of happiness was very full that evening. though the quiet little dinner had grown about eighteen, yet everyone was of kit's own particular set, and it was what kit called a "christian dinner"--that is to say, everyone called each other by their christian names. "so much nicer than a heathen dinner," she said to mrs. murchison. "you may meet cannibals there." mrs. murchison herself was taken in by tom abbotsworthy, and it is doubtful which of them enjoyed their conversation most. she was enchanted to find herself with him, and her own remarks were really memorable. "i just adore english society," she said over the first mouthfuls of soup. "our brightest talkers in america cannot be compared with the ordinary clubmen in london. and the dinners, how charming!" "you find people amusing?" asked tom. "yes, and the substantiality of it. not only the viands and the drinks, but the really improving conversation--the--the _tout à fait_." tom had the greatest of all social gifts--gravity. "you think people have less _tout à fait_ in america?" he asked. "there's none of it; and now i come to think of it, i mean _tout ensemble_. how quick of you to see what i meant! but that's just it. my heart--and i told mr. murchison so the first time i saw him--is english. my head may be american, but my heart is english. those were my words, _ipse dixit_." "very remarkable," said tom. "the air of dignity," continued mrs. murchison (soup always thawed her), "and the simile of tastes which i find in england! the wealth without ostensity--i should say ostentiousness! the solid comfort and no gimcrackiness!" "i am afraid you will find plenty of gimcrackiness if you go to the suburbs," said tom. "i haven't yet projected any trips to the suburbs," said mrs. murchison with some dignity. "of course not. the proper definition of suburbs is the place to which one does not go. they are merely a negative geographical expression." "well, i'm an anglophobe," said mrs. murchison with conviction; "and i believe nothing against england, not even its suburbs. but what would you say, lord abbotsworthy, was the main tendency of the upper classes in england?" tom was slightly puzzled. "tendency in what line?" he asked. "by tendency i mean the direction in which they are advancing?" "we are advancing towards america," he replied, after a moment's thought. "that is where our fiction goes, and that is whence our inventions come." mrs. murchison dropped a large truffle off her fork, and remained a moment with it poised. "i guess that's deep," she said. "i shall cable that to mr. murchison." tom wondered silently whether mr. murchison would be as much puzzled by it as he was himself; but his wife proceeded to elucidate. "the fictions are the inventions, you mean," she said. "the one goes to where the other comes from. the oneness of the two countries, in fact. the brightest thing i've heard this summer," she observed. tom was lost in contemplation at the thought of the deep gloom in which all else that mrs. murchison had heard this summer must be involved, and he was grateful when that lady, after a reflective pause on his dazzling remark, changed the subject. "what a lovely man lord evelyn is!" she said. "lord evelyn? oh, toby! yes, he's an excellent fellow." "by lovely, i do not refer to his personal appearance," said mrs. murchison, "for that is homely. but by lovely i refer to his happy and amiable disposition." "you have hit him off completely," said tom. "happy and amiable is just what toby is." mrs. murchison's mind went off for a moment on a maternal excursion at the sight of lily and toby, who were talking eagerly together, but came quickly back again. "and the vivacity at present depicted in his face is considerable," went on mrs. murchison in a burst of analytic intuition. "i just adore vivacity. vivacity without screaming, lord abbotsworthy, is what i just adore. mr. murchison is very vivacious; but to hear him when he is being vivacious, why,--you'd think he had the chicken-pox--i should say whooping-cough." "that must be very alarming until you are used to it," said tom. "it is that. and the choking fit which sometimes ensues on his hilarity--why, i have seen times and again his life hung by a hair, like the sword of demosthenes at belshazzar's feast." mrs. murchison delivered herself of this surprising allusion with the most touching confidence. she liked a well-turned sentence, and repeated it softly to herself. "such anxieties are inseparable from the union of the married life," said tom in a voice that trembled slightly. kit from the other side of the table had just burst out into a loud meaningless laugh, and he suspected that she had overheard. "that's what i say," answered mrs. murchison; "and that's what the prayer-book says. the joys and the sorrows; the opportunities and the importunities." this was slightly cryptic, but it was probable that importunity was to be taken as the opposite of opportunity. tom chanced it, though he did not seem to remember anything in the prayer-book which suggested the widest parallel to mrs. murchison's quotation. she went ahead in such a surprising manner in conversation that it was really difficult to keep up. she positively scoured the plains of thought. "you find the opportunities, i am sure, much more numerous than the importunities," he said, faint, yet pursuing. "yes, champagne." "and that's just beautifully put, lord abbotsworthy," said mrs. murchison. the tide of conversation changed, and set to opposite sides. toby and lily alone refused to obey the action of the tide, as if they were a rebel moon, which demanded a system of its own, refusing allegiance elsewhere, and continued to talk, regardless of the isolated unit they left on each side of them. mrs. murchison, who liked the agreeable hovering of the mind over first one subject and then another, which reminded her, she said, of the way in which the puma birds in the southern states sucked honey from various flowers without alighting, was instantly involved in a sort of double-barrelled conversation with lord comber about the check system of baggage, and the relative position of women in england and the united states of america. as dinner went on conversation became louder and more desultory. no one listened particularly to what anyone else was saying; the tendency for everyone to talk at once (this may have been the tendency of the upper classes which mrs. murchison had inquired about) became more marked, and the inimitable atmosphere of laughter was abroad. at kit's house everyone always left the dining-room together as soon as cigarettes were handed round, for her excellent social sense told her that when people were getting on well (and at her house they always did), it was absurd for a party to go through the refrigerating process of isolation of the sexes, and waste time in thawing again. besides, she considered it obsolete for men to sit over wine; nobody ever drank now, it was only in england that so absurd a form was kept up. some of the party were going on to a vague elsewhere, and mrs. murchison's eye caught lily's soon after ten. she was most anxious on this first occasion not to outstay her welcome. "it's been just too charming, lady conybeare," she said; "but lily and i must go. we've got to go here and there, on and on till morning." kit rose. her plan was prospering, for lily and toby were still talking together, and she felt particularly pleased with herself and everybody else. "too unkind of you to go," she said; "and if you don't come to see us again very soon, now that you know the way, i shan't forgive you. send me a line any day and come to lunch. i am almost always in for lunch. and has toby been making himself pleasant, miss murchison? he can when he likes. i saw him shaking with laughter at something you were telling him at dinner, and i longed to shout across the table and ask what it was. good-night! too tiresome that you have to go! conybeare and i are going to be very domestic this evening, and not set one foot out, but sit and play cat's-cradle together when the others have gone. mind, i only let you go under the distinct understanding that you will come back very soon, unless we've bored you both beyond forgiveness." jack went down with them to the front-door, and kit as far as the head of the stairs, where she kissed her hand and looked regretfully after them, with her head a little on one side. as she expected, mrs. murchison gave one backward glance as she went out, and kit kissed her hand again, smiling. then, as soon as the front-door closed, she hurried back in a brisk business-like manner to join the others. chapter ix the plot miscarries some ten or twelve people only remained in the drawing-room when kit returned, for several had taken their departure before the murchisons, and toby seemed to be a target at which was being fired some straight, hard chaff. as usual, he was looking serene and pleasant, but it seemed to kit that his smile at this moment was more the result of habit than of any entertainment that the chaff afforded him. "toby has made an impression," explained alice, "and he's too modest to acknowledge it." "dear toby, you made an excellent impression," said kit, taking his arm, as he stood rather hot and stiff under the chandelier. "i'm very much pleased with you, and i'll remember you in my will." "if he'll promise to remember you in his!" said jack, who had returned from speeding the parting guest. "that should be worth something." "answer them back, toby," said kit. "hit out." "a lovely man," said tom, "but homely. a happy and amiable disposition." "more than can be said for you, old chap," remarked toby. "tom, how gray you are getting!" "yes, i've no chance. but you are in luck, toby. the girl is charming, and her mother is unique." "i haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about," said toby, amid loud laughter and a shrill cat-call from alice. "well, i'm going, kit. good-night; and try to teach tom manners." and toby, still smiling genially, went towards the door. but kit retained his arm. "don't go, toby," she said. "stop and play a bit. you like baccarat. and don't mind what tom says. you're a credit to the family." "toby will bring the family more credit," said tom, in a low, audible voice to his sister. "tom, be quiet," said alice. "when you try to chaff people, it is like an elephant dancing on eggshell china." "toby, alice is calling you eggshell china. lovely but homely." "awfully sorry, kit," said toby, "but i must go. i promised to go on to the keynes'." now, it was to the keynes' that the murchisons had gone, and kit knew it. she saw also that toby had had enough of the subject, and, without any more efforts to detain him, especially since he was rather tiresome at baccarat, and always won. "well, if you must go, you must," she said. "let's see you again soon, old boy." toby smiled and nodded and left the room. "dear toby!" said kit, "it was hard luck on him. how could you say such things, tom? it's serious. the poor boy is head over ears." "there is a phenomenon in hypnotism called suggestion, kit," he said, as she took a seat beside him. "if a thing is suggested to the subject, the suggestion is followed. did you suggest it?" "oh, in a sort of way. but toby isn't hypnotized; he's fascinated. i am delighted he takes it seriously. she is a sweet girl, and i would sooner have toby for my husband than anyone. i shall get him to marry me when jack dies, like the woman in the parable. oh, they have just put out a little green table. how queer of them! and cards! well, i suppose, as it is there---- you play baccarat, i think, mr. alington?" mr. alington paused, as usual, before replying, and looked benevolently at kit and lady haslemere in turn. "i shall be delighted to play," he said. "i find it very soothing after a tiring day; one does not have to think at all. i used to play a good deal in australia, and, dear me, yes! i had the pleasure of playing the other night at your house, lady haslemere. odd games we used to have in australia. one had to keep both eyes open to see that nobody cheated. indeed, that was not very soothing work. i have seen five nines on the table before now, which really is an excessive number. embarrassing almost." he had the manner of taking everybody into his confidence, and as the others were standing together as he spoke, and he a few steps from them, he had an easy opportunity to look several people in the face. kit and alice again received a special share of his kind and intelligent glance, and, as he finished speaking, he laughed in his pleasant voice, as if with considerable inward amusement. so, when they sat down at the card-table, out of the dozen of them there were at least two disconcerted people present, for it was not certain whether jack had heard. "i think he scored," said alice, in a low voice to kit; and kit looked impatient, and thought so too. when they had all taken their seats, alington was found, as kit and alice had wished (and he also, if they had known it), to be opposite them. there were a few moments' delay, as the table was lined, and, playing idly with the counters he had purchased, he looked up at them. "it is so simple to cheat at baccarat, without the clumsy device of five nines," he said. "one need only lay one's stake just on the white line, neither over it nor behind it. then, if you win, the slightest touch and the counters will go over, and it appears that you have staked; if not, you leave them as they are. a touch of the cards will do it. so!" he put a couple of cards face upwards on the table, as if showing his hand, and as he did it, drew his stake over the line so gently and imperceptibly that it was impossible to see that the counters moved. kit laughed, not very pleasantly. her laughter sounded a trifle cracked. "take care, all of you!" she cried. "there is a brilliant sharper present. mr. alington, how stupid of you to tell us! you might have won all our money without any of us being the wiser." alington laughed, and alice told kit in a low voice not to lose her temper. alington's laugh was a great contrast to kit's, pleasant and amused. "i make the company a present of the only safe way to cheat at baccarat," he said. "the bank? ah, i see lord conybeare takes the bank." death and baccarat are great levellers, and kit in her more sententious moments used to call the latter an escape from the trammels of civilization, and a return to the natural savage instincts. certainly nothing can be simpler; the cave-men, provided they could count as far as nine, might have played at it. and, indeed, unalloyed gambling is not a bad second, considered as a leveller, to death itself. rich men win, poor men lose; the countess rubs shoulders (it is not meant that she did at kit's house) with the cocotte; jew spoils jew, and gentile gentile. the simple turn of the cards is an affair as haphazard as life. if anyone, it must be the devil who knows where and when the nines will come up, and he is incorruptible on this point. the brute loses; the honest man wins; the honest man is made a pauper; the brute a millionaire. there is certainly something fascinating about what we call luck. no virtue or vice invented by the asceticism or perverted corruptness of man has yet made a bait that she will take. mathematicians tell us that she is purely mathematical; yet how emphatic a denial she gives to this shallow description of her if one tries to woo her on a system! one might as well make love on the prescriptions of the "complete letter-writer." on this particular night she showed herself the opposite of all the epithets with which her unintelligent worshippers have plastered her. she is called fickle--she was a pattern of devotion; she is called changeable--she exhibited an immutable face. wherever alington sat, whether to the right or to the left of the dealer, or whether he took the bank himself, she favoured him with a fixed, unalterable smile, a smile nailed to her features, as if her photograph was being taken. like the two-faced jannet, as mrs. murchison had once called that heathen deity, she kept the benignant aspect for him. now, it is one of the rules without exception in this world, that nobody likes losing at cards. people have been heard to say that they do not like winning. this statement is certainly incorrect. it is possible to play an interesting set at tennis, an enjoyable round of golf, an entrancing football match, a really memorable game of chess, and lose, but it is not humanly possible to enjoy losing at baccarat. the object of the game is to win the money of your friends in an exciting and diverting manner, but the diversion tends to become something worse than tedium if they consistently win yours. excuses and justifications may be found for most unprofitable pursuits, and perhaps the only thing to be said in favour of gambling is that there is no nonsense about it, and, as a rule, no nonsense about those who indulge in it. no one as yet has said that it improves the breed of cards, or that he has the prosperity of the card-makers at heart. the card-table is still a place where hypocrites do not win credence from anybody. the great goddess luck ignored lady haslemere that night (for she is no respecter of persons, and cuts people whenever she chooses), merely letting her lose a few inglorious sovereigns, and devoted her attention to alington and kit. the latter she visited with every mark of her peculiar disfavour, and the nest-egg in her jewel-case upstairs had to be heavily unyoked. kit seldom enjoyed herself less than she did this evening; as a rule, she had distinctly good luck at cards, and it was little short of maddening to sit there hour after hour, just to watch her stake being firmly and regularly taken away. like most people who are generally lucky at cards, she was considered admirably good form at play; but when she was losing in this unexampled manner, she found it difficult to remain cordial, and more than once she had to force herself with an effort to remember that a hostess had duties. alington's mild, intelligent face opposite her roused in her a kind of frenzy, and his unassumed quietness and utter absence of any signs of satisfaction at his huge winnings seemed to her in the worst taste. both she and lady haslemere had seen how completely their scheme of watching him to see whether he cheated had miscarried; indeed, from the moment when he gave his little exhibition of the ease with which it was possible to defraud the table, they had realized that they might play the detective till their eyes dropped out of their heads from weariness without catching him. lady haslemere had given it up at once, concluding that kit and she must have been mistaken before; kit continued to watch him furtively and angrily, but the little detective game was not nearly so amusing as she had anticipated. meantime, as her stakes vanished and revanished, kit found herself thinking absently of what alington had shown them. it was so simple, and she almost wished that she was one of the people who cheated at cards. but she was not. then occurred an incident. alington was taking the bank. nearly opposite him, and belonging to the party on the dealer's right, was kit. she had just been upstairs to get all that remained of her nest-egg, and in front of her lay several small counters, two of fifty pounds, and two of a hundred. she had just lost once, and counting up what remained to her, she put all her counters in a heap near the line. again she staked fifty pounds, and on receiving her cards took them up and looked at them. she was rather excited; her hand trembled a little, and the lower edge of her cards twitched forward. then she laid them on the table. "natural," she said, and as she said it, she saw that she had flicked one of her hundred-pound counters over the line, and it was staked. almost simultaneously she caught alington's eye; almost simultaneously tom's voice said: "one fifty. well done, kit! you've had the worst of luck all the evening." "a fine, bold stroke," said alington in his precise tones, still looking at her. "luck must turn, lady conybeare." for one moment kit paused, and in that pause she was lost. alington counted out her stake, pushed it over to her, and rose. "a thrilling end to my bank," he said. "the first big stake this evening. thank you, lady conybeare, for introducing big stakes. the game was getting a little slow." and he went to the side-table for a cigarette. kit had cheated, and she knew it, and she suspected alington knew it. she had neither meant, intended, contemplated, nor conceived possible such a thing, yet the thing was done. in point of fact, she had done it quite unwittingly. she had never intended to push her counters over the line with the edge of her cards. but then had followed--and she knew this, too--an appreciable moment in which she perceived what had happened before tom's voice broke in. but she had not been able to say _at once_, "i have made a mistake; i only staked fifty." after that each possible division of a single second made speech infinitely more impossible. to hesitate then was to be lost. thirty seconds later her stake was paid, and to say then what had happened was not only impossible, but inconceivable. besides, she thought to herself with a sudden relief, it was wholly unnecessary. she would tell alington about it quite candidly, and return the money. but it was a poor ending to the evening on which she and alice were going to watch him to see if he cheated. that moment when she did not speak was psychologically more important than kit knew. she had lived in the world some five-and-twenty years, and for five-and-twenty years her instincts had been forming. but during those years she had not formed an instinct of absolute, unwavering, instantaneous honesty. before now she had been in positions where there was a choice between the perfectly upright course and the course ever so slightly crooked, and had she known the history of her soul, she would have been aware that when she had stuck to the absolutely upright line she had done so after reflection. then came this moment when there was no time for reflection, and the habit of looking at her decisions as ever so faintly debatable had asserted itself. she had paused to consider what she should do. that, in such circumstances, was quite sufficient. that she was ashamed was natural; that she was angry was to her more natural still. she felt that the thing had been forced on her, and so in a manner, if we take into consideration all the instincts which were undoubtedly hers at that moment, it was; how far she was to be held responsible for those instincts is a question for psychologists and those who have got to the bottom of the problem of original sin, but not for story-tellers. she had a great command over herself, and she gathered up her stakes with a laugh. there had been no perceptible pause of any kind. "i was just going to order the carriage to take me to the workhouse," she said, "but i can still afford to breakfast without the assistance of the poor laws. must you go, mr. alington? half-past two; is it really? i had no idea. good-night. i hope jack is behaving himself on your board. mind you keep him in order; it is more than i can do." she looked mr. alington full in the face as she spoke, trying, but failing, to detect the least shadow of a change in his impassive and middle-class features. but when he looked benevolently at her through his spectacles and bowed with his accustomed awkwardness, she felt a sudden lightness of heart at the thought that he had not seen. she did not examine too closely into what this lightness of heart exactly implied. the others soon followed mr. alington's example, and took themselves off. jack had walked to the front-door with lady haslemere, and kit waited a moment in the drawing-room, after sending lord comber, who lingered, away, for him to come up again. whether she intended to tell him what had happened she scarcely knew; that must depend. but he did not return, and before long servants entered to put out the lights. they would have withdrawn when they saw her, but she got up. "yes, put the lights out," she said. "has his lordship gone out?" "no, my lady; his lordship went upstairs to his room ten minutes ago." kit abandoned the idea of telling him that night. if she went to his room, it would imply that she had something to say, and she did not wish to commit herself yet. so she went to her own room, and rang for her maid. the hair and unlacing processes seemed interminable this evening, and were intolerable even to the accompaniment of an excellent russian cigarette. she had been given on her birthday, only a few weeks before, by lord comber, a wonderful silver-framed antique mirror, with the old venetian motto on it, "sono felice, te videndo," and it had made dressing and undressing a positive pleasure. jack also had made himself amusing about it; he had come into her room the day after it arrived, and, seeing the motto on it, said, laughing: "god has given you a good conceit of yourself, kit. where did you buy it?" "i didn't buy it," she replied, never having intended to make a mystery about it. "ted gave it me." "ted comber? what damned impertinence!" kit burst out laughing. "jack, you are inimitable as the jealous husband," she had said. "it is a new _rôle_. poor ted! it must have cost a pot of money." and jack had permitted himself to leave the room, banging the door behind him. ted and she had laughed over the episode together. "so like a man to ask absurd questions, and then be angry because he is told the truth," kit had said. "it would have been quite as easy for me to lie." but to-night not even the mirror, with its amusing associations, nor the reflection of herself, nor the russian cigarette, could beguile the tedium of the toilet. the comb caught in her hair; her maid's hands were cold, she was clumsy; the evening post was stupid; it was late; kit was sleepy and discontented. in fact, she was in an abominable temper. at last it was over, and her maid left her. she got up from the chair in front of her glass, where she had been sitting in her wonderful lace dressing-gown, and took a turn up and down the room. she felt like a fractious child, out of sorts, out of gear, out of temper. then quite suddenly she stopped, threw herself face downwards on the bed, and began to cry from sheer rebellion and impatience of this stupid world. chapter x mrs. murchison's diplomacy mrs. murchison was sitting on a pile of cushions beneath her crimson parasol. the cushions were in a punt, and the punt was on the thames, and it was sunday afternoon, and she and her daughter were spending a saturday till monday, the last of the season, with the conybeares. toby, in flannels, with his shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows, was resting from his labours with the punt pole, and sitting opposite this lady. it was a blazing hot day, but, in spite of the glare of the water, cooler, so mrs. murchison has asserted, on the river than elsewhere. in point of fact, she felt positively frizzled with the heat; but she had weaned toby from his basket-chair under a tree on the lawn to have a private talk with him, ascertain how the land lay, and generally encourage him. this desire to speak to him privately took its birth from two words she had had with kit the evening before. these two words, again, were the result of a conversation which toby had had with kit in the train coming down, and thus the fact that toby was doomed to punt and swelter under a broiling sun instead of sitting coolly in the shade was indirectly his fault for having said what he had said to kit. for the last fortnight kit had been in a state of chronic exasperation with her tiresome brother-in-law. toby was gauging his own gait, and kit's efforts to make him march in time with her had brought no results. he was always to be found at the houses to which lily went, and at those houses he was always talking to her. but kit could not bring him to the point. elsewhere his demeanour was absent and slightly idiotic; he appeared to have something on his mind, and dressed with unusual care. thus, as they travelled down from london on the saturday, kit felt herself called upon to try to put the finishing touch to the work she flattered herself she had begun so well. she had not yet told him that the murchisons were coming. she had, in fact, only asked them the evening before. "who is to be there?" asked toby, as they left paddington. "oh, the usual lot: ted and the rest, and--oh yes, mrs. murchison and her daughter." toby looked fixedly out of the window with the idiotic expression on his face, and the dawnings of a very creditable blush. there was silence a moment, and kit watched him from behind her paper. toby turned and caught her eye. "oh bother you, kit!" he exclaimed. kit laid down the paper and began to laugh. "and don't laugh," said toby rudely; "it's all your fault." "i should say it was lily murchison's," remarked kit. "kit, will you be serious a minute?" said he. "i want to say things; i can't say them, you know, but you are clever--you will understand." kit laid her hand on his arm with a sympathetic pressure of her fingers. "dear toby," she said, "i understand perfectly, and i am delighted--delighted! it is charming." toby looked very serious. "kit, i wish you had never told me to fall in love with her," he said; "it has spoilt it all. of course, it is not in consequence of what you said that i have, but i wish you hadn't suggested it that evening at the hungarian dance. that she is rich, and that the world knows it, stands in front of me. it is a vile world; it will say i fell in love with her only because of that. oh, damn!" kit was divided between amusement and impatience. "it has been reserved for you, toby, to discover that riches are a bar to matrimony," she observed; "the reverse is usually believed to be the case." toby shook his head. kit appeared to him quite as tiresome as he to her. "you don't understand," he said. kit had a brilliant idea. she saw that toby wanted to talk about it, so she determined not to talk, but to leave in him a little barbed shaft that might do useful work. "we'll not talk about it, toby," she said; "i can see you don't want to. probably you are not in love at all, just a bit attracted. get over it as quick as you can, there's a good boy; it makes you unsocial and _distrait_. besides, how often has she seen you? with all your excellent qualities, dear toby, you are not exactly--well, anything more than quite a poor, pleasant, plain young man. so drop the whole thing; you will neither break your heart nor hers. i have made too much of it, no doubt. i was wrong, i feel sure i was wrong, and i beg your pardon. oh, there has been a hurricane in florida! how too terrible!" and she buried herself again behind her paper. toby gave a short preoccupied grunt, and subsided into his corner, frowning angrily at the innocent features of the landscape. with all his native modesty and candour, he was not quite of kit's way of thinking. the lover's devotion, which quite honestly swears that he is not fit to be the doormat to the beloved's boots, sees all the time that there is another possibility, and even in the ecstasy of humiliation aspires to worthier offices. even while he swears himself a doormat, yet with a magnificent inconsistence he lifts his eyes higher than her boots. though toby was all that those tame reptilia, who think that every woman they meet is in love with them, are not, yet he did not at all accept kit's suggestion that lily could not conceivably have anything to say to him. with perfect sincerity he would say he was not worthy, but he was not at all content to have it said for him. even more absurd was her suggestion that he was not in love himself. _distrait!_ he should just think he was. and he glared savagely at the outside page of kit's pall mall. just about as they went screaming and swaying through slough, kit laid her paper down and yawned elaborately. through her half-closed eyes she saw toby glowering darkly at her from the seat opposite, and waited with amused satisfaction the working of her darts. "nothing in the paper," she said. "i thought there was a famine in florida," he observed dryly. kit regarded him for a moment in irritating silence. "florida is a long way off," she said at length. "probably it is only a geographical expression. there are many places and people, toby, much nearer than florida." the second link in the chain of circumstances which led to toby's going punting in the heat was shorter. it occurred that same evening after dinner. kit was sitting with mrs. murchison in the window of the hall, while the others were out on the lawn, when lily entered, followed by toby. "i'm going to bed, mother," she said. "good-night, lady conybeare; good-night, lord evelyn." "let me give you a candle," said toby; and they left the room. then said kit very softly, as if to herself: "poor toby! poor dear toby." mrs. murchison heard (she was meant to hear). hence, on the following afternoon she wished for a private conversation with toby, and at this moment they were in the punt together. mrs. murchison was, considered as a conversationalist, a little liable to be discursive, and heat and a heavy lunch combined to emphasize this tendency; they melted her brains, and a perfect stream of information concerning all parts of the globe came rioting out. besides this natural bent, she considered it best to approach the subject, on which she particularly wanted to talk to toby, by imperceptible degrees, not run at him with it as if she was a charging dervish fighting for allah. this accounts for her saying that the thames reminded her so much of the nile. now, toby, like many others, snatched a fearful joy from mrs. murchison's conversation. he saw that the flood-gates were opening, and, with a sigh of delighted anticipation, he said that he supposed it was very like indeed. "quite remarkably like, quite," said mrs. murchison, "and the closer you look, the more the simile grows upon you. dear me, how i enjoyed that winter we spent in egypt! how often i thought over the psalm, 'when israel came out of egypt'! we spent a fortnight in cairo first, and what between the dances and the bazaars and the tombs of the marmadukes, and the excursions, we had plenty to do. i remember so well one ride to the pyramids of sahara, where we met a very famous archeologist whose name i forget, but he had red whiskers and a very nervous manner, and showed us over them." "that must have been very pleasant," said toby. "most delicious. then another day we went to see the tree under which the virgin mary sat when _she_ went to egypt, which was really a remarkable coincidence, because my name is mary, too, and the guide gave us a leaf from it as a memento mary. ah, dear me, how charming and quaint it all was! then we went up the river in our own private diabetes and stuck on a sandbank for weeks." toby's breath caught in his throat for a moment, but he stiffened his risible muscle like a man. "didn't you find that rather tedious?" he asked. "no, not at all; i was quite sorry when we got off, because the air was so fresh, like champagne, and the sunsets so beautiful, and every evening great flocks of ibexes and pelicans used to fly down to the river to drink. but now i come to think of it, we weren't there for weeks, but only for an hour or two, and very tiresome it was, as we wanted to get on, and mr. murchison's language---- then at luxor such sights, the great colossus of mammon, and the temples and the hotel gardens. and while we were there some professor or another--not the one with the red whiskers, you must understand--discovered a cylinder covered with cruciform writing, but it seemed to me quite common. and the donkey-boys were so amusing; we used to throw them piazzas, and see them scramble for them." "threw them what?" asked toby politely. "piazzas and half-piazzas. the small silver coin of the country." "oh yes. you must have travelled a good deal." "indeed we have: mr. murchison was so devoted to it; i used to call him the wandering jew. then from egypt we went on to the holy land, _la sainte terre_, you know the french call it--so poetical. and we saw tyre and sodom and all those places, and where cicero was killed at the brook jabbok, and where elijah went up to heaven, and damascus--quite lovely!--and the temples of baalzac--or was it the temple of baal?" "did you go with one of cook's tours?" "indeed we did not; it would have spoiled all the poetry and romance to me if we had done that. no, mr. murchison took his yacht, so we could go where we pleased and when we pleased and how we pleased. then from there we went to athens, and on through the straits of messina, and saw that volcano--hecla, is it not?--and got to rome for easter." "rome is delightful, is it not?" said toby, still playing the part of greek-play chorus. "i have hardly travelled at all." "most interesting; i quite longed to be one of those poky little professors who spend all their lives hunting for grafficos in the christian catafalques. i assure you we had quite a childe harold-al-raschid pilgrimage, what with egypt and all, quite like the arabian knight. it was wonderful. travelling is so opening to the mind; i am sure i never really understood what 'from dan even to beersheba,' meant until i went and did it too." "did you go to naples?" asked toby, who still wanted more. "indeed we did, and saw vesuvio in an eruction. vesuvius you call it, but, somehow, when one has been to italy, the italian _point-de-vue_ seems to strike one more. dear me, yes! vesuvio, napoli--all those names are so much more life-like than leghorn and florence. and those queer little dirty picturesque streets in napoli, where the gomorrah live! i have often given myself up as murdered." a spasm of inward laughter shook toby like an aspen leaf as this incomparable lady gave him this wonderful example of the widening effects of foreign travel. but it passed in a moment. "so like the nile--so like the nile," she murmured, as they slewed slowly through beds of water-lilies. "if you can imagine most of the trees taken away, lord evelyn, and the remainder changed into palms, and sand instead of meadows, you literally have the nile. indeed, the only other difference would be that the water of the nile is quite thick and muddy, not clear like this, and, of course, the sky is much bluer. dear lily, how she enjoyed it!" "was miss murchison with you?" asked toby. her mother settled herself comfortably in her cushions. this was more like business, and she congratulated herself on the diplomacy she had shown in leading the conversation round so naturally, via egypt, palestine, greece, and italy, to this point. "yes, indeed she was; i never stir anywhere without my sweet lily. lily of the valley, i call her sometimes. my precious child! you see, lord evelyn, she was brought up in england, and for years i never saw her once. and i shall so soon have to part with her again!" toby, who had been leaning over the side of the punt, dabbling his blunt fingers in the cool water, sat up suddenly. "how is that?" he asked. "oh, lord evelyn, you nearly upset the boat! these punts are so insecure! only a plank between us and death. you see, i can't expect her to live with me always. she will marry. therefore shall a man leave his father and mother, and the same applies to a woman. i would not have her remain single all her life in order to be near me," said mrs. murchison, with a deep altruistic sigh. toby gave a little laugh of relief. "oh, i see. for the moment i thought you meant that--that something was already settled." "no," said mrs. murchison; "the dear child is not so easy to please. half london has been at her feet. but dear lily has nothing to say to them. she sends them empty away, like the _magnificat_." mrs. murchison sighed. "you are not a mother, lord evelyn," she went on, "and you cannot know all that is in a mother's heart, though i am sure you are delightfully sympathetic and understanding. i tell you i hardly sleep a wink at night for dreaming of lily's future. i want her to marry some englishman, of course. some nice pleasant man out of the titled classes. she was born to be titled. i often shut my eyes when i look at her, and say to myself, 'some day my darling will go into dinner before her own mother.' she has had the opportunity many times, and i have wondered lately whether my dearest has not someone in her eye--i should say her heart." "i wonder," said toby, with marked indifference. "so like the nile," said mrs. murchison diplomatically, giving it to be understood that the conversation was still quite general. "but the mysteries of a maiden's heart, lord evelyn!" she sighed. "lily takes after me; as a child, i was so mysterious that nobody thought i should live." "miss murchison is not delicate?" asked toby. "dear me, no! most indelicate. her health never gave me a moment's anxiety since she left her cradle. but she is very reticent about some things, and very thoughtful. when i was a child i used to fall in love a hundred times a day; it may have been vanderbilt or a postman, and i used to put down their initials in a little green morocco pocket-book; but i never used to tell anyone about it, just like lily. but you can see by her forehead how thoughtful she is, like marie antoinette. doesn't tennyson speak of the 'bar of marie antoinette'? she has it most marked above the eyes." toby's ignorance of "in memoriam" was even less profound than mrs. murchison's knowledge of it, and he only murmured that he seemed to remember it, which was not true. "thoughtful and pensive," said mrs. murchison. "dear child! how she looked forward to coming down here! and so gay at times. and never, lord evelyn," said mrs. muchison very earnestly, "has she said an unkind word to me." by this time toby had already turned the punt round, and was propelling it deftly back towards the lawn. "yes, if i could see her nicely married to some such man," said mrs. murchison, growing bolder. "i should be content to lie like some glorious milton in a country churchyard. dear me, how lovely the river is, and so like the nile! well, i suppose we must be going back; it should be near tea-time. i have so enjoyed my little excursion with you, lord toby--i beg your pardon, lord evelyn; and what a pleasant chat we have had, to be sure!" and the good, kind, excellent, worldly woman beamed at toby's brown face. toby never wasted time in making resolutions. instead, he went and did the thing; and now he walked cheerfully up to the group on the lawn with his coat on his arm, and inquired if anyone had seen miss murchison. "because perhaps she would like to go for a bit in the punt," he explained. she was not there; vague people had seen her vaguely, "some time ago"; and the advent of tea made him wait, not because he wanted tea, but because his chance of finding her was better at a well-defined centre. the rest of the party was spending sunday afternoon in various orthodox manners: lord comber was abstaining from a pile of yellow french novels he had brought out, kit was sleeping peacefully with her mouth open in a long deck-chair, jack was throwing sticks into the water for the spaniels, and lady haslemere was in her bedroom (a recognised sunday resort, like a public garden). but tea brought everyone flocking together, like eagles to a carcass, and among them came lily. toby had not seen her come out through the drawing-room window; her step on the velvet of the grass was noiseless, and it was not till she was close to the table that he looked up. then their eyes met, black eyes and blue; and so chance a meeting, a thing which had happened a dozen times before in the course of a meal, seemed strangely to disconcert each. the most simple of all changes had come over toby; mrs. murchison's words had fired his inflammable material--it was all ablaze. and that beacon must have shone from his honest open eyes, for lily saw the change that none other saw, the private signal flying for her; and when, soon afterwards, he lounged up to her, and asked her if she would care to go out in the punt, as it was cooler now, she knew, so she thought afterwards, what was coming. she assented, and the two went down over the close-shaven lawn to where it was moored. chapter xi mr. alington opens check kit, like most people who possess that master-key to immense enjoyment of life, namely, a ravenous, insatiable appetite for pleasure, had always a vital instinct to put off as long as possible anything which was unpleasant. she usually found plenty of delightful things to do every day of her life; indeed, with her tremendous _joie de vivre_, almost everything she did was delightful, and if there was something not delightful to be done, as a rule she did not do it. in this complicated hurly-burly of life, it is a great thing to be able to simplify, as in the tutor-ridden days one used to simplify the huge vulgar fractions which covered the page, and turned out in the end to be equivalent to zero. kit's methods of simplification were really notable; she cut out everything which looked as if it would give trouble, and did not care in the slightest degree about the result. and if you do not care about the result, life, like vulgar fractions and the wicked, ceases from troubling. but occasionally, so cruelly conducted is this world, she was driven to take odiously disagreeable steps, for fear of the speedy and inevitable disaster which would attend their omission. there were also certain prophylactic measures she used habitually to take, just as one goes to the dentist to avoid possible toothache in the future. under the latter head came such small affairs as bazaar-openings and tedious "grundy" dinners; also the yearly visit to jack's uncle, who was a bishop--a grim ordeal, but efficacious. they gave one a firmer stand, so to speak. it would have argued a shocking lack of worldly wisdom to neglect such simple little things, and whatever kit lacked, she had an admirable amount of that. but the avoidance of unpleasantness in the greed for the pleasures of the moment led her constantly to put off distasteful things, in the same way in which one puts off the writing of letters, blindly hoping that if they are left unanswered long enough they will, in a manner of speaking, answer themselves. this charming result is often attained, but sometimes it is not, whereby the children of eve are disconcerted. the tiresome baccarat incident had now been unanswered rather more than a fortnight, during which interval kit had not seen mr. alington. she told jack that the mine-man was rather too much for her. besides, she had introduced him to a hundred houses; if he could not swim for himself now, he never would. but when on the morning following this sunday, as kit, figuratively speaking, looked over her old letters to see what had to be done in the last week in london, she came upon the baccarat letter, and read it through again, hoping that she would feel that it had by now answered itself, for she had given it time. but though she was sedulous in taking a favourable view of this and all other matters concerning herself, she came to the disheartening conclusion that it had not. there was clearly only one of two things to be done--either give it more time and another chance to answer itself unaided, or answer it herself at once. and, as a wise and perhaps a good wife should, she determined to consult her husband about it, wishing that she had done so before. the confidence between the two was, in a certain well-defined area, of an intimate kind. there were, no doubt, certain things which kit did not tell jack, and she on her side felt that there might be developments in the alington scheme, for instance, into which she would not be permitted to enter. she did not resent this; everyone may have his own private sitting-room, where, if one knocks, one may be refused admittance. it was wiser then not to knock, and certainly there were things in hers which it was not her intention to show jack. but apart from these few exceptions, kit always told jack everything, especially if she was in difficulties. "it produces such peace of mind," she had said once to alice, "to know that no one can tell your husband worse things than he already knows about you. how some women can go on letting their husbands remain in ignorance about their bills and other indiscretions, i can't conceive. why, i should have to ask jack every evening what he had learned about me during the day. and that sort of revelations come much better from oneself. it wears," said kit thoughtfully, "the guise of candour, and also possibly of regret." the two women practised great freedom of speech with each other, and alice replied frankly: "sometimes i think you are a clever woman, kit; at other times i feel sure i am wrong, and that you are the most abject of fools." "i suppose you mean that i seem to you an abject fool now," said kit. "why, please?" "because you tell jack only the things that don't really matter. the things which if he heard from elsewhere would really make a row, you don't tell him." "ah, but those are the things which nobody can tell him," said kit, with her customary quickness, and more than her usual penetration. this conversation occurred to her mind to-day, when she determined to ask his advice about the baccarat. the only question was whether it, too, came under the head of what nobody else could tell him. if it had been someone of her own set who had seen, or whom she suspected to have seen, the little _faux pas_ of the hundred-pound counter, it would no doubt have come under the head of the things incommunicable. to tom, toby, jack, lord comber, it would have been impossible to repeat such a thing. but one could not guess what ideas of honour a wild west australian miner might have. to repeat such a thing about a woman was contrary to the code in use among her associates, and a good thing, too, thought kit, strictly confining the question to the particular instance, and not confounding issues by a consideration of honour in general. even after the lapse of a fortnight the thought of that evening was a smart and a mortification. jack was going to entrust the ship of his fortunes to the wild man who sang hymns, and played a harmonium, for aught she knew, and her really laudable desire to have some hold, some handle over him, had ended in this _débâcle_. it was not certain, indeed, that he had seen, but kit could not but admit that it was highly probable. after all, honesty was the best policy, and she determined to tell jack. he had gone up to town by an early train, and kit, who disliked getting up early almost as much as she disliked going to bed early, followed him later. he was out when she reached park lane, and it was close on lunch-time when she heard a cab drive up. next moment the butler had announced mr. alington. the two looked just like brothers. "good-morning, lady conybeare," he said very smoothly. "your husband asked me to lunch here, as we have some business to talk over. i was to give you a message, if he was not yet in, asking you not to wait lunch for him. he might"--mr. alington appeared to ponder deeply for a moment--"he might be detained." this meeting was intensely annoying to kit. she had told jack that she had had enough of the mine-man, and it was very tiresome to have this _tête-à-tête_, and quite particularly disagreeable after their last meeting to see him alone. however, she put on the best face she could to the matter, and spoke with familiar geniality. "oh, jack is always late," she said. "but why he should think it necessary to ask me not to wait for him is more than i can say. i suppose you have been imbuing him with business habits. jack a business man! you have no idea how droll that seems to his wife, mr. alington. let us lunch at once; i am so hungry. kindly ring that bell just behind you, please." mr. alington sat still a moment, and then rose with deliberation, but did not ring. "i am lucky to find you alone, lady conybeare," he said, "for the truth is, there was a little matter i wanted to talk over with you." kit rose swiftly from her seat before he had finished his sentence, and rang the bell herself. it was answered immediately, and as the man came into the room, "indeed; and what is that?" she said. "is lunch ready, poole? let us go in, mr. alington. i am always so hungry in london and elsewhere." kit could scarcely help smiling as she spoke. she had no intention whatever of talking any little matter over with mr. alington, especially if it was the one she had in her mind; and she could not help feeling amused by the simplicity of the means by which she had put the stopper on the possibility of a private talk. she wished to hold no private communications with the man. she had done her part in launching him, for the convenience of jack; she had given him to understand, or rather given other people to understand, that he was an _ami de la maison_, and she washed her hands of him. he was very kindly going to make jack's fortune in return for benefits received, but he had distinctly said that the arrangement was one of mutual advantage. it was give and take; he was on the same level as your grocer or bootmaker, except that those tradesmen gave in the hopes of eventually taking, while mr. alington took as he went along. at the best he was a sort of cash-down shop, and kit did not habitually deal with such. she did not consider him dangerous, and she was so well pleased with her own adroitness that she very unwisely determined to drive her advantage home. so, as he followed her through the folding-doors into the dining-room, "what is the little matter you referred to?" she asked again, feeling perfectly secure in the presence of servants in the room. mr. alington closed his eyes for a moment before he took his seat, and murmured a brief grace to himself. he opened them a moment afterwards with a short sigh, and kit's _riposte_ to his thrust did not seem to have ruffled or disconcerted him in the least. his broad butler-like face was as serene as ever. "it was a matter which i thought you might have preferred to discuss alone," he said; "but as you seem to wish it, i will tell you here. the other night when i had the pleasure of playing baccarat with you, you won on a natural----" a flush of anger rose to kit's face. the man was intolerable, insolent, before the servants, too; but as he spoke she felt a sudden fear of him. he looked her full in the face with mild firmness, breaking his toast with one hand, while with the other he manipulated his macaroni on the end of his fork. "stop!" said kit, quick as the curl of a whiplash. but mr. alington did not wince. "you will be so kind, then, as to give me the opportunity of speaking to you privately about it," he said. "i am quite of your way of thinking. it is far better discussed so. i quite see." kit felt herself trembling. she was not accustomed to such bland brutality at the hands of anyone. she would have been scarcely more surprised if her stationer or butcher had suddenly appeared in the room, and urged the propriety of a private talk. alington, it is true, had been to her house, had a right to consider himself a guest; but that made it even more intolerable. apparently he had no idea of the distinction between guests and guests, and it would be a shocking thing if this were overlooked. meantime he went on eating macaroni with a superb mastery over that elusive provender, in silence, since kit did not reply. the dining-room was one of the most charming rooms in london, rather dark, as dining-rooms should be, the walls of a sober, self-tint green, and bare but for some half-dozen small pictures of the barbizon school, which, if alienable, would long ago have been alienated to supply the chronic scarcity of money in the conybeare establishment. they were wonderful examples, but kit hated them, since they could not be sold. "they make me feel like a man on a desert island with millions of gold sovereigns and no food," she had said once. the chairs were all armed, and upholstered in green brocade, and the thick ispahan carpet made noiseless the feet of those "who stand and wait." partly this, partly the distraction of her thoughts, brought it about that red mullets were at kit's elbow a full ten seconds unperceived. she could not make up her mind what to do. she bitterly repented having said "stop!" just now to alington, for the vehemence of her interjection gave herself away. she had practically admitted that something had occurred on the night they played baccarat which she earnestly desired not to have discussed in public. a fool could have seen that, and with all her distaste for the man she did not put this label to him. and with odiously familiar deference he had agreed with her; he had assumed the right of discussing things with her in private. again, she could not quarrel with him. conybeare's application to business, his early visits to the city, his frequent conferences with alington, his unexampled preoccupation, all showed for certain that there were great issues at stake, for he would not give himself such trouble for a few five-pound notes. all this passed through her mind very rapidly, and at the end of ten seconds she leaned back in her chair, saw the red mullets, and took two of them. "yes, you are quite right," she said; "we will talk of it afterwards. ah, here is jack! morning, jack!" jack nodded to her and alington, and took his seat. "you have heard the news, kit?" he asked. "lots; but which?" "toby is engaged to miss murchison. the croesum told me in the train this morning. she is coming to see you this afternoon." kit for the moment forgot her other worries. "oh, how delightful!" she cried. "dear toby! and lily is most charming, and so pretty! do you know her, mr. alington?" "i have met her at your house, i think. and an heiress, is she not?" "i believe she has a little money," said kit. "one has heard people say so. but mere gossip, perhaps." jack laughed low and noiselessly. "that will be so pleasant for toby," he observed, "if it is true." kit sighed. "what a pity that it is not the custom for a bride to settle money on her husband's brother, jack!" she said. "yes, or give it in order to escape death duties. what opportunities for unusual kindness some people have!" "well, it is charming, anyhow," said kit. "i noticed they went for a stroll in the punt yesterday afternoon, which i thought promising. a punt is so often a matrimonial agency. you aren't afraid of tipping it up like an ordinary boat. you proposed to me in a racing pair, or something skittish--do you remember, jack?--and i said i'd do anything in the world if you would only row straight to shore. and you kept me to it. hardly fair, was it, mr. alington?" mr. alington smiled like an elderly clergyman at a school feast, and his smile was suggestive of his liking to see young people happy. "i wonder the matrimonial news doesn't keep a few punts for the use of clients," went on kit, in nervous anxiety to get lunch over as quickly as possible. she had made up her mind about alington in the last half-minute or so, and was desirous of getting a word with him, her intention being to deny his charge point-blank, and in turn accuse him. "punts and evening hymns do wonders with people who can't quite make up their minds to propose." mr. alington looked mildly interested at this surprising information, and he appeared to be weighing it carefully as he ate his quail before giving it his support. "they might keep a small choir and a harmonium as well," went on kit. "i believe all the respectable middle-class go to evening church on sunday and sing hymns very loud out of one book, and propose to each other afterwards. dear toby, how happy he will be! how nice--how exceedingly nice!" she murmured sympathetically. alington and kit had by this time finished lunch, and she rose. "i can't stop and see you eat, jack," she said. "come, mr. alington; we will go and have coffee, and jack will join us." on these hot july days kit often sat in the inner hall, which was cooler than the drawing-room. it was a charming place of palms and parquetry, with furniture at angles, and a general atmosphere of coolness and sequestered corners. coffee came immediately with cigarettes, and kit took one. mr. alington, however, explained that except on sundays he did not allow himself to smoke till after dinner. "i find a little abstinence very helpful," he gave as his modest excuse. the servants withdrew, and kit began playing with her subject. "i am afraid you thought me very abrupt at lunch," she said, "but i have a great objection to discussing matters, which it is conceivable might be better kept private, before servants, and when you mentioned baccarat i thought it better to stop you, even at the risk of seeming very brusque. you will hardly believe it, mr. alington"--here her voice sank to a low confidential murmur--"you will hardly believe it, but only a few weeks ago i saw a man cheat at baccarat at a friend's house. very distressing, was it not? i talked it over with a friend, and we found it most difficult to decide what to do. that sort of thing might so easily get about; it is so dangerous to speak before servants." "i think you talked it over with lady haslemere?" remarked mr. alington. kit was stirring her coffee and smiling sweetly. she was getting on beautifully. but at these words and their peculiarly calm delivery her hand stopped stirring, and her smile faded. "i think also you agreed to ask the suspect to play again, in order to watch him," went on the impassive butler. "was it not so, lady conybeare? and i think the suspect was none other than myself." kit put down her coffee-cup and leaned back in her chair. the thing had gone wrong; she had meant to have got first innings on the subject of baccarat cheating, and she was rather afraid she was clean bowled. quick as she was, she could not see her answer. mr. alington did not, however, look at her, nor did he pause longer than was necessary to sip his coffee. "your tactics were a little open, a little obvious, lady conybeare, if you will allow me to say so," he went on. "delicious coffee! you exchanged so many glances with lady haslemere, and then looked up at me, that i could not fail to see you were watching for something. no man, i expect, likes to be suspected of so very paltry a crime as cheating at baccarat--a crime so hopelessly void of any grandeur--and no man, i am sure, likes a trap being laid for him by those whom he is entitled to consider his friends. and before i go on to the point i have in my mind i should like to say a word about this." he cleared his throat and sipped his coffee again. "what you and lady haslemere saw," he went on--"did your husband suspect me too? it does not matter--what you saw was this: i had declared a natural, and you saw me, as you thought, push a fifty-pound counter over the line. was that not so?" "there is no question of 'thought,'" said kit, whom a sense of danger made the more incautious; "we saw you do it." "quite true. if you had observed a little more closely, you would have seen something else. now, i ask you, the few times we have played baccarat together, did you ever see me fail to stake?" "not to my knowledge." "quite so. if you had looked at the table a moment before, you would have seen i had nothing staked. what happened was this: i had staked four ten-pound counters and two fives; then, seeing that i had no more smaller ones, i withdrew them to substitute one fifty for them. at that moment i received my cards, and, taking them up i forgot for the moment to substitute my fifty. i looked at the cards, declared the natural, and you saw me push forward the fifty-pound counter quite openly, and, so you thought, clumsily. it never occurred to me for a moment there was any need of an explanation." kit's anger and alarm was growing on her. "very clumsily," she said; "we all saw it." "it was stupid of me, no doubt, not to have explained at the time," he said, "but really i had no idea the company was so suspicious." he paused for a moment, and his mild temper was roused at the thought of kit's behaviour. "but perhaps people are right to be suspicious," he added, with a raised intonation. the shot went home, and kit's face grew a shade paler. but she could not conceivably show that she knew what he meant, for that would be to accuse herself. instead, she put all the insolence her voice would hold into her reply. "and what proof have i of the truth of what you say?" she asked, fighting desperately on this battle-ground of her adversary's choosing. "the fact that i say it," said mr. alington. "also, there is corroborative evidence if i choose to adduce it. i showed you the other night, meaning merely to give you a hint, that, had i wanted, i could have cheated very neatly. is it credible, then, even supposing that i am one of those people who cheat, that i should have done it so clumsily?" kit in her heart believed the man, but her superficial woman's cunning refused to give up the hold she still hoped she might have over him, her only answer to the hold she was afraid he had over her. "we all make blunders at times," she said, in her most fiendish manner. "unfortunately, i don't believe what you say." mr. alington sipped his coffee again. his momentary irritation had quite died down; you could not have found a kinder christian in all england. "fortunately, however, that matters very little," he replied. "it does not make a man popular among us," observed kit, "if he is known to cheat at baccarat. i understood you the other night to say that sort of thing was common in australia. i should advise you to remember that we think differently here." kit had lost her temper completely, and did not stop to weigh her words. worse than that, she lost her head, and lashed out insults with foolish defiance. mr. alington crossed one leg over the other, his mouth grew a shade more compressed and precise, and his large pale eyes turned suddenly unluminous and stale like a snake's. kit grew frightened again, and when a woman is frightened as well as angry she is not likely to score off a perfectly cool man. there was a moment's pause. "lady conybeare," said he at length, "you have chosen to treat me as a knave and as a fool. and i dislike very much being treated as a knave or a fool by you. you accuse me of cheating: that i have reason to believe does not seem to you very shocking." "may i ask why?" interrupted kit. mr. alington held up his hand, as if to deprecate any reply just now. "and you accuse me of cheating clumsily, foolishly," he continued. "but can you really think i should be so tragic an ass as to come to you with my mere assertion that i did not cheat? i have given you your chance to believe me of your own free will; you have, i regret to say, refused it. i will now force you to believe me--force you," he repeated thoughtfully. "i have a witness, a person then present, who saw me withdraw those smaller counters and replace the larger." kit laughed, but uneasily. "how very convenient!" she said. "what is his name?" "lord abbotsworthy," remarked alington. "i even took the precaution of calling his attention to what i had done. it was lucky i did. ask lord abbotsworthy." "one of your directors," said kit, almost beside herself with anger, and rising from her chair. "one of my directors, as you say," he replied, "and your friend. i need hardly remind you that your husband is another of my directors." on the moment jack came out of the dining-room. he cast one glance at kit's face, took a cigarette, and strolled discreetly upstairs. when his wife was on the war-path and had not asked his alliance he did not give it. "i shall be upstairs when you and my wife have finished your talk," he said over his shoulder to alington. "come and see me before you go." the pause sobered kit. "yes," continued alington, "he had a moment before asked me to change him some money for small counters, and that left me with only a few small ones. luckily, he will remember seeing me withdraw and substitute my stake. you and lady haslemere would have been wise to consult him before taking this somewhat questionable step of watching me. a fault of judgment--a mere fault of judgment." kit, figuratively speaking, threw up her hand. the desperate hope that alington was lying was no longer tenable. "and i await your apology," he added. there was a long silence. kit was not accustomed to apologize to anybody for anything. her indifference to this man, except in so far as he could financially serve them, had undergone a startling transformation in the last hour. indifference had given place first to anger at his insolence, then to fear. his placid, serene face had become to her an image of some infernal juggernaut, whose car rolled on over bodies of men, yet whose eyelash never quivered. pride battled with fear in her mind, fury with prudence. and juggernaut (butler no longer), contrary to his ascetic habit, lit a cigarette. "well?" he said, when he judged that the pause was sufficiently prolonged. kit had sat down again in her chair, and was conscious only of two things--this inward struggle, and an absorbing hatred of the man seated opposite her. "supposing i refuse to apologize?" she asked at length. "i shall regret it very much," he said; "you probably will regret it more. come, lady conybeare, by what right do you make an enemy of me?" again there was silence. kit knew very well how everyone would talk if this detestable business became public, which she understood to be the threat contained in alington's words, and knew also that a rupture between jack and him, which must inevitably follow, would not be likely to lead to their financial success in this business of the mines. "i shall require you also to tell lady haslemere and your husband, if he also has at any time suspected me, into what a deplorable error you have fallen," continued alington, dropping out his words as you drop some strong drug into a graduated glass, careful to give neither too much nor too little. suddenly kit made up her mind, and having done that, she determined to act with the best possible grace. "i apologize, mr. alington," she said; "i apologize sincerely. i wronged you abominably. i will do in all points as you suggest." mr. alington did not move a muscle. "i accept your apology," he said. "and please do me the favour not to treat me like a fool again, for i am far from being a fool." this speech was not easy swallowing for kit, but she had to take what he threw her. alington got up. "i have to go upstairs to see your husband," he said, "because we have a good deal of business--the shares of the new group will be on the market in a few days." he paused a moment. "do not give another thought to the matter, lady conybeare," he said. "it is much better we should be friends. ah, by the way, regarding that matter on which i meant to speak to you, that unfortunate affair of the hundred-pound counter--you know what i mean. do not give another thought to that, either. i assure you that it will not be through me that it goes further. i fully believe you never meant it. only you did not correct your mistake instantaneously, and so correction became impossible. was it not so?" his broad face brightened and beamed, like the face of a father speaking lovingly and consolingly to a son about some petty fault, and he held out his hand to her. kit wavered. she would have given anything in the world to say, "what affair of the hundred-pound counter? i don't know what you mean." but she could not. she was physically, perhaps morally, incapable of giving the words utterance. alington had made her afraid; she was beaten, cowed. and the accuracy of his intuition astounded her. then she gave him her hand; she had no word for him on this subject. "good-bye," she said--"_au revoir_, rather. you will be in and out a good deal, i suppose, while we are in london. there is always lunch at two. my husband is in his room upstairs. you know the way, i think." many people have their own pet plan of sending themselves to sleep, such as counting imaginary sheep going through a visionary hedge, or marking out a lawn-tennis court, lifting the machine as seldom as possible. kit's method, though she usually fell asleep immediately, was to enumerate her dislikes. this was a long and remarkably varied list, beginning "marie corelli, parsnips," and she seldom got to the end of it. to-night she admitted mr. alington into the charming catalogue, and getting to his name, she did not continue the list, nor did she immediately go to sleep. chapter xii the cottage by the sea toby was sitting on the edge of an old weather-beaten breakwater, now running out lop-sidedly and burying its nose in the sand, some three miles north of stanborough-on-sea, making an exceedingly public toilet after his swim. his mother, old lady conybeare, had a charming house down here, which had, so to speak, risen from the ranks; in other words, it had originally been two cottages, and was now a sort of rustic palace. her husband had been a man of extraordinary good taste, and both his idea and execution of this transformation was on the high-water mark of felicity. brick with rough-cast was the delectable manner of it, and the old cottage chambers had been run one into another like the amalgamation of separate drops of quicksilver, to produce irregular-shaped rooms with fireplaces in odd corners. he had built out a wing on one side, a block on another, a dining-room on a third; the front-door was reached through a cloister open to the sea, and supported on brick pillars; and big green spanish oil-jars and venetian well-tops lined the terraced walk. opposite the front-door, on the other side of the carriage sweep, was a monastic-looking, three-sided courtyard, bounded by low-arched cloisters, and an italian tower, square and tapering towards the top, bisected the middle side. close abutting on this was a charming huddled group of red roofs, with beaten ironwork in the windows, suggestive of the refectory of this seaside monastery. in reality it comprised a laundry, a bakehouse, and the dynamos which supplied the electric light. for there was in reality nothing unpleasantly monastic about the place; the cloisters were admirable shelters from sun or wind, and were heavily cushioned; the bell in the tower rang folk not to prime, but to dinner; and the peas were not put in visitors' boots, but boiled and put in dishes. the house, in fact, was as habitable as it was picturesque, a high degree of merit; it was no penance at all to stay there; the electric light seemed to brighten automatically as dusk fell, even as the moon and stars begin to shine without visible lamplighter in the high-roofed hall of heaven; and there were about as many bathrooms, with hot and cold water, as there were bedrooms. toby was putting on his socks very leisurely; he had been down for a dip in the sea before lunch, and having lit the post-ablutive cigarette, sweetest of all that burn, he threw his towel round his neck, took his coat on his arm, and walked slowly up the steep sandy pathway to the top of the fifty-foot cliff on which the house and garden stood. several old fishermen were standing about at the top in nautical attitudes, hitching their trousers, folding their arms, and scanning the horizon like the chorus in light opera. one had a lately-taken haul, and toby inspected his wares with much interest. there were lobsters in blue mail--angry and irritable, which glanced sideways at one like vicious horses looking for a good opening to kick--feebly-flapping soles, anæmic whiting, a few rainbow mackerel, and, oh, heavens! crabs. now, temptation and crab were the two things in the world which toby found it idle to attempt to resist, and he ordered that the biggest and best should be sent instantly up to the house. perhaps it would be safer if he took it himself, for the mere possibility of its miscarrying was not to be borne, and grasping it gingerly by the fourth leg, he carried it, not without nervousness, wide angry pincers all agape, up across the lawn. he went through the cloister and in at the door leading to the servants' parts, where he met a stern, stark butler. "oh, lowndes," he said, "for lunch, if possible. by the hind-leg. for the cook, with my compliments, and dressed." the transference was effected, much to toby's relief, and he put down his towel and on his coat. there was still half an hour to wait for lunch, but that cloud had now its proverbial silver lining. half an hour seemed an impossible time, but the silver lining was the possibility of the crab being ready by then. how long a crab took dressing toby did not know, but if it took no longer than he did himself--and there was more of him to dress--half an hour should be sufficient for two. lily, who, like himself, held firmly the wholesome creed that it is impious to stop indoors while it is possible to be out, was sure to be in the garden somewhere, and toby walked out again in his white, sea-stained tennis-shoes to find her. the cottage had risen from the ranks, but not less remarkable had been the promotion of the garden. what a few years ago had been an unprofitable acreage of wind-swept corn, and more suggestive, by reason of its fine poppy-bearing qualities, of an opium rather than a wheat-field, was become a flowery wilderness of delight. buckthorn, gray and green like the olives of the south, and bearing berries as if of a jaundiced holly, had been planted in shrubberies in the centre of garden-beds as screens from the wind, robbing the sea-gales of their bitter saltness before they passed over the flowers, and letting the bracing quality alone reach the plants. mixed with the buckthorn were the yellow flames of the golden elder, noblest of the english shrubs, and rows of aspen all a-quiver with nervous feminine energy. thus sheltered, there ran on each side of a broad space of grass away from the house an avenue of herbaceous border. hollyhocks and sunflowers stood up behind, like tall men looking over the heads of an average crowd; shoulder-high to them were single dahlias and scarlet salvias; below them again a row of shirley poppies, delicate in tint and texture as liberty fabrics, and in a happy plebeian crowd at the edge mignonette, love-lies-a-bleeding, london-pride, and double daisies. toby sauntered silent-footed over the velvet carpet of grass up to the summer-house, faced with split planks of pollarded elm, which stood at the end, but drew an unavailing cover. thence crossing the broad gravel walk, he tried the tennis-court, and went down the steps past flowering fuchsia-trees, where two great bronze storks of japanese work turned a world-weary eye skywards, and explored the rose-garden. this lay in a natural dip of the land, studiously sheltered, and the wirework pergola which ran through it was on these august days one foam of pink sherbet petals. on either side were rockeries covered with creeping stonecrops, mountain-heaths, and alpine gentians, those remote sentinels of the vegetable world. and strange to their blue eyes, accustomed to see morning break on paths untrodden of man and fields of flashing snow, must have been the soft hint of dawn in this land of tended green. but toby saw them not, for there in a nook at the end, below an ivy-trained limb of tree, sat the queen of the rosebud garden. lily was not reading, in spite of the seeming evidence of an open book on her lap, for the breeze turned its leaves backwards and forwards like some student distractedly hunting up a reference. for a moment the page would lie open and unturned; then a scud of flying leaves would end in a long pause at p. ; then one leaf would be turned very slowly, as if the unseen reader was perusing the last words very carefully, while his fingers pushed the page over to be ready for the next. then with a bustle and scurry he would hurry on and study the advertisements at the end, and as like as not go suddenly back to the title-page. lily had been thinking pleasantly and idly about toby, and the many charming things in this delightful world, when he appeared. she welcomed him with a smile in those adorable dark eyes. "had a nice dip?" she asked, as he sat down by her. "oh, toby, when we are married i shall devote my whole life to getting your hair tidy for once. then i shall turn my face to the wall and softly expire." "if that's your object you'll be aiming at the impossible," remarked toby, "like that silly school-master you read me about in browning who aimed at a million." "grammarian," corrected lily, "and i'll read you no more browning." "well, it does seem to be a bit above my head," said toby, without regret. "and i bought a crab on my way up, and, oh, i love you!" lily laughed. "i thought you were going to say, 'oh, i love crab!'" she said. "and that would be true, too," said toby. "what a lot of true things there are, if one only looks for them!" he observed. "that's what the christian scientists say," remarked lily. "they say there is no such thing as lies or evil or pain." "who are the christian scientists?" asked toby. "and what do they make of toothache?" lily meditated a moment. "the christian scientists are unsuccessful female practitioners," she observed at length. "and there isn't any toothache; it's only you who think so." "seems to me it's much the same thing," said toby. "and how about lies? supposing i said i didn't love you?" "or crab?" "or crab, even. would that be true, therefore?" lily leaned forward, and put down toby's tie, which was rising above his collar. "well, i think we've disposed of them," she said. "oh dear, i wish i was a man!" "i don't," said toby. "why not? oh, i see. thanks. but i should like to be able to bathe from a breakwater, and buy crabs from fishermen, and have very short, untidy straight-up hair, and a profession, toby." "yes," said toby, wincing, for he knew or suspected what was coming. "don't say 'yes' like that. say it as if you meant it." toby took a long breath, and shut his eyes. "yes, so help me god!" he said, very loud. "that's better. well, toby, i want you--i really want you--to have a real profession. what is the use of your being secretary to your cousin? i don't believe you could say the names of the men in the cabinet, and, as you once told me yourself, all you ever do there is to play stump-cricket in the secretary's room." "you should have warned me that whatever i said would be used against me," said the injured toby. "but i saw after the flowers in hyde park last year." "the work of a life-time," said lily. "i wonder they don't offer you a peerage." "you see, i'm not a brewer," said toby. "beer, beerage--a very poor joke, toby." "very poor, and who made it? besides, i think you are being sarcastic about the flowers in hyde park. if there's one thing i hate," said toby violently, "it is cheap sarcasm." "who wouldn't be sarcastic when a great tousle-headed, able-bodied, freckle-faced scion of the aristocracy tells one that he is employed--employed, mark you--in looking after the flowers in hyde park?" asked lily, with some warmth. "why, you didn't even water them!" "i did the organization, the head work of the thing," said toby. "that's the rub." "bosh!" "lily, you are really very vulgar and common in your language sometimes," said toby. "i have often meant to speak to you about it; it makes me very unhappy." "indeed! try and cheer up. but really, toby, and quite seriously, i wish you would settle to do something; i don't care what. go into the foreign office." "languages," said toby; "i don't know any." "or some other office, or buy a farm, and work it properly, and try to make it pay. give your mind seriously to something. i hate a loafer. besides, a profession seems to me the greatest luxury in the world." "plain folk like me don't care for luxuries," said toby. "i'm not like kit. kit is perfectly happy without the necessaries of life, provided she has the luxuries." this diversion was more successful. lily was silent a moment. "toby, i'm afraid i don't like your sister-in-law," she said at length. toby plunged with fervour into the new topic. "oh, there you make a great mistake," he said. "i allow kit is not exactly a copy-book-virtue person, but--well, she's clever and amusing, and she is never a bore." "i don't trust her." "there, again, you make a mistake. i don't say that everybody should trust her, but i am sure she would never do a shabby thing to you or me, or----" "or?" said lily, with the straightforwardness which kit labelled "uncomfortable." "or anybody she really liked," said toby. "besides, lily, i owe her something; she brought us together. as i have told you, she simply insisted on introducing me, though i didn't want to be introduced at all." lily made the sound which is usually written "pshaw!" "as if we shouldn't have met!" she said. "toby, our meeting was in better hands than hers." "well, she hurried the better hands up," said toby, "and i am grateful for that. if it had not been for her, we should not have been introduced at that dance at the hungarians, and i shouldn't probably have dined at park lane the night after; i should have gone to the palace instead, so there would have been one, perhaps two, evenings wasted." "well, i'll make an effort to like her more," said lily. "oh, but that's no manner of use," said toby. "you may hold your breath, and shut your eyes, and try with both hands, and never get a yard nearer liking anybody for all your trying. and it's the same with disliking." "do you dislike anyone, toby?" asked lily, with a touch of wistfulness, for toby's habit of universal friendliness always seemed to her extremely enviable. toby considered a moment. "yes," he said. "who is that?" "ted comber," said toby. lily drew her brows together. toby's promptness in singling out this one person seemed hard to reconcile with his wide forbearance. "now why?" she asked. "tell me exactly why." "he ain't a man," said toby gruffly. "surely, lily, we can talk about something pleasanter." "yes, i'm sure we can," she replied fervently. "i quite share your view. oh, toby, promise me something!" "all right," said toby, taken off his guard. "hurrah! that you will instantly get a profession of some sort. dear toby, how nice of you! there's the gong, and i'm simply ravenous." toby got up rather stiffly. "if you consider that fair," he remarked, "i wonder at you. at least, i don't wonder, for it's extraordinary how little sense of honour women have." "i know. isn't it terrible?" said lily. "toby, it was nice of you to order that crab. i adore crab. oh, there's mamma! i suppose she must have crossed last night. i didn't expect her till this evening." mrs. murchison had been to the wagner festival at bayreuth, and was very communicative and astounding about it. she began by saying how delicious it had been at beyrout, and lily, whose real and tender affection for her mother did not blunt her sense of humour, began to giggle helplessly. "bayreuth, i should say," continued mrs. murchison without a pause. "lily dearest, if you laugh like that you'll get a piece of crab in your windgall. well, as i was saying, lady conybeare, it was all just too beautiful. you may be sure i studied the music a good deal before each opera; it is impossible to grasp it otherwise--the life-motive and all that. siegfried wagner conducted; they gave him quite an ovarium. but some people go just in order to say they have been, without thinking about the music. garibaldi to the general, i call it." lady conybeare, a fresh-faced, dark-eyed woman of not more than fifty, healthy as a sea-wind, and in her wholesome way as tyrannical, cast an appealing look at toby. toby was one of the few people who did not in the least fear her, and she was proportionately grateful. she had tried to spoil him as a child, and now depended on him. he had warned her what calls would be made on her gravity during mrs. murchison's visit, and she had promised to do her best. "so few people appreciate garibaldi," she said with emphatic sympathy. "yes it is so," said mrs. murchison, flying off at a tangent. "when i was a girl i used to adore him, and wore a photograph of him in a locket. but that is all gone out; it went out with plain living and high thinking;" and she helped herself for the second time to toby's crab and drank a little excellent moselle. "but bayreuth was very fatiguing," she went on; "or is it beyrout? until one has heard the operas once, it is a terrible effort of attention. _c'est le premier fois qui coûte._ really, i felt quite exhausted at the end of the circle, and i was so glad to get back to dear, delightful, foggy old london again, where one never has to attend to anything. and it looked so beautiful this morning as i drove down the embankment. i see they have put up a new statue at the corner of westminster bridge--queen casabianca, or some such person." toby choked suddenly and violently. "i've said something wrong, i expect," remarked mrs. murchison genially. "tell me what it is, lord evelyn, or i should say lord toby." "toby, please." "well, toby---- dear me! how funny it sounds, considering i only saw you first in june! ah, dear me, since first i saw your face, what a lot has happened! but if it's not casabianca, who is it?" "boadicea, i think," said toby. "dear me! so it is. how stupid of me! she comes in the anglo-saxon history, does she not? and she used to bleed beneath the roman rods in the blue poetry book--or was it pink? i never can remember. but how it all comes back to one! caractacus, too, and alfred and the cakes, and the seven hills." mrs. murchison beamed with happiness. she knew very well the difference between being a unit among a large house-party, and staying as an only guest, and this cottage by the sea seemed to her to be the very incarnation of the taste and culture of breeding. she knew also that several rich and aspiring acquaintances of hers were spending a week at stanborough, and she proposed after lunch to stroll along the beach towards there, and perhaps call at the hotel on the links. her friends were sure to ask where she was staying, and it would be charming to say: "oh, down at the cottage with lady conybeare. so delicious and rustic; there is no one there except lily and dear toby. of course we are very happy about it. and don't you find a hotel quite intolerable?" in the pause that followed mrs. murchison ran over her plans. "what a charming place this is," she went on; "and how delightful to be near stanborough! lord comber is there; he told me he was going on there from beyrout. at the links hotel, i think he said." toby looked up. "is comber there?" he asked. "are you sure?" his cheerful face had clouded, and his tone was peremptory. "of course i am sure," said mrs. murchison. "dear me, how annoyed you look, lord--i mean toby. and i thought he was such a friend of your sister-in-law's and all. what is the matter?" "nothing--nothing at all," he said quickly. but he looked at his mother and caught her eye. "what a very odd place for lord comber to come to!" said lily, who had grasped "watering-place" with greater distinctness than mrs. murchison. "i am sure i don't see why," said she. "stanborough is extremely bracing and fashionable. i saw they had quite a list of fashionable arrivals there in the world yesterday. isn't it so, toby?" "perhaps he has come to play golf," said toby in a tone of resolute credulity. "golf?" asked mrs. murchison vaguely. "oh, that's the game, isn't it, where you dig a sandpit, and then hit the ball into it and swear? so somebody told me. it sounds quite easy." toby laughed. "a very accurate description," he said. "i'm going to play this afternoon. hear me swear!" lady conybeare rose, as they had finished lunch. "come and see me before you go out, toby," she said. lily looked from one to the other, and saw the desire of a private word between them. "oh, mother, let me take you to the rose-garden!" she said. "shall we have coffee there as usual, lady conybeare?" "yes, dear. take your mother out." the two left the room, and lady conybeare turned to toby. "well, toby," she said. "i don't wish to be either indiscreet or absurd, mother," he answered. "nor i," said she. "kit told me she was coming to stanborough for a week, and i asked her, of course, to stay here. she said she had made arrangements to stay at the links hotel. jack is not coming." toby made two bread pellets, and flicked them out of the window with extraordinary accuracy of aim. "damn kit!" he said. "she comes to-morrow, and that beast, i suppose, came a day or two ago. i saw somebody in the distance the day before yesterday who reminded me of him, but i didn't give another thought to it. no doubt it was he." there was a pause. "but jack----" said lady conybeare, and it cost her something to say it. "oh, jack's a fool!" said toby quickly. "you know that as well as i do, mother. of course, he's awfully clever, and all that; but i'll be blowed if my wife ever stops at a seaside hotel with a comber-man." lady conybeare stretched out her hand. "thank god, i have you, toby!" she said. "what a fool kit is!" said toby thoughtfully. "there are hundreds of people there, as mrs. murchison says. telegraph for jack, mother," he said suddenly. lady conybeare shook her head. "we have no right, no reason to do that," she said. "toby, take the thing in hand. do your best." toby looked out of the window and hit an imaginary opponent with his closed fist. "perhaps we could manage something," he said. "don't say a word to lily, mother, or to mrs. murchison." lady conybeare smiled rather bitterly. "nor wash my dirty linen in public," she said. "is that my habit, dear?" toby got up and kissed his mother lightly on the forehead. "i'll do my best," he said. "i know you will." and they went out to coffee in the rose-garden. chapter xiii toby to the rescue half an hour later toby was on his way to stanborough, where he was to meet a friend at the club-house, and play a round of golf with him. as soon as that was over, he proposed to make a call at the links hotel and demand an interview with ted comber. lily, in this as in all else above the common level of womankind, made no suggestion that she should come round with them. in fact, she voluntarily repudiated such a possibility. "no proper man wants a girl hanging about when he is playing a game," she had said. "so if you ask me to come with you--if, in fact, you don't forbid me to--you'll be no proper man. now, shall i come with you? i want to, awfully." "yes--i mean, no," said toby, wavering, but deciding right. toby was playing with a friend after his own heart, who had just left oxford, more to the regret of undergraduates than of tutors, and so presumably his departure was really regrettable. he was a hater of cities and five-o'clock teas, capable of riding whatever on this unruly earth had been foaled, but perfectly incapable of what he called "simpering and finesse," meaning thereby the pretty little social gifts. furthermore, he was possessed of so much common-sense that at times he might have been unjustly suspected of being clever. him, as they played, toby determined to consult under secrecy as to what must be done with the ineffable comber, and "if buck and i," thought he, "aren't a match for that scented man, i'll brush my teeth with my niblick. lord, what a lark!" toby, it must be confessed, rather enjoyed the mission with which his mother had entrusted him. he was not naturally of a punitive or revengeful disposition, and, indeed, lord comber, had never done anything to him, except exist, which called for vengeance. but the thought of his discomfiture was sweet in his mouth, and, though he had not yet formed the vaguest idea as to how it was to be accomplished, he felt a serene confidence that he and buck would be able to hatch something immensely unpleasant between them. here was no case, he thought gleefully to himself, that called for tact or diplomacy, or any lady-like little weapons, which comber probably possessed. brutal means must be used, and he should use them. he regretted intensely that both he and comber were past the age when their difference could be settled with the straightforward simplicity which says, "will you go of your own accord, or do you prefer to be kicked?" dearly would he have liked that, for, indeed, his fists itched after the man. anyhow, the cause was good. comber was to be sat upon, and kit saved from making an egregious fool of herself. married women of her age and appearance, reasoned toby, do not stay alone with people like comber at watering-places like stanborough, and kit's brother-in-law did not intend that she should do risky things of this description if he could prevent it. toby's laudable determination on this point was not due, it must be confessed, to moral scruples. he did not know, and he did not care to know, whether kit's flirtation with this man was serious or not. but people, he was aware, talked about them, and certainly, if she and he stayed in a stanborough hotel for a week in august together, people would have an excellent reason for talking. still less had he any fancy, supposing the worst came to the worst, for seeing, as his mother said, conybeare linen, marked very plain, in the public wash-tub. also he hated comber with all the fine intensity with which a healthy, normal young man hates, and is right to hate, those smiling, wobbly, curled and scented of his sex, who powder themselves and take pills, and read ladies' papers, and are at their best (or worst) in a boudoir--lap-dogs of london. some women, and perhaps their creator knows why, appeared, so toby thought, to like them. kit liked comber--here was an instance of it that thrust sore at him. now, jack was no saint (here again toby was not judging on moral grounds), but he was a man. he would shoot straight or ride straight all day, and in the evening he would make himself, it might be, quite scandalously agreeable to other people's wives. it was not right, and toby did not defend him, but, anyhow, he behaved like a male. that was where the difference lay. he remembered how they had all howled at kit when one evening she had announced that she was going to stanborough for a week in august to get braced. no, she was not going to take any of her friends with her, and very likely she would not even take a maid. she proposed to live in some stark hotel swept by all the winds that blow, in a bedroom with only a small square of carpet, one damp sandy towel, and windows looking due north, and kept always wide open. she intended to bathe daily before breakfast in the cold, salt, terrible german ocean, to sit and walk on the sands all day, and go to bed directly after an eggy high tea, about seven. she would have eggs with her tea, and eggs with her breakfast, and cold roast beef for lunch, and possibly beer. she would not go to stay with jack's mother, which was the obvious thing to do, because the house was so comfortable, and she knew she would only sit indoors, and get up late and go to bed late if she did. she wanted to be cold and uncomfortable and early-birdish, and come back braced with a bronzed complexion like a sailor, and blowzy hair. it would be immensely healthy and exceedingly unpleasant. toby recollected these amazing plans of kit's very precisely. ted comber, he also remembered, had been there when she had enunciated them, and when he asked if he might come too, had received an unqualified negative. thus, whether kit had or had not made this subsequent arrangement with him mattered not at all. if she had, the perseus-toby was coming hot-foot over the downs to deliver her from her self-forged fetters; and if comber had come without being asked, still more peremptory should be his dismissal. what was to be done was clear to demonstration; how it must be done was a matter for council. toby found several friends at the club-house--it was of common occurrence that he found friends in casual and unlikely places--and got generally chaffed and slapped and offered various mixed and stimulating drinks warranted to improve his putting and shut the jaws of the bunkers. but in the course of time they got clear, and drove up the steep hill leading to the first hole. once started, toby gave the outlines of the problem to buck, who was highly and justifiably indignant with him. "it's a shabby trick, toby," he said, "to bring me up on to this fine turf under the pretence of playing golf, if you want to talk morals. good god! fancy talking moral problems on a golf links! if this was a lawn-tennis court, and you were a parson, i could understand it." "oh, don't be a fool, buck!" said toby; "the whole thing is stated--i have told you all--in ten words, and you needn't allude to it again till we get in. then you shall say what you advise me to do. but it must be settled to-day; my sister-in-law comes to-morrow. just let it simmer." buck grunted, waggled, frowned heavily at his ball, and laid the iron shot dead. "there, it's all rot saying that to think of something puts you off," said toby. "blast it all!" and his scudding half-topped ball ran very swiftly into the bunker. "of course, talking is one worse," said buck, a little soothed. fifty yards separated the first green from the second tee, and toby recapitulated the salient points of the problem. the man of few words answered nothing, and immediately afterwards drove a screamer. these great sea-blown downs, over which the wind scours as shrill and salt as in a ship's rigging, are admirably predisposing towards lucidity of thought. the northern airs cleanse and vivify the brain; they set the blood trotting equably through the arteries, they tone down overstrung nerves, and raise the slack to the harmonious mean, and in a naturally sane mind lodged in an extremely sane body they produce extraordinarily well-balanced results. and golf above all human pursuits gives full play to what is known as the subliminal self, a fine phrase, denoting that occult and ruling factor in man's brain--unconscious thought. the body is fully and harmoniously occupied; so, too, the conscious mind. the eye measures a distance; the hand and muscles take its order, and direct the swinging of the club. meantime that mysterious twin of entity, the inner brain, goes scenting along its private trails, without let or hindrance from the occupied conscious self. each goes his own way, on roads, maybe, as diverse as those of jekyll and hyde, unharassed by the other. once only in the round did buck laugh in a loud and appreciative manner for no clear cause. his inner brain had caught a hare, and sent the message to the golfer. it was still only a little after five when they returned to the club-house, and toby ordered tea in a sequestered corner. "of course you'll go and call on this worm now," remarked buck. "yes, that is what i meant to do. got anything for me to say?" "toby, can you lie?" "like the devil, in a good cause." "well, tell the comber man that you are coming to stay at the links hotel with your sister-in-law by her invitation. do the thing properly, and be prodigal of details. it's a pity you have such a despicable imagination. say that she wrote to you in despair because she would be bored to death with no one there to speak to, but that conybeare insisted on her going. nasty for the worm that? eh?" toby pondered a moment. "that's not up to much, buck," he said. "it wouldn't drive the man away unless he went simply from pique. and supposing he tells me kit didn't write to me? perhaps he has had a letter from her saying what fun they'll have." "oh, of course, if he says you lie," said buck suggestively. "do you know the man?" asked toby with rapture. "he is quite beautiful, with curly hair, rings, and scent, and i expect, if we knew all, stays." buck, it is idle to blink the fact, spat on the ground. "yes, i know him," he said. "hell is full of such. by the way, i haven't seen you since you were engaged to be married. what an idiotic thing to do!" "that happens to be your opinion, does it?" asked toby mildly. "yes. i'm delighted, really. congratulations. but the plan doesn't seem to suit you." "no; it's rotten," said toby. "i want something certain. this easily might not come off." "he's a real worm, is he?" asked buck. "i only know him by sight." "genuine, hall-marked," said toby. "well, then give him a chance. oh, not a chance of getting off. i mean, give him a chance of lying to you. tell him as news that lady conybeare is coming here to-morrow, and perhaps he may appear surprised to hear it. that will give you an opportunity. you can say things to him then." "yes, there's more sense in that," said toby. "oh! come and dine to-night." "all right. is the she there?" "yes; you'll like her." buck looked at him enviously. "what infernal good luck you have, toby!" he said. "oh, i know i have," said toby. "lily----" "don't know her yet. but about the worm. probably there will be a row. you've got to frighten him away, remember that. worms are always nervous." "there'll be a row afterwards with kit, i'm afraid," said toby. "oh, certainly. but it's all for her good. introduce me when she comes, and i'll say i have been her guardian angel." toby looked at buck's strong brown face for a moment in silence. "you'd look nice with wings and a night-shirt," he remarked. "pity raphael or one of those johnnies isn't alive." "if by johnnies you refer to the italian school of painters," said buck, "it isn't worth while saying so." "i know; that's why i didn't say so. good-bye; i'm off to the links hotel. dinner at eight." lord comber was in, and would toby come up to his sitting-room? he met him at the top of the stairs, like a perfect hostess, and took him down the broad passage, stopping once opposite a big glass to smooth his carefully-crimped hair. then he took toby's arm, and toby bristled, for he did not thrust his hand inside the curve of his elbow and let it lie there, but inserted it very daintily and gently, as if he was threading a needle, with a slight pressure of his long fingers. "it's quite too delightful to see you, toby," he said; "and how splendid you are looking! i wish i could get as brown as that. you must let me do a sketch of you. yes, i'm here all alone, and i've been terribly bored. i wonder if your mother would allow me to come and see her. is miss murchison there, too?" "yes; she came a couple of days ago." "how nice! i do want to see more of her. everyone is frightfully jealous of you. and i hear your mother's house is quite beautiful. round to the right." ted comber firmly held the creed that if you flatter people and make yourself pleasant you can do anything with them. there is quite an astonishing amount of truth in it, but, like many other creeds, it does not contain the whole truth. it does not allow for the possible instance of two personalities being so antagonistic that every effort, even to be pleasant, on the part of the one merely renders it more obnoxious to the other. this is a very disconcerting sort of exception, and the fact that it may prove the rule is a very slight compensation, practically considered. "you have some wonderful burne-jones drawings, someone told me," went on ted, innocently driving the exception up to the hilt, so to speak, in his own blood. "your father must have had such taste! it is so clever of people to see twenty years before what is going to be valuable. i wish i had known him. here's my den." toby looked round the den in scarcely veiled horror. daniel's den with all its lions, he thought, would be preferable to this. there was a french writing-table, and on it signed photographs of two or three women in silver frames, an empty inkstand, a gold-topped scent-bottle (not empty), and a small daintily-bound volume of french verse. against the wall stood a sofa, smothered in cushions, and on it a mandolin with a blue ribbon. a very big low armchair stood near the sofa, on the arm of which was cast a piece of silk embroidery, the needle still sticking in it, a damning proof of the worker thereof. there was a large looking-glass over the fireplace, and on the chimney-piece stood two or three saxe figures. a copy of the gentlewoman and the queen lay on the floor. "i can't get on without a few of my own things about me," said lord comber, fussing gently about the room. "i always take some of my things with me if i am going to stay in a hotel. this place is quite nice; they are very civil, and the cooking isn't bad. but it makes such a difference to have some of one's things about; it makes your rooms so much more homey." and he drew the curtain a shade more over the window to keep the sun out. "how long are you going to stop here?" asked toby. "oh, another week, i expect," said comber, removing the embroidery, and indicating the armchair to toby. "of course, it is rather lonely, and i don't know a soul here; but i'm out a good deal on these delicious sands, and another week alone will be quite bearable." "i wonder you didn't arrange to come with somebody," said toby quietly. lord comber took up the gold-topped scent-bottle and refreshed his forehead. this was a little awkward, but kit had told him to tell none of the cottage-party that she would be there. he remembered vaguely that kit had, one evening in july, announced her intention of coming to stanborough, but he could not recollect whether toby was there, and, besides, at the time she had not really meant to do anything of the kind. it was only afterwards that they had made their definite arrangements. the worst of it was, that there was a letter from kit lying on the table, and toby might or might not have seen it. "everyone is engaged now," he said. "it is hopeless trying to get people in august. oh, i heard from kit this morning," he added, by rather an ingenious afterthought. "she asked me to come down to goring in september." "was that all she said?" asked toby. "oh, you know what kit's letters are like," said he. "a delicious sort of hash of all that has happened to everybody." toby paused a moment. god was good. "she didn't happen to say by what train she was going to arrive to-morrow?" he asked. lord comber made a little impatient gesture, admirably spontaneous. he had often used it before. "oh, how angry kit will be!" he said. "she told me particularly not to tell anybody. how did you know, toby?" "she wrote to my mother some days ago declining her invitation to come to the cottage," he said. "also the thing was discussed at length in my presence. there was no question of concealment. i remember you asked if you might come too, and she said no." lord comber laughed, quite as if he was not annoyed. "yes, i remember," he said. "what fun kit was that night! it was at the haslemeres', wasn't it? i never saw her in such form." toby sat as stiff as a poker in the armchair. "i can't quite reconcile your statement that you were going to be all alone with the fact that you knew kit was coming to-morrow," he said. "not off-hand, at least." ted comber began to be aware that the position was a sultry one. kit had distinctly told him not to tell any of the people at the cottage that she was coming, and he had said that this was the wrong sort of precaution to take. they would be sure to know, and a failure in secrecy is a ghastly failure, and so difficult to explain afterwards, for people always think that if you keep a thing secret there is something to be kept secret. no doubt she had come round to his way of thinking, and had told them herself, forgetting the prohibition she had laid on him. altogether it was an annoying business. however, this scene with the barbarous brother-in-law had to be gone through with at once. he shrugged his shoulders. "kit told me not to mention it," he said. "we were going to have a rustic little time in all our worst clothes and no maid. that is all." "you have lied to me--that is all," said toby, with incredible rudeness. "that is not the way for one man to speak to another, toby," said lord comber, feeling suddenly cold and damp. "i followed kit's directions." "of course, it is the fashion to say that it is the woman's fault," observed toby fiendishly. lord comber was quite at a loss how to deal with such outrageous behaviour. people did not do such things. "did you come here in order to quarrel with me?" he asked. "no, i don't want to quarrel," said toby, "but i intend that you shall go away." "that is so thoughtful of you," said comber. he was getting a little agitated, and had recourse to the scent-bottle again. he did not like fencing with the buttons off. toby did not answer at once; he was thinking of the suggestion he had made to his mother. he determined to use it as a threat, at any rate. "look here," he said; "kit may choose her own friends as much as she pleases, but she cannot go staying alone with you at a place like this. either you go or i telegraph to jack." lord comber laughed. "do you really suppose jack would really mind?" he said. "and do you know that you are speaking of my brother?" asked toby. "i'm sure that is not jack's fault," remarked comber. "no. then, as you say, if jack won't mind, i'll telegraph to him at once. have you a form here? oh, it doesn't matter; i can get one in the office." "the fact that you telegraph to jack implies that there is something to telegraph about," said comber. "there is nothing." toby did not choose to acknowledge that there could be any truth in this. "i don't care a damn," he observed. "either you go or i telegraph. take your time, but please settle as soon as you can. i don't want to make things unpleasant, and if you say that your only aunt is very ill, and that you have been sent for, i won't contradict it--in fact, i'll bear you out if kit makes a fuss." "that is extraordinarily kind of you," said lord comber. "and since when have you become your sister-in-law's keeper in this astounding manner?" toby got quickly out of his chair, and stood very stiff and hot and uncompromising. "now, look here," he said: "my name is massingbird, and so is jack's, and i don't wish that it should be in everybody's mouth in connection with yours. people will talk; you know it as well as i do, and there is going to be no comber-conybeare scandal, thank you very much." "you seem to be doing your level best to make one," said lord comber. "oh, i don't mind a ted-toby scandal," said toby serenely. "i can take care of myself." "and of kit, it seems." "and of kit--at least, it seems so, as you say." there was a long silence, and toby drew a vile briar pipe out of his pocket. he noticed that lord comber, even in his growing agitation, cast an agonized glance towards it, and, putting it back in his pocket, he lit a cigarette. "you don't like pipes, i think?" he said. "i forgot for the moment." toby sat down again in the big chair and smoked placidly. he intended to get an answer, and if it was unsatisfactory (if the worm turned and refused to go), he would have to consider whether he should or should not telegraph to jack. he felt that this would be an extreme step, and hoped he should not have to take it. lord comber's reflections were not enviable. to begin with, toby had a most uncomfortable, angular mind and an attitude towards life which will not consent to be fitted into round holes nor adapt itself to nice easy compromises and tactful smoothings over of difficult places. he was all elbows, mentally considered--elbows and unbending joints. if he intended to carry his point, he would not meet one half-way; he held horrible threats over one's head, which, if defied, he might easily carry out. his own argument he considered excellent. to telegraph to jack implied that there was something to telegraph about, but this square, freckled brute could not or would not see it. it really was too exasperating. he himself conducted his own life so largely by the employment of tact, finesse, diplomacy (toby would have called these lies), that it was most disconcerting to find himself in conflict with someone who not only did not employ them, but refused to recognise them as legitimate weapons. indeed, he was in a dilemma. it was impossible to contemplate a telegram being sent to jack: it was equally impossible to contemplate what would happen if kit came and found him gone. and the annoyance of going, of missing this week with her, was immense. it gave him a sort of _cachet_ to be seen staying with kit alone at a watering-place. she was more indisputably than ever on a sort of pinnacle in his world this year, and everyone would think it so very daring. that was the sort of fame he really coveted--to be in the world's eye doing rather risky things with an extremely smart woman. moreover, in his selfish, superficial way, he was very fond of her. she was always amusing, and always ready to be amused; they laughed and chattered continually when they were alone, and a week with her was sure to be an excessively entertaining week. she had proposed that they should do this herself, and written a charming note, which he kept. "we shall be quite alone, and we won't speak to a soul," she had said. and that from kit, who, as a rule, demanded a hundred thousand people around and about, was an immense compliment. but because all his thoughts as he debated these things, while toby sat smoking, were quite contemptible, the struggle was no less difficult. a despicable man in a dilemma, though the motives and considerations which compose that dilemma are tawdry and ignoble, does not suffer less than a fine spirit, but, if anything, more, for he has no sustaining sense of duty to guide and reward him. ted comber's happiness and pleasure in life, of which he had a great deal, was chiefly composed of trivial and unedifying ingredients, and to be intimate, not only privately, but also publicly, with kit was one of them. and her unutterable brother-in-law sat smoking in his best armchair, after presenting his ultimatum. if a word from him would have sent toby to siberia, he would have gone. it would be a good deed to rid society of such an outrage. again, yielding with a bad grace had its disadvantages, for though he had no personal liking for toby, a great many people, with whom he desired to be on the best of terms, had. there were certain houses to which he liked to go where toby was eminently at home, and though he had enemies in plenty, and thought little about them, toby would be a most undesirable addition to them. he was perfectly capable of turning his back on one, assigning reasons, and of behaving with a brusqueness which ought, so lord comber thought, to be sufficient to ensure anybody's being turned neck and crop out of those well-cushioned society chariots in which he lounged. but he knew very well, and cursed the unfairness of fate, that toby's social position was far firmer than his own, while, whereas he cared very much for it, toby did not care at all. ted made himself welcome because he took great pains to be pleasant and to amuse people, and had always a quantity of naughty little stories, which had to be whispered very quietly, and then laughed over very loud, but the whole affair was an effort, though its reward was worthy. men, he knew, for the most part disliked him, and men are so terribly unreasonable. once last year only, his name had been cut out of a house-party by his hostess's absurd husband, and it was not well to multiply occasions for such untoward possibilities. he took up his gold-topped scent-bottle for the third time, and by an effort almost heroic, though there was so little heroic in its cause, resumed a frank and unresentful manner. "i disagree with you utterly, toby," he said, "but i will do as you suggest. you don't mind my speaking straight out what i think? no? well, you seem to me to have interfered in a most unwarrantable manner; but as you have done so, i dare say, from excellent motives, though i don't care a straw about your motives, i must make the best of it. i will go to-morrow morning, and i will telegraph now to kit, to say i can't stop here. now, you said you didn't wish to quarrel with me. that i hold you to. let us remain friends, toby, for if anyone has a grievance it is i. what i shall say to kit, god knows; she will be furious, and if the thing comes out i shall tell her the whole truth, and lay the whole blame on you." toby rose. "that is only fair," he said. "good-bye." lord comber smoothed his hair before the glass, when suddenly an idea struck him, so brilliant and so simple that he could hardly help smiling. he opened the door. "i shall just walk with you to the top of the stairs," he said, again taking toby's arm. "really i am quite sorry to leave; i have got quite attached to my dear little room, and don't you think it's rather pretty? so sorry i shan't be able to come and see your mother at the cottage, and it's all your fault. good-bye, toby." toby went downstairs, and lord comber hurried back to his room. he had no longer the smallest resentment against toby, and a smile of amused satisfaction testified to his changed sentiments. he rang for his man, and sat down to write a telegram. it was addressed to kit, and ran as follows: "impossible to remain here. excellent reasons. do come to aldeburgh instead. i arrive there to-morrow afternoon, and go to hotel." he read it over. "poor toby," he thought to himself. "what a lesson not to interfere!" chapter xiv the chairman and the director during this beautiful august weather mr. alington was very busily employed in london. at no time was he a notable lover of the country, taking it in homoeopathic doses only, and enjoying a copy of nature by turner far more than the original thing. he was, indeed, somewhat disposed to dr. johnson's characteristic and superficial heresy that one green field is like another green field, and though he took no walks for pleasure down fleet street, he took many hansoms to his brokers for business. for the financial scheme which had darted like a meteor across his augur's brain on the night on which he received his manager's report had, meteor-like, left a shining and golden furrow. the shining furrow, indeed, had grown ever more brilliant and golden; it illumined the whole of his speculative heaven. and by the end of the month the reading of the augur was ready to be practically fulfilled. now, the stock exchange is, justly or unjustly, supposed to be a place where sharp and shady deeds are done, but mr. alington, already a prince in the financial world, did not much fear bears or bulls or raids or rigging, and the market had a firm belief in his soundness. his board consisted of jack conybeare, tom abbotsworthy, his australian manager, mr. linkwood, a man as hard-headed as teak, and himself. at that time a board constituted on such lines was a new thing, and when the prospectus was sent out there were many business men who rather raised their eyebrows at it. but the effect, on the whole, was precisely what mr. alington had desired, and, indeed, anticipated. surely the names of a couple of noblemen, one of whom was a prominent supporter of the bishops in the house of lords, and whose wife was really synonymous with the word bazaar-opener, the other a prospective duke, were a guarantee of the good faith of the proceeding. the british public might not be aware that lord conybeare knew much about mines, but that department was well looked after by mr. alington and his manager, as shrewd a pair as could be found between the poles. certainly, innovation as it was, this sort of board, so reasoned its inventor, looked well. the british public followed these prognostications of alington with touching fidelity, though they did not give jack credit for ignorance about mining. such an authority on guano must certainly be a well-informed man, and if those of the aristocracy who were in indigent circumstances were sensible enough to set themselves to make a little money, who would quarrel with them? three acres and a gold-mine was just about what jack was worth. again the enemies of unearned increment were delighted. here was a fine example, a horny-handed marquis. a third section of the public, so small, however, as not to really have a voice at all, and who consisted chiefly of conybeare's acquaintances, sounded a discordant note. "god help the shareholders," said they. the prospectus gave a glowing but perfectly honest account of the property called the carmel group, for no one knew better than alington how excellent a policy honesty is, in moderation, and in the right place. mount carmel lay in the centre, on one diagonal carmel north and south, on the other carmel east and west. a very rich vein of ore ran through carmel north, mount carmel and carmel south, extending on the evidence of bore-holes the whole length of the three. carmel east and west were both outliers from this main reef, but in both there was a good deal of surface gold, very easy to get at, and they should soon become dividend-payers. the ore in these two, however, was much more refractory than in the main reef, and in two or three experiments which had been made it had been found possible to extract only per cent. of it. in the other three the ore was very different in quality, and very rich. experiments had yielded five ounces to the ton, but these mines could not become dividend-payers in the immediate future, as a good deal of developing work must necessarily be put through first. at one point, by a curious fault in strata, the reef came to the surface, and it was from here the specimens had been taken. there was now no difficulty about water, for a very satisfactory arrangement had been come to with a neighbouring property. a mill of a hundred stamps, which would soon be increased, if the mine developed as well as the directors had every reason to believe it would, was now in course of erection on carmel east. finally, they wished to draw special attention to the remarkable yield of five ounces to the ton from the vein running through carmel north and the other two. such a result spoke for itself. the directors proposed to put this property on the market in the following manner: two companies were offered for subscription, the one owning carmel east and west, the other the north, south, and central mines. the two groups would respectively be called carmel east and west, and carmel. the vendor, mr. alington, received fifty thousand pounds down, and fifty thousand pounds' worth of shares, and the rest of the shares, after certain allotments made to the directors, were thrown open to public subscriptions, and the capital to be subscribed for was three hundred thousand pounds in carmel east and west, five hundred thousand pounds in carmel. half a crown was to be paid on application, half a crown on allotment, and the remaining fifteen shillings for special settlement at not less time than two months. cheques to be paid into the carmel company, limited, at their account with lloyd's. this prospectus was quietly but favourably received; the public, as mr. alington had seen, were nearly ready to go mad about west australian gold, but he was not ill-pleased that the madness did not rise to raving-point at once. his new group he fully believed was a genuine paying concern; that is to say, supposing he had floated one company embracing all the mines, and that company was judiciously and honestly managed, the shareholders would be sure of large dividends for a considerable number of years. but the scheme he had formed did not have as its end and object large dividends for a considerable number of years, though it did not object to them as such, and this quiet, favourable reception of the prospectus pleased him greatly. he very much valued the reputation of a steady, shrewd man, and it would not have suited his plans nearly so well if one or other group had gone booming up immediately. the whole of the capital was very soon subscribed, and a large purchase or two had been made from australia. this looked well for the company; it showed that on the spot the carmel groups were well thought of. a friend of mr. alington's, whom he often spoke of as one of the acutest men he knew, a mr. richard chavasse, was one of these large holders, and this gave him a great deal of satisfaction, so he told jack. he himself was down at kit's cottage in buckinghamshire on the first sunday in september, alone with lord conybeare, and they had a good talk over the prospects of the mines, and collateral subjects. he and jack got on excellently alone, and were already in the "my dear conybeare and alington" stage. "i could not be better pleased with the reception the market has given to the carmel group," said alington. "i see you have followed my advice, my dear conybeare, and invested largely in the east and west company." jack was lounging in a long chair in the smoking-room. the morning was hopelessly wet, and violent scudding rain beat tattooes on the windows, and scourged its glory from the garden. "yes, i have paid ten thousand half-crowns twice," he said. "even half-crowns mount up, and i used to think nothing of them. i have followed your advice to the letter, and i can no more pay the special settlement than i can fly." "you were quite right," said alington. "i assure you there will not be the slightest need for that. by the way, the stock exchange have given us the special settlement at the mid-october account. dear me! what an opportunity poor lord abbotsworthy has missed! he would not take my advice. even now the shares are at a slight premium. you have invested, in fact, the larger half of your first year's salary." "exactly. by the way, i don't want my salary to be printed very large in the balance-sheet. put it in a sequestered corner and periphrase it, will you? people won't like it, you know, and the whole concern will be discredited; they are so prejudiced." "that also need not trouble you," said alington. "in fact, i have paid your salary myself. it does not appear at all in the balance-sheet." lord conybeare frowned. "do you mean you pay me five thousand pounds a year out of your own purse?" "certainly. your services to me are worth that, and i pay it most willingly, which the shareholders undoubtedly would not do. indeed, my dear conybeare, the benefit that your name and lord abbotsworthy's--yours particularly--have done me is immense. the british public is so aristocratic at heart and at purse; and unless i am some day bankrupt, which i assure you is not in the least likely, no one will ever know about your--your remuneration." "i don't know that i altogether like that," said jack in what kit called his "scruple voice," which always irritated her exceedingly. "a child," she said once, "could give points to jack in dissimulation." to alington also the scruple voice did not seem a thing to be taken very seriously. "i really do not see that that need concern you," he said, after his usual pause. "in fact, i thought we had settled to dismiss such matters for me to manage as i choose. you consented to be on my board. as a business matter, i am quite willing to give you this sum in return for your services. now, the shareholders would not, i think, rate you at that figure. shareholders know nothing about business; i do." jack laughed. "how unappreciated i have been all these years!" he said. "i think i shall put an advertisement in the times: 'a blameless marquis is willing to be a director of anything for a suitable remuneration.'" mr. alington held up his hand, a gesture frequent with him. "ah! that i should object to very strongly," he said. "consider your remuneration a retaining fee, if you like, but we must keep our directors exclusive. i cannot have you joining any threepenny concern that may be going about, or, indeed, any concern at all. carmel--you belong to carmel," he said thoughtfully. jack took a copy of the mining weekly from the table. "have you seen this?" he asked. "there is a column about the carmel mines, all most favourable, and written, i should say, by someone who knows." mr. alington did not appear particularly interested. "i am glad they have put it in this week," he said. "they promised to make an effort." "you have seen it? don't you think it is good?" "i wrote it--practically, at least, i wrote it. the city editor, at any rate, was kind enough to write it under my suggestions--i might say under my dictation." "one can't have too many friends," observed conybeare. "well, i can hardly call him a friend. i never set eyes on him till two days ago, and then he was more an enemy. he called and tried to blackmail me." "my dear alington, what have you been doing?" asked jack. mr. alington paused and laughed gently. "he tried to blackmail me not because i had been doing anything, but because i had not done something--because i had not offered him shares, in fact; but i squared that very easily." "you paid him?" asked jack. "of course. he was comparatively cheap, and he became like balaam. he came to curse, and he went away blessing me and the mine, and australia and you, with a small cheque in his pocket and copious notes for this article to which you have been referring." "do you mean to say that you are liable to be called on by any city editor, and made to give him money not to crab the mine?" asked jack incredulously. "well, not by any city editor," said mr. alington, "though i wish i was, but certainly by a fair percentage. it is a most convenient custom. when one is doing things, as i am, on a fairly large scale, it matters to me very little whether i pay the mining weekly a hundred pounds or so. that article is worth far more to me than that, just as you, my dear conybeare, are worth far more to me than the paltry sum i give you as my director and chairman." mr. alington spoke with silken blandness, yet with an under-current of proprietorship, as if he was a pupil-teacher delivering an address to school children, and was telling them beautiful little stories with morals. "i see you are surprised," he went on. "but really there is nothing surprising about it. a paper gives an opinion; what matter whose--mine or the editor's? the editor probably knows nothing about it, so it is mine. and if a small cheque change hands over the opinion, that is the concern of me and my balance. it is worth my while to pay it, and it appears to be worth the editor's while to accept it. i only wish the custom went further--that one could go direct to the times, say, and ask what is their price for a column. sometimes one can do that--i don't mean with the times--but it is always a little risky. i was very anxious, for instance, last week to get a good notice of this prospectus of ours in the city journal, and i did what was perhaps rather rash, though it turned out excellently. mr. metcalfe, their second editor, is slightly known to me, and i know him to be poor and blessed with a large family. poor men so often are. he has a son whom he wants to send to oxford." mr. alington paused again, with a look on his face like that which the embodied spirit of charity organization may be supposed to wear when it hears of a really deserving case. jack listened quite attentively, though long speeches were apt to bore him. he felt as if he was learning his business. "the lad is a charming young fellow," went on charity organization; "clever too, and likely to get an exhibition or scholarship. well, i asked his father to call on me, and offered him two hundred pounds for such an article as appears in the mining weekly which you have in your hand. he was indignant, most indignant, and wondered how i had the face to make such an offer. he said he would not do what i had suggested for twice the money. i took that, rightly, to mean that he would, and i gave it him. four hundred pounds will help very considerably, as i pointed out to him, in his son's expenses at oxford. and he went away, after a little further conversation, with tears of gratitude in his eyes--tears of gratitude, my dear conybeare. two days afterwards there appeared in the city journal a very nice article, if i may say so, considering i wrote the greater part of it myself--really a very nice article about carmel. and i was glad to help the young fellow, to give him a chance--very glad. i told his father so, putting it in exactly that way." mr. alington sighed gently and modestly at this reminiscence, like a retiring man humbly thankful for the opportunity of aiding in a good work, and jack for a moment was puzzled. then, remembering he was dealing with a man of business, he laughed. the thing was excellently recited with praiseworthy gravity. "the stage has lost an actor," he observed, "even if the world has gained a director. admirable, my dear alington. but why, why keep it up with me? i assure you i am not shocked." mr. alington looked up in surprise. "an actor? not shocked? keep it up?" he queried. "i do not understand." "you are inimitable," said jack. mr. alington got up. "you don't understand me," he said with a certain warmth, "and you wrong me. i gather from your words that you have doubts of my sincerity. by what right, if you please?" jack was grave in an instant. "i beg your pardon," he said. "i see that i was in the wrong." the heat died out of mr. alington's face; there was no reproach in his mild, benignant eye. a kind, christian gentleman looked gently at jack. "it is granted willingly," he said. "but please, my dear conybeare, do not make such mistakes in the future. let me ask you to assume that i am sincere till you have the vaguest cause for supposing i am not. the english law assumes a man's innocence till he is proved guilty. that is all i ask. treat me as you would treat a suspect. but when you have such cause, please come to me and state it. much harm can be done by nursing a suspicion, by not trying to clear it up. harm, you will remember, was nearly done to me in that way before. luckily, i had an opportunity of explaining her error to lady conybeare." jack had an uncomfortable sense that this man, for all the blandness of his respectability, could show claws. he suspected that claws had been shown quite unmistakably to kit on the occasion to which mr. alington so delicately alluded, for she had come upstairs, after her talk with him in the hall, with the distinct appearance of having been severely scratched. but mr. alington only paused long enough to let the bare justice of his demand sink in. "let me explain," he went on. "you have suspected me of insincerity, and, luckily, you have stated your suspicion with great frankness, beyond the reach of mistake. this is my case: i wanted very much an article by metcalfe in the city journal, and when he called that morning, i was prepared to pay as much as two hundred pounds for it, but not more. eventually i paid him four hundred pounds, twice that sum, partly, no doubt, because it was necessary that he should not be able to say that i had attempted to bribe him; but i must demand that you believe that the fact of my thereby giving the young fellow a good chance made me pay that sum willingly. i did not haggle over it, though i am perfectly certain i could have got what i wanted for less. you believe this?" jack found himself saying that he believed this, and mr. alington grew even more silken and seraphic. "i was delighted to do it," he said, "and in my private accounts i have entered two hundred and fifty pounds as a cheque to metcalfe senior for business purposes, one hundred and fifty pounds as charity. it was charity. i entered it as such." "certainly you must have made a friend of metcalfe senior, and junior if he only knew," said jack. "yes, i am delighted to have done so. i have also incidentally made metcalfe senior a--a confederate. from a business point of view that also pleases me. how marvellously all things work together for good! it comes in the morning lesson to-day." jack felt it difficult to know what decorum demanded of him. bribing and the morning lesson in one breath were a little hard to reconcile. but if you have assumed and stated that you believe a man to be an actor, and if he assures you he is not, and you beg his pardon, it must be understood that you accept his _bonâ fides_. at any rate, you have to appear to do so, and jack, who did not consider himself more than an amateur, found the task difficult, under the eye of one who was capable of such astonishing histrionic feats, who could act so containedly before no scenery and a sceptical audience. that unctuous voice quoting the lesson for the day was a miracle, and the miracle, like that of the barren fig-tree, seemed so unnecessary. however, everyone has an inalienable right to pose, and it is the point of good manners to assume that nobody exercises it. mr. alington rose with a sort of soft alacrity, and walked across to the window. sheets of rain were still flung against the streaming panes, and the glory of the garden was battered and beaten. a thick vapour, half steam, half mist, rose from the water of the river, warmed by its summer travel, but his careful eye detected a break on the horizon. "we shall have a fine afternoon," he said to jack. "with your leave, therefore, i will get the prospectus, for i shall be glad to run over a few points with you." jack looked out over the drenched landscape. "i bet you a sovereign it does not clear," he said. mr. alington took a little green morocco note-book from his pocket. "done, my dear fellow," he said. "i will just record it. you will certainly lose. i would have given you two to one, if you had asked it." he left the room, and in a few minutes returned with a sheaf of papers. "now, if you will give me your attention for half an hour or so," he said, "i will tell you all that you, as a director, need know." "and as a shareholder?" asked jack. mr. alington rattled his gold pencil-case between his teeth. he felt disposed to trust his chairman a good long way, and, ignoring the scruple-voice, "yes, i will tell you that also," he said. "but keep the two well apart, my dear conybeare." chapter xv the week by the sea toby thought it wise to call at the links hotel on the morning following his interview with lord comber, to make sure of the result of his interference, while buck waited and grinned in the garden. they both of them wanted to bet that the worm had kept his word and gone, and both were willing to lay odds on it, and thus no wager was possible. toby's face was agape with smiles when he came back, and they both laughed for a full minute behind a laurel-bush. this was satisfactory, everybody was pleased, and it was not the least unlikely that lord comber himself at that moment was laughing too. he had heard from kit the same evening in reply to his telegram that she would start for aldeburgh (not stanborough) next morning. all his neat and nasty little embroideries and dresden china, his violet powder, scent-bottles, manicure brushes, and little vellum-bound indecencies of french verse, had been packed the same evening by his man, and he left stanborough and the bowing proprietor of the links hotel in excellent spirits, with a new number of the queen. kit (she really was so clever about those things) had appeared in a gown exactly like one that was to-day given as a novelty in the paper a full three months before, and remarkably well she had looked in it. it was of pale lilac satin--ted always knew how dresses were made--trimmed with point-lace, and straps of narrow black velvet. the bottom of the skirt was outlined with a scroll-patterned lace insertion, and cut into scallops to fit the lace. there was a mantle which went with it--perhaps the queen would get hold of that in another month or two--which had suited kit admirably: whatever kit wore suited her. he felt quite proud to know a woman who antedated novelties in this way. art as reflected in the fashion papers may be long; art on the same authority was always late if you took your time from kit. packing and travelling by slow cross-country trains was naturally a nuisance, but, after all, how right toby had been, thought ted, though for wrong reasons. stanborough was too full, and full of the wrong sort of people, those, in fact, who fill their suburban minds with the movements of the aristocracy, and he did not care at all that he should be renowned in suburban circles for doing risky things with smart women. yes, how right toby had been, and how marvellously had his scheme miscarried. really, that sort of interference ought to be punishable; it was a brutal moral assault, and people ought to be taken up for such things, just as if they had kicked their wives. it was a crime with violence, and the cat, he believed, had been used with success on ruffians no more dastardly. toby fully deserved the cat, and lord comber would have laughed to see him get it. yet there was a distinctly amusing side to the affair, and it was really not possible to be angry for long with such feeble and futile attempts to interfere with his liberty and kit's. that red-headed, freckle-faced brother-in-law, with his large hands and idiotic smile, would be violently hitting little golf-balls over the down this morning, thinking to himself how exceedingly clever he had been, and what a fine manly fellow he was. lord comber hated fine manly fellows, and they returned the compliment. it would be very amusing to tell kit all about it. how she would scream! perhaps they might arrange some delicate and devilish revenge together on toby, something really nasty which would rankle. and the most amusing thing was that kit and he had gained their point, namely, a week at the seaside together, seeming all the time to have yielded. he had avoided quarrelling with toby, and had left him, victorious himself, to think that all the honours of the field were his. in his pretty drawing-room way toby comber was very artistic, and where many people would see only a flat green field or a level landscape, he caught a delicious glimpse of a picture of the dutch school. he looked out from his railway carriage window on placid cows standing knee-deep in pasture, or chewing a lazy cud beneath the narrow noon-day shade of drowsy elms, with a good deal of appreciation. he cared little either for cows or elms, except in so far as they reminded him of pictures which he admired, and which he knew to be valuable, and in the beauty of a landscape he looked mainly for an illustration of a picture. like a large number of the more artistic of his world, he had a genuine respect for any work of art that was valuable, especially if it was more valuable than it would naturally appear to someone who did not know. he had a real reverence for rare first editions, even though he cared not two straws for what the book was about, and though all subsequent editions were better printed, and mezzotints which he would not have given two thoughts to a few years ago had become admirable in his eyes simply because people had begun to collect them and to pay high prices for them. hurry, so prominent and distressing a factor in our modern world, so subversive of true progress, is still unknown to cross-country lines, and they remain invincibly leisurely. by the map he had not many miles to go, but before his journey was half over he had enjoyed the sweets of his triumph over toby and the quiet wayside pictures to the full, and his thoughts returned to their accustomed abiding-place, himself. he was a great admirer of personal beauty both in men and women; good looks always attracted him, and he was a devout admirer of his own. he was, so he considered, exceedingly nicely and suitably dressed for a hot august day. he wore a flannel suit of a yellowish-brown tinge, which matched divinely with the rich chestnut of his boots and the darker chestnut of his hair, and his tie was bandana, the prevailing tone of which was deep russet. he had been a little hurried over dressing this morning, and had not really had time to put a pin in it; but now there was ample leisure, and, opening his dressing-bag, he took out a looking-glass, which he propped on the seat opposite, and a little leather box in which he kept his pins and studs. he took off his straw hat and smoothed his hair once or twice with his hand, but, being still dissatisfied, got out a silver-handled brush, and drew it several times upwards across his front-hair, emphasizing that upward sweep in it which he admired so much. if he had had the choosing of his hair, he would not have given orders for a different shade, and for this reason he did not dye it, though people wronged him. even natural advantages, if too marked, like kit's teeth, have their drawbacks. his eyebrows were much darker, almost black, and his brown eyes were really fine, large, and liquid. he wore no moustache, though till lately he had not done so; but young men of the age which he desired himself to be had ceased wearing them, and now a moustache meant you were born in the sixties. then he smiled at himself, not because he was amused, but for professional reasons, noting two things, the first (with great satisfaction) being the whiteness and regularity of his teeth, the second (with misgiving) the regions round the eye. by daylight it was impossible not to notice that the outer corners were marked--disfigured almost--by two lines, hideously styled crow's-feet, and there were certainly other lines below the eye. however, kit had told him that massage had been tried with success for that, and he intended to see about it when he got back to town. after another lingering look, he put the glass down and unlocked his leather jewel-case. in it were pins of all kinds, made with screw heads, so that they could serve indiscriminately as studs, and he turned them over. there was a beautiful ruby set in tiny brilliants, which he saw at once was the proper colour for the tone of his dress. he had worn it as a solitaire the evening before, and he unscrewed it, and replaced the back of the stud with a pin. but then he stopped. not long ago kit had given him a charming turquoise of the _vieille roche_, a piece of noon-day sky, and incapable of turning green. it would be suitable to wear that when he met her, but unfortunately it did not go at all well with his clothes. however, sentimental considerations prevailed, and he put the ruby back, pinned the turquoise into his tie, and looked at himself again. "it is rather an experiment," he said half aloud. he had telegraphed to the aldeburgh arms for three rooms, two bedrooms and a sitting room, and, arriving there, he found they had been given him _en suite_, the sitting-room in the middle. he felt bound to ask whether these were the only rooms to be had, and finding there were no others, he was powerless to alter the arrangement. kit would not arrive for two hours yet, and he set his valet to work at once to make the sitting-room habitable. the saxe figures he took out himself, and gave a hand to the draping of embroideries; but the man had a great deal of taste, and he left him before long to his own ideas. after giving orders that masses of flowers should be sent up, and some plants for the fireplace, he went out to stroll by the beach till kit's train arrived. there was a fresh breeze off the sea, and he put a light dust-cloak over his arm, in case he should feel chilly. kit's train arrived punctually, and she in the highest spirits. she laughed till she cried over the immaculate toby turned missionary, and it was with difficulty that ted persuaded her not to write him a line. "think of his face," she cried, "if i just send a note!--'dear toby: how does stanborough suit you and your _fiancée_? i meant to come there, as you know, but only yesterday evening i decided to come to aldeburgh instead. oddly enough, ted comber arrived here to-day. it was so pleasant (and quite unexpected) meeting him, and we shall have the greatest fun. he has been at stanborough, he tells me, and had a long talk with you only yesterday. he is so fond of you.'--oh, ted, think of his face!" there was very little that was genuine about ted except his teeth and the colour of his hair, but his voice had the true ring of sincerity when he thought of toby's face. "oh, that would spoil it all!" he cried. "toby must never know--at least, not for a long time. he would certainly come here, too. how tiresome that would be! and i should quite lose my temper with him." kit laughed. "i know; that is just it," she said. "it would be so amusing. i love seeing scenes, and i should like to see you really angry, ted. what do you do?" "well, you will soon know, if you write to toby," he said. "kit, you simply mustn't. no, i won't say that, or else you will. but please don't." kit laughed again. "well, i won't to-night, at any rate," she said. "but i shall keep it as a hold over you, so you must behave nicely. oh, ted, how pretty you have made your room! and tea is ready; i am so hungry. really, it is quite too funny about toby." she sat down and poured out tea; then, looking up as she handed him his cup, saw he was looking at her. "well?" she asked. "when did i not behave nicely to you?" he said. "oh, a thousand times--yesterday, to-day, now, even," she said, "in expecting me to be sentimental. how can a woman who is just dying for her tea be sentimental?" she looked at him a moment with her head on one side. "yes, you look quite nice to-day," she said, "and, really, i am awfully pleased to be with you. but what evil genius prompted you to put a turquoise in a russet tie?" ted threw up his hands in half-mock despair. "i knew it was wrong," he said. "but don't you see?" kit looked at it a moment. "i remember now--i gave it you," she said. "really, i think that is the greatest compliment you ever paid me, spoiling your scheme of dress. sugar? yes, you take two lumps, i know." ted laughed. "it was an experiment, i felt," he said. "but i did right." kit was silent a moment, for she had just taken a large bite out of new-made bun. "_i_ think it will be the greatest fun down here," she said. "poor dear toby could not have played into our hands more beautifully. the poor child was quite right, and most thoughtful. stanborough is certainly too much _du monde_--of the wrong sort, that is to say--in august. he drove us to aldeburgh. it is on his head. and he actually threatened to telegraph to jack. i wonder if he would have carried it out. personally, i don't think he would; but, anyhow, it is all for the best. he couldn't have suited us better. dear boy, how nice to have such a careful little brother-in-law!" "he threatened me," said ted plaintively, "in a loud, angry voice, with 'my name is massingbird,' and all the rest of it. i told him that to telegraph meant there was a reason for telegraphing, and he had none. besides, we did not want jack. he was not part of the plan." "jack's nose has grown since he became a financier," remarked kit. "that is the worst of becoming anything. if you become a pianist, your hair grows. if you become a philanthropist, your front-teeth grow. i never intend to become anything, not even a good woman," she said with emphasis. "i hope not," remarked ted. "oh, how i hate people who are in earnest about things!" said kit in a sort of frenzy. "i mean i hate people being in earnest about the things they ought to be in earnest about. one should only take seriously things like one's hair and games and dress. for sheer social hopelessness give me a politician or a divine. ted, promise me you will never become a divine." "not to-day, at any rate," said ted; "but i shall keep it as a hold over you." kit laughed uproariously, and got up. "i've finished for what i have received," she said, "and so we'll go out. have you got a spade for me to dig in the sand with as i wade? oh, there's the bezique-box. i think we'll play bezique instead. is there a _café_ or anything of the sort, where there will be a band. bezique goes so well to a strauss valse." "there is a draper's shop and a church," said ted. "that is all." but after a couple of games the splendour of the evening weaned them from their cards. it had been a very hot day, but not long before sunset a cool wind was borne out of the sea, and they strolled out. sunset was imminent in the west, and the land enmeshed in a web of gold. high in the zenith floated a few flushed feathers of cloud, and the sea was level and waveless--a polished surface of reflected brightness. the tide was on the ebb, and the smooth sand, wet from its retreat, was a mirror of the sky, a strip framed in the sea, and the high-water mark. southward the land trended away in headland behind folded headland to an infinite distance of hazy and conjectured distances. the unbreathed air, a traveller over a hundred horizons of sea, was cool and tonic, and the whisper of the ripples crisp within the ear. and kit with her childlike impressionableness, which was at once her danger and her charm, caught surely at the spirit of the free large spaces. she had taken off her hat, and walked firm and lithe along the shining ripple-fringed beaches, each footstep crushing for a moment the moisture out of the sand in a circle round her tread, and breathing deep, with open mouth, of the vivifying air. like a chameleon she took instinctively the colour of her surroundings, and just now she was steeped in open air, freedom, and the great plains of sea and sky. she always gulped things down, camels and needles alike, thirsty of full sensations. "really, one's whole life is a series of mistakes, ted," she said, "except in a few short moments like these. why do we go to that rabbit-warren of a london, and live in little smoky boxes, when there is an empty sea-beach, and a great sea-wind within a few hours of us? oh! i wish i was a fisherman, or a day labourer, or a gallon of sea-water, to stop in the open always." ted laughed. "and if to-morrow is wet or cold, you will say, 'why did we come to this god-forsaken german ocean, when we could have stopped in our nice comfortable houses?'" "i know i shall; and the worst of me is that i shall feel just as keenly as i feel this now. jack called me a parasite once; he said i always found food in whatever i happened to be on. i dare say he is right. oh, look at that bit of red seaweed on the sand! it looks as if it had been set, as one used to set butterflies; every little fibre is spread out separately. but if i pick it up, it will be just a stringy pulp. there are a great many morals to be drawn from that, and one is, 'don't meddle.'" "what a lesson for tobys!" laughed ted. the sun set, and with the fading of the light they turned. moment by moment the colours paled, and the evening iridescences turned gray and cold. kit put on her hat; there was a chill in the air, and they walked faster. by the time they reached the hotel it was nearly dark, and the shining window-squares looked inviting and comfortable, and kit mentally revoked her desire to be a gallon of sea-water. it was already time to dress for dinner, and they went up to the sitting-room together. their bedrooms were on opposite sides of it, both communicating with it and with the passage outside, and as they dressed they talked loudly and cheerfully to each other through doors ajar, their conversation being punctuated by sounds of the sponge. ted was ready first, but a few moments afterwards kit came out of her room, and went downstairs with him, still in a fever of high spirits, but with all the cool sanity of the great expanses driven out of her worthless little soul, and dressed in red. they had a table to themselves in a corner of the plushy dining-room, where they could talk unheard and observe unobserved. lord comber, who always took the precaution of carrying wine with him when he was at hotels, had some excellent champagne, of which kit drank her share, and their talk rose in crescendo with more frequent bursts of laughter as dinner went on. toby again demanded their amused comments. "oh, if he could see us thus!" said kit; and the idea was immensely entertaining, viewed in the light of dinner and wine. then followed a _résumé_ of all the things which had not happened since the two had met, and which, even if they had, should never have been repeated. the world in which they lived is not noted for charitable impulses or moments of compassion, and that which should have called out pity, or if not pity, at least, have been accorded silence, was the occasion of great laughter. kit, among her many gifts, was an excellent mimic; and jack's shrug of the shoulders, when she really had her boxes packed to go to aldeburgh vice stanborough, was inimitable. but, as she said, she was no longer married to a man, but a company. jack was no longer jack, but a mixture of alington, deep levels, and cyanide process. then mrs. murchison came under review, and kit improvised a really first-rate soliloquy. but eventually the hush that comes with ice overtook them, and it was to break an appreciable silence that ted spoke. "how they stare at one!" he said. "haven't the people who stay at this hotel ever seen people before? you would think we were woaded early britons. really, it is much better than stanborough; there were all sorts of people there one knew. i am glad we came--and you, kit?" he looked up, and caught her eye for a moment. "i also," she said. "but, ted, i very nearly did not come. i could not conceive what your telegram meant; but i trusted you, you see; i assumed that your excellent reasons were excellent. and when i knew what they were, i was justified, and you too. they were more than excellent; they were funny." ted laughed. "they really were," he said. "but i don't know what i should have done if i had found a telegram here from you saying you were not coming." "did you think i should throw you over?" she asked. he paused before replying, and looked up at the long table where the most of the people in the hotel were sitting. "there is a man with a face like what you see in a spoon sitting there," he said. "no, i did not." kit followed his glance. "yes, i see him," she said, "and his mouth opens sideways. but how modest of you! what reason had you to think that?" ted felt his heart thump with a sudden riotous movement. he took up his glass to finish his champagne, and noticed that his hand shook a little. he drank the wine at a gulp. "because i think you like me a little, kit," he replied. he had never spoken to her quite like that before, though, for that matter, he might have used the identical words to her a score of times; never before had she given him exactly that sort of opportunity. but the presence of so many people close at hand of so utterly different a society to theirs that they might have been red indians, gave both him and her a strangely isolated feeling, as if they had been alone on a desert island. both knew also that he by proposing, she by acceding to this visit to aldeburgh, had taken another step in intimacy towards each other. but without a pause kit replied; and in spite of her reply, so far from disavowing it, she felt a sudden inward leap of exultation, and he, in spite of the lightness of her reply, was confirmed. "oh, ted, don't be serious!" she said. "it is such bad manners. think of toby; think of the man with the spoon-face." ted lifted his brown eyes to hers, but she sat with eyes downcast, playing with her dessert-knife. "are you never serious?" he asked. "not at dinner. a serious voice carries so. it is audible as far as a bishop's hat, if you see what i mean. have you finished? shall we go?" and she lifted her long, fringed eyelashes a moment, and returned his look. _book ii_ chapter i kit's meditations kit was sitting in her own room in the buckinghamshire cottage one day late in the following december, staring intently into the fire. the fire, it is true, was worth looking at, for it was made of that adorable combination, cedar-logs and peat, and it had attained to that fine flower of existence--a fragrant, molten core of heat, edged by little lilac-coloured bouquets of flame, smokeless and glowing, the very apotheosis of a fire. outside, the world was shrouded and made dizzy in a trouble of eddying snow, and as the great sonorous blasts trumpeted and lulled again, the reds of the fire would brighten and fade in a sort of mysterious sympathy with the bugling riot overhead. but that kit should be doing nothing but looking at the fire was an unusual thing; it was odd that she should be alone, even odder that, if alone, she should not be occupied. the toes of her bronze-coloured shoes rested on the fender, and she leaned forward in the low armchair in which she sat, stretching out her hands towards the heat, and the fire shining through the flesh of her fingers made them look as if they were lighted from within--things red and luminous in themselves. it was already growing dusk, but she had enough light to think by, and quite enough things to think about. the room was furnished with great simplicity, but the educated eye could see how extremely expensive such simplicity must have been. there was a rug or two on the floor, a few tables and chairs of the empire on the rugs, and a few pictures on the crimson satin walls. kit herself perhaps was the most expensive thing present, for she wore her pearls, and they glowed like mist-smoored moons in the fire-light. but she did not look as happy as the possessor of her pearls or her excellent digestion ought to look. there was something of the hard, tired look of suffering, mental and physical, about her face, and though she was alone, she made, now and then, nervous, apprehensive little movements. everything was going wrong, from money upwards, or downwards; for at the present moment kit hardly knew how to arrange the precedence of her various embarrassments. the financial ones were at any rate the most tangible, though perhaps the least feared, and for the fiftieth time that afternoon she ran over them. in the beginning it had been altogether jack's fault, but kit was past finding either consolation or added annoyance in that. she had great faith in alington's power of making their fortune, though personally he was detestable to her, for various excellent reasons, and she had wanted to invest the famous nest-egg, which from one cause and another had grown to upwards of three thousand pounds, in these mines under alington's advice. after their last private interview she did not like to go to him straight, and so asked jack to tell her in what mines to place a little money she had saved. the word "saved," when used by kit, always made jack smile. but he was absurd, and strongly opposed to her risking her "savings" at all. he had told her to make herself quite happy; if she would leave things to him, and go on "saving" quietly, there would be enough for both of them, a statement in itself repugnant and almost blasphemous to kit, who firmly held the doctrine that there never can be enough money for one, still less for two. "you don't know what it all means, kit," he had said, "and for that matter i don't either. one day perhaps your shares will go down, and you will sell out in a panic and lose a lot, or you will not sell out and you will lose more. it is impossible for me always to be instructing you; i have not got the data myself. i leave it all to alington. besides, i didn't know you had any money to invest." "that is my affair," said kit; "i have been lucky lately." "then put it into consols, and don't gamble any more," said jack, with the fine inconsistence of the gambling fever on him, "or come and talk about it some other time; i've got twenty hundred things to do now." then in a flare of pride and temper, kit had determined to manage for herself, and had put a couple of thousand pounds into carmel east. this was in november, at a time when, for some reason, known perhaps to alington, but certainly to no one else in the market, carmel was behaving in a peculiarly mercurial manner. a week after she had made her investment the pound shares, which were standing at a little above par, had declined rapidly to fourteen shillings. it might only be a bear raid, but she was too proud to ask jack for advice again, and remembering his ill-omened remark about not selling and so losing more, she telegraphed to her broker to sell out at once. this done, the shares began to rise again, and in less than a fortnight's time, owing to telegrams and reports from the mine, they stood at nearly two pounds. she reckoned up, almost with tears, what she had lost, which, added to what she might have gained, formed a maddening total. her eighteen hundred shares, if she had only held on, would have been worth close on three thousand six hundred pounds; instead, she had sold them when they stood at fourteen shillings for thirteen hundred pounds. and when jack, a few mornings later, came into her room with a cheque for five hundred pounds, which he gave her, she felt that this only accentuated the bitterness of it. "a little present, kit," he said, "just for you to play about with. what a good thing you were wise, and did not concern yourself with things you did not understand! oh, i bless the day when we went down to the city dinner and met alington. you wore an orange dress, i remember: it would be rather graceful if you paid for it now." "how much have you made, jack?" she asked. "eight thousand, and i wish it was eighty. but that is the result of having no capital. i'm going to pay some bills--perhaps; but it is all very wearing." kit was not accustomed to cry over spilt milk, and jack's present made up the greater part of what she had actually lost, though it was only a small proportion of what she might have gained. one learns by experience, she thought; for experience is a synonym for one's mistakes, and she had been a consummate fool to be frightened. the mine was still quite young, and if within a few months the shares were worth double their original value, it was likely to be a good investment even at the present price, and again she invested two thousand pounds in it. since then the price had steadily gone down, and the shares were quoted a week ago at nineteen shillings. but this time, though it taxed her admirable nerve, she was not going to be frightened, and with the object of averaging she had spent the remaining spoonfuls of her nest-egg in buying more, thus reducing the whole price to thirty-two shillings per share. thus, when they again went up, as she still believed they would do, she would sell as soon as they touched two pounds, as jack had sold, and clear, though not so much as he had done, still, something worth having. but the averaging had been singularly unsuccessful, and this morning the abominable things had stood again at fourteen shillings. this had been too much for kit's nerves, and she went to jack with the whole story. he had simply shrugged his shoulders; he was odiously unsympathetic. the "i told you so" rejoinder is always irritating, and the irritation it produces varies directly according to the amount of damage involved. kit's irritation, it follows, was considerable. "oh, jack, what is the use of saying that?" she had cried angrily. "i come to be helped, not to be moralized to. i ask you now as a favour to telegraph to mr. alington. you say you know nothing about these things, although you are a director. well, perhaps he does. and i want some money." it was not wise, and kit knew it even as she spoke, to take a fretful, discourteous tone. it had long been a maxim with her that courtesy was a duty, the greatest perhaps, which one owned to those with whom one was intimate, and that it was most foolish to let familiarity breed brusqueness. besides, it never paid, except with tradesmen and others, to put your nose in the air, and, as a rule, she was not guilty of this breach of prudence. but to-day she was horribly worried, and anxious about many things, and that jack should say "i told you so" seemed unbearable. he did not reply immediately, and then, taking a cigarette from a table near him, "you usually do want some money," he remarked. kit made a great effort, and recovered her temper and her self-control. "dear jack," she said, "i have been rude, and i apologize. but i very seldom am rude; do me the justice to admit that. also i have been stupid and foolish. i am in an awful hole. do telegraph to alington, like a good boy, and ask him what i am to do. and i should really be very glad of a little money if you can spare it." jack looked at her curiously. it was utterly unlike kit to behave like this. her debts hitherto had sat lightly on her; she had often said that nothing was so nice as having money, and nothing so easy as to get along without it. again, kit's nest-egg of three thousand pounds seemed to him a surprising sum. she had not, as far as he knew, played much in the summer, and all the autumn, except for a fortnight she spent at aldeburgh, they had been together, and her winnings certainly could not have been a fifth of that. he could not conceive how she had got it. "look here, kit," he said, "you shall have some money if you must, though just now i want literally every penny i can lay hands on for this mine affair. i am playing for big stakes. if the thing comes off as i expect--and, what is much more satisfactory, as alington expects--we shall be rich, and when i say rich it means a lot. but i think we had better have a talk. oh, i will telegraph to alington about your affair at once." kit felt wretchedly nervous and upset that morning, and while jack wrote the telegram, she threw herself into a chair that stood before the fire and lit a cigarette, hoping to soothe her jangled nerves. snow had already begun to fall, the air was biting; she shivered. but after a few whiffs she threw the cigarette away. it tasted evilly in her mouth, and she felt an undefined dread of what was coming, and not in the least inclined for a talk. luckily, jack was going up to town in half an hour; the talk could not last long. he waited till the servant had taken the telegram, and then came and stood in front of the fire. "how did you get that three thousand pounds?" he asked abruptly. "i won it. i have told you so," said kit. "where? when? it is a large sum. you know, kit, i don't often pry into your affairs. don't be angry with me." "my dear jack, i don't keep a book with the names and addresses of all the people from whom i have won sixpence. neither of us, if it comes to that, is famed for well-kept account-books. where? at a hundred places. when? this last summer and autumn," and her voice died a little on the words. jack turned and flicked the ash off his cigarette. he knew that kit could not have won that amount, and he hated to think that she was lying to him. true, he was asking the sort of question they did not ask each other, but he could not help it--the air was ominous. she must have borrowed it or been given it, and such a suspicion cut him to the quick, for though he, like her, did not give two thoughts to running up huge bills at tradesmen's risk, yet it was quite a different thing to borrow from one's own class (for he knew rightly that kit would never be so foolish as to go to a money-lender), or to be given money by one's friends. and her manner was so strange. he could not avoid the thought that there was something behind. "did alice haslemere lend you some?" he asked suddenly. kit, taken off her guard, saw a gleam of hope. "yes," she said quickly, not meaning to lie. then, remembering she had told him that she had won it, "no," she added in the same breath. jack made a quick step back to the table at which he had been writing. "there is no manner of use in talking if you can't tell me the truth," he said. "how much money do you want, kit?" kit tried to answer him, but could not. she was only conscious of a great desolating helplessness, and slowly the sobs gathered in her throat. jack, waiting for her answer, heard a quick-taken breath, and in a moment he was by her, the best of him ready to help, if possible, forgetting everything except that kit was in trouble. "my poor old girl!" he said. "what is the matter? is there something wrong, kit? won't you tell me? indeed i am your friend. don't cry so. never mind; tell me some other time if you like. there, shall i leave you? will you be better alone?" kit nodded her head, and he touched her lightly and kindly on the shoulder, and turned to go. but before he had got to the door she spoke. "no, it is nothing, jack," she said, controlling her voice with an effort. "i am out of sorts, i think. never mind about the money. i can push along." she got up from her chair and went towards the door. "don't worry, jack," she said. she went to her own room, where she knew that no one would disturb her, and shut herself in. jack would be away all day, and till evening she would be alone. a few people were coming down with him then from town, among them toby and his wife, ted comber, and several others of their set. on the whole, she was glad they were coming; it was better to be distracted than to brood over things which no brooding will mend. above all, she wanted an interval in which jack and she would not be alone. perhaps after a few days he might forget or remember only vaguely the affair of this morning. she had lunched alone in her sitting-room off a tray, for it was warmer there than in the dining-room, and had tried a dozen ways of making the hours pass. it was impossible to go out; the snow, which had begun before jack had left, was getting momently thicker and falling in giddy, frenzied wreaths. the air was bitterly cold, and she could see but dimly through the whirling atmosphere the lines of shrubs in the garden, standing with thick white mantles on. a couple of puffy-feathered sparrows crouched on her window-sill, and kit in the bitterness of her heart hated them, and, going to the window, frightened them away. they dropped stiffly down on the lawn below, and half walked, half fluttered, to the shelter of a bush near. then a sudden compunction came over her, and, throwing open the window, she flung out the crumbs from her lunch-tray, but the sudden movement only scared them off altogether. she stood long at the window, looking out on to the blinding desolation, and then by a violent effort detached herself for the moment from all the things that troubled her. they would all have to be taken and dealt with, but she could do nothing alone. jack had to be told something--jack and another. the electric light was out of order, and about a quarter past three of that howling winter's afternoon she left her place by the fire and her unread book and rang for lamps. then there were orders also to be sent to the stables, and she detained the man a minute to give them, knowing that when he had gone she would be alone again. the omnibus and the brougham must both meet the train, and the horses must be roughed, and was there any telegram for his lordship. one had come, and, guessing it was from alington, she opened it. "bad slump in carmel east," she read. "cannot advise." kit crumpled the telegram up, and threw it impatiently into the grate. here was another thing to be banished from her mind; truly this was a somewhat extensive exile. she determined not to sell; unless something happened to send the prices up, it would be a mere reminder of her losses to rescue so small a salvage from the wreck. she did not want a little money, she wanted a great deal, and she would just as soon have none as a little. so, having determined to dismiss the whole subject, she thought of nothing else for the next half-hour. outside the evening grew darker and wilder, and the windows on the north-east of her room, the quarter from which the wind blew, were already half blinded by the snow, and every now and then a furious, unseen hand would rattle their casements as if demanding instant admittance. the wind, which had been rising and falling and rising again all day in fitful gusts, now blew with an astonishing and ever increasing vehemence. the line would be deep in snow, perhaps almost impassable; in any case the train which should bring jack and the rest must be late. kit felt that the elements, the snow and the storm, were malignant beings fighting against her; the solitude of the next few hours became unbearable, and who knew how many hours she might still be alone? quick to catch at relief, it seemed to her that to have people about, to have the ordinary innumerable duties of a hostess to perform, would be the solution of her troubles, and the omnibus full of folk who had already left london were so many anchors to her. she would have to talk, laugh, entertain people, be her normal self, and hours and days would pass without giving her time or opportunity for thought or regret. she tried to tell herself that her present difficulties, like the unanswered letters, would manage and answer themselves. the nights she did not fear: hitherto she hardly knew what it was to be awake, and even if one did, there were those convenient things like morphia which one could always take. tea-time came; her room had grown intolerable to her, and she went to the hall, where they always had tea if there were people with them, waiting for the snow-muffled sounds of the carriage-wheels. the train was due half an hour before, and they might be here any moment if it had been punctual. punctual she knew it could not be against this hurly-burly; but still, every minute that passed now was a minute in which they might have reached the station, less hopeless than those she had passed since lunch. the tea-things were brought in, and she ate a piece of bread-and-butter, thinking she would not make tea till they came, but the minutes went on pushing at the hands of the clock, and at last she made enough for herself, and drank a cup. but it seemed neither to warm nor invigorate her; the taste of the cream made her feel sick, and pouring the half of it away, she left the table, and came to sit nearer the fire, book in hand. outside the storm went on like some senseless lunatic symphony. now the long steady note of a horn would blow weirdly in the chimney, and a choir of shrieking gusts like the violins would break in upon it, rising and rising higher and higher as if leading to some stupendous climax. but no climax came; they would die down again with nothing gained, and the slow sobbing of 'cellos would answer them. then for a moment there was hail mixed with the snow, and the sudden tattoo of the kettle-drums upon the window would seem to announce something, but nothing came except a long chromatic passage from the strings, leading nowhere, portending nothing. then the horn in the chimney would have a bar or two, repeating its _motif_, as if to emphasize it, and strings and horns came in simultaneously in crazy music. then for a moment there would be a dead, tense pause; the conductor seemed to stand with raised baton collecting the orchestra for the _finale_, but, instead of some immense riot of sound, only a flute would wail a broken note, and the whole movement begin again. the noise maddened kit; it seemed to her that her own thoughts were being made audible. like the blind, senseless blasts, she would take up one meaningless strand of her life and try to weave it into some sort of pattern. but before she could hit on any idea, she would drop it again, and her mind would fly off now to that evening when she had cheated alington at baccarat, now to the week at aldeburgh, now to the affairs of carmel east, and again, and yet again, to the week at aldeburgh. it was all in fragments, loud, jangling, terrifying, with hysterical bursts of false feeling. then, for the first time in her life, the horror of the days that were gone, the horror of the moment, the horror of the future, seized kit in their threefold grip, and shook her. she looked back on the years in which, day after day, she had clutched greedily, ravenously, at the pleasure of the moment; with both hands she had torn the blossoms off life, making herself great nosegays like a child in a hayfield, and now when she looked at them there was not a flower that was not withered and wilted. through the past she had arrived at this awful present. she looked forward; the future was a blank, save for one red spot of horror in it, which would come closer and closer every day till it was on her. there was no escape for her. just then there was a lull in the mad symphony outside, and in the stillness she heard the soft thud of snow-clogged wheels pass by the windows. with a sense of relief, almost painful in its intensity, she ran to the door and flung it open, letting in a great buffet of snow-stifled wind that extinguished the lamps, and left only the misshapen shadows from the fire leaping monstrously on the walls. but instead of the omnibus she had expected, there was only a postman's cart, from which the man had already descended, blanketed in snow, with a telegram in his hand. he had just rung the bell. kit ran with it to the fire, and read it by the blaze. it was from conybeare, sent off from two stations up the line. "blocked by snow," it said. "line will not be clear till to-morrow morning." a footman had come in answer to the bell. he found the door wide open, the snow blowing dizzily in, and on the hearthrug kit, in a dead faint. chapter ii the first deal mr. alington was an early riser, and it was barely half-past eight when he finished his plain but excellent breakfast the morning after he had received jack's telegram about kit's venture in carmel east. a certain instinct of perfection was characteristic of him; all his habits of living were of a finished character. he lived plainly, and he would sooner have his simple eggs and bacon off fine china, with alternate mouthfuls of admirably crisp toast and the freshest butter, than have rioted in the feasts of caligula with a napkin ever so slightly stained. the same snowfall which had blocked the line between tilehurst and goring had not spared london, and the streets on this sunday morning were dumb and heavy with snow. gangs of men were out at work clearing it away, and streaks and squares of brown, muddy pavement and roadway of contrasted sordidness were being disclosed in the solid whiteness of the street. mr. alington, looking from his window, was afraid that these efforts were likely to prove but lost labour, for the sky was still thick and overlaid with that soft, greasy look which portends more snow, and in spite of the hour, it was but an apology for twilight on to which he looked out. this thought was an appreciable pang to him. the street was empty but for the street-clearers, and had attained that degree of discomfort only realized in london after a snowfall. the gaunt, gray-faced houses opposite showed lights twinkling in their windows, and the yellow, unluminous atmosphere was like a jaundiced dream. the palace clock at the bottom of the street was still lit within, but it was no more than a blurred moon through the clogged air. but mr. alington, after his first comprehensive glance, gave but little attention to these atrocities of climate. his reading-lamp shone cheerily on his desk, and on the very satisfactory papers lying there, and carmel basked in a temperate sunshine. for up till now the ways of the new group had entirely fulfilled his expectations, which from the beginning had been sanguine, and the best, so he hoped, was yet to be. the scheme which he had formed in the summer, and which he had talked over with jack in september, had been simple, ingenious, and on the safe side of excessive sharpness. the dear, delightful public, as he had foreseen, was quite willing to fall in with his scheme, and had seconded his plans for general enrichment--particularly his own--with openhanded patronage. the scheme in brief was as follows, had the public only known: it will be remembered that he had formed two companies, carmel, and carmel east and west, with capitals respectively of three hundred thousand and five hundred thousand pounds. carmel east and west had exhibited remarkable fluctuations, as kit knew to her loss, alington, and jack following his advice, to their gain, and the way in which this had been worked was simplicity itself. the shares had been issued at par, and had risen almost immediately to twenty-five shillings. this alington was disposed to put down partly to his own reputation and as the result of reports from the mine, but chiefly--for he was modest even when alone--to the effect of his noble body of directors. he as vendor had fifty thousand shares fully paid, and at this point he sold out, unloading very carefully under several names, and taking a very decent little profit for a man of simple tastes and butler-like appearance. the natural effect of this extensive sale was to cause the shares to drop, and the downward tendency was accelerated by unpromising news from the mine, which followed immediately on his sale. the ore, as stated in the prospectus, was refractory, and extracting it was both costly and yielded a very small percentage of gold. mr. alington, whom several large holders and substantial city men consulted about this time, was not sanguine. the results were bad, there was no denying it. three weeks of a dropping market brought the shares to the condition they were in on that day of november on which kit sold out for the first time, and they closed at thirteen and ninepence sellers, fourteen and threepence buyers. this seemed to alington to be low enough for his second step, as he did not want the market to lose confidence altogether. he sent a telegram out to his manager in australia, mr. linkwood, laconic, but to that intelligent fellow perfectly comprehensible: "new process.--alington," it ran. he also sent one to mr. richard chavasse: "invest." the next morning he received from mr. linkwood the following reply: "carmel east. ninety per cent. of gold extracted by bülow process. strong support by australian markets.--linkwood." now, the evening before certain large purchases in carmel east had been made in england, not by the names under which mr. alington had previously unloaded, for the weakness of such a course was obvious, and he followed them up the next morning by a very large purchase in his own name, and by the publication of his telegram from mr. linkwood. he also saw several business men, to whom he gave a full explanation. he had telegraphed, he said with absolute truth, to his manager to try the bülow process, and, as they saw, it had yielded admirable results. instead of twenty, they got ninety per cent. of the gold out. concerning the strong support of the australian markets, they would no doubt receive further news by cable. he had no information later than that telegram which he had published. the effect of this on a market already predisposed to go a-booming after westralians was natural and inevitable. the shares went up nearly a half during the day, and next morning when a further private cable, instantly made public, recorded that that shrewdest of financiers, mr. richard chavasse, had bought to the extent of forty thousand pounds, they ran past thirty shillings. a week later they stood at two pounds, owing to steady support from private investors. there was a spurious report that a dividend might be expected, so extraordinary successful had the month's crushing proved to be, and this was the unfortunate moment selected by kit to make her second purchase. simultaneously alington, who for a week past had been very carefully unloading, telegraphed to jack to do the same, and sold out largely under his own name. a week passed, and the shares moved slowly back, depressed by these large sales, though there was still a considerable demand for them in england. then came another telegram from australia, saying the mine looked much less hopeful. the vein which they had been working so successfully for the past two or three months came suddenly to an end, owing to a dip in the strata, and if struck again, it could probably be struck only at a much deeper level. this would entail considerable development. following on this came large sales in australia, mr. richard chavasse (in consequence of a wire from england) being among them, and the shares went down to nineteen shillings. then the possibility of a war between england and france depressed them still further, and they subsided quietly to fourteen shillings, where, for all that mr. alington at present cared, they were at liberty to remain. thus closed the first act of the great deal, leaving a suspicious market. such was the position on this sunday morning with regard to carmel east and west when mr. alington looked out on the snow-muffled street. he had been to a concert the afternoon before, where they had performed palestrina's mass in b flat and fragments of those sweet, austere melodies still haunted his head. like many men who have a great aptitude for figures, he had a marvellous musical memory, and sitting down at his piano, he recalled gently several of the airs. that was the music which really appealed to him, pure, simple melody of a sacred kind. no one regretted more than he the utter decadence of english music, its fall from its natural genius, which came to perfection, so he considered, under the divine purcell. it had become _déclassé_, in the most awful sense of that awful word. an exotic german growth had spread like some parasitic plant over it; the native taste was still there, and every now and then parry, or some of his immediate school, would give one an air which was worthy of the english best, but otherwise everyone seemed emulous of indefinitely multiplying the most chaotic of wagner, or the music of those people whose names ended in "owski." then, and still from memory, by an act of unconscious cerebration, he played the last chorus out of "blest pair of syrens," and, closing the piano, got up and went to his desk with tear-dimmed eyes, in harmony with himself. he had anticipated events with the precision of a great general. the market had rushed, like starving folk when a granary is opened, at carmel east and west, and after they had reached their highest point, and the big sales began, there had followed something like a panic. west australian mines were still new to the public, and the greater financiers viewed them with suspicion. this sudden scare over carmel east and west suited mr. alington exactly, for it would be sure to bring down the price of the second carmel group--namely, the north, south, and central mines. he had seen this six months ago, and had worked for this very end. at present he had no holdings in mount carmel, except those shares which he held to qualify as a director, and he had delayed any purchase in them till the panic created by the mercurial behaviour of the sister group should have brought down the price. the lower it went, the better would he be pleased, for he intended to make a coup over this compared to which what he had pocketed over carmel east and west should be a mere bagatelle. but for carmel he required no adventitious aid from marquises, and consequently the sudden resignation of tom abbotsworthy from his board, which event had taken place the day before, did not trouble him at all, nor did he care to know what cause "his regret to find that press of work prevented him" covered. the mine he knew was a magnificent property, quite able to stand on its own feet, and in the prospectus he had purposely understated its probable value. in doing so, he was altogether free from possible censure; the mine had seemed to him promising, and he had said so, and when the shares were suitably low he intended to buy all he could lay hands on. purposely, also, he had undercapitalized it; eventually he meant to issue fresh shares. the five hundred thousand pounds already subscribed was not more than sufficient to work carmel north, and both mount carmel and carmel south of the same group he believed to be as remunerative as the others. the panic over carmel east and west had already affected the other group, and yesterday evening the one-pound shares, after a week's decline, stood at fifteen shillings. he proposed to let them go down, if they kindly would, till they had sunk to ten shillings or thereabouts, then buy for all he was worth, and send a telegram to mr. richard chavasse to do the same. and at the thought of mr. richard chavasse he put his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, leaned back in his chair, and laughed aloud with a great mellowness of sound. in certain respects mr. alington, for all his staid conversation and butler-like appearance, was a true humorist; in this instance, at any rate, that he alone should appreciate his own joke was sufficient for him, and he required no sympathizer. indeed, it would have spoiled it all if other people had been able to appreciate it. though a modest man, he considered the chavasse joke very entertaining, and the chavasse joke was all his own, and the point of it as follows: some years ago, out in australia, he had a swiss valet, a clever, neat-handed rogue in his way, who one night was sufficiently ill-advised to open the house to burglars. but the alarm was given. mr. alington, with a revolver and pyjamas, came mildly but firmly downstairs, and though the burglars escaped, he held his valet in the hollow of his hand. the man stood detected, and, hoping to make the best of his miscarried job, confessed his complicity to his master. mr. alington made him give his confession in writing, and sent it to his bank for safe keeping, but for the time took no further steps. but not long before the formation of this new company, four or five months only before his own departure for england, he parted company with his servant, who left melbourne at once. three months afterwards a gentleman with a fine moustache and a short beard appeared--a personal friend, it would seem, of mr. alington's, and a man of wealth, interested in australian mines. a few weeks only after his arrival mr. alington left for england. mr. richard chavasse, however, remained, cultivated and linguistic, and lived in alington's house at, it was supposed, a suitable rent. altogether he may be best described as a creation. here, again, as in so many of the dealings of providence with man, mr. alington often marvelled to see the working of all things together towards good. in the first instance there had not been wanting to his forbearance to give mr. richard chavasse over to the police a vague feeling of compassion at the thought of those deft, shirt-studding hands given over bleeding to oakum-picking and the sewing of mail-bags; and how amply was that sweet pity rewarded! a man bound to him by fear was a far safer repository for the large sums of money, amounting sometimes to forty or fifty thousand pounds, over which mr. chavasse had control, than someone over whom he held no such check. should mr. chavasse attempt to get off with the money, or even--so stringent were alington's regulations for the strict and sober conduct of his life--leave the colony, a wired word from him to the bank would place the ex-valet's confession of complicity in the burglary in the hands of the police. alington, in fact, had speculated largely in chavasses, and he had the wit to see from the beginning that the more comfortable position he gave him, the more man of wealth and mark he made him, the securer he himself would be. a beggar with power of attorney may easily decamp with the spoils, and possibly baffle pursuit, but for the solid man interested in mines, though slightly recluse and exclusive, it is hardly possible to evade capture. besides, who in their senses would not prefer to live delicately than to dodge detectives? certainly mr. chavasse was completely in his senses, and did not attempt escape. what alington meant to do with him after the grand coup in carmels he had not yet certainly determined. in the interval mr. chavasse, ex-valet, lived in his house in melbourne rent-free, and cost mr. alington perhaps eighty pounds a month. but how admirable an investment was that; and how small a percentage of his coinings for his master did that eighty pounds a month represent! already it had often happened, as in the case of carmel east, that alington in england wanted to run up the price of some mine, and strong support in australia was exactly what was needed to give a hesitating market confidence. thus he exercised a dual control: here in england, no doubt, many investors followed his lead, for he was known to be an extremely shrewd man, with the instinct bred of knowledge equalled by none, and invariably his purchases seemed to herald a general advance. for as surely as mr. alington bought in london, so surely did a cable go out to mr. chavasse, "invest balance," or "invest half balance," and in due course came the answer, not necessarily to alington--indeed, seldom to him--"strong support in australia." the plan was simple--all practical plans are: the valet had his choice between two courses of life--the one to live extremely comfortably in alington's delightful house in melbourne, passing pleasant, independent days, and occasionally, as the telegram came from england, making large purchases for this mine or that, or selling still in obedience; the other, to leave his comfortable house, and start off in an attempt to outrun the detectives: for as surely as he tried to escape, so surely would his confession lying at the bank pass into the hands of the police. once a month, indeed, he had to send to england the statement of his accounts, and now and then he had been told that his cigar-bill was too large, or that whisky-and-soda for lunch would be a pleasant change from an expensive moselle. on leaving australia, mr. alington had transferred to him absolutely certain shares, certificates and balance at the melbourne bank in payment, it was supposed, of some large purchase; and not infrequently he could, if he chose, draw a cheque for as much as fifty thousand pounds to self. thus, for a few weeks, perhaps, he would be able to career over the world; but from that moment he would be mr. richard chavasse no longer, that solid, linguistic gentleman, but the man chavasse, earnestly wanted by the police for burglary. there was risk on both sides. alington knew that to convict the man, if he was so insane as to try to escape, meant exposure of his own side of the bargain and good-bye to the dual control. in his heart of hearts, indeed, he had hardly determined what to do should chavasse make so deplorable a blunder. no doubt he could be caught, no doubt his identity could be proved, and he could be landed in the place of tread-mills and oakum-picking, but there would be other revelations as well, not all touching chavasse. however, he never seriously contemplated such possibilities, for he did not believe that the man would ever try to escape. he was comfortable where he was, and comfortable people will think twice before they risk a prosecution for burglary. alington was far too acute to think of frightening him or keeping him continually cowering; exasperation might drive him to this undesirable ruin. instead, he gave him a very fair allowance, and complaints as to the length of his cigar-bill were few. indeed, he had gauged the immediate intentions of his ex-valet very correctly. mr. richard chavasse had no present thoughts of attempting to liberate himself from his extremely tolerable servitude, and probably get in exchange something far less soft, while that confession of his lay at the bank. he had the dislike of risks common to men who have been detected once. if, however, he could by any plan, not yet formulated, manage to remove those risks, his conscience, he felt, would not tell him that he was bound in gratitude to mr. alington never to do anything for himself. this morning, as alington sat working in his well-lighted room, or looked out with kind and absent gaze into the snowy, sordid street, or laughed with pleasure at the thought of mr. richard chavasse, he felt extremely secure, and humbly thankful to the providence which had so guided his feet into the ways of respectability and wealth. without being a miser in the ordinary usage of the word, he had that inordinate passion (in his case for money) which marks the monomaniac. yet he remained extremely sane; his willingness to provide himself not only with the necessaries but also the luxuries which money will buy, remained, in spite of his passion for it, unimpaired. he was not extravagant, for extravagance, like other excess, was foreign to his mild and well-regulated nature, and had not been induced by the possession of wealth, but a scarce print he seldom left unpurchased. he gave, moreover, largely to charitable institutions, and the giving of money to deserving objects was a genuine pleasure to him, quite apart from the satisfaction he undoubtedly felt at seeing his name head a subscription list. in addition to his own great passion also, he had a thousand tastes and interests, a gift that even genius itself often lacks, and it may have been these on the one hand pulling against the lust for money on the other that kept him so well-balanced, just as the telegraph post is kept straight by the strain on both sides. as well as the one great thing, the world held for him hundreds of desirable objects, and the hours in which he was not devoted to his business were not, as they are to so many, a blank and a pause. he closed his ledger and opened the passion music; he shut his piano and untied his portfolio of prints, and his sleek, respectable face would glow with inward delight at each. a certain kindliness of disposition, which was part of his nature, it must be confessed, he kept apart when he was engaged in business. this lived in an attic and never descended the stairs if he was at his desk. to give an instance, he had not the slightest impulse to help kit in her difficulty, though a word from him would have shown her how in the next few months to make good her losses. she had chosen to mix herself up in business, and he became a business man from head to heels. it even gave him a little pleasure to see her flounder in so stranded a fashion, for he had not effaced, and did not mean to efface, from his mind the very shabby thing she had chosen to do to him on the night of the baccarat affair. being very wealthy, it did not really matter to him whether she cheated him of a hundred pounds or a threepenny-bit, but he quite distinctly objected to being cheated of either. had the last trump summoned him on the moment to the open judgment-books, he might have sworn truthfully enough that he had forgiven her, for he did not ever intend to make her suffer for it, even if he had the opportunity of doing so. certainly he forgave her; he would not ever attempt to revenge himself on her, and he had not told a soul about it. but her difficulties aroused no compassion in him, nor would they have done so even if she had never cheated him at baccarat. business is business, and a statue of sentiment has no niche hewn in the mining market. one can do one's kindnesses afterwards, he said to himself, and, to do him justice, he often did. for the present there was a lull in the carmel transaction, and after a very short spell at the ledgers mr. alington closed them with a sigh. there were several receipts lying on his table, and he took them up, read each, and docketed it. one was for a considerable sum of money paid to a political agency. he hesitated a moment before putting the docket on it, and finally wrote on the top left-hand corner: "baronetcy." chapter iii lily draws a cheque toby was sitting after breakfast in the dining-room of his house in town reading the times. it had been settled for him by lily before their marriage that he was to have some sort of a profession, and, the choice being left to him, he had chosen politics. he was proposing to stand for a perfectly safe borough in about a month's time, and though hitherto he had known nothing whatever about the public management of his country's affairs, since he was going to take a hand in them himself, he now set himself, or had set for him, day by day to read the papers. he had just got through the political leaders in the times with infinite labour, and had turned with a sigh of relief for a short interval to the far more human police reports, when lily came in with a note in her hand. "good boy," she said approvingly, and toby rustled quickly back to the leaders again. "a most important speech by the screamer," he announced, honouring by this name a prominent member of the cabinet. "he seems to suggest an anglo-russo-germanic-french-italian-american alliance, and says with some justice that it ought to be a very fairly powerful combination. it is directed, as far as i can make out, against mr. and mrs. kruger." lily looked over his shoulder for a moment, and saw the justice of the _résumé_. "yes, read it all very carefully, very carefully indeed, toby," she said. "but just attend to me a moment first; i shan't keep you." toby put down the paper with alacrity. the sportsman tumbled out from underneath it, but he concealed this with the dexterity bred of practice. "what is it?" he asked, vexed at the interruption, you would have said, but patient of it. "toby, speaking purely in the abstract, what do you do if a man wants to borrow money from you?" she asked. "in the abstract i am delighted to lend it to him," he said. "in the concrete i tell him i haven't got a penny, as a rule." "i see," said lily; "but if you had, you would lend it him?" "yes; for, supposing that it is the right sort of person who asks you for money, it is rather a compliment. it must be a difficult thing to do, and it implies a sort of intimacy." "and if it is the wrong sort of person?" asked lily. "the wrong sort of person has usually just that shred of self-respect that prevents him asking you." lily sighed, and pulled his hair gently, rather struck by his penetration, but not wishing to acknowledge it. "door-mats--door-mats!" she observed. "all right; but why be personal? who wants to borrow money from you, lily?" "i didn't say anyone did," she replied, throwing the note of her envelope into the grate. "don't be inquisitive. i shall ask abstract questions if i like, and when i like, and how i like. read the screamer's speech with great care, and be ready by twelve. you are going to take me to the old masters." she went out of the room, leaving toby to his politics. but he did not at once pick up the paper again, but looked abstractedly into the fire. he did not at all like the thought that someone was borrowing money from his wife, for his brain involuntarily suggested to him the name of a possible borrower. lily had held a note in her hand, he remembered, when she came into the room, and it was the envelope of it, no doubt, which she had thrown into the grate. for one moment he had a temptation to pick it up and see whether the handwriting confirmed his suspicions, the next he blushed hotly at the thought, and, picking up the crumpled fragment from the grate with the tongs, thrust it into the hottest core of the fire. but the interruption had effectually destroyed his power of interesting himself in this world-wide combination against mr. and mrs. kruger. there was trouble in the air; what trouble he did not know, but he had been conscious of it ever since he had gone down one day late in last december to stay with kit and jack at goring, and they had been blocked by the snow a couple of stations up the line. he had noticed then, and ever since, that there was something wrong between kit and his brother. kit had been unwell when they were there: she had hardly appeared at all during those few days, except in the evenings. then, it is true, she had usually eaten and drank freely, screamed with laughter, and played baccarat till the small hours grew sensibly larger. but underneath it all lay an obvious sense of effort and the thundery, oppressive feeling of trouble--something impossible to define, but impossible not to perceive. in a way, supposing it was kit who wanted to borrow money from his wife, it would have been a relief to toby; he would have been glad to know that cash alone was at the bottom of it all. he feared--he hardly knew what he feared--but something worse than a want of money. he sat looking at the fire for a few minutes longer, and then, getting up, went to his wife's room. she was seated at the table, writing a note, and toby noticed that her cheque-book was lying by her hand. he abstained carefully from looking even in the direction of the note she was writing, and stood by the window with his broad back to the room. "lily," he said, "will you not tell me who it is who wants to borrow money from you? for i think i know." lily put down her pen. "toby, you are simply odious," she said. "it is not fair of you to say that." toby turned round quickly. "i am not a bit odious," he said. "if i had wanted not to play fair, i could have looked at the envelope you left in the dining-room grate. of course, i burnt it without looking at it. but i thought of looking at it. i didn't; that is all." lily received this in silence. for all his freckles, she admired toby too much to tell him so. and this simple act, necessitated by the crudest code of honour, impressed her. "that is true," she said. "all the same, i don't think it is quite fair of you to ask me who it was." toby came across the room, and sat down by the fire. the suspicion had become a certainty. "lily, if it is the person i mean," he said, "it will be a positive relief to me to know it. why, i can't tell you. i haven't spoken to you before about the whole thing; but since we went down to goring on that snowy day i have had a horrible feeling that something is wrong. don't ask me what: i don't know--i honestly don't know. but if it is only money i shall be glad." lily directed an envelope and closed it. "yes, it is kit," she said at length. "ah, what have you done?" "i have done what she asked." "how much?" the moment after he was ashamed of the question; it was immaterial. "that is my own affair, toby," she said. toby poked the fire aimlessly, and a dismal, impotent anger against kit burned in his heart. "borrowing! kit borrowing!" he said at length. "of course, i haven't let her borrow," said lily quietly, sealing the note. "you have made her a present of it?" "oh, toby, how you dot your i's this morning!" she said. "shall i unseal what i have written, and put a postscript saying you wish it to be understood that so much interest is charged on a loan? no, i am talking nonsense. come, it is time to go out. kit is coming to see me this afternoon, soon after lunch, so we must be back before two." "kit coming to see you? what for?" "she asked me if i would be in at three. i know no more. oh, my good child, why look like a boiled owl?" the boiled owl got up. "it is a disgrace," he said; "i've a good mind to tell jack." "if you do," remarked lily, "i shall get a divorce--that's all!" "i'm not certain about the law in england," said toby, with emphasis, "but i don't believe for a moment that they'd give it you for such a reason. but make the attempt. try--do try." "certainly i should," said she. "but, seriously, toby, you mustn't think of telling jack. he and kit have had a row, so i believe, and she doesn't like to ask him for money. i come next: i do really, because you haven't got any. besides, you said it was rather a compliment being asked; i agree with you. but to tell jack--preposterous!" she stood in front of him, drawing on her long gloves, her eyes fixed on her hands. then she looked up. "preposterous!" she said again. toby took one of the gloved hands in his. "i love and honour you," he said simply. "thank you, toby. and how dear it is to me to hear you say that, you know. so you'll be good, and let me manage my own affairs my own way?" "for this time. never again." "as often as i wish, dear. oh, am i a fool? you seem to think so." "it's not that--oh, it's not that," said toby. "money--who cares? i don't care a damn--sorry--what you do with it. it doesn't interest me. but that kit should ask you for money--oh, it beats me!" "i think you are hard on her, toby." "you don't understand kit," he said. "she is as thoughtless as a child in many things--i know that--but being thoughtless is not the same as being upscrupulous. and about money she is unscrupulous. pray god it is only----" and he paused, "well, it is time for us to go out, if we want to see the old masters. personally i don't; but you are a wilful woman. and i haven't even thanked you." "i should advise you not," remarked lily. "why? what would you do?" said the practical toby. "i should call you evelyn for a month." toby was sent to a political meeting directly after lunch, and lily was alone when kit arrived. fresh-faced as a child, and dressed with an exquisite simplicity, she rustled across the room, just as she rustled at church, and in her eye there was a certain soft pathos that was a marvel of art. a mournful smile held her mouth, and, giving a long sigh, she kissed lily and sat down close beside her, retaining her hand. it is far more difficult to be a graceful recipient than a graceful donor in affairs of hard cash, and it must be acknowledged that kit exhibited mastery in the precarious feat. with admirable grasp of the dramatic rights of the situation, for a long moment she said nothing, and only looked at lily, and even the doubting apostle might have gone bail that her feelings choked utterance. that she was very grateful for what lily had done is true, if gratitude can be felt without generosity; but it was not her feelings that choked her utterance, so much as her desire to behave really beautifully, and express her feelings with the utmost possible charm. at last she spoke. "what can i say to you?" she said. "oh, lily, if you only knew! what can you have thought of me? but you must believe i loathe myself for asking. and you--and you----" real moisture stood in kit's eyes ready to fall. lily was much moved and rather embarrassed. passionate relief was in kit's voice, beautifully modulated. "please say nothing more," she said. "it gave me real pleasure--i am speaking quite seriously--to do what i did. so all is said." kit had dropped her eyes as lily spoke, but here she raised them again, and the genuineness of the eyes that met hers brought her more nearly to a sense of personal shame than anything had done for years; for even the most undulating _poseur_ feels the force of genuineness when really brought into contact with it, for his own weapons crumple up before it like the paper lances and helmets with which children play. kit's life, her words, her works, were and had always been hollow. but lily's sincerity was dominant, compelling, and kit's careful calculated manner, a subject of so great preoccupation but two seconds ago, slipped suddenly from her. "let me speak," she said. "i want to speak. you cannot guess in what perplexities i am. in a hundred thousand ways i have been a wicked little fool; and, oh, how dearly one pays for folly in this world!--more dearly than for anything else, i think. i have been through hell--through hell, i tell you!" at last there was truth in kit's voice, a genuineness beyond question. her carefully studied speech and silences were swept away, as if by a wet sponge from a slate, and her soul spoke. a sudden unexpected, but imperative, need to speak to someone was upon her, to someone who was good, and these past weeks of silence were an intolerable weight. goodness, as a rule, was synonymous in kit's mind with dulness, but just now it had something infinitely restful and inviting about it. her life with jack had grown day by day more impossible; he, too, so kit thought, knew that there was always with them some veiled other thing about which each was silent. whether he knew what it was she did not even try to guess; but the small things of life, the eating and the drinking, the talk on indifferent subjects when the two were alone, became a ghastly proceeding in the invariable presence of the other thing. to lily also that presence was instantly manifest, the trouble about which toby had spoken that morning. it was there unmistakably, and she braced herself to hear kit give bodily form to it, for she knew that was coming. kit dropped her eyes and went on hurriedly. "i am in unutterable distress and perplexity," she said; "and i dread--oh, i dread what lies before me! for days and nights, ever since that snow-storm down at goring, i have thought only of what i have to go through--what is within a few months inevitable. i have tried to conceal it from jack. but you guess, lily. you know, i even went to a doctor to ask if anything could be done----" lily looked up with a glance of astonished horror. "stop, stop," she said; "you are saying horrible things!" "yes, i am saying horrible things," went on kit, with a strange calmness in her voice; "but i am telling you the truth, and the truth is horrible. the truth about a wicked person like me cannot be nice. you interrupted me. i went, as i told you, but when i got there i drove away again. i was not so wicked as i thought i was." lily gave a great sigh of relief. but she had not seen the other thing yet. "oh, my poor kit," she said; "i am so sorry for you; but--but you see the same thing lies before me. but fear it? i thank god for it every moment of my life. cannot you forget pain, risk, danger of death, even in that? nothing in this world seems to me to matter when perhaps soon one will be a mother. a mother--oh, kit! i would not change places with anyone in earth or heaven." kit did not look up. "it is different for you," she said. "different? how different?" she asked; but a sudden misgiving shook her voice. outlines of the other thing were discernible. a sudden spasm of impatience seized kit. "ah, you are stupid!" she cried. "you good people are always stupid." there was a long silence, and during that silence lily knew kit's secret, and as with everyone the world of trivial things swarmed into her mind. she heard the ticking of the clock, the low boom of life outside, the rustle of kit's dress as she moved slightly. something perfectly direct had to be said by the one or the other; anything else would be as out of place as a remark on the weather to a dying man. "what am i to do?" asked kit at length simply. and the answer was as simple: "tell your husband." "i think jack would kill me if i told him," said kit. "i am very sure he would not. besides, what does that matter? oh, what does that matter?" kit looked up at her in silence, but after a moment lily went on. "don't you see what i mean?" she said. "there are some situations in life, kit, and this is one, where no side-issue, like being killed, comes in. there is, as god is above us, absolutely only one thing to be done, though there are a hundred arguments against it. what is the use of telling him? you might ask. use? of course there is no use. why tell the disgrace? why make him miserable? why make him hate you, perhaps? simply because you must--you must! oh, my poor, poor kit, i am so glad you told me! it must be something to tell anyone, even a feeble little fool like me. how could you have borne it alone? oh, kit, kit!" again there was silence. lily sat leaning forward in her chair, bending towards the other, with all the pure sweet womanliness of her nature yearning in her eyes. perhaps she should have been shocked. she was not, for pity swallowed up the very ground on which censure should have stood. the two women, as asunder as the poles, were for the moment brought close by the divine identical experience of their sex; yet what was to be to one the flower of her life and the crown of her womanhood, was to the other a bitterness ineffaceable, a shuddering agony. "oh, it is difficult, it is difficult!" went on lily; "but when was anything worth doing easy? does not all in you that you know to be best point one way? you cannot imagine going on living with jack, day by day, week by week, without telling him. and when it comes----" lily broke off suddenly. here was no question of words. what could argument do in a case that admitted of none? there was one thing--one thing only--to be done; all else was impossible. if kit did not feel that in her very blood and bones, no words could conceivably make her. she had been sitting quite still and silent, apathetic apparently, during lily's speech. after her outbreak at the beginning, such entire composure was unnatural. the two might have been talking of danish politics for all the interest kit seemed to take in the subject. inwardly storm and tempest raged; old voices, memories, all that was innocent, called to her; the gales of her soul bugled and shook the foundations of her building, but as yet the moment had not come. then suddenly the slightest tremor seemed to shake her, and lily saw that she was beginning to feel, and that some fibre long dormant or numb was still vital. "all i say to you seems nothing more than platitude, perhaps?" she went on; "but platitudes are worth consideration when one touches the great things of life--when interest, tact, inclination, cleverness, are all sunk, and we are left with the real things, the big things--goodness, wickedness, what is right, what is wrong." her tone had a pleading wistfulness in it, her eyes were soft with tenderness, and the simple, homely words had the force of their simplicity. kit was drawing on her gloves very slowly, still not looking up. "tell me two things more," she said, with a tremor in her voice. "do you shrink from me? and the wrong i have done to--to your unborn child, what of that?" lily rose and kissed her on the forehead. "i have answered you," she said. kit got up, hands trembling and with twitching mouth. "let me go," she said. "let me go at once. come if i send for you." she hurried from the room without further good-bye, and lily was too wise to try to detain her. her carriage was still waiting, and she stepped quickly into it. "home," she said. outside the air was brisk with spring, the streets clean and dry, and populous with alert faces. shop-windows winked and sparkled in the lemon-coloured sunshine; at a corner was a barrow full of primroses from the country, and the news of the day lay on the cobbles of the crossing, with stones to keep it from flying, in scarlet advertisement. a shouting wind swept down piccadilly, hats flapped and struggled, errand-boys whistled and chaffed, buses towered and nodded, hansoms jingled and passed, but for once kit was blind to this splendid spectacle of life. her own brougham moved noiselessly and swiftly on its india-rubber tires, and she knew only, and that with a blank heaviness of spirit, that each beat of the horses' hoofs brought her a pace nearer to her home, to her husband--a step closer to what she was going to do. she got out at her own door, and, to her question whether her husband was in, was told that he was up in his room. he had ordered the carriage, however, which brought her back, to wait, as he was going out. kit went quickly up the staircase and along the parquetted floor of the passage, not loitering for fear she should not go at all. jack was standing in front of his fireplace, an opened letter in his hand. as she came in he looked up. kit had advanced a few steps into the room, but stopped there, looking at him with eyes of mute entreaty. she had not stopped to think over what she should say, and though her lips moved she could not speak. "what is it?" he said. kit did not reply, but her eyes dropped before his. "what is the matter?" he asked again. "are you ill, kit?" then the inward storm broke. she half ran across the room and flung her arms round his neck. "i wish i were dead!" she cried. "jack, jack--oh, jack!" chapter iv the darkened house toby was just turning into the bachelors' club next morning after another terrible wrestle with the screamer, when he ran into ted comber. they had met a dozen times since their interview in the links hotel at stanborough last august; indeed, they were both of the snowed-up party which went to the cottage in buckinghamshire in the winter. toby, still in ignorance that his interference had only changed the scene of the week by the seaside, bore him no ill-will at all; in fact, having been extremely rude and dictatorial to him, he felt very much more kindly disposed to him afterwards, and, as usual, on meeting him to-day, he said "hulloa!" in a genial and meaningless manner as they passed. but this morning there was something comparatively dishevelled about ted; the knotting of his tie was the work of a mere amateur, and he had no button-hole. as soon as he saw toby he stopped dead. "how is she?" he asked. toby stared. "how is who?" "kit. haven't you heard?" toby shook his head. "i called there this morning," he said, "for kit and i were going to an exhibition, and they told me she was ill in bed. and jack would not see me." "no, have heard nothing," said toby. "kit called on my wife yesterday, but i did not see her. lily did not say anything about her being ill." lord comber looked much relieved. "i suppose it is nothing, then," he said; "i do hope so. it would be terrible for kit to be ill, just when the season is beginning." toby stood for a moment thinking. "did you say jack refused to see you?" he asked. "yes; i dare say he was very busy. no one sets eyes on him now that he has become a gold-miner. i am told he lives in the city, and plays dominoes in his leisure hours with stockbrokers. probably he was only busy." toby bit his glove. "why else should he refuse to see you?" he asked. "i can't think, because i'm really devoted to jack. well, good-bye, toby. i'm so glad to have seen you. if there was anything serious, i'm sure they would have told you. isn't the morning too heavenly?" lord comber waved his hand delicately, and turned briskly into piccadilly. he had really had rather a bad moment before he met toby, and it was a great relief that that red-headed barbarian knew nothing of kit's illness. it could scarcely be anything serious. one way and another he had seen almost nothing of her since he was down at the cottage in december, for he himself had been out of england, and in the country, until this week, whereas the conybeares had been almost entirely in london. it was a delicious spring morning, and his spirits rose quickly as he went eastwards. he was proposing to do a little shopping in bond street, since kit could not come to the exhibition, and visit his hairdresser and his tailor. a play had just come out at the haymarket, in which the men wore very smart coats with a great deal of thick braid about them, and he intended to order a coat with thick braid at once. he remembered having seen in an old fashion-book of pictures of men with heavily braided coats, and had often thought how smart they looked. but they belonged to the crinoline age, and till now he had never seriously thought of getting one made. but this new play had quite convinced him; though they were the fashion when crinolines were in, they were not of the same ephemeral stamp as their feminine counterparts, and the late nineties should see them again. just at the corner of half-moon street was a flower-seller, with bunches and button-holes of spring flowers. the girl who sold them was pretty, and he looked at her a moment deftly twisting the wire round the stalks, wondering where the lower orders got their good looks from. there were yellow jonquils, breathing a heavy incense; creamy narcissi with flaming orange-coloured centres; exquisite single daffodils, most classic of all flowers, pure and girlish-looking; double daffodils, which reminded him of the same girls grown older and rather stout, overdressed, with fringes; and small fragrant bunches of violets. for violets, except in so far as they were of a lovely colour, he did not care; they were as formless as cotton-wool when put together for a button-hole (the object of flowers), and the scent of them was so precisely like essence of violets as to be _banale_. but as he was dressed in dark blue serge, with a violet satin tie and a sapphire pin, he bought a bunch, and put it in his button-hole, completing his scheme of colour. he gave the girl a shilling, and when she would have offered him a heavy copper change, told her to keep it, and walked on with a little warm charitable feeling, unencumbered by the dead weight of so many pennies. after his tailor's, a visit to perrin's was necessary. he had a very particular hairdresser there, whom he must really take into serious consultation about certain gray hairs. there were at least a dozen of them above each of his ears, and they had appeared there during the last two or three months. all his family went gray early, and it was as well to face it. it was no use getting hair dyes, which might either ruin one's hair or be the wrong colour; it was only wise to consult the very best authorities, and if hair dye was necessary, let it be put on, at any rate directed, by a professional hand. these were gloomy reflections; the shadow of age was beginning to peer over his shoulder, and he did not like it at all. he was as yet only thirty, but already ten years of being a young man, the only thing in the world worth being, were gone from him. five years ago, men of forty, young for their age, were objects of amusing horror to him; their whole life, so he thought, must be one effort to retain the semblance of youth, and their antics were grotesque to the _vraie jeunesse_. but now both the amusement and the horror were gone; it would soon be worth while trying to learn a wrinkle or two from them. at twenty-five forty had seemed beyond the gray horizons; at thirty it had come so near that already, and without glasses (which he did not need yet), one could see the details of that flat, uninteresting land. what he would do with himself when he was forty he could not imagine. marry very likely. but forty was still ten years off, thousands of days, and this morning was a jewel of spring, and he was so happy to think that probably kit had nothing much amiss. really, he had had some bad minutes, but toby must have known if there had been anything wrong. so his spirits rebounded, and he resumed his reflections on age with a strong disposition towards cheerfulness as regards the outlook. when he looked over his contemporaries in his own mind, he candidly found himself younger than they. there was tom abbotsworthy, for instance, whose forehead was already nearly one with the top of his head, separated only by the most scrannel isthmus of hair, and corrugated with wrinkles on its lower parts, smooth and shining above. there was jack conybeare, with a visible tinge of gray in his hair, and lines about his eyes which were plain even by candlelight. ted congratulated himself, when he thought of jack, on his having so promptly gone to the face _masseur_ on his return from aldeburgh in september. it had meant a week of tedious mornings, and an uncomfortable sort of mask at night over the upper part of the face two or three times a week ever since, but the treatment had been quite successful. "not only," as the somewhat sententious professor of massage had said to him, "had the growth and spread of the lines been arrested, but some had actually been obliterated." he congratulated ted on his elastic skin. again, his teeth were good, and really the only reconnoitring-parties of age at present in sight were this matter of gray hairs and a tendency to corpulency. for the former he was going to take prompt steps this morning, and he had already begun a course of gritty biscuits, most nutritious, but entirely without starch, which promised success in point of the latter. but while he was making his butterfly way down piccadilly, occasionally sipping at a jeweller's, or hovering lightly over a print-shop, toby, after a long meditation on the top step of the club, during which time the hall-porter had held the door open for him, turned away instead of going in, and went up park lane to his brother's house. kit's bedroom was directly over the front-door, and, looking up, he saw that the blinds were still down. jack was coming into the hall from his room when toby entered, and, seeing him, stopped. "i was just coming to see you, toby," he said. "i am glad you have come." jack's face looked curiously aged and drawn, as if he had spent a week of sleepless nights, and toby followed him in silence, with a heart sunk suddenly into his boots. there was deadly presage in the air. jack preceded him into the smoking-room, and threw himself down in a chair. "oh, jack, what is it?" asked toby. * * * * * the two remained together for nearly an hour, and at the end of that time came out together again. toby took his hat and gloves from the hall-table, and was putting on his coat, when the other spoke. "won't you go and see her?" he asked, and his voice was a little trembling. "i think i can't," said toby. "why not?" toby had thrust one hand through the arm of his coat, and with it dangling remained a moment thinking. "for two reasons: she is your wife--yours," he said, "and i am your brother; also you were a brute, jack." "for both reasons see her," he said; and his voice was sorry and ashamed. "and it will do no good," said toby, still irresolute. "but it will be a pleasure to kit," said jack. "don't, for god's sake, be always thinking about doing good, toby! oh, it maddens me!" toby disengaged the coated arm, and leaned against the hall-table. "i shouldn't know what to say," he replied. "you needn't know; just go and see her." jack spoke with some earnestness. "go and see her," he went on. "i can't, and i must know how she is. toby, i believe you are sorry for both of us. well, if that is so, i am sure kit would like to see you, and certainly i want you to go. she was asking for you, her maid told me, an hour ago." "i'm a damned awkward sort of fellow," said toby. "suppose she begins to talk, god knows what i shall say." "she won't; i know her better than you." toby put his hat down, and drew off a glove. "very well," he said. "send for her maid." jack laid his hand on toby's arm. "you're a good fellow, toby," he said, "and may god preserve you from the fate of your brother!" jack rang the bell, and sent for kit's maid. the two brothers remained together in the hall without speaking till she came down again. "her ladyship will see lord evelyn now," she said. toby went up the staircase behind the woman. they came to kit's door, and having tapped and been answered, he entered. the blinds, as he had seen from the street, were down, and the room in low half-light. the dressing-table was close in front of the window, and in the dim rose light that filtered through the red stuff, he could at first see nothing but a faint sparkle of silver-backed brushes and bottles. then to the right of the window the bed became outlined to his more accustomed gaze, and from it came kit's voice, rather gentler and lower-pitched than its wont. "toby, it is dear of you to come to see me," she said. "but isn't it stupid of me? directly after seeing lily yesterday i came back here, and tripped on those steps leading from jack's room. i came an awful bang. i must have been stunned, for i remember nothing till i found myself lying on the sofa here. oh dear, i've got such a headache!" toby found himself suddenly encouraged. of all moral qualities, he was disposed to put loyalty the first, and certainly kit was being magnificently loyal. her voice was perfectly her own; she did not say that she had stumbled over something of jack's, still less that he, as toby knew, had knocked her down. he drew a chair up to the bedside. "it is bad luck, kit," he said; "and really i am awfully sorry for you. is your head very bad?" "oh, it aches!" said kit; "but it was all my own fault. now, if anyone else had been to blame for it, i should have been furious, and that would have made it ache worse." she laughed rather feebly. "so one is saved something," she went on, "and even with this head i am duly grateful. it is a day wasted, which is always a bore, but otherwise----" and she stopped abruptly, for the glibness of her loyalty was suddenly cut short by a pang of pain almost intolerable, which pierced her like a sword. she bit the bedclothes in her determination not to cry aloud, and a twenty seconds' anguish left her weak and trembling. "i wanted to see you, toby," she said. "just to tell you how, how----" and she paused a moment thinking that her insistence on the fact that her accident was no one's fault but her own, might seem suspicious--"how glad i was to see lily yesterday!" she went on. "i wonder if she would come to see me; ask her. but you must go now; i can't talk. just ring the bell as you go out. i want my maid." she stretched a hand from under the bedclothes to him, and he took it with a sudden fright, feeling its cold feebleness. "good-bye, kit," he said. "get better soon." she could not reply, for another sword of pain pierced her, and he went quickly out, ringing the bell as he passed the mantelpiece. jack was still in the hall when he came downstairs again, and he looked up in surprise at the speed of toby's return. "she fell down, she told me," he said. "you were quite right, jack--not a word." jack had not time to reply when kit's maid hurried downstairs into the hall. "what is it?" asked jack. "her ladyship is in great pain, my lord," she said. "she told me to send for the doctor at once." jack rang the bell and looked up at toby blankly, appealingly. "go into your room, jack," he said. "i'll send for the doctor, and do all that." a footman was sent off at once for kit's doctor, and toby sat down at a writing-table in the hall and scribbled a note to his wife, to be taken by a messenger at once to his house. if lily was not at home, he was to find out where she had gone and follow her. the note only contained a few words: "my dearest: kit is in trouble--worse than i can tell you. come at once to her. she wants you. "toby." when he had written and sent this, he went back to jack. the latter was sitting at his table, his face in his hands, doing nothing. toby went up to him. "come, jack," he said, speaking as if with authority, "make an effort and pull yourself together. get to your work, or try to. there is a pile of letters there you haven't looked at. read them. some may want answers. if so, answer them. i have sent for kit's doctor, and for lily." jack looked up. "it isn't fit that lily should come here," he said. toby thought of kit's visit the afternoon before, and lily's refusal to him to say anything of what it had been about. that it had been private was all she would tell him, and not about money. and as they were sitting alone in the evening he thought he saw her crying once. "i think it is very possible she knows," he said. "kit had a private talk with her yesterday. wait till she comes." jack rose from his seat. "oh, toby, if you had only telegraphed for me from stanborough, instead of packing him off!" "i wish to god i had!" said toby drearily. jack took up his letters, as toby had told him, and began opening them. there was one from mr. alington enclosing a cheque. he barely looked at it. money, his heart's desire, had been given him, and the leanness of it had entered into his soul. but seeing the sense of toby's advice to do something, he answered some of these letters, mechanically and correctly. before long lily was announced, and toby rose quickly, and went out into the hall to meet her. "ah, toby," she said, "you did quite right to send for me. they just caught me before i went out. you needn't tell me anything. kit told me all." toby nodded. "will you see jack?" he asked. "yes, if he would care to see me. ask him whether he will or not." but jack had followed toby, and before he could answer had come out of his room. "it is awfully good of you to come, lily!" he said. "but go away again. it is not fit you should be here." "if kit wants me, i shall see her," she said. "please let her know that i am here, jack." "it isn't fit," said jack again. "i think differently," said lily gently. "please tell her at once, jack." jack looked at her a moment in silence, biting his lip nervously. "ah god!" he cried, suddenly stung by some helpless remorse and regret, and without more words he went upstairs to see whether kit would see her. he could not bring himself to go into the room, but asked through the maid. soon he appeared again at the head of the stairs, beckoning to lily, who was waiting in the hall below, and she went up. he held the door of kit's bedroom open for her, and she went in. the room was very dark, and, like toby, it took her a few seconds before she could distinguish objects. from the corner to the right of the rose-square of the window came a faint moaning. lily walked across to the bedside. "kit," she said, "my poor kit! i have come." there was silence, and the moaning ceased. then came kit's voice in a whisper: "lily," she said, "i told him. i told him all. then--then--i somehow fell down those stairs leading from his room, and hurt myself awfully. my fault entirely.... i was not looking where i was going. oh, i have felt so terribly ill since this morning, and it is only morning still, isn't it? have they sent for the doctor?" "yes, they expect him immediately. oh, kit, are you not glad you told him? it was the only way. now you have done all you can. it would be worse to bear if you had not told him. oh, i wish--i wish i could take the pain instead of you! hold my hand. grip it with all your force; it will make the pain seem easier. and oh, kit, pray to god without ceasing." "i can't--i can't," moaned kit; "i never pray. i have not prayed for years." "pray now, then. if you have turned your back on him, he has never turned his back on you. the man of sorrows, acquainted with grief, born of a woman! only be willing to let him help you--that is sufficient. think of the graciousness of that! and this is the very week of his passion." "i can't pray," moaned kit again; "but pray for me." the grip of kit's hand tightened in lily's, and she could feel the stones in her rings biting into her flesh. yet she hardly felt it; she was only aware of it. and her whole soul went up in supplication. "o most pitiful, have pity," she said. "help kit in the hour of her need; deliver her body from pain and death, and her soul, above all, from sin. give her amendment of life, and time to amend, and the will to amend. make her sorry. oh, almighty one, stand near one of thy children in her pain and need. help her--help her!" the door of the room opened quietly, and dr. ferguson entered. he held in his hand a little bag. he went to the window and drew up the blinds, letting in a splash of primrose-coloured sunshine; then shook hands with lily, who rose at his entrance, in silence. "you had better leave us, lady evelyn," he said. "please send the nurse up as soon as she comes." lily turned to the bedside once more before leaving the room, and kit smiled in answer to her. her face was terribly drawn and white, and the dew of pain stood on her forehead. lily bent and kissed her, and left the room. she rejoined toby and jack in the smoking-room. jack got up when she entered with eyes of questioning. "the doctor is with her," said lily. "he will be sure to tell us as soon as he can." "do you think she is very bad?" "i don't know. she is in dreadful pain. how on earth did she manage to fall so badly down these steps?" "did she tell you that?" "yes; she said it was entirely her own fault." jack turned away a moment. "i knocked her down," he said at length. lily's eye flashed, but grew soft again. "don't let her know that you have told me," she said. "oh, poor jack!" jack turned to her again quickly. "lily, do you think she will die?" he asked. "and will it be that which killed her?" "don't say such things, jack," said lily firmly. "you have no right to say or think them yet. we must hope for the best. dr. ferguson will certainly tell us as soon as he knows." for another half-hour they sat there, the most part in silence. lily took up a book, but did not read it; jack sat at a table beginning letter after letter, and tearing them up again, and all waited in the grip of sickening, quaking suspense for the doctor's report. footsteps, which at such times fall with a muffled sound, moved about the house, and occasionally the ceiling jarred with the reverberation of a step in kit's room, which was overhead. lunch was announced, but still none of them moved. at last a heavy footstep came downstairs, the door of the smoking-room opened, and dr. ferguson entered. "it is a very grave case," he said quietly. "i should like another opinion, lord conybeare." jack had faced round in his chair, and sat for a moment in silence, biting the end of his pen. his hands were perfectly steady, but one of his eyebrows kept twitching, and the colour was struck from his face. "please telegraph, or send a carriage to whomever you wish for," he said. "a hansom will be quickest," said dr. ferguson, "unless you have horses already in. excuse me, i will write a note." toby got up. "i'll take it, jack," he said. "lily's carriage is still waiting." "thank you, lord evelyn," said the doctor. "sir john fox will certainly see you if you send your card in. he will be at home now. in fact i need not write. bring him back with you, please." toby left the room, and dr. ferguson got up. "she is very ill?" said jack. "yes, the condition may become critical in an hour or two. i shall then"--and he looked at jack--"i shall then have to try to save lady conybeare at whatever cost." jack gave a sudden short crack of laughter, but recovered himself. "meanwhile, lord conybeare," continued the doctor, "you are to consider yourself a patient too. i insist on your having lunch." "i can't eat," said jack. "excuse me, but you have got to. and you too, lady evelyn. by the way, lady conybeare tells me she had a fall. that, of course, caused this premature event. when did it happen?" for a moment jack swayed where he stood, and sat down again heavily. he seemed about to speak; but lily interrupted him quickly: "yesterday afternoon, about four o'clock. lady conybeare told me about it. please come in to lunch, dr. ferguson, unless you are going upstairs again at once, in which case i will send you some up. come, jack." toby returned before long, bringing sir john with him. the two doctors had a short consultation together, and then went upstairs again. * * * * * outside the muffled house the spring day ran its course of exquisite hours. the trees in the park opposite were already covered with little green buds, not yet turned black by the soot of the city, and the flower-beds were bright and heavily fragrant with big, succulent hyacinths. up and down park lane surged the busy traffic; now a jingling hansom would cut in front of a tall, nodding bus, now a dray would slowly cross the park gate, damming up for a moment the two tides of carriages passing in and out. the great bourdon hum of london droned like some overladen bee, still intent on gathering more riches, and the yearly renewal of the lease of life granted every springtime made gay the tenants of this goodly heritage of earth. inside the house jack and lily sat alone, for she had sent toby away for an hour or two to get some air. they hardly spoke to each other; each listened intently for a foot on the stairs. about four o'clock, just as the sun, still high, was beginning to cut the rim of the taller trees in the park, dr. ferguson entered. he beckoned to jack, who left the room. outside in the hall he stopped. "you must decide," he said. "we cannot possibly save the mother and the child." "save the mother!" cried jack. "oh, save her!" his voice was suddenly raised almost to a shriek, and through the closed door, lily, hearing it, started up. in another moment he came back into the room, trembling frightfully, with a wild, scared look. "jack! jack!" she said. "my poor fellow! be brave. what is it?" "they have to try to save one," said jack. "oh, lily!" and with a sudden upheaval of his nature, and an uprising of all that was tender and remorseful, long overlaid by his selfish, unscrupulous life, he gave way utterly and abandonedly. "oh, kit! kit!" he moaned. "if she dies it will be my doing. i shall have murdered her. and we have been married six years! she was not twenty when we married--a child almost. and what have i done for her? have i ever made this wicked, difficult business of life any easier for her? i, too, have been false and faithless, and when poor, brave kit came to tell me--what she told me--i did that which may have killed her. she has to bear it all, and i, brute, bully and coward, go scot-free. she fell like a log, and i was not sorry, only frightened. and she told you, she told toby, she told the doctor, that she had fallen herself. poor, loyal kit! and i am a fine fellow to be loyal to! o god! god! god!" he writhed on the sofa, where he had flung himself in dumb, twisted agony. the pains of hell, a soul knowingly lost, were his. all the love he had once borne to kit, all the years of their excellent comradeship together, rose and filled the cup of unutterable remorse. lily, woman to her heart's core, was one throb of pity for them both, and could scarce find words. "oh, jack!" she said; "there is hope. it is not hopeless. they did not say that. it is awful; but be strong. we have to wait." he did not answer her, but lay like a man dead, his face hidden in the elbow of his arm. lily saw it was no use attempting to reach him by any words. for the time he lay outside the range of human sympathy, inaccessible. the outer darkness of remorse and regret was round him, not to be illuminated, but unpierceable and of necessity so. he was not a good man, but an utterly bad one would not have so suffered. so they sat silent, and the sun sank lower behind the trees, till at length a few rays through the yet thinly clad branches came in level at the window. suddenly jack sat up. "i hear a step," he said, and next moment lily perceived it, too. "go into the hall to them, jack," she said, thinking that he would rather face the inevitable moment of news alone. "i can't," said he. the step came down the stairs, across the flagged hall, and dr. ferguson entered. "she will pull through," he said. "unless anything quite unforeseen happens, lady conybeare will do well." chapter v toby acts without speaking ted comber had passed an arduous but most satisfactory morning. his own particular hairdresser had been kind, sympathetic and consoling. gray hairs were there, and it was no use denying it; but there was a wonderful new preparation, not really a hair-dye, but a natural product, which, like everything else connected with the hair, cost ten and sixpence the bottle, and was to be confidently recommended. he would send it round to south audley street. a little to be applied with a brush every day to the parts affected, and the smell was not unpleasant. from there he had gone to his tailor's, and had a long talk to mr. barrett, who fully appreciated the solemnity of the braid idea, and said it might be an epoch. down the edge of the coat--exactly so--and the waistcoat in the same manner, very broad. and what did his lordship think about the treatment of the trouser? braid on the outside of the leg, or not? and his lordship thought braid. the suit could be ready by saturday evening, and so ted could wear it for the first time on easter sunday, said kind mr. barrett. he came out of the shop humming a tune, very much pleased with himself and braid and mr. barrett. mr. barrett always consulted him as if his advice was worth having, with a bent back. to be a sort of _arbiter elegantiarum_ in town was one of ted's nasty little ideals, and he contrasted himself with a friend of his who was being measured as he came out, who, making some suggestion, not to mr. barrett, but only to an assistant, received the curt reply, "not worn like that now, sir." how different would be the reception of any suggestion of his! mr. barrett would look respectfully thoughtful for a moment or two, and then say, "very becoming, very becoming indeed." as likely as not he would recommend the same innovation to the next customer, endorsing it with, "lord comber has just ordered a coat of that cut, sir." it was already after one when he left bond street, and he turned briskly homewards. the morning was so lovely that he determined to walk, and he reached home just before lunch. the inimitable preparation had already arrived from perrin's, and he went up to his bedroom to try its properties. it was dark chestnut in colour, with a curious pungent smell about it, and he applied it carefully, as directed, to the affected regions. the affected regions smarted a little at the application, but the pain could not be called really serious. though ted had passed such assiduous hours since breakfast, the afternoon was so pleasant that he determined to have another stroll before tea. he had seen no one he knew that day except toby, and he yearned for a little light conversation. so, after changing his blue suit for a more rigorous costume, soon after four he was on his airy way to the bachelors' club. tea and toast always tasted so good at the bachelors' club, and he liked to think he was a bachelor. it was pleasant also, as he walked up the steps, to contrast the sunny content of his five o'clock mood with his moment of real anxiousness this morning. the reading-room was nearly empty, and he sank peacefully into his favourite chair by the window, and took up the pall mall. he abstained from the leading article, and from "silk and stuff," or something of the kind, at the bottom of the first page, cast a vague eye over "the wares of autolycus," without any definite idea as to what they might be, and turned to the small paragraphs to which he bore a closer affinity. royal highnesses were doing various tedious things, race-meetings among them; the german emperor had written a hymn, or climbed a tree, or ridden a locomotive; and about half-way down the page he saw the following: "the marchioness of conybeare is lying in a very critical condition at her residence in park lane." ted read it through once, hardly grasping it, and once more, thinking he must be the victim of some gigantic practical joke. the next moment he got hastily up from his chair, and at the door ran into an apologetic waiter, who was bringing his delicious tea and toast. but he did not pause for that, and going out into the street hailed a hansom, directing the man to drive him to toby's house. they would be sure to know there, and, for private reasons of his own, he did not wish after his repulse of this morning to make a target of himself again at park lane. now, barely half a minute before his hansom drew up there, toby, who had been sent out by his wife to get air, had come in. he was intending to see whether there were any letters for either of them, and then walk back to park lane. his straightforward, wholesome soul was full to brimming, and the ingredients of that cup were sympathy for jack, anxiety for kit, and blind anger and hatred for ted. he was not a canting analyst, and could not have said which ingredient usurped proportion, nor did he cultivate mixed emotions, and the three existed quite separately and individually, making him as wretched as his nature permitted him to be. between them all he felt pulled in pieces; any conclusion to either would make the other two more bearable. he found a couple of letters lying on the hall-table for his wife, and putting them in his pocket to take back to her, he was just turning to leave the house again, when the front-door bell rang. the man who had let him in was still there, and toby, half-way between unreasonable hope and sickening apprehension, thinking that it might be some news from park lane, advanced also towards the door, so that when it was opened he was close to it. outside, on the topmost of the four steps that led up from the pavement, in the most well-cut of raiment, the glossiest of patent-leather shoes, and the most faultless of hats, stood ted comber. toby gave one short gasp, licked his lips with the tip of his tongue, took one step towards him, and knocked him backwards down the four steps. a cry of passionate dismay escaped the falling body; the faultless hat rolled under the hansom, the gold-crutched stick flew in a wide parabola into the area, and toby, smiling for the first time since that morning, and not caring to improve or spoil the situation with words, walked away. the only regret that lingered in his mind was that there had not been a fuller gathering to observe the scene; however, the cabman and his own footman had an uninterrupted view of what had taken place. so toby's footsteps went briskly away along the wet pavement--there had been a cool spring shower some half-hour ago--and the footman at the front-door and the cabman on his exalted perch were left staring. the horse had shied and swerved at this considerable commotion on the pavement, and before the driver could stop it had taken a couple of prancing steps forward, bringing the off wheel with devilish precision over ted's hat, crushing it lengthways. its unenviable proprietor lay fallen across the pavement, his chestnut curls within a few inches of the curb, for the moment stunned. returning consciousness reminded him of a severe pain on the side of his head, a really acute anguish in his right elbow, another hardly less distressing in his shoulder, and two more in his leg. then he picked himself up, and a being more sunk beneath the zones of pity, take him body and mind together, could scarcely have been found in all big london. his frock coat was a fricassée of dirt, his face was vanished in a splash of mud, the elbow of his right sleeve, whence came one of the most excruciating pains, was torn through shirt, and as he got up he could feel the grating of his broken watch-glass. a footman, discreetly but undisguisedly grinning, watched him from the door of toby's house, a cabman from his perch. dignity is scarcely compatible with dirt, and ted knew it. he picked up his hat, which looked as if a drunken man had been trying to fold an opera hat the wrong way, and the battered remnants of what so lately had been so fine climbed into the hansom again, and requested to be driven home. it had not been a very successful visit. his reflections were not the most enviable. that act of toby's, for which he was now but a sorry parcel of aches, meant the worst. and at that thought all that was passably decent in the man came to the surface. there was not enough to cover a large surface, but there was a little. he pushed open the trap at the top of the hansom and changed his destination to park lane. aching and bleeding as he was, he would not wait, wait, wait for tardy news. nor was his anxiety wholly selfish; he had--god knows what proportion this bore to the whole--a fear based on affection. then, having given the order, he devoted himself to patching up a very sorry object. his face was bleeding under the right eye, and his cheek was scratched and raw; it seemed as if all the stray small objects in a london street had been inlaid into it in layers by an unpractised hand. his elbow was cut, his knee was cut, and both ached like toothache. but he mopped and brushed and dabbed till the balance of dirt was on his handkerchief, and when that was clear, realizing that to touch the breaches any more meant the transference of the dirt back again, he leaned idly against the cushions of the cab, in a state of mind compounded of anxiety and unutterable depression. little had he supposed that the mirrors in the corners, often by him so satisfiedly and light-heartedly used, would ever have reflected so battered a self. there was a carriage at the door when he drove up, but it gave him access, and after ringing the bell he huddled back into his cab again. even now, when, to do him justice, he was a prey to the most poignant emotions that had ever touched his putty soul, the instinct of regard for his own appearance, the desire to shield the shattering it had undergone, asserted itself. he leaned forward in the hansom when the front-door was opened, showing to the footman only his undamaged left. "how is lady conybeare?" he asked. "a great improvement, my lord," said the man. "thanks. please tell the coachman to drive to , south audley street." kit was alive--better. his spirits, elastic as his complimented skin, instantly began to recover themselves, and his thoughts straying out of selfishness, absorbed for an hour in another, turned homewards again like sheep to their fold. he had been afraid that he had dropped that nice box of toys, the world, and that they would have been broken. but it seemed that it was not so. he had dropped them, it is true, and some of them, himself particularly, were rather scratched and muddy, but they were not broken. he could play with them a long time yet. instinctively again he turned to the slip of looking-glass in the corner of his hansom. his scratched face had stopped bleeding, and it did not look so bad as he had feared. his hat, it is true, was a sorry sight, but it is easy to get new hats, and the thought that toby's barbarous revenge had mainly spent itself on a lincoln and bennett was even a little amusing. much more important was the patch of whitening hair above his ear, and he turned his face sideways to examine it. even that one application of the dark fluid he had made just before lunch had already changed it; the white hairs seemed to have been blotted with colour. how delightful! he paid the cabman, let himself into the house, and went with a slight limp up to his bedroom, where he rang for his valet. he had had a fall, he explained, and must change his clothes and have a bath. also, he would dine by himself at home, and a telegram must go at once to the haslemeres to say that he had hurt himself and could not come. on the whole, he was not sorry to absent himself. lady haslemere had really become rather tiresome lately. she was always talking about bulls and bears, and ted did not care in the least for the menagerie of the city. his warm bath with pine in it was soon ready, and he went to repair the damages of the day. as he dressed he reviewed the agitations of the hour that had passed. an undignified part had been thrust on him by toby, for the most complacent cannot flatter themselves that they show a brave figure when they are forcibly laid on pavements. but it was in the very nature of the case that the reason of the blow prevented the story going abroad. it was impossible that toby should cause it to be known that he had knocked him down, for people would ask why. secrecy, at any rate, was desired on both sides. as far, then, as that most unpleasant moment was to be regarded, he had only to apply vaseline to his cuts, order some new clothes, and live the occurrence down; not publicly--that would have been trying--but privately. he had only to get over it himself. anyhow, toby knew by this time how completely his bumble-bee diplomacy at stanborough had miscarried, and at that thought the smarting of his own wounds grew appreciably less. decidedly it had not been a pleasant moment when he flew backwards on to the pavement, but it was over. he smarted far more under the effect of the insult than under the insult itself. it was very like toby, he thought, to deal with him in that manner. anyhow, there was a smart in toby's soul which no vaseline could reach. against the violence that had been done him he could set the news of kit's ameliorated condition. he told himself with sublime _naïveté_ that it was worth while being knocked down to learn that. his anxiety had been terrible, really terrible, and he could not but balance that weight removed against other unpleasantnesses. things were not so bad as they might have been. but it had been terrible, and he easily persuaded himself that he was suffering horribly. what had happened he did not yet exactly know; in any case it was horrible, and it would be wise not to dwell on it. he would know to-morrow, and as he brushed his hair he saw again with satisfaction the working of his pungent fluid. he felt battered and tired, and, putting on a floss-silk dressing-gown, lay down on the sofa in his bedroom, and rang the bell for tea. really, he had been through a life-time of suffering since he rang the bell for tea an hour before at the bachelors' club, and he desired that restorative agent most acutely. most of all--and this was highly characteristic--he desired to dismiss the experiences of the day from his mind. it had all been extremely unpleasant, and there was a good deal that was unpleasant still hanging about, like the sultriness of a thundery day, low and imminent. but at the moment he could do nothing: no step that he could take would make matters better, no effort of will would disperse the thunder-clouds, and it was idle to brood over things, and mar one's natural cheerfulness with morose and gloomy reflections. his bright, shallow personality reflected like a wayside puddle whatever was immediately above it, and held no darkling shadows or remote lights of its own, and he was rightly very careful of the buoyancy of his spirits, since that was the best of him, and undeniably of the greatest use. there was a small table by his hand, with the gold-topped scent-bottle, the evening paper, and a few yellow-covered french books on it. he sprinkled his forehead with the scent, threw the evening paper away, for there was a little paragraph in it which he wanted to forget, and took up gautier's "mademoiselle de la maupin," and opened it at random. he read a page or two, and became interested, absorbed. the magic of words, a spell more potent than any wizard's incantation, took hold of him, and the indoor hot-house atmosphere of infinitesimal intrigue was most congenial. the low roar of london traffic outside grew dumb, the agitations of harsh experience grew remoter, the events of the day became to him as the remembrance of some book he had read, and the book he was reading grew flushed with the realities of life. toby in the meantime, after his short and decisive interview without words on the doorstep, had walked back to park lane, and got there not very many minutes after his interviewer had made his call. he went straight into jack's room, and found lily there alone. question and answer were alike needless; her face answered what he had not audibly asked. "she will get through," she said. "they think she will certainly get through." toby threw his hat on to the sofa. "thank god! oh, thank god!" he cried. "where is jack?" "upstairs. they let him see her for a moment. he will be down again immediately. but they could not save both kit and the child, toby." toby sat down by his wife. "oh, lily, what a difference five hours can make!" he observed with that grasp of the obvious which distinguished him. "by the way, i met someone when i was out." "whom?" "him. i went home to see if there were any letters for either of us--oh, there were two for you; catch hold--and as i came out i found him on the doorstep." "what had he come for?" "i didn't ask him. but i know what he went for. spread-eagle on the pavement. all in his beautiful clothes. and the hansom went over his hat; damned neat it was. oh, lily, that made me feel better, and i felt, too, it was a good omen. i wish you had been there. you would have roared." "toby, you are a barbarian! what good does that do?" she said with severity. "what that sort of a man wants is pain," remarked toby. "was he much hurt?" asked lily with extreme composure. "i don't know. i hope so. i hope he was very much hurt." "do you mean you left him lying there?" "yes. he may be there now." lily's severity broke down. "then please have him taken away before i get back," she said. "ah, here's jack!" jack could not speak, nor was there need, but he shook hands, first with lily, then with his brother, and nodded to them. then suddenly his mouth grew tremulous, and he sat down quickly by the table, and covered his face with his hands. lily looked at toby, and in answer to her look he went out of the room. as she passed jack, following her husband, she laid her hand for one moment on his bowed shoulder, and went out also, closing the door behind her softly. chapter vi lily's desire toby and his wife left london the day before easter to spend a fortnight at the cottage in buckinghamshire, which jack had lent them. kit was going on as well as possible, but she could not yet be moved; they hoped, however, that both of them would come down to goring before the others left. mrs. murchison was also spending easter there, before she went back to america, where she purposed at present to be with her husband for a fortnight at least. she had arrived just before tea, the others having come down in the morning, and was a torrent of amazing conversation. "and then on tuesday," she was saying, "i dined with dear ethel tarling at the criterion. we had a beautiful dinner, and most amusing; and all during dinner some glee-club sang in the gallery those delicious english what-do-you-call-thems, only i don't mean meringues." "madrigals?" suggested lily, in the wild hope it might be so. "madrigals, yes! they sang madrigals in the gallery--'celia's arbour' and 'glorious apollyon from on high beheld us.'" lily gave a little spurt of uncontrollable laughter. "always making fun of your poor old mother, you naughty child!" said mrs. murchison, with great good-humour. "toby, you should teach her better. and then afterwards we went to the palace theatre to see the biography. most interesting it was, and the one from the front of a train made me feel quite sick and giddy--most pleasant. oh! and i remember that it was that evening we heard about poor lady conybeare. how sad! i called there this morning, and they said she was much better, which is something." "yes, we hope that jack and kit will both come down here in ten days or so," said toby. "and lord comber, too," went on mrs. murchison guilelessly. "it was that same day he had a fall, and bruised himself very badly. misfortunes never come singly. did you not hear? he fell on his head, and i should think it was lucky he did not get percussion of the brain." toby did not glance at his wife. "very lucky," he said. "was it not? then i spent wednesday at oxford, which i was determined to see before i left england. most beautiful and interesting it is. i lunched with the master of magdalen college, whom i met in london several times, and saw the statue they put up on the place where shelley died." "i thought he was drowned," said lily. "very likely, dear," said mrs. murchison; "and now i come to think of it, the place is near the river, so i expect they put it up as near as they could. you couldn't wish to see them put a recumbent statue, a very recumbent statue indeed, so it is, in ten feet of water, dear," she observed, with great justice. mrs. murchison sipped her tea in a very ecstasy of content. it was barely a year since she had first seen toby, and marked him down as the ideal husband for lily; and there they were all three of them, drinking tea, as she said to herself, in the stately homes of england, how beautiful they stand! her siege of london had been rapid and brilliantly successful. the fortifications had fallen sudden and flat, like the walls of jericho; and she made no more of dining at the criterion with that marvellous lady tarling than of washing her hands or going to america. "yes, the master of magdalen college was most kind," continued mrs. murchison, "and said he remembered toby well. dear me, what a lot i shall have to tell your father, lily! and after lunch--really, a most excellent lunch, i assure you, with quails in asps--we went down to the ibis." "to the where?" asked lily. "to the river," said mrs. murchison, suspecting a difficulty, "and saw where the college boats rowed their races--torpedoes, i think the master called them, and i remember wondering why. his own torpedo won the last races." here toby choked violently over his tea, and left the room with a rapid uneven step. "perhaps it's not torpedoes, then," went on his mother-in-law, supposing that he would have corrected her if he had been able to speak; "but it's something very like. dear me, what a terrible noise poor toby makes! had we better go and pat him on the back? then yesterday i went to the 'messiah' at the albert hall, which made me cry." mrs. murchison looked welcomingly at toby, who here reappeared again, rather red and feeble. "dear toby," she said, "it's just lovely to think of you and lily so settled and titled and happy; and when i'm on the ocean, i shall often go to my state-room, and count the days till i come back. i must be in america at least a fortnight, if not ten days; and i shall try and persuade mr. murchison to come across with me when i return. i'm very lucky about ships: i go out in the lucania, and come back in the campagna. and is there anyone else coming down here before i go on wednesday, or shall we have a nice little no-place-like-home all by ourselves?" "oh, we are going to be simply domestic," said lily, rising, "and we shan't have a soul beside ourselves. you know both toby and i are naturally most domestic animals. we neither of us have any passion for the world. we like being out of doors, and playing the fool, and having high-tea--don't we, toby?" "i have no passion for high-tea," remarked toby. "oh yes, you have. don't be stupid! i don't mean literal high-tea, but figurative high-tea." "the less literalness there is about high-tea, the better i like it," said toby. lily passed behind his chair and pulled his wiry hair gently. "lord evelyn ronald anstruther d'eyncourt massingbird, m.p., is not such a fool as a person might suppose," she remarked. "at times he shows glimmerings of sense. his love for figurative high-teas as opposed to figurative high-dinners is an instance. don't blush, toby. you've little else to be proud of." "i've got you to be proud of," remarked toby, bending back his head to look at her. mrs. murchison rustled appreciatively. that was the sort of thing which english people could say naturally without gush or affectation. a frenchman would have bowed, put his heels together, and kissed his wife's hand. an italian would have struck the region of his heart. an american would have expressed it in four-syllable periphrasis. but toby did none of these things. he said it quite simply, lit a cigarette, and growled: "leggo my hair, lily!" lily "leggoed" his hair. "he is trying to blow rings," she explained, "but he can only blow ribands and streamers. also, he looks like an owl when he tries. rings on his fingers and bells on his toes," she added with immense thoughtfulness. "toby, i'll buy you a peal of bells if you will promise to wear them on your toes." toby got up from his chair. "if anyone has anything else of a peculiarly personal nature to say about me, now is their time," he remarked; "otherwise, we'll go out. dear me! the last time i was here we got snowed up at pangbourne, and slept in the elephant inn, and i remember i dreamed about boiled rabbit. i seldom dream, but i remember it when i do." lily sighed. "yes, and poor kit was waiting for us all here. she was quite alone, mother, and had an awful _crise des nerves_ over it." "i should have thought she was the last person in the world to be nervous," said mrs. murchison. "oh, _crise des nerves_ is not nervousness," said lily; "it is being strung up, and run down, and excited." "my mother," remarked mrs. murchison, "was of a very nervous temperament. i have seen her on the coldest days suddenly empty a carafe of water over the fire, for fear of the house catching. and evenings she would sometimes blow out the candle for the same reason." toby giggled explosively. "and the cruel part was," continued mrs. murchison, "that throughout life she was afraid of the dark, in which the blowing out of the candles naturally left her. so, between her dread of a conflagration and her terror of the dark, it was out of the fireplace into the fire." "frying-pan, mother," said lily. "maybe, dear; i thought it was fireplace. but it's six of one and half a dozen of another. poor mommer! she had a very nervous and excitable temperament, with sudden bursts of anger. at such times she would take out her false teeth--she suffered from early decay--and dash them to the ground, though it meant slops till they got repaired. most excitable she was." "very trying," said toby rather tremulously. "no, we didn't find her trying, toby," said this excellent lady. "we were very fond of her. poor dear mommer!" she sighed heavily, with memory-dim eyes, and toby's laughter died in his mouth. mrs. murchison got up. "well, i shall put on my hat," she said, "and come out with you both. i brought an evening paper down with me, but there is nothing in it, except that there has been a terrible tomato in the west indies, destroying five villages--tornado, i should say--and great loss of life." she went out of the room to fetch her hat, and lily and toby were left alone. toby looked furtively up, wondering what he should meet in lily's eye. her face, like his, was struggling for gravity, and both shook with hardly-suppressed laughter. neither could speak, and they turned feebly away from each other, toby leaning with trembling shoulder on the mantelpiece, and lily biting her lip as she looked helplessly out over lawn and river. now and then there would come from one or other a sobbing breath, and neither dared look round. once lily half turned towards her husband, to find him half turned towards her with a crimson strangling face, and both looked hastily away again. the plight was desperate, and after a moment lily said, in a choking, baritone voice: "toby, stop laughing." there was no answer, and she gave him another moment for recuperation. out of the corner of her eye she saw him wiping away the moisture of laughter. then with a violent effort he subdued the muscles round his mouth. "she's an old darling," he said; "but, lily, i shouldn't have liked your grandmother." lily heaved a long sigh, herself again. "toby, you behaved very well," she said, "and mother is an old darling. come, we'll go out." mrs. murchison took her cheerful presence away after three days, as she was sailing to america almost immediately, and the two were alone for the next week. spring had definitely come, and day after golden day ran its course. life, eternally renewed with the year, had burst from its winter chrysalis, and stood poised a moment with quivering, expanding wings before launching itself into the half-circle of summer months. everywhere, on field and tree, the effervescence of green and growing things foamed like some exquisite froth. one morning they would rise to see that the green buds on the limes had split, shedding their red sheaths; on another, the elms were in sudden tiny leaf; on another, the mesh of new foliage round the willows of the water's edge would make a delighted wonder for them. the meadows were scarce starred with pink-edged daisies when the buttercups sowed a sunshine on the fields, and in cool, damp places yellow-eyed forget-me-nots reflected the pale blue they gazed at so steadfastly. toby and his wife would spend long, lazy mornings in the punt or drive about the deep-banked, primrosed lanes--he all tenderness and solicitude for her, she happier than she had known it was given to mankind to be. they talked but little; to both it seemed that their joy lay beyond the region of words. on the evening of one such day they were strolling about the garden as dusk fell. birds called in the thickets and shrubs, now and then a rising fish broke the mirror of the river, and each moment the smell of the earth, as the dew fell, grew more fragrant. "i wish we were going to stay here a long time," said lily, her arm in his; "but we must go up to london when parliament meets after the easter holidays. the m.p.! good gracious, toby, to think that the welfare of your country depends upon a handful of people of whom you are one!" "parliament may go hang," said toby, "and jack will be delighted to let us stay here just as long as you like." "i am sure of it, but i don't like. what do you suppose i wanted you to get into parliament for, if you were not going near the house?" "never could guess," said toby. "it's much more important that you should stop here if you want to." "don't be foolish--but, oh, toby, when my time comes let me come down here again. it was here we were engaged; let it be here you take your first-born in your arms. i do want that." she turned to him with the light of certain motherhood in her eyes, a thing so wonderful that the souls of all men are incomplete until they have seen it, and her beauty and her love for him made him bow his head in awe. his wholesome humble soul was lost in an amazement of love and worship. "it shall be so, toby?" she asked, with a woman's delight in learning how unnecessary that question was. "will my lord grant the request of his handmaiden?" "ah, don't," he said suddenly. "don't say that, even in jest." "then will you, toby?" she asked. "if my queen wills it," said he. "nor must you say that, even in jest," she said. "i don't; i say it in earnest--in deadly earnest. it is the truest thing in the world." "in the world? oh, toby, a big place! then that is settled." she took his arm again, and they strolled slowly over the short velvet of the grass. "toby, there is another thing i want," she said after a moment. "it is yours--you know that." "i'm glad of it, then, because i don't think you will like it. it is this: i want you to see lord comber, and just shake hands with him." toby stopped. "i can't," he said--"i simply can't." "think over it. you see, toby, it is like this: you are part of me, and before this wonderful thing that is coming comes, i want to be 'all square' with everybody in the world. that's one of your silly golf expressions, so you'll understand it. and i can't be while you are not. don't misunderstand me; it isn't that i don't feel as you do about him, and if i had been you and knocked him down as you did, i think i should have kicked him as he lay on the pavement. but now it is over." "lily, you don't know what you ask," said toby. "if i had any reason to believe the man was sorry, that he had even any idea what a vile worm he is, it would be different. no doubt he had a bad time that day, for, as i told you, his tie was no better tied than mine; but having a bad time is not the same as being sorry, is it?" "no," said lily thoughtfully; "but whether he's sorry or not is not our concern; it doesn't affect what we ought to feel. he was vile; if he had not been, there would be nothing to forgive. besides, you knocked him down. people ought to shake hands after they have fought; and i want you to." "that is the best argument you have given me yet," said toby. "i don't want it to be an argument at all; i don't want my wish to be any reason at all why you should do it. you must do it because you agree with me." "but i don't," said toby. "well, tell me when you would shake hands with him," she said. "would you this day fifty years?" "no," said toby. "would you if he was dying, or if you were?" "i think i should; yes, i should." "oh, but, toby, it is far more important to live in charity with people than to die in charity with them! oh, indeed--indeed it is!" she stopped, and turned round, facing him, and all her soul shone in her eyes. "indeed it is, toby!" she said again. toby looked at her for a long moment, then drew her nearer him. "oh, my love!" he said, "what have i done to deserve any part of you? it is as you wish; how can you doubt it? how can i do otherwise?" she smiled at him. "but why do you do as i wish, toby?" she asked. "it must not be because i want you to." toby was much moved; never before had the wonder and splendour of love so held him. "oh, my beloved," he said, "it is because god has ordained that all you wish is right; i can give you no other reason." dusk began to fall layer on layer over the sky. in the west the sunken sun still illuminated a fleece of crimson cloud that hovered above it, and round them the gray, long english twilight grew more solemn and intense. the outlines of shadows melted and faded into the neutral tint of night, and from the house behind, and from the cottages that clustered together across the river, lights began to twinkle, and the wheeling points of remotest heaven were lit overhead. the crimson in the west died into the velvet blue of the sky, and in the east the horizon was dove-coloured with the imminent moon-rise. and as the two walked they spoke together, as they had not spoken before, of the dear event which june should bring. to lily, the happiness which, please god, should be hers lay in depths too abysmal for thought to plumb; and toby for the first time fully understood how compassion, and no other feeling, had whole possession of her soul, when she had been with kit and jack all that terrible day, hardly more than a week ago. for that which had been to kit a thing to dread was to the other the crown of her life, and that the experience to herself so blessed could be anything different to another woman called for pure pity. and other feelings--amazement, horror, shame--were trivial and superficial compared to that; it swept them utterly out of possibility of existence. the woman, the mother, had been between them a bond insoluble. and kit, so toby thought, had felt something of this. for the five days that had followed, he himself had seen almost nothing of his wife; she had been all day at the house in park lane, and had twice slept there. kit in the weakness and exhaustion of those days had held on, as if to a rock, to the sweet strength and womanliness of the other; that was the force that pulled her back to life. that evening when they went in, lily found waiting for her a letter from jack, saying that the doctor had sanctioned kit's being moved in a week's time, provided she went on as well as she was doing, and that they proposed to come down to goring. one condition, however, jack made himself, that lily should telegraph quite candidly (he trusted her for this) whether she and toby would rather they did not come. she laughed as she read the note, and sent her answer without even consulting toby. chapter vii the second deal it was some eight weeks after easter that mr. alington decided to make the next move in the game of carmel, a move which should be decisive and momentous. he would have preferred for certain reasons to put it off a little while yet, for he had much on his hands, but the balance on the whole inclined to immediate action. during the last four or five months he had done a considerable deal of business as a company-promoter, and at the present moment had some half-million of pounds engaged in other affairs than mines. motor-cars in particular had much occupied him, and he was the happy possessor of many patents for noiseless tires, automatic brakes, simpler steering-apparatus, and what not. he was a man of really large ideas where money was concerned, and a perfect godsend to patentees, for his policy was to buy up any invention concerning motors which possessed even the most modest merit, in the hopes that, say, in two years' time every motor-car that was built must probably carry one or more of the patents owned by him. he had, indeed, at the present moment in england not more than twenty thousand pounds which he could conveniently devote to the booming of carmel, but there was lodged with mr. richard chavasse in melbourne a sum of not less than fifty thousand pounds, with which it was his purpose to supply the "strong support in australia," to the end that carmel should rise rainbow-hued above the ruck of all other mines. altogether his position was a good one, for the last six weeks had brought him from his manager the most excellent private accounts of the mine, which for the most part he had saved up till the booming began. mr. linkwood also advised very strongly a fresh issue of shares. they had at present, for instance, only an eighty-stamp mill, whereas at the rate at which they were now getting gold out there was easily work for a mill of a hundred and fifty or two hundred stamps. it was on this "strong support in australia" by the convenient mr. chavasse that mr. alington chiefly relied; that at any rate should be the final touch. he intended first of all to make a large purchase of his own in england, ten thousand shares at least, and immediately publish encouraging news from the mine. this he would preface, as he had so often done before, by a wire to mr. richard chavasse, which in a few hours would bring forth the accustomed reply, "strong support in australia." but though he would have preferred having a somewhat larger sum at his own disposal for the grand _coup_, he had reason for wishing to start the boom at once. speculators had recovered from the scare of carmel east and west, and already, before he had himself moved in the matter, the quotation for carmel had risen from its lowest price of ten to eleven shillings up to sixteen. this was sufficient in his opinion to show that the public was already nibbling, for professional operators, he knew, were not entering this market, and this was the correct moment to give the fresh impetus. there had been a nineteen days' account just before easter, which had made the market dull, but since then it had begun to show more vitality. other reasons also were his. he was beginning, for instance, to be a little nervous about the immediate success of his dealings in the motor trade. his patents were floated into companies, but in few instances only had the shares been well supported, and in more than one he had incurred a loss--recoverable no doubt in time--which even to a man of his means was serious. worse than that, if this ill-success continued, it would not be the best thing for his name, and he was most anxious to get carmel really a-booming while his prestige was still high. again, many fresh mines had been started in western australia since the original flotation of the carmel group, and his financial sense led him to distrust the greater part of them. several had been grossly mismanaged from the first, some grossly misrepresented. others he suspected did not exist at all, and he wished to hit the psychological moment when speculators were ready, as the improvement in carmel shares had shown, to invest, and before they had seen too much of west australian mines to make them shy. that moment he considered had come. accordingly he instructed his broker to make his own large purchase. this was ten days before settling day, and he hoped to sell out again before those ten days were passed. he had at first intended to purchase only ten thousand shares, but going over his scheme step by step, and being unable to see how it was possible, with this combination of satisfactory news from the mine, his own purchase, and mr. chavasse's strong support in australia, that the shares could fail to rise, he decided to purchase five thousand shares more than he could pay for. it was humanly impossible that the shares should not rise. consequently on thursday he telegraphed out to his manager to send a long cablegram embodying all the private news he had himself been receiving for two months back, to his broker, made his own purchase on friday morning, and the same afternoon sent a cipher telegram to mr. chavasse, telling him to invest the whole of his capital then lying at melbourne bank in carmel, and another in cipher to the manager, bidding him wire "strong support in australia." thus in twenty-four hours his _coup_ was made, and he went back to his passion music and his prints, to wait quietly for the news of the strong support in australia. already in a few hours after his own purchase, backed up as it was with the first of the favourable reports from the mine, the shares had risen three-eighths; the effect on the market, therefore, of the australian support, he considered, level-headed man of business as he was, to be inevitable. he was dining out that evening with lord haslemere, and was disposed in anticipation to enjoy himself. lady haslemere, it is true, was apt to be tedious when she talked about her own transactions in the city, and asked him whether the rise in some mine of which nobody had even heard was likely to continue, and was it not clever of her to have bought the shares at one and a half, for within a week they had risen to two and a sixteenth. she got the tip out of truth. mr. alington, however, had all the indifference of the professional in money matters to the scrannel operations of the amateur, and when in answer to a question of his it appeared that lady haslemere had only twenty shares in this marvellous mine, and had worked herself up into a perfect fever of indecision as to whether they should take her certain eleven pounds profit, or be very brave and fly at fourteen, he felt himself really powerless to understand her agitations. this evening directly after dinner she collared and cornered him, and finance was in her eye. "i want to have a serious financial talk with you," she said, "so we'll go into the other drawing-room, where we shall be alone. come, mr. alington." good manners insisted on obedience, but it was an ill-content financier who followed her. for lady devereux, who played bach quite divinely, was among lady haslemere's guests, and even as he left the room to talk over his hostess's microscopic operations on the stock exchange, he saw her go across to the piano. it is true that he preferred a very large round sum of money of his own to half an hour of fugues and preludes, but he infinitely preferred half an hour of fugues and preludes to about seven and sixpence of lady haslemere's. she lit a cigarette with a tremulous hand. "i want to ask your advice very seriously," she said. "i put three hundred pounds into carmel a week ago, and since then the shares have gone up a half. now, what do you advise me to do, mr. alington? shall i sell out, or not? i don't want to make such a mess as poor dear kit did. she really was _too_ stupid! she took no one's advice, and lost most frightfully. poor thing! she has no head. all her little nest-egg, she told me. but i mean to put myself completely into your hands. do you expect carmel will go higher?" mr. alington stroked the back of his head, and tried hard to look genial yet serious. but it was difficult. lady haslemere had closed the door between them and the next room, and he could hear faintly and regretfully those divine melodies on the steinway grand. and here was this esteemed lady, who was quite as rich as anyone need be--certainly so rich as to be normally unconscious of the presence or absence of a fifty-pound note--consulting him gravely (she had let her cigarette go out in her anxiety) about these infinitesimal affairs. if she had had a fortune at stake, he would willingly have given her his very best attention, regretting only that lady devereux had chosen this moment for playing bach; but to be shut off from that exquisite treat for a small sum affecting a woman who was not affected by small sums was trying. "i can't undertake to advise you, lady haslemere," he said; "but i can tell you what i have done myself: i have bought twenty-five thousand shares in carmel to-day, and have not the faintest intention of selling out to-morrow." lady haslemere clasped her hands. this was a flash of lightning against her night-light. "good gracious! aren't you nervous?" she cried. "i shouldn't be able to eat or sleep. twenty-five thousand--and they've gone up three-eighths to-day. why, you've scored over nine thousand pounds since this morning!" "about that--if i sold, that is to say, which i don't mean to do." "and so you are going to chance the mine going still higher?" "certainly. i believe in it. i also believe the price will rise very considerably yet." lady haslemere bit her lip; she was clearly summoning up all her powers of resolution, and mr. alington for the moment felt interested. he was, as he might have told you, a bit of an observer. whether or no lady haslemere won eleven pounds or fourteen he did not care at all, but that she should care so much was instructive. then she struck her knee lightly with her fan. "i shall not touch my three hundred," she said, and she turned on mr. alington a face portentous with purpose. mr. alington sat equally grave for a moment, but the corners of his mouth lost their sedateness, and at last they both broke out laughing. "oh, i know how ridiculous it must seem to you," said lady haslemere; "but if you have never earned a penny all your life, you have no idea how extraordinarily interesting it is to do so. you may think that it can't matter to me whether i gain ten pounds or lose twenty. but to gain it oneself--oh, that is the thing!" mr. alington smiled with peculiar indulgence. "well, frankly, it is inexplicable to me," he said. "now, if you were playing for a large stake i could understand it, though i seldom get excited myself. well, that is what i am going to do; i am going to play for a very big stake indeed, and i confidently expect to turn up a natural. have you anything more to ask me?--for if not, and you will allow me, i shall go and listen to lady devereux. i have been so much looking forward to hearing her play again." lady haslemere rose. she had wanted to have a general financial talk as well about chaffers and brownhills and modder b, but the oracle had spoken about her grand _coup_, which was the main point. "yes, she plays divinely, does she not?" she said. "i knew lady devereux would be a magnet to draw you here. how busy you must have been lately, mr. alington! one has not seen you anywhere." "very busy indeed. but i intend to take a holiday after the carmel deal is over." "a deal? do you call it a deal?" she asked. "i always thought a deal meant something rather questionable?" mr. alington paused quite as long as usual before replying. "oh no; one uses 'deal' as quite a general term for an operation," he said. they went back into the other drawing-room, and mr. alington, with an elaborate softness, drew a chair up near the piano. lady devereux played with exquisite delicacy and sobriety, in the true spirit in which to interpret that sweet, formal music. she did not thunder and thump, she did not cover swift, catchy runs with the loud pedal, but let each note fill its own minute, inevitable place. she did not extemporize a _rallentando_ where passages were difficult, and make up for this by hurrying over minims, or give you a general idea of a bar. she played the music exactly as it was written with extreme simplicity. there were some twenty people in the room, some whispering together (for lady devereux played so well that nobody talked very loud when she was at the piano), some smoking, some playing cards, some passing under their breath the most screaming scandals; and the music was like a breath of fresh air let into a stuffy room. and by the piano, with his sleek face reposeful, beatific, and wearing an expression of sensual piety about it, sat the only listener--a man whose soul was steeped in money, whose god was mammon, who could roll on like some juggernaut-car over the bodies of those he had ruined without one thought of pity or remorse. yet the melody enchained him; while it lasted he was a child--a child, it is true, with respectable gray whiskers and an expansive baldness on the head, but happy, heedless of anything else in the world except the one exquisite tune, the one delicious moment. before long a baccarat table was made up, but he did not move from his place by the piano. lady devereux, a pretty, good-natured woman, who got on capitally with everybody except her husband, who, in turn, got on admirably with or without her, was delighted to go on playing to him, for she saw how real and how cultivated his enjoyment of her music was, and though she lost charmingly at baccarat, she really preferred playing even to one appreciative listener. she had an excellent memory, her taste was his, and the two wandered long in the enchanted land of early melody. at last she rose, and with her mr. alington. "i need not even thank you," he said; "for you know, i believe, what it has been to me. you are going to play? baccarat for bach! dear lady, how shocking! i think i shall go home. i do not want to disturb the exquisite memories. i shall remember this evening." he stood for a moment with her hand in his. his face looked like the representation of some realistic saint in bad stained glass. "good-night," he said. "and i, too, go and daub myself in actualities. but at soul i am no realist." it was a fine summer evening, fresh and caressing to the diner-out, and he walked back from berkeley street slowly, with the musician ascendant over the financier. of late he had been very much absorbed in business, and had heard hardly any music, and thus this evening had been really an immense treat. after all, there was nothing so essentially delightful to the bones and blood of the man as this: he was still conscious that the passion for money-making which was his, was, as he expressed it, with more fervour than it was his wont to throw into his daily conversation, a daubing in actualities; and to-night it was with a sense of distaste, rising almost to repugnance, that he contemplated an hour at his desk. the work, he knew, would bring its own consolations and rewards, but as he started back he wished neither to be consoled nor rewarded. of late, also, his delight in the polished artifices of money-making had been on the wane; for months now he had entertained, even in his hours of triumphant finance, the idea of retiring altogether from business when once he had brought to its inevitable climax this affair of the carmel mines. to-night this desire to concern himself no more in the jostle of the tokenhouse land was more than usually potent, taking almost the form of resolve. had an angel or devil, it mattered not which, offered him success such as he anticipated in these mines upon the signing of a bond that he would mine and motor no more, he would have signed. what allurements had that peaceful picture! he would sell out (so he figured to himself) his interest in all other businesses, invest his whole fortune in something safe and reliable, perhaps even consols; he would drop the financial times and take in the musical observer, and lead the life that in sober earnest he at the moment utterly believed himself to prefer. he had long been building a charming and palatially-simple house in sussex, where in his declining years he proposed to spend the greater part of his time. there, with his prints, his music, and his gardening, he would pass slow, charming, uneventful days. the "long dark autumn evenings" would wean him from his garden-beds to his priceless portfolios, the turning year entice him to his garden-beds again. he would watch the jostle and the race for money with fatherly, lucretian unconcern. he was tired, he felt sure he was tired, of the eternal struggle for what he held in sufficiency. how gross a parody of existence was the present for a man of truly artistic tastes and sensibilities! in ten days, if things went even passably well, he would have made enough to enable him to gratify these tastes to the full, and, soberly, he wanted no more than that. his beautiful home would be habitable within the year. he would have enough to marry on, for he fully intended to marry, since matrimony was a distinct factor in the social world, and he could say, "soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many years." he was not given to excess of eating, drinking, or merriment--all that was foreign to him--but he would certainly have a string quartette belonging to his very complete establishment. mr. alington had all the coolness in action which ensures success in most human pursuits, from the art of war to the art of making money, and the absence of which postulates a corresponding inefficiency in all practical undertakings. he never lost his head, nor got either frightened or _exalté_ when he was at his work; but the intervals, after he had committed himself to some course of action, and before that action had produced its fruits, were sometimes tense periods to him. he went, no doubt, at forced draught when the great _coups_ were being made, and after he had taken his headlong excursions nature demanded a readjustment, and his fibres were relaxed. these periods of relaxation he usually tided over by the indulgence of his artistic tastes, which he used as a man of less fine sensibilities might use morphia or alcohol. but to-night the fugues and preludes so deftly exhibited by lady devereux seemed only temporarily efficacious. for a while they moved him, but he had not been home an hour when the effect wore off and left him, financially speaking, staring wide-awake. again and again he reviewed the natural effect of what he had done, the normal behaviour of the market towards the events which should be developed next day. already the prices of carmel were rising; to-morrow would come the announcement of strong support from australia, and later in the day the more specific news that mr. richard chavasse--that hard-headed operator--had bought to the extent of fifty thousand pounds. logically, for the money-market is as subject to logical conclusions as any set of syllogisms, its prices must leap. news of the most satisfactory description would continue to arrive from the mine; in a day or two, in a week at the outside, the shares should stand at not less than four to five--no feverish price, but well warranted, so thought mr. alington, by its inherent excellence. there was no doubt there would be some slight fall owing to realizations, but that, so he imagined, would be only a temporary reaction. by settling-day, ten days from now, his twenty-five thousand shares bought in england should be worth more than four times their present value; his fifty thousand pounds invested by mr. richard chavasse something over two hundred thousand. after that a firm good-bye to clamorous gold-getting. he strolled backwards and forwards in his room, now stopping to look for a moment at one of his beloved prints, now lighting a cigarette or sipping a little mild whisky-and-soda. how admirably, he reflected, had his carmel group hitherto turned out! how alluring had been his board of directors, how convincing to the public mind of the security of a scheme to which hereditary legislators lent their honoured names! already more than one new board had copied his example, but it had been a great thing to be first in the field; the novelty of the idea was half its success. but now his noble colleagues might go hang, for all he cared; they had served their turn and been his bell-wethers to the public. jack conybeare, he knew, had followed him in this last carmel speculation, investing largely; he was a shrewd fellow, so thought alington, and would have made a good business man had not the onus of hereditary obligations borne him elsewhere; and if he himself had been intending to start new companies, he would not have been sorry to have him again on his board--no mere name this time, but a man likely to be of practical use. yes; indeed he had struck a vein! though he believed that ninety per cent. of success is due to effort and wisdom, he had got, like most speculators, a secret faith in that "tide in the affairs of men." it was impossible not to believe in strokes of luck; if things showed a general tendency to prosper, it was well to put many things in hand at once. the stars or some occult influence happened to be favourable just then; in the remote, conjectured heavens there was a conjunction of planets of notable benignity to you; it was your chance; the line was clear; hurry, hurry, while it lasted! in the same way one had at other times to work with sobbing steps through a mire of ill-luck. perversity for the moment characterized the universe; inanimate objects were malign; sheathed, hooded presences waited to clutch you. nothing went right; the images of the gods were set awry; ominous mutterings were heard (not fancied) from the shrine. then was the time to venture little, not to ride unmanageable horses, not to use new silk umbrellas, to go gently, neither praising nor complaining, for fear of further provoking the blind forces that strike; above all, not to think to repair ill-luck by wild strokes. in the nature of this world things would come round; a calm, dewy dawn would break on the low-roofed night. wait! for a year his good luck had held. people whom he wished to know had been glad to know him; he was already much at home in london. carmel east and west had behaved with filial piety to their founder, and the greater carmel seemed likely to turn out a son as dutiful, but more magnificent. his name would almost certainly be included in the list of birthday honours, for he had made himself most useful to the conservative party, and was contesting an impossible seat, for which it had been really difficult to find a candidate, and he had given in a princely manner to the party's funds. recognition, he had reason to believe, was almost certain, and he would be delighted to be a baronet. again that discreet rogue mr. richard chavasse had played his part admirably in the pleasant _rôle_ allotted to him. like a person of sense, he had accepted the soft inevitable, and had preferred to live very comfortably at melbourne rather than attempt to get away with the large balance which stood to his name. he had not probably realized that it would have been almost impossible for mr. alington to bring him to justice, for the exposure of the "strong support in australia" would have been inevitable. or perhaps some feeling of gratitude to his benefactor had touched the accomplice of thieves; the criminal class had been diminished by one--a pleasant thought. the arrangement, however, had been a scheme of mutual advantage, and the man, at any rate, had been sensible enough to see that. it would almost immediately be necessary to think what must be done with that great operator, for to-morrow's purchase would be his last. mr. alington, in a gentle glow of charity, was determined to act most kindly to him; his confession should be destroyed, and perhaps he should have a couple of hundred pounds as well, and certainly some pious exhortations. indeed, the only eclipse of the lucky star had been the motor business. there were ugly losses in his ledger over that--uglier than he had quite realized; but carmel should gently heal the sore places with a golden lotion. next morning came a very favourable report from the mine, and about mid-day the news of the strong support in australia. the price had been opened at a little over thirty shillings, the mine was eagerly inquired for, and for a couple of hours it rose steadily, and as it rose seemed to get more and more in demand. then one of those strange periodical madnesses which sometimes affect that shrewd body the stock exchange took possession. everything else was neglected; it seemed that the whole world contained only one thing worth buying, and that shares in carmel. men bought and sold, and bought and sold again; now for half an hour would come a run of realizations, and the price would sink like a back-drawing wave in a swiftly advancing tide; but in another hour that was forgotten; the tide had risen again, covering the lost ground, and those who had realized were cursing their premature prudence, and bought again. steady-going, unemotional operators lost their heads and joined in the wild skying of carmel without a shred of justification, only hoping that they would find everyone else a shade madder than they, and that they would clear out on the top. men sold at three and a half, bought again at four, sold at four and a half, and were not yet content. nobody quite knew what was happening, except that they feverishly desired shares in carmel, and that those shares were getting every moment more expensive. bears who had sold ten minutes before came tumbling over each other to secure their shares before they had gone up out of sight, and having got them, as likely as not turned bulls and bought again, on the chance of carmel going higher, though half an hour ago they had sold in the hope of its going lower. all day this went on, and about an hour before the closing of the market alington, reading the tape record at his club, saw that the shares stood at five and a half--higher than he had ever hoped they would go in a week. for a moment he hesitated. if he chose, there was now within his grasp all that he had been playing for. a hansom to the city; two careful words to his broker, for the unloading must be done very swiftly; then to his music and his baronetcy. in an hour the market would close till monday, for saturday was a holiday; but before monday, on the other hand, would come fresh news from the mine. he debated with himself intently for a moment, and as he waited the tape ticked under his hand. "carmel," it spelled out, "five and five-eighths, five and three-quarters." that was enough. for to-day nothing could stop the rise. there would be time to sell on monday morning. he called for a hansom; he was going to spend from friday till monday in the country, and not having more than enough time to catch the train, drove straight to waterloo, where his valet would meet him with his luggage. chapter viii mr. alington leaves london mr. alington had never felt more at peace with himself, or in more complete harmony with his environment (a crucial test of happiness), than when he drove off to waterloo from the doors of the beaconsfield club, of which he had lately become a member, after reading the last quotation of carmel. all his life he had been working towards the consummation which was now practically his. his desire was satisfied, he had enough. a few forms only still remained to be put through, and he would be finally quit of all markets. on monday morning his broker would sell for him every share he held in carmel. on monday morning, too, would that shrewd operator, mr. richard chavasse, follow, as if by telepathic sympathy, the workings of mr. alington's mind, arriving at the same just conclusions, and a close with the offer made him by the varalet company in paris for all the patents he owned in the motor business _en bloc_--at a considerable sacrifice, it is true--completed his financial career. keen, active, and full of the most flattering triumphs as had been his progress towards this acme of his fortunes, yet he had never thought of it as anything but a progress, a road leading to a goal. never had he let the edge of his artistic sensibilities get blunt or rusty from want of use, and he found, now that his more material work was over, that he himself, the vital and essential man, who dwelt in the financier, looked forward, like an eager youth on the threshold of manhood, to the real and full life which he was about to enter. humble thankfulness and grateful contentment with the dealings of providence with him was his also. he had fifty years behind him; pleasant years and wholesome with hard work, during which he had used to great advantage many excellent gifts. the business of his life hitherto had been to make money; in that he had shown himself to be on the large scale. but more essential to him throughout all these years had been his growing artistic perceptions, his increasing love of beauty; that he felt to be the reason and the spring of his happiness. in this regard he had ever cultivated, with the assiduous patience born of love, his natural taste. that keen appreciation of palestrina and the early melodists was no original birthright of his; it was a cultivated pleasure; a pleasure, no doubt, of which the germ was inborn, but cultivated to a high degree and with effort, because, simply, he believed it to be his duty to make the most of a gift. in this matter of duty he had often suffered much wrong. the charitable impulse which had led him, one day in the spring, to draw so large a cheque to mr. metcalfe, had been an unjust derision in jack's mouth. alington really believed (and the most transcendent honesty cannot get below a genuine belief) that part of that notable cheque should be entered as a business transaction, part on the page devoted to charity. he may have deceived himself, but he was not aware of it; he acted, as far as he knew, with the most judicial fairness in the partition of its entry. but now for weeks past he had looked forward to the day when he should pass out of the money-making world to a fairer and more melodious one. he had no insane ambition to make inordinate wealth, nor to add a million to his million; his wealth he had steadily regarded as a means to an end, that end being the power to gratify his artistic tastes to the full. he did not forget to pray at his _prie-dieu_ morning and evening, nor had he forgotten it on the most feverish days of finance, and he was at peace, imperfectly, no doubt, but, as far as his capabilities went, perfectly, with regard to death and what lay beyond. meantime this life held for him much that was beautiful, much that was wonderful. he desired to realize its wonder and beauty as completely as possible. all his life he had been a getter of money, or so the world held him. but now no more. on monday morning all his connection with the market would be severed, the real man should lead his real life. these thoughts passed through his brain in a gentle glow of intimate pleasure, as his hansom went briskly towards waterloo. he was going to spend this friday till monday with mrs. murchison, in her charming house on the winchester downs, where the invigorating unused air would make more temperate this really tropical weather. a terrific heat-wave, from a positively scalding sea, had drowned london these last few days; the city had been a burning fiery furnace, and the consolation of being cast there, of having got there unwillingly, was denied him, for the flames had been of his own self-seeking. he might, indeed, as soon as he had made the _grand coup_, three days ago, have left london, and waited for the inevitable result in cool retirement, but this retreat from the scene of action had been morally impossible to him. never before, as far as he remembered, had an operation so taken hold of him; never before had the tickings of the tape, or the call-whistle of his telephone, been of so breathless an urgency. exciting as had often been the satisfaction with which he had watched the climbing of a quotation from twos into threes, or threes into fours, he could not recollect a restlessness so feverish as that with which he had watched the rise of carmel. for this had been the _comble_ of all: the rise of the price meant to him a perfect freedom from all future rises. to see carmel quoted above five had been equivalent to his emancipation from all that should hereafter touch the nerves. yet here was one weak spot. he had seen the quotation of over five and a half ticked out by the tape, yet he had not instantly sold. the old adam in his case, as in so many others, had inconveniently and inconsistently survived. he had not been able to resist the temptation of wanting to be richer than he truly wanted to be. but in order to cut himself off from any such weakness in the future, he immediately pushed open the trap-door, and told his driver to stop at the nearest telegraph office, and ten minutes after he had taken his final step, wiring both to his broker in london, and in cipher to mr. chavasse, at melbourne, to sell out on monday morning. but this weakness was but inconsiderable. he had attained success all down the line; the only wavering had been between completeness and more than completeness. here, as was natural, the instinct of years stepped in. the habit of making ten pounds in complete safety was more potent than the certainty of making nine. his own large purchase had heralded the rise, the good news from the mine had shouted an endorsement, the "strong support in australia," the news of which had reached the market with the infallible result so long foreseen by him, had put the seal on certainty. the deal was beyond doubt. at last and at last! this crippling of his life was over; he was free from the necessity of money-making, free also, thank god! from the desire. he no longer wanted more than he certainly had. how much can be said of how few! his inward happiness seemed reflected in all sorts of small external ways. his horse was fast, his driver nimble at picking an unsuspected way, and the porters at waterloo, miraculously recovered from the paralysis of the brain induced by ascot week, not only were in accord as to the platform from which his train would start, but, a thing far more rare and precious, were one and all perfectly correct in their information. to mr. alington, though his nature was far removed from the cynical, this seemed almost too good to be true, till, in his benignant strolls up and down the line of carriages, he met his hostess, mrs. murchison. she was feeling the heat acutely, but was inclined to be talkative. "so you've come by the early train," she said. "well, i call that just friendly, and it's the early bird that catches the train, mr. alington, and here we are. but the heat is such that if i was wicked and died this moment, i fancy i should send for a thicker mantle, and that's a chestnut. lady haslemere comes down by the four something, which slips a carriage at winchester--or is it five?--which i think perilous. they cast you adrift, the lord knows where, for i inquired about it, without engine, and if you haven't got an engine, where are you? a straw hat--that's just what we are going to be; a straw-hat party like lady conybeare and the tea-gowns, and dinner in the garden." "that will be delicious," said mr. alington after his usual pause. "dinner out of door is the only possible way of feeding without the impression of being fed. i always----" "well, that's just beautifully put," interrupted mrs. murchison. "you get so much all-fresco out of doors. and that's what i missed so much in my last visit to america, where i stopped a fortnight nearly. the set-banquet, with all the ceremonial of the barmecides, like what mr. murchison rejoices in, and the colour he turns over his dinner, seems to me an utter nihilism of the flow of soul. why, there's lady haslemere! so she's caught the early bird too." lady haslemere, according to her invariable habit, only arrived at the station one minute before the starting of the train, in a great condition of fuss, but she pressed mr. alington's hand warmly. "you were quite right," she said: "i didn't sell out two days ago, and, oh! the difference to me. i have just this moment sold at five and three-quarters. only think!" "i congratulate you heartily," said mr. alington, with a smile of kind indulgence; "i too am going to sell on monday morning." a shade of vexation crossed lady haslemere's face. "do you think it will go higher again?" she asked. "a shade, very likely. but possibly it may react a little. i was in two minds myself as to whether i should sell to-day." lady haslemere's brow cleared. "oh, well, one can't always sell out at the very top," she said; "but it will be annoying to me if it goes to six. two hundred and forty times five shillings. ye-s." "i think you have done very well," said mr. alington, with just a shade of reproof in his voice. the financier travelled in a smoking compartment, the two ladies in a carriage to themselves, and as the train slid out towards vauxhall high among the house-roofs, mr. alington felt that in more than this literal sense he was leaving london, that busy brain of the world, behind and below him. and though his parting glances were certainly not regretful, they were very kindly. he had been well treated by this inn at which he had passed so many years, laboriously building his house and the fortunes of his house. that was done; he needed hired chambers no longer. the newsboys, who at this very station had looked on him as a regular purchaser of the more financial of the evening papers, found him to-day quite indifferent to their wares, and even the placard "extraordinary scenes on the stock exchange" met an uninterested eye. one boy, indeed, had been so accustomed to give him the evening standard that, seeing his large profile against the carriage window before the train started, had without request handed him in the paper. but mr. alington pushed it gently aside. "not to-day, my lad--not to-day," he had said; "but here's your penny for you." the carriage was empty and, as london fell back behind the train, mr. alington's spirits, usually so equable and so seldom falling below the temperate figures of content, or rising into feverish altitudes, became strangely light and buoyant. he had often wondered in anticipation how this moment--the moment of casting off from him the chains of fortune-building--would affect him. exciting and exhilarating hours had often been his; numerous had been the triumphs which his clear-sighted scrutiny of the financial heavens had brought him. he had felt a real passion for his pursuit; but the joy of the pursuit had never blinded him to the fact that it was an object he was pursuing. he wanted a certain amount of money, and he had now got it, and already the joy of having attained had swallowed up the lesser joy of attaining. he had often asked himself whether the habit and the desire of obtaining were not becoming too integral a part of him; whether, when his purpose was achieved, he would not feel suddenly let down--put out of employment. if that should prove to be so, he felt that his life would largely be a failure: he would have elevated the means into the end. but the moment had come; it was his now, and he knew within himself that he had kept clear of so deplorable an error. he felt like a boy leaving school after a successful term, having won, and having deserved to win, some arduously-reached distinction. the thought gave gaiety to his glance: his eye sparkled unwontedly, he had a mind to dance. but the mood deepened; the surface gaiety became transformed into a thankfulness of a far more vital kind, and as the train devoured the miles between clapham junction and waterloo, he knelt down on the dusty carpet of his carriage, and, with bared head and closed eyes, he thanked god for having given him the brain and the will to succeed, and, during that pursuit of the transient stuff, for not having let his heart be hardened at the daily touch of gold. money-making, in the moment of this success, he still saw to be not an end in itself. the danger of that insidious delusion he had escaped. and before he rose he registered a vow to use the fortune of which he had thus been made steward temperately and wisely. a large party was going to gather at mrs. murchison's next day, but till then there would only be the three who had come down by this train, and four or five more who had proposed to embark on the danger of the slip-carriage train, which would, if it ever came to port, land them in winchester in time for dinner. mr. alington had eagerly accepted the earlier invitation, in order that he might spend the saturday in examining the monuments and antiquities of the old town. he had brought with him a compendious green guide to the city, and having mastered its principal contents in the train, he was able to point out to the ladies the buildings of interest which they passed in their drive out. the college, above all, attracted his benevolent gaze, and his pale-blue eyes grew dim as they rolled by those lines of gray wall, the dimpling river which crossed beneath the road, the mellow brick of the warden's house, and the delicate grace of the chapel tower, which dominated and blessed the whole. "a priceless heritage! a priceless heritage!" he murmured. "nothing can make up to me for not having been to one of the great public schools. the boys seem careless enough, heedless enough, god bless them!" he said, as a laughing mob of them streamed out of the college gate; "but the gracious influences are entering and working in them every day, every hour, forming an unsuspected foundation for the after-years. the peace and the coolness of this sweet corner of the world is becoming a part of them. all that i have missed--all that i have missed!" he sighed softly, while lady haslemere yawned elaborately behind her hand. but the elaborate yawn ended in a perfectly natural laugh. "dear mr. alington," she said, "you are quite deliciously unexpected and appropriate. for you to be discontented with your lot is a splendid absurdity. i would have lived in a suburb all my life if to-day i could have sold your number of carmel shares at the price i got." mr. alington looked at her a moment, pained but forbearing. "so would i," he said. then, leading the talk away from anything so intimate to him, "ah, that delicious stretch of water-meadow!" he said. "there is no green so vivid and delicate as that of english fields. and hark to the cool thunder of the weir." a far-away rapture illumined his stout face, and mrs. murchison, who had made a speciality of nature, struck in: "there is a solidarity about english landscape which i do not find in our country," she said. "like mr. alington, i could listen to that weir till i became an octogeranium. 'peace with plenty,' as lord beaconsfield used to say. i was down at goring yesterday with dear lily, and we sat on the lawn till midnight, or it might have been later, and i had a long discussion with jack conybeare about the duties of the london county council. most rural and refreshing it was! ah, dear me!" mrs. murchison sighed, not because she was sad, but because her feelings outstripped her power of expression. "so green and beautiful!" she murmured, as a sort of summary. lady haslemere put up her parasol, extinguishing the view for miles round. "mr. alington, do give me a hint as to what to go for next week. will there be a rise in south africans, do you think?" the rapture died from mr. alington's face, but it gave place to a purely benignant expression. he shook his head gently. "i cannot say," he answered. "i have followed nothing during these last weeks except the fortunes of carmel. but any broker will advise you, lady haslemere." mrs. murchison's house stood high on the broad-backed down, to the south of the town, and up at this height there was a wonderful freshness in the air, and the heat was without the oppressiveness of london. a vast stretch of rolling country spread out on every side, and line upon line of hills followed each other like great waves into the big distance. though the drought had been so severe, the reservoirs of the sub-lying chalk had kept the short, flower-starred grass still green, and the long-continued heat had not filched from it its exquisite and restful colour. alington took off his hat and let the wind lift his rather scanty hair. it was an extreme pleasure to him to get out from the overheated stagnation of london streets into this unvitiated air, and he wondered at the keenness of his enjoyment. he had never been a great lover of the country, but it seemed to him to-day as if a heavy accumulation of years had been lifted off him, disclosing capacities for enjoyment which none, himself perhaps least of all, had suspected could be his. he gently censured himself in this regard. he had made a mistake in thus stifling and shutting up so pure and proper a source of pleasure. he would certainly take himself to task for this, and put himself under the tuition of country sights and sounds. they had tea under the twinkling shade of a pine copse at the end of the lawn, and presently after mr. alington again took his straw hat, with the design of a stroll in the fresh cool of the approaching evening. the other two ladies preferred to enjoy it in inaction, waiting for the arrival of the adventurous slip-carriage guests, about whose fate mrs. murchison reiterated her anxiety. so mr. alington, secretly not ill-pleased, started alone. he was about half-way down the drive, when he met a telegraph-boy going towards the house, and, in his expansive, kindly manner, detained him a moment with a few simple questions as to his name and age. finally, just as he turned to walk on, he asked him for whom he was delivering a telegram, and the boy, drawing it out of his pouch, showed him the address. mr. alington opened it slowly, wondering, as he had often wondered before, why the envelope was orange and the paper pink. it was from his brokers, and very short; but he looked for some considerable time at the eight words it contained: "terrible panic in carmels. shares unnegotiable. wire instructions." at first he read it quite blankly; it seemed to him that the words, though they were simple and plain enough, conveyed nothing to his mind. then suddenly a huge intense light, hot and dazzling beyond description, appeared to have been uncovered somewhere in his brain, and the words burned and blinded him. he let the pink paper fall, bowing and sidling on the gravel of the drive, then stooped down with a curious groping manner and picked it up again. he put it neatly back inside the envelope, and asked the boy for a form, on which he scribbled a few words. "do nothing," he wrote. "i will come up immediately." he gave the boy a shilling, waving away the change, and then, going to the grassy bank that bounded the drive, he sat down. except for that moment, when his brain, no doubt instantaneously stunned, refused to tell him the meaning of the words, it had been absolutely composed and alert. the telegram gave no hint as to the cause of this panic, but without casting about for other possibilities, he put it down at once to his one weak point, mr. chavasse. that determined, he gave it no further thought, but wondered idly and without much interest what he felt. but this was beyond him. he had no idea what he felt, except that he was conscious of a slight qualm of sickness, so slight and so purely physical, to all seeming, that he would naturally have put it down, had it not appeared simultaneously with this news, to some small error of diet. otherwise his brain, though perfectly clear and capable of receiving accurate impressions, was blank. there was a whisper of fir-trees round him, and little points of sunlight flickered on the yellow gravel of the drive as the branches stirred in the wind. lady haslemere's voice sounded thin and high from the lawn near--he had always remarked the unpleasant shrillness of her tones--and his straw hat had fallen off. he was conscious of no dismay, no agony of regret that he had not sold out two hours ago, no sense of disaster. he sat there five minutes at the outside, and then went back to the lawn. the ladies looked up in surprise at the quickness of his return, but neither marked any change in his sleek features nor uncertainty in his step. his voice, too, when he spoke, was neither hurried, unsteady, nor differently modulated. "mrs. murchison," he said, "i have just received the worst news about--about a venture of mine, which is of some importance. in fact, there has been, i fear, a great panic on the stock exchange over carmel. may i be driven back to the station at once? it is necessary i should return to london. it is a great regret to me to miss my visit. lady haslemere, i congratulate you on your promptitude in selling." he stood there bland and respectable for a moment, while mrs. murchison murmured incoherent sympathy, surprised at the extraordinary ease with which polite commonplace rose to his lips. the courteous necessary words seemed to speak themselves, without any direction from him. the blow that had fallen upon him must, he thought, have descended internally, for his surface behaviour seemed as equable as ever. he was conscious only of the continuance of the qualm of sickness, and of a little uncertainty in movement and action. he had intended, for instance, as far as he intended anything, to go away as soon as he had said good-bye, and wait for the carriage alone. but he found himself lingering; his feet did not take him away, and he wondered why. his straw hat was in his hand, and he fanned himself with it, though he did not feel hot. perceiving this, yet still holding it, he stopped fanning, and bit the rim gently; then, aware that he was doing that, he put it on again. "so good-bye," he said for the second time. "ah, lady haslemere, you asked me for a tip. well, if this panic is really serious--and i have no doubt it is--buy carmels at the lower price, for all you are worth, if you have the nerve. i assure you that you cannot find a better investment. good-bye, good-bye again. perhaps--oh no, it doesn't signify. may i order the carriage, then, mrs. murchison? thank you so much!" he lifted his hat, turned, and went to the house. chapter ix the slump the london evening papers that day were full of the extraordinary scenes that had taken place on the stock exchange. before the opening of the market that morning carmel had been eagerly inquired for, owing to the activity produced by the very extensive purchases on the day before, and an hour before mid-day news had been cabled from australia that there was very strong support in the market there for the same, mr. richard chavasse alone having purchased fifty thousand pounds' worth of the shares. closely following on this came news from the mine itself: the last crushing had yielded five ounces to the ton, and a new, unsuspected reef had been struck. the combination of these causes led to one of the most remarkable rises in price ever known. the market (so said one correspondent) completely lost its head, and practically no business was done except by the mining brokers. the shares that day had started a little above thirty shillings, and by four o'clock they had reached the astounding figure of £ s. d. a well-known broker who had been interviewed on the subject said that never in the course of a long experience had he known anything like it. sober, steady dealers, in his own words, went screaming, raving mad. a boom in westralian gold, it is true, had long been expected, but nothing could account for this extraordinary demand. no doubt the fact that mr. alington had purchased largely the day before had prepared the way for it, for he was considered among mining operators the one certain man to follow. but the sequel to this unparalleled rise was even more remarkable. buying, as had been stated, was much stimulated by the news of strong support in australia (indeed, it was this that had been the signal for the rush); but about four o'clock, when the shares were at their highest, and some considerable realizations were being made, though the buying still went on, a sudden uneasiness was manifested. this was due to the fact that the telegram announcing the strong support in australia was contradicted by another and later one, saying that the market in carmel was absolutely inactive. upon this, first a general distrust of the telegrams from the mine itself was manifested, and then literally in a few minutes a panic set in, as unaccountable as the previous rise; business came to a standstill, for in half an hour everyone was wanting to sell carmel, and buyers could not be found. a few of the heaviest plungers cleared out, with thousands to their credit, but the majority of holders were caught. the shares became simply unnegotiable. the market closed on a scene of the wildest confusion, and when the exchange was shut the street became impassable. to a late hour a mob of excited jobbers continued trying to sell, and just before going to press came a report that mr. alington, who had left town that day, but suddenly returned, was picking up all the shares he could lay hands on at a purely nominal figure. settling-day, it would be remembered, occurred next week. a committee of the stock exchange was going to investigate the matter of the false telegram. kit and jack had come down to goring that day to join toby and his wife there. kit was steadily gaining strength, but this evening, being a little tired, she had gone to bed before dinner, and now, dinner being just over, lily had left the others to see how she was. neither jack nor toby was given to sitting over wine, and as soon as lily went upstairs, they removed into the hall to smoke. the evening paper had just come in, and jack took it up with some eagerness, for his stake in carmel was a large one. he read through the account of what had taken place quite quietly, and leaned back in his chair thinking. unlike lady haslemere, a few nights ago, he did not let his cigarette go out. at length he spoke. "i expect i have gone smash, toby," he said. he threw him over the paper. "read the account of what happened to-day on the stock exchange," he added. toby did not reply, but took the paper. "the only thing to be thankful for is that i didn't sell out just before the panic," remarked jack. toby read on in silence till he had finished it. "why?" he asked. "because it would look as if i had known that the first telegram was false. what extraordinary nerve alington must have! do you see that he has been buying every share he can lay hands on?" "i don't understand about the first telegram," said toby. "nor do i, thank god!" "supposing it is a real smash, will you have lost much, jack?" "eight thousand pounds--more than that, indeed, unless the price goes up again before settling-day, for i've only paid for about half my shares." toby was silent a moment, wondering how jack had ever had eight thousand pounds to invest of late years. the latter understood the silence, and acknowledged the justice of his difficulty. "i made three thousand over carmel east and west," he explained. "that with my year's salary as director, makes eight. i invested it all, and bought more." toby looked up. "did that fellow give you five thousand a year as director?" he asked. "that fellow did." toby whistled. "a committee of the stock exchange is going to investigate the whole affair, it appears," he said. "won't that be rather unpleasant if they get into salaries?" "exceedingly. mind you don't let kit know, toby, until one has more certain news." he took a turn up and down the room in silence. "extremely annoying," he said, with laudable moderation; "and i can't imagine what has happened, or who is responsible for the first telegram. alington cannot have caused it to be sent merely to make the market active, for it was certain to be contradicted." a man came into the room with a telegram on a salver, and handed it to jack. "reply paid, my lord," he said. jack turned it over in his hand without opening it, unable to make the effort. then he suddenly tore it open, and unfolded the thin pink sheet. it was from alington. "can you meet me to-morrow morning at my rooms, st. james's street?" it ran. he scribbled an affirmative, and gave it back to the man. "i shall have to go up to-morrow," he said to toby; "alington wants me to meet him in london; i shall go, of course. what a blessing one is a gentleman, and doesn't scream and sweat! now, not a word to anyone; it may not be as bad as it looks." jack started off early next morning, and drove straight to alington's rooms. sounds of piano-playing came from upstairs, and this somehow gave him a sense of relief. "people _in extremis_ do not play pianos," he said to himself, as he mounted the stairs. alington got up as soon as he came in. "i am glad you were able to come," he said; "it was expedient--necessary almost--that i should see you." "what has happened?" asked jack. mr. alington took a telegram from his pocket, and handed it to him. "the unexpected--it always does: this, in fact." jack took it and read: "chavasse left for england by p. and o. yesterday." "you don't understand, my dear conybeare, do you?" he said. "it is a very short story, and quite a little romance in its way." and, in a few words, he told jack the story of the burglary, chavasse's confession, and his idea of using him as an independent operator in australia. "i make no doubt what has occurred," he said. "the man has drawn out the somewhat considerable balance i left at melbourne for him to invest when ordered, and has taken it off with him. he has also, i expect, got hold of his own confession--a clever rogue." "but the telegram?" asked jack. "who sent the telegram about the strong support in australia?" mr. alington opened his mild eyes to their widest. "i, my dear fellow!" he said; "at least, of course i caused it to be sent. as usual, two days ago, i despatched one cipher telegram to this valet of mine, telling him to invest, and another to my manager telling him to wire, 'strong support in australia.' he did as i told him; chavasse did not. that is all." jack was silent a moment, but it did not take him long to grasp the whole situation, for it was very simple. "and what next?" he said. alington shrugged his shoulders. "unless the shares go up again before next settling-day, i shall almost certainly be bankrupt," he said. "then why, if the papers were correctly informed, did you go on buying last night?" "because i could get carmel dirt cheap," he said. "if they go up, i am so much the richer; if they do not, i am done in any case. this unfortunate _contretemps_ about my foolish valet does not affect the value of the mine. the gold is there just the same." "but nobody will believe that," put in jack. "for the present, as you say--for the immediate present--they will not realize it. they will think themselves lucky to part with their shares enormously below their value. my fortune depends on how soon they realize it." "there will be an inquiry into the matter?" "undoubtedly. bogus telegrams are not officially recognised by the stock exchange." alington was certainly at his best, so thought jack, when things happened. his sleek, unhurried respectability, a little trying and conventional at ordinary times, though unaltered in itself, became admirable, a rare manifestation of self-control. no flurried quickening marked his precise, unhurried sentences; they remained just as leisurely as ever. as in the days when carmel east and west was behaving in so mercurial a manner, though so consonantly with his wishes, so now, when the greater _coup_ had struck so back-handedly against himself, he did not cease to be imperturbably calm and lucid. though without breeding in the ordinary sense of the word, he had to a notable extent that most characteristic mark of breeding, utter absence of exaltation in unexpected prosperity and complete composure in disaster. there was nothing affected about him; he was, as always, unimpulsive master of himself, and this, which in the social mill seemed a lack of animation, in the mill of adversity became a thing to respect. "you take it very quietly," said jack. "it is mere habit," said alington. "by the way, i hope, my dear fellow, that your wife is better?" "much better, thanks. we went to goring yesterday." "so i saw in the papers. how much had you in carmel?" "eight thousand pounds cash. and half of my shares i have bought only, not paid for." "ah! will that be a difficulty?" "more like an impossibility, unless they go up before settling-day." "i am sorry for that," said alington, "for i should have recommended your buying even more. i am going to bluff the thing out. i am going to buy and buy. chavasse may go hang. i shall make no attempt to get him or his--my--fifty thousand pounds." "fifty thousand!" exclaimed jack involuntarily. "fifty thousand! indeed, i could not before the ship touches at the cape. but if i buy, and am known to be buying, it is still conceivable that confidence may be restored, that the damage done by that absurd, unreasonable panic yesterday may be repaired. i don't say that the rush for shares was not insane, but the panic was not less so. and now, my dear fellow, i congratulate you on the way you have taken it. you would make a financier. _Æquam memento rebus in arduis!_ how horace has the trick of stating simple things inspiritingly! a divine gift." "but what do you suppose they will find out at the inquiry?" asked jack. "ah, you need not fear the inquiry in the least. that will not touch your salary as director, which is the sort of thing which i see you have on your mind. no. what would perhaps be serious for you is, if i became bankrupt. then, it is true, my private accounts where your salary figures would be made public. the surest means of avoiding that is that shares should go up again before settling-day. it is with this view i am buying now; with this view i should recommend you to desperate measures! desperate? oh, certainly! but i must remind you that the case is fairly so. i see it is lunch time. you will lunch here, of course?" kit had not yet risen when jack went up to london that morning, and she found lily alone in the garden when she came down. her illness had left her very weak and frail, and though she was getting on rapidly, she felt very different from the kit who, a few weeks ago, would dress twenty times a day for twenty engagements, and sit up half the night with baccarat. physically and mentally, she had been much jarred by a very sudden and startling pull-up. all her life she had been content to go drifting giddily along, asking only of the moment that it should amuse her; and in those days when she lay in the darkened room it seemed as if somebody, not herself, had asked her some serious and frightening questions. at any rate, she had a scare, if no worse, and she felt disposed to go cautiously. out of she knew not where had leaped the forces that strike, that pay the wages of all action, of sin, of virtue, of justice and injustice, and to her had wages been given. she had heard of such things before; cant phrases of childhood reminded her that one reaped as one had sown, that causes lead to effects, but until now she had not any more certain news of them. but during those three days of semi-consciousness, in which she had clung instinctively to lily, it was as if some piece of herself, dormant and overlaid for the most part by the entertainment of ordinary every-day living, had, in the disablement of that, reasserted itself, and now that she was winning her way back to normal conditions this new consciousness had not been stilled again. lily, whom she had hitherto regarded as enviably rich, rather proper and _guindée_, had touched some chord in her which did not cease to vibrate. of all people in the world, kit would, _à priori_, have considered her the one who would naturally have shunned her. hitherto she had regarded her, viewed by any intimate standard, with all the complete indifference with which people who do not consider themselves good look upon those whom they regard as being so, and the sinner is always sublimely incurious of the attitudes and actions of the saint. but lily had come to her in her need; _guindée_ as she might be, she had yet been a comfort and an encouragement to her in the hopelessness of her desolation, just as if she was not, as kit supposed she must be, shocked at her. afterwards, during her convalescence, for days a secret fear had beset kit that the moment would come when lily would talk to her seriously, "jaw her," as she put it to herself--very sweetly and gently, no doubt, but still "jaw" her. that would spoil it all. but day had added itself to day, and the "jaw" was still unspoken. lily was only more patient with her than anyone, and more comfortable. she was not amusing, but kit for once did not want to be amused. her presence was pleasant; it was what kit wanted, and this gave her food for thought. more than once, again, during those darkened days kit had broken down, cried herself nearly hysterical, and it was lily who had soothed her back from the borders of insanity. she had not asked after the state of kit's soul, or urged repentance on her; she had not been improving, or told her that pain was sent her for a good reason. once, indeed, as we have seen, she had prayed with her, and kit, who would naturally have screamed at such an idea, or told all her friends what liberties a quite nice sister-in-law sometimes took, did neither. she found--it may have been imagination--that it did her good. all these things she had revolved secretly, but often, while they were staying at goring, and they seemed to her significant. her mind, indeed, used them as its ordinary provender, going to graze on them habitually. lily and toby were off next day, and when kit came down on the sunday morning following jack's departure to london, she had determined to talk to lily. it struck her as odd that three weeks ago she should have been so nervous that lily was going to talk to her, whereas now she herself was about to give her an intentional opportunity of doing so. also to-morrow she would be left alone with jack, who would return then, and sooner or later she and he would have to talk. hitherto both of them had avoided the one subject which filled their minds: while in london it was an ever-present dread to each that some day this must come, each continually apprehensive that the other would begin, yet half longing to get it over. both knew that the thing had to be talked out, there was no getting over that; nor was it any use waiting till the narcotic accumulation of time should dim the memories of that scene when kit had told him all, and been answered by a blow. there are certain things which no lapse of time will ever cover: this was one. words had to pass between them, and what those words should be neither could guess. here was another reason why kit wanted to be talked to by lily. they walked up and down the lawn for a few minutes, speaking of indifferent things, and lily made some reference to her leaving on the next day. "and i shall be alone with jack," said kit simply, but with purpose. "yes," said the other. then, after a pause: "you must have things to say to each other, kit. jack told toby yesterday he had hardly had a word with you since you were ill." kit stopped. "i dread it," she said, "and i know it must come. but, lily, what is to be said on either side? what can be said?" "ah, it's no use thinking over what you are going to say," said lily. "you will say what you must, what you feel." "i don't know what i feel," said kit. "let us sit down; it is warm. and i want to talk to you." they sat down on a garden-seat, shaded by the fan-branched cedar and looking out over the haze of summer sunshine and the slow, strong river. "i don't know what i feel," said kit again. "try to tell me as best you can," said lily quietly. "well, i won't be dishonest with myself, i am sure of that," said kit. "just now i have a horror of what--of what is past. but how can i know from what it springs? it may be only because the terrible consequences are still vivid to me. i have been wicked all my life--it is no use pretending otherwise. i have never tried to do good or to be good. well, i get paid out for a bad thing i have done. is it not most probable that i have a horror of it only because the punishment is very fresh to me?" "that is something," said lily. "if punishment makes you detest what you did, it is doing its work." "ah, but the burglar who is caught doesn't detest burglary, really. he may not commit it again, but that is a very different matter. you beat a dog for chasing a cat; when it sees a cat next time, it probably will put its tail down, but you have not eradicated its tendencies, or changed its nature." kit paused. she was groping about helplessly in her dim-lit soul. "you are a good woman, lily," she said. "you don't and you can't understand a person like me. oh, my dear, i should never have got through it but for you! i want to be good--before god, i believe i want to be good, but i don't know what it means. i can only say that i will not do certain things again. but how feeble is that! i want to see ted again--oh, how i want to!--but i believe that i want not to. is that any good? i want to love jack again. i did once, indeed i did, and i want him to love me. that is hopeless: he never will." lily was puzzled. kit's difficulties seemed, somehow, so elementary that explanation was impossible. but she knew that it was only through the acknowledgment and the facing of them that her salvation lay. kit was a child in matters of morals, and perfectly undeveloped; but, luckily, plain simplicity is the one means by which to approach children. tact, finesse, all the qualities which kit had and she had not were unneeded here. "kit, dear, it doesn't matter, so to speak, whether jack loves you or not," she said. "anyhow, it doesn't concern what you must do. oh, you will not find things easy, and i never heard that one was intended to. you will find a thousand things you want to do, and must not, a thousand things you must do which are hard--harder than the old bazaar-opening, kit. i am assuming, of course, that, on the whole, you want to be good. there is the great thing, broadly stated." kit nodded her head. "i don't know. i suppose i do," she said. "well, there is no master key to it," said lily. "separately and simply you have to take each thing, and do it or avoid it. you will need endless patience. i don't want to preach to you, and i don't know how; but you have asked me to help you. your life has been passed in a certain way: you have told me certain things about it. on the whole, you wish the future to be different. forget the past, then--try to forget it. do not dwell on it: it is a bad companion. it will only paralyze you, and you need all your power for what lies in front of you." "do you mean i must renounce the world, and all that?" asked kit. "no, nor go into a nunnery. you have a duty towards jack. do it; above all, keep on doing it, every day and always. consider whether there are not many things, harmless in themselves, which lead to things not harmless. avoid them." "don't flirt, you mean?" said kit quite sincerely. lily paused a moment. there was a certain coarse simplicity about kit which was at once embarrassing and helpful. never were appearances more misleading; for kit, with her pallor and exquisite face, looked the very image of a refined woman of the world, one who lived aloof from the grossness of life, yet of fine and complicated fibre. instead, as far as present purposes were concerned, she was as ignorant as a child, but without innocence. she had lost the latter without remedying the former. "certainly don't flirt," she said; "but don't do a great deal more than that. remember that you are a certain power in the world--many people take their tone from such as you--and let that power be on the right side. one knows dimly enough what goodness is, but one knows it sufficiently. i don't want you to be a raving reformer: that is not in your line. set your face steadily against a great many things which are commonly done by the people among whom you move." "the things i have done all my life," said kit. "yes, the things you have done all your life." kit sat silent, and the gentleness of her face to this straight speech was touching. at last she looked up. "and will you help me?" she asked. "oh, lily! i have been down into hell. and i didn't believe in it till i went there. but so it is--an outer darkness." she said it quite simply and earnestly, without bitterness, or the egotism which want of reticence so often carries with it. round them early summer was bright with a thousand blossoms and melodies; the mellow jangle of church bells was in the air; the time of the singing-bird had come. "but i can't feel--i am numb. i don't know where to go, or where i am going," she went on, her voice rising. "i only know that i don't want to go back to the life i have hitherto led; but there is nothing else. the great truths--god, religion, goodness--which mean so much, so everything to you, are nothing to me. i feel no real desire to be good, and yet i want to be not wicked. one suffers for being wicked. i can get no higher than that." "stick to that, dear kit," said lily. "i can tell you no more. only i know--i know that, if one goes on doing the thing one believes to be best, even quite blindly, the time comes that one's eyes are slowly opened. out of the darkness comes day. one sees from where one has come. then one look, and on again." "but for ever, till the end of one's life?" asked kit. "till the end of one's life. and the effort to behave decently has a great reward, which is decent behaviour." "and jack--what am i to say to jack?" "all you feel." "jack will think it so queer," said kit. "you did not see jack when you were at your worst that afternoon. oh, kit! it is an awful thing to see the helpless anguish of a man. he will not have forgotten that." "jack in anguish?" asked kit. "yes; just remember that it was so. here's toby. i thought he was at church. what a heathen my husband is!" toby strolled up, with his pipe in his mouth. "i meant to go to church," he said; "but eventually i decided to take--to take my spiritual consolation at home." "i, too, toby," said kit. chapter x toby draws the moral toby was sitting in the smoking-room of the bachelors' club some weeks later on a hot evening in july. the window was open, and the hum of london came booming in soft and large. it was nearly midnight, and the tide of carriages had set westward from the theatres, and was flowing fast. the pavements were full, the roadway was roaring, the season was gathered up for its final effort. now and then the door opened, and a man in evening dress would lounge in, ring for a whisky-and-soda, and turn listlessly over the leaves of an evening paper, or exchange a few remarks with a friend. as often as the door opened toby looked up, as if expecting someone. it had already struck midnight half an hour ago when jack entered. he looked worried and tired, and by the light of a match for his cigarette, which he lit as he crossed the room to where toby was sitting, the lines round his eyes, noticed and kindly commiserated a few months before by ted comber, seemed deeper and more harshly cut. he threw himself into a chair by toby. "drink?" asked the other. "no, thanks." toby was silent a moment. "i'm devilish sorry for you, jack," he said at length. "but i see by the paper that it is all over." "yes; they finished with me this afternoon. alington will have another week of it. jove! toby, for all his sleekness and hymn-singing, he is an iron fellow! he's got some fresh scheme on hand, and he's going about it with all his old quiet energy, and asked me to join him; but i told him i'd had enough of directorships. but there's a strong man for you! he is knocked flat, he picks himself up and goes straight on." he picked up the paper, and turned to the money-market. "and here's the cruel part of it all," he said, "for both of us: carmel is up to four pounds again. if they had only given him another month, he would have been as rich as ever, instead of having to declare bankruptcy; and i--well, i should have had a pound or two more. lord! on what small things life depends!" toby was silent. "about the park lane house," he said, after a pause. "i talked it over with lily, and if you'll let us have it at that price, we shall be delighted to take it. we only have our present house on a yearly lease, which expires in july." "you're a good fellow, toby." "oh, that's all rot!" said toby. "lily and i both want your house. it isn't as if we were doing you a kindness--it isn't really, jack. but it's such rough luck on you having to turn out. of course, you and kit will always come there whenever you like." jack lit another cigarette, flicking the end of the old one out of the window. "i think i will have a drink, toby," he said; "my throat is as dry as dust answering so many pertinent and impertinent questions, as to what i received as director, and what i made over carmel east and west. they let me off nothing, and the radical papers will be beautiful for the next week or two. they'll be enough to make one turn radical." "poor old jack! whisky? whisky-and-soda, waiter--two. well, it's all over." "ted comber was in court to-day," continued jack, "all curled, and dyed, and brushed, and manicured. he watched me all the time, toby. upon my word, i think that was the worst part of the whole show." toby showed his teeth for a moment. "i've made it up with him, i'm sorry to say," he remarked. "lily insisted on it. we shook hands, and i was afraid he was going to kiss me." "by the way, how is lily?" "happy as a queen when i left her this morning, and the boy, oh! jack, a beauty. he was shouting fit to knock the house down: you could have heard him in goring. i left early, but kit got up and breakfasted with me. knowing how she hates getting up early, i put that down at its proper value. but she didn't attend to me much: she has no thoughts except for lily and the boy." "kit has behaved like a real trump all through this," said jack. "never a word or a look of reproach to me. she's just been cheery, and simple, and splendid. you know, toby, she is utterly changed since--since that time before easter. we had a long talk the day after you and lily left us there two months ago. i was never so surprised in my life." "at what?" "at what she said, and at what i said--perhaps most of what i said. she told me she was going to try not to be such a brute. and, upon my soul, i thought it was an excellent plan. i said i would try too." toby laughed. "there's your whisky," he said. "hang it all! i haven't got any money. you'll have to pay for it yourself, jack--and mine, too. so you and kit made a bargain?" jack glanced round the room, which had emptied of all its well-dressed, weary occupants. he and toby were alone. "yes, we made a bargain. the worst of it was that neither of us know how to try, so we consulted lily. did it ever occur to you, toby, that you have married the nicest girl that ever breathed?" "i _had_ an idea of it. it was kit's doing, too. funny, that." "well, lily told us. she said some damned clever things. she said that turning over a new leaf meant not even looking back once to the old one. you know, toby, that's devilish good. i thought she'd tell us to think what brutes we had been, and repent. not a bit of it. we've just got to go straight on. don't grin; i'm perfectly serious." "i'm sure you are. i was only grinning at the notion of lily telling you to repent. you know, if there are two things that girl is not, jack, they are a preacher and a prig." "you're quite right, and i always thought that to be good you had to be either one or the other, and probably both. she tells me it is not necessarily so, and so kit and i are going to set to work. we are not going to run up any more huge bills which we can't pay; we are not going to invent or to listen to scandalous stories about other people; and we are going to flirt. we suggested that, and lily thought it would do to begin upon. also i was to tell the truth about alington's bankruptcy. i did that. really, toby, it's very easy to tell the truth: it requires no effort of the imagination. but the truth is a brute when it comes out." toby looked up smiling, but jack was perfectly grave and serious. "yes, you may think i don't mean it," he said, "but i do. we mean to reform, in fact; god knows it is high time. kit and i have lived in what i suppose you would call rather a careless manner all these years, and we have come to an almighty, all-round smash. we had a very serious talk--we had never talked seriously before, as far as i can remember--and we are going to try to do better." jack got up and went to the window, and leaned out for a moment into the warm summer night. then he turned into the room again. "we are indeed," he said. "good-night, toby;" and he walked off. ted comber had been to the opera that night, and was going on to a dance. they had been doing the "meistersingers," and it was consequently after twelve when he got out. the dance was in park lane, and he turned into the bachelors' club to freshen himself before going on. he had spent a really delightful day; for he had lunched with amusing people, had sat an hour listening to jack conybeare's examination in the alington bankruptcy case, and had had the opportunity of telling a very exalted personage about it afterwards, making him laugh for ten minutes, and ted, who had a fine loyal regard for exalted personages--some people called him a snob--was proportionately gratified. of course it was too terrible for poor jack, but it was absurd not to see the light side of it when properly considered. "i was really so sorry for him i didn't know what to do," he had said to lady coniston at dinner. "isn't it too terrible?" and they had both burst into shrieks of laughter, and discussed the question from every point and wondered how dear kit took it. the freshening up in the lavatory of the bachelors' club meant some little time and delicacy of touch. he had to be careful how he washed his face, for he had taken pains with it. certainly the effect was admirable; for the least touch of rouge on the cheek-bone, and positively only the shadow of an antimony pencil below his eyes had given his face the freshness of a boy's. he looked at himself quite candidly in the glass, and said, "not a day more than twenty-five." for he was no friend of false modesty, and any modesty he might have assumed about himself would have been undeniably false. all this care for one's appearance, it is true, made a terrible hole in one's time; but if it lengthened one's youth, it was an excellent investment of hours. there was nothing that could weigh against that paramount consideration. he dried his hands, still looking at himself, and put on his rings. a touch of the hairbrush was necessary, and for his hands the file of the nail-scissors. then he put on his coat again and went into the hall. jack conybeare was in the act of coming out of the smoking-room. ted had only a short moment for reflection, and almost without a pause he went on, meeting jack. "good-evening, jack," he said; "are you coming to the tauntons'? kit is in the country still, is she not?" jack had stopped on seeing him, and looked him over slowly from head to heel; then he walked by him without speaking, and went out. ted was only a little amused, and more than a little annoyed. just now it did not matter much what jack did, but, being wise in his generation, he did not care about being cut by anybody. the conybeares would probably pick up again in a year or two, and to be cut by the master of quite one of the nicest houses in london was a bore. besides, he was in an acme of good-fellowship after his amusing day. he went on into the smoking-room to look round before proceeding to his dance. toby was still sitting in the window where jack had left him. since their reconciliation a day or two before, ted had felt most friendly towards him, and he went delicately across the room to him, looking charming. "i just met jack in the hall," he said; "he looks terribly tired and old." toby bristled like a large collie dog. "naturally," he said. "in fact, he was rather short with me," said ted plaintively. this was too much. toby got up. "naturally," he said again. the poor little butterfly felt quite bruised. really, the conybeares had not any manners. it serves so little purpose to be rude to anyone, and it was so easy and repaying to be pleasant. he knew this well, for the whole of his nasty little life was spent in reaping the fruits of being constantly pleasant to people. they asked you to dinner, they asked you to stay at their country houses, and having asked you once they asked you again, because you took the trouble to talk and amuse people. what more can a butterfly want than a sunny garden with flowers always open? such a simple need! so easy to satisfy! well, there was a delicious flower open in park lane, and he went on to his dance. he must really give up the conybeares, he thought; they were becoming too prickly. he had written twice to kit, and had received no answer. jack had given him a dead cut; toby was a bear. and he sighed gently, thinking how stupid it was of the flowers to shut themselves up. as soon as he had gone, toby resumed his seat by the window. during the last few months he had touched life in a way he had never done before. to him this business of living had hitherto been a cheery, comfortable affair; the question of taking it seriously, even of taking it at all, had never formally presented itself to him. then quite suddenly, as it were, as he paddled pleasantly along, he had got out of his depth. the great irresistible forces of life had swept him away, the swift current of love had borne him far out into the great ocean of human experience. then, still encircled by that, he had seen storm-clouds gather, grim tempests had burst in hail and howling wind, the sea had grown black and foam-flecked. he had seen the tragedy of his brother's home--sin and its wages ruthlessly paid. there were such things as realities. and after that what? into what new forms would the wreckage be fashioned, these riven planks of a pleasure-boat? but underneath the lightness of jack's words to-night there had lain, toby felt, a seriousness which was new. and the change in kit was more marked still. outside, the world rolled on its way, and each unit in the crowd moved to his appointed goal, some of set purpose, others unconscious of it, but none the less on an inevitable way. in the brains of men stirred the thoughts which, for good or ill, should be the heritage of the next generation, part of their instinctive equipment. the vast design was being worked out, unerringly, unceasingly, unhurried and undelayed, through the sin of one, the virtue of another. to fall itself and to fail was but a step towards the ultimate perfection; behind all worked the master-hand. by strange pathways and chance meetings, by the death of the scarcely born and the innocent, by the unscathed life and health of the guiltiest, by love and beautiful things and terrible things, had all reached the spot where they stood to-day. devious might be the paths they should hereafter follow, but he who had led them thus far knew. and as toby thought on these things, moved beyond his wont, he looked out, and saw with a strange quickening of the blood that in the east already there were signs that out of night was shortly to be born another day. the end arcadian adventures with the idle rich by stephen leacock, - contents i a little dinner with mr. lucullus fyshe ii the wizard of finance iii the arrested philanthropy of mr. tomlinson iv the yahi-bahi oriental society of mrs. rasselyer-brown v the love story of mr. peter spillikins vi the rival churches of st. asaph and st. osoph vii the ministrations of the rev. uttermust dumfarthing viii the great fight for clean government chapter one: a little dinner with mr. lucullus fyshe the mausoleum club stands on the quietest corner of the best residential street in the city. it is a grecian building of white stone. about it are great elm trees with birds--the most expensive kind of birds--singing in the branches. the street in the softer hours of the morning has an almost reverential quiet. great motors move drowsily along it, with solitary chauffeurs returning at . after conveying the earlier of the millionaires to their downtown offices. the sunlight flickers through the elm trees, illuminating expensive nurse-maids wheeling valuable children in little perambulators. some of the children are worth millions and millions. in europe, no doubt, you may see in the unter den linden avenue or the champs elysees a little prince or princess go past with a clattering military guard of honour. but that is nothing. it is not half so impressive, in the real sense, as what you may observe every morning on plutoria avenue beside the mausoleum club in the quietest part of the city. here you may see a little toddling princess in a rabbit suit who owns fifty distilleries in her own right. there, in a lacquered perambulator, sails past a little hooded head that controls from its cradle an entire new jersey corporation. the united states attorney-general is suing her as she sits, in a vain attempt to make her dissolve herself into constituent companies. near by is a child of four, in a khaki suit, who represents the merger of two trunk-line railways. you may meet in the flickered sunlight any number of little princes and princesses far more real than the poor survivals of europe. incalculable infants wave their fifty-dollar ivory rattles in an inarticulate greeting to one another. a million dollars of preferred stock laughs merrily in recognition of a majority control going past in a go-cart drawn by an imported nurse. and through it all the sunlight falls through the elm trees, and the birds sing and the motors hum, so that the whole world as seen from the boulevard of plutoria avenue is the very pleasantest place imaginable. just below plutoria avenue, and parallel with it, the trees die out and the brick and stone of the city begins in earnest. even from the avenue you see the tops of the sky-scraping buildings in the big commercial streets, and can hear or almost hear the roar of the elevated railway, earning dividends. and beyond that again the city sinks lower, and is choked and crowded with the tangled streets and little houses of the slums. in fact, if you were to mount to the roof of the mausoleum club itself on plutoria avenue you could almost see the slums from there. but why should you? and on the other hand, if you never went up on the roof, but only dined inside among the palm trees, you would never know that the slums existed which is much better. there are broad steps leading up to the club, so broad and so agreeably covered with matting that the physical exertion of lifting oneself from one's motor to the door of the club is reduced to the smallest compass. the richer members are not ashamed to take the steps one at a time, first one foot and then the other; and at tight money periods, when there is a black cloud hanging over the stock exchange, you may see each and every one of the members of the mausoleum club dragging himself up the steps after this fashion, his restless eyes filled with the dumb pathos of a man wondering where he can put his hand on half a million dollars. but at gayer times, when there are gala receptions at the club, its steps are all buried under expensive carpet, soft as moss and covered over with a long pavilion of red and white awning to catch the snowflakes; and beautiful ladies are poured into the club by the motorful. then, indeed, it is turned into a veritable arcadia; and for a beautiful pastoral scene, such as would have gladdened the heart of a poet who understood the cost of things, commend me to the mausoleum club on just such an evening. its broad corridors and deep recesses are filled with shepherdesses such as you never saw, dressed in beautiful shimmering gowns, and wearing feathers in their hair that droop off sideways at every angle known to trigonometry. and there are shepherds, too, with broad white waistcoats and little patent leather shoes and heavy faces and congested cheeks. and there is dancing and conversation among the shepherds and shepherdesses, with such brilliant flashes of wit and repartee about the rise in wabash and the fall in cement that the soul of louis quatorze would leap to hear it. and later there is supper at little tables, when the shepherds and shepherdesses consume preferred stocks and gold-interest bonds in the shape of chilled champagne and iced asparagus, and great platefuls of dividends and special quarterly bonuses are carried to and fro in silver dishes by chinese philosophers dressed up to look like waiters. but on ordinary days there are no ladies in the club, but only the shepherds. you may see them sitting about in little groups of two and three under the palm trees drinking whiskey and soda; though of course the more temperate among them drink nothing but whiskey and lithia water, and those who have important business to do in the afternoon limit themselves to whiskey and radnor, or whiskey and magi water. there are as many kinds of bubbling, gurgling, mineral waters in the caverns of the mausoleum club as ever sparkled from the rocks of homeric greece. and when you have once grown used to them, it is as impossible to go back to plain water as it is to live again in the forgotten house in a side street that you inhabited long before you became a member. thus the members sit and talk in undertones that float to the ear through the haze of havana smoke. you may hear the older men explaining that the country is going to absolute ruin, and the younger ones explaining that the country is forging ahead as it never did before; but chiefly they love to talk of great national questions, such as the protective tariff and the need of raising it, the sad decline of the morality of the working man, the spread of syndicalism and the lack of christianity in the labour class, and the awful growth of selfishness among the mass of the people. so they talk, except for two or three that drop off to directors' meetings; till the afternoon fades and darkens into evening, and the noiseless chinese philosophers turn on soft lights here and there among the palm trees. presently they dine at white tables glittering with cut glass and green and yellow rhine wines; and after dinner they sit again among the palm-trees, half-hidden in the blue smoke, still talking of the tariff and the labour class and trying to wash away the memory and the sadness of it in floods of mineral waters. so the evening passes into night, and one by one the great motors come throbbing to the door, and the mausoleum club empties and darkens till the last member is borne away and the arcadian day ends in well-earned repose. * * * * * "i want you to give me your opinion very, very frankly," said mr. lucullus fyshe on one side of the luncheon table to the rev. fareforth furlong on the other. "by all means," said mr. furlong. mr. fyshe poured out a wineglassful of soda and handed it to the rector to drink. "now tell me very truthfully," he said, "is there too much carbon in it?" "by no means," said mr. furlong. "and--quite frankly--not too much hydrogen?" "oh, decidedly not." "and you would not say that the percentage of sodium bicarbonate was too great for the ordinary taste?" "i certainly should not," said mr. furlong, and in this he spoke the truth. "very good then," said mr. fyshe, "i shall use it for the duke of dulham this afternoon." he uttered the name of the duke with that quiet, democratic carelessness which meant that he didn't care whether half a dozen other members lunching at the club could hear or not. after all, what was a duke to a man who was president of the people's traction and suburban co., and the republican soda and siphon co-operative, and chief director of the people's district loan and savings? if a man with a broad basis of popular support like that was proposing to entertain a duke, surely there could be no doubt about his motives? none at all. naturally, too, if a man manufactures soda himself, he gets a little over-sensitive about the possibility of his guests noticing the existence of too much carbon in it. in fact, ever so many of the members of the mausoleum club manufacture things, or cause them to be manufactured, or--what is the same thing--merge them when they are manufactured. this gives them their peculiar chemical attitude towards their food. one often sees a member suddenly call the head waiter at breakfast to tell him that there is too much ammonia in the bacon; and another one protest at the amount of glucose in the olive oil; and another that there is too high a percentage of nitrogen in the anchovy. a man of distorted imagination might think this tasting of chemicals in the food a sort of nemesis of fate upon the members. but that would be very foolish, for in every case the head waiter, who is the chief of the chinese philosophers mentioned above, says that he'll see to it immediately and have the percentage removed. and as for the members themselves, they are about as much ashamed of manufacturing and merging things as the marquis of salisbury is ashamed of the founders of the cecil family. what more natural, therefore, than that mr. lucullus fyshe, before serving the soda to the duke, should try it on somebody else? and what better person could be found for this than mr. furlong, the saintly young rector of st. asaph's, who had enjoyed the kind of expensive college education calculated to develop all the faculties. moreover, a rector of the anglican church who has been in the foreign mission field is the kind of person from whom one can find out, more or less incidentally, how one should address and converse with a duke, and whether you call him, "your grace," or "his grace," or just "grace," or "duke," or what. all of which things would seem to a director of the people's bank and the president of the republican soda co. so trivial in importance that he would scorn to ask about them. so that was why mr. fyshe had asked mr. furlong to lunch with him, and to dine with him later on in the same day at the mausoleum club to meet the duke of dulham. and mr. furlong, realizing that a clergyman must be all things to all men and not avoid a man merely because he is a duke, had accepted the invitation to lunch, and had promised to come to dinner, even though it meant postponing the willing workers' tango class of st. asaph's until the following friday. thus it had come about that mr. fyshe was seated at lunch, consuming a cutlet and a pint of moselle in the plain downright fashion of a man so democratic that he is practically a revolutionary socialist, and doesn't mind saying so; and the young rector of st. asaph's was sitting opposite to him in a religious ecstasy over a _salmi_ of duck. "the duke arrived this morning, did he not?" said mr. furlong. "from new york," said mr. fyshe. "he is staying at the grand palaver. i sent a telegram through one of our new york directors of the traction, and his grace has very kindly promised to come over here to dine." "is he here for pleasure?" asked the rector. "i understand he is--" mr. fyshe was going to say "about to invest a large part of his fortune in american securities," but he thought better of it. even with the clergy it is well to be careful. so he substituted "is very much interested in studying american conditions." "does he stay long?" asked mr. furlong. had mr. lucullus fyshe replied quite truthfully, he would have said, "not if i can get his money out of him quickly," but he merely answered, "that i don't know." "he will find much to interest him," went on the rector in a musing tone. "the position of the anglican church in america should afford him an object of much consideration. i understand," he added, feeling his way, "that his grace is a man of deep piety." "very deep," said mr. fyshe. "and of great philanthropy?" "very great." "and i presume," said the rector, taking a devout sip of the unfinished soda, "that he is a man of immense wealth?" "i suppose so," answered mr. fyshe quite carelessly. "all these fellows are." (mr. fyshe generally referred to the british aristocracy as "these fellows.") "land, you know, feudal estates; sheer robbery, i call it. how the working-class, the proletariat, stand for such tyranny is more than i can see. mark my words, furlong, some day they'll rise and the whole thing will come to a sudden end." mr. fyshe was here launched upon his favourite topic; but he interrupted himself, just for a moment, to speak to the waiter. "what the devil do you mean," he said, "by serving asparagus half-cold?" "very sorry, sir," said the waiter, "shall i take it out?" "take it out? of course take it out, and see that you don't serve me stuff of that sort again, or i'll report you." "very sorry, sir," said the waiter. mr. fyshe looked at the vanishing waiter with contempt upon his features. "these pampered fellows are getting unbearable." he said. "by gad, if i had my way i'd fire the whole lot of them: lock 'em out, put 'em on the street. that would teach 'em. yes, furlong, you'll live to see it that the whole working-class will one day rise against the tyranny of the upper classes, and society will be overwhelmed." but if mr. fyshe had realized that at that moment, in the kitchen of the mausoleum club, in those sacred precincts themselves, there was a walking delegate of the waiters' international union leaning against a sideboard, with his bowler hat over one corner of his eye, and talking to a little group of the chinese philosophers, he would have known that perhaps the social catastrophe was a little nearer than even he suspected. * * * * * "are you inviting anyone else tonight?" asked mr. furlong. "i should have liked to ask your father," said mr. fyshe, "but unfortunately he is out of town." what mr. fyshe really meant was, "i am extremely glad not to have to ask your father, whom i would not introduce to the duke on any account." indeed, mr. furlong, senior, the father of the rector of st. asaph's, who was president of the new amalgamated hymnal corporation, and director of the hosanna pipe and steam organ, limited, was entirely the wrong man for mr. fyshe's present purpose. in fact, he was reputed to be as smart a man as ever sold a bible. at this moment he was out of town, busied in new york with the preparation of the plates of his new hindu testament (copyright); but had he learned that a duke with several millions to invest was about to visit the city, he would not have left it for the whole of hindustan. "i suppose you are asking mr. boulder," said the rector. "no," answered mr. fyshe very decidedly, dismissing the name absolutely. indeed, there was even better reason not to introduce mr. boulder to the duke. mr. fyshe had made that sort of mistake once, and never intended to make it again. it was only a year ago, on the occasion of the visit of young viscount fitzthistle to the mausoleum club, that mr. fyshe had introduced mr. boulder to the viscount and had suffered grievously thereby. for mr. boulder had no sooner met the viscount than he invited him up to his hunting-lodge in wisconsin, and that was the last thing known of the investment of the fitzthistle fortune. this mr. boulder of whom mr. fyshe spoke might indeed have been seen at that moment at a further table of the lunch room eating a solitary meal, an oldish man with a great frame suggesting broken strength, with a white beard and with falling under-eyelids that made him look as if he were just about to cry. his eyes were blue and far away, and his still, mournful face and his great bent shoulders seemed to suggest all the power and mystery of high finance. gloom indeed hung over him. for, when one heard him talk of listed stocks and cumulative dividends, there was as deep a tone in his quiet voice as if he spoke of eternal punishment and the wages of sin. under his great hands a chattering viscount, or a sturdy duke, or a popinjay italian marquis was as nothing. mr. boulder's methods with titled visitors investing money in america were deep. he never spoke to them of money, not a word. he merely talked of the great american forest--he had been born sixty-five years back, in a lumber state--and, when he spoke of primeval trees and the howl of the wolf at night among the pines, there was the stamp of reality about it that held the visitor spellbound; and when he fell to talking of his hunting-lodge far away in the wisconsin timber, duke, earl, or baron that had ever handled a double-barrelled express rifle listened and was lost. "i have a little place," mr. boulder would say in his deep tones that seemed almost like a sob, "a sort of shooting box, i think you'd call it, up in wisconsin; just a plain place"--he would add, almost crying--"made of logs." "oh, really," the visitor would interject, "made of logs. by jove, how interesting!" all titled people are fascinated at once with logs, and mr. boulder knew it--at least subconsciously. "yes, logs," he would continue, still in deep sorrow; "just the plain cedar, not squared, you know, the old original timber; i had them cut right out of the forest." by this time the visitor's excitement was obvious. "and is there game there?" he would ask. "we have the timber-wolf," said mr. boulder, his voice half choking at the sadness of the thing, "and of course the jack wolf and the lynx." "and are they ferocious?" "oh, extremely so--quite uncontrollable." on which the titled visitor was all excitement to start for wisconsin at once, even before mr. boulder's invitation was put in words. and when he returned a week later, all tanned and wearing bush-whackers' boots, and covered with wolf bites, his whole available fortune was so completely invested in mr. boulder's securities that you couldn't have shaken twenty-five cents out of him upside down. yet the whole thing had been done merely incidentally round a big fire under the wisconsin timber, with a dead wolf or two lying in the snow. so no wonder that mr. fyshe did not propose to invite mr. boulder to his little dinner. no, indeed. in fact, his one aim was to keep mr. boulder and his log house hidden from the duke. and equally no wonder that as soon as mr. boulder read of the duke's arrival in new york, and saw by the _commercial echo and financial undertone_ that he might come to the city looking for investments, he telephoned at once to his little place in wisconsin--which had, of course, a primeval telephone wire running to it--and told his steward to have the place well aired and good fires lighted; and he especially enjoined him to see if any of the shanty men thereabouts could catch a wolf or two, as he might need them. * * * * * "is no one else coming then?" asked the rector. "oh yes. president boomer of the university. we shall be a party of four. i thought the duke might be interested in meeting boomer. he may care to hear something of the archaeological remains of the continent." if the duke did so care, he certainly had a splendid chance in meeting the gigantic dr. boomer, the president of plutoria university. if he wanted to know anything of the exact distinction between the mexican pueblo and the navajo tribal house, he had his opportunity right now. if he was eager to hear a short talk--say half an hour--on the relative antiquity of the neanderthal skull and the gravel deposits of the missouri, his chance had come. he could learn as much about the stone age and the bronze age, in america, from president boomer, as he could about the gold age and the age of paper securities from mr. fyshe and mr. boulder. so what better man to meet a duke than an archaeological president? and if the duke should feel inclined, as a result of his american visit (for dr. boomer, who knew everything, understood what the duke had come for), inclined, let us say, to endow a chair in primitive anthropology, or do any useful little thing of the sort, that was only fair business all round; or if he even was willing to give a moderate sum towards the general fund of plutoria university--enough, let us say, to enable the president to dismiss an old professor and hire a new one--that surely was reasonable enough. the president, therefore, had said yes to mr. fyshe's invitation with alacrity, and had taken a look through the list of his more incompetent professors to refresh his memory. * * * * * the duke of dulham had landed in new york five days before and had looked round eagerly for a field of turnips, but hadn't seen any. he had been driven up fifth avenue and had kept his eyes open for potatoes, but there were none. nor had he seen any shorthorns in central park, nor any southdowns on broadway. for the duke, of course, like all dukes, was agricultural from his norfolk jacket to his hobnailed boots. at his restaurant he had cut a potato in two and sent half of it to the head waiter to know if it was bermudian. it had all the look of an early bermudian, but the duke feared from the shading of it that it might be only a late trinidad. and the head waiter sent it to the chef, mistaking it for a complaint, and the chef sent it back to the duke with a message that it was not a bermudian but a prince edward island. and the duke sent his compliments to the chef, and the chef sent his compliments to the duke. and the duke was so pleased at learning this that he had a similar potato wrapped up for him to take away, and tipped the head waiter twenty-five cents, feeling that in an extravagant country the only thing to do is to go the people one better. so the duke carried the potato round for five days in new york and showed it to everybody. but beyond this he got no sign of agriculture out of the place at all. no one who entertained him seemed to know what the beef that they gave him had been fed on; no one, even in what seemed the best society, could talk rationally about preparing a hog for the breakfast table. people seemed to eat cauliflower without distinguishing the denmark variety from the oldenburg, and few, if any, knew silesian bacon even when they tasted it. and when they took the duke out twenty-five miles into what was called the country, there were still no turnips, but only real estate, and railway embankments, and advertising signs; so that altogether the obvious and visible decline of american agriculture in what should have been its leading centre saddened the duke's heart. thus the duke passed four gloomy days. agriculture vexed him, and still more, of course, the money concerns which had brought him to america. money is a troublesome thing. but it has got to be thought about even by those who were not brought up to it. if, on account of money matters, one has been driven to come over to america in the hope of borrowing money, the awkwardness of how to go about it naturally makes one gloomy and preoccupied. had there been broad fields of turnips to walk in and holstein cattle to punch in the ribs, one might have managed to borrow it in the course of gentlemanly intercourse, as from one cattle-man to another. but in new york, amid piles of masonry and roaring street-traffic and glittering lunches and palatial residences one simply couldn't do it. herein lay the truth about the duke of dulham's visit and the error of mr. lucullus fyshe. mr. fyshe was thinking that the duke had come to _lend_ money. in reality he had come to _borrow_ it. in fact, the duke was reckoning that by putting a second mortgage on dulham towers for twenty thousand sterling, and by selling his scotch shooting and leasing his irish grazing and sub-letting his welsh coal rent he could raise altogether a hundred thousand pounds. this for a duke, is an enormous sum. if he once had it he would be able to pay off the first mortgage on dulham towers, buy in the rights of the present tenant of the scotch shooting and the claim of the present mortgagee of the irish grazing, and in fact be just where he started. this is ducal finance, which moves always in a circle. in other words the duke was really a poor man--not poor in the american sense, where poverty comes as a sudden blighting stringency, taking the form of an inability to get hold of a quarter of a million dollars, no matter how badly one needs it, and where it passes like a storm-cloud and is gone, but poor in that permanent and distressing sense known only to the british aristocracy. the duke's case, of course, was notorious, and mr. fyshe ought to have known of it. the duke was so poor that the duchess was compelled to spend three or four months every year at a fashionable hotel on the riviera simply to save money, and his eldest son, the young marquis of beldoodle, had to put in most of his time shooting big game in uganda, with only twenty or twenty-five beaters, and with so few carriers and couriers and such a dearth of elephant men and hyena boys that the thing was a perfect scandal. the duke indeed was so poor that a younger son, simply to add his efforts to those of the rest, was compelled to pass his days in mountain climbing in the himalayas, and the duke's daughter was obliged to pay long visits to minor german princesses, putting up with all sorts of hardship. and while the ducal family wandered about in this way--climbing mountains, and shooting hyenas, and saving money, the duke's place or seat, dulham towers, was practically shut up, with no one in it but servants and housekeepers and gamekeepers and tourists; and the picture galleries, except for artists and visitors and villagers, were closed; and the town house, except for the presence of servants and tradesmen and secretaries, was absolutely shut. but the duke knew that rigid parsimony of this sort, if kept up for a generation or two, will work wonders, and this sustained him; and the duchess knew it, and it sustained her; in fact, all the ducal family, knowing that it was only a matter of a generation or two, took their misfortune very cheerfully. the only thing that bothered the duke was borrowing money. this was necessary from time to time when loans or mortgages fell in, but he hated it. it was beneath him. his ancestors had often taken money, but had never borrowed it, and the duke chafed under the necessity. there was something about the process that went against the grain. to sit down in pleasant converse with a man, perhaps almost a gentleman, and then lead up to the subject and take his money from him, seemed to the duke's mind essentially low. he could have understood knocking a man over the head with a fire shovel and taking his money, but not borrowing it. so the duke had come to america, where borrowing is notoriously easy. any member of the mausoleum club, for instance, would borrow fifty cents to buy a cigar, or fifty thousand dollars to buy a house, or five millions to buy a railroad with complete indifference, and pay it back, too, if he could, and think nothing of it. in fact, ever so many of the duke's friends were known to have borrowed money in america with magical ease, pledging for it their seats or their pictures, or one of their daughters--anything. so the duke knew it must be easy. and yet, incredible as it may seem, he had spent four days in new york, entertained everywhere, and made much of, and hadn't borrowed a cent. he had been asked to lunch in a riverside palace, and, fool that he was, had come away without so much as a dollar to show for it. he had been asked to a country house on the hudson, and, like an idiot--he admitted it himself--hadn't asked his host for as much as his train fare. he had been driven twice round central park in a motor and had been taken tamely back to his hotel not a dollar the richer. the thing was childish, and he knew it. but to save his life the duke didn't know how to begin. none of the things that he was able to talk about seemed to have the remotest connection with the subject of money. the duke was able to converse reasonably well over such topics as the approaching downfall of england (they had talked of it at dulham towers for sixty years), or over the duty of england towards china, or the duty of england to persia, or its duty to aid the young turk movement, and its duty to check the old servia agitation. the duke became so interested in these topics and in explaining that while he had never been a little englander he had always been a big turk, and that he stood for a small bulgaria and a restricted austria, that he got further and further away from the topic of money, which was what he really wanted to come to; and the duke rose from his conversations with a look of such obvious distress on his face that everybody realized that his anxiety about england was killing him. and then suddenly light had come. it was on his fourth day in new york that he unexpectedly ran into the viscount belstairs (they had been together as young men in nigeria, and as middle-aged men in st. petersburg), and belstairs, who was in abundant spirits and who was returning to england on the _gloritania_ at noon the next day, explained to the duke that he had just borrowed fifty thousand pounds, on security that wouldn't be worth a halfpenny in england. and the duke said with a sigh, "how the deuce do you do it. belstairs?" "do what?" "borrow it," said the duke. "how do you manage to get people to talk about it? here i am wanting to borrow a hundred thousand, and i'm hanged if i can even find an opening." at which the viscount had said, "pooh, pooh! you don't need any opening. just borrow it straight out--ask for it across a dinner table, just as you'd ask for a match; they think nothing of it here." "across the dinner table?" repeated the duke, who was a literal man. "certainly," said the viscount. "not too soon, you know--say after a second glass of wine. i assure you it's absolutely nothing." and it was just at that moment that a telegram was handed to the duke from mr. lucullus fyshe, praying him, as he was reported to be visiting the next day the city where the mausoleum club stands, to make acquaintance with him by dining at that institution. and the duke, being as i say a literal man, decided that just as soon as mr. fyshe should give him a second glass of wine, that second glass should cost mr. fyshe a hundred thousand pounds sterling. and oddly enough, at about the same moment, mr. fyshe was calculating that provided he could make the duke drink a second glass of the mausoleum champagne, that glass would cost the duke about five million dollars. * * * * * so the very morning after that the duke had arrived on the new york express in the city; and being an ordinary, democratic, commercial sort of place, absorbed in its own affairs, it made no fuss over him whatever. the morning edition of the _plutopian citizen_ simply said, "we understand that the duke of dulham arrives at the grand palaver this morning," after which it traced the duke's pedigree back to jock of ealing in the twelfth century and let the matter go at that; and the noon edition of the _people's advocate_ merely wrote, "we learn that duke dulham is in town. he is a relation of jack ealing." but the _commercial echo and financial undertone_, appearing at four o'clock, printed in its stock-market columns the announcement: "we understand that the duke of dulham, who arrives in town today, is proposing to invest a large sum of money in american industrials." and, of course, that announcement reached every member of the mausoleum club within twenty minutes. * * * * * the duke of dulham entered the mausoleum club that evening at exactly seven of the clock. he was a short, thick man with a shaven face, red as a brick, and grizzled hair, and from the look of him he could have got a job at sight in any lumber camp in wisconsin. he wore a dinner jacket, just like an ordinary person, but even without his norfolk coat and his hobnailed boots there was something in the way in which he walked up the long main hall of the mausoleum club that every imported waiter in the place recognized in an instant. the duke cast his eye about the club and approved of it. it seemed to him a modest, quiet place, very different from the staring ostentation that one sees too often in a german hof or an italian palazzo. he liked it. mr. fyshe and mr. furlong were standing in a deep alcove or bay where there was a fire and india-rubber trees and pictures with shaded lights and a whiskey-and-soda table. there the duke joined them. mr. fyshe he had met already that afternoon at the palaver, and he called him "fyshe" as if he had known him forever; and indeed, after a few minutes he called the rector of st. asaph's simply "furlong," for he had been familiar with the anglican clergy in so many parts of the world that he knew that to attribute any peculiar godliness to them, socially, was the worst possible taste. "by jove," said the duke, turning to tap the leaf of a rubber tree with his finger, "that fellow's a nigerian, isn't he?" "i hardly know," said mr. fyshe, "i imagine so"; and he added, "you've been in nigeria, duke?" "oh, some years ago," said the duke, "after big game, you know--fine place for it." "did you get any?" asked mr. fyshe. "not much," said the duke; "a hippo or two." "ah," said mr. fyshe. "and, of course, now and then a giro," the duke went on, and added, "my sister was luckier, though; she potted a rhino one day, straight out of a doolie; i call that rather good." mr. fyshe called it that too. "ah, now here's a good thing," the duke went on, looking at a picture. he carried in his waistcoat pocket an eyeglass that he used for pictures and for tamworth hogs, and he put it to his eye with one hand, keeping the other in the left pocket of his jacket; "and this--this is a very good thing." "i believe so," said mr. fyshe. "you really have some awfully good things here," continued the duke. he had seen far too many pictures in too many places ever to speak of "values" or "compositions" or anything of that sort. the duke merely looked at a picture and said, "now here's a good thing," or "ah! here now is a very good thing," or, "i say, here's a really good thing." no one could get past this sort of criticism. the duke had long since found it bullet-proof. "they showed me some rather good things in new york," he went on, "but really the things you have here seem to be awfully good things." indeed, the duke was truly pleased with the pictures, for something in their composition, or else in the soft, expensive light that shone on them, enabled him to see in the distant background of each a hundred thousand sterling. and that is a very beautiful picture indeed. "when you come to our side of the water, fyshe," said the duke, "i must show you my botticelli." had mr. fyshe, who knew nothing of art, expressed his real thought, he would have said, "show me your which?" but he only answered, "i shall be delighted to see it." in any case there was no time to say more, for at this moment the portly figure and the great face of dr. boomer, president of plutoria university, loomed upon them. and with him came a great burst of conversation that blew all previous topics into fragments. he was introduced to the duke, and shook hands with mr. furlong, and talked to both of them, and named the kind of cocktail that he wanted, all in one breath, and in the very next he was asking the duke about the babylonian hieroglyphic bricks that his grandfather, the thirteenth duke, had brought home from the euphrates, and which every archaeologist knew were preserved in the duke's library at dulham towers. and though the duke hadn't known about the bricks himself, he assured dr. boomer that his grandfather had collected some really good things, quite remarkable. and the duke, having met a man who knew about his grandfather, felt in his own element. in fact, he was so delighted with dr. boomer and the nigerian rubber tree and the shaded pictures and the charm of the whole place and the certainty that half a million dollars was easily findable in it, that he put his eyeglass back in his pocket and said. "a charming club you have here, really most charming." "yes," said mr. fyshe, in a casual tone, "a comfortable place, we like to think." but if he could have seen what was happening below in the kitchens of the mausoleum club, mr. fyshe would have realized that just then it was turning into a most uncomfortable place. for the walking delegate with his hat on sideways, who had haunted it all day, was busy now among the assembled chinese philosophers, writing down names and distributing strikers' cards of the international union and assuring them that the "boys" of the grand palaver had all walked out at seven, and that all the "boys" of the commercial and the union and of every restaurant in town were out an hour ago. and the philosophers were taking their cards and hanging up their waiters' coats and putting on shabby jackets and bowler hats, worn sideways, and changing themselves by a wonderful transformation from respectable chinese to slouching loafers of the lowest type. but mr. fyshe, being in an alcove and not in the kitchens, saw nothing of these things. not even when the head waiter, shaking with apprehension, appeared with cocktails made by himself, in glasses that he himself had had to wipe, did mr. fyshe, absorbed in the easy urbanity of the duke, notice that anything was amiss. neither did his guests. for dr. boomer, having discovered that the duke had visited nigeria, was asking him his opinion of the famous bimbaweh remains of the lower niger. the duke confessed that he really hadn't noticed them, and the doctor assured him that strabo had indubitably mentioned them (he would show the duke the very passage), and that they apparently lay, if his memory served him, about halfway between oohat and ohat; whether above oohat and below ohat or above ohat and below oohat he would not care to say for a certainty; for that the duke must wait till the president had time to consult his library. and the duke was fascinated forthwith with the president's knowledge of nigerian geography, and explained that he had once actually descended from below timbuctoo to oohat in a doolie manned only by four swats. so presently, having drunk the cocktails, the party moved solemnly in a body from the alcove towards the private dining-room upstairs, still busily talking of the bimbaweh remains, and the swats, and whether the doolie was, or was not, the original goatskin boat of the book of genesis. and when they entered the private dining-room with its snow-white table and cut glass and flowers (as arranged by a retreating philosopher now heading towards the gaiety theatre with his hat over his eyes), the duke again exclaimed, "really, you have a most comfortable club--delightful." so they sat down to dinner, over which mr. furlong offered up a grace as short as any that are known even to the anglican clergy. and the head waiter, now in deep distress--for he had been sending out telephone messages in vain to the grand palaver and the continental, like the captain of a sinking ship--served oysters that he had opened himself and poured rhine wine with a trembling hand. for he knew that unless by magic a new chef and a waiter or two could be got from the palaver, all hope was lost. but the guests still knew nothing of his fears. dr. boomer was eating his oysters as a nigerian hippo might eat up the crew of a doolie, in great mouthfuls, and commenting as he did so upon the luxuriousness of modern life. and in the pause that followed the oysters he illustrated for the duke with two pieces of bread the essential difference in structure between the mexican _pueblo_ and the tribal house of the navajos, and lest the duke should confound either or both of them with the adobe hut of the bimbaweh tribes he showed the difference at once with a couple of olives. by this time, of course, the delay in the service was getting noticeable. mr. fyshe was directing angry glances towards the door, looking for the reappearance of the waiter, and growling an apology to his guests. but the president waved the apology aside. "in my college days," he said, "i should have considered a plate of oysters an ample meal. i should have asked for nothing more. we eat," he said, "too much." this, of course, started mr. fyshe on his favourite topic. "luxury!" he exclaimed, "i should think so! it is the curse of the age. the appalling growth of luxury, the piling up of money, the ease with which huge fortunes are made" (good! thought the duke, here we are coming to it), "these are the things that are going to ruin us. mark my words, the whole thing is bound to end in a tremendous crash. i don't mind telling you, duke--my friends here, i am sure, know it already--that i am more or less a revolutionary socialist. i am absolutely convinced, sir, that our modern civilization will end in a great social catastrophe. mark what i say"--and here mr. fyshe became exceedingly impressive--"a great social catastrophe. some of us may not live to see it, perhaps; but you, for instance, furlong, are a younger man; you certainly will." but here mr. fyshe was understating the case. they were all going to live to see it, right on the spot. for it was just at this moment, when mr. fyshe was talking of the social catastrophe and explaining with flashing eyes that it was bound to come, that it came; and when it came it lit, of all places in the world, right there in the private dining-room of the mausoleum club. for the gloomy head waiter re-entered and leaned over the back of mr. fyshe's chair and whispered to him. "eh? what?" said mr. fyshe. the head waiter, his features stricken with inward agony, whispered again. "the infernal, damn scoundrels!" said mr. fyshe, starting back in his chair. "on strike: in this club! it's an outrage!" "i'm very sorry sir. i didn't like to tell you, sir. i'd hoped i might have got help from the outside, but it seems, sir, the hotels are all the same way." "do you mean to say," said mr. fyshe, speaking very slowly, "that there is no dinner?" "i'm sorry, sir," moaned the waiter. "it appears the chef hadn't even cooked it. beyond what's on the table, sir, there's nothing." the social catastrophe had come. mr. fyshe sat silent with his fist clenched. dr. boomer, with his great face transfixed, stared at the empty oyster-shells, thinking perhaps of his college days. the duke, with his hundred thousand dashed from his lips in the second cup of champagne that was never served, thought of his politeness first and murmured something about taking them to his hotel. but there is no need to follow the unhappy details of the unended dinner. mr. fyshe's one idea was to be gone: he was too true an artist to think that finance could be carried on over the table-cloth of a second-rate restaurant, or on an empty stomach in a deserted club. the thing must be done over again; he must wait his time and begin anew. and so it came about that the little dinner party of mr. lucullus fyshe dissolved itself into its constituent elements, like broken pieces of society in the great cataclysm portrayed by mr. fyshe himself. the duke was bowled home in a snorting motor to the brilliant rotunda of the grand palaver, itself waiterless and supperless. the rector of st. asaph's wandered off home to his rectory, musing upon the contents of its pantry. and mr. fyshe and the gigantic doctor walked side by side homewards along plutoria avenue, beneath the elm trees. nor had they gone any great distance before dr. boomer fell to talking of the duke. "a charming man," he said, "delightful. i feel extremely sorry for him." "no worse off, i presume, than any of the rest of us," growled mr. fyshe, who was feeling in the sourest of democratic moods; "a man doesn't need to be a duke to have a stomach." "oh, pooh, pooh!" said the president, waving the topic aside with his hand in the air; "i don't refer to that. oh, not at all. i was thinking of his financial position--an ancient family like the dulhams; it seems too bad altogether." for, of course, to an archaeologist like dr. boomer an intimate acquaintance with the pedigree and fortunes of the greater ducal families from jock of ealing downwards was nothing. it went without saying. as beside the neanderthal skull and the bimbaweh ruins it didn't count. mr. fyshe stopped absolutely still in his tracks. "his financial position?" he questioned, quick as a lynx. "certainly," said dr. boomer; "i had taken it for granted that you knew. the dulham family are practically ruined. the duke, i imagine, is under the necessity of mortgaging his estates; indeed, i should suppose he is here in america to raise money." mr. fyshe was a man of lightning action. any man accustomed to the stock exchange learns to think quickly. "one moment!" he cried; "i see we are right at your door. may i just run in and use your telephone? i want to call up boulder for a moment." two minutes later mr. fyshe was saying into the telephone, "oh, is that you, boulder? i was looking for you in vain today--wanted you to meet the duke of dulham, who came in quite unexpectedly from new york; felt sure you'd like to meet him. wanted you at the club for dinner, and now it turns out that the club's all upset--waiters' strike or some such rascality--and the palaver, so i hear, is in the same fix. could you possibly--" here mr. fyshe paused, listening a moment, and then went on, "yes, yes; an excellent idea--most kind of you. pray do send your motor to the hotel and give the duke a bite of dinner. no, i wouldn't join you, thanks. most kind. good night--" and within a few minutes more the motor of mr. boulder was rolling down from plutoria avenue to the grand palaver hotel. what passed between mr. boulder and the duke that evening is not known. that they must have proved congenial company to one another there is no doubt. in fact, it would seem that, dissimilar as they were in many ways, they found a common bond of interest in sport. and it is quite likely that mr. boulder may have mentioned that he had a hunting-lodge--what the duke would call a shooting-box--in wisconsin woods, and that it was made of logs, rough cedar logs not squared, and that the timber wolves and others which surrounded it were of a ferocity without parallel. those who know the duke best could measure the effect of that upon his temperament. at any rate, it is certain that mr. lucullus fyshe at his breakfast-table next morning chuckled with suppressed joy to read in the _plutopian citizen_ the item: "we learn that the duke of dulham, who has been paying a brief visit to the city, leaves this morning with mr. asmodeus boulder for the wisconsin woods. we understand that mr. boulder intends to show his guest, who is an ardent sportsman, something of the american wolf." * * * * * and so the duke went whirling westwards and northwards with mr. boulder in the drawing-room end of a pullman car, that was all littered up with double-barrelled express rifles and leather game bags and lynx catchers and wolf traps and heaven knows what. and the duke had on his very roughest sporting-suit, made, apparently, of alligator hide; and as he sat there with a rifle across his knees, while the train swept onwards through open fields and broken woods, the real country at last, towards the wisconsin forest, there was such a light of genial happiness in his face that had not been seen there since he had been marooned in the mud jungles of upper burmah. and opposite, mr. boulder looked at him with fixed silent eyes, and murmured from time to time some renewed information of the ferocity of the timber-wolf. but of wolves other than the timber-wolf, and fiercer still into whose hands the duke might fall in america, he spoke never a word. nor is it known in the record what happened in wisconsin, and to the mausoleum club the duke and his visit remained only as a passing and a pleasant memory. chapter two: the wizard of finance down in the city itself, just below the residential street where the mausoleum club is situated, there stands overlooking central square the grand palaver hotel. it is, in truth, at no great distance from the club, not half a minute in one's motor. in fact, one could almost walk it. but in central square the quiet of plutoria avenue is exchanged for another atmosphere. there are fountains that splash unendingly and mingle their music with the sound of the motor-horns and the clatter of the cabs. there are real trees and little green benches, with people reading yesterday's newspaper, and grass cut into plots among the asphalt. there is at one end a statue of the first governor of the state, life-size, cut in stone; and at the other a statue of the last, ever so much larger than life, cast in bronze. and all the people who pass by pause and look at this statue and point at it with walking-sticks, because it is of extraordinary interest; in fact, it is an example of the new electro-chemical process of casting by which you can cast a state governor any size you like, no matter what you start from. those who know about such things explain what an interesting contrast the two statues are; for in the case of the governor of a hundred years ago one had to start from plain, rough material and work patiently for years to get the effect, whereas now the material doesn't matter at all, and with any sort of scrap, treated in the gas furnace under tremendous pressure, one may make a figure of colossal size like the one in central square. so naturally central square with its trees and its fountains and its statues is one of the places of chief interest in the city. but especially because there stands along one side of it the vast pile of the grand palaver hotel. it rises fifteen stories high and fills all one side of the square. it has, overlooking the trees in the square, twelve hundred rooms with three thousand windows, and it would have held all george washington's army. even people in other cities who have never seen it know it well from its advertising; "the most homelike hotel in america," so it is labelled in all the magazines, the expensive ones, on the continent. in fact, the aim of the company that owns the grand palaver--and they do not attempt to conceal it--is to make the place as much a home as possible. therein lies its charm. it is a home. you realize that when you look up at the grand palaver from the square at night when the twelve hundred guests have turned on the lights of the three thousand windows. you realize it at theatre time when the great string of motors come sweeping to the doors of the palaver, to carry the twelve hundred guests to twelve hundred seats in the theatres at four dollars a seat. but most of all do you appreciate the character of the grand palaver when you step into its rotunda. aladdin's enchanted palace was nothing to it. it has a vast ceiling with a hundred glittering lights, and within it night and day is a surging crowd that is never still and a babel of voices that is never hushed, and over all there hangs an enchanted cloud of thin blue tobacco smoke such as might enshroud the conjured vision of a magician of baghdad or damascus. in and through the rotunda there are palm trees to rest the eye and rubber trees in boxes to soothe the mind, and there are great leather lounges and deep armchairs, and here and there huge brass ash-bowls as big as etruscan tear-jugs. along one side is a counter with grated wickets like a bank, and behind it are five clerks with flattened hair and tall collars, dressed in long black frock-coats all day like members of a legislature. they have great books in front of them in which they study unceasingly, and at their lightest thought they strike a bell with the open palm of their hand, and at the sound of it a page boy in a monkey suit, with g.p. stamped all over him in brass, bounds to the desk and off again, shouting a call into the unheeding crowd vociferously. the sound of it fills for a moment the great space of the rotunda; it echoes down the corridors to the side; it floats, softly melodious, through the palm trees of the ladies' palm room; it is heard, fainter and fainter, in the distant grill; and in the depths of the barber shop below the level of the street the barber arrests a moment the drowsy hum of his shampoo brushes to catch the sound--as might a miner in the sunken galleries of a coastal mine cease in his toil a moment to hear the distant murmur of the sea. and the clerks call for the pages, the pages call for the guests, and the guests call for the porters, the bells clang, the elevators rattle, till home itself was never half so homelike. * * * * * "a call for mr. tomlinson! a call for mr. tomlinson!" so went the sound, echoing through the rotunda. and as the page boy found him and handed him on a salver a telegram to read, the eyes of the crowd about him turned for a moment to look upon the figure of tomlinson, the wizard of finance. there he stood in his wide-awake hat and his long black coat, his shoulders slightly bent with his fifty-eight years. anyone who had known him in the olden days on his bush farm beside tomlinson's creek in the country of the great lakes would have recognized him in a moment. there was still on his face that strange, puzzled look that it habitually wore, only now, of course, the financial papers were calling it "unfathomable." there was a certain way in which his eye roved to and fro inquiringly that might have looked like perplexity, were it not that the _financial undertone_ had recognized it as the "searching look of a captain of industry." one might have thought that for all the goodness in it there was something simple in his face, were it not that the _commercial and pictorial review_ had called the face "inscrutable," and had proved it so with an illustration that left no doubt of the matter. indeed, the face of tomlinson of tomlinson's creek, now tomlinson the wizard of finance, was not commonly spoken of as a _face_ by the paragraphers of the saturday magazine sections, but was more usually referred to as a mask; and it would appear that napoleon the first had had one also. the saturday editors were never tired of describing the strange, impressive personality of tomlinson, the great dominating character of the newest and highest finance. from the moment when the interim prospectus of the erie auriferous consolidated had broken like a tidal wave over stock exchange circles, the picture of tomlinson, the sleeping shareholder of uncomputed millions, had filled the imagination of every dreamer in a nation of poets. they all described him. and when each had finished he began again. "the face," so wrote the editor of the "our own men" section of _ourselves monthly_, "is that of a typical american captain of finance, hard, yet with a certain softness, broad but with a certain length, ductile but not without its own firmness." "the mouth," so wrote the editor of the "success" column of _brains_, "is strong but pliable, the jaw firm and yet movable, while there is something in the set of the ear that suggests the swift, eager mind of the born leader of men." so from state to state ran the portrait of tomlinson of tomlinson's creek, drawn by people who had never seen him; so did it reach out and cross the ocean, till the french journals inserted a picture which they used for such occasions, and called it _monsieur tomlinson, nouveau capitaine de la haute finance en amerique_; and the german weeklies, inserting also a suitable picture from their stock, marked it _herr tomlinson, amerikanischer industrie und finanzcapitan_. thus did tomlinson float from tomlinson's creek beside lake erie to the very banks of the danube and the drave. some writers grew lyric about him. what visions, they asked, could one but read them, must lie behind the quiet, dreaming eyes of that inscrutable face? they might have read them easily enough, had they but had the key. anyone who looked upon tomlinson as he stood there in the roar and clatter of the great rotunda of the grand palaver with the telegram in his hand, fumbling at the wrong end to open it, might have read the visions of the master-mind had he but known their nature. they were simple enough. for the visions in the mind of tomlinson, wizard of finance, were for the most part those of a wind-swept hillside farm beside lake erie, where tomlinson's creek runs down to the low edge of the lake, and where the off-shore wind ripples the rushes of the shallow water: that, and the vision of a frame house, and the snake fences of the fourth concession road where it falls to the lakeside. and if the eyes of the man are dreamy and abstracted, it is because there lies over the vision of this vanished farm an infinite regret, greater in its compass than all the shares the erie auriferous consolidated has ever thrown upon the market. * * * * * when tomlinson had opened the telegram he stood with it for a moment in his hand, looking the boy full in the face. his look had in it that peculiar far-away quality that the newspapers were calling "napoleonic abstraction." in reality he was wondering whether to give the boy twenty-five cents or fifty. the message that he had just read was worded, "morning quotations show preferred a. g. falling rapidly recommend instant sale no confidence send instructions." the wizard of finance took from his pocket a pencil (it was a carpenter's pencil) and wrote across the face of the message: "buy me quite a bit more of the same yours truly." this he gave to the boy. "take it over to him," he said, pointing to the telegraph corner of the rotunda. then after another pause he mumbled, "here, sonny," and gave the boy a dollar. with that he turned to walk towards the elevator, and all the people about him who had watched the signing of the message knew that some big financial deal was going through--a _coup_, in fact, they called it. the elevator took the wizard to the second floor. as he went up he felt in his pocket and gripped a quarter, then changed his mind and felt for a fifty-cent piece, and finally gave them both to the elevator boy, after which he walked along the corridor till he reached the corner suite of rooms, a palace in itself, for which he was paying a thousand dollars a month ever since the erie auriferous consolidated company had begun tearing up the bed of tomlinson's creek in cahoga county with its hydraulic dredges. "well, mother," he said as he entered. there was a woman seated near the window, a woman with a plain, homely face such as they wear in the farm kitchens of cahoga county, and a set of fashionable clothes upon her such as they sell to the ladies of plutoria avenue. this was "mother," the wife of the wizard of finance and eight years younger than himself. and she, too, was in the papers and the public eye; and whatsoever the shops had fresh from paris, at fabulous prices, that they sold to mother. they had put a balkan hat upon her with an upright feather, and they had hung gold chains on her, and everything that was most expensive they had hung and tied on mother. you might see her emerging any morning from the grand palaver in her beetle-back jacket and her balkan hat, a figure of infinite pathos. and whatever she wore, the lady editors of _spring notes_ and _causerie du boudoir_ wrote it out in french, and one paper had called her a _belle chatelaine_, and another had spoken of her as a grande dame, which the tomlinsons thought must be a misprint. but in any case, for tomlinson, the wizard of finance, it was a great relief to have as his wife a woman like mother, because he knew that she had taught school in cahoga county and could hold her own in the city with any of them. so mother spent her time sitting in her beetle jacket in the thousand-dollar suite, reading new novels in brilliant paper covers. and the wizard on his trips up and down to the rotunda brought her the very best, the ones that cost a dollar fifty, because he knew that out home she had only been able to read books like nathaniel hawthorne and walter scott, that were only worth ten cents. * * * * * "how's fred?" said the wizard, laying aside his hat, and looking towards the closed door of an inner room. "is he better?" "some," said mother. "he's dressed, but he's lying down." fred was the son of the wizard and mother. in the inner room he lay on a sofa, a great hulking boy of seventeen in a flowered dressing-gown, fancying himself ill. there was a packet of cigarettes and a box of chocolates on a chair beside him, and he had the blind drawn and his eyes half-closed to impress himself. yet this was the same boy that less than a year ago on tomlinson's creek had worn a rough store suit and set his sturdy shoulders to the buck-saw. at present fortune was busy taking from him the golden gifts which the fairies of cahoga county, lake erie, had laid in his cradle seventeen years ago. the wizard tip-toed into the inner room, and from the open door his listening wife could hear the voice of the boy saying, in a tone as of one distraught with suffering. "is there any more of that jelly?" "could he have any, do you suppose?" asked tomlinson coming back. "it's all right," said mother, "if it will sit on his stomach." for this, in the dietetics of cahoga county, is the sole test. all those things can be eaten which will sit on the stomach. anything that won't sit there is not eatable. "do you suppose i could get them to get any?" questioned tomlinson. "would it be all right to telephone down to the office, or do you think it would be better to ring?" "perhaps," said his wife, "it would be better to look out into the hall and see if there isn't someone round that would tell them." this was the kind of problem with which tomlinson and his wife, in their thousand-dollar suite in the grand palaver, grappled all day. and when presently a tall waiter in dress-clothes appeared, and said, "jelly? yes, sir, immediately, sir; would you like, sir, maraschino, sir, or portovino, sir?" tomlinson gazed at him gloomily, wondering if he would take five dollars. "what does the doctor say is wrong with fred?" asked tomlinson, when the waiter had gone. "he don't just say," said mother; "he said he must keep very quiet. he looked in this morning for a minute or two, and he said he'd look in later in the day again. but he said to keep fred very quiet." exactly! in other words fred had pretty much the same complaint as the rest of dr. slyder's patients on plutoria avenue, and was to be treated in the same way. dr. slyder, who was the most fashionable practitioner in the city, spent his entire time moving to and fro in an almost noiseless motor earnestly advising people to keep quiet. "you must keep very quiet for a little while," he would say with a sigh, as he sat beside a sick-bed. as he drew on his gloves in the hall below he would shake his head very impressively and say, "you must keep him very quiet," and so pass out, quite soundlessly. by this means dr. slyder often succeeded in keeping people quiet for weeks. it was all the medicine that he knew. but it was enough. and as his patients always got well--there being nothing wrong with them--his reputation was immense. very naturally the wizard and his wife were impressed with him. they had never seen such therapeutics in cahoga county, where the practice of medicine is carried on with forceps, pumps, squirts, splints, and other instruments of violence. the waiter had hardly gone when a boy appeared at the door. this time he presented to tomlinson not one telegram but a little bundle of them. the wizard read them with a lengthening face. the first ran something like this, "congratulate you on your daring market turned instantly"; and the next, "your opinion justified market rose have sold at points profit"; and a third, "your forecast entirely correct c. p. rose at once send further instructions." these and similar messages were from brokers' offices, and all of them were in the same tone; one told him that c. p. was up, and another t. g. p. had passed , and another that t. c. r. r. had risen ten--all of which things were imputed to the wonderful sagacity of tomlinson. whereas if they had told him that x. y. z. had risen to the moon he would have been just as wise as to what it meant. "well," said the wife of the wizard as her husband finished looking through the reports, "how are things this morning? are they any better?" "no," said tomlinson, and he sighed as he said it; "this is the worst day yet. it's just been a shower of telegrams, and mostly all the same. i can't do the figuring of it like you can, but i reckon i must have made another hundred thousand dollars since yesterday." "you don't say so!" said mother, and they looked at one another gloomily. "and half a million last week, wasn't it?" said tomlinson as he sank into a chair. "i'm afraid, mother," he continued, "it's no good. we don't know how. we weren't brought up to it." all of which meant that if the editor of the _monetary afternoon_ or _financial sunday_ had been able to know what was happening with the two wizards, he could have written up a news story calculated to electrify all america. for the truth was that tomlinson, the wizard of finance, was attempting to carry out a _coup_ greater than any as yet attributed to him by the press. he was trying to lose his money. that, in the sickness of his soul, crushed by the grand palaver, overwhelmed with the burden of high finance, had become his aim, to be done with it, to get rid of his whole fortune. but if you own a fortune that is computed anywhere from fifty millions up, with no limit at the top, if you own one-half of all the preferred stock of an erie auriferous consolidated that is digging gold in hydraulic bucketfuls from a quarter of a mile of river bed, the task of losing it is no easy matter. there are men, no doubt, versed in finance, who might succeed in doing it. but they have a training that tomlinson lacked. invest it as he would in the worst securities that offered, the most rickety of stock, the most fraudulent bonds, back it came to him. when he threw a handful away, back came two in its place. and at every new coup the crowd applauded the incomparable daring, the unparalleled prescience of the wizard. like the touch of midas, his hand turned everything to gold. "mother," he repeated, "it's no use. it's like this here destiny, as the books call it." * * * * * the great fortune that tomlinson, the wizard of finance, was trying his best to lose had come to him with wonderful suddenness. as yet it was hardly six months old. as to how it had originated, there were all sorts of stories afloat in the weekly illustrated press. they agreed mostly on the general basis that tomlinson had made his vast fortune by his own indomitable pluck and dogged industry. some said that he had been at one time a mere farm hand who, by sheer doggedness, had fought his way from the hay-mow to the control of the produce market of seventeen states. others had it that he had been a lumberjack who, by sheer doggedness, had got possession of the whole lumber forest of the lake district. others said that he had been a miner in a lake superior copper mine who had, by the doggedness of his character, got a practical monopoly of the copper supply. these saturday articles, at any rate, made the saturday reader rigid with sympathetic doggedness himself, which was all that the editor (who was doggedly trying to make the paper pay) wanted to effect. but in reality the making of tomlinson's fortune was very simple. the recipe for it is open to anyone. it is only necessary to own a hillside farm beside lake erie where the uncleared bush and the broken fields go straggling down to the lake, and to have running through it a creek, such as that called tomlinson's, brawling among the stones and willows, and to discover in the bed of a creek--a gold mine. that is all. nor is it necessary in these well-ordered days to discover the gold for one's self. one might have lived a lifetime on the farm, as tomlinson's father had, and never discover it for one's self. for that indeed the best medium of destiny is a geologist, let us say the senior professor of geology at plutoria university. that was how it happened. the senior professor, so it chanced, was spending his vacation near by on the shores of the lake, and his time was mostly passed--for how better can a man spend a month of pleasure?--in looking for outcroppings of devonian rock of the post-tertiary period. for which purpose he carried a vacation hammer in his pocket, and made from time to time a note or two as he went along, or filled his pockets with the chippings of vacation rocks. so it chanced that he came to tomlinson's creek at the very point where a great slab of devonian rock bursts through the clay of the bank. when the senior professor of geology saw it and noticed a stripe like a mark on a tiger's back--a fault he called it--that ran over the face of the block, he was at it in an instant, beating off fragments with his little hammer. tomlinson and his boy fred were logging in the underbrush near by with a long chain and yoke of oxen, but the geologist was so excited that he did not see them till the sound of his eager hammer had brought them to his side. they took him up to the frame house in the clearing, where the chatelaine was hoeing a potato patch with a man's hat on her head, and they gave him buttermilk and soda cakes, but his hand shook so that he could hardly eat them. the geologist left cahoga station that night for the city with a newspaper full of specimens inside his suit-case, and he knew that if any person or persons would put up money enough to tear that block of rock away and follow the fissure down, there would be found there something to astonish humanity, geologists and all. * * * * * after that point in the launching of a gold mine the rest is easy. generous, warm-hearted men, interested in geology, were soon found. there was no stint of money. the great rock was torn sideways from its place, and from beneath it the crumbled, glittering rock-dust that sparkled in the sun was sent in little boxes to the testing laboratories of plutoria university. there the senior professor of geology had sat up with it far into the night in a darkened laboratory, with little blue flames playing underneath crucibles, as in a magician's cavern, and with the door locked. and as each sample that he tested was set aside and tied in a cardboard box by itself, he labelled it "aur. p. ," and the pen shook in his hand as he marked it. for to professors of geology those symbols mean "this is seventy-five per cent pure gold." so it was no wonder that the senior professor of geology working far into the night among the blue flames shook with excitement; not, of course, for the gold's sake as money (he had no time to think of that), but because if this thing was true it meant that an auriferous vein had been found in what was devonian rock of the post-tertiary stratification, and if that was so it upset enough geology to spoil a textbook. it would mean that the professor could read a paper at the next pan-geological conference that would turn the whole assembly into a bedlam. it pleased him, too, to know that the men he was dealing with were generous. they had asked him to name his own price or the tests that he made and when he had said two dollars per sample they had told him to go right ahead. the professor was not, i suppose, a mercenary man, but it pleased him to think that he could, clean up sixteen dollars in a single evening in his laboratory. it showed, at any rate, that businessmen put science at its proper value. strangest of all was the fact that the men had told him that even this ore was apparently nothing to what there was; it had all come out of one single spot in the creek, not the hundredth part of the whole claim. lower down, where they had thrown the big dam across to make the bed dry, they were taking out this same stuff and even better, so they said, in cartloads. the hydraulic dredges were tearing it from the bed of the creek all day, and at night a great circuit of arc lights gleamed and sputtered over the roaring labour of the friends of geological research. thus had the erie auriferous consolidated broken in a tidal wave over financial circles. on the stock exchange, in the downtown offices, and among the palm trees of the mausoleum club they talked of nothing else. and so great was the power of the wave that it washed tomlinson and his wife along on the crest of it, and landed them fifty feet up in their thousand-dollar suite in the grand palaver. and as a result of it "mother" wore a beetle-back jacket; and tomlinson received a hundred telegrams a day, and fred quit school and ate chocolates. but in the business world the most amazing thing about it was the wonderful shrewdness of tomlinson. the first sign of it had been that he had utterly refused to allow the erie auriferous consolidated (as the friends of geology called themselves) to take over the top half of the tomlinson farm. for the bottom part he let them give him one-half of the preferred stock in the company in return for their supply of development capital. this was their own proposition; in fact, they reckoned that in doing this they were trading about two hundred thousand dollars' worth of machinery for, say ten million dollars of gold. but it frightened them when tomlinson said "yes" to the offer, and when he said that as to common stock they might keep it, it was no use to him, they were alarmed and uneasy till they made him take a block of it for the sake of market confidence. but the top end of the farm he refused to surrender, and the friends of applied geology knew that there must be something pretty large behind this refusal; the more so as the reason that tomlinson gave was such a simple one. he said that he didn't want to part with the top end of the place because his father was buried on it beside the creek, and so he didn't want the dam higher up, not for any consideration. this was regarded in business circles as a piece of great shrewdness. "says his father is buried there, eh? devilish shrewd that!" it was so long since any of the members of the exchange or the mausoleum club had wandered into such places as cahoga county that they did not know that there was nothing strange in what tomlinson said. his father was buried there, on the farm itself, in a grave overgrown with raspberry bushes, and with a wooden headstone encompassed by a square of cedar rails, and slept as many another pioneer of cahoga is sleeping. "devilish smart idea!" they said; and forthwith half the financial men of the city buried their fathers, or professed to have done so, in likely places--along the prospective right-of-way of a suburban railway, for example; in fact, in any place that marked them out for the joyous resurrection of an expropriation purchase. thus the astounding shrewdness of tomlinson rapidly became a legend, the more so as he turned everything he touched to gold. they narrated little stories of him in the whiskey-and-soda corners of the mausoleum club. "i put it to him in a casual way," related, for example, mr. lucullus fyshe, "casually, but quite frankly. i said, 'see here, this is just a bagatelle to you, no doubt, but to me it might be of some use. t. c. bonds,' i said, 'have risen twenty-two and a half in a week. you know as well as i do that they are only collateral trust, and that the stock underneath never could and never can earn a par dividend. now,' i said, 'mr. tomlinson, tell me what all that means?' would you believe it, the fellow looked me right in the face in that queer way he has and he said, 'i don't know!'" "he said he didn't know!" repeated the listener, in a tone of amazement and respect. "by jove! eh? he said he didn't know! the man's a wizard!" "and he looked as if he didn't!" went on mr. fyshe. "that's the deuce of it. that man when he wants to can put on a look, sir, that simply means nothing, absolutely nothing." in this way tomlinson had earned his name of the wizard of american finance. and meantime tomlinson and his wife, within their suite at the grand palaver, had long since reached their decision. for there was one aspect and only one in which tomlinson was really and truly a wizard. he saw clearly that for himself and his wife the vast fortune that had fallen to them was of no manner of use. what did it bring them? the noise and roar of the city in place of the silence of the farm and the racket of the great rotunda to drown the remembered murmur of the waters of the creek. so tomlinson had decided to rid himself of his new wealth, save only such as might be needed to make his son a different kind of man from himself. "for fred, of course," he said, "it's different. but out of such a lot as that it'll be easy to keep enough for him. it'll be a grand thing for fred, this money. he won't have to grow up like you and me. he'll have opportunities we never got." he was getting them already. the opportunity to wear seven dollar patent leather shoes and a bell-shaped overcoat with a silk collar, to lounge into moving-picture shows and eat chocolates and smoke cigarettes--all these opportunities he was gathering immediately. presently, when he learned his way round a little, he would get still bigger ones. "he's improving fast," said mother. she was thinking of his patent leather shoes. "he's popular," said his father. "i notice it downstairs. he sasses any of them just as he likes; and no matter how busy they are, as soon as they see it's fred they're all ready to have a laugh with him." certainly they were, as any hotel clerk with plastered hair is ready to laugh with the son of a multimillionaire. it's a certain sense of humour that they develop. "but for us, mother," said the wizard, "we'll be rid of it. the gold is there. it's not right to keep it back. but we'll just find a way to pass it on to folks that need it worse than we do." for a time they had thought of giving away the fortune. but how? who did they know that would take it? it had crossed their minds--for who could live in the city a month without observing the imposing buildings of plutoria university, as fine as any departmental store in town?--that they might give it to the college. but there, it seemed, the way was blocked. "you see, mother," said the puzzled wizard, "we're not known. we're strangers. i'd look fine going up there to the college and saying, 'i want to give you people a million dollars.' they'd laugh at me!" "but don't one read it in the papers," his wife had protested, "where mr. carnegie gives ever so much to the colleges, more than all we've got, and they take it?" "that's different," said the wizard. "he's in with them. they all know him. why, he's a sort of chairman of different boards of colleges, and he knows all the heads of the schools, and the professors, so it's no wonder that if he offers to give a pension, or anything, they take it. just think of me going up to one of the professors up there in the middle of his teaching and saying; 'i'd like to give you a pension for life!' imagine it! think what he'd say!" but the tomlinsons couldn't imagine it, which was just as well. so it came about that they had embarked on their system. mother, who knew most arithmetic, was the leading spirit. she tracked out all the stocks and bonds in the front page of the _financial undertone_, and on her recommendation the wizard bought. they knew the stocks only by their letters, but this itself gave a touch of high finance to their deliberations. "i'd buy some of this r.o.p. if i was you," said mother; "it's gone down from to in two days, and i reckon it'll be all gone in ten days or so." "wouldn't 'g.g. deb.' be better? it goes down quicker." "well, it's a quick one," she assented, "but it don't go down so steady. you can't rely on it. you take ones like r.o.p. and t.r.r. pfd.; they go down all the time and you know where you are." as a result of which, tomlinson would send his instructions. he did it all from the rotunda in a way of his own that he had evolved with a telegraph clerk who told him the names of brokers, and he dealt thus through brokers whom he never saw. as a result of this, the sluggish r.o.p. and t.r.r. would take as sudden a leap into the air as might a mule with a galvanic shock applied to its tail. at once the word was whispered that the "tomlinson interests" were after the r.o.p. to reorganize it, and the whole floor of the exchange scrambled for the stock. and so it was that after a month or two of these operations the wizard of finance saw himself beaten. "it's no good, mother," he repeated, "it's just a kind of destiny." destiny perhaps it was. but, if the wizard of finance had known it, at this very moment when he sat with the aladdin's palace of his golden fortune reared so strangely about him, destiny was preparing for him still stranger things. destiny, so it would seem, was devising its own ways and means of dealing with tomlinson's fortune. as one of the ways and means, destiny was sending at this moment as its special emissaries two huge, portly figures, wearing gigantic goloshes, and striding downwards from the halls of plutoria university to the grand palaver hotel. and one of these was the gigantic dr. boomer, the president of the college, and the other was his professor of greek, almost as gigantic as himself. and they carried in their capacious pockets bundles of pamphlets on "archaeological remains of mitylene," and the "use of the greek pluperfect," and little treatises such as "education and philanthropy," by dr. boomer, and "the excavation of mitylene: an estimate of cost," by dr. boyster, "boomer on the foundation and maintenance of chairs," etc. many a man in city finance who had seen dr. boomer enter his office with a bundle of these monographs and a fighting glitter in his eyes had sunk back in his chair in dismay. for it meant that dr. boomer had tracked him out for a benefaction to the university, and that all resistance was hopeless. when dr. boomer once laid upon a capitalist's desk his famous pamphlet on the "use of the greek pluperfect," it was as if an arabian sultan had sent the fatal bow-string to a condemned pasha, or morgan the buccaneer had served the death-sign on a shuddering pirate. so they came nearer and nearer, shouldering the passers-by. the sound of them as they talked was like the roaring of the sea as homer heard it. never did castor and pollux come surging into battle as dr. boomer and dr. boyster bore down upon the grand palaver hotel. tomlinson, the wizard of finance, had hesitated about going to the university. the university was coming to him. as for those millions of his, he could take his choice--dormitories, apparatus, campuses, buildings, endowment, anything he liked but choose he must. and if he feared that, after all, his fortune was too vast even for such a disposal, dr. boomer would show him how he might use it in digging up ancient mitylene, or modern smyrna, or the lost cities of the plain of pactolus. if the size of the fortune troubled him, dr. boomer would dig him up the whole african sahara from alexandria to morocco, and ask for more. but if destiny held all this for tomlinson in its outstretched palm before it, it concealed stranger things still beneath the folds of its toga. there were enough surprises there to turn the faces of the whole directorate of the erie auriferous consolidated as yellow as the gold they mined. for at this very moment, while the president of plutoria university drew nearer and nearer to the grand palaver hotel, the senior professor of geology was working again beside the blue flames in his darkened laboratory. and this time there was no shaking excitement over him. nor were the labels that he marked, as sample followed sample in the tests, the same as those of the previous marking. not by any means. and his grave face as he worked in silence was as still as the stones of the post-tertiary period. chapter three: the arrested philanthropy of mr. tomlinson "this, mr. tomlinson, is our campus," said president boomer as they passed through the iron gates of plutoria university. "for camping?" said the wizard. "not exactly," answered the president, "though it would, of course, suit for that. _nihil humunum alienum_, eh?" and he broke into a loud, explosive laugh, while his spectacles irradiated that peculiar form of glee derived from a latin quotation by those able to enjoy it. dr. boyster, walking on the other side of mr. tomlinson, joined in the laugh in a deep, reverberating chorus. the two had the wizard of finance between them, and they were marching him up to the university. he was taken along much as is an arrested man who has promised to go quietly. they kept their hands off him, but they watched him sideways through their spectacles. at the least sign of restlessness they doused him with latin. the wizard of finance, having been marked out by dr. boomer and dr. boyster as a prospective benefactor, was having latin poured over him to reduce him to the proper degree of plasticity. they had already put him through the first stage. they had, three days ago, called on him at the grand palaver and served him with a pamphlet on "the excavation of mitylene" as a sort of writ. tomlinson and his wife had looked at the pictures of the ruins, and from the appearance of them they judged that mitylene was in mexico, and they said that it was a shame to see it in that state and that the united states ought to intervene. as the second stage on the path of philanthropy, the wizard of finance was now being taken to look at the university. dr. boomer knew by experience that no rich man could look at it without wanting to give it money. and here the president had found that there is no better method of dealing with businessmen than to use latin on them. for other purposes the president used other things. for example at a friendly dinner at the mausoleum club where light conversation was in order, dr. boomer chatted, as has been seen, on the archaeological remains of the navajos. in the same way, at mrs. rasselyer-brown's dante luncheons, he generally talked of the italian _cinquecentisti_ and whether gian gobbo della scala had left a greater name than can grande della spiggiola. but such talk as that was naturally only for women. businessmen are much too shrewd for that kind of thing; in fact, so shrewd are they, as president boomer had long since discovered, that nothing pleases them so much as the quiet, firm assumption that they know latin. it is like writing them up an asset. so it was that dr. boomer would greet a business acquaintance with a roaring salutation of, "_terque quaterque beatus_," or stand wringing his hand off to the tune of "_oh et presidium et dulce decus meum_." this caught them every time. "you don't," said tomlinson the wizard in a hesitating tone as he looked at the smooth grass of the campus, "i suppose, raise anything on it?" "no, no; this is only for field sports," said the president; "_sunt quos curriculo_--" to which dr. boyster on the other side added, like a chorus, "_pulverem olympicum_." this was their favourite quotation. it always gave president boomer a chance to speak of the final letter "m" in latin poetry, and to say that in his opinion the so-called elision of the final "m" was more properly a dropping of the vowel with a repercussion of the two last consonants. he supported this by quoting ammianus, at which dr. boyster exclaimed, "pooh! ammianus: more dog latin!" and appealed to mr. tomlinson as to whether any rational man nowadays cared what ammianus thought? to all of which tomlinson answered never a word, but looked steadily first at one and then at the other. dr. boomer said afterwards that the penetration of tomlinson was wonderful, and that it was excellent to see how boyster tried in vain to draw him; and boyster said afterwards that the way in which tomlinson quietly refused to be led on by boomer was delicious, and that it was a pity that aristophanes was not there to do it justice. all of which was happening as they went in at the iron gates and up the elm avenue of plutoria university. the university, as everyone knows, stands with its great gates on plutoria avenue, and with its largest buildings, those of the faculties of industrial and mechanical science, fronting full upon the street. these buildings are exceptionally fine, standing fifteen stories high and comparing favourably with the best departmental stores or factories in the city. indeed, after nightfall, when they are all lighted up for the evening technical classes and when their testing machinery is in full swing and there are students going in and out in overall suits, people have often mistaken the university, or this newer part of it, for a factory. a foreign visitor once said that the students looked like plumbers, and president boomer was so proud of it that he put the phrase into his next commencement address; and from there the newspapers got it and the associated press took it up and sent it all over the united states with the heading, "have appearance of plumbers; plutoria university congratulated on character of students," and it was a proud day indeed for the heads of the industrial science faculty. but the older part of the university stands so quietly and modestly at the top end of the elm avenue, so hidden by the leaves of it, that no one could mistake it for a factory. this, indeed, was once the whole university, and had stood there since colonial days under the name concordia college. it had been filled with generations of presidents and professors of the older type with long white beards and rusty black clothes, and salaries of fifteen hundred dollars. but the change both of name and of character from concordia college to plutoria university was the work of president boomer. he had changed it from an old-fashioned college of the by-gone type to a university in the true modern sense. at plutoria they now taught everything. concordia college, for example, had no teaching of religion except lectures on the bible. now they had lectures also on confucianism, mohammedanism buddhism, with an optional course on atheism for students in the final year. and, of course, they had long since admitted women, and there were now beautiful creatures with cleo de merode hair studying astronomy at oaken desks and looking up at the teacher with eyes like comets. the university taught everything and did everything. it had whirling machines on the top of it that measured the speed of the wind, and deep in its basements it measured earthquakes with a seismograph; it held classes on forestry and dentistry and palmistry; it sent life classes into the slums, and death classes to the city morgue. it offered such a vast variety of themes, topics and subjects to the students, that there was nothing that a student was compelled to learn, while from its own presses in its own press-building it sent out a shower of bulletins and monographs like driven snow from a rotary plough. in fact, it had become, as president boomer told all the businessmen in town, not merely a university, but a _universitas_ in the true sense, and every one of its faculties was now a _facultas_ in the real acceptance of the word, and its studies properly and truly _studia_; indeed, if the businessmen would only build a few more dormitories and put up enough money to form an adequate _fondatum_ or _fundum_, then the good work might be looked upon as complete. as the three walked up the elm avenue there met them a little stream of students with college books, and female students with winged-victory hats, and professors with last year's overcoats. and some went past with a smile and others with a shiver. "that's professor withers," said the president in a sympathetic voice as one of the shivering figures went past; "poor withers," and he sighed. "what's wrong with him?" said the wizard; "is he sick?" "no, not sick," said the president quietly and sadly, "merely inefficient." "inefficient?" "unfortunately so. mind you, i don't mean 'inefficient' in every sense. by no means. if anyone were to come to me and say, 'boomer, can you put your hand for me on a first-class botanist?' i'd say, 'take withers.' i'd say it in a minute." this was true. he would have. in fact, if anyone had made this kind of rash speech, dr. boomer would have given away half the professoriate. "well, what's wrong with him?" repeated tomlinson, "i suppose he ain't quite up to the mark in some ways, eh?" "precisely," said the president, "not quite up to the mark--a very happy way of putting it. _capax imperii nisi imperasset_, as no doubt you are thinking to yourself. the fact is that withers, though an excellent fellow, can't manage large classes. with small classes he is all right, but with large classes the man is lost. he can't handle them." "he can't, eh?" said the wizard. "no. but what can i do? there he is. i can't dismiss him. i can't pension him. i've no money for it." here the president slackened a little in his walk and looked sideways at the prospective benefactor. but tomlinson gave no sign. a second professorial figure passed them on the other side. "there again," said the president, "that's another case of inefficiency--professor shottat, our senior professor of english." "what's wrong with _him_?" asked the wizard. "he can't handle _small_ classes," said the president. "with large classes he is really excellent, but with small ones the man is simply hopeless." in this fashion, before mr. tomlinson had measured the length of the avenue, he had had ample opportunity to judge of the crying need of money at plutoria university, and of the perplexity of its president. he was shown professors who could handle the first year, but were powerless with the second; others who were all right with the second but broke down with the third, while others could handle the third but collapsed with the fourth. there were professors who were all right in their own subject, but perfectly impossible outside of it; others who were so occupied outside of their own subject that they were useless inside of it; others who knew their subject, but couldn't lecture; and others again who lectured admirably, but didn't know their subject. in short it was clear--as it was meant to be--that the need of the moment was a sum of money sufficient to enable the president to dismiss everybody but himself and dr. boyster. the latter stood in a class all by himself. he had known the president for forty-five years, ever since he was a fat little boy with spectacles in a classical academy, stuffing himself on irregular greek verbs as readily as if on oysters. but it soon appeared that the need for dismissing the professors was only part of the trouble. there were the buildings to consider. "this, i am ashamed to say," said dr. boomer, as they passed the imitation greek portico of the old concordia college building, "is our original home, the _fons et origo_ of our studies, our faculty of arts." it was indeed a dilapidated building, yet there was a certain majesty about it, too, especially when one reflected that it had been standing there looking much the same at the time when its students had trooped off in a flock to join the army of the potomac, and much the same, indeed, three generations before that, when the classes were closed and the students clapped three-cornered hats on their heads and were off to enlist as minute men with flintlock muskets under general washington. but dr. boomer's one idea was to knock the building down and to build on its site a real _facultas_ ten storeys high, with elevators in it. tomlinson looked about him humbly as he stood in the main hall. the atmosphere of the place awed him. there were bulletins and time-tables and notices stuck on the walls that gave evidence of the activity of the place. "professor slithers will be unable to meet his classes today," ran one of them, and another "professor withers will not meet his classes this week," and another, "owing to illness, professor shottat will not lecture this month," while still another announced, "owing to the indisposition of professor podge, all botanical classes are suspended, but professor podge hopes to be able to join in the botanical picnic excursion to loon lake on saturday afternoon." you could judge of the grinding routine of the work from the nature of these notices. anyone familiar with the work of colleges would not heed it, but it shocked tomlinson to think how often the professors of the college were stricken down by overwork. here and there in the hall, set into niches, were bronze busts of men with roman faces and bare necks, and the edge of a toga cast over each shoulder. "who would these be?" asked tomlinson, pointing at them. "some of the chief founders and benefactors of the faculty," answered the president, and at this the hopes of tomlinson sank in his heart. for he realized the class of man one had to belong to in order to be accepted as a university benefactor. "a splendid group of men, are they not?" said the president. "we owe them much. this is the late mr. hogworth, a man of singularly large heart." here he pointed to a bronze figure wearing a wreath of laurel and inscribed guliemus hogworth, litt. doc. "he had made a great fortune in the produce business and wishing to mark his gratitude to the community he erected the anemometer, the wind-measure, on the roof of the building, attaching to it no other condition than that his name should be printed in the weekly reports immediately beside the velocity of the wind. the figure beside him is the late mr. underbugg, who founded our lectures on the four gospels on the sole stipulation that henceforth any reference of ours to the four gospels should be coupled with his name." "what's that after his name?" asked tomlinson. "litt. doc.?" said the president. "doctor of letters, our honorary degree. we are always happy to grant it to our benefactors by a vote of the faculty." here dr. boomer and dr. boyster wheeled half round and looked quietly and steadily at the wizard of finance. to both their minds it was perfectly plain that an honourable bargain was being struck. "yes, mr. tomlinson," said the president, as they emerged from the building, "no doubt you begin to realize our unhappy position. money, money, money," he repeated half-musingly. "if i had the money i'd have that whole building down and dismantled in a fortnight." from the central building the three passed to the museum building, where tomlinson was shown a vast skeleton of a diplodocus maximus, and was specially warned not to confuse it with the dinosaurus perfectus, whose bones, however, could be bought if anyone, any man of large heart; would come to the university and say straight out, "gentlemen, what can i do for you?" better still, it appeared the whole museum which was hopelessly antiquated, being twenty-five years old, could be entirely knocked down if a sufficient sum was forthcoming; and its curator, who was as ancient as the dinosaurus itself, could be dismissed on half-pay if any man had a heart large enough for the dismissal. from the museum they passed to the library, where there were full-length portraits of more founders and benefactors in long red robes, holding scrolls of paper, and others sitting holding pens and writing on parchment, with a greek temple and a thunderstorm in the background. and here again it appeared that the crying need of the moment was for someone to come to the university and say, "gentlemen, what can i do for you?" on which the whole library, for it was twenty years old and out of date, might be blown up with dynamite and carted away. but at all this the hopes of tomlinson sank lower and lower. the red robes and the scrolls were too much for him. from the library they passed to the tall buildings that housed the faculty of industrial and mechanical science. and here again the same pitiful lack of money was everywhere apparent. for example, in the physical science department there was a mass of apparatus for which the university was unable to afford suitable premises, and in the chemical department there were vast premises for which the university was unable to buy apparatus, and so on. indeed it was part of dr. boomer's method to get himself endowed first with premises too big for the apparatus, and then by appealing to public spirit to call for enough apparatus to more than fill the premises, by means of which system industrial science at plutoria university advanced with increasing and gigantic strides. but most of all, the electric department interested the wizard of finance. and this time his voice lost its hesitating tone and he looked straight at dr. boomer as he began, "i have a boy--" "ah!" said dr. boomer, with a huge ejaculation of surprise and relief; "you have a boy!" there were volumes in his tone. what it meant was, "now, indeed, we have got you where we want you," and he exchanged a meaning look with the professor of greek. within five minutes the president and tomlinson and dr. boyster were gravely discussing on what terms and in what way fred might be admitted to study in the faculty of industrial science. the president, on learning that fred had put in four years in cahoga county section no. school, and had been head of his class in ciphering, nodded his head gravely and said it would simply be a matter of a _pro tanto_; that, in fact, he felt sure that fred might be admitted _ad eundem_. but the real condition on which they meant to admit him was, of course, not mentioned. one door only in the faculty of industrial and mechanical science they did not pass, a heavy oak door at the end of a corridor bearing the painted inscription: geological and metallurgical laboratories. stuck in the door was a card with the words (they were conceived in the courteous phrases of mechanical science, which is almost a branch of business in the real sense): busy--keep out. dr. boomer looked at the card. "ah, yes," he said. "gildas is no doubt busy with his tests. we won't disturb him." the president was always proud to find a professor busy; it looked well. but if dr. boomer had known what was going on behind the oaken door of the department of geology and metallurgy, he would have felt considerably disturbed himself. for here again gildas, senior professor of geology, was working among his blue flames at a final test on which depended the fate of the erie auriferous consolidated and all connected with it. before him there were some twenty or thirty packets of crumpled dust and splintered ore that glittered on the testing-table. it had been taken up from the creek along its whole length, at even spaces twenty yards apart, by an expert sent down in haste by the directorate, after gildas's second report, and heavily bribed to keep his mouth shut. and as professor gildas stood and worked at the samples and tied them up after analysis in little white cardboard boxes, he marked each one very carefully and neatly with the words, pyrites: worthless. beside the professor worked a young demonstrator of last year's graduation class. it was he, in fact, who had written the polite notice on the card. "what is the stuff, anyway?" he asked. "a sulphuret of iron," said the professor, "or iron pyrites. in colour and appearance it is practically identical with gold. indeed, in all ages," he went on, dropping at once into the classroom tone and adopting the professional habit of jumping backwards twenty centuries in order to explain anything properly, "it has been readily mistaken for the precious metal. the ancients called it 'fool's gold.' martin frobisher brought back four shiploads of it from baffin land thinking that he had discovered an eldorado. there are large deposits of it in the mines of cornwall, and it is just possible," here the professor measured his words as if speaking of something that he wouldn't promise, "that the cassiterides of the phoenicians contained deposits of the same sulphuret. indeed, i defy anyone," he continued, for he was piqued in his scientific pride, "to distinguish it from gold without a laboratory-test. in large quantities, i concede, its lack of weight would betray it to a trained hand, but without testing its solubility in nitric acid, or the fact of its burning with a blue flame under the blow-pipe, it cannot be detected. in short, when crystallized in dodecahedrons--" "is it any good?" broke in the demonstrator. "good?" said the professor. "oh, you mean commercially? not in the slightest. much less valuable than, let us say, ordinary mud or clay. in fact, it is absolutely good for nothing." they were silent for a moment, watching the blue flames above the brazier. then gildas spoke again. "oddly enough," he said, "the first set of samples were undoubtedly pure gold--not the faintest doubt of that. that is the really interesting part of the matter. these gentlemen concerned in the enterprise will, of course, lose their money, and i shall therefore decline to accept the very handsome fee which they had offered me for my services. but the main feature, the real point of interest in this matter remains. here we have undoubtedly a sporadic deposit--what miners call a pocket--of pure gold in a devonian formation of the post-tertiary period. this once established, we must revise our entire theory of the distribution of igneous and aqueous rocks. in fact, i am already getting notes together for a paper for the pan-geological under the heading, auriferous excretions in the devonian strata: a working hypothesis. i hope to read it at the next meeting." the young demonstrator looked at the professor with one eye half-closed. "i don't think i would if i were you." he said. now this young demonstrator knew nothing or practically nothing, of geology, because he came of one of the richest and best families in town and didn't need to. but he was a smart young man, dressed in the latest fashion with brown boots and a crosswise tie, and he knew more about money and business and the stock exchange in five minutes than professor gildas in his whole existence. "why not?" said the professor. "why, don't you see what's happened?" "eh?" said gildas. "what happened to those first samples? when that bunch got interested and planned to float the company? don't you see? somebody salted them on you." "_salted_ them on me?" repeated the professor, mystified. "yes, salted them. somebody got wise to what they were and swopped them on you for the real thing, so as to get your certified report that the stuff was gold." "i begin to see," muttered the professor. "somebody exchanged the samples, some person no doubt desirous of establishing the theory that a sporadic outcropping of the sort might be found in a post-tertiary formation. i see, i see. no doubt he intended to prepare a paper on it, and prove his thesis by these tests. i see it all!" the demonstrator looked at the professor with a sort of pity. "you're on!" he said, and he laughed softly to himself. * * * * * "well," said dr. boomer, after tomlinson had left the university, "what do you make of him?" the president had taken dr. boyster over to his house beside the campus, and there in his study had given him a cigar as big as a rope and taken another himself. this was a sign that dr. boomer wanted dr. boyster's opinion in plain english, without any latin about it. "remarkable man," said the professor of greek; "wonderful penetration, and a man of very few words. of course his game is clear enough?" "entirely so," asserted dr. boomer. "it's clear enough that he means to give the money on two conditions." "exactly," said the president. "first that we admit his son, who is quite unqualified, to the senior studies in electrical science, and second that we grant him the degree of doctor of letters. those are his terms." "can we meet them?" "oh, certainly. as to the son, there is no difficulty, of course; as to the degree, it's only a question of getting the faculty to vote it. i think we can manage it." * * * * * vote it they did that very afternoon. true, if the members of the faculty had known the things that were being whispered, and more than whispered, in the city about tomlinson and his fortune, no degree would ever have been conferred on him. but it so happened that at that moment the whole professoriate was absorbed in one of those great educational crises which from time to time shake a university to its base. the meeting of the faculty that day bid fair to lose all vestige of decorum in the excitement of the moment. for, as dean elderberry foible, the head of the faculty, said, the motion that they had before them amounted practically to a revolution. the proposal was nothing less than the permission of the use of lead-pencils instead of pen and ink in the sessional examinations of the university. anyone conversant with the inner life of a college will realize that to many of the professoriate this was nothing less than a last wild onslaught of socialistic democracy against the solid bulwarks of society. they must fight it back or die on the walls. to others it was one more step in the splendid progress of democratic education, comparable only to such epoch-making things as the abandonment of the cap and gown, and the omission of the word "sir" in speaking to a professor. no wonder that the fight raged. elderberry foible, his fluffed white hair almost on end, beat in vain with his gavel for order. finally, chang of physiology, who was a perfect dynamo of energy and was known frequently to work for three or four hours at a stretch, proposed that the faculty should adjourn the question and meet for its further discussion on the following saturday morning. this revolutionary suggestion, involving work on saturday, reduced the meeting to a mere turmoil, in the midst of which elderberry foible proposed that the whole question of the use of lead-pencils should be adjourned till that day six months, and that meantime a new special committee of seventeen professors, with power to add to their number, to call witnesses and, if need be, to hear them, should report on the entire matter _de novo_. this motion, after the striking out of the words _de novo_ and the insertion of _ab initio_, was finally carried, after which the faculty sank back completely exhausted into its chair, the need of afternoon tea and toast stamped on every face. and it was at this moment that president boomer, who understood faculties as few men have done, quietly entered the room, laid his silk hat on a volume of demosthenes, and proposed the vote of a degree of doctor of letters for edward tomlinson. he said that there was no need to remind the faculty of tomlinson's services to the nation; they knew them. of the members of the faculty, indeed, some thought that he meant the tomlinson who wrote the famous monologue on the iota subscript, while others supposed that he referred to the celebrated philosopher tomlinson, whose new book on the indivisibility of the inseparable was just then maddening the entire world. in any case, they voted the degree without a word, still faint with exhaustion. * * * * * but while the university was conferring on tomlinson the degree of doctor of letters, all over the city in business circles they were conferring on him far other titles. "idiot," "scoundrel," "swindler," were the least of them. every stock and share with which his name was known to be connected was coming down with a run, wiping out the accumulated profits of the wizard at the rate of a thousand dollars a minute. they not only questioned his honesty, but they went further and questioned his business capacity. "the man," said mr. lucullus fyshe, sitting in the mausoleum club and breathing freely at last after having disposed of all his holdings in the erie auriferous, "is an ignoramus. i asked him only the other day, quite casually, a perfectly simple business question. i said to him. 't.c. bonds have risen twenty-two and a half in a week. you know and i know that they are only collateral trust, and that the stock underneath never could and never would earn a par dividend. now,' i said, for i wanted to test the fellow, 'tell me what that means?' would you believe me, he looked me right in the face in that stupid way of his, and he said, 'i don't know!'" "he said he didn't know!" repeated the listener contemptuously; "the man is a damn fool!" * * * * * the reason of all this was that the results of the researches of the professor of geology were being whispered among the directorate of the erie auriferous. and the directors and chief shareholders were busily performing the interesting process called unloading. nor did ever a farmer of cahoga county in haying time with a thunderstorm threatening, unload with greater rapidity than did the major shareholders of the auriferous. mr. lucullus fyshe traded off a quarter of his stock to an unwary member of the mausoleum club at a drop of thirty per cent, and being too prudent to hold the rest on any terms, he conveyed it at once as a benefaction in trust to the plutorian orphans' and foundlings' home; while the purchaser of mr. fyshe's stock, learning too late of his folly, rushed for his lawyers to have the shares conveyed as a gift to the home for incurables. mr. asmodeus boulder transferred his entire holdings to the imbeciles' relief society, and mr. furlong, senior, passed his over to a chinese mission as fast as pen could traverse paper. down at the office of skinyer and beatem, the lawyers of the company, they were working overtime drawing up deeds and conveyances and trusts in perpetuity, with hardly time to put them into typewriting. within twenty-four hours the entire stock of the company bid fair to be in the hands of idiots, orphans, protestants, foundlings, imbeciles, missionaries, chinese, and other unfinancial people, with tomlinson the wizard of finance as the senior shareholder and majority control. and whether the gentle wizard, as he sat with mother planning his vast benefaction to plutoria university, would have felt more at home with his new group of fellow-shareholders than his old, it were hard to say. but, meantime, at the office of skinyer and beatem all was activity. for not only were they drafting the conveyances of the perpetual trusts as fast as legal brains working overtime could do it, but in another part of the office a section of the firm were busily making their preparations against the expected actions for fraud and warrants of distraint and injunctions against disposal of assets and the whole battery of artillery which might open on them at any moment. and they worked like a corps of military engineers fortifying an escarpment, with the joy of battle in their faces. the storm might break at any moment. already at the office of the _financial undertone_ the type was set for a special extra with a heading three inches high: collapse of the erie consolidated arrest of the man tomlinson expected this afternoon skinyer and beatem had paid the editor, who was crooked, two thousand dollars cash to hold back that extra for twenty-four hours; and the editor had paid the reporting staff, who were crooked, twenty-five dollars each to keep the news quiet, and the compositors, who were also crooked, ten dollars per man to hold their mouths shut till the morning, with the result that from editors and sub-editors and reporters and compositors the news went seething forth in a flood that the erie auriferous consolidated was going to shatter into fragments like the bursting of a dynamite bomb. it rushed with a thousand whispering tongues from street to street till it filled the corridors of the law courts and the lobbies of the offices, and till every honest man that held a share of the stock shivered in his tracks and reached out to give, sell, or destroy it. only the unwinking idiots, and the mild orphans, and the calm deaf mutes and the impassive chinese held tight to what they had. so gathered the storm, till all the town, like the great rotunda of the grand palaver, was filled with a silent "call for mr. tomlinson," voiceless and ominous. and while all this was happening, and while at skinyer and beatem's they worked with frantic pens and clattering type there came a knock at the door, hesitant and uncertain, and before the eyes of the astounded office there stood in his wide-awake hat and long black coat the figure of "the man tomlinson" himself. and skinyer, the senior partner, no sooner heard what tomlinson wanted than he dashed across the outer office to his partner's room with his hyena face all excitement as he said: "beatem, beatem, come over to my room. this man is absolutely the biggest thing in america. for sheer calmness and nerve i never heard of anything to approach him. what do you think he wants to do?" "what?" said beatem. "why, he's giving his entire fortune to the university." "by gad!" ejaculated beatem, and the two lawyers looked at one another, lost in admiration of the marvellous genius and assurance of tomlinson. * * * * * yet what had happened was very simple. tomlinson had come back from the university filled with mingled hope and hesitation. the university, he saw, needed the money and he hoped to give it his entire fortune, to put dr. boomer in a position to practically destroy the whole place. but, like many a modest man, he lacked the assurance to speak out. he felt that up to the present the benefactors of the university had been men of an entirely different class from himself. it was mother who solved the situation for him. "well, father," she said, "there's one thing i've learned already since we've had money. if you want to get a thing done you can always find people to do it for you if you pay them. why not go to those lawyers that manage things for the company and get them to arrange it all for you with the college?" as a result, tomlinson had turned up at the door of the skinyer and beatem office. * * * * * "quite so, mr. tomlinson," said skinyer, with his pen already dipped in the ink, "a perfectly simple matter. i can draw up a draft of conveyance with a few strokes of the pen. in fact, we can do it on the spot." what he meant was, "in fact, we can do it so fast that i can pocket a fee of five hundred dollars right here and now while you have the money to pay me." "now then," he continued, "let us see how it is to run." "well," said tomlinson, "i want you to put it that i give all my stock in the company to the university." "all of it?" said skinyer, with a quiet smile to beatem. "every cent of it, sir," said tomlinson; "just write down that i give all of it to the college." "very good," said skinyer, and he began to write, "i, so-and-so, and so-and-so, of the county of so-and-so--cahoga, i think you said, mr. tomlinson?" "yes, sir," said the wizard, "i was raised there." "--do hereby give, assign, devise, transfer, and the transfer is hereby given, devised and assigned, all those stocks, shares, hereditaments, etc., which i hold in the etc., etc., all, several and whatever--you will observe, mr. tomlinson, i am expressing myself with as great brevity as possible--to that institution, academy, college, school, university, now known and reputed to be plutoria university, of the city of etc., etc." he paused a moment. "now what special objects or purposes shall i indicate?" he asked. whereupon tomlinson explained as best he could, and skinyer, working with great rapidity, indicated that the benefaction was to include a demolition fund for the removal of buildings, a retirement fund for the removal of professors, an apparatus fund for the destruction of apparatus, and a general sinking fund for the obliteration of anything not otherwise mentioned. "and i'd like to do something, if i could, for mr. boomer himself, just as man to man," said tomlinson. "all right," said beatem, and he could hardly keep his face straight. "give him a chunk of the stock--give him half a million." "i will," said tomlinson; "he deserves it." "undoubtedly," said mr. skinyer. and within a few minutes the whole transaction was done, and tomlinson, filled with joy, was wringing the hands of skinyer and beatem, and telling them to name their own fee. they had meant to, anyway. * * * * * "is that legal, do you suppose?" said beatem to skinyer, after the wizard had gone. "will it hold water?" "oh, i don't think so," said skinyer, "not for a minute. in fact, rather the other way. if they make an arrest for fraudulent flotation, this conveyance, i should think, would help to send him to the penitentiary. but i very much doubt if they can arrest him. mind you, the fellow is devilish shrewd. you know, and i know that he planned this whole flotation with a full knowledge of the fraud. _you_ and _i_ know it--very good--but we know it more from our trained instinct in such things than by any proof. the fellow has managed to surround himself with such an air of good faith from start to finish that it will be deuced hard to get at him." "what will he do now?" said beatem. "i tell you what he'll do. mark my words. within twenty-four hours he'll clear out and be out of the state, and if they want to get him they'll have to extradite. i tell you he's a man of extraordinary capacity. the rest of us are nowhere beside him." in which, perhaps, there was some truth. * * * * * "well, mother," said the wizard, when he reached the thousand-dollar suite, after his interview with skinyer and beatem, his face irradiated with simple joy, "it's done. i've put the college now in a position it never was in before, nor any other college; the lawyers say so themselves." "that's good," said mother. "yes, and it's a good thing i didn't lose the money when i tried to. you see, mother, what i hadn't realized was the good that could be done with all that money if a man put his heart into it. they can start in as soon as they like and tear down those buildings. my! but it's just wonderful what you can do with money. i'm glad i didn't lose it!" so they talked far into the evening. that night they slept in an aladdin's palace filled with golden fancies. and in the morning the palace and all its visions fell tumbling about their heads in sudden and awful catastrophe. for with tomlinson's first descent to the rotunda it broke. the whole great space seemed filled with the bulletins and the broadside sheets of the morning papers, the crowd surging to and fro buying the papers, men reading them as they stood, and everywhere in great letters there met his eye: collapse of the erie auriferous the great gold swindle arrest of the man tomlinson expected this morning so stood the wizard of finance beside a pillar, the paper fluttering in his hand, his eyes fixed, while about him a thousand eager eyes and rushing tongues sent shame into his stricken heart. and there his boy fred, sent from upstairs, found him; and at the sight of the seething crowd and his father's stricken face, aged as it seemed all in a moment, the boy's soul woke within him. what had happened he could not tell, only that his father stood there, dazed, beaten, and staring at him on every side in giant letters: arrest of the man tomlinson "come, father come upstairs," he said, and took him by the arm, dragging him through the crowd. in the next half-hour as they sat and waited for the arrest in the false grandeur of the thousand-dollar suite-tomlinson, his wife, and fred-the boy learnt more than all the teaching of the industrial faculty of plutoria university could have taught him in a decade. adversity laid its hand upon him, and at its touch his adolescent heart turned to finer stuff than the salted gold of the erie auriferous. as he looked upon his father's broken figure waiting meekly for arrest, and his mother's blubbered face, a great wrath burned itself into his soul. "when the sheriff comes--" said tomlinson, and his lip trembled as he spoke. he had no other picture of arrest than that. "they can't arrest you, father," broke out the boy. "you've done nothing. you never swindled them. i tell you, if they try to arrest you, i'll--" and his voice broke and stopped upon a sob, and his hands clenched in passion. "you stay here, you and mother. i'll go down. give me your money and i'll go and pay them and we'll get out of this and go home. they can't stop us; there's nothing to arrest you for." nor was there. fred paid the bill unmolested, save for the prying eyes and babbling tongues of the rotunda. and a few hours from that, while the town was still ringing with news of his downfall, the wizard with his wife and son walked down from their thousand-dollar suite into the corridor, their hands burdened with their satchels. a waiter, with something between a sneer and an obsequious smile upon his face, reached out for the valises, wondering if it was still worth while. "you get to hell out of that!" said fred. he had put on again his rough store suit in which he had come from cahoga county, and there was a dangerous look about his big shoulders and his set jaw. and the waiter slunk back. so did they pass, unarrested and unhindered, through corridor and rotunda to the outer portals of the great hotel. beside the door of the palaver as they passed out was a tall official with a uniform and a round hat. he was called by the authorities a _chasseur_ or a _commissionaire_, or some foreign name to mean that he did nothing. at the sight of him the wizard's face flushed for a moment, with a look of his old perplexity. "i wonder," he began to murmur, "how much i ought--" "not a damn cent, father," said fred, as he shouldered past the magnificent _chasseur_; "let him work." with which admirable doctrine the wizard and his son passed from the portals of the grand palaver. * * * * * nor was there any arrest either then or later. in spite of the expectations of the rotunda and the announcements of the _financial undertone_, the "man tomlinson" was _not_ arrested, neither as he left the grand palaver nor as he stood waiting at the railroad station with fred and mother for the outgoing train for cahoga county. there was nothing to arrest him for. that was not the least strange part of the career of the wizard of finance. for when all the affairs of the erie auriferous consolidated were presently calculated up by the labours of skinyer and beatem and the legal representatives of the orphans and the idiots and the deaf-mutes they resolved themselves into the most beautiful and complete cipher conceivable. the salted gold about paid for the cost of the incorporation certificate: the development capital had disappeared, and those who lost most preferred to say the least about it; and as for tomlinson, if one added up his gains on the stock market before the fall and subtracted his bill at the grand palaver and the thousand dollars which he gave to skinyer and beatem to recover his freehold on the lower half of his farm, and the cost of three tickets to cahoga station, the debit and credit account balanced to a hair. thus did the whole fortune of tomlinson vanish in a night, even as the golden palace seen in the mirage of a desert sunset may fade before the eyes of the beholder, and leave no trace behind. * * * * * it was some months after the collapse of the erie auriferous that the university conferred upon tomlinson the degree of doctor of letters _in absentia_. a university must keep its word, and dean elderberry foible, who was honesty itself, had stubbornly maintained that a vote of the faculty of arts once taken and written in the minute book became as irrefragable as the devonian rock itself. so the degree was conferred. and dean elderberry foible, standing in a long red gown before dr. boomer, seated in a long blue gown, read out after the ancient custom of the college the latin statement of the award of the degree of doctor of letters, "eduardus tomlinsonius, vir clarrisimus, doctissimus, praestissimus," and a great many other things all ending in _issimus_. but the recipient was not there to receive. he stood at that moment with his boy fred on a windy hillside beside lake erie, where tomlinson's creek ran again untrammelled to the lake. nor was the scene altered to the eye, for tomlinson and his son had long since broken a hole in the dam with pickaxe and crowbar, and day by day the angry water carried down the vestiges of the embankment till all were gone. the cedar poles of the electric lights had been cut into fence-rails; the wooden shanties of the italian gang of auriferous workers had been torn down and split into fire wood; and where they had stood, the burdocks and the thistles of the luxuriant summer conspired to hide the traces of their shame. nature reached out its hand and drew its coverlet of green over the grave of the vanished eldorado. and as the wizard and his son stood upon the hillside, they saw nothing but the land sloping to the lake and the creek murmuring again to the willows, while the off-shore wind rippled the rushes of the shallow water. chapter four: the yahi-bahi oriental society of mrs. rasselyer-brown mrs. rasselyer-brown lived on plutoria avenue in a vast sandstone palace, in which she held those fashionable entertainments which have made the name of rasselyer-brown what it is. mr. rasselyer-brown lived there also. the exterior of the house was more or less a model of the facade of an italian palazzo of the sixteenth century. if one questioned mrs. rasselyer-brown at dinner in regard to this (which was only a fair return for drinking five dollar champagne), she answered that the facade was _cinquecentisti_, but that it reproduced also the saracenic mullioned window of the siennese school. but if the guest said later in the evening to mr. rasselyer-brown that he understood that his house was _cinquecentisti_, he answered that he guessed it was. after which remark and an interval of silence, mr. rasselyer-brown would probably ask the guest if he was dry. so from that one can tell exactly the sort of people the rasselyer-browns were. in other words, mr. rasselyer-brown was a severe handicap to mrs. rasselyer-brown. he was more than that; the word isn't strong enough. he was, as mrs. rasselyer-brown herself confessed to her confidential circle of three hundred friends, a drag. he was also a tie, and a weight, and a burden, and in mrs. rasselyer-brown's religious moments a crucifix. even in the early years of their married life, some twenty or twenty-five years ago, her husband had been a drag on her by being in the coal and wood business. it is hard for a woman to have to realize that her husband is making a fortune out of coal and wood and that people know it. it ties one down. what a woman wants most of all--this, of course, is merely a quotation from mrs. rasselyer-brown's own thoughts as expressed to her three hundred friends--is room to expand, to grow. the hardest thing in the world is to be stifled: and there is nothing more stifling than a husband who doesn't know a giotto from a carlo dolci, but who can distinguish nut coal from egg and is never asked to dinner without talking about the furnace. these, of course, were early trials. they had passed to some extent, or were, at any rate, garlanded with the roses of time. but the drag remained. even when the retail coal and wood stage was long since over, it was hard to have to put up with a husband who owned a coal mine and who bought pulp forests instead of illuminated missals of the twelfth century. a coal mine is a dreadful thing at a dinner-table. it humbles one so before one's guests. it wouldn't have been so bad--this mrs. rasselyer-brown herself admitted--if mr. rasselyer-brown _did_ anything. this phrase should be clearly understood. it meant if there was any one thing that he _did_. for instance if he had only _collected_ anything. thus, there was mr. lucullus fyshe, who made soda-water, but at the same time everybody knew that he had the best collection of broken italian furniture on the continent; there wasn't a sound piece among the lot. and there was the similar example of old mr. feathertop. he didn't exactly _collect_ things; he repudiated the name. he was wont to say, "don't call me a collector, i'm _not_. i simply pick things up. just where i happen to be, rome, warsaw, bucharest, anywhere"--and it is to be noted what fine places these are to happen to be. and to think that mr. rasselyer-brown would never put his foot outside of the united states! whereas mr. feathertop would come back from what he called a run to europe, and everybody would learn in a week that he had picked up the back of a violin in dresden (actually discovered it in a violin shop), and the lid of an etruscan kettle (he had lighted on it, by pure chance, in a kettle shop in etruria), and mrs. rasselyer-brown would feel faint with despair at the nonentity of her husband. so one can understand how heavy her burden was. "my dear," she often said to her bosom friend, miss snagg, "i shouldn't mind things so much" (the things she wouldn't mind were, let us say, the two million dollars of standing timber which brown limited, the ominous business name of mr. rasselyer-brown, were buying that year) "if mr. rasselyer-brown _did_ anything. but he does _nothing_. every morning after breakfast off to his wretched office, and never back till dinner, and in the evening nothing but his club, or some business meeting. one would think he would have more ambition. how i wish i had been a man." it was certainly a shame. so it came that, in almost everything she undertook mrs. rasselyer-brown had to act without the least help from her husband. every wednesday, for instance, when the dante club met at her house (they selected four lines each week to meditate on, and then discussed them at lunch), mrs. rasselyer-brown had to carry the whole burden of it--her very phrase, "the whole burden"--alone. anyone who has carried four lines of dante through a moselle lunch knows what a weight it is. in all these things her husband was useless, quite useless. it is not right to be ashamed of one's husband. and to do her justice, mrs. rasselyer-brown always explained to her three hundred intimates that she was _not_ ashamed of him; in fact, that she _refused_ to be. but it was hard to see him brought into comparison at their own table with superior men. put him, for instance, beside mr. sikleigh snoop, the sex-poet, and where was he? nowhere. he couldn't even understand what mr. snoop was saying. and when mr. snoop would stand on the hearth-rug with a cup of tea balanced in his hand, and discuss whether sex was or was not the dominant note in botticelli, mrs. rasselyer-brown would be skulking in a corner in his ill-fitting dress suit. his wife would often catch with an agonized ear such scraps of talk as, "when i was first in the coal and wood business," or, "it's a coal that burns quicker than egg, but it hasn't the heating power of nut," or even in a low undertone the words, "if you're feeling _dry_ while he's reading--" and this at a time when everybody in the room ought to have been listening to mr. snoop. nor was even this the whole burden of mrs. rasselyer-brown. there was another part of it which was perhaps more _real_, though mrs. rasselyer-brown herself never put it into words. in fact, of this part of her burden she never spoke, even to her bosom friend miss snagg; nor did she talk about it to the ladies of the dante club, nor did she make speeches on it to the members of the women's afternoon art society, nor to the monday bridge club. but the members of the bridge club and the art society and the dante club all talked about it among themselves. stated very simply, it was this: mr. rasselyer-brown drank. it was not meant that he was a drunkard or that he drank too much, or anything of that sort. he drank. that was all. there was no excess about it. mr. rasselyer-brown, of course, began the day with an eye-opener--and after all, what alert man does not wish his eyes well open in the morning? he followed it usually just before breakfast with a bracer--and what wiser precaution can a businessman take than to brace his breakfast? on his way to business he generally had his motor stopped at the grand palaver for a moment, if it was a raw day, and dropped in and took something to keep out the damp. if it was a cold day he took something to keep out the cold, and if it was one of those clear, sunny days that are so dangerous to the system he took whatever the bartender (a recognized health expert) suggested to tone the system up. after which he could sit down in his office and transact more business, and bigger business, in coal, charcoal, wood, pulp, pulpwood, and woodpulp, in two hours than any other man in the business could in a week. naturally so. for he was braced, and propped, and toned up, and his eyes had been opened, and his brain cleared, till outside of very big business, indeed, few men were on a footing with him. in fact, it was business itself which had compelled mr. rasselyer-brown to drink. it is all very well for a junior clerk on twenty dollars a week to do his work on sandwiches and malted milk. in big business it is not possible. when a man begins to rise in business, as mr. rasselyer-brown had begun twenty-five years ago, he finds that if he wants to succeed he must cut malted milk clear out. in any position of responsibility a man has got to drink. no really big deal can be put through without it. if two keen men, sharp as flint, get together to make a deal in which each intends to outdo the other, the only way to succeed is for them to adjourn to some such place as the luncheon-room of the mausoleum club and both get partially drunk. this is what is called the personal element in business. and, beside it, plodding industry is nowhere. most of all do these principles hold true in such manly out-of-door enterprises as the forest and timber business, where one deals constantly with chief rangers, and pathfinders, and wood-stalkers, whose very names seem to suggest a horn of whiskey under a hemlock tree. but--let it be repeated and carefully understood--there was no excess about mr. rasselyer-brown's drinking. indeed, whatever he might be compelled to take during the day, and at the mausoleum club in the evening, after his return from his club at night mr. rasselyer-brown made it a fixed rule to take nothing. he might, perhaps, as he passed into the house, step into the dining-room and take a very small drink at the sideboard. but this he counted as part of the return itself, and not after it. and he might, if his brain were over-fatigued, drop down later in the night in his pajamas and dressing-gown when the house was quiet, and compose his mind with a brandy and water, or something suitable to the stillness of the hour. but this was not really a drink. mr. rasselyer-brown called it a _nip_; and of course any man may need a _nip_ at a time when he would scorn a drink. * * * * * but after all, a woman may find herself again in her daughter. there, at least, is consolation. for, as mrs. rasselyer-brown herself admitted, her daughter, dulphemia, was herself again. there were, of course, differences, certain differences of face and appearance. mr. snoop had expressed this fact exquisitely when he said that it was the difference between a burne-jones and a dante gabriel rossetti. but even at that the mother and daughter were so alike that people, certain people, were constantly mistaking them on the street. and as everybody that mistook them was apt to be asked to dine on five-dollar champagne there was plenty of temptation towards error. there is no doubt that dulphemia rasselyer-brown was a girl of remarkable character and intellect. so is any girl who has beautiful golden hair parted in thick bands on her forehead, and deep blue eyes soft as an italian sky. even the oldest and most serious men in town admitted that in talking to her they were aware of a grasp, a reach, a depth that surprised them. thus old judge longerstill, who talked to her at dinner for an hour on the jurisdiction of the interstate commerce commission, felt sure from the way in which she looked up in his face at intervals and said, "how interesting!" that she had the mind of a lawyer. and mr. brace, the consulting engineer, who showed her on the table-cloth at dessert with three forks and a spoon the method in which the overflow of the spillway of the gatun dam is regulated, felt assured, from the way she leaned her face on her hand sideways and said, "how extraordinary!" that she had the brain of an engineer. similarly foreign visitors to the social circles of the city were delighted with her. viscount fitzthistle, who explained to dulphemia for half an hour the intricacies of the irish situation, was captivated at the quick grasp she showed by asking him at the end, without a second's hesitation, "and which are the nationalists?" this kind of thing represents female intellect in its best form. every man that is really a man is willing to recognize it at once. as to the young men, of course they flocked to the rasselyer-brown residence in shoals. there were batches of them every sunday afternoon at five o'clock, encased in long black frock-coats, sitting very rigidly in upright chairs, trying to drink tea with one hand. one might see athletic young college men of the football team trying hard to talk about italian music; and italian tenors from the grand opera doing their best to talk about college football. there were young men in business talking about art, and young men in art talking about religion, and young clergymen talking about business. because, of course, the rasselyer-brown residence was the kind of cultivated home where people of education and taste are at liberty to talk about things they don't know, and to utter freely ideas that they haven't got. it was only now and again, when one of the professors from the college across the avenue came booming into the room, that the whole conversation was pulverized into dust under the hammer of accurate knowledge. the whole process was what was called, by those who understood such things, a _salon_. many people said that mrs. rasselyer-brown's afternoons at home were exactly like the delightful _salons_ of the eighteenth century: and whether the gatherings were or were not _salons_ of the eighteenth century, there is no doubt that mr. rasselyer-brown, under whose care certain favoured guests dropped quietly into the back alcove of the dining-room, did his best to put the gathering on a par with the best saloons of the twentieth. now it so happened that there had come a singularly slack moment in the social life of the city. the grand opera had sung itself into a huge deficit and closed. there remained nothing of it except the efforts of a committee of ladies to raise enough money to enable signor puffi to leave town, and the generous attempt of another committee to gather funds in order to keep signor pasti in the city. beyond this, opera was dead, though the fact that the deficit was nearly twice as large as it had been the year before showed that public interest in music was increasing. it was indeed a singularly trying time of the year. it was too early to go to europe; and too late to go to bermuda. it was too warm to go south, and yet still too cold to go north. in fact, one was almost compelled to stay at home--which was dreadful. as a result mrs. rasselyer-brown and her three hundred friends moved backwards and forwards on plutoria avenue, seeking novelty in vain. they washed in waves of silk from tango teas to bridge afternoons. they poured in liquid avalanches of colour into crowded receptions, and they sat in glittering rows and listened to lectures on the enfranchisement of the female sex. but for the moment all was weariness. now it happened, whether by accident or design, that just at this moment of general _ennui_ mrs. rasselyer-brown and her three hundred friends first heard of the presence in the city of mr. yahi-bahi, the celebrated oriental mystic. he was so celebrated that nobody even thought of asking who he was or where he came from. they merely told one another, and repeated it, that he was _the_ celebrated yahi-bahi. they added for those who needed the knowledge that the name was pronounced yahhy-bahhy, and that the doctrine taught by mr. yahi-bahi was boohooism. this latter, if anyone inquired further, was explained to be a form of shoodooism, only rather more intense. in fact, it was esoteric--on receipt of which information everybody remarked at once how infinitely superior the oriental peoples are to ourselves. now as mrs. rasselyer-brown was always a leader in everything that was done in the best circles on plutoria avenue, she was naturally among the first to visit mr. yahi-bahi. "my dear," she said, in describing afterwards her experience to her bosom friend, miss snagg, "it was _most_ interesting. we drove away down to the queerest part of the city, and went to the strangest little house imaginable, up the narrowest stairs one ever saw--quite eastern, in fact, just like a scene out of the koran." "how fascinating!" said miss snagg. but as a matter of fact, if mr. yahi-bahi's house had been inhabited, as it might have been, by a streetcar conductor or a railway brakesman, mrs. rasselyer-brown wouldn't have thought it in any way peculiar or fascinating. "it was all hung with curtains inside," she went on, "with figures of snakes and indian gods, perfectly weird." "and did you see mr. yahi-bahi?" asked miss snagg. "oh no, my dear. i only saw his assistant mr. ram spudd; such a queer little round man, a bengalee, i believe. he put his back against a curtain and spread out his arms sideways and wouldn't let me pass. he said that mr. yahi-bahi was in meditation and mustn't be disturbed." "how delightful!" echoed miss snagg. but in reality mr. yahi-bahi was sitting behind the curtain eating a ten-cent can of pork and beans. "what i like most about eastern people," went on mrs. rasselyer-brown, "is their wonderful delicacy of feeling. after i had explained about my invitation to mr. yahi-bahi to come and speak to us on boohooism, and was going away, i took a dollar bill out of my purse and laid it on the table. you should have seen the way mr. ram spudd took it. he made the deepest salaam and said, 'isis guard you, beautiful lady.' such perfect courtesy, and yet with the air of scorning the money. as i passed out i couldn't help slipping another dollar into his hand, and he took it as if utterly unaware of it, and muttered, 'osiris keep you, o flower of women!' and as i got into the motor i gave him another dollar and he said, 'osis and osiris both prolong your existence, o lily of the ricefield,' and after he had said it he stood beside the door of the motor and waited without moving till i left. he had such a strange, rapt look, as if he were still expecting something!" "how exquisite!" murmured miss snagg. it was her business in life to murmur such things as this for mrs. rasselyer-brown. on the whole, reckoning grand opera tickets and dinners, she did very well out of it. "is it not?" said mrs. rasselyer-brown. "so different from our men. i felt so ashamed of my chauffeur, our new man, you know; he seemed such a contrast beside ram spudd. the rude way in which the opened the door, and the rude way in which he climbed on to his own seat, and the _rudeness_ with which he turned on the power--i felt positively ashamed. and he so managed it--i am sure he did it on purpose--that the car splashed a lot of mud over mr. spudd as it started." yet, oddly enough, the opinion of other people on this new chauffeur, that of miss dulphemia rasselyer-brown herself, for example, to whose service he was specially attached, was very different. the great recommendation of him in the eyes of miss dulphemia and her friends, and the thing that gave him a touch of mystery was--and what higher qualification can a chauffeur want?--that he didn't look like a chauffeur at all. "my dear dulphie," whispered miss philippa furlong, the rector's sister (who was at that moment dulphemia's second self), as they sat behind the new chauffeur, "don't tell me that he is a chauffeur, because he _isn't_. he can chauffe, of course, but that's nothing." for the new chauffeur had a bronzed face, hard as metal, and a stern eye; and when he put on a chauffeur's overcoat some how it seemed to turn into a military greatcoat; and even when he put on the round cloth cap of his profession it was converted straightway into a military shako. and by miss dulphemia and her friends it was presently reported--or was invented?--that he had served in the philippines; which explained at once the scar upon his forehead, which must have been received at iloilo, or huila-huila, or some other suitable place. but what affected miss dulphemia brown herself was the splendid rudeness of the chauffeur's manner. it was so different from that of the young men of the _salon_. thus, when mr. sikleigh snoop handed her into the car at any time he would dance about saying, "allow me," and "permit me," and would dive forward to arrange the robes. but the philippine chauffeur merely swung the door open and said to dulphemia, "get in," and then slammed it. this, of course, sent a thrill up the spine and through the imagination of miss dulphemia rasselyer-brown, because it showed that the chauffeur was a gentleman in disguise. she thought it very probable that he was a british nobleman, a younger son, very wild, of a ducal family; and she had her own theories as to why he had entered the service of the rasselyer-browns. to be quite candid about it, she expected that the philippine chauffeur meant to elope with her, and every time he drove her from a dinner or a dance she sat back luxuriously, wishing and expecting the elopement to begin. * * * * * but for the time being the interest of dulphemia, as of everybody else that was anybody at all, centred round mr. yahi-bahi and the new cult of boohooism. after the visit of mrs. rasselyer-brown a great number of ladies, also in motors, drove down to the house of mr. yahi-bahi. and all of them, whether they saw mr. yahi-bahi himself or his bengalee assistant, mr. ram spudd, came back delighted. "such exquisite tact!" said one. "such delicacy! as i was about to go i laid a five dollar gold piece on the edge of the little table. mr. spudd scarcely seemed to see it. he murmured, 'osiris help you!' and pointed to the ceiling. i raised my eyes instinctively, and when i lowered them the money had disappeared. i think he must have caused it to vanish." "oh, i'm sure he did," said the listener. others came back with wonderful stories of mr. yahi-bahi's occult powers, especially his marvellous gift of reading the future. mrs. buncomhearst, who had just lost her third husband--by divorce--had received from mr. yahi-bahi a glimpse into the future that was almost uncanny in its exactness. she had asked for a divination, and mr. yahi-bahi had effected one by causing her to lay six ten-dollar pieces on the table arranged in the form of a mystic serpent. over these he had bent and peered deeply, as if seeking to unravel their meaning, and finally he had given her the prophecy, "many things are yet to happen before others begin." "how _does_ he do it?" asked everybody. * * * * * as a result of all this it naturally came about that mr. yahi-bahi and mr. ram spudd were invited to appear at the residence of mrs. rasselyer-brown; and it was understood that steps would be taken to form a special society, to be known as the yahi-bahi oriental society. mr. sikleigh snoop, the sex-poet, was the leading spirit in the organization. he had a special fitness for the task: he had actually resided in india. in fact, he had spent six weeks there on a stop-over ticket of a round-the-world dollar steamship pilgrimage; and he knew the whole country from jehumbapore in bhootal to jehumbalabad in the carnatic. so he was looked upon as a great authority on india, china, mongolia, and all such places, by the ladies of plutoria avenue. next in importance was mrs. buncomhearst, who became later, by a perfectly natural process, the president of the society. she was already president of the daughters of the revolution, a society confined exclusively to the descendants of washington's officers and others; she was also president of the sisters of england, an organization limited exclusively to women born in england and elsewhere; of the daughters of kossuth, made up solely of hungarians and friends of hungary and other nations; and of the circle of franz joseph, which was composed exclusively of the partisans, and others, of austria. in fact, ever since she had lost her third husband, mrs. buncomhearst had thrown herself--that was her phrase--into outside activities. her one wish was, on her own statement, to lose herself. so very naturally mrs. rasselyer-brown looked at once to mrs. buncomhearst to preside over the meetings of the new society. * * * * * the large dining-room at the rasselyer-browns' had been cleared out as a sort of auditorium, and in it some fifty or sixty of mrs. rasselyer-brown's more intimate friends had gathered. the whole meeting was composed of ladies, except for the presence of one or two men who represented special cases. there was, of course, little mr. spillikins, with his vacuous face and football hair, who was there, as everybody knew, on account of dulphemia; and there was old judge longerstill, who sat leaning on a gold-headed stick with his head sideways, trying to hear some fraction of what was being said. he came to the gathering in the hope that it would prove a likely place for seconding a vote of thanks and saying a few words--half an hour's talk, perhaps--on the constitution of the united states. failing that, he felt sure that at least someone would call him "this eminent old gentleman," and even that was better than staying at home. but for the most part the audience was composed of women, and they sat in a little buzz of conversation waiting for mr. yahi-bahi. "i wonder," called mrs. buncomhearst from the chair, "if some lady would be good enough to write minutes? miss snagg, i wonder if you would be kind enough to write minutes? could you?" "i shall be delighted," said miss snagg, "but i'm afraid there's hardly time to write them before we begin, is there?" "oh, but it would be all right to write them _afterwards_," chorussed several ladies who understood such things; "it's quite often done that way." "and i should like to move that we vote a constitution," said a stout lady with a double eye-glass. "is that carried?" said mrs. buncomhearst. "all those in favour please signify." nobody stirred. "carried," said the president. "and perhaps you would be good enough, mrs. fyshe," she said, turning towards the stout lady, "to _write_ the constitution." "do you think it necessary to _write_ it?" said mrs. fyshe. "i should like to move, if i may, that i almost wonder whether it is necessary to write the constitution--unless, of course, anybody thinks that we really ought to." "ladies," said the president, "you have heard the motion. all those against it--" there was no sign. "all those in favour of it--" there was still no sign. "lost," she said. then, looking across at the clock on the mantel-piece, and realizing that mr. yahi-bahi must have been delayed and that something must be done, she said: "and now, ladies, as we have in our midst a most eminent gentleman who probably has thought more deeply about constitutions than--" all eyes turned at once towards judge longerstill, but as fortune had it at this very moment mr. sikleigh snoop entered, followed by mr. yahi-bahi and mr. ram spudd. mr. yahi-bahi was tall. his drooping oriental costume made him taller still. he had a long brown face and liquid brown eyes of such depth that when he turned them full upon the ladies before him a shiver of interest and apprehension followed in the track of his glance. "my dear," said miss snagg afterwards, "he seemed simply to see right through us." this was correct. he did. mr. ram spudd presented a contrast to his superior. he was short and round, with a dimpled mahogany face and eyes that twinkled in it like little puddles of molasses. his head was bound in a turban and his body was swathed in so many bands and sashes that he looked almost circular. the clothes of both mr. yahi-bahi and ram spudd were covered with the mystic signs of buddha and the seven serpents of vishnu. it was impossible, of course, for mr. yahi-bahi or mr. ram spudd to address the audience. their knowledge of english was known to be too slight for that. their communications were expressed entirely through the medium of mr. snoop, and even he explained afterwards that it was very difficult. the only languages of india which he was able to speak, he said, with any fluency were gargamic and gumaic both of these being old dravidian dialects with only two hundred and three words in each, and hence in themselves very difficult to converse in. mr. yahi-bahi answered in what mr. snoop understood to be the iramic of the vedas, a very rich language, but one which unfortunately he did not understand. the dilemma is one familiar to all oriental scholars. all of this mr. snoop explained in the opening speech which he proceeded to make. and after this he went on to disclose, amid deep interest, the general nature of the cult of boohooism. he said that they could best understand it if he told them that its central doctrine was that of bahee. indeed, the first aim of all followers of the cult was to attain to bahee. anybody who could spend a certain number of hours each day, say sixteen, in silent meditation on boohooism would find his mind gradually reaching a condition of bahee. the chief aim of bahee itself was sacrifice: a true follower of the cult must be willing to sacrifice his friends, or his relatives, and even strangers, in order to reach bahee. in this way one was able fully to realize oneself and enter into the higher indifference. beyond this, further meditation and fasting--by which was meant living solely on fish, fruit, wine, and meat--one presently attained to complete swaraj or control of self, and might in time pass into the absolute nirvana, or the negation of emptiness, the supreme goal of boohooism. as a first step to all this, mr. snoop explained, each neophyte or candidate for holiness must, after searching his own heart, send ten dollars to mr. yahi-bahi. gold, it appeared, was recognized in the cult of boohooism as typifying the three chief virtues, whereas silver or paper money did not; even national banknotes were only regarded as do or, a halfway palliation; and outside currencies such as canadian or mexican bills were looked upon as entirely boo, or contemptible. the oriental view of money, said mr. snoop, was far superior to our own, but it also might be attained by deep thought, and, as a beginning, by sending ten dollars to mr. yahi-bahi. after this mr. snoop, in conclusion, read a very beautiful hindu poem, translating it as he went along. it began, "o cow, standing beside the ganges, and apparently without visible occupation," and it was voted exquisite by all who heard it. the absence of rhyme and the entire removal of ideas marked it as far beyond anything reached as yet by occidental culture. when mr. snoop had concluded, the president called upon judge longerstill for a few words of thanks, which he gave, followed by a brief talk on the constitution of the united states. after this the society was declared constituted, mr. yahi-bahi made four salaams, one to each point of the compass, and the meeting dispersed. and that evening, over fifty dinner tables, everybody discussed the nature of bahee, and tried in vain to explain it to men too stupid to understand. * * * * * now it so happened that on the very afternoon of this meeting at mrs. rasselyer-brown's, the philippine chauffeur did a strange and peculiar thing. he first asked mr. rasselyer-brown for a few hours' leave of absence to attend the funeral of his mother in-law. this was a request which mr. rasselyer-brown, on principle, never refused to a man-servant. whereupon, the philippine chauffeur, no longer attired as one, visited the residence of mr. yahi-bahi. he let himself in with a marvellous little key which he produced from a very wonderful bunch of such. he was in the house for nearly half an hour, and when he emerged, the notebook in his breast pocket, had there been an eye to read it, would have been seen to be filled with stranger details in regard to oriental mysticism than even mr. yahi-bahi had given to the world. so strange were they that before the philippine chauffeur returned to the rasselyer-brown residence he telegraphed certain and sundry parts of them to new york. but why he should have addressed them to the head of a detective bureau instead of to a college of oriental research it passes the imagination to conceive. but as the chauffeur duly reappeared at motor-time in the evening the incident passed unnoticed. * * * * * it is beyond the scope of the present narrative to trace the progress of boohooism during the splendid but brief career of the yahi-bahi oriental society. there could be no doubt of its success. its principles appealed with great strength to all the more cultivated among the ladies of plutoria avenue. there was something in the oriental mysticism of its doctrines which rendered previous belief stale and puerile. the practice of the sacred rites began at once. the ladies' counters of the plutorian banks were inundated with requests for ten-dollar pieces in exchange for banknotes. at dinner in the best houses nothing was eaten except a thin soup (or bru), followed by fish, succeeded by meat or by game, especially such birds as are particularly pleasing to buddha, as the partridge, the pheasant, and the woodcock. after this, except for fruits and wine, the principle of swaraj, or denial of self, was rigidly imposed. special oriental dinners of this sort were given, followed by listening to the reading of oriental poetry, with closed eyes and with the mind as far as possible in a state of stoj, or negation of thought. by this means the general doctrine of boohooism spread rapidly. indeed, a great many of the members of the society soon attained to a stage of bahee, or the higher indifference, that it would have been hard to equal outside of juggapore or jumbumbabad. for example, when mrs. buncomhearst learned of the remarriage of her second husband--she had lost him three years before, owing to a difference of opinion on the emancipation of women--she showed the most complete bahee possible. and when miss snagg learned that her brother in venezuela had died--a very sudden death brought on by drinking rum for seventeen years--and had left her ten thousand dollars, the bahee which she exhibited almost amounted to nirvana. in fact, the very general dissemination of the oriental idea became more and more noticeable with each week that passed. some members attained to so complete a bahee, or higher indifference, that they even ceased to attend the meetings of the society; others reached a swaraj, or control of self, so great that they no longer read its pamphlets; while others again actually passed into nirvana, to a complete negation of self, so rapidly that they did not even pay their subscriptions. but features of this sort, of course, are familiar wherever a successful occult creed makes its way against the prejudices of the multitude. the really notable part of the whole experience was the marvellous demonstration of occult power which attended the final seance of the society, the true nature of which is still wrapped in mystery. for some weeks it had been rumoured that a very special feat or demonstration of power by mr. yahi-bahi was under contemplation. in fact, the rapid spread of swaraj and of nirvana among the members rendered such a feat highly desirable. just what form the demonstration would take was for some time a matter of doubt. it was whispered at first that mr. yahi-bahi would attempt the mysterious eastern rite of burying ram spudd alive in the garden of the rasselyer-brown residence and leaving him there in a state of stoj, or suspended inanition, for eight days. but this project was abandoned, owing to some doubt, apparently, in the mind of mr. ram spudd as to his astral fitness for the high state of stoj necessitated by the experiment. at last it became known to the members of the poosh, or inner circle, under the seal of confidence, that mr. yahi-bahi would attempt nothing less than the supreme feat of occultism, namely, a reincarnation, or more correctly a reastralization of buddha. the members of the inner circle shivered with a luxurious sense of mystery when they heard of it. "has it ever been done before?" they asked of mr. snoop. "only a few times," he said; "once, i believe, by jam-bum, the famous yogi of the carnatic; once, perhaps twice, by boohoo, the founder of the sect. but it is looked upon as extremely rare. mr. yahi tells me that the great danger is that, if the slightest part of the formula is incorrectly observed, the person attempting the astralization is swallowed up into nothingness. however, he declares himself willing to try." * * * * * the seance was to take place at mrs. rasselyer-brown's residence, and was to be at midnight. "at midnight!" said each member in surprise. and the answer was, "yes, at midnight. you see, midnight here is exactly midday in allahabad in india." this explanation was, of course, ample. "midnight," repeated everybody to everybody else, "is exactly midday in allahabad." that made things perfectly clear. whereas if midnight had been midday in timbuctoo the whole situation would have been different. each of the ladies was requested to bring to the seance some ornament of gold; but it must be plain gold, without any setting of stones. it was known already that, according to the cult of boohooism, gold, plain gold, is the seat of the three virtues--beauty, wisdom and grace. therefore, according to the creed of boohooism, anyone who has enough gold, plain gold, is endowed with these virtues and is all right. all that is needed is to have enough of it; the virtues follow as a consequence. but for the great experiment the gold used must not be set with stones, with the one exception of rubies, which are known to be endowed with the three attributes of hindu worship, modesty, loquacity, and pomposity. in the present case it was found that as a number of ladies had nothing but gold ornaments set with diamonds, a second exception was made; especially as mr. yahi-bahi, on appeal, decided that diamonds, though less pleasing to buddha than rubies, possessed the secondary hindu virtues of divisibility, movability, and disposability. on the evening in question the residence of mrs. rasselyer-brown might have been observed at midnight wrapped in utter darkness. no lights were shown. a single taper, brought by ram spudd from the taj mohal, and resembling in its outer texture those sold at the five-and-ten store near mr. spudd's residence, burned on a small table in the vast dining-room. the servants had been sent upstairs and expressly enjoined to retire at half past ten. moreover, mr. rasselyer-brown had had to attend that evening, at the mausoleum club, a meeting of the trustees of the church of st. asaph, and he had come home at eleven o'clock, as he always did after diocesan work of this sort, quite used up; in fact, so fatigued that he had gone upstairs to his own suite of rooms sideways, his knees bending under him. so utterly used up was he with his church work that, as far as any interest in what might be going on in his own residence, he had attained to a state of bahee, or higher indifference, that even buddha might have envied. the guests, as had been arranged, arrived noiselessly and on foot. all motors were left at least a block away. they made their way up the steps of the darkened house, and were admitted without ringing, the door opening silently in front of them. mr. yahi-bahi and mr. ram spudd, who had arrived on foot carrying a large parcel, were already there, and were behind a screen in the darkened room, reported to be in meditation. at a whispered word from mr. snoop, who did duty at the door, all furs and wraps were discarded in the hall and laid in a pile. then the guests passed silently into the great dining room. there was no light in it except the dim taper which stood on a little table. on this table each guest, as instructed, laid an ornament of gold, and at the same time was uttered in a low voice the word ksvoo. this means, "o buddha, i herewith lay my unworthy offering at thy feet; take it and keep it for ever." it was explained that this was only a form. * * * * * "what is he doing?" whispered the assembled guests as they saw mr. yahi-bahi pass across the darkened room and stand in front of the sideboard. "hush!" said mr. snoop; "he's laying the propitiatory offering for buddha." "it's an indian rite," whispered mrs. rasselyer-brown. mr. yahi-bahi could be seen dimly moving to and fro in front of the sideboard. there was a faint clinking of glass. "he has to set out a glass of burmese brandy, powdered over with nutmeg and aromatics," whispered mrs. rasselyer-brown. "i had the greatest hunt to get it all for him. he said that nothing but burmese brandy would do, because in the hindu religion the god can only be invoked with burmese brandy, or, failing that, hennessy's with three stars, which is not entirely displeasing to buddha." "the aromatics," whispered mr. snoop, "are supposed to waft a perfume or incense to reach the nostrils of the god. the glass of propitiatory wine and the aromatic spices are mentioned in the vishnu-buddayat." mr. yahi-bahi, his preparations completed, was now seen to stand in front of the sideboard bowing deeply four times in an oriental salaam. the light of the single taper had by this time burned so dim that his movements were vague and uncertain. his body cast great flickering shadows on the half-seen wall. from his throat there issued a low wail in which the word wah! wah! could be distinguished. the excitement was intense. "what does wah mean?" whispered mr. spillikins. "hush!" said mr. snoop; "it means, 'o buddha, wherever thou art in thy lofty nirvana, descend yet once in astral form before our eyes!'" mr. yahi-bahi rose. he was seen to place one finger on his lips and then, silently moving across the room, he disappeared behind the screen. of what mr. ram spudd was doing during this period there is no record. it was presumed that he was still praying. the stillness was now absolute. "we must wait in perfect silence," whispered mr. snoop from the extreme tips of his lips. everybody sat in strained intensity, silent, looking towards the vague outline of the sideboard. the minutes passed. no one moved. all were spellbound in expectancy. still the minutes passed. the taper had flickered down till the great room was almost in darkness. could it be that by some neglect in the preparations, the substitution perhaps of the wrong brandy, the astralization could not be effected? but no. quite suddenly, it seemed, everybody in the darkened room was aware of a _presence_. that was the word as afterwards repeated in a hundred confidential discussions. a _presence_. one couldn't call it a body. it wasn't. it was a figure, an astral form, a presence. "buddha!" they gasped as they looked at it. just how the figure entered the room, the spectators could never afterwards agree. some thought it appeared through the wall, deliberately astralizing itself as it passed through the bricks. others seemed to have seen it pass in at the farther door of the room, as if it had astralized itself at the foot of the stairs in the back of the hall outside. be that as it may, there it stood before them, the astralized shape of the indian deity, so that to every lip there rose the half-articulated word, "buddha"; or at least to every lip except that of mrs. rasselyer-brown. from her there came no sound. the figure as afterwards described was attired in a long _shirak_, such as is worn by the grand llama of tibet, and resembling, if the comparison were not profane, a modern dressing-gown. the legs, if one might so call them, of the apparition were enwrapped in loose punjahamas, a word which is said to be the origin of the modern pyjamas; while the feet, if they were feet, were encased in loose slippers. buddha moved slowly across the room. arrived at the sideboard the astral figure paused, and even in the uncertain light buddha was seen to raise and drink the propitiatory offering. that much was perfectly clear. whether buddha spoke or not is doubtful. certain of the spectators thought that he said, 'must a fagotnit', which is hindustanee for "blessings on this house." to mrs. rasselyer-brown's distracted mind it seemed as if buddha said, "i must have forgotten it" but this wild fancy she never breathed to a soul. silently buddha recrossed the room, slowly wiping one arm across his mouth after the hindu gesture of farewell. for perhaps a full minute after the disappearance of buddha not a soul moved. then quite suddenly mrs. rasselyer-brown, unable to stand the tension any longer, pressed an electric switch and the whole room was flooded with light. there sat the affrighted guests staring at one another with pale faces. but, to the amazement and horror of all, the little table in the centre stood empty--not a single gem, not a fraction of the gold that had lain upon it was left. all had disappeared. the truth seemed to burst upon everyone at once. there was no doubt of what had happened. the gold and the jewels had been deastralized. under the occult power of the vision they had been demonetized, engulfed into the astral plane along with the vanishing buddha. filled with the sense of horror still to come, somebody pulled aside the little screen. they fully expected to find the lifeless bodies of mr. yahi-bahi and the faithful ram spudd. what they saw before them was more dreadful still. the outer oriental garments of the two devotees lay strewn upon the floor. the long sash of yahi-bahi and the thick turban of ram spudd were side by side near them; almost sickening in its repulsive realism was the thick black head of hair of the junior devotee, apparently torn from his scalp as if by lightning and bearing a horrible resemblance to the cast-off wig of an actor. the truth was too plain. "they are engulfed!" cried a dozen voices at once. it was realized in a flash that yahi-bahi and ram spudd had paid the penalty of their daring with their lives. through some fatal neglect, against which they had fairly warned the participants of the seance, the two orientals had been carried bodily in the astral plane. "how dreadful!" murmured mr. snoop. "we must have made some awful error." "are they deastralized?" murmured mrs. buncomhearst. "not a doubt of it," said mr. snoop. and then another voice in the group was heard to say, "we must hush it up. we _can't_ have it known!" on which a chorus of voices joined in, everybody urging that it must be hushed up. "couldn't you try to reastralize them?" said somebody to mr. snoop. "no, no," said mr. snoop, still shaking. "better not try to. we must hush it up if we can." and the general assent to this sentiment showed that, after all, the principles of bahee, or indifference to others, had taken a real root in the society. "hush it up," cried everybody, and there was a general move towards the hall. "good heavens!" exclaimed mrs. buncomhearst; "our wraps!" "deastralized!" said the guests. there was a moment of further consternation as everybody gazed at the spot where the ill-fated pile of furs and wraps had lain. "never mind," said everybody, "let's go without them--don't stay. just think if the police should--" and at the word police, all of a sudden there was heard in the street the clanging of a bell and the racing gallop of the horses of the police patrol wagon. "the police!" cried everybody. "hush it up! hush it up!" for of course the principles of bahee are not known to the police. in another moment the doorbell of the house rang with a long and violent peal, and in a second as it seemed, the whole hall was filled with bulky figures uniformed in blue. "it's all right, mrs. rasselyer-brown," cried a loud, firm voice from the sidewalk. "we have them both. everything is here. we got them before they'd gone a block. but if you don't mind, the police must get a couple of names for witnesses in the warrant." it was the philippine chauffeur. but he was no longer attired as such. he wore the uniform of an inspector of police, and there was the metal badge of the detective department now ostentatiously outside his coat. and beside him, one on each side of him, there stood the deastralized forms of yahi-bahi and ram spudd. they wore long overcoats, doubtless the contents of the magic parcels, and the philippine chauffeur had a grip of iron on the neck of each as they stood. mr. spudd had lost his oriental hair, and the face of mr. yahi-bahi, perhaps in the struggle which had taken place, had been scraped white in patches. they were making no attempt to break away. indeed, mr. spudd, with that complete bahee, or submission to fate, which is attained only by long services in state penitentiaries, was smiling and smoking a cigarette. "we were waiting for them," explained a tall police officer to the two or three ladies who now gathered round him with a return of courage. "they had the stuff in a hand-cart and were pushing it away. the chief caught them at the corner, and rang the patrol from there. you'll find everything all right, i think, ladies," he added, as a burly assistant was seen carrying an armload of furs up the steps. somehow many of the ladies realized at the moment what cheery, safe, reliable people policemen in blue are, and what a friendly, familiar shelter they offer against the wiles of oriental occultism. "are they old criminals?" someone asked. "yes, ma'am. they've worked this same thing in four cities already, and both of them have done time, and lots of it. they've only been out six months. no need to worry over them," he concluded with a shrug of the shoulders. so the furs were restored and the gold and the jewels parcelled out among the owners, and in due course mr. yahi-bahi and mr. ram spudd were lifted up into the patrol wagon where they seated themselves with a composure worthy of the best traditions of jehumbabah and bahoolapore. in fact, mr. spudd was heard to address the police as "boys," and to remark that they had "got them good" that time. so the seance ended and the guests vanished, and the yahi-bahi society terminated itself without even a vote of dissolution. and in all the later confidential discussions of the episode only one point of mysticism remained. after they had time really to reflect on it, free from all danger of arrest, the members of the society realized that on one point the police were entirely off the truth of things. for mr. yahi-bahi, whether a thief or not, and whether he came from the orient, or, as the police said, from missouri, had actually succeeded in reastralizing buddha. nor was anyone more emphatic on this point than mrs. rasselyer-brown herself. "for after all," she said, "if it was not buddha, who was it?" and the question was never answered. chapter five: the love story of mr. peter spillikins almost any day, on plutoria avenue or thereabouts, you may see little mr. spillikins out walking with his four tall sons, who are practically as old as himself. to be exact, mr. spillikins is twenty-four, and bob, the oldest of the boys, must be at least twenty. their exact ages are no longer known, because, by a dreadful accident, their mother forgot them. this was at a time when the boys were all at mr. wackem's academy for exceptional youths in the foothills of tennessee, and while their mother, mrs. everleigh, was spending the winter on the riviera and felt that for their own sake she must not allow herself to have the boys with her. but now, of course, since mrs. everleigh has remarried and become mrs. everleigh-spillikins there is no need to keep them at mr. wackem's any longer. mr. spillikins is able to look after them. mr. spillikins generally wears a little top hat and an english morning coat. the boys are in eton jackets and black trousers, which, at their mother's wish, are kept just a little too short for them. this is because mrs. everleigh-spillikins feels that the day will come some day--say fifteen years hence--when the boys will no longer be children, and meantime it is so nice to feel that they are still mere boys. bob is the eldest, but sib the youngest is the tallest, whereas willie the third boy is the dullest, although this has often been denied by those who claim that gib the second boy is just a trifle duller. thus at any rate there is a certain equality and good fellowship all round. mrs. everleigh-spillikins is not to be seen walking with them. she is probably at the race-meet, being taken there by captain cormorant of the united states navy, which mr. spillikins considers very handsome of him. every now and then the captain, being in the navy, is compelled to be at sea for perhaps a whole afternoon or even several days; in which case mrs. everleigh-spillikins is very generally taken to the hunt club or the country club by lieutenant hawk, which mr. spillikins regards as awfully thoughtful of him. or if lieutenant hawk is also out of town for the day, as he sometimes has to be, because he is in the united states army, mrs. everleigh-spillikins is taken out by old colonel shake, who is in the state militia and who is at leisure all the time. during their walks on plutoria avenue one may hear the four boys addressing mr. spillikins as "father" and "dad" in deep bull-frog voices. "say, dad," drawls bob, "couldn't we all go to the ball game?" "no. say, dad," says gib, "let's all go back to the house and play five-cent pool in the billiard-room." "all right, boys," says mr. spillikins. and a few minutes later one may see them all hustling up the steps of the everleigh-spillikins's mansion, quite eager at the prospect, and all talking together. * * * * * now the whole of this daily panorama, to the eye that can read it, represents the outcome of the tangled love story of mr. spillikins, which culminated during the summer houseparty at castel casteggio, the woodland retreat of mr. and mrs. newberry. but to understand the story one must turn back a year or so to the time when mr. peter spillikins used to walk on plutoria avenue alone, or sit in the mausoleum club listening to the advice of people who told him that he really ought to get married. * * * * * in those days the first thing that one noticed about mr. peter spillikins was his exalted view of the other sex. every time he passed a beautiful woman in the street he said to himself, "i say!" even when he met a moderately beautiful one he murmured, "by jove!" when an easter hat went sailing past, or a group of summer parasols stood talking on a leafy corner, mr. spillikins ejaculated, "my word!" at the opera and at tango teas his projecting blue eyes almost popped out of his head. similarly, if he happened to be with one of his friends, he would murmur, "i say, _do_ look at that beautiful girl," or would exclaim, "i say, don't look, but isn't that an awfully pretty girl across the street?" or at the opera, "old man, don't let her see you looking, but do you see that lovely girl in the box opposite?" one must add to this that mr. spillikins, in spite of his large and bulging blue eyes, enjoyed the heavenly gift of short sight. as a consequence he lived in a world of amazingly beautiful women. and as his mind was focused in the same way as his eyes he endowed them with all the virtues and graces which ought to adhere to fifty-dollar flowered hats and cerise parasols with ivory handles. nor, to do him justice, did mr. spillikins confine his attitude to his view of women alone. he brought it to bear on everything. every time he went to the opera he would come away enthusiastic, saying, "by jove, isn't it simply splendid! of course i haven't the ear to appreciate it--i'm not musical, you know--but even with the little that i know, it's great; it absolutely puts me to sleep." and of each new novel that he bought he said, "it's a perfectly wonderful book! of course i haven't the head to understand it, so i didn't finish it, but it's simply thrilling." similarly with painting, "it's one of the most marvellous pictures i ever saw," he would say. "of course i've no eye for pictures, and i couldn't see anything in it, but it's wonderful!" the career of mr. spillikins up to the point of which we are speaking had hitherto not been very satisfactory, or at least not from the point of view of mr. boulder, who was his uncle and trustee. mr. boulder's first idea had been to have mr. spillikins attend the university. dr. boomer, the president, had done his best to spread abroad the idea that a university education was perfectly suitable even for the rich; that it didn't follow that because a man was a university graduate he need either work or pursue his studies any further; that what the university aimed to do was merely to put a certain stamp upon a man. that was all. and this stamp, according to the tenor of the president's convocation addresses, was perfectly harmless. no one ought to be afraid of it. as a result, a great many of the very best young men in the city, who had no need for education at all, were beginning to attend college. "it marked," said dr. boomer, "a revolution." mr. spillikins himself was fascinated with his studies. the professors seemed to him living wonders. "by jove!" he said, "the professor of mathematics is a marvel. you ought to see him explaining trigonometry on the blackboard. you can't understand a word of it." he hardly knew which of his studies he liked best. "physics," he said, "is a wonderful study. i got five per cent in it. but, by jove! i had to work for it. i'd go in for it altogether if they'd let me." but that was just the trouble--they wouldn't. and so in course of time mr. spillikins was compelled, for academic reasons, to abandon his life work. his last words about it were, "gad! i nearly passed in trigonometry!" and he always said afterwards that he had got a tremendous lot out of the university. after that, as he had to leave the university, his trustee, mr. boulder, put mr. spillikins into business. it was, of course, his own business, one of the many enterprises for which mr. spillikins, ever since he was twenty-one, had already been signing documents and countersigning cheques. so mr. spillikins found himself in a mahogany office selling wholesale oil. and he liked it. he said that business sharpened one up tremendously. "i'm afraid, mr. spillikins," a caller in the mahogany office would say, "that we can't meet you at five dollars. four seventy is the best we can do on the present market." "my dear chap," said mr. spillikins, "that's all right. after all, thirty cents isn't much, eh what? dash it, old man, we won't fight about thirty cents. how much do you want?" "well, at four seventy we'll take twenty thousand barrels." "by jove!" said mr. spillikins; "twenty thousand barrels. gad! you want a lot, don't you? pretty big sale, eh, for a beginner like me? i guess uncle'll be tickled to death." so tickled was he that after a few weeks of oil-selling mr. boulder urged mr. spillikins to retire, and wrote off many thousand dollars from the capital value of his estate. so after this there was only one thing for mr. spillikins to do, and everybody told him so--namely to get married. "spillikins," said his friends at the club after they had taken all his loose money over the card table, "you ought to get married." "think so?" said mr. spillikins. goodness knows he was willing enough. in fact, up to this point mr. spillikins's whole existence had been one long aspiring sigh directed towards the joys of matrimony. in his brief college days his timid glances had wandered by an irresistible attraction towards the seats on the right-hand side of the class room, where the girls of the first year sat, with golden pigtails down their backs, doing trigonometry. he would have married any of them. but when a girl can work out trigonometry at sight, what use can she possibly have for marriage? none. mr. spillikins knew this and it kept him silent. and even when the most beautiful girl in the class married the demonstrator and thus terminated her studies in her second year, spillikins realized that it was only because the man was, undeniably, a demonstrator and knew things. later on, when spillikins went into business and into society, the same fate pursued him. he loved, for at least six months, georgiana mcteague, the niece of the presbyterian minister of st. osoph's. he loved her so well that for her sake he temporarily abandoned his pew at st. asaph's, which was episcopalian, and listened to fourteen consecutive sermons on hell. but the affair got no further than that. once or twice, indeed, spillikins walked home with georgiana from church and talked about hell with her; and once her uncle asked him into the manse for cold supper after evening service, and they had a long talk about hell all through the meal and upstairs in the sitting-room afterwards. but somehow spillikins could get no further with it. he read up all he could about hell so as to be able to talk with georgiana, but in the end it failed: a young minister fresh from college came and preached at st. osoph's six special sermons on the absolute certainty of eternal punishment, and he married miss mcteague as a result of it. and, meantime, mr. spillikins had got engaged, or practically so, to adelina lightleigh; not that he had spoken to her, but he considered himself bound to her. for her sake he had given up hell altogether, and was dancing till two in the morning and studying action bridge out of a book. for a time he felt so sure that she meant to have him that he began bringing his greatest friend, edward ruff of the college football team, of whom spillikins was very proud, up to the lightleighs' residence. he specially wanted adelina and edward to be great friends, so that adelina and he might ask edward up to the house after he was married. and they got to be such great friends, and so quickly, that they were married in new york that autumn. after which spillikins used to be invited up to the house by edward and adelina. they both used to tell him how much they owed him; and they, too, used to join in the chorus and say, "you know, peter, you're awfully silly not to get married." now all this had happened and finished at about the time when the yahi-bahi society ran its course. at its first meeting mr. spillikins had met dulphemia rasselyer-brown. at the very sight of her he began reading up the life of buddha and a translation of the upanishads so as to fit himself to aspire to live with her. even when the society ended in disaster mr. spillikins's love only burned the stronger. consequently, as soon as he knew that mr. and mrs. rasselyer-brown were going away for the summer, and that dulphemia was to go to stay with the newberrys at castel casteggio, this latter place, the summer retreat of the newberrys, became the one spot on earth for mr. peter spillikins. naturally, therefore, mr. spillikins was presently transported to the seventh heaven when in due course of time he received a note which said, "we shall be so pleased if you can come out and spend a week or two with us here. we will send the car down to the thursday train to meet you. we live here in the simplest fashion possible; in fact, as mr. newberry says, we are just roughing it, but i am sure you don't mind for a change. dulphemia is with us, but we are quite a small party." the note was signed "margaret newberry" and was written on heavy cream paper with a silver monogram such as people use when roughing it. * * * * * the newberrys, like everybody else, went away from town in the summertime. mr. newberry being still in business, after a fashion, it would not have looked well for him to remain in town throughout the year. it would have created a bad impression on the market as to how much he was making. in fact, in the early summer everybody went out of town. the few who ever revisited the place in august reported that they hadn't seen a soul on the street. it was a sort of longing for the simple life, for nature, that came over everybody. some people sought it at the seaside, where nature had thrown out her broad plank walks and her long piers and her vaudeville shows. others sought it in the heart of the country, where nature had spread her oiled motor roads and her wayside inns. others, like the newberrys, preferred to "rough it" in country residences of their own. some of the people, as already said, went for business reasons, to avoid the suspicion of having to work all the year round. others went to europe to avoid the reproach of living always in america. others, perhaps most people, went for medical reasons, being sent away by their doctors. not that they were ill; but the doctors of plutoria avenue, such as doctor slyder, always preferred to send all their patients out of town during the summer months. no well-to-do doctor cares to be bothered with them. and of course patients, even when they are anxious to go anywhere on their own account, much prefer to be sent there by their doctor. "my dear madam," dr. slyder would say to a lady who, as he knew, was most anxious to go to virginia, "there's really nothing i can do for you." here he spoke the truth. "it's not a case of treatment. it's simply a matter of dropping everything and going away. now why don't you go for a month or two to some quiet place, where you will simply _do nothing?_" (she never, as he knew, did anything, anyway.) "what do you say to hot springs, virginia?--absolute quiet, good golf, not a soul there, plenty of tennis." or else he would say, "my dear madam, you're simply _worn out_. why don't you just drop everything and go to canada?--perfectly quiet, not a soul there, and, i believe, nowadays quite fashionable." thus, after all the patients had been sent away, dr. slyder and his colleagues of plutoria avenue managed to slip away themselves for a month or two, heading straight for paris and vienna. there they were able, so they said, to keep in touch with what continental doctors were doing. they probably were. now it so happened that both the parents of miss dulphemia rasselyer-brown had been sent out of town in this fashion. mrs. rasselyer-brown's distressing experience with yahi-bahi had left her in a condition in which she was utterly fit for nothing, except to go on a mediterranean cruise, with about eighty other people also fit for nothing. mr. rasselyer-brown himself, though never exactly an invalid, had confessed that after all the fuss of the yahi-bahi business he needed bracing up, needed putting into shape, and had put himself into dr. slyder's hands. the doctor had examined him, questioned him searchingly as to what he drank, and ended by prescribing port wine to be taken firmly and unflinchingly during the evening, and for the daytime, at any moment of exhaustion, a light cordial such as rye whiskey, or rum and vichy water. in addition to which dr. slyder had recommended mr. rasselyer-brown to leave town. "why don't you go down to nagahakett on the atlantic?" he said. "is that in maine?" said mr. rasselyer-brown in horror. "oh, dear me, no!" answered the doctor reassuringly. "it's in new brunswick, canada; excellent place, most liberal licence laws; first class cuisine and a bar in the hotel. no tourists, no golf, too cold to swim--just the place to enjoy oneself." so mr. rasselyer-brown had gone away also, and as a result dulphemia rasselyer-brown, at the particular moment of which we speak, was declared by the boudoir and society column of the _plutorian daily dollar_ to be staying with mr. and mrs. newberry at their charming retreat, castel casteggio. the newberrys belonged to the class of people whose one aim in the summer is to lead the simple life. mr. newberry himself said that his one idea of a vacation was to get right out into the bush, and put on old clothes, and just eat when he felt like it. this was why he had built castel casteggio. it stood about forty miles from the city, out among the wooded hills on the shore of a little lake. except for the fifteen or twenty residences like it that dotted the sides of the lake it was entirely isolated. the only way to reach it was by the motor road that wound its way among leafy hills from the railway station fifteen miles away. every foot of the road was private property, as all nature ought to be. the whole country about castel casteggio was absolutely primeval, or at any rate as primeval as scotch gardeners and french landscape artists could make it. the lake itself lay like a sparkling gem from nature's workshop--except that they had raised the level of it ten feet, stone-banked the sides, cleared out the brush, and put a motor road round it. beyond that it was pure nature. castel casteggio itself, a beautiful house of white brick with sweeping piazzas and glittering conservatories, standing among great trees with rolling lawns broken with flower-beds as the ground sloped to the lake, was perhaps the most beautiful house of all; at any rate, it was an ideal spot to wear old clothes in, to dine early (at . ) and, except for tennis parties, motor-boat parties, lawn teas, and golf, to live absolutely to oneself. it should be explained that the house was not called castel casteggio because the newberrys were italian: they were not; nor because they owned estates in italy: they didn't nor had travelled there: they hadn't. indeed, for a time they had thought of giving it a welsh name, or a scotch. but the beautiful country residence of the asterisk-thomsons had stood close by in the same primeval country was already called penny-gw-rydd, and the woodland retreat of the hyphen-joneses just across the little lake was called strathythan-na-clee, and the charming chalet of the wilson-smiths was called yodel-dudel; so it seemed fairer to select an italian name. * * * * * "by jove! miss furlong, how awfully good of you to come down!" the little suburban train--two cars only, both first class, for the train went nowhere except out into the primeval wilderness--had drawn up at the diminutive roadside station. mr. spillikins had alighted, and there was miss philippa furlong sitting behind the chauffeur in the newberrys' motor. she was looking as beautiful as only the younger sister of a high church episcopalian rector can look, dressed in white, the colour of saintliness, on a beautiful morning in july. there was no doubt about philippa furlong. her beauty was of that peculiar and almost sacred kind found only in the immediate neighbourhood of the high church clergy. it was admitted by all who envied or admired her that she could enter a church more gracefully, move more swimmingly up the aisle, and pray better than any girl on plutoria avenue. mr. spillikins, as he gazed at her in her white summer dress and wide picture hat, with her parasol nodding above her head, realized that after all, religion, as embodied in the younger sisters of the high church clergy, fills a great place in the world. "by jove!" he repeated, "how awfully good of you!" "not a bit," said philippa. "hop in. dulphemia was coming, but she couldn't. is that all you have with you?" the last remark was ironical. it referred to the two quite large steamer trunks of mr. spillikins that were being loaded, together with his suit-case, tennis racket, and golf kit, on to the fore part of the motor. mr. spillikins, as a young man of social experience, had roughed it before. he knew what a lot of clothes one needs for it. so the motor sped away, and went bowling noiselessly over the oiled road, and turning corners where the green boughs of the great trees almost swished in their faces, and rounding and twisting among curves of the hills as it carried spillikins and philippa away from the lower domain or ordinary fields and farms up into the enchanted country of private property and the magic castles of casteggio and penny-gw-rydd. mr. spillikins must have assured philippa at least a dozen times in starting off how awfully good it was of her to come down in the motor; and he was so pleased at her coming to meet him that philippa never even hinted that the truth was that she had expected somebody else on the same train. for to a girl brought up in the principles of the high church the truth is a very sacred thing. she keeps it to herself. and naturally, with such a sympathetic listener, it was not long before mr. spillikins had begun to talk of dulphemia and his hopes. "i don't know whether she really cares for me or not," said mr. spillikins, "but i have pretty good hope. the other day, or at least about two months ago, at one of the yahi-bahi meetings--you were not in that, were you?" he said breaking off. "only just at the beginning," said philippa; "we went to bermuda." "oh yes, i remember. do you know, i thought it pretty rough at the end, especially on ram spudd. i liked him. i sent him two pounds of tobacco to the penitentiary last week; you can get it in to them, you know, if you know how." "but what were you going to say?" asked philippa. "oh yes," said mr. spillikins. and he realized that he had actually drifted off the topic of dulphemia, a thing that had never happened to him before. "i was going to say that at one of the meetings, you know, i asked her if i might call her dulphemia." "and what did she say to that?" asked philippa. "she said she didn't care what i called her. so i think that looks pretty good, don't you?" "awfully good," said philippa. "and a little after that i took her slippers home from the charity ball at the grand palaver. archie jones took her home herself in his car, but i took her slippers. she'd forgotten them. i thought that a pretty good sign, wasn't it? you wouldn't let a chap carry round your slippers unless you knew him pretty well, would you, miss philippa?" "oh no, nobody would," said philippa. this of course, was a standing principle of the anglican church. "and a little after that dulphemia and charlie mostyn and i were walking to mrs. buncomhearst's musical, and we'd only just started along the street, when she stopped and sent me back for her music--me, mind you, not charlie. that seems to me awfully significant." "it seems to speak volumes," said philippa. "doesn't it?" said mr. spillikins. "you don't mind my telling you all about this miss philippa?" he added. incidentally mr. spillikins felt that it was all right to call her miss philippa, because she had a sister who was really miss furlong, so it would have been quite wrong, as mr. spillikins realized, to have called miss philippa by her surname. in any case, the beauty of the morning was against it. "i don't mind a bit," said philippa. "i think it's awfully nice of you to tell me about it." she didn't add that she knew all about it already. "you see," said mr. spillikins, "you're so awfully sympathetic. it makes it so easy to talk to you. with other girls, especially with clever ones, even with dulphemia. i often feel a perfect jackass beside them. but i don t feel that way with you at all." "don't you really?" said philippa, but the honest admiration in mr. spillikin's protruding blue eyes forbade a sarcastic answer. "by jove!" said mr. spillikins presently, with complete irrelevance, "i hope you don't mind my saying it, but you look awfully well in white--stunning." he felt that a man who was affianced, or practically so, was allowed the smaller liberty of paying honest compliments. "oh, this old thing," laughed philippa, with a contemptuous shake of her dress. "but up here, you know, we just wear anything." she didn't say that this old thing was only two weeks old and had cost eighty dollars, or the equivalent of one person's pew rent at st. asaph's for six months. and after that they had only time, so it seemed to mr. spillikins, for two or three remarks, and he had scarcely had leisure to reflect what a charming girl philippa had grown to be since she went to bermuda--the effect, no doubt, of the climate of those fortunate islands--when quite suddenly they rounded a curve into an avenue of nodding trees, and there were the great lawn and wide piazzas and the conservatories of castel casteggio right in front of them. "here we are," said philippa, "and there's mr. newberry out on the lawn." * * * * * "now, here," mr. newberry was saying a little later, waving his hand, "is where you get what i think the finest view of the place." he was standing at the corner of the lawn where it sloped, dotted with great trees, to the banks of the little lake, and was showing mr. spillikins the beauties of castel casteggio. mr. newberry wore on his short circular person the summer costume of a man taking his ease and careless of dress: plain white flannel trousers, not worth more than six dollars a leg, an ordinary white silk shirt with a rolled collar, that couldn't have cost more than fifteen dollars, and on his head an ordinary panama hat, say forty dollars. "by jove!" said mr. spillikins, as he looked about him at the house and the beautiful lawn with its great trees, "it's a lovely place." "isn't it?" said mr. newberry. "but you ought to have seen it when i took hold of it. to make the motor road alone i had to dynamite out about a hundred yards of rock, and then i fetched up cement, tons and tons of it, and boulders to buttress the embankment." "did you really!" said mr. spillikins, looking at mr. newberry with great respect. "yes, and even that was nothing to the house itself. do you know, i had to go at least forty feet for the foundations. first i went through about twenty feet of loose clay, after that i struck sand, and i'd no sooner got through that than, by george! i landed in eight feet of water. i had to pump it out; i think i took out a thousand gallons before i got clear down to the rock. then i took my solid steel beams in fifty-foot lengths," here mr. newberry imitated with his arms the action of a man setting up a steel beam, "and set them upright and bolted them on the rock. after that i threw my steel girders across, clapped on my roof rafters, all steel, in sixty-foot pieces, and then just held it easily, just supported it a bit, and let it sink gradually to its place." mr. newberry illustrated with his two arms the action of a huge house being allowed to sink slowly to a firm rest. "you don't say so!" said mr. spillikins, lost in amazement at the wonderful physical strength that mr. newberry must have. "excuse me just a minute," broke off mr. newberry, "while i smooth out the gravel where you're standing. you've rather disturbed it, i'm afraid." "oh, i'm awfully sorry," said mr. spillikins. "oh, not at all, not at all," said his host. "i don't mind in the least. it's only on account of mcalister." "who?" asked mr. spillikins. "my gardener. he doesn't care to have us walk on the gravel paths. it scuffs up the gravel so. but sometimes one forgets." it should be said here, for the sake of clearness, that one of the chief glories of castel casteggio lay in its servants. all of them, it goes without saying, had been brought from great britain. the comfort they gave to mr. and mrs. newberry was unspeakable. in fact, as they themselves admitted, servants of the kind are simply not to be found in america. "our scotch gardener," mrs. newberry always explained "is a perfect character. i don't know how we could get another like him. do you know, my dear, he simply won't allow us to pick the roses; and if any of us walk across the grass he is furious. and he positively refuses to let us use the vegetables. he told me quite plainly that if we took any of his young peas or his early cucumbers he would leave. we are to have them later on when he's finished growing them." "how delightful it is to have servants of that sort," the lady addressed would murmur; "so devoted and so different from servants on this side of the water. just imagine, my dear, my chauffeur, when i was in colorado, actually threatened to leave me merely because i wanted to reduce his wages. i think it's these wretched labour unions." "i'm sure it is. of course we have trouble with mcalister at times, but he's always very reasonable when we put things in the right light. last week, for example, i was afraid that we had gone too far with him. he is always accustomed to have a quart of beer every morning at half-past ten--the maids are told to bring it out to him, and after that he goes to sleep in the little arbour beside the tulip bed. and the other day when he went there he found that one of our guests who hadn't been told, was actually sitting in there reading. of course he was _furious_. i was afraid for the moment that he would give notice on the spot." "what _would_ you have done?" "positively, my dear, i don't know. but we explained to him at once that it was only an accident and that the person hadn't known and that of course it wouldn't occur again. after that he was softened a little, but he went off muttering to himself, and that evening he dug up all the new tulips and threw them over the fence. we saw him do it, but we didn't dare say anything." "oh no," echoed the other lady; "if you had you might have lost him." "exactly. and i don't think we could possibly get another man like him; at least, not on this side of the water." * * * * * "but come," said mr. newberry, after he had finished adjusting the gravel with his foot, "there are mrs. newberry and the girls on the verandah. let's go and join them." a few minutes later mr. spillikins was talking with mrs. newberry and dulphemia rasselyer-brown, and telling mrs. newberry what a beautiful house she had. beside them stood philippa furlong, and she had her arm around dulphemia's waist; and the picture that they thus made, with their heads close together, dulphemia's hair being golden and philippa's chestnut-brown, was such that mr. spillikins had no eyes for mrs. newberry nor for castel casteggio nor for anything. so much so that he practically didn't see at all the little girl in green that stood unobtrusively on the further side of mrs. newberry. indeed, though somebody had murmured her name in introduction, he couldn't have repeated it if asked two minutes afterwards. his eyes and his mind were elsewhere. but hers were not. for the little girl in green looked at mr. spillikins with wide eyes, and when she looked at him she saw all at once such wonderful things about him as nobody had ever seen before. for she could see from the poise of his head how awfully clever he was; and from the way he stood with his hands in his side pockets she could see how manly and brave he must be; and of course there was firmness and strength written all over him. in short, she saw as she looked such a peter spillikins as truly never existed, or could exist--or at least such a peter spillikins as no one else in the world had ever suspected before. all in a moment she was ever so glad that she accepted mrs. newberry's invitation to castel casteggio and hadn't been afraid to come. for the little girl in green, whose christian name was norah, was only what is called a poor relation of mrs. newberry, and her father was a person of no account whatever, who didn't belong to the mausoleum club or to any other club, and who lived, with norah, on a street that nobody who was anybody lived upon. norah had been asked up a few days before out of the city to give her air--which is the only thing that can be safely and freely given to poor relations. thus she had arrived at castel casteggio with one diminutive trunk, so small and shabby that even the servants who carried it upstairs were ashamed of it. in it were a pair of brand new tennis shoes (at ninety cents reduced to seventy-five) and a white dress of the kind that is called "almost evening," and such few other things as poor relations might bring with fear and trembling to join in the simple rusticity of the rich. thus stood norah looking at mr. spillikins. as for him, such is the contrariety of human things, he had no eyes for her at all. "what a perfectly charming house this is," mr. spillikins was saying. he always said this on such occasions, but it seemed to the little girl in green that he spoke with wonderful social ease. "i am so glad you think so," said mrs. newberry (this was what she always answered); "you've no idea what work it has been. this year we put in all this new glass in the east conservatory, over a thousand panes. such a tremendous business!" "i was just telling mr. spillikins," said mr. newberry, "about the work we had blasting out the motor road. you can see the gap where it lies better from here, i think, spillikins. i must have exploded a ton and a half of dynamite on it." "by jove!" said mr. spillikins; "it must be dangerous work eh? i wonder you aren't afraid of it." "one simply gets used to it, that's all," said newberry, shrugging his shoulders; "but of course it is dangerous. i blew up two italians on the last job." he paused a minute and added musingly, "hardy fellows, the italians. i prefer them to any other people for blasting." "did you blow them up yourself?" asked mr. spillikins. "i wasn't here," answered mr. newberry. "in fact, i never care to be here when i'm blasting. we go to town. but i had to foot the bill for them all the same. quite right, too. the risk, of course, was mine, not theirs; that's the law, you know. they cost me two thousand each." "but come," said mrs. newberry, "i think we must go and dress for dinner. franklin will be frightfully put out if we're late. franklin is our butler," she went on, seeing that mr. spillikins didn't understand the reference, "and as we brought him out from england we have to be rather careful. with a good man like franklin one is always so afraid of losing him--and after last night we have to be doubly careful." "why last night?" asked mr. spillikins. "oh, it wasn't much," said mrs. newberry. "in fact, it was merely an accident. only it just chanced that at dinner, quite late in the meal, when we had had nearly everything (we dine very simply here, mr. spillikins), mr. newberry, who was thirsty and who wasn't really thinking what he was saying, asked franklin to give him a glass of hock. franklin said at once, 'i'm very sorry, sir, i don't care to serve hock after the entree!'" "and of course he was right," said dulphemia with emphasis. "exactly; he was perfectly right. they know, you know. we were afraid that there might be trouble, but mr. newberry went and saw franklin afterwards and he behaved very well over it. but suppose we go and dress? it's half-past six already and we've only an hour." * * * * * in this congenial company mr. spillikins spent the next three days. life at castel casteggio, as the newberrys loved to explain, was conducted on the very simplest plan. early breakfast, country fashion, at nine o'clock; after that nothing to eat till lunch, unless one cared to have lemonade or bottled ale sent out with a biscuit or a macaroon to the tennis court. lunch itself was a perfectly plain midday meal, lasting till about . , and consisting simply of cold meats (say four kinds) and salads, with perhaps a made dish or two, and, for anybody who cared for it, a hot steak or a chop, or both. after that one had coffee and cigarettes in the shade of the piazza and waited for afternoon tea. this latter was served at a wicker table in any part of the grounds that the gardener was not at that moment clipping, trimming, or otherwise using. afternoon tea being over, one rested or walked on the lawn till it was time to dress for dinner. this simple routine was broken only by irruptions of people in motors or motor boats from penny-gw-rydd or yodel-dudel chalet. the whole thing, from the point of view of mr. spillikins or dulphemia or philippa, represented rusticity itself. to the little girl in green it seemed as brilliant as the court of versailles; especially evening dinner--a plain home meal as the others thought it--when she had four glasses to drink out of and used to wonder over such problems as whether you were supposed, when franklin poured out wine, to tell him to stop or to wait till he stopped without being told to stop; and other similar mysteries, such as many people before and after have meditated upon. during all this time mr. spillikins was nerving himself to propose to dulphemia rasselyer-brown. in fact, he spent part of his time walking up and down under the trees with philippa furlong and discussing with her the proposal that he meant to make, together with such topics as marriage in general and his own unworthiness. he might have waited indefinitely had he not learned, on the third day of his visit, that dulphemia was to go away in the morning to join her father at nagahakett. that evening he found the necessary nerve to speak, and the proposal in almost every aspect of it was most successful. "by jove!" spillikins said to philippa furlong next morning, in explaining what had happened, "she was awfully nice about it. i think she must have guessed, in a way, don't you, what i was going to say? but at any rate she was awfully nice--let me say everything i wanted, and when i explained what a fool i was, she said she didn't think i was half such a fool as people thought me. but it's all right. it turns out that she isn't thinking of getting married. i asked her if i might always go on thinking of her, and she said i might." and that morning when dulphemia was carried off in the motor to the station, mr. spillikins, without exactly being aware how he had done it, had somehow transferred himself to philippa. "isn't she a splendid girl!" he said at least ten times a day to norah, the little girl in green. and norah always agreed, because she really thought philippa a perfectly wonderful creature. there is no doubt that, but for a slight shift of circumstances, mr. spillikins would have proposed to miss furlong. indeed, he spent a good part of his time rehearsing little speeches that began, "of course i know i'm an awful ass in a way," or, "of course i know that i'm not at all the sort of fellow," and so on. but not one of them ever was delivered. for it so happened that on the thursday, one week after mr. spillikins's arrival, philippa went again to the station in the motor. and when she came back there was another passenger with her, a tall young man in tweed, and they both began calling out to the newberrys from a distance of at least a hundred yards. and both the newberrys suddenly exclaimed, "why, it's tom!" and rushed off to meet the motor. and there was such a laughing and jubilation as the two descended and carried tom's valises to the verandah, that mr. spillikins felt as suddenly and completely out of it as the little girl in green herself--especially as his ear had caught, among the first things said, the words, "congratulate us, mrs. newberry, we're engaged." after which mr. spillikins had the pleasure of sitting and listening while it was explained in wicker chairs on the verandah, that philippa and tom had been engaged already for ever so long--in fact, nearly two weeks, only they had agreed not to say a word to anybody till tom had gone to north carolina and back, to see his people. and as to who tom was, or what was the relation between tom and the newberrys, mr. spillikins neither knew or cared; nor did it interest him in the least that philippa had met tom in bermuda, and that she hadn't known that he even knew the newberry's nor any other of the exuberant disclosures of the moment. in fact, if there was any one period rather than another when mr. spillikins felt corroborated in his private view of himself, it was at this moment. so the next day tom and philippa vanished together. "we shall be quite a small party now," said mrs. newberry; "in fact, quite by ourselves till mrs. everleigh comes, and she won't be here for a fortnight." at which the heart of the little girl in green was glad, because she had been afraid that other girls might be coming, whereas she knew that mrs. everleigh was a widow with four sons and must be ever so old, past forty. the next few days were spent by mr. spillikins almost entirely in the society of norah. he thought them on the whole rather pleasant days, but slow. to her they were an uninterrupted dream of happiness never to be forgotten. the newberrys left them to themselves; not with any intent; it was merely that they were perpetually busy walking about the grounds of castel casteggio, blowing up things with dynamite, throwing steel bridges over gullies, and hoisting heavy timber with derricks. nor were they to blame for it. for it had not always been theirs to command dynamite and control the forces of nature. there had been a time, now long ago, when the two newberrys had lived, both of them, on twenty dollars a week, and mrs. newberry had made her own dresses, and mr. newberry had spent vigorous evenings in making hand-made shelves for their sitting-room. that was long ago, and since then mr. newberry, like many other people of those earlier days, had risen to wealth and castel casteggio, while others, like norah's father, had stayed just where they were. so the newberrys left peter and norah to themselves all day. even after dinner, in the evening, mr. newberry was very apt to call to his wife in the dusk from some distant corner of the lawn: "margaret, come over here and tell me if you don't think we might cut down this elm, tear the stump out by the roots, and throw it into the ravine." and the answer was, "one minute, edward; just wait till i get a wrap." before they came back, the dusk had grown to darkness, and they had redynamited half the estate. during all of which time mr. spillikins sat with norah on the piazza. he talked and she listened. he told her, for instance, all about his terrific experiences in the oil business, and about his exciting career at college; or presently they went indoors and norah played the piano and mr. spillikins sat and smoked and listened. in such a house as the newberry's, where dynamite and the greater explosives were everyday matters, a little thing like the use of tobacco in the drawing-room didn't count. as for the music, "go right ahead," said mr. spillikins; "i'm not musical, but i don't mind music a bit." in the daytime they played tennis. there was a court at one end of the lawn beneath the trees, all chequered with sunlight and mingled shadow; very beautiful, norah thought, though mr. spillikins explained that the spotted light put him off his game. in fact, it was owing entirely to this bad light that mr. spillikins's fast drives, wonderful though they were, somehow never got inside the service court. norah, of course, thought mr. spillikins a wonderful player. she was glad--in fact, it suited them both--when he beat her six to nothing. she didn't know and didn't care that there was no one else in the world that mr. spillikins could beat like that. once he even said to her. "by gad! you don't play half a bad game, you know. i think you know, with practice you'd come on quite a lot." after that the games were understood to be more or less in the form of lessons, which put mr. spillikins on a pedestal of superiority, and allowed any bad strokes on his part to be viewed as a form of indulgence. also, as the tennis was viewed in this light, it was norah's part to pick up the balls at the net and throw them back to mr. spillikins. he let her do this, not from rudeness, for it wasn't in him, but because in such a primeval place as castel casteggio the natural primitive relation of the sexes is bound to reassert itself. but of love mr. spillikins never thought. he had viewed it so eagerly and so often from a distance that when it stood here modestly at his very elbow he did not recognize its presence. his mind had been fashioned, as it were, to connect love with something stunning and sensational, with easter hats and harem skirts and the luxurious consciousness of the unattainable. even at that, there is no knowing what might have happened. tennis, in the chequered light of sun and shadow cast by summer leaves, is a dangerous game. there came a day when they were standing one each side of the net and mr. spillikins was explaining to norah the proper way to hold a racquet so as to be able to give those magnificent backhand sweeps of his, by which he generally drove the ball halfway to the lake; and explaining this involved putting his hand right over norah's on the handle of the racquet, so that for just half a second her hand was clasped tight in his; and if that half-second had been lengthened out into a whole second it is quite possible that what was already subconscious in his mind would have broken its way triumphantly to the surface, and norah's hand would have stayed in his--how willingly--! for the rest of their two lives. but just at that moment mr. spillikins looked up, and he said in quite an altered tone. "by jove! who's that awfully good-looking woman getting out of the motor?" and their hands unclasped. norah looked over towards the house and said: "why, it's mrs. everleigh. i thought she wasn't coming for another week." "i say," said mr. spillikins, straining his short sight to the uttermost, "what perfectly wonderful golden hair, eh?" "why, it's--" norah began, and then she stopped. it didn't seem right to explain that mrs. everleigh's hair was dyed. "and who's that tall chap standing beside her?" said mr. spillikins. "i think it's captain cormorant, but i don't think he's going to stay. he's only brought her up in the motor from town." "by jove, how good of him!" said spillikins; and this sentiment in regard to captain cormorant, though he didn't know it, was to become a keynote of his existence. "i didn't know she was coming so soon," said norah, and there was weariness already in her heart. certainly she didn't know it; still less did she know, or anyone else, that the reason of mrs. everleigh's coming was because mr. spillikins was there. she came with a set purpose, and she sent captain cormorant directly back in the motor because she didn't want him on the premises. "oughtn't we to go up to the house?" said norah. "all right," said mr. spillikins with great alacrity, "let's go." * * * * * now as this story began with the information that mrs. everleigh is at present mrs. everleigh-spillikins, there is no need to pursue in detail the stages of mr. spillikins's wooing. its course was swift and happy. mr. spillikins, having seen the back of mrs. everleigh's head, had decided instantly that she was the most beautiful woman in the world; and that impression is not easily corrected in the half-light of a shaded drawing-room; nor across a dinner-table lighted only with candles with deep red shades; nor even in the daytime through a veil. in any case, it is only fair to state that if mrs. everleigh was not and is not a singularly beautiful woman, mr. spillikins still doesn't know it. and in point of attraction the homage of such experts as captain cormorant and lieutenant hawk speaks for itself. so the course of mr. spillikins's love, for love it must have been, ran swiftly to its goal. each stage of it was duly marked by his comments to norah. "she _is_ a splendid woman," he said, "so sympathetic. she always seems to know just what one's going to say." so she did, for she was making him say it. "by jove!" he said a day later, "mrs. everleigh's an awfully fine woman, isn't she? i was telling her about my having been in the oil business for a little while, and she thinks that i'd really be awfully good in money things. she said she wished she had me to manage her money for her." this also was quite true, except that mrs. everleigh had not made it quite clear that the management of her money was of the form generally known as deficit financing. in fact, her money was, very crudely stated, nonexistent, and it needed a lot of management. a day or two later mr. spillikins was saying, "i think mrs. everleigh must have had great sorrow, don't you? yesterday she was showing me a photograph of her little boy--she has a little boy you know--" "yes, i know," said norah. she didn't add that she knew that mrs. everleigh had four. "--and she was saying how awfully rough it is having him always away from her at dr. something's academy where he is." and very soon after that mr. spillikins was saying, with quite a quaver in his voice, "by jove! yes, i'm awfully lucky; i never thought for a moment that she'd have me, you know--a woman like her, with so much attention and everything. i can't imagine what she sees in me." which was just as well. and then mr. spillikins checked himself, for he noticed--this was on the verandah in the morning--that norah had a hat and jacket on and that the motor was rolling towards the door. "i say," he said, "are you going away?" "yes, didn't you know?" norah said. "i thought you heard them speaking of it at dinner last night. i have to go home; father's alone, you know." "oh, i'm awfully sorry," said mr. spillikins; "we shan't have any more tennis." "goodbye," said norah, and as she said it and put out her hand there were tears brimming up into her eyes. but mr. spillikins, being short of sight, didn't see them. "goodbye," he said. then as the motor carried her away he stood for a moment in a sort of reverie. perhaps certain things that might have been rose unformed and inarticulate before his mind. and then, a voice called from the drawing-room within, in a measured and assured tone, "peter, darling, where are you?" "coming," cried mr. spillikins, and he came. * * * * * on the second day of the engagement mrs. everleigh showed to peter a little photograph in a brooch. "this is gib, my second little boy," she said. mr. spillikins started to say, "i didn't know--" and then checked himself and said, "by gad! what a fine-looking little chap, eh? i'm awfully fond of boys." "dear little fellow, isn't he?" said mrs. everleigh. "he's really rather taller than that now, because this picture was taken a little while ago." and the next day she said, "this is willie, my third boy," and on the day after that she said, "this is sib, my youngest boy; i'm sure you'll love him." "i'm sure i shall," said mr. spillikins. he loved him already for being the youngest. * * * * * and so in the fulness of time--nor was it so very full either, in fact, only about five weeks--peter spillikins and mrs. everleigh were married in st. asaph's church on plutoria avenue. and the wedding was one of the most beautiful and sumptuous of the weddings of the september season. there were flowers, and bridesmaids in long veils, and tall ushers in frock-coats, and awnings at the church door, and strings of motors with wedding-favours on imported chauffeurs, and all that goes to invest marriage on plutoria avenue with its peculiar sacredness. the face of the young rector, mr. fareforth furlong, wore the added saintliness that springs from a five-hundred dollar fee. the whole town was there, or at least everybody that was anybody; and if there was one person absent, one who sat by herself in the darkened drawing-room of a dull little house on a shabby street, who knew or cared? so after the ceremony the happy couple--for were they not so?--left for new york. there they spent their honeymoon. they had thought of going--it was mr. spillikins's idea--to the coast of maine. but mrs. everleigh-spillikins said that new york was much nicer, so restful, whereas, as everyone knows, the coast of maine is frightfully noisy. moreover, it so happened that before the everleigh-spillikinses had been more than four or five days in new york the ship of captain cormorant dropped anchor in the hudson; and when the anchor of that ship was once down it generally stayed there. so the captain was able to take the everleigh-spillikinses about in new york, and to give a tea for mrs. everleigh-spillikins on the deck of his vessel so that she might meet the officers, and another tea in a private room of a restaurant on fifth avenue so that she might meet no one but himself. and at this tea captain cormorant said, among other things, "did he kick up rough at all when you told him about the money?" and mrs. everleigh, now mrs. everleigh-spillikins, said, "not he! i think he is actually pleased to know that i haven't any. do you know, arthur, he's really an awfully good fellow," and as she said it she moved her hand away from under captain cormorant's on the tea-table. "i say," said the captain, "don't get sentimental over him." * * * * * so that is how it is that the everleigh-spillikinses came to reside on plutoria avenue in a beautiful stone house, with a billiard-room in an extension on the second floor. through the windows of it one can almost hear the click of the billiard balls, and a voice saying, "hold on, father, you had your shot." chapter six: the rival churches of st. asaph and st. osoph the church of st. asaph, more properly call st. asaph's in the fields, stands among the elm trees of plutoria avenue opposite the university, its tall spire pointing to the blue sky. its rector is fond of saying that it seems to him to point, as it were, a warning against the sins of a commercial age. more particularly does he say this in his lenten services at noonday, when the businessmen sit in front of him in rows, their bald heads uncovered and their faces stamped with contrition as they think of mergers that they should have made, and real estate that they failed to buy for lack of faith. the ground on which st. asaph's stands is worth seven dollars and a half a foot. the mortgagees, as they kneel in prayer in their long frock-coats, feel that they have built upon a rock. it is a beautifully appointed church. there are windows with priceless stained glass that were imported from normandy, the rector himself swearing out the invoices to save the congregation the grievous burden of the customs duty. there is a pipe organ in the transept that cost ten thousand dollars to install. the debenture-holders, as they join in the morning anthem, love to hear the dulcet notes of the great organ and to reflect that it is as good as new. just behind the church is st. asaph's sunday school, with a ten-thousand dollar mortgage of its own. and below that again on the side street, is the building of the young men's guild with a bowling-alley and a swimming-bath deep enough to drown two young men at a time, and a billiard-room with seven tables. it is the rector's boast that with a guild house such as that there is no need for any young man of the congregation to frequent a saloon. nor is there. and on sunday mornings, when the great organ plays, and the mortgagees and the bond-holders and the debenture-holders and the sunday school teachers and the billiard-markers all lift up their voices together, there is emitted from st. asaph's a volume of praise that is practically as fine and effective as paid professional work. st. asaph's is episcopal. as a consequence it has in it and about it all those things which go to make up the episcopal church--brass tablets let into its walls, blackbirds singing in its elm trees, parishioners who dine at eight o'clock, and a rector who wears a little crucifix and dances the tango. on the other hand, there stands upon the same street, not a hundred yards away, the rival church of st. osoph--presbyterian down to its very foundations in bed-rock, thirty feet below the level of the avenue. it has a short, squat tower--and a low roof, and its narrow windows are glazed with frosted glass. it has dark spruce trees instead of elms, crows instead of blackbirds, and a gloomy minister with a shovel hat who lectures on philosophy on week-days at the university. he loves to think that his congregation are made of the lowly and the meek in spirit, and to reflect that, lowly and meek as they are, there are men among them that could buy out half the congregation of st. asaph's. st. osoph's is only presbyterian in a special sense. it is, in fact, too presbyterian to be any longer connected with any other body whatsoever. it seceded some forty years ago from the original body to which it belonged, and later on, with three other churches, it seceded from the group of seceding congregations. still later it fell into a difference with the three other churches on the question of eternal punishment, the word "eternal" not appearing to the elders of st. osoph's to designate a sufficiently long period. the dispute ended in a secession which left the church of st. osoph practically isolated in a world of sin whose approaching fate it neither denied nor deplored. in one respect the rival churches of plutoria avenue had had a similar history. each of them had moved up by successive stages from the lower and poorer parts of the city. forty years ago st. asaph's had been nothing more than a little frame church with a tin spire, away in the west of the slums, and st. osoph's a square, diminutive building away in the east. but the site of st. asaph's had been bought by a brewing company, and the trustees, shrewd men of business, themselves rising into wealth, had rebuilt it right in the track of the advancing tide of a real estate boom. the elders of st. osoph, quiet men, but illumined by an inner light, had followed suit and moved their church right against the side of an expanding distillery. thus both the churches, as decade followed decade, made their way up the slope of the city till st. asaph's was presently gloriously expropriated by the street railway company, and planted its spire in triumph on plutoria avenue itself. but st. osoph's followed. with each change of site it moved nearer and nearer to st. asaph's. its elders were shrewd men. with each move of their church they took careful thought in the rebuilding. in the manufacturing district it was built with sixteen windows on each side and was converted at a huge profit into a bicycle factory. on the residential street it was made long and deep and was sold to a moving-picture company without the alteration of so much as a pew. as a last step a syndicate, formed among the members of the congregation themselves, bought ground on plutoria avenue, and sublet it to themselves as a site for the church, at a nominal interest of five per cent per annum, payable nominally every three months and secured by a nominal mortgage. as the two churches moved, their congregations, or at least all that was best of them--such members as were sharing in the rising fortunes of the city--moved also, and now for some six or seven years the two churches and the two congregations had confronted one another among the elm trees of the avenue opposite to the university. but at this point the fortunes of the churches had diverged. st. asaph's was a brilliant success; st. osoph's was a failure. even its own trustees couldn't deny it. at a time when st. asaph's was not only paying its interest but showing a handsome surplus on everything it undertook, the church of st. osoph was moving steadily backwards. there was no doubt, of course, as to the cause. everybody knew it. it was simply a question of men, and, as everybody said, one had only to compare the two men conducting the churches to see why one succeeded and the other failed. the reverend edward fareforth furlong of st. asaph's was a man who threw his whole energy into his parish work. the subtleties of theological controversy he left to minds less active than his own. his creed was one of works rather than of words, and whatever he was doing he did it with his whole heart. whether he was lunching at the mausoleum club with one of his church wardens, or playing the flute--which he played as only the episcopal clergy can play it--accompanied on the harp by one of the fairest of the ladies of his choir, or whether he was dancing the new episcopal tango with the younger daughters of the elder parishioners, he threw himself into it with all his might. he could drink tea more gracefully and play tennis better than any clergyman on this side of the atlantic. he could stand beside the white stone font of st. asaph's in his long white surplice holding a white-robed infant, worth half a million dollars, looking as beautifully innocent as the child itself, and drawing from every matron of the congregation with unmarried daughters the despairing cry, "what a pity that he has no children of his own!" equally sound was his theology. no man was known to preach shorter sermons or to explain away the book of genesis more agreeably than the rector of st. asaph's; and if he found it necessary to refer to the deity he did so under the name of jehovah or jah, or even yaweh in a manner calculated not to hurt the sensitiveness of any of the parishioners. people who would shudder at brutal talk of the older fashion about the wrath of god listened with well-bred interest to a sermon on the personal characteristics of jah. in the same way mr. furlong always referred to the devil, not as satan but as su or swa, which took all the sting out of him. beelzebub he spoke of as behel-zawbab, which rendered him perfectly harmless. the garden of eden he spoke of as the paradeisos, which explained it entirely; the flood as the diluvium, which cleared it up completely; and jonah he named, after the correct fashion jon nah, which put the whole situation (his being swallowed by baloo or the great lizard) on a perfectly satisfactory footing. hell itself was spoken of as she-ol, and it appeared that it was not a place of burning, but rather of what one might describe as moral torment. this settled she-ol once and for all: nobody minds moral torment. in short, there was nothing in the theological system of mr. furlong that need have occasioned in any of his congregation a moment's discomfort. there could be no greater contrast with mr. fareforth furlong than the minister of st. osoph's, the rev. dr. mcteague, who was also honorary professor of philosophy at the university. the one was young, the other was old; the one could dance the other could not; the one moved about at church picnics and lawn teas among a bevy of disciples in pink and blue sashes; the other moped around under the trees of the university campus with blinking eyes that saw nothing and an abstracted mind that had spent fifty years in trying to reconcile hegel with st. paul, and was still busy with it. mr. furlong went forward with the times; dr. mcteague slid quietly backwards with the centuries. dr. mcteague was a failure, and all his congregation knew it. "he is not up to date," they said. that was his crowning sin. "he don't go forward any," said the business members of the congregation. "that old man believes just exactly the same sort of stuff now that he did forty years ago. what's more, he preaches it. you can't run a church that way, can you?" his trustees had done their best to meet the difficulty. they had offered dr. mcteague a two-years' vacation to go and see the holy land. he refused; he said he could picture it. they reduced his salary by fifty per cent; he never noticed it. they offered him an assistant; but he shook his head, saying that he didn't know where he could find a man to do just the work that he was doing. meantime he mooned about among the trees concocting a mixture of st. paul with hegel, three parts to one, for his sunday sermon, and one part to three for his monday lecture. no doubt it was his dual function that was to blame for his failure. and this, perhaps, was the fault of dr. boomer, the president of the university. dr. boomer, like all university presidents of today, belonged to the presbyterian church; or rather, to state it more correctly, he included presbyterianism within himself. he was of course, a member of the board of management of st. osoph's and it was he who had urged, very strongly, the appointment of dr. mcteague, then senior professor of philosophy, as minister. "a saintly man," he said, "the very man for the post. if you should ask me whether he is entirely at home as a professor of philosophy on our staff at the university, i should be compelled to say no. we are forced to admit that as a lecturer he does not meet our views. he appears to find it difficult to keep religion out of his teaching. in fact, his lectures are suffused with a rather dangerous attempt at moral teaching which is apt to contaminate our students. but in the church i should imagine that would be, if anything, an advantage. indeed, if you were to come to me and say, 'boomer, we wish to appoint dr. mcteague as our minister,' i should say, quite frankly, 'take him.'" so dr. mcteague had been appointed. then, to the surprise of everybody he refused to give up his lectures in philosophy. he said he felt a call to give them. the salary, he said, was of no consequence. he wrote to mr. furlong senior (the father of the episcopal rector and honorary treasurer of the plutoria university) and stated that he proposed to give his lectures for nothing. the trustees of the college protested; they urged that the case might set a dangerous precedent which other professors might follow. while fully admitting that dr. mcteague's lectures were well worth giving for nothing, they begged him to reconsider his offer. but he refused; and from that day on, in spite of all offers that he should retire on double his salary, that he should visit the holy land, or syria, or armenia, where the dreadful massacres of christians were taking place, dr. mcteague clung to his post with a tenacity worthy of the best traditions of scotland. his only internal perplexity was that he didn't see how, when the time came for him to die, twenty or thirty years hence, they would ever be able to replace him. such was the situation of the two churches on a certain beautiful morning in june, when an unforeseen event altered entirely the current of their fortunes. * * * * * "no, thank you, juliana," said the young rector to his sister across the breakfast table--and there was something as near to bitterness in his look as his saintly, smooth-shaven face was capable of reflecting--"no, thank you, no more porridge. prunes? no, no, thank you; i don't think i care for any. and, by the way," he added, "don't bother to keep any lunch for me. i have a great deal of business--that is, of work in the parish--to see to, and i must just find time to get a bite of something to eat when and where i can." in his own mind he was resolving that the place should be the mausoleum club and the time just as soon as the head waiter would serve him. after which the reverend edward fareforth furlong bowed his head for a moment in a short, silent blessing--the one prescribed by the episcopal church in america for a breakfast of porridge and prunes. it was their first breakfast together, and it spoke volumes to the rector. he knew what it implied. it stood for his elder sister juliana's views on the need of personal sacrifice as a means of grace. the rector sighed as he rose. he had never missed his younger sister philippa, now married and departed, so keenly. philippa had had opinions of her own on bacon and eggs and on lamb chops with watercress as a means of stimulating the soul. but juliana was different. the rector understood now exactly why it was that his father had exclaimed, on the news of philippa's engagement, without a second's hesitation, "then, of course, juliana must live with you! nonsense, my dear boy, nonsense! it's my duty to spare her to you. after all, i can always eat at the club; they can give me a bite of something or other, surely. to a man of my age, edward, food is really of no consequence. no, no; juliana must move into the rectory at once." the rector's elder sister rose. she looked tall and sallow and forbidding in the plain black dress that contrasted sadly with the charming clerical costumes of white and pink and the broad episcopal hats with flowers in them that philippa used to wear for morning work in the parish. "for what time shall i order dinner?" she asked. "you and philippa used to have it at half-past seven, did you not? don't you think that rather too late?" "a trifle perhaps," said the rector uneasily. he didn't care to explain to juliana that it was impossible to get home any earlier from the kind of _the dansant_ that everybody was giving just now. "but don't trouble about dinner. i may be working very late. if i need anything to eat i shall get a biscuit and some tea at the guild rooms, or--" he didn't finish the sentence, but in his mind he added, "or else a really first-class dinner at the mausoleum club, or at the newberrys' or the rasselyer-browns'--anywhere except here." "if you are going, then," said juliana, "may i have the key of the church." a look of pain passed over the rector's face. he knew perfectly well what juliana wanted the key for. she meant to go into his church and pray in it. the rector of st. asaph's was, he trusted, as broad-minded a man as an anglican clergyman ought to be. he had no objection to any reasonable use of his church--for a thanksgiving festival or for musical recitals for example--but when it came to opening up the church and using it to pray in, the thing was going a little too far. what was more, he had an idea from the look on juliana's face that she meant to pray for _him_. this, for a clergy man, was hard to bear. philippa, like the good girl that she was, had prayed only for herself, and then only at the proper times and places, and in a proper praying costume. the rector began to realize what difficulties it might make for a clergyman to have a religious sister as his house-mate. but he was never a man for unseemly argument. "it is hanging in my study," he said. and with that the rev. fareforth furlong passed into the hall took up the simple silk hat, the stick and gloves of the working clergyman and walked out on to the avenue to begin his day's work in the parish. the rector's parish viewed in its earthly aspect, was a singularly beautiful place. for it extended all along plutoria avenue, where the street is widest and the elm trees are at their leafiest and the motors at their very drowsiest. it lay up and down the shaded side streets of the residential district, darkened with great chestnuts and hushed in a stillness that was almost religion itself. there was not a house in the parish assessed at less than twenty-five thousand, and in very heart of it the mausoleum club, with its smooth white stone and its grecian architecture, carried one back to the ancient world and made one think of athens and of paul preaching on mars hill. it was, all considered, a splendid thing to fight sin in such a parish and to keep it out of it. for kept out it was. one might look the length and breadth of the broad avenue and see no sign of sin all along it. there was certainly none in the smooth faces of the chauffeurs trundling their drowsy motors; no sign of it in the expensive children paraded by imported nursemaids in the chequered light of the shaded street; least of all was there any sign of it in the stock exchange members of the congregation as they walked along side by side to their lunch at the mausoleum club, their silk hats nodding together in earnest colloquy on shares preferred and profits undivided. so might have walked, so must have walked, the very fathers of the church themselves. whatever sin there was in the city was shoved sideways into the roaring streets of commerce where the elevated railway ran, and below that again into the slums. here there must have been any quantity of sin. the rector of st. asaph's was certain of it. many of the richer of his parishioners had been down in parties late at night to look at it, and the ladies of his congregation were joined together into all sorts of guilds and societies and bands of endeavour for stamping it out and driving it under or putting it into jail till it surrendered. but the slums lay outside the rector's parish. he had no right to interfere. they were under the charge of a special mission or auxiliary, a remnant of the st. asaph's of the past, placed under the care of a divinity student, at four hundred dollars per annum. his charge included all the slums and three police courts and two music halls and the city jail. one sunday afternoon in every three months the rector and several ladies went down and sang hymns for him in his mission-house. but his work was really very easy. a funeral, for example, at the mission, was a simple affair, meaning nothing more than the preparation of a plain coffin and a glassless hearse and the distribution of a few artificial everlasting flowers to women crying in their aprons; a thing easily done: whereas in st. asaph's parish, where all the really important souls were, a funeral was a large event, requiring taste and tact, and a nice shading of delicacy in distinguishing mourners from beneficiaries, and private grief from business representation at the ceremony. a funeral with a plain coffin and a hearse was as nothing beside an interment, with a casket smothered in hot-house syringas, borne in a coach and followed by special reporters from the financial papers. it appeared to the rector afterwards as almost a shocking coincidence that the first person whom he met upon the avenue should have been the rev. dr. mcteague himself. mr. furlong gave him the form of amiable "good morning" that the episcopal church always extends to those in error. but he did not hear it. the minister's head was bent low, his eyes gazed into vacancy, and from the movements of his lips and from the fact that he carried a leather case of notes, he was plainly on his way to his philosophical lecture. but the rector had no time to muse upon the abstracted appearance of his rival. for, as always happened to him, he was no sooner upon the street than his parish work of the day began. in fact, he had hardly taken a dozen steps after passing dr. mcteague when he was brought up standing by two beautiful parishioners with pink parasols. "oh, mr. furlong," exclaimed one of them, "so fortunate to happen to catch you; we were just going into the rectory to consult you. should the girls--for the lawn tea for the guild on friday, you know--wear white dresses with light blue sashes all the same, or do you think we might allow them to wear any coloured sashes that they like? what do you think?" this was an important problem. in fact, there was a piece of parish work here that it took the reverend fareforth half an hour to attend to standing the while in earnest colloquy with the two ladies under the shadow of the elm trees. but a clergyman must never be grudging of his time. "goodbye then," they said at last. "are you coming to the browning club this morning? oh, so sorry! but we shall see you at the musicale this afternoon, shall we not?" "oh, i trust so," said the rector. "how dreadfully hard he works," said the ladies to one another as they moved away. thus slowly and with many interruptions the rector made his progress along the avenue. at times he stopped to permit a pink-cheeked infant in a perambulator to beat him with a rattle while he inquired its age of an episcopal nurse, gay with flowing ribbons. he lifted his hat to the bright parasols of his parishioners passing in glistening motors, bowed to episcopalians, nodded amiably to presbyterians, and even acknowledged with his lifted hat the passing of persons of graver forms of error. thus he took his way along the avenue and down a side street towards the business district of the city, until just at the edge of it, where the trees were about to stop and the shops were about to begin, he found himself at the door of the hymnal supply corporation, limited. the premises as seen from the outside combined the idea of an office with an ecclesiastical appearance. the door was as that of a chancel or vestry; there was a large plate-glass window filled with bibles and testaments, all spread open and showing every variety of language in their pages. these were marked, arabic, syriac, coptic, ojibway, irish and so forth. on the window in small white lettering were the words, hymnal supply corporation, and below that, hosanna pipe and steam organ incorporated, and still lower the legend bible society of the good shepherd limited. there was no doubt of the sacred character of the place. here laboured mr. furlong senior, the father of the rev. edward fareforth. he was a man of many activities; president and managing director of the companies just mentioned, trustee and secretary of st. asaph's, honorary treasurer of the university, etc.; and each of his occupations and offices was marked by something of a supramundane character, something higher than ordinary business. his different official positions naturally overlapped and brought him into contact with himself from a variety of angles. thus he sold himself hymn books at a price per thousand, made as a business favour to himself, negotiated with himself the purchase of the ten-thousand-dollar organ (making a price on it to himself that he begged himself to regard as confidential), and as treasurer of the college he sent himself an informal note of enquiry asking if he knew of any sound investment for the annual deficit of the college funds, a matter of some sixty thousand dollars a year, which needed very careful handling. any man--and there are many such--who has been concerned with business dealings of this sort with himself realizes that they are more satisfactory than any other kind. to what better person, then, could the rector of st. asaph's bring the quarterly accounts and statements of his church than to mr. furlong senior. the outer door was opened to the rector by a sanctified boy with such a face as is only found in the choirs of the episcopal church. in an outer office through which the rector passed were two sacred stenographers with hair as golden as the daffodils of sheba, copying confidential letters on absolutely noiseless typewriters. they were making offers of bibles in half-car-load lots at two and a half per cent reduction, offering to reduce st. mark by two cents on condition of immediate export, and to lay down st. john f.o.b. san francisco for seven cents, while regretting that they could deliver fifteen thousand rock of ages in missouri on no other terms than cash. the sacred character of their work lent them a preoccupation beautiful to behold. in the room beyond them was a white-haired confidential clerk, venerable as the song of solomon, and by him mr. fareforth furlong was duly shown into the office of his father. "good morning, edward," said mr. furlong senior, as he shook hands. "i was expecting you. and while i think of it, i have just had a letter from philippa. she and tom will be home in two or three weeks. she writes from egypt. she wishes me to tell you, as no doubt you have already anticipated, that she thinks she can hardly continue to be a member of the congregation when they come back. no doubt you felt this yourself?" "oh, entirely," said the rector. "surely in matters of belief a wife must follow her husband." "exactly; especially as tom's uncles occupy the position they do with regard to--" mr. furlong jerked his head backwards and pointed with his thumb over his shoulder in a way that his son knew was meant to indicate st. osoph's church. the overend brothers, who were tom's uncles (his name being tom overend) were, as everybody knew, among the principal supporters of st. osoph's. not that they were, by origin, presbyterians. but they were self-made men, which put them once and for all out of sympathy with such a place as st. asaph's. "we made ourselves," the two brothers used to repeat in defiance of the catechism of the anglican church. they never wearied of explaining how mr. dick, the senior brother, had worked overtime by day to send mr. george, the junior brother, to school by night, and how mr. george had then worked overtime by night to send mr. dick to school by day. thus they had come up the business ladder hand over hand, landing later on in life on the platform of success like two corpulent acrobats, panting with the strain of it. "for years," mr. george would explain, "we had father and mother to keep as well; then they died, and dick and me saw daylight." by which he meant no harm at all, but only stated a fact, and concealed the virtue of it. and being self-made men they made it a point to do what they could to lessen the importance of such an institution as st. asaph's church. by the same contrariety of nature the two overend brothers (their business name was overend brothers, limited) were supporters of the dissentient young men's guild, and the second or rival university settlement, and of anything or everything that showed a likelihood of making trouble. on this principle they were warm supporters and friends of the rev. dr. mcteague. the minister had even gone so far as to present to the brothers a copy of his philosophical work "mcteague's exposition of the kantian hypothesis." and the two brothers had read it through in the office, devoting each of them a whole morning to it. mr. dick, the senior brother, had said that he had never seen anything like it, and mr. george, the junior, had declared that a man who could write that was capable of anything. on the whole it was evident that the relations between the overend family and the presbyterian religion were too intimate to allow mrs. tom overend, formerly miss philippa furlong, to sit anywhere else of a sunday than under dr. mcteague. "philippa writes," continued mr. furlong "that under the circumstances she and tom would like to do something for your church. she would like--yes, i have the letter here--to give you, as a surprise, of course, either a new font or a carved pulpit; or perhaps a cheque; she wishes me on no account to mention it to you directly, but to ascertain indirectly from you, what would be the better surprise." "oh, a cheque, i think," said the rector; "one can do so much more with it, after all." "precisely," said his father; he was well aware of many things that can be done with a cheque that cannot possibly be done with a font. "that's settled then," resumed mr. furlong; "and now i suppose you want me to run my eye over your quarterly statements, do you not, before we send them in to the trustees? that is what you've come for, is it not?" "yes," said the rector, drawing a bundle of blue and white papers from his pocket. "i have everything with me. our showing is, i believe, excellent, though i fear i fail to present it as clearly as it might be done." mr. furlong senior spread the papers on the table before him and adjusted his spectacles to a more convenient angle. he smiled indulgently as he looked at the documents before him. "i am afraid you would never make an accountant, edward," he said. "i fear not," said the rector. "your items," said his father, "are entered wrongly. here, for example, in the general statement, you put down distribution of coals to the poor to your credit. in the same way, bibles and prizes to the sunday school you again mark to your credit. why? don't you see, my boy, that these things are debits? when you give out bibles or distribute fuel to the poor you give out something for which you get no return. it is a debit. on the other hand, such items as church offertory, scholars' pennies, etc., are pure profit. surely the principle is clear." "i think i see it better now," said the rev. edward. "perfectly plain, isn't it?" his father went on. "and here again. paupers' burial fund, a loss; enter it as such. christmas gift to verger and sexton, an absolute loss--you get nothing in return. widows' mite, fines inflicted in sunday school, etc., these are profit; write them down as such. by this method, you see, in ordinary business we can tell exactly where we stand: anything which we give out without return or reward we count as a debit; all that we take from others without giving in return we count as so much to our credit." "ah, yes," murmured the rector. "i begin to understand." "very good. but after all, edward, i mustn't quarrel with the mere form of your accounts; the statement is really a splendid showing. i see that not only is our mortgage and debenture interest all paid to date, but that a number of our enterprises are making a handsome return. i notice, for example, that the girls' friendly society of the church not only pays for itself, but that you are able to take something out of its funds and transfer it to the men's book club. excellent! and i observe that you have been able to take a large portion of the soup kitchen fund and put it into the rector's picnic account. very good indeed. in this respect your figures are a model for church accounts anywhere." mr. furlong continued his scrutiny of the accounts. "excellent," he murmured, "and on the whole an annual surplus, i see, of several thousands. but stop a bit," he continued, checking himself; "what's this? are you aware, edward, that you are losing money on your foreign missions account?" "i feared as much," said edward. "it's incontestable. look at the figures for yourself: missionary's salary so much, clothes and books to converts so much, voluntary and other offerings of converts so much why, you're losing on it, edward!" exclaimed mr. furlong, and he shook his head dubiously at the accounts before him. "i thought," protested his son, "that in view of the character of the work itself--" "quite so," answered his father, "quite so. i fully admit the force of that. i am only asking you, is it worth it? mind you, i am not speaking now as a christian, but as a businessman. is it worth it?" "i thought that perhaps, in view of the fact of our large surplus in other directions--" "exactly," said his father, "a heavy surplus. it is precisely on that point that i wished to speak to you this morning. you have at present a large annual surplus, and there is every prospect under providence--in fact, i think in any case--of it continuing for years to come. if i may speak very frankly i should say that as long as our reverend friend, dr. mcteague, continues in his charge of st. osoph's--and i trust that he may be spared for many years to come--you are likely to enjoy the present prosperity of your church. very good. the question arises, what disposition are we to make of our accumulating funds?" "yes," said the rector, hesitating. "i am speaking to you now," said his father "not as the secretary of your church, but as president of the hymnal supply company which i represent here. now please understand, edward, i don't want in any way to force or control your judgment. i merely wish to show you certain--shall i say certain opportunities that present themselves for the disposal of our funds? the matter can be taken up later, formally, by yourself and the trustees of the church. as a matter of fact, i have already written to myself as secretary in the matter, and i have received what i consider a quite encouraging answer. let me explain what i propose." mr. furlong senior rose, and opening the door of the office, "everett," he said to the ancient clerk, "kindly give me a bible." it was given to him. mr. furlong stood with the bible poised in his hand. "now we," he went on, "i mean the hymnal supply corporation, have an idea for bringing out an entirely new bible." a look of dismay appeared on the saintly face of the rector. "a new bible!" he gasped. "precisely!" said his father, "a new bible! this one--and we find it every day in our business--is all wrong." "all wrong!" said the rector with horror in his face. "my dear boy," exclaimed his father, "pray, pray, do not misunderstand me. don't imagine for a moment that i mean wrong in a religious sense. such a thought could never, i hope, enter my mind. all that i mean is that this bible is badly made up." "badly made up?" repeated his son, as mystified as ever. "i see that you do not understand me. what i mean is this. let me try to make myself quite clear. for the market of today this bible"--and he poised it again on his hand, as if to test its weight, "is too heavy. the people of today want something lighter, something easier to get hold of. now if--" but what mr. furlong was about to say was lost forever to the world. for just at this juncture something occurred calculated to divert not only mr. furlong's sentence, but the fortunes and the surplus of st. asaph's itself. at the very moment when mr. furlong was speaking a newspaper delivery man in the street outside handed to the sanctified boy the office copy of the noonday paper. and the boy had no sooner looked at its headlines than he said, "how dreadful!" being sanctified, he had no stronger form of speech than that. but he handed the paper forthwith to one of the stenographers with hair like the daffodils of sheba, and when she looked at it she exclaimed, "how awful!" and she knocked at once at the door of the ancient clerk and gave the paper to him; and when he looked at it and saw the headline the ancient clerk murmured, "ah!" in the gentle tone in which very old people greet the news of catastrophe or sudden death. but in his turn he opened mr. furlong's door and put down the paper, laying his finger on the column for a moment without a word. mr. furlong stopped short in his sentence. "dear me!" he said as his eyes caught the item of news. "how very dreadful!" "what is it?" said the rector. "dr. mcteague," answered his father. "he has been stricken with paralysis!" "how shocking!" said the rector, aghast. "but when? i saw him only this morning." "it has just happened," said his father, following down the column of the newspaper as he spoke, "this morning, at the university, in his classroom, at a lecture. dear me, how dreadful! i must go and see the president at once." mr. furlong was about to reach for his hat and stick when at that moment the aged clerk knocked at the door. "dr. boomer," he announced in a tone of solemnity suited to the occasion. dr. boomer entered, shook hands in silence and sat down. "you have heard our sad news, i suppose?" he said. he used the word "our" as between the university president and his honorary treasurer. "how did it happen?" asked mr. furlong. "most distressing," said the president. "dr. mcteague, it seems, had just entered his ten o'clock class (the hour was about ten-twenty) and was about to open his lecture, when one of his students rose in his seat and asked a question. it is a practice," continued dr. boomer, "which, i need hardly say, we do not encourage; the young man, i believe, was a newcomer in the philosophy class. at any rate, he asked dr. mcteague, quite suddenly it appears; how he could reconcile his theory of transcendental immaterialism with a scheme of rigid moral determinism. dr. mcteague stared for a moment, his mouth, so the class assert, painfully open. the student repeated the question, and poor mcteague fell forward over his desk, paralysed." "is he dead?" gasped mr. furlong. "no," said the president. "but we expect his death at any moment. dr. slyder, i may say, is with him now and is doing all he can." "in any case, i suppose, he could hardly recover enough to continue his college duties," said the young rector. "out of the question," said the president. "i should not like to state that of itself mere paralysis need incapacitate a professor. dr. thrum, our professor of the theory of music, is, as you know, paralysed in his ears, and mr. slant, our professor of optics, is paralysed in his right eye. but this is a case of paralysis of the brain. i fear it is incompatible with professorial work." "then, i suppose," said mr. furlong senior, "we shall have to think of the question of a successor." they had both _been_ thinking of it for at least three minutes. "we must," said the president. "for the moment i feel too stunned by the sad news to act. i have merely telegraphed to two or three leading colleges for a _locum tenens_ and sent out a few advertisements announcing the chair as vacant. but it will be difficult to replace mcteague. he was a man," added dr. boomer, rehearsing in advance, unconsciously, no doubt, his forthcoming oration over dr. mcteague's death, "of a singular grasp, a breadth of culture, and he was able, as few men are, to instil what i might call a spirit of religion into his teaching. his lectures, indeed, were suffused with moral instruction, and exercised over his students an influence second only to that of the pulpit itself." he paused. "ah yes, the pulpit," said mr. furlong, "there indeed you will miss him." "that," said dr. boomer very reverently, "is our real loss, deep, irreparable. i suppose, indeed i am certain, we shall never again see such a man in the pulpit of st. osoph's. which reminds me," he added more briskly, "i must ask the newspaper people to let it be known that there will be service as usual the day after tomorrow, and that dr. mcteague's death will, of course, make no difference--that is to say--i must see the newspaper people at once." * * * * * that afternoon all the newspaper editors in the city were busy getting their obituary notices ready for the demise of dr. mcteague. "the death of dr. mcteague," wrote the editor of the _commercial and financial undertone_, a paper which had almost openly advocated the minister's dismissal for five years back, "comes upon us as an irreparable loss. his place will be difficult, nay, impossible, to fill. whether as a philosopher or a divine he cannot be replaced." "we have no hesitation in saying," so wrote the editor of the _plutorian times_, a three-cent morning paper, which was able to take a broad or three-cent point of view of men and things, "that the loss of dr. mcteague will be just as much felt in europe as in america. to germany the news that the hand that penned 'mcteague's shorter exposition of the kantian hypothesis' has ceased to write will come with the shock of poignant anguish; while to france--" the editor left the article unfinished at that point. after all, he was a ready writer, and he reflected that there would be time enough before actually going to press to consider from what particular angle the blow of mcteague's death would strike down the people of france. so ran in speech and in writing, during two or three days, the requiem of dr. mcteague. altogether there were more kind things said of him in the three days during which he was taken for dead, than in thirty years of his life--which seemed a pity. and after it all, at the close of the third day, dr. mcteague feebly opened his eyes. but when he opened them the world had already passed on, and left him behind. chapter seven: the ministrations of the rev. uttermust dumfarthing "well, then, gentlemen, i think we have all agreed upon our man?" mr. dick overend looked around the table as he spoke at the managing trustees of st. osoph's church. they were assembled in an upper committee room of the mausoleum club. their official place of meeting was in a board room off the vestry of the church. but they had felt a draught in it, some four years ago, which had wafted them over to the club as their place of assembly. in the club there were no draughts. mr. dick overend sat at the head of the table, his brother george beside him, and dr. boomer at the foot. beside them were mr. boulder, mr. skinyer (of skinyer and beatem) and the rest of the trustees. "you are agreed, then, on the reverend uttermust dumfarthing?" "quite agreed," murmured several trustees together. "a most remarkable man," said dr. boomer. "i heard him preach in his present church. he gave utterance to thoughts that i have myself been thinking for years. i never listened to anything so sound or so scholarly." "i heard him the night he preached in new york," said mr. boulder. "he preached a sermon to the poor. he told them they were no good. i never heard, outside of a scotch pulpit, such splendid invective." "is he scotch?" said one of the trustees. "of scotch parentage," said the university president. "i believe he is one of the dumfarthings of dunfermline, dumfries." everybody said "oh," and there was a pause. "is he married?" asked one of the trustees. "i understand," answered dr. boomer, "that he is a widower with one child, a little girl." "does he make any conditions?" "none whatever," said the chairman, consulting a letter before him, "except that he is to have absolute control, and in regard to salary. these two points settled, he says, he places himself entirely in our hands." "and the salary?" asked someone. "ten thousand dollars," said the chairman, "payable quarterly in advance." a chorus of approval went round the table. "good," "excellent," "a first-class man," muttered the trustees, "just what we want." "i am sure, gentlemen," said mr. dick overend, voicing the sentiments of everybody, "we do _not_ want a cheap man. several of the candidates whose names have been under consideration here have been in many respects--in point of religious qualification, let us say--most desirable men. the name of dr. mcskwirt, for example, has been mentioned with great favour by several of the trustees. but he's a cheap man. i feel we don't want him." "what is mr. dumfarthing getting where he is?" asked mr. boulder. "nine thousand nine hundred," said the chairman. "and dr. mcskwirt?" "fourteen hundred dollars." "well, that settles it!" exclaimed everybody with a burst of enlightenment. and so it was settled. in fact, nothing could have been plainer. "i suppose," said mr. george overend as they were about to rise, "that we are quite justified in taking it for granted that dr. mcteague will never be able to resume work?" "oh, absolutely for granted," said dr. boomer. "poor mcteague! i hear from slyder that he was making desperate efforts this morning to sit up in bed. his nurse with difficulty prevented him." "is his power of speech gone?" asked mr. boulder. "practically so; in any case, dr. slyder insists on his not using it. in fact, poor mcteague's mind is a wreck. his nurse was telling me that this morning he was reaching out his hand for the newspaper, and seemed to want to read one of the editorials. it was quite pathetic," concluded dr. boomer, shaking his head. so the whole matter was settled, and next day all the town knew that st. osoph's church had extended a call to the rev. uttermust dumfarthing, and that he had accepted it. * * * * * within a few weeks of this date the reverend uttermust dumfarthing moved into the manse of st. osoph's and assumed his charge. and forthwith he became the sole topic of conversation on plutoria avenue. "have you seen the new minister of st. osoph's?" everybody asked. "have you been to hear dr. dumfarthing?" "were you at st. osoph's church on sunday morning? ah, you really should go! most striking sermon i ever listened to." the effect of him was absolute and instantaneous; there was no doubt of it. "my dear," said mrs. buncomhearst to one of her friends, in describing how she had met him, "i never saw a more striking man. such power in his face! mr. boulder introduced him to me on the avenue, and he hardly seemed to see me at all, simply scowled! i was never so favourably impressed with any man." on his very first sunday he preached to his congregation on eternal punishment, leaning forward in his black gown and shaking his fist at them. dr. mcteague had never shaken his fist in thirty years, and as for the rev. fareforth furlong, he was incapable of it. but the rev. uttermust dumfarthing told his congregation that he was convinced that at least seventy per cent of them were destined for eternal punishment; and he didn't call it by that name, but labelled it simply and forcibly "hell." the word had not been heard in any church in the better part of the city for a generation. the congregation was so swelled next sunday that the minister raised the percentage to eighty-five, and everybody went away delighted. young and old flocked to st. osoph's. before a month had passed the congregation at the evening service at st. asaph's church was so slender that the offertory, as mr. furlong senior himself calculated, was scarcely sufficient to pay the overhead charge of collecting it. the presence of so many young men sitting in serried files close to the front was the only feature of his congregation that extorted from the rev. mr. dumfarthing something like approval. "it is a joy to me to see," he remarked to several of his trustees, "that there are in the city so many godly young men, whatever the elders may be." but there may have been a secondary cause at work, for among the godly young men of plutoria avenue the topic of conversation had not been, "have you heard the new presbyterian minister?" but, "have you seen his daughter? you haven't? well, say!" for it turned out that the "child" of dr. uttermust dumfarthing, so-called by the trustees, was the kind of child that wears a little round hat, straight from paris, with an upright feather in it, and a silk dress in four sections, and shoes with high heels that would have broken the heart of john calvin. moreover, she had the distinction of being the only person on plutoria avenue who was not one whit afraid of the reverend uttermust dumfarthing. she even amused herself, in violation of all rules, by attending evening service at st. asaph's, where she sat listening to the reverend edward, and feeling that she had never heard anything so sensible in her life. "i'm simply dying to meet your brother," she said to mrs. tom overend, otherwise philippa; "he's such a complete contrast with father." she knew no higher form of praise: "father's sermons are always so frightfully full of religion." and philippa promised that meet him she should. but whatever may have been the effect of the presence of catherine dumfarthing, there is no doubt the greater part of the changed situation was due to dr. dumfarthing himself. everything he did was calculated to please. he preached sermons to the rich and told them they were mere cobwebs, and they liked it; he preached a special sermon to the poor and warned them to be mighty careful; he gave a series of weekly talks to workingmen, and knocked them sideways; and in the sunday school he gave the children so fierce a talk on charity and the need of giving freely and quickly, that such a stream of pennies and nickels poured into catherine dumfarthing's sunday school fund as hadn't been seen in the church in fifty years. nor was mr. dumfarthing different in his private walk of life. he was heard to speak openly of the overend brothers as "men of wrath," and they were so pleased that they repeated it to half the town. it was the best business advertisement they had had for years. dr. boomer was captivated with the man. "true scholarship," he murmured, as dr. dumfarthing poured undiluted greek and hebrew from the pulpit, scorning to translate a word of it. under dr. boomer's charge the minister was taken over the length and breadth of plutoria university, and reviled it from the foundations up. "our library," said the president, "two hundred thousand volumes!" "aye," said the minister, "a powerful heap of rubbish, i'll be bound!" "the photograph of our last year's graduating class," said the president. "a poor lot, to judge by the faces of them," said the minister. "this, dr. dumfarthing, is our new radiographic laboratory; mr. spiff, our demonstrator, is preparing slides which, i believe, actually show the movements of the atom itself, do they not, mr. spiff?" "ah," said the minister, piercing mr. spiff from beneath his dark brows, "it will not avail you, young man." dr. boomer was delighted. "poor mcteague," he said--"and by the way, boyster, i hear that mcteague is trying to walk again; a great error, it shouldn't be allowed!--poor mcteague knew nothing of science." the students themselves shared in the enthusiasm, especially after dr. dumfarthing had given them a sunday afternoon talk in which he showed that their studies were absolutely futile. as soon as they knew this they went to work with a vigour that put new life into the college. * * * * * meantime the handsome face of the reverend edward fareforth furlong began to wear a sad and weary look that had never been seen on it before. he watched the congregation drifting from st. asaph's to st. osoph's and was powerless to prevent it. his sadness reached its climax one bright afternoon in the late summer, when he noticed that even his episcopal blackbirds were leaving his elms and moving westward to the spruce trees of the manse. he stood looking at them with melancholy on his face. "why, edward," cried his sister, philippa, as her motor stopped beside him, "how doleful you look! get into the car and come out into the country for a ride. let the parish teas look after themselves for today." tom, philippa's husband, was driving his own car--he was rich enough to be able to--and seated with philippa in the car was an unknown person, as prettily dressed as philippa herself. to the rector she was presently introduced as miss catherine something--he didn't hear the rest of it. nor did he need to. it was quite plain that her surname, whatever it was, was a very temporary and transitory affair. so they sped rapidly out of the city and away out into the country, mile after mile, through cool, crisp air, and among woods with the touch of autumn bright already upon them, and with blue sky and great still clouds white overhead. and the afternoon was so beautiful and so bright that as they went along there was no talk about religion at all! nor was there any mention of mothers' auxiliaries, or girls' friendly societies, nor any discussion of the poor. it was too glorious a day. but they spoke instead of the new dances, and whether they had come to stay, and of such sensible topics as that. then presently, as they went on still further, philippa leaned forwards and talked to tom over his shoulder and reminded him that this was the very road to castel casteggio, and asked him if he remembered coming up it with her to join the newberry's ever so long ago. whatever it was that tom answered it is not recorded, but it is certain that it took so long in the saying that the reverend edward talked in tete-a-tete with catherine for fifteen measured miles, and was unaware that it was more than five minutes. among other things he said, and she agreed--or she said and he agreed--that for the new dances it was necessary to have always one and the same partner, and to keep that partner all the time. and somehow simple sentiments of that sort, when said direct into a pair of listening blue eyes behind a purple motor veil, acquire an infinite significance. then, not much after that, say three or four minutes, they were all of a sudden back in town again, running along plutoria avenue, and to the rector's surprise the motor was stopping outside the manse, and catherine was saying, "oh, thank you ever so much, philippa; it was just heavenly!" which showed that the afternoon had had its religious features after all. "what!" said the rector's sister, as they moved off again, "didn't you know? that's catherine dumfarthing!" * * * * * when the rev. fareforth furlong arrived home at the rectory he spent an hour or so in the deepest of deep thought in an armchair in his study. nor was it any ordinary parish problem that he was revolving in his mind. he was trying to think out some means by which his sister juliana might be induced to commit the sin of calling on the daughter of a presbyterian minister. the thing had to be represented as in some fashion or other an act of self-denial, a form of mortification of the flesh. otherwise he knew juliana would never do it. but to call on miss catherine dumfarthing seemed to him such an altogether delightful and unspeakably blissful process that he hardly knew how to approach the topic. so when juliana presently came home the rector could find no better way of introducing the subject than by putting it on the ground of philippa's marriage to miss dumfarthing's father's trustee's nephew. "juliana," he said, "don't you think that perhaps, on account of philippa and tom, you ought--or at least it might be best for you to call on miss dumfarthing?" juliana turned to her brother as he laid aside her bonnet and her black gloves. "i've just been there this afternoon," she said. there was something as near to a blush on her face as her brother had ever seen. "but she was not there!" he said. "no," answered juliana, "but mr. dumfarthing was. i stayed and talked some time with him, waiting for her." the rector gave a sort of whistle, or rather that blowing out of air which is the episcopal symbol for it. "didn't you find him pretty solemn?" he said. "solemn!" answered his sister. "surely, edward, a man in such a calling as his ought to be solemn." "i don't mean that exactly," said the rector; "i mean--er--hard, bitter, so to speak." "edward!" exclaimed juliana, "how can you speak so. mr. dumfarthing hard! mr. dumfarthing bitter! why, edward, the man is gentleness and kindness itself. i don't think i ever met anyone so full of sympathy, of compassion with suffering." juliana's face had flushed it was quite plain that she saw things in the reverend uttermust dumfarthing--as some one woman does in every man--that no one else could see. the reverend edward was abashed. "i wasn't thinking of his character," he said. "i was thinking rather of his doctrines. wait till you have heard him preach." juliana flushed more deeply still. "i heard him last sunday evening," she said. the rector was silent, and his sister, as if impelled to speak, went on, "and i don't see, edward, how anyone could think him a hard or bigoted man in his creed. he walked home with me to the gate just now, and he was speaking of all the sin in the world, and of how few, how very few people, can be saved, and how many will have to be burned as worthless; and he spoke so beautifully. he regrets it, edward, regrets it deeply. it is a real grief to him." on which juliana, half in anger, withdrew, and her brother the rector sat back in his chair with smiles rippling all over his saintly face. for he had been wondering whether it would be possible, even remotely possible, to get his sister to invite the dumfarthings to high tea at the rectory some day at six o'clock (evening dinner was out of the question), and now he knew within himself that the thing was as good as done. * * * * * while such things as these were happening and about to happen, there were many others of the congregation of st. asaph's beside the rector to whom the growing situation gave cause for serious perplexities. indeed, all who were interested in the church, the trustees and the mortgagees and the underlying debenture-holders, were feeling anxious. for some of them underlay the sunday school, whose scholars' offerings had declined forty per cent, and others underlay the new organ, not yet paid for, while others were lying deeper still beneath the ground site of the church with seven dollars and a half a square foot resting on them. "i don't like it," said mr. lucullus fyshe to mr. newberry (they were both prominent members of the congregation). "i don't like the look of things. i took up a block of furlong's bonds on his guild building from what seemed at the time the best of motives. the interest appeared absolutely certain. now it's a month overdue on the last quarter. i feel alarmed." "neither do i like it," said mr. newberry, shaking his head; "and i'm sorry for fareforth furlong. an excellent fellow, fyshe, excellent. i keep wondering sunday after sunday, if there isn't something i can do to help him out. one might do something further, perhaps, in the way of new buildings or alterations. i have, in fact, offered--by myself, i mean, and without other aid--to dynamite out the front of his church, underpin it, and put him in a norman gateway; either that, or blast out the back of it where the choir sit, just as he likes. i was thinking about it last sunday as they were singing the anthem, and realizing what a lot one might do there with a few sticks of dynamite." "i doubt it," said mr. fyshe. "in fact, newberry, to speak very frankly, i begin to ask myself, is furlong the man for the post?" "oh, surely," said mr. newberry in protest. "personally a charming fellow," went on mr. fyshe; "but is he, all said and done, quite the man to conduct a church? in the _first_ place, he is _not_ a businessman." "no," said mr. newberry reluctantly, "that i admit." "very good. and, _secondly_, even in the matter of his religion itself, one always feels as if he were too little fixed, too unstable. he simply moves with the times. that, at least, is what people are beginning to say of him, that he is perpetually moving with the times. it doesn't do, newberry, it doesn't do." whereupon mr. newberry went away troubled and wrote to fareforth furlong a confidential letter with a signed cheque in it for the amount of mr. fyshe's interest, and with such further offerings of dynamite, of underpinning and blasting as his conscience prompted. when the rector received and read the note and saw the figures of the cheque, there arose such a thankfulness in his spirit as he hadn't felt for months, and he may well have murmured, for the repose of mr. newberry's soul, a prayer not found in the rubric of king james. all the more cause had he to feel light at heart, for as it chanced, it was on that same evening that the dumfarthings, father and daughter, were to take tea at the rectory. indeed, a few minutes before six o'clock they might have been seen making their way from the manse to the rectory. on their way along the avenue the minister took occasion to reprove his daughter for the worldliness of her hat (it was a little trifle from new york that she had bought out of the sunday school money--a temporary loan); and a little further on he spoke to her severely about the parasol she carried; and further yet about the strange fashion, specially condemned by the old testament, in which she wore her hair. so catherine knew in her heart from this that she must be looking her very prettiest, and went into the rectory radiant. the tea was, of course, an awkward meal at the best. there was an initial difficulty about grace, not easily surmounted. and when the rev. mr. dumfarthing sternly refused tea as a pernicious drink weakening to the system, the anglican rector was too ignorant of the presbyterian system to know enough to give him scotch whiskey. but there were bright spots in the meal as well. the rector was even able to ask catherine, sideways as a personal question, if she played tennis; and she was able to whisper behind her hand, "not allowed," and to make a face in the direction of her father, who was absorbed for the moment in a theological question with juliana. indeed, before the conversation became general again the rector had contrived to make a rapid arrangement with catherine whereby she was to come with him to the newberry's tennis court the day following and learn the game, with or without permission. so the tea was perhaps a success in its way. and it is noteworthy that juliana spent the days that followed it in reading calvin's "institutes" (specially loaned to her) and "dumfarthing on the certainty of damnation" (a gift), and in praying for her brother--a task practically without hope. during which same time the rector in white flannels, and catherine in a white duck skirt and blouse, were flying about on the green grass of the newberrys' court, and calling, "love," "love all," to one another so gaily and so brazenly that even mr. newberry felt that there must be something in it. but all these things came merely as interludes in the moving currents of greater events; for as the summer faded into autumn and autumn into winter the anxieties of the trustees of st. asaph's began to call for action of some sort. * * * * * "edward," said the rector's father on the occasion of their next quarterly discussion, "i cannot conceal from you that the position of things is very serious. your statements show a falling off in every direction. your interest is everywhere in arrears; your current account overdrawn to the limit. at this rate, you know, the end is inevitable. your debenture and bondholders will decide to foreclose; and if they do, you know, there is no power that can stop them. even with your limited knowledge of business you are probably aware that there is no higher power that can influence or control the holder of a first mortgage." "i fear so," said the rev. edward very sadly. "do you not think perhaps that some of the shortcoming lies with yourself?" continued mr. furlong. "is it not possible that as a preacher you fail somewhat, do not, as it were, deal sufficiently with fundamental things as others do? you leave untouched the truly vital issues, such things as the creation, death, and, if i may refer to it, the life beyond the grave." as a result of which the reverend edward preached a series of special sermons on the creation for which he made a special and arduous preparation in the library of plutoria university. he said that it had taken a million, possibly a hundred million years of quite difficult work to accomplish, and that though when we looked at it all was darkness still we could not be far astray if we accepted and held fast to the teachings of sir charles lyell. the book of genesis, he said was not to be taken as meaning a day when it said a day, but rather something other than a mere day; and the word "light" meant not exactly light but possibly some sort of phosphorescence, and that the use of the word "darkness" was to be understood not as meaning darkness, but to be taken as simply indicating obscurity. and when he had quite finished, the congregation declared the whole sermon to be mere milk and water. it insulted their intelligence, they said. after which, a week later, the rev. dr. dumfarthing took up the same subject, and with the aid of seven plain texts pulverized the rector into fragments. one notable result of the controversy was that juliana furlong refused henceforth to attend her brother's church and sat, even at morning service, under the minister of st. osoph's. "the sermon was, i fear, a mistake," said mr. furlong senior; "perhaps you had better not dwell too much on such topics. we must look for aid in another direction. in fact, edward, i may mention to you in confidence that certain of your trustees are already devising ways and means that may help us out of our dilemma." indeed, although the reverend edward did not know it, a certain idea, or plan, was already germinating in the minds of the most influential supporters of st. asaph's. such was the situation of the rival churches of st. asaph and st. osoph as the autumn slowly faded into winter: during which time the elm trees on plutoria avenue shivered and dropped their leaves and the chauffeurs of the motors first turned blue in their faces and then, when the great snows came, were suddenly converted into liveried coachmen with tall bearskins and whiskers like russian horseguards, changing back again to blue-nosed chauffeurs the very moment of a thaw. during this time also the congregation of the reverend fareforth furlong was diminishing month by month, and that of the reverend uttermust dumfarthing was so numerous that they filled up the aisles at the back of the church. here the worshippers stood and froze, for the minister had abandoned the use of steam heat in st. osoph's on the ground that he could find no warrant for it. during the same period other momentous things were happening, such as that juliana furlong was reading, under the immediate guidance of dr. dumfarthing, the history of the progress of disruption in the churches of scotland in ten volumes; such also as that catherine dumfarthing was wearing a green and gold winter suit with russian furs and a balkan hat and a circassian feather, which cut a wide swath of destruction among the young men on plutoria avenue every afternoon as she passed. moreover by the strangest of coincidences she scarcely ever seemed to come along the snow-covered avenue without meeting the reverend edward--a fact which elicited new exclamations of surprise from them both every day: and by an equally strange coincidence they generally seemed, although coming in different directions, to be bound for the same place; towards which they wandered together with such slow steps and in such oblivion of the passers-by that even the children on the avenue knew by instinct whither they were wandering. it was noted also that the broken figure of dr. mcteague had reappeared upon the street, leaning heavily upon a stick and greeting those he met with such a meek and willing affability, as if in apology for his stroke of paralysis, that all who talked with him agreed that mcteague's mind was a wreck. "he stood and spoke to me about the children for at least a quarter of an hour," related one of his former parishioners, "asking after them by name, and whether they were going to school yet and a lot of questions like that. he never used to speak of such things. poor old mcteague, i'm afraid he is getting soft in the head." "i know," said the person addressed. "his mind is no good. he stopped me the other day to say how sorry he was to hear about my brother's illness. i could see from the way he spoke that his brain is getting feeble. he's losing his grip. he was speaking of how kind people had been to him after his accident and there were tears in his eyes. i think he's getting batty." nor were even these things the most momentous happenings of the period. for as winter slowly changed to early spring it became known that something of great portent was under way. it was rumoured that the trustees of st. asaph's church were putting their heads together. this was striking news. the last time that the head of mr. lucullus fyshe, for example, had been placed side by side with that of mr. newberry, there had resulted a merger of four soda-water companies, bringing what was called industrial peace over an area as big as texas and raising the price of soda by three peaceful cents per bottle. and the last time that mr. furlong senior's head had been laid side by side with those of mr. rasselyer-brown and mr. skinyer, they had practically saved the country from the horrors of a coal famine by the simple process of raising the price of nut coal seventy-five cents a ton and thus guaranteeing its abundance. naturally, therefore, when it became known that such redoubtable heads as those of the trustees and the underlying mortgagees of st. asaph's were being put together, it was fully expected that some important development would follow. it was not accurately known from which of the assembled heads first proceeded the great idea which was presently to solve the difficulties of the church. it may well have come from that of mr. lucullus fyshe. certainly a head which had brought peace out of civil war in the hardware business by amalgamating ten rival stores and had saved the very lives of five hundred employees by reducing their wages fourteen per cent, was capable of it. at any rate it was mr. fyshe who first gave the idea a definite utterance. "it's the only thing, furlong," he said, across the lunch table at the mausoleum club. "it's the one solution. the two churches can't live under the present conditions of competition. we have here practically the same situation as we had with two rum distilleries--the output is too large for the demand. one or both of the two concerns must go under. it's their turn just now, but these fellows are business men enough to know that it may be ours tomorrow. we'll offer them a business solution. we'll propose a merger." "i've been thinking of it," said mr. furlong senior, "i suppose it's feasible?" "feasible!" exclaimed mr. fyshe. "why look what's being done every day everywhere, from the standard oil company downwards." "you would hardly, i think," said mr. furlong, with a quiet smile, "compare the standard oil company to a church?" "well, no, i suppose not," said mr. fyshe, and he too smiled--in fact he almost laughed. the notion was too ridiculous. one could hardly compare a mere church to a thing of the magnitude and importance of the standard oil company. "but on a lesser scale," continued mr. fyshe, "it's the same sort of thing. as for the difficulties of it, i needn't remind you of the much greater difficulties we had to grapple with in the rum merger. there, you remember, a number of the women held out as a matter of principle. it was not mere business with them. church union is different. in fact it is one of the ideas of the day and everyone admits that what is needed is the application of the ordinary business principles of harmonious combination, with a proper--er--restriction of output and general economy of operation." "very good," said mr. furlong, "i'm sure if you're willing to try, the rest of us are." "all right," said mr. fyshe. "i thought of setting skinyer, of skinyer and beatem, to work on the form of the organization. as you know he is not only a deeply religious man but he has already handled the tin pot combination and the united hardware and the associated tanneries. he ought to find this quite simple." * * * * * within a day or two mr. skinyer had already commenced his labours. "i must first," he said, "get an accurate idea of the existing legal organization of the two churches." for which purpose he approached the rector of st. asaph's. "i just want to ask you, mr. furlong," said the lawyer, "a question or two as to the exact constitution, the form so to speak, of your church. what is it? is it a single corporate body?" "i suppose," said the rector thoughtfully, "one would define it as an indivisible spiritual unit manifesting itself on earth." "quite so," interrupted mr. skinyer, "but i don't mean what it is in the religious sense: i mean, in the real sense." "i fail to understand," said mr. furlong. "let me put it very clearly," said the lawyer. "where does it get its authority?" "from above." said the rector reverently. "precisely," said mr. skinyer, "no doubt, but i mean its authority in the exact sense of the term." "it was enjoined on st. peter," began the rector, but mr. skinyer interrupted him. "that i am aware of," he said, "but what i mean is--where does your church get its power, for example, to hold property, to collect debts, to use distraint against the property of others, to foreclose its mortgages and to cause judgement to be executed against those who fail to pay their debts to it? you will say at once that it has these powers direct from heaven. no doubt that is true and no religious person would deny it. but we lawyers are compelled to take a narrower, a less elevating point of view. are these powers conferred on you by the state legislature or by some higher authority?" "oh, by a higher authority, i hope," said the rector very fervently. whereupon mr. skinyer left him without further questioning, the rector's brain being evidently unfit for the subject of corporation law. on the other hand he got satisfaction from the rev. dr. dumfarthing at once. "the church of st. osoph," said the minister, "is a perpetual trust, holding property as such under a general law of the state and able as such to be made the object of suit or distraint. i speak with some assurance as i had occasion to enquire into the matter at the time when i was looking for guidance in regard to the call i had received to come here." * * * * * "it's a quite simple matter," mr. skinyer presently reported to mr. fyshe. "one of the churches is a perpetual trust, the other practically a state corporation. each has full control over its property provided nothing is done by either to infringe the purity of its doctrine." "just what does that mean?" asked mr. fyshe. "it must maintain its doctrine absolutely pure. otherwise if certain of its trustees remain pure and the rest do not, those who stay pure are entitled to take the whole of the property. this, i believe, happens every day in scotland where, of course, there is great eagerness to remain pure in doctrine." "and what do you define as _pure_ doctrine?" asked mr. fyshe. "if the trustees are in dispute," said mr. skinyer, "the courts decide, but any doctrine is held to be a pure doctrine if _all_ the trustees regard it as a pure doctrine." "i see," said mr. fyshe thoughtfully, "it's the same thing as what we called 'permissible policy' on the part of directors in the tin pot combination." "exactly," assented mr. skinyer, "and it means that for the merger we need nothing--i state it very frankly--except general consent." * * * * * the preliminary stages of the making of the merger followed along familiar business lines. the trustees of st. asaph's went through the process known as 'approaching' the trustees of st. osoph's. first of all, for example, mr. lucullus fyshe invited mr. asmodeus boulder of st. osoph's to lunch with him at the mausoleum club; the cost of the lunch, as is usual in such cases, was charged to the general expense account of the church. of course nothing whatever was said during the lunch about the churches or their finances or anything concerning them. such discussion would have been a gross business impropriety. a few days later the two brothers overend dined with mr. furlong senior, the dinner being charged directly to the contingencies account of st. asaph's. after which mr. skinyer and his partner, mr. beatem, went to the spring races together on the profit and loss account of st. osoph's, and philippa overend and catherine dumfarthing were taken (by the unforeseen disbursements account) to the grand opera, followed by a midnight supper. all of these things constituted what was called the promotion of the merger and were almost exactly identical with the successive stages of the making of the amalgamated distilleries and the associated tin pot corporation; which was considered a most hopeful sign. * * * * * "do you think they'll go into it?" asked mr. newberry of mr. furlong senior, anxiously. "after all, what inducement have they?" "every inducement," said mr. furlong. "all said and done they've only one large asset--dr. dumfarthing. we're really offering to buy up dr. dumfarthing by pooling our assets with theirs." "and what does dr. dumfarthing himself say to it?" "ah, there i am not so sure," said mr. furlong; "that may be a difficulty. so far there hasn't been a word from him, and his trustees are absolutely silent about his views. however, we shall soon know all about it. skinyer is asking us all to come together one evening next week to draw up the articles of agreement." "has he got the financial basis arranged then?" "i believe so," said mr. furlong. "his idea is to form a new corporation to be known as the united church limited or by some similar name. all the present mortgagees will be converted into unified bondholders, the pew rents will be capitalized into preferred stock and the common stock, drawing its dividend from the offertory, will be distributed among all members in standing. skinyer says that it is really an ideal form of church union, one that he thinks is likely to be widely adopted. it has the advantage of removing all questions of religion, which he says are practically the only remaining obstacle to a union of all the churches. in fact it puts the churches once and for all on a business basis." "but what about the question of doctrine, of belief?" asked mr. newberry. "skinyer says he can settle it," answered mr. furlong. * * * * * about a week after the above conversation the united trustees of st. asaph's and st. osoph's were gathered about a huge egg-shaped table in the board room of the mausoleum club. they were seated in intermingled fashion after the precedent of the recent tin pot amalgamation and were smoking huge black cigars specially kept by the club for the promotion of companies and chargeable to expenses of organization at fifty cents a cigar. there was an air of deep peace brooding over the assembly, as among men who have accomplished a difficult and meritorious task. "well, then," said mr. skinyer, who was in the chair, with a pile of documents in front of him, "i think that our general basis of financial union may be viewed as settled." a murmur of assent went round the meeting. "the terms are set forth in the memorandum before us, which you have already signed. only one other point--a minor one--remains to be considered. i refer to the doctrines or the religious belief of the new amalgamation." "is it necessary to go into that?" asked mr. boulder. "not entirely, perhaps," said mr. skinyer. "still there have been, as you all know, certain points--i won't say of disagreement--but let us say of friendly argument--between the members of the different churches--such things for example," here he consulted his papers, "as the theory of the creation, the salvation of the soul, and so forth, have been mentioned in this connection. i have a memorandum of them here, though the points escape me for the moment. these, you may say, are not matters of first importance, especially as compared with the intricate financial questions which we have already settled in a satisfactory manner. still i think it might be well if i were permitted with your unanimous approval to jot down a memorandum or two to be afterwards embodied in our articles." there was a general murmur of approval. "very good," said mr. skinyer, settling himself back in his chair. "now, first, in regard to the creation," here he looked all round the meeting in a way to command attention--"is it your wish that we should leave that merely to a gentlemen's agreement or do you want an explicit clause?" "i think it might be well," said mr. dick overend, "to leave no doubt about the theory of the creation." "good," said mr. skinyer. "i am going to put it down then something after this fashion: 'on and after, let us say, august st proximo, the process of the creation shall be held, and is hereby held, to be such and such only as is acceptable to a majority of the holders of common and preferred stock voting pro rata.' is that agreed?" "carried," cried several at once. "carried," repeated mr. skinyer. "now let us pass on"--here he consulted his notes--"to item two, eternal punishment. i have made a memorandum as follows, 'should any doubts arise, on or after august first proximo, as to the existence of eternal punishment they shall be settled absolutely and finally by a pro-rata vote of all the holders of common and preferred stock.' is that agreed?" "one moment!" said mr. fyshe, "do you think that quite fair to the bondholders? after all, as the virtual holders of the property, they are the persons most interested. i should like to amend your clause and make it read--i am not phrasing it exactly but merely giving the sense of it--that eternal punishment should be reserved for the mortgagees and bondholders." at this there was an outbreak of mingled approval and dissent, several persons speaking at once. in the opinion of some the stockholders of the company, especially the preferred stockholders, had as good a right to eternal punishment as the bondholders. presently mr. skinyer, who had been busily writing notes, held up his hand for silence. "gentlemen," he said, "will you accept this as a compromise? we will keep the original clause but merely add to it the words, 'but no form of eternal punishment shall be declared valid if displeasing to a three-fifths majority of the holders of bonds.'" "carried, carried," cried everybody. "to which i think we need only add," said mr. skinyer, "a clause to the effect that all other points of doctrine, belief or religious principle may be freely altered, amended, reversed or entirely abolished at any general annual meeting!" there was a renewed chorus of "carried, carried," and the trustees rose from the table shaking hands with one another, and lighting fresh cigars as they passed out of the club into the night air. "the only thing that i don't understand," said mr. newberry to dr. boomer as they went out from the club arm in arm (for they might now walk in that fashion with the same propriety as two of the principals in a distillery merger), "the only thing that i don't understand is why the reverend mr. dumfarthing should be willing to consent to the amalgamation." "do you really not know?" said dr. boomer. "no." "you have heard nothing?" "not a word," said mr. newberry. "ah," rejoined the president, "i see that our men have kept it very quiet--naturally so, in view of the circumstances. the truth is that the reverend mr. dumfarthing is leaving us." "leaving st. osoph's!" exclaimed mr. newberry in utter astonishment. "to our great regret. he has had a call--a most inviting field of work, he says, a splendid opportunity. they offered him ten thousand one hundred; we were only giving him ten thousand here, though of course that feature of the situation would not weigh at all with a man like dumfarthing." "oh no, of course not," said mr. newberry. "as soon as we heard of the call we offered him ten thousand three hundred--not that that would make any difference to a man of his character. indeed dumfarthing was still waiting and looking for guidance when they offered him eleven thousand. we couldn't meet it. it was beyond us, though we had the consolation of knowing that with such a man as dumfarthing the money made no difference." "and he has accepted the call?" "yes. he accepted it today. he sent word to mr. dick overend our chairman, that he would remain in his manse, looking for light, until two-thirty, after which, if we had not communicated with him by that hour, he would cease to look for it." "dear me," said mr. newberry, deep in reflection, "so that when your trustees came to the meeting--" "exactly," said dr. boomer--and something like a smile passed across his features for a moment "dr. dumfarthing had already sent away his telegram of acceptance." "why, then," said mr. newberry, "at the time of our discussion tonight, you were in the position of having no minister." "not at all. we had already appointed a successor." "a successor?" "certainly. it will be in tomorrow morning's papers. the fact is that we decided to ask dr. mcteague to resume his charge." "dr. mcteague!" repeated mr. newberry in amazement. "but surely his mind is understood to be--" "oh not at all," interrupted dr. boomer. "his mind appears if anything, to be clearer and stronger than ever. dr. slyder tells us that paralysis of the brain very frequently has this effect; it soothes the brain--clears it, as it were, so that very often intellectual problems which occasioned the greatest perplexity before present no difficulty whatever afterwards. dr. mcteague, i believe, finds no trouble now in reconciling st. paul's dialectic with hegel as he used to. he says that so far as he can see they both mean the same thing." "well, well," said mr. newberry, "and will dr. mcteague also resume his philosophical lectures at the university?" "we think it wiser not," said the president. "while we feel that dr. mcteague's mind is in admirable condition for clerical work we fear that professorial duties might strain it. in order to get the full value of his remarkable intelligence, we propose to elect him to the governing body of the university. there his brain will be safe from any shock. as a professor there would always be the fear that one of his students might raise a question in his class. this of course is not a difficulty that arises in the pulpit or among the governors of the university." "of course not," said mr. newberry. * * * * * thus was constituted the famous union or merger of the churches of st. asaph and st. osoph, viewed by many of those who made it as the beginning of a new era in the history of the modern church. there is no doubt that it has been in every way an eminent success. rivalry, competition, and controversies over points of dogma have become unknown on plutoria avenue. the parishioners of the two churches may now attend either of them just as they like. as the trustees are fond of explaining it doesn't make the slightest difference. the entire receipts of the churches, being now pooled, are divided without reference to individual attendance. at each half year there is issued a printed statement which is addressed to the shareholders of the united churches limited and is hardly to be distinguished in style or material from the annual and semi-annual reports of the tin pot amalgamation and the united hardware and other quasi-religious bodies of the sort. "your directors," the last of these documents states, "are happy to inform you that in spite of the prevailing industrial depression the gross receipts of the corporation have shown such an increase as to justify the distribution of a stock dividend of special offertory stock cumulative, which will be offered at par to all holders of common or preferred shares. you will also be gratified to learn that the directors have voted unanimously in favour of a special presentation to the rev. uttermust dumfarthing on the occasion of his approaching marriage. it was earnestly debated whether this gift should take the form, as at first suggested, of a cash presentation, or as afterwards suggested, of a written testimonial in the form of an address. the latter course was finally adopted as being more fitting to the circumstances and the address has accordingly been prepared, setting forth to the rev. dr. dumfarthing, in old english lettering and wording, the opinion which is held of him by his former parishioners." the "approaching marriage" referred of course to dr. dumfarthing's betrothal to juliana furlong. it was not known that he had ever exactly proposed to her. but it was understood that before giving up his charge he drew her attention, in very severe terms, to the fact that, as his daughter was now leaving him, he must either have someone else to look after his manse or else be compelled to incur the expense of a paid housekeeper. this latter alternative, he said, was not one that he cared to contemplate. he also reminded her that she was now at a time of life when she could hardly expect to pick and choose and that her spiritual condition was one of, at least, great uncertainty. these combined statements are held, under the law of scotland at any rate, to be equivalent to an offer of marriage. catherine dumfarthing did not join her father in his new manse. she first remained behind him, as the guest of philippa overend for a few weeks while she was occupied in packing up her things. after that she stayed for another two or three weeks to unpack them. this had been rendered necessary by a conversation held with the reverend edward fareforth furlong, in a shaded corner of the overend's garden. after which, in due course of time, catherine and edward were married, the ceremony being performed by the reverend dr. mcteague whose eyes filled with philosophical tears as he gave them his blessing. so the two churches of st. asaph and st. osoph stand side by side united and at peace. their bells call softly back and forward to one another on sunday mornings and such is the harmony between them that even the episcopal rooks in the elm trees of st. asaph's and the presbyterian crows in the spruce trees of st. osoph's are known to exchange perches on alternate sundays. chapter eight: the great fight for clean government "as to the government of this city," said mr. newberry, leaning back in a leather armchair at the mausoleum club and lighting a second cigar, "it's rotten, that's all." "absolutely rotten," assented mr. dick overend, ringing the bell for a second whiskey and soda. "corrupt," said mr. newberry, between two puffs of his cigar. "full of graft," said mr. overend, flicking his ashes into the grate. "crooked aldermen," said mr. newberry. "a bum city solicitor," said mr. overend, "and an infernal grafter for treasurer." "yes," assented mr. newberry, and then, leaning forwards in his chair and looking carefully about the corridors of the club, he spoke behind his hand and said, "and the mayor's the biggest grafter of the lot. and what's more," he added, sinking his voice to a whisper, "the time has come to speak out about it fearlessly." mr. overend nodded. "it's a tyranny," he said. "worse than russia," rejoined mr. newberry. * * * * * they had been sitting in a quiet corner of the club--it was on a sunday evening--and had fallen into talking, first of all, of the present rottenness of the federal politics of the united states--not argumentatively or with any heat, but with the reflective sadness that steals over an elderly man when he sits in the leather armchair of a comfortable club smoking a good cigar and musing on the decadence of the present day. the rottenness of the federal government didn't anger them. it merely grieved them. they could remember--both of them--how different everything was when they were young men just entering on life. when mr. newberry and mr. dick overend were young, men went into congress from pure patriotism; there was no such thing as graft or crookedness, as they both admitted, in those days; and as for the united states senate--here their voices were almost hushed in awe--why, when they were young, the united states senate-- but no, neither of them could find a phrase big enough for their meaning. they merely repeated "as for the united states senate--" and then shook their heads and took long drinks of whiskey and soda. then, naturally, speaking of the rottenness of the federal government had led them to talk of the rottenness of the state legislature. how different from the state legislatures that they remembered as young men! not merely different in the matter of graft, but different, so mr. newberry said, in the calibre of the men. he recalled how he had been taken as a boy of twelve by his father to hear a debate. he would never forget it. giants! he said, that was what they were. in fact, the thing was more like a witenagemot than a legislature. he said he distinctly recalled a man, whose name he didn't recollect, speaking on a question he didn't just remember what, either for or against he just couldn't recall which; it thrilled him. he would never forget it. it stayed in his memory as if it were yesterday. but as for the present legislature--here mr. dick overend sadly nodded assent in advance to what he knew was coming--as for the present legislature--well--mr. newberry had had, he said, occasion to visit the state capital a week before in connection with a railway bill that he was trying to--that is, that he was anxious to--in short in connection with a railway bill, and when he looked about him at the men in the legislature--positively he felt ashamed; he could put it no other way than that--ashamed. after which, from speaking of the crookedness of the state government mr. newberry and mr. dick overend were led to talk of the crookedness of the city government! and they both agreed, as above, that things were worse than in russia. what secretly irritated them both most was that they had lived and done business under this infernal corruption for thirty or forty years and hadn't noticed it. they had been too busy. the fact was that their conversation reflected not so much their own original ideas as a general wave of feeling that was passing over the whole community. there had come a moment--quite suddenly it seemed--when it occurred to everybody at the same time that the whole government of the city was rotten. the word is a strong one. but it is the one that was used. look at the aldermen, they said--rotten! look at the city solicitor, rotten! and as for the mayor himself--phew! the thing came like a wave. everybody felt it at once. people wondered how any sane, intelligent community could tolerate the presence of a set of corrupt scoundrels like the twenty aldermen of the city. their names, it was said, were simply a byword throughout the united states for rank criminal corruption. this was said so widely that everybody started hunting through the daily papers to try to find out who in blazes were aldermen, anyhow. twenty names are hard to remember, and as a matter of fact, at the moment when this wave of feeling struck the city, nobody knew or cared who were aldermen, anyway. to tell the truth, the aldermen had been much the same persons for about fifteen or twenty years. some were in the produce business, others were butchers, two were grocers, and all of them wore blue checkered waistcoats and red ties and got up at seven in the morning to attend the vegetable and other markets. nobody had ever really thought about them--that is to say, nobody on plutoria avenue. sometimes one saw a picture in the paper and wondered for a moment who the person was; but on looking more closely and noticing what was written under it, one said, "oh, i see, an alderman," and turned to something else. "whose funeral is that?" a man would sometimes ask on plutoria avenue. "oh just one of the city aldermen," a passerby would answer hurriedly. "oh i see, i beg your pardon, i thought it might be somebody important." at which both laughed. * * * * * it was not just clear how and where this movement of indignation had started. people said that it was part of a new wave of public morality that was sweeping over the entire united states. certainly it was being remarked in almost every section of the country. chicago newspapers were attributing its origin to the new vigour and the fresh ideals of the middle west. in boston it was said to be due to a revival of the grand old new england spirit. in philadelphia they called it the spirit of william penn. in the south it was said to be the reassertion of southern chivalry making itself felt against the greed and selfishness of the north, while in the north they recognized it at once as a protest against the sluggishness and ignorance of the south. in the west they spoke of it as a revolt against the spirit of the east and in the east they called it a reaction against the lawlessness of the west. but everywhere they hailed it as a new sign of the glorious unity of the country. if therefore mr. newberry and mr. overend were found to be discussing the corrupt state of their city they only shared in the national sentiments of the moment. in fact in the same city hundreds of other citizens, as disinterested as themselves, were waking up to the realization of what was going on. as soon as people began to look into the condition of things in the city they were horrified at what they found. it was discovered, for example, that alderman schwefeldampf was an undertaker! think of it! in a city with a hundred and fifty deaths a week, and sometimes even better, an undertaker sat on the council! a city that was about to expropriate land and to spend four hundred thousand dollars for a new cemetery, had an undertaker on the expropriation committee itself! and worse than that! alderman undercutt was a butcher! in a city that consumed a thousand tons of meat every week! and alderman o'hooligan--it leaked out--was an irishman! imagine it! an irishman sitting on the police committee of the council in a city where thirty-eight and a half out of every hundred policemen were irish, either by birth or parentage! the thing was monstrous. so when mr. newberry said "it's worse than russia!" he meant it, every word. * * * * * now just as mr. newberry and mr. dick overend were finishing their discussion, the huge bulky form of mayor mcgrath came ponderously past them as they sat. he looked at them sideways out of his eyes--he had eyes like plums in a mottled face--and, being a born politician, he knew by the very look of them that they were talking of something that they had no business to be talking about. but,--being a politician--he merely said, "good evening, gentlemen," without a sign of disturbance. "good evening, mr. mayor," said mr. newberry, rubbing his hands feebly together and speaking in an ingratiating tone. there is no more pitiable spectacle than an honest man caught in the act of speaking boldly and fearlessly of the evil-doer. "good evening, mr. mayor," echoed mr. dick overend, also rubbing his hands; "warm evening, is it not?" the mayor gave no other answer than that deep guttural grunt which is technically known in municipal interviews as refusing to commit oneself. "did he hear?" whispered mr. newberry as the mayor passed out of the club. "i don't care if he did," whispered mr. dick overend. half an hour later mayor mcgrath entered the premises of the thomas jefferson club, which was situated in the rear end of a saloon and pool room far down in the town. "boys," he said to alderman o'hooligan and alderman gorfinkel, who were playing freeze-out poker in a corner behind the pool tables, "you want to let the boys know to keep pretty dark and go easy. there's a lot of talk i don't like about the elections going round the town. let the boys know that just for a while the darker they keep the better." whereupon the word was passed from the thomas jefferson club to the george washington club and thence to the eureka club (coloured), and to the kossuth club (hungarian), and to various other centres of civic patriotism in the lower parts of the city. and forthwith such a darkness began to spread over them that not even honest diogenes with his lantern could have penetrated their doings. "if them stiffs wants to make trouble," said the president of the george washington club to mayor mcgrath a day or two later, "they won't never know what they've bumped up against." "well," said the heavy mayor, speaking slowly and cautiously and eyeing his henchman with quiet scrutiny, "you want to go pretty easy now, i tell you." the look which the mayor directed at his satellite was much the same glance that morgan the buccaneer might have given to one of his lieutenants before throwing him overboard. * * * * * meantime the wave of civic enthusiasm as reflected in the conversations of plutoria avenue grew stronger with every day. "the thing is a scandal," said mr. lucullus fyshe. "why, these fellows down at the city hall are simply a pack of rogues. i had occasion to do some business there the other day (it was connected with the assessment of our soda factories) and do you know, i actually found that these fellows take money!" "i say!" said mr. peter spillikins, to whom he spoke, "i say! you don't say!" "it's a fact," repeated mr. fyshe. "they take money. i took the assistant treasurer aside and i said, 'i want such and such done,' and i slipped a fifty dollar bill into his hand. and the fellow took it, took it like a shot." "he took it!" gasped mr. spillikins. "he did," said mr. fyshe. "there ought to be a criminal law for that sort of thing." "i say!" exclaimed mr. spillikins, "they ought to go to jail for a thing like that." "and the infernal insolence of them," mr. fyshe continued. "i went down the next day to see the deputy assistant (about a thing connected with the same matter), told him what i wanted and passed a fifty dollar bill across the counter and the fellow fairly threw it back at me, in a perfect rage. he refused it!" "refused it," gasped mr. spillikins, "i say!" conversations such as this filled up the leisure and divided the business time of all the best people in the city. in the general gloomy outlook, however, one bright spot was observable. the "wave" had evidently come just at the opportune moment. for not only were civic elections pending but just at this juncture four or five questions of supreme importance would be settled by the incoming council. there was, for instance, the question of the expropriation of the traction company (a matter involving many millions); there was the decision as to the renewal of the franchise of the citizens' light company--a vital question; there was also the four hundred thousand dollar purchase of land for the new addition to the cemetery, a matter that must be settled. and it was felt, especially on plutoria avenue, to be a splendid thing that the city was waking up, in the moral sense, at the very time when these things were under discussion. all the shareholders of the traction company and the citizens' light--and they included the very best, the most high-minded, people in the city--felt that what was needed now was a great moral effort, to enable them to lift the city up and carry it with them, or, if not all of it, at any rate as much of it as they could. "it's a splendid movement!" said mr. fyshe (he was a leading shareholder and director of the citizens' light), "what a splendid thing to think that we shan't have to deal for our new franchise with a set of corrupt rapscallions like these present aldermen. do you know, furlong, that when we approached them first with a proposition for a renewal for a hundred and fifty years they held us up! said it was too long! imagine that! a hundred and fifty years (only a century and a half) too long for the franchise! they expect us to install all our poles, string our wires, set up our transformers in their streets and then perhaps at the end of a hundred years find ourselves compelled to sell out at a beggarly valuation. of course we knew what they wanted. they meant us to hand them over fifty dollars each to stuff into their rascally pockets." "outrageous!" said mr. furlong. "and the same thing with the cemetery land deal," went on mr. lucullus fyshe. "do you realize that, if the movement hadn't come along and checked them, those scoundrels would have given that rogue schwefeldampf four hundred thousand dollars for his fifty acres! just think of it!" "i don't know," said mr. furlong with a thoughtful look upon his face, "that four hundred thousand dollars is an excessive price, in and of itself, for that amount of land." "certainly not," said mr. fyshe, very quietly and decidedly, looking at mr. furlong in a searching way as he spoke. "it is _not_ a high price. it seems to me, speaking purely as an outsider, a very fair, reasonable price for fifty acres of suburban land, if it were the right land. if, for example, it were a case of making an offer for that very fine stretch of land, about twenty acres, is it not, which i believe your corporation owns on the _other_ side of the cemetery, i should say four hundred thousand is a most modest price." mr. furlong nodded his head reflectively. "you had thought, had you not, of offering it to the city?" said mr. fyshe. "we did," said mr. furlong, "at a more or less nominal sum--four hundred thousand or whatever it might be. we felt that for such a purpose, almost sacred as it were, one would want as little bargaining as possible." "oh, none at all," assented mr. fyshe. "our feeling was," went on mr. furlong, "that if the city wanted our land for the cemetery extension, it might have it at its own figure--four hundred thousand, half a million, in fact at absolutely any price, from four hundred thousand up, that they cared to put on it. we didn't regard it as a commercial transaction at all. our reward lay merely in the fact of selling it to them." "exactly," said mr. fyshe, "and of course your land was more desirable from every point of view. schwefeldampf's ground is encumbered with a growth of cypress and evergreens and weeping willows which make it quite unsuitable for an up-to-date cemetery; whereas yours, as i remember it, is bright and open--a loose sandy soil with no trees and very little grass to overcome." "yes," said mr. furlong. "we thought, too, that our ground, having the tanneries and the chemical factory along the farther side of it, was an ideal place for--" he paused, seeking a mode of expressing his thought. "for the dead," said mr. fyshe, with becoming reverence. and after this conversation mr. fyshe and mr. furlong senior understood one another absolutely in regard to the new movement. it was astonishing in fact how rapidly the light spread. "is rasselyer-brown with us?" asked someone of mr. fyshe a few days later. "heart and soul," answered mr. fyshe. "he's very bitter over the way these rascals have been plundering the city on its coal supply. he says that the city has been buying coal wholesale at the pit mouth at three fifty--utterly worthless stuff, he tells me. he has heard it said that everyone of these scoundrels has been paid from twenty-five to fifty dollars a winter to connive at it." "dear me," said the listener. "abominable, is it not?" said mr. fyshe. "but as i said to rasselyer-brown, what can one do if the citizens themselves take no interest in these things. 'take your own case,' i said to him, 'how is it that you, a coal man, are not helping the city in this matter? why don't you supply the city?' he shook his head, 'i wouldn't do it at three-fifty,' he said. 'no,' i answered, 'but will you at five?' he looked at me for a moment and then he said, 'fyshe, i'll do it; at five, or at anything over that they like to name. if we get a new council in they may name their own figure.' 'good,' i said. 'i hope all the other businessmen will be animated with the same spirit.'" * * * * * thus it was that the light broke and spread and illuminated in all directions. people began to realize the needs of the city as they never had before. mr. boulder, who owned, among other things, a stone quarry and an asphalt company, felt that the paving of the streets was a disgrace. mr. skinyer, of skinyer and beatem, shook his head and said that the whole legal department of the city needed reorganization; it needed, he said, new blood. but he added always in a despairing tone, how could one expect to run a department with the head of it drawing only six thousand dollars; the thing was impossible. if, he argued, they could superannuate the present chief solicitor and get a man, a _good_ man (mr. skinyer laid emphasis on this) at, say, fifteen thousand there might be some hope. "of course," said mr. skinyer to mr. newberry in discussing the topic, "one would need to give him a proper staff of assistants so as to take off his hands all the _routine_ work--the mere appearance in court, the preparation of briefs, the office consultation, the tax revision and the purely legal work. in that case he would have his hands free to devote himself entirely to those things, which--in fact to turn his attention in whatever direction he might feel it was advisable to turn it." * * * * * within a week or two the public movement had found definite expression and embodied itself in the clean government association. this was organized by a group of leading and disinterested citizens who held their first meeting in the largest upstairs room of the mausoleum club. mr. lucullus fyshe, mr. boulder, and others keenly interested in obtaining simply justice for the stockholders of the traction and the citizens' light were prominent from the start. mr. rasselyer-brown, mr. furlong senior and others were there, not from special interest in the light or traction questions, but, as they said themselves, from pure civic spirit. dr. boomer was there to represent the university with three of his most presentable professors, cultivated men who were able to sit in a first-class club and drink whiskey and soda and talk as well as any businessman present. mr. skinyer, mr. beatem and others represented the bar. dr. mcteague, blinking in the blue tobacco smoke, was there to stand for the church. there were all-round enthusiasts as well, such as mr. newberry and the overend brothers and mr. peter spillikins. "isn't it fine," whispered mr. spillikins to mr. newberry, "to see a set of men like these all going into a thing like this, not thinking of their own interests a bit?" * * * * * mr. fyshe, as chairman, addressed the meeting. he told them they were there to initiate a great free voluntary movement of the people. it had been thought wise, he said, to hold it with closed doors and to keep it out of the newspapers. this would guarantee the league against the old underhand control by a clique that had hitherto disgraced every part of the administration of the city. he wanted, he said, to see everything done henceforth in broad daylight: and for this purpose he had summoned them there at night to discuss ways and means of action. after they were once fully assured of exactly what they wanted to do and how they meant to do it, the league he said, would invite the fullest and freest advice from all classes in the city. there were none he said, amid great applause, that were so lowly that they would not be invited--once the platform of the league was settled--to advise and co-operate. all might help, even the poorest. subscription lists would be prepared which would allow any sum at all, from one to five dollars, to be given to the treasurer. the league was to be democratic or nothing. the poorest might contribute as little as one dollar: even the richest would not be allowed to give more than five. moreover he gave notice that he intended to propose that no actual official of the league should be allowed under its by-laws to give anything. he himself--if they did him the honour to make him president as he had heard it hinted was their intention--would be the first to bow to this rule. he would efface himself. he would obliterate himself, content in the interests of all, to give nothing. he was able to announce similar pledges from his friends, mr. boulder, mr. furlong, dr. boomer, and a number of others. quite a storm of applause greeted these remarks by mr. fyshe, who flushed with pride as he heard it. "now, gentlemen," he went on, "this meeting is open for discussion. remember it is quite informal, anyone may speak. i as chairman make no claim to control or monopolize the discussion. let everyone understand--" "well then, mr. chairman," began mr. dick overend. "one minute, mr. overend," said mr. fyshe. "i want everyone to understand that he may speak as--" "may i say then--" began mr. newberry. "pardon me, mr. newberry," said mr. fyshe, "i was wishing first to explain that not only may _all_ participate but that we _invite_--" "in that case--" began mr. newberry. "before you speak," interrupted mr. fyshe, "let me add one word. we must make our discussion as brief and to the point as possible. i have a great number of things which i wish to say to the meeting and it might be well if all of you would speak as briefly and as little as possible. has anybody anything to say?" "well," said mr. newberry, "what about organization and officers?" "we have thought of it," said mr. fyshe. "we were anxious above all things to avoid the objectionable and corrupt methods of a 'slate' and a prepared list of officers which has disgraced every part of our city politics until the present time. mr. boulder, mr. furlong and mr. skinyer and myself have therefore prepared a short list of offices and officers which we wish to submit to your fullest, freest consideration. it runs thus: hon. president mr. l. fyshe, hon. vice-president, mr. a. boulder, hon. secretary mr. furlong, hon. treasurer mr. o. skinyer, et cetera--i needn't read it all. you'll see it posted in the hall later. is that carried? carried! very good," said mr. fyshe. there was a moment's pause while mr. furlong and mr. skinyer moved into seats beside mr. fyshe and while mr. furlong drew from his pocket and arranged the bundle of minutes of the meeting which he had brought with him. as he himself said he was too neat and methodical a writer to trust to jotting them down on the spot. "don't you think," said mr. newberry, "i speak as a practical man, that we ought to do something to get the newspapers with us?" "most important," assented several members. "what do you think, dr. boomer?" asked mr. fyshe of the university president, "will the newspapers be with us?" dr. boomer shook his head doubtfully. "it's an important matter," he said. "there is no doubt that we need, more than anything, the support of a clean, wholesome unbiassed press that can't be bribed and is not subject to money influence. i think on the whole our best plan would be to buy up one of the city newspapers." "might it not be better simply to buy up the editorial staff?" said mr. dick overend. "we might do that," admitted dr. boomer. "there is no doubt that the corruption of the press is one of the worst factors that we have to oppose. but whether we can best fight it by buying the paper itself or buying the staff is hard to say." "suppose we leave it to a committee with full power to act," said mr. fyshe. "let us direct them to take whatever steps may in their opinion be best calculated to elevate the tone of the press, the treasurer being authorized to second them in every way. i for one am heartily sick of old underhand connection between city politics and the city papers. if we can do anything to alter and elevate it, it will be a fine work, gentlemen, well worth whatever it costs us." * * * * * thus after an hour or two of such discussion the clean government league found itself organized and equipped with a treasury and a programme and a platform. the latter was very simple. as mr. fyshe and mr. boulder said there was no need to drag in specific questions or try to define the action to be taken towards this or that particular detail, such as the hundred-and-fifty-year franchise, beforehand. the platform was simply expressed as honesty, purity, integrity. this, as mr. fyshe said, made a straight, flat, clean issue between the league and all who opposed it. this first meeting was, of course, confidential. but all that it did was presently done over again, with wonderful freshness and spontaneity at a large public meeting open to all citizens. there was a splendid impromptu air about everything. for instance when somebody away back in the hall said, "i move that mr. lucullus fyshe be president of the league," mr. fyshe lifted his hand in unavailing protest as if this were the newest idea he had ever heard in his life. after all of which the clean government league set itself to fight the cohorts of darkness. it was not just known where these were. but it was understood that they were there all right, somewhere. in the platform speeches of the epoch they figured as working underground, working in the dark, working behind the scenes, and so forth. but the strange thing was that nobody could state with any exactitude just who or what it was that the league was fighting. it stood for "honesty, purity, and integrity." that was all you could say about it. take, for example, the case of the press. at the inception of the league it has been supposed that such was the venality and corruption of the city newspapers that it would be necessary to buy one of them. but the word "clean government" had been no sooner uttered than it turned out that every one of the papers in the city was in favour of it: in fact had been working for it for years. they vied with one another now in giving publicity to the idea. the _plutorian times_ printed a dotted coupon on the corner of its front sheet with the words, "are you in favour of clean government? if so, send us ten cents with this coupon and your name and address." the _plutorian citizen and home advocate_, went even further. it printed a coupon which said, "are you out for a clean city? if so send us twenty-five cents to this office. we pledge ourselves to use it." the newspapers did more than this. they printed from day to day such pictures as the portrait of mr. fyshe with the legend below, "mr. lucullus fyshe, who says that government ought to be by the people, from the people, for the people and to the people"; and the next day another labelled. "mr. p. spillikins, who says that all men are born free and equal"; and the next day a picture with the words, "tract of ground offered for cemetery by mr. furlong, showing rear of tanneries, with head of mr. furlong inserted." it was, of course, plain enough that certain of the aldermen of the old council were to be reckoned as part of the cohort of darkness. that at least was clear. "we want no more men in control of the stamp of alderman gorfinkel and alderman schwefeldampf," so said practically every paper in the city. "the public sense revolts at these men. they are vultures who have feasted too long on the prostrate corpses of our citizens." and so on. the only trouble was to discover who or what had ever supported alderman gorfinkel and alderman schwefeldampf. the very organizations that might have seemed to be behind them were evidently more eager for clean government than the league itself. "the thomas jefferson club out for clean government," so ran the newspaper headings of one day; and of the next, "will help to clean up city government. eureka club (coloured) endorses the league; is done with darkness"; and the day after that, "sons of hungary share in good work: kossuth club will vote with the league." so strong, indeed, was the feeling against the iniquitous aldermen that the public demand arose to be done with a council of aldermen altogether and to substitute government by a board. the newspapers contained editorials on the topic each day and it was understood that one of the first efforts of the league would be directed towards getting the necessary sanction of the legislature in this direction. to help to enlighten the public on what such government meant professor proaser of the university (he was one of the three already referred to) gave a public lecture on the growth of council government. he traced it from the amphictionic council of greece as far down as the oligarchical council of venice; it was thought that had the evening been longer he would have traced it clean down to modern times. but most amazing of all was the announcement that was presently made, and endorsed by mr. lucullus fyshe in an interview, that mayor mcgrath himself would favour clean government, and would become the official nominee of the league itself. this certainly was strange. but it would perhaps have been less mystifying to the public at large, had they been able to listen to certain of the intimate conversations of mr. fyshe and mr. boulder. "you say then," said mr. boulder, "to let mcgrath's name stand." "we can't do without him," said mr. fyshe, "he has seven of the wards in the hollow of his hand. if we take his offer he absolutely pledges us every one of them." "can you rely on his word?" said mr. boulder. "i think he means to play fair with us," answered mr. fyshe. "i put it to him as a matter of honour, between man and man, a week ago. since then, i have had him carefully dictaphoned and i'm convinced he's playing straight." "how far will he go with us?" said mr. boulder. "he is willing to throw overboard gorfinkel, schwefeldampf and undercutt. he says he must find a place for o'hooligan. the irish, he says, don't care for clean government; they want irish government." "i see," said mr. boulder very thoughtfully, "and in regard to the renewal of the franchise and the expropriation, tell me just exactly what his conditions are." but mr. fyshe's answer to this was said so discreetly and in such a low voice, that not even the birds listening in the elm trees outside the mausoleum club could hear it. no wonder, then, that if even the birds failed to know everything about the clean government league, there were many things which such good people as mr. newberry and mr. peter spillikins never heard at all and never guessed. * * * * * each week and every day brought fresh triumphs to the onward march of the movement. "yes, gentlemen," said mr. fyshe to the assembled committee of the clean government league a few days later, "i am glad to be able to report our first victory. mr. boulder and i have visited the state capital and we are able to tell you definitely that the legislature will consent to change our form of government so as to replace our council by a board." "hear, hear!" cried all the committee men together. "we saw the governor," said mr. fyshe. "indeed he was good enough to lunch with us at the pocahontas club. he tells us that what we are doing is being done in every city and town of the state. he says that the days of the old-fashioned city council are numbered. they are setting up boards everywhere." "excellent!" said mr. newberry. "the governor assures us that what we want will be done. the chairman of the democratic state committee (he was good enough to dine with us at the buchanan club) has given us the same assurance. so also does the chairman of the republican state committee, who was kind enough to be our guest in a box at the lincoln theatre. it is most gratifying," concluded mr. fyshe, "to feel that the legislature will give us such a hearty, such a thoroughly american support." "you are sure of this, are you?" questioned mr. newberry. "you have actually seen the members of the legislature?" "it was not necessary," said mr. fyshe. "the governor and the different chairmen have them so well fixed--that is to say, they have such confidence in the governor and their political organizers that they will all be prepared to give us what i have described as thoroughly american support." "you are quite sure," persisted mr. newberry, "about the governor and the others you mentioned?" mr. fyshe paused a moment and then he said very quietly, "we are quite sure," and he exchanged a look with mr. boulder that meant volumes to those who would read it. * * * * * "i hope you didn't mind my questioning you in that fashion," said mr. newberry, as he and mr. fyshe strolled home from the club. "the truth is i didn't feel sure in my own mind just what was meant by a 'board,' and 'getting them to give us government by a board.' i know i'm speaking like an ignoramus. i've really not paid as much attention in the past to civic politics as i ought to have. but what is the difference between a council and a board?" "the difference between a council and a board?" repeated mr. fyshe. "yes," said mr. newberry, "the difference between a council and a board." "or call it," said mr. fyshe reflectively, "the difference between a board and a council." "precisely," said mr newberry. "it's not altogether easy to explain," said mr. fyshe. "one chief difference is that in the case of a board, sometimes called a commission, the salary is higher. you see the salary of an alderman or councillor in most cities is generally not more than fifteen hundred or two thousand dollars. the salary of a member of a board or commission is at least ten thousand. that gives you at once a very different class of men. as long as you only pay fifteen hundred you get your council filled up with men who will do any kind of crooked work for fifteen hundred dollars; as soon as you pay ten thousand you get men with larger ideas." "i see," said mr. newberry. "if you have a fifteen hundred dollar man," mr. fyshe went on, "you can bribe him at any time with a fifty-dollar bill. on the other hand your ten-thousand-dollar man has a wider outlook. if you offer him fifty dollars for his vote on the board, he'd probably laugh at you." "ah, yes," said mr. newberry, "i see the idea. a fifteen-hundred-dollar salary is so low that it will tempt a lot of men into office merely for what they can get out of it." "that's it exactly," answered mr. fyshe. * * * * * from all sides support came to the new league. the women of the city--there were fifty thousand of them on the municipal voters list--were not behind the men. though not officials of the league they rallied to its cause. "mr. fyshe," said mrs. buncomhearst, who called at the office of the president of the league with offers of support, "tell me what we can do. i represent fifty thousand women voters of this city--" (this was a favourite phrase of mrs. buncomhearst's, though it had never been made quite clear how or why she represented them.) "we want to help, we women. you know we've any amount of initiative, if you'll only tell us what to do. you know, mr. fyshe, we've just as good executive ability as you men, if you'll just tell us what to do. couldn't we hold a meeting of our own, all our own, to help the league along?" "an excellent idea," said mr. fyshe. "and could you not get three or four men to come and address it so as to stir us up?" asked mrs. buncomhearst anxiously. "oh, certainly," said mr. fyshe. so it was known after this that the women were working side by side with the men. the tea rooms of the grand palaver and the other hotels were filled with them every day, busy for the cause. one of them even invented a perfectly charming election scarf to be worn as a sort of badge to show one's allegiance; and its great merit was that it was so fashioned that it would go with anything. "yes," said mr. fyshe to his committee, "one of the finest signs of our movement is that the women of the city are with us. whatever we may think, gentlemen, of the question of woman's rights in general--and i think we know what we _do_ think--there is no doubt that the influence of women makes for purity in civic politics. i am glad to inform the committee that mrs. buncomhearst and her friends have organized all the working women of the city who have votes. they tell me that they have been able to do this at a cost as low as five dollars per woman. some of the women--foreigners of the lower classes whose sense of political morality is as yet imperfectly developed--have been organized at a cost as low as one dollar per vote. but of course with our native american women, with a higher standard of education and morality, we can hardly expect to do it as low as that." * * * * * nor were the women the only element of support added to the league. "gentlemen," reported dr. boomer, the president of the university, at the next committee meeting, "i am glad to say that the spirit which animates us has spread to the students of the university. they have organized, entirely by themselves and on their own account, a students' fair play league which has commenced its activities. i understand that they have already ducked alderman gorfinkel in a pond near the university. i believe they are looking for alderman schwefeldampf tonight. i understand they propose to throw him into the reservoir. the leaders of them--a splendid set of young fellows--have given me a pledge that they will do nothing to bring discredit on the university." "i think i heard them on the street last night," said mr. newberry. "i believe they had a procession," said the president. "yes, i heard them; they were shouting 'rah! rah! rah! clean government! clean government! rah! rah!' it was really inspiring to hear them." "yes," said the president, "they are banded together to put down all the hoodlumism and disturbance on the street that has hitherto disgraced our municipal elections. last night, as a demonstration, they upset two streetcars and a milk wagon." "i heard that two of them were arrested," said mr. dick overend. "only by an error," said the president. "there was a mistake. it was not known that they were students. the two who were arrested were smashing the windows of the car, after it was upset, with their hockey sticks. a squad of police mistook them for rioters. as soon as they were taken to the police station, the mistake was cleared up at once. the chief-of-police telephoned an apology to the university. i believe the league is out again tonight looking for alderman schwefeldampf. but the leaders assure me there will be no breach of the peace whatever. as i say, i think their idea is to throw him into the reservoir." in the face of such efforts as these, opposition itself melted rapidly away. the _plutorian times_ was soon able to announce that various undesirable candidates were abandoning the field. "alderman gorfinkel," it said, "who, it will be recalled, was thrown into a pond last week by the students of the college, was still confined to his bed when interviewed by our representative. mr. gorfinkel stated that he should not offer himself as a candidate in the approaching election. he was, he said, weary of civic honours. he had had enough. he felt it incumbent on him to step out and make way for others who deserved their turn as well as himself: in future he proposed to confine his whole attention to his misfit semi-ready establishment which he was happy to state was offering as nobby a line of early fall suiting as was ever seen at the price." * * * * * there is no need to recount here in detail the glorious triumph of the election day itself. it will always be remembered as the purest, cleanest election ever held in the precincts of the city. the citizens' organization turned out in overwhelming force to guarantee that it should be so. bands of dr. boomer's students, armed with baseball bats, surrounded the polls to guarantee fair play. any man wishing to cast an unclean vote was driven from the booth: all those attempting to introduce any element of brute force or rowdyism into the election were cracked over the head. in the lower part of the town scores of willing workers, recruited often from the humblest classes, kept order with pickaxes. in every part of the city motor cars, supplied by all the leading businessmen, lawyers, and doctors of the city, acted as patrols to see that no unfair use should be made of other vehicles in carrying voters to the polls. it was a foregone victory from the first--overwhelming and complete. the cohorts of darkness were so completely routed that it was practically impossible to find them. as it fell dusk the streets were filled with roaring and surging crowds celebrating the great victory for clean government, while in front of every newspaper office huge lantern pictures of _mayor mcgrath the champion of pure government_, and _o. skinyer, the people's solicitor_, and the other nominees of the league, called forth cheer after cheer of frenzied enthusiasm. * * * * * they held that night in celebration a great reception at the mausoleum club on plutoria avenue, given at its own suggestion by the city. the city, indeed, insisted on it. nor was there ever witnessed even in that home of art and refinement a scene of greater charm. in the spacious corridor of the club a hungarian band wafted viennese music from tyrolese flutes through the rubber trees. there was champagne bubbling at a score of sideboards where noiseless waiters poured it into goblets as broad and flat as floating water-lily leaves. and through it all moved the shepherds and shepherdesses of that beautiful arcadia--the shepherds in their tuxedo jackets, with vast white shirt-fronts broad as the map of africa, with spotless white waistcoats girdling their equators, wearing heavy gold watch-chains and little patent shoes blacker than sin itself--and the shepherdesses in foaming billows of silks of every colour of the kaleidoscope, their hair bound with glittering headbands or coiled with white feathers, the very symbol of municipal purity. one would search in vain the pages of pastoral literature to find the equal of it. and as they talked, the good news spread from group to group that it was already known that the new franchise of the citizens' light was to be made for two centuries so as to give the company a fair chance to see what it could do. at the word of it, the grave faces of manly bondholders flushed with pride, and the soft eyes of listening shareholders laughed back in joy. for they had no doubt or fear, now that clean government had come. they knew what the company could do. thus all night long, outside of the club, the soft note of the motor horns arriving and departing wakened the sleeping leaves of the elm trees with their message of good tidings. and all night long, within its lighted corridors, the bubbling champagne whispered to the listening rubber trees of the new salvation of the city. so the night waxed and waned till the slow day broke, dimming with its cheap prosaic glare the shaded beauty of the artificial light, and the people of the city--the best of them--drove home to their well-earned sleep; and the others--in the lower parts of the city--rose to their daily toil. end the way we live now. by anthony trollope. contents i. three editors. ii. the carbury family. iii. the beargarden. iv. madame melmotte's ball. v. after the ball. vi. roger carbury and paul montague. vii. mentor. viii. love-sick. ix. the great railway to vera cruz. x. mr. fisker's success. xi. lady carbury at home. xii. sir felix in his mother's house. xiii. the longestaffes. xiv. carbury manor. xv. "you should remember that i am his mother." xvi. the bishop and the priest. xvii. marie melmotte hears a love tale. xviii. ruby ruggles hears a love tale. xix. hetta carbury hears a love tale. xx. lady pomona's dinner party. xxi. everybody goes to them. xxii. lord nidderdale's morality. xxiii. "yes;--i'm a baronet." xxiv. miles grendall's triumph. xxv. in grosvenor square. xxvi. mrs. hurtle. xxvii. mrs. hurtle goes to the play. xxviii. dolly longestaffe goes into the city. xxix. miss melmotte's courage. xxx. mr. melmotte's promise. xxxi. mr. broune has made up his mind. xxxii. lady monogram. xxxiii. john crumb. xxxiv. ruby ruggles obeys her grandfather. xxxv. melmotte's glory. xxxvi. mr. broune's perils. xxxvii. the board-room. xxxviii. paul montague's troubles. xxxix. "i do love him." xl. "unanimity is the very soul of these things." xli. all prepared. xlii. "can you be ready in ten minutes?" xliii. the city road. xliv. the coming election. xlv. mr. melmotte is pressed for time. xlvi. roger carbury and his two friends. xlvii. mrs. hurtle at lowestoft. xlviii. ruby a prisoner. xlix. sir felix makes himself ready. l. the journey to liverpool. li. which shall it be? lii. the results of love and wine. liii. a day in the city. liv. the india office. lv. clerical charities. lvi. father barham visits london. lvii. lord nidderdale tries his hand again. lviii. mr. squercum is employed. lix. the dinner. lx. miss longestaffe's lover. lxi. lady monogram prepares for the party. lxii. the party. lxiii. mr. melmotte on the day of the election. lxiv. the election. lxv. miss longestaffe writes home. lxvi. "so shall be my enmity." lxvii. sir felix protects his sister. lxviii. miss melmotte declares her purpose. lxix. melmotte in parliament. lxx. sir felix meddles with many matters. lxxi. john crumb falls into trouble. lxxii. "ask himself." lxxiii. marie's fortune. lxxiv. melmotte makes a friend. lxxv. in bruton street. lxxvi. hetta and her lover. lxxvii. another scene in bruton street. lxxviii. miss longestaffe again at caversham. lxxix. the brehgert correspondence. lxxx. ruby prepares for service. lxxxi. mr. cohenlupe leaves london. lxxxii. marie's perseverance. lxxxiii. melmotte again at the house. lxxxiv. paul montague's vindication. lxxxv. breakfast in berkeley square. lxxxvi. the meeting in bruton street. lxxxvii. down at carbury. lxxxviii. the inquest. lxxxix. "the wheel of fortune." xc. hetta's sorrow. xci. the rivals. xcii. hamilton k. fisker again. xciii. a true lover. xciv. john crumb's victory. xcv. the longestaffe marriages. xcvi. where "the wild asses quench their thirst." xcvii. mrs. hurtle's fate. xcviii. marie melmotte's fate. xcix. lady carbury and mr. broune. c. down in suffolk. illustrations "just so, mother;--but how about the chapter iii. twenty pounds?" the duchess followed with the male victim. chapter iv. "there's the £ ." chapter vii. then mr. fisker began his account. chapter ix. then the squire led the way out of the chapter xiii. room, and dolly followed. "you should remember that i am his mother." chapter xv. the bishop thinks that the priest's analogy chapter xvi. is not correct. "you know why i have come down here?" chapter xvii. she marched majestically out of the room. chapter xxi. "in the meantime what is your own property?" chapter xxiii. "i have come across the atlantic to see you." chapter xxvi. "get to your room." chapter xxix. sir damask solving the difficulty. chapter xxxii. "i loiks to see her loik o' that." chapter xxxiii. the board-room. chapter xxxvii. lady carbury allowed herself to be kissed. chapter xxxix. "it's no good scolding." chapter xli. "i don't care about any man's coat." chapter xliii. the sands at lowestoft. chapter xlvi. "you, i think, are miss melmotte." chapter l. the door was opened for him by ruby. chapter li. "can i marry the man i do not love?" chapter lii. father barham. chapter lvi. mr. squercum in his office. chapter lviii. "have you heard what's up, ju?" chapter lxi. mr. melmotte speculates. chapter lxii. "not a bottle of champagne in the house." chapter lxix. melmotte in parliament. chapter lxix. "get up, you wiper." chapter lxxi. "i might as well see whether there is any chapter lxxv. sign of violence having been used." "you had better go back to mrs. hurtle." chapter lxxvi. "ah, ma'am-moiselle," said croll, "you chapter lxxvii. should oblige your fader." "he thought i had better bring these chapter lxxxii. back to you." "what difference does that make?" chapter lxxxv. "she's a coomin; she's a coomin." chapter lxxxvii. "of course you have been a dragon of virtue." chapter lxxxix. "sit down so that i may look at you." chapter xci. the happy bridegroom. chapter xciv. mrs. hurtle at the window. chapter xcvii. "there goes the last of my anger." chapter c. chapter i. three editors. let the reader be introduced to lady carbury, upon whose character and doings much will depend of whatever interest these pages may have, as she sits at her writing-table in her own room in her own house in welbeck street. lady carbury spent many hours at her desk, and wrote many letters,--wrote also very much beside letters. she spoke of herself in these days as a woman devoted to literature, always spelling the word with a big l. something of the nature of her devotion may be learned by the perusal of three letters which on this morning she had written with a quickly running hand. lady carbury was rapid in everything, and in nothing more rapid than in the writing of letters. here is letter no. ;-- thursday, welbeck street. dear friend,-- i have taken care that you shall have the early sheets of my two new volumes to-morrow, or saturday at latest, so that you may, if so minded, give a poor struggler like myself a lift in your next week's paper. do give a poor struggler a lift. you and i have so much in common, and i have ventured to flatter myself that we are really friends! i do not flatter you when i say, that not only would aid from you help me more than from any other quarter, but also that praise from you would gratify my vanity more than any other praise. i almost think you will like my "criminal queens." the sketch of semiramis is at any rate spirited, though i had to twist it about a little to bring her in guilty. cleopatra, of course, i have taken from shakespeare. what a wench she was! i could not quite make julia a queen; but it was impossible to pass over so piquant a character. you will recognise in the two or three ladies of the empire how faithfully i have studied my gibbon. poor dear old belisarius! i have done the best i could with joanna, but i could not bring myself to care for her. in our days she would simply have gone to broadmore. i hope you will not think that i have been too strong in my delineations of henry viii. and his sinful but unfortunate howard. i don't care a bit about anne boleyne. i am afraid that i have been tempted into too great length about the italian catherine; but in truth she has been my favourite. what a woman! what a devil! pity that a second dante could not have constructed for her a special hell. how one traces the effect of her training in the life of our scotch mary. i trust you will go with me in my view as to the queen of scots. guilty! guilty always! adultery, murder, treason, and all the rest of it. but recommended to mercy because she was royal. a queen bred, born and married, and with such other queens around her, how could she have escaped to be guilty? marie antoinette i have not quite acquitted. it would be uninteresting;--perhaps untrue. i have accused her lovingly, and have kissed when i scourged. i trust the british public will not be angry because i do not whitewash caroline, especially as i go along with them altogether in abusing her husband. but i must not take up your time by sending you another book, though it gratifies me to think that i am writing what none but yourself will read. do it yourself, like a dear man, and, as you are great, be merciful. or rather, as you are a friend, be loving. yours gratefully and faithfully, matilda carbury. after all how few women there are who can raise themselves above the quagmire of what we call love, and make themselves anything but playthings for men. of almost all these royal and luxurious sinners it was the chief sin that in some phase of their lives they consented to be playthings without being wives. i have striven so hard to be proper; but when girls read everything, why should not an old woman write anything? this letter was addressed to nicholas broune, esq., the editor of the "morning breakfast table," a daily newspaper of high character; and, as it was the longest, so was it considered to be the most important of the three. mr. broune was a man powerful in his profession,--and he was fond of ladies. lady carbury in her letter had called herself an old woman, but she was satisfied to do so by a conviction that no one else regarded her in that light. her age shall be no secret to the reader, though to her most intimate friends, even to mr. broune, it had never been divulged. she was forty-three, but carried her years so well, and had received such gifts from nature, that it was impossible to deny that she was still a beautiful woman. and she used her beauty not only to increase her influence,--as is natural to women who are well-favoured,--but also with a well-considered calculation that she could obtain material assistance in the procuring of bread and cheese, which was very necessary to her, by a prudent adaptation to her purposes of the good things with which providence had endowed her. she did not fall in love, she did not wilfully flirt, she did not commit herself; but she smiled and whispered, and made confidences, and looked out of her own eyes into men's eyes as though there might be some mysterious bond between her and them--if only mysterious circumstances would permit it. but the end of all was to induce some one to do something which would cause a publisher to give her good payment for indifferent writing, or an editor to be lenient when, upon the merits of the case, he should have been severe. among all her literary friends, mr. broune was the one in whom she most trusted; and mr. broune was fond of handsome women. it may be as well to give a short record of a scene which had taken place between lady carbury and her friend about a month before the writing of this letter which has been produced. she had wanted him to take a series of papers for the "morning breakfast table," and to have them paid for at rate no. , whereas she suspected that he was rather doubtful as to their merit, and knew that, without special favour, she could not hope for remuneration above rate no. , or possibly even no. . so she had looked into his eyes, and had left her soft, plump hand for a moment in his. a man in such circumstances is so often awkward, not knowing with any accuracy when to do one thing and when another! mr. broune, in a moment of enthusiasm, had put his arm round lady carbury's waist and had kissed her. to say that lady carbury was angry, as most women would be angry if so treated, would be to give an unjust idea of her character. it was a little accident which really carried with it no injury, unless it should be the injury of leading to a rupture between herself and a valuable ally. no feeling of delicacy was shocked. what did it matter? no unpardonable insult had been offered; no harm had been done, if only the dear susceptible old donkey could be made at once to understand that that wasn't the way to go on! without a flutter, and without a blush, she escaped from his arm, and then made him an excellent little speech. "mr. broune, how foolish, how wrong, how mistaken! is it not so? surely you do not wish to put an end to the friendship between us!" "put an end to our friendship, lady carbury! oh, certainly not that." "then why risk it by such an act? think of my son and of my daughter,--both grown up. think of the past troubles of my life;--so much suffered and so little deserved. no one knows them so well as you do. think of my name, that has been so often slandered but never disgraced! say that you are sorry, and it shall be forgotten." when a man has kissed a woman it goes against the grain with him to say the very next moment that he is sorry for what he has done. it is as much as to declare that the kiss had not answered his expectation. mr. broune could not do this, and perhaps lady carbury did not quite expect it. "you know that for worlds i would not offend you," he said. this sufficed. lady carbury again looked into his eyes, and a promise was given that the articles should be printed--and with generous remuneration. when the interview was over lady carbury regarded it as having been quite successful. of course when struggles have to be made and hard work done, there will be little accidents. the lady who uses a street cab must encounter mud and dust which her richer neighbour, who has a private carriage, will escape. she would have preferred not to have been kissed;--but what did it matter? with mr. broune the affair was more serious. "confound them all," he said to himself as he left the house; "no amount of experience enables a man to know them." as he went away he almost thought that lady carbury had intended him to kiss her again, and he was almost angry with himself in that he had not done so. he had seen her three or four times since, but had not repeated the offence. we will now go on to the other letters, both of which were addressed to the editors of other newspapers. the second was written to mr. booker, of the "literary chronicle." mr. booker was a hard-working professor of literature, by no means without talent, by no means without influence, and by no means without a conscience. but, from the nature of the struggles in which he had been engaged, by compromises which had gradually been driven upon him by the encroachment of brother authors on the one side and by the demands on the other of employers who looked only to their profits, he had fallen into a routine of work in which it was very difficult to be scrupulous, and almost impossible to maintain the delicacies of a literary conscience. he was now a bald-headed old man of sixty, with a large family of daughters, one of whom was a widow dependent on him with two little children. he had five hundred a year for editing the "literary chronicle," which, through his energy, had become a valuable property. he wrote for magazines, and brought out some book of his own almost annually. he kept his head above water, and was regarded by those who knew about him, but did not know him, as a successful man. he always kept up his spirits, and was able in literary circles to show that he could hold his own. but he was driven by the stress of circumstances to take such good things as came in his way, and could hardly afford to be independent. it must be confessed that literary scruple had long departed from his mind. letter no. was as follows;-- welbeck street, th february, --. dear mr. booker,-- i have told mr. leadham--[mr. leadham was senior partner in the enterprising firm of publishers known as messrs. leadham and loiter]--to send you an early copy of my "criminal queens." i have already settled with my friend mr. broune that i am to do your "new tale of a tub" in the "breakfast table." indeed, i am about it now, and am taking great pains with it. if there is anything you wish to have specially said as to your view of the protestantism of the time, let me know. i should like you to say a word as to the accuracy of my historical details, which i know you can safely do. don't put it off, as the sale does so much depend on early notices. i am only getting a royalty, which does not commence till the first four hundred are sold. yours sincerely, matilda carbury. alfred booker, esq., "literary chronicle," office, strand. there was nothing in this which shocked mr. booker. he laughed inwardly, with a pleasantly reticent chuckle, as he thought of lady carbury dealing with his views of protestantism,--as he thought also of the numerous historical errors into which that clever lady must inevitably fall in writing about matters of which he believed her to know nothing. but he was quite alive to the fact that a favourable notice in the "breakfast table" of his very thoughtful work, called the "new tale of a tub," would serve him, even though written by the hand of a female literary charlatan, and he would have no compunction as to repaying the service by fulsome praise in the "literary chronicle." he would not probably say that the book was accurate, but he would be able to declare that it was delightful reading, that the feminine characteristics of the queens had been touched with a masterly hand, and that the work was one which would certainly make its way into all drawing-rooms. he was an adept at this sort of work, and knew well how to review such a book as lady carbury's "criminal queens," without bestowing much trouble on the reading. he could almost do it without cutting the book, so that its value for purposes of after sale might not be injured. and yet mr. booker was an honest man, and had set his face persistently against many literary malpractices. stretched-out type, insufficient lines, and the french habit of meandering with a few words over an entire page, had been rebuked by him with conscientious strength. he was supposed to be rather an aristides among reviewers. but circumstanced as he was he could not oppose himself altogether to the usages of the time. "bad; of course it is bad," he said to a young friend who was working with him on his periodical. "who doubts that? how many very bad things are there that we do! but if we were to attempt to reform all our bad ways at once, we should never do any good thing. i am not strong enough to put the world straight, and i doubt if you are." such was mr. booker. then there was letter no. , to mr. ferdinand alf. mr. alf managed, and, as it was supposed, chiefly owned, the "evening pulpit," which during the last two years had become "quite a property," as men connected with the press were in the habit of saying. the "evening pulpit" was supposed to give daily to its readers all that had been said and done up to two o'clock in the day by all the leading people in the metropolis, and to prophesy with wonderful accuracy what would be the sayings and doings of the twelve following hours. this was effected with an air of wonderful omniscience, and not unfrequently with an ignorance hardly surpassed by its arrogance. but the writing was clever. the facts, if not true, were well invented; the arguments, if not logical, were seductive. the presiding spirit of the paper had the gift, at any rate, of knowing what the people for whom he catered would like to read, and how to get his subjects handled, so that the reading should be pleasant. mr. booker's "literary chronicle" did not presume to entertain any special political opinions. the "breakfast table" was decidedly liberal. the "evening pulpit" was much given to politics, but held strictly to the motto which it had assumed;-- "nullius addictus jurare in verba magistri;"-- and consequently had at all times the invaluable privilege of abusing what was being done, whether by one side or by the other. a newspaper that wishes to make its fortune should never waste its columns and weary its readers by praising anything. eulogy is invariably dull,--a fact that mr. alf had discovered and had utilized. mr. alf had, moreover, discovered another fact. abuse from those who occasionally praise is considered to be personally offensive, and they who give personal offence will sometimes make the world too hot to hold them. but censure from those who are always finding fault is regarded so much as a matter of course that it ceases to be objectionable. the caricaturist, who draws only caricatures, is held to be justifiable, let him take what liberties he may with a man's face and person. it is his trade, and his business calls upon him to vilify all that he touches. but were an artist to publish a series of portraits, in which two out of a dozen were made to be hideous, he would certainly make two enemies, if not more. mr. alf never made enemies, for he praised no one, and, as far as the expression of his newspaper went, was satisfied with nothing. personally, mr. alf was a remarkable man. no one knew whence he came or what he had been. he was supposed to have been born a german jew; and certain ladies said that they could distinguish in his tongue the slightest possible foreign accent. nevertheless it was conceded to him that he knew england as only an englishman can know it. during the last year or two he had "come up" as the phrase goes, and had come up very thoroughly. he had been black-balled at three or four clubs, but had effected an entrance at two or three others, and had learned a manner of speaking of those which had rejected him calculated to leave on the minds of hearers a conviction that the societies in question were antiquated, imbecile, and moribund. he was never weary of implying that not to know mr. alf, not to be on good terms with mr. alf, not to understand that let mr. alf have been born where he might and how he might he was always to be recognised as a desirable acquaintance, was to be altogether out in the dark. and that which he so constantly asserted, or implied, men and women around him began at last to believe,--and mr. alf became an acknowledged something in the different worlds of politics, letters, and fashion. he was a good-looking man, about forty years old, but carrying himself as though he was much younger, spare, below the middle height, with dark brown hair which would have shown a tinge of grey but for the dyer's art, with well-cut features, with a smile constantly on his mouth the pleasantness of which was always belied by the sharp severity of his eyes. he dressed with the utmost simplicity, but also with the utmost care. he was unmarried, had a small house of his own close to berkeley square at which he gave remarkable dinner parties, kept four or five hunters in northamptonshire, and was reputed to earn £ , a year out of the "evening pulpit" and to spend about half of that income. he also was intimate after his fashion with lady carbury, whose diligence in making and fostering useful friendships had been unwearied. her letter to mr. alf was as follows;-- dear mr. alf,-- do tell me who wrote the review on fitzgerald barker's last poem. only i know you won't. i remember nothing done so well. i should think the poor wretch will hardly hold his head up again before the autumn. but it was fully deserved. i have no patience with the pretensions of would-be poets who contrive by toadying and underground influences to get their volumes placed on every drawing-room table. i know no one to whom the world has been so good-natured in this way as to fitzgerald barker, but i have heard of no one who has extended the good nature to the length of reading his poetry. is it not singular how some men continue to obtain the reputation of popular authorship without adding a word to the literature of their country worthy of note? it is accomplished by unflagging assiduity in the system of puffing. to puff and to get one's self puffed have become different branches of a new profession. alas, me! i wish i might find a class open in which lessons could be taken by such a poor tyro as myself. much as i hate the thing from my very soul, and much as i admire the consistency with which the "pulpit" has opposed it, i myself am so much in want of support for my own little efforts, and am struggling so hard honestly to make for myself a remunerative career, that i think, were the opportunity offered to me, i should pocket my honour, lay aside the high feeling which tells me that praise should be bought neither by money nor friendship, and descend among the low things, in order that i might one day have the pride of feeling that i had succeeded by my own work in providing for the needs of my children. but i have not as yet commenced the descent downwards; and therefore i am still bold enough to tell you that i shall look, not with concern but with a deep interest, to anything which may appear in the "pulpit" respecting my "criminal queens." i venture to think that the book,--though i wrote it myself,--has an importance of its own which will secure for it some notice. that my inaccuracy will be laid bare and presumption scourged i do not in the least doubt, but i think your reviewer will be able to certify that the sketches are life-like and the portraits well considered. you will not hear me told, at any rate, that i had better sit at home and darn my stockings, as you said the other day of that poor unfortunate mrs. effington stubbs. i have not seen you for the last three weeks. i have a few friends every tuesday evening;--pray come next week or the week following. and pray believe that no amount of editorial or critical severity shall make me receive you otherwise than with a smile. most sincerely yours, matilda carbury. lady carbury, having finished her third letter, threw herself back in her chair, and for a moment or two closed her eyes, as though about to rest. but she soon remembered that the activity of her life did not admit of such rest. she therefore seized her pen and began scribbling further notes. chapter ii. the carbury family. something of herself and condition lady carbury has told the reader in the letters given in the former chapter, but more must be added. she has declared she had been cruelly slandered; but she has also shown that she was not a woman whose words about herself could be taken with much confidence. if the reader does not understand so much from her letters to the three editors they have been written in vain. she has been made to say that her object in work was to provide for the need of her children, and that with that noble purpose before her she was struggling to make for herself a career in literature. detestably false as had been her letters to the editors, absolutely and abominably foul as was the entire system by which she was endeavouring to achieve success, far away from honour and honesty as she had been carried by her ready subserviency to the dirty things among which she had lately fallen, nevertheless her statements about herself were substantially true. she had been ill-treated. she had been slandered. she was true to her children,--especially devoted to one of them,--and was ready to work her nails off if by doing so she could advance their interests. she was the widow of one sir patrick carbury, who many years since had done great things as a soldier in india, and had been thereupon created a baronet. he had married a young wife late in life and, having found out when too late that he had made a mistake, had occasionally spoilt his darling and occasionally ill used her. in doing each he had done it abundantly. among lady carbury's faults had never been that of even incipient,--not even of sentimental infidelity to her husband. when as a very lovely and penniless girl of eighteen she had consented to marry a man of forty-four who had the spending of a large income, she had made up her mind to abandon all hope of that sort of love which poets describe and which young people generally desire to experience. sir patrick at the time of his marriage was red-faced, stout, bald, very choleric, generous in money, suspicious in temper, and intelligent. he knew how to govern men. he could read and understand a book. there was nothing mean about him. he had his attractive qualities. he was a man who might be loved;--but he was hardly a man for love. the young lady carbury had understood her position and had determined to do her duty. she had resolved before she went to the altar that she would never allow herself to flirt and she had never flirted. for fifteen years things had gone tolerably well with her,--by which it is intended that the reader should understand that they had so gone that she had been able to tolerate them. they had been home in england for three or four years, and then sir patrick had returned with some new and higher appointment. for fifteen years, though he had been passionate, imperious, and often cruel, he had never been jealous. a boy and a girl had been born to them, to whom both father and mother had been over indulgent;--but the mother, according to her lights, had endeavoured to do her duty by them. but from the commencement of her life she had been educated in deceit, and her married life had seemed to make the practice of deceit necessary to her. her mother had run away from her father, and she had been tossed to and fro between this and that protector, sometimes being in danger of wanting any one to care for her, till she had been made sharp, incredulous, and untrustworthy by the difficulties of her position. but she was clever, and had picked up an education and good manners amidst the difficulties of her childhood,--and had been beautiful to look at. to marry and have the command of money, to do her duty correctly, to live in a big house and be respected, had been her ambition,--and during the first fifteen years of her married life she was successful amidst great difficulties. she would smile within five minutes of violent ill-usage. her husband would even strike her,--and the first effort of her mind would be given to conceal the fact from all the world. in latter years he drank too much, and she struggled hard first to prevent the evil, and then to prevent and to hide the ill effects of the evil. but in doing all this she schemed, and lied, and lived a life of manoeuvres. then, at last, when she felt that she was no longer quite a young woman, she allowed herself to attempt to form friendships for herself, and among her friends was one of the other sex. if fidelity in a wife be compatible with such friendship, if the married state does not exact from a woman the necessity of debarring herself from all friendly intercourse with any man except her lord, lady carbury was not faithless. but sir carbury became jealous, spoke words which even she could not endure, did things which drove even her beyond the calculations of her prudence,--and she left him. but even this she did in so guarded a way that, as to every step she took, she could prove her innocence. her life at that period is of little moment to our story, except that it is essential that the reader should know in what she had been slandered. for a month or two all hard words had been said against her by her husband's friends, and even by sir patrick himself. but gradually the truth was known, and after a year's separation they came again together and she remained the mistress of his house till he died. she brought him home to england, but during the short period left to him of life in his old country he had been a worn-out, dying invalid. but the scandal of her great misfortune had followed her, and some people were never tired of reminding others that in the course of her married life lady carbury had run away from her husband, and had been taken back again by the kind-hearted old gentleman. sir patrick had left behind him a moderate fortune, though by no means great wealth. to his son, who was now sir felix carbury, he had left £ , a year; and to his widow as much, with a provision that after her death the latter sum should be divided between his son and daughter. it therefore came to pass that the young man, who had already entered the army when his father died, and upon whom devolved no necessity of keeping a house, and who in fact not unfrequently lived in his mother's house, had an income equal to that with which his mother and his sister were obliged to maintain a roof over their head. now lady carbury, when she was released from her thraldom at the age of forty, had no idea at all of passing her future life amidst the ordinary penances of widowhood. she had hitherto endeavoured to do her duty, knowing that in accepting her position she was bound to take the good and the bad together. she had certainly encountered hitherto much that was bad. to be scolded, watched, beaten, and sworn at by a choleric old man till she was at last driven out of her house by the violence of his ill-usage; to be taken back as a favour with the assurance that her name would for the remainder of her life be unjustly tarnished; to have her flight constantly thrown in her face; and then at last to become for a year or two the nurse of a dying debauchee, was a high price to pay for such good things as she had hitherto enjoyed. now at length had come to her a period of relaxation--her reward, her freedom, her chance of happiness. she thought much about herself, and resolved on one or two things. the time for love had gone by, and she would have nothing to do with it. nor would she marry again for convenience. but she would have friends,--real friends; friends who could help her,--and whom possibly she might help. she would, too, make some career for herself, so that life might not be without an interest to her. she would live in london, and would become somebody at any rate in some circle. accident at first rather than choice had thrown her among literary people, but that accident had, during the last two years, been supported and corroborated by the desire which had fallen upon her of earning money. she had known from the first that economy would be necessary to her,--not chiefly or perhaps not at all from a feeling that she and her daughter could not live comfortably together on a thousand a year,--but on behalf of her son. she wanted no luxury but a house so placed that people might conceive of her that she lived in a proper part of the town. of her daughter's prudence she was as well convinced as of her own. she could trust henrietta in everything. but her son, sir felix, was not very trustworthy. and yet sir felix was the darling of her heart. at the time of the writing of the three letters, at which our story is supposed to begin, she was driven very hard for money. sir felix was then twenty-five, had been in a fashionable regiment for four years, had already sold out, and, to own the truth at once, had altogether wasted the property which his father had left him. so much the mother knew,--and knew, therefore, that with her limited income she must maintain not only herself and daughter, but also the baronet. she did not know, however, the amount of the baronet's obligations;--nor, indeed, did he, or any one else. a baronet, holding a commission in the guards, and known to have had a fortune left him by his father, may go very far in getting into debt; and sir felix had made full use of all his privileges. his life had been in every way bad. he had become a burden on his mother so heavy,--and on his sister also,--that their life had become one of unavoidable embarrassments. but not for a moment had either of them ever quarrelled with him. henrietta had been taught by the conduct of both father and mother that every vice might be forgiven in a man and in a son, though every virtue was expected from a woman, and especially from a daughter. the lesson had come to her so early in life that she had learned it without the feeling of any grievance. she lamented her brother's evil conduct as it affected him, but she pardoned it altogether as it affected herself. that all her interests in life should be made subservient to him was natural to her; and when she found that her little comforts were discontinued, and her moderate expenses curtailed because he, having eaten up all that was his own, was now eating up also all that was his mother's, she never complained. henrietta had been taught to think that men in that rank of life in which she had been born always did eat up everything. the mother's feeling was less noble,--or perhaps, it might better be said, more open to censure. the boy, who had been beautiful as a star, had ever been the cynosure of her eyes, the one thing on which her heart had rivetted itself. even during the career of his folly she had hardly ventured to say a word to him with the purport of stopping him on his road to ruin. in everything she had spoilt him as a boy, and in everything she still spoilt him as a man. she was almost proud of his vices, and had taken delight in hearing of doings which if not vicious of themselves had been ruinous from their extravagance. she had so indulged him that even in her own presence he was never ashamed of his own selfishness or apparently conscious of the injustice which he did to others. from all this it had come to pass that that dabbling in literature which had been commenced partly perhaps from a sense of pleasure in the work, partly as a passport into society, had been converted into hard work by which money if possible might be earned. so that lady carbury when she wrote to her friends, the editors, of her struggles was speaking the truth. tidings had reached her of this and the other man's success, and,--coming near to her still,--of this and that other woman's earnings in literature. and it had seemed to her that, within moderate limits, she might give a wide field to her hopes. why should she not add a thousand a year to her income, so that felix might again live like a gentleman and marry that heiress who, in lady carbury's look-out into the future, was destined to make all things straight! who was so handsome as her son? who could make himself more agreeable? who had more of that audacity which is the chief thing necessary to the winning of heiresses? and then he could make his wife lady carbury. if only enough money might be earned to tide over the present evil day, all might be well. the one most essential obstacle to the chance of success in all this was probably lady carbury's conviction that her end was to be obtained not by producing good books, but by inducing certain people to say that her books were good. she did work hard at what she wrote,--hard enough at any rate to cover her pages quickly; and was, by nature, a clever woman. she could write after a glib, common-place, sprightly fashion, and had already acquired the knack of spreading all she knew very thin, so that it might cover a vast surface. she had no ambition to write a good book, but was painfully anxious to write a book that the critics should say was good. had mr. broune, in his closet, told her that her book was absolutely trash, but had undertaken at the same time to have it violently praised in the "breakfast table," it may be doubted whether the critic's own opinion would have even wounded her vanity. the woman was false from head to foot, but there was much of good in her, false though she was. whether sir felix, her son, had become what he was solely by bad training, or whether he had been born bad, who shall say? it is hardly possible that he should not have been better had he been taken away as an infant and subjected to moral training by moral teachers. and yet again it is hardly possible that any training or want of training should have produced a heart so utterly incapable of feeling for others as was his. he could not even feel his own misfortunes unless they touched the outward comforts of the moment. it seemed that he lacked sufficient imagination to realise future misery though the futurity to be considered was divided from the present but by a single month, a single week,--but by a single night. he liked to be kindly treated, to be praised and petted, to be well fed and caressed; and they who so treated him were his chosen friends. he had in this the instincts of a horse, not approaching the higher sympathies of a dog. but it cannot be said of him that he had ever loved any one to the extent of denying himself a moment's gratification on that loved one's behalf. his heart was a stone. but he was beautiful to look at, ready-witted, and intelligent. he was very dark, with that soft olive complexion which so generally gives to young men an appearance of aristocratic breeding. his hair, which was never allowed to become long, was nearly black, and was soft and silky without that taint of grease which is so common with silken-headed darlings. his eyes were long, brown in colour, and were made beautiful by the perfect arch of the perfect eyebrow. but perhaps the glory of the face was due more to the finished moulding and fine symmetry of the nose and mouth than to his other features. on his short upper lip he had a moustache as well formed as his eyebrows, but he wore no other beard. the form of his chin too was perfect, but it lacked that sweetness and softness of expression, indicative of softness of heart, which a dimple conveys. he was about five feet nine in height, and was as excellent in figure as in face. it was admitted by men and clamorously asserted by women that no man had ever been more handsome than felix carbury, and it was admitted also that he never showed consciousness of his beauty. he had given himself airs on many scores;--on the score of his money, poor fool, while it lasted; on the score of his title; on the score of his army standing till he lost it; and especially on the score of superiority in fashionable intellect. but he had been clever enough to dress himself always with simplicity and to avoid the appearance of thought about his outward man. as yet the little world of his associates had hardly found out how callous were his affections,--or rather how devoid he was of affection. his airs and his appearance, joined with some cleverness, had carried him through even the viciousness of his life. in one matter he had marred his name, and by a moment's weakness had injured his character among his friends more than he had done by the folly of three years. there had been a quarrel between him and a brother officer, in which he had been the aggressor; and, when the moment came in which a man's heart should have produced manly conduct, he had first threatened and had then shown the white feather. that was now a year since, and he had partly outlived the evil;--but some men still remembered that felix carbury had been cowed, and had cowered. it was now his business to marry an heiress. he was well aware that it was so, and was quite prepared to face his destiny. but he lacked something in the art of making love. he was beautiful, had the manners of a gentleman, could talk well, lacked nothing of audacity, and had no feeling of repugnance at declaring a passion which he did not feel. but he knew so little of the passion, that he could hardly make even a young girl believe that he felt it. when he talked of love, he not only thought that he was talking nonsense, but showed that he thought so. from this fault he had already failed with one young lady reputed to have £ , , who had refused him because, as she naively said, she knew "he did not really care." "how can i show that i care more than by wishing to make you my wife?" he had asked. "i don't know that you can, but all the same you don't care," she said. and so that young lady escaped the pit-fall. now there was another young lady, to whom the reader shall be introduced in time, whom sir felix was instigated to pursue with unremitting diligence. her wealth was not defined, as had been the £ , of her predecessor, but was known to be very much greater than that. it was, indeed, generally supposed to be fathomless, bottomless, endless. it was said that in regard to money for ordinary expenditure, money for houses, servants, horses, jewels, and the like, one sum was the same as another to the father of this young lady. he had great concerns;--concerns so great that the payment of ten or twenty thousand pounds upon any trifle was the same thing to him,--as to men who are comfortable in their circumstances it matters little whether they pay sixpence or ninepence for their mutton chops. such a man may be ruined at any time; but there was no doubt that to any one marrying his daughter during the present season of his outrageous prosperity he could give a very large fortune indeed. lady carbury, who had known the rock on which her son had been once wrecked, was very anxious that sir felix should at once make a proper use of the intimacy which he had effected in the house of this topping croesus of the day. and now there must be a few words said about henrietta carbury. of course she was of infinitely less importance than her brother, who was a baronet, the head of that branch of the carburys, and her mother's darling; and, therefore, a few words should suffice. she also was very lovely, being like her brother; but somewhat less dark and with features less absolutely regular. but she had in her countenance a full measure of that sweetness of expression which seems to imply that consideration of self is subordinated to consideration for others. this sweetness was altogether lacking to her brother. and her face was a true index of her character. again, who shall say why the brother and sister had become so opposite to each other; whether they would have been thus different had both been taken away as infants from their father's and mother's training, or whether the girl's virtues were owing altogether to the lower place which she had held in her parent's heart? she, at any rate, had not been spoilt by a title, by the command of money, and by the temptations of too early acquaintance with the world. at the present time she was barely twenty-one years old, and had not seen much of london society. her mother did not frequent balls, and during the last two years there had grown upon them a necessity for economy which was inimical to many gloves and costly dresses. sir felix went out of course, but hetta carbury spent most of her time at home with her mother in welbeck street. occasionally the world saw her, and when the world did see her the world declared that she was a charming girl. the world was so far right. but for henrietta carbury the romance of life had already commenced in real earnest. there was another branch of the carburys, the head branch, which was now represented by one roger carbury, of carbury hall. roger carbury was a gentleman of whom much will have to be said, but here, at this moment, it need only be told that he was passionately in love with his cousin henrietta. he was, however, nearly forty years old, and there was one paul montague whom henrietta had seen. chapter iii. the beargarden. lady carbury's house in welbeck street was a modest house enough,--with no pretensions to be a mansion, hardly assuming even to be a residence; but, having some money in her hands when she first took it, she had made it pretty and pleasant, and was still proud to feel that in spite of the hardness of her position she had comfortable belongings around her when her literary friends came to see her on her tuesday evenings. here she was now living with her son and daughter. the back drawing-room was divided from the front by doors that were permanently closed, and in this she carried on her great work. here she wrote her books and contrived her system for the inveigling of editors and critics. here she was rarely disturbed by her daughter, and admitted no visitors except editors and critics. but her son was controlled by no household laws, and would break in upon her privacy without remorse. she had hardly finished two galloping notes after completing her letter to mr. ferdinand alf, when felix entered the room with a cigar in his mouth and threw himself upon the sofa. "my dear boy," she said, "pray leave your tobacco below when you come in here." "what affectation it is, mother," he said, throwing, however, the half-smoked cigar into the fire-place. "some women swear they like smoke, others say they hate it like the devil. it depends altogether on whether they wish to flatter or snub a fellow." "you don't suppose that i wish to snub you?" "upon my word i don't know. i wonder whether you can let me have twenty pounds?" "my dear felix!" "just so, mother;--but how about the twenty pounds?" [illustration: "just so, mother;--but how about the twenty pounds?"] "what is it for, felix?" "well;--to tell the truth, to carry on the game for the nonce till something is settled. a fellow can't live without some money in his pocket. i do with as little as most fellows. i pay for nothing that i can help. i even get my hair cut on credit, and as long as it was possible i had a brougham, to save cabs." "what is to be the end of it, felix?" "i never could see the end of anything, mother. i never could nurse a horse when the hounds were going well in order to be in at the finish. i never could pass a dish that i liked in favour of those that were to follow. what's the use?" the young man did not say "carpe diem," but that was the philosophy which he intended to preach. "have you been at the melmottes' to-day?" it was now five o'clock on a winter afternoon, the hour at which ladies are drinking tea, and idle men playing whist at the clubs,--at which young idle men are sometimes allowed to flirt, and at which, as lady carbury thought, her son might have been paying his court to marie melmotte the great heiress. "i have just come away." "and what do you think of her?" "to tell the truth, mother, i have thought very little about her. she is not pretty, she is not plain; she is not clever, she is not stupid; she is neither saint nor sinner." "the more likely to make a good wife." "perhaps so. i am at any rate quite willing to believe that as wife she would be 'good enough for me.'" "what does the mother say?" "the mother is a caution. i cannot help speculating whether, if i marry the daughter, i shall ever find out where the mother came from. dolly longestaffe says that somebody says that she was a bohemian jewess; but i think she's too fat for that." "what does it matter, felix?" "not in the least." "is she civil to you?" "yes, civil enough." "and the father?" "well, he does not turn me out, or anything of that sort. of course there are half-a-dozen after her, and i think the old fellow is bewildered among them all. he's thinking more of getting dukes to dine with him than of his daughter's lovers. any fellow might pick her up who happened to hit her fancy." "and why not you?" "why not, mother? i am doing my best, and it's no good flogging a willing horse. can you let me have the money?" "oh, felix, i think you hardly know how poor we are. you have still got your hunters down at the place!" "i have got two horses, if you mean that; and i haven't paid a shilling for their keep since the season began. look here, mother; this is a risky sort of game, i grant, but i am playing it by your advice. if i can marry miss melmotte, i suppose all will be right. but i don't think the way to get her would be to throw up everything and let all the world know that i haven't got a copper. to do that kind of thing a man must live a little up to the mark. i've brought my hunting down to a minimum, but if i gave it up altogether there would be lots of fellows to tell them in grosvenor square why i had done so." there was an apparent truth in this argument which the poor woman was unable to answer. before the interview was over the money demanded was forthcoming, though at the time it could be but ill afforded, and the youth went away apparently with a light heart, hardly listening to his mother's entreaties that the affair with marie melmotte might, if possible, be brought to a speedy conclusion. felix, when he left his mother, went down to the only club to which he now belonged. clubs are pleasant resorts in all respects but one. they require ready money, or even worse than that in respect to annual payments,--money in advance; and the young baronet had been absolutely forced to restrict himself. he, as a matter of course, out of those to which he had possessed the right of entrance, chose the worst. it was called the beargarden, and had been lately opened with the express view of combining parsimony with profligacy. clubs were ruined, so said certain young parsimonious profligates, by providing comforts for old fogies who paid little or nothing but their subscriptions, and took out by their mere presence three times as much as they gave. this club was not to be opened till three o'clock in the afternoon, before which hour the promoters of the beargarden thought it improbable that they and their fellows would want a club. there were to be no morning papers taken, no library, no morning-room. dining-rooms, billiard-rooms, and card-rooms would suffice for the beargarden. everything was to be provided by a purveyor, so that the club should be cheated only by one man. everything was to be luxurious, but the luxuries were to be achieved at first cost. it had been a happy thought, and the club was said to prosper. herr vossner, the purveyor, was a jewel, and so carried on affairs that there was no trouble about anything. he would assist even in smoothing little difficulties as to the settling of card accounts, and had behaved with the greatest tenderness to the drawers of cheques whose bankers had harshly declared them to have "no effects." herr vossner was a jewel, and the beargarden was a success. perhaps no young man about town enjoyed the beargarden more thoroughly than did sir felix carbury. the club was in the close vicinity of other clubs, in a small street turning out of st. james's street, and piqued itself on its outward quietness and sobriety. why pay for stone-work for other people to look at;--why lay out money in marble pillars and cornices, seeing that you can neither eat such things, nor drink them, nor gamble with them? but the beargarden had the best wines,--or thought that it had,--and the easiest chairs, and two billiard-tables than which nothing more perfect had ever been made to stand upon legs. hither sir felix wended on that january afternoon as soon as he had his mother's cheque for £ in his pocket. he found his special friend, dolly longestaffe, standing on the steps with a cigar in his mouth, and gazing vacantly at the dull brick house opposite. "going to dine here, dolly?" said sir felix. "i suppose i shall, because it's such a lot of trouble to go anywhere else. i'm engaged somewhere, i know; but i'm not up to getting home and dressing. by george! i don't know how fellows do that kind of thing. i can't." "going to hunt to-morrow?" "well, yes; but i don't suppose i shall. i was going to hunt every day last week, but my fellow never would get me up in time. i can't tell why it is that things are done in such a beastly way. why shouldn't fellows begin to hunt at two or three, so that a fellow needn't get up in the middle of the night?" "because one can't ride by moonlight, dolly." "it isn't moonlight at three. at any rate i can't get myself to euston square by nine. i don't think that fellow of mine likes getting up himself. he says he comes in and wakes me, but i never remember it." "how many horses have you got at leighton, dolly?" "how many? there were five, but i think that fellow down there sold one; but then i think he bought another. i know he did something." "who rides them?" "he does, i suppose. that is, of course, i ride them myself, only i so seldom get down. somebody told me that grasslough was riding two of them last week. i don't think i ever told him he might. i think he tipped that fellow of mine; and i call that a low kind of thing to do. i'd ask him, only i know he'd say that i had lent them. perhaps i did when i was tight, you know." "you and grasslough were never pals." "i don't like him a bit. he gives himself airs because he is a lord, and is devilish ill-natured. i don't know why he should want to ride my horses." "to save his own." "he isn't hard up. why doesn't he have his own horses? i'll tell you what, carbury, i've made up my mind to one thing, and, by jove, i'll stick to it. i never will lend a horse again to anybody. if fellows want horses let them buy them." "but some fellows haven't got any money, dolly." "then they ought to go tick. i don't think i've paid for any of mine i've bought this season. there was somebody here yesterday--" "what! here at the club?" "yes; followed me here to say he wanted to be paid for something! it was horses, i think, because of the fellow's trousers." "what did you say?" "me! oh, i didn't say anything." "and how did it end?" "when he'd done talking i offered him a cigar, and while he was biting off the end i went up-stairs. i suppose he went away when he was tired of waiting." "i'll tell you what, dolly; i wish you'd let me ride two of yours for a couple of days,--that is, of course, if you don't want them yourself. you ain't tight now, at any rate." "no; i ain't tight," said dolly, with melancholy acquiescence. "i mean that i wouldn't like to borrow your horses without your remembering all about it. nobody knows as well as you do how awfully done up i am. i shall pull through at last, but it's an awful squeeze in the meantime. there's nobody i'd ask such a favour of except you." "well, you may have them;--that is, for two days. i don't know whether that fellow of mine will believe you. he wouldn't believe grasslough, and told him so. but grasslough took them out of the stables. that's what somebody told me." "you could write a line to your groom." "oh, my dear fellow, that is such a bore; i don't think i could do that. my fellow will believe you, because you and i have been pals. i think i'll have a little drop of curaçoa before dinner. come along and try it. it'll give us an appetite." it was then nearly seven o'clock. nine hours afterwards the same two men, with two others,--of whom young lord grasslough, dolly longestaffe's peculiar aversion, was one,--were just rising from a card-table in one of the up-stairs rooms of the club. for it was understood that, though the beargarden was not to be open before three o'clock in the afternoon, the accommodation denied during the day was to be given freely during the night. no man could get a breakfast at the beargarden, but suppers at three o'clock in the morning were quite within the rule. such a supper, or rather succession of suppering, there had been to-night, various devils and broils and hot toasts having been brought up from time to time first for one and then for another. but there had been no cessation of gambling since the cards had first been opened about ten o'clock. at four in the morning dolly longestaffe was certainly in a condition to lend his horses and to remember nothing about it. he was quite affectionate with lord grasslough, as he was also with his other companions,--affection being the normal state of his mind when in that condition. he was by no means helplessly drunk, and was, perhaps, hardly more silly than when he was sober; but he was willing to play at any game whether he understood it or not, and for any stakes. when sir felix got up and said he would play no more, dolly also got up, apparently quite contented. when lord grasslough, with a dark scowl on his face, expressed his opinion that it was not just the thing for men to break up like that when so much money had been lost, dolly as willingly sat down again. but dolly's sitting down was not sufficient. "i'm going to hunt to-morrow," said sir felix,--meaning that day,--"and i shall play no more. a man must go to bed at some time." "i don't see it at all," said lord grasslough. "it's an understood thing that when a man has won as much as you have he should stay." "stay how long?" said sir felix, with an angry look. "that's nonsense; there must be an end of everything, and there's an end of this for me to-night." "oh, if you choose," said his lordship. "i do choose. good night, dolly; we'll settle this next time we meet. i've got it all entered." the night had been one very serious in its results to sir felix. he had sat down to the card-table with the proceeds of his mother's cheque, a poor £ , and now he had,--he didn't at all know how much in his pockets. he also had drunk, but not so as to obscure his mind. he knew that longestaffe owed him over £ , and he knew also that he had received more than that in ready money and cheques from lord grasslough and the other player. dolly longestaffe's money, too, would certainly be paid, though dolly did complain of the importunity of his tradesmen. as he walked up st. james's street, looking for a cab, he presumed himself to be worth over £ . when begging for a small sum from lady carbury, he had said that he could not carry on the game without some ready money, and had considered himself fortunate in fleecing his mother as he had done. now he was in the possession of wealth,--of wealth that might, at any rate, be sufficient to aid him materially in the object he had in hand. he never for a moment thought of paying his bills. even the large sum of which he had become so unexpectedly possessed would not have gone far with him in such a quixotic object as that; but he could now look bright, and buy presents, and be seen with money in his hands. it is hard even to make love in these days without something in your purse. he found no cab, but in his present frame of mind was indifferent to the trouble of walking home. there was something so joyous in the feeling of the possession of all this money that it made the night air pleasant to him. then, of a sudden, he remembered the low wail with which his mother had spoken of her poverty when he demanded assistance from her. now he could give her back the £ . but it occurred to him sharply, with an amount of carefulness quite new to him, that it would be foolish to do so. how soon might he want it again? and, moreover, he could not repay the money without explaining to her how he had gotten it. it would be preferable to say nothing about his money. as he let himself into the house and went up to his room he resolved that he would not say anything about it. on that morning he was at the station at nine, and hunted down in buckinghamshire, riding two of dolly longestaffe's horses,--for the use of which he paid dolly longestaffe's "fellow" thirty shillings. chapter iv. madame melmotte's ball. the next night but one after that of the gambling transaction at the beargarden, a great ball was given in grosvenor square. it was a ball on a scale so magnificent that it had been talked about ever since parliament met, now about a fortnight since. some people had expressed an opinion that such a ball as this was intended to be could not be given successfully in february. others declared that the money which was to be spent,--an amount which would make this affair something quite new in the annals of ball-giving,--would give the thing such a character that it would certainly be successful. and much more than money had been expended. almost incredible efforts had been made to obtain the co-operation of great people, and these efforts had at last been grandly successful. the duchess of stevenage had come up from castle albury herself to be present at it and to bring her daughters, though it has never been her grace's wont to be in london at this inclement season. no doubt the persuasion used with the duchess had been very strong. her brother, lord alfred grendall, was known to be in great difficulties, which,--so people said,--had been considerably modified by opportune pecuniary assistance. and then it was certain that one of the young grendalls, lord alfred's second son, had been appointed to some mercantile position, for which he received a salary which his most intimate friends thought that he was hardly qualified to earn. it was certainly a fact that he went to abchurch lane, in the city, four or five days a week, and that he did not occupy his time in so unaccustomed a manner for nothing. where the duchess of stevenage went all the world would go. and it became known at the last moment, that is to say only the day before the party, that a prince of the blood royal was to be there. how this had been achieved nobody quite understood; but there were rumours that a certain lady's jewels had been rescued from the pawnbroker's. everything was done on the same scale. the prime minister had indeed declined to allow his name to appear on the list; but one cabinet minister and two or three under-secretaries had agreed to come because it was felt that the giver of the ball might before long be the master of considerable parliamentary interest. it was believed that he had an eye to politics, and it is always wise to have great wealth on one's own side. there had at one time been much solicitude about the ball. many anxious thoughts had been given. when great attempts fail, the failure is disastrous, and may be ruinous. but this ball had now been put beyond the chance of failure. the giver of the ball was augustus melmotte, esq., the father of the girl whom sir felix carbury desired to marry, and the husband of the lady who was said to have been a bohemian jewess. it was thus that the gentleman chose to have himself designated, though within the last two years he had arrived in london from paris, and had at first been known as m. melmotte. but he had declared of himself that he had been born in england, and that he was an englishman. he admitted that his wife was a foreigner,--an admission that was necessary as she spoke very little english. melmotte himself spoke his "native" language fluently, but with an accent which betrayed at least a long expatriation. miss melmotte,--who a very short time since had been known as mademoiselle marie,--spoke english well, but as a foreigner. in regard to her it was acknowledged that she had been born out of england,--some said in new york; but madame melmotte, who must have known, had declared that the great event had taken place in paris. it was at any rate an established fact that mr. melmotte had made his wealth in france. he no doubt had had enormous dealings in other countries, as to which stories were told which must surely have been exaggerated. it was said that he had made a railway across russia, that he provisioned the southern army in the american civil war, that he had supplied austria with arms, and had at one time bought up all the iron in england. he could make or mar any company by buying or selling stock, and could make money dear or cheap as he pleased. all this was said of him in his praise,--but it was also said that he was regarded in paris as the most gigantic swindler that had ever lived; that he had made that city too hot to hold him; that he had endeavoured to establish himself in vienna, but had been warned away by the police; and that he had at length found that british freedom would alone allow him to enjoy, without persecution, the fruits of his industry. he was now established privately in grosvenor square and officially in abchurch lane; and it was known to all the world that a royal prince, a cabinet minister, and the very cream of duchesses were going to his wife's ball. all this had been done within twelve months. there was but one child in the family, one heiress for all this wealth. melmotte himself was a large man, with bushy whiskers and rough thick hair, with heavy eyebrows, and a wonderful look of power about his mouth and chin. this was so strong as to redeem his face from vulgarity; but the countenance and appearance of the man were on the whole unpleasant, and, i may say, untrustworthy. he looked as though he were purse-proud and a bully. she was fat and fair,--unlike in colour to our traditional jewesses; but she had the jewish nose and the jewish contraction of the eyes. there was certainly very little in madame melmotte to recommend her, unless it was a readiness to spend money on any object that might be suggested to her by her new acquaintances. it sometimes seemed that she had a commission from her husband to give away presents to any who would accept them. the world had received the man as augustus melmotte, esq. the world so addressed him on the very numerous letters which reached him, and so inscribed him among the directors of three dozen companies to which he belonged. but his wife was still madame melmotte. the daughter had been allowed to take her rank with an english title. she was now miss melmotte on all occasions. marie melmotte had been accurately described by felix carbury to his mother. she was not beautiful, she was not clever, and she was not a saint. but then neither was she plain, nor stupid, nor, especially, a sinner. she was a little thing, hardly over twenty years of age, very unlike her father or mother, having no trace of the jewess in her countenance, who seemed to be overwhelmed by the sense of her own position. with such people as the melmottes things go fast, and it was very well known that miss melmotte had already had one lover who had been nearly accepted. the affair, however, had gone off. in this "going off" no one imputed to the young lady blame or even misfortune. it was not supposed that she had either jilted or been jilted. as in royal espousals interests of state regulate their expedience with an acknowledged absence, with even a proclaimed impossibility, of personal predilections, so in this case was money allowed to have the same weight. such a marriage would or would not be sanctioned in accordance with great pecuniary arrangements. the young lord nidderdale, the eldest son of the marquis of auld reekie, had offered to take the girl and make her marchioness in the process of time for half a million down. melmotte had not objected to the sum,--so it was said,--but had proposed to tie it up. nidderdale had desired to have it free in his own grasp, and would not move on any other terms. melmotte had been anxious to secure the marquis,--very anxious to secure the marchioness; for at that time terms had not been made with the duchess; but at last he had lost his temper, and had asked his lordship's lawyer whether it was likely that he would entrust such a sum of money to such a man. "you are willing to trust your only child to him," said the lawyer. melmotte scowled at the man for a few seconds from under his bushy eyebrows; then told him that his answer had nothing in it, and marched out of the room. so that affair was over. i doubt whether lord nidderdale had ever said a word of love to marie melmotte,--or whether the poor girl had expected it. her destiny had no doubt been explained to her. others had tried and had broken down somewhat in the same fashion. each had treated the girl as an encumbrance he was to undertake,--at a very great price. but as affairs prospered with the melmottes, as princes and duchesses were obtained by other means,--costly no doubt, but not so ruinously costly,--the immediate disposition of marie became less necessary, and melmotte reduced his offers. the girl herself, too, began to have an opinion. it was said that she had absolutely rejected lord grasslough, whose father indeed was in a state of bankruptcy, who had no income of his own, who was ugly, vicious, ill-tempered, and without any power of recommending himself to a girl. she had had experience since lord nidderdale, with a half laugh, had told her that he might just as well take her for his wife, and was now tempted from time to time to contemplate her own happiness and her own condition. people around were beginning to say that if sir felix carbury managed his affairs well he might be the happy man. there was considerable doubt whether marie was the daughter of that jewish-looking woman. enquiries had been made, but not successfully, as to the date of the melmotte marriage. there was an idea abroad that melmotte had got his first money with his wife, and had gotten it not very long ago. then other people said that marie was not his daughter at all. altogether the mystery was rather pleasant as the money was certain. of the certainty of the money in daily use there could be no doubt. there was the house. there was the furniture. there were the carriages, the horses, the servants with the livery coats and powdered heads, and the servants with the black coats and unpowdered heads. there were the gems, and the presents, and all the nice things that money can buy. there were two dinner parties every day, one at two o'clock called lunch, and the other at eight. the tradesmen had learned enough to be quite free of doubt, and in the city mr. melmotte's name was worth any money,--though his character was perhaps worth but little. the large house on the south side of grosvenor square was all ablaze by ten o'clock. the broad verandah had been turned into a conservatory, had been covered in with boards contrived to look like trellis-work, was heated with hot air and filled with exotics at some fabulous price. a covered way had been made from the door, down across the pathway, to the road, and the police had, i fear, been bribed to frighten foot passengers into a belief that they were bound to go round. the house had been so arranged that it was impossible to know where you were, when once in it. the hall was a paradise. the staircase was fairyland. the lobbies were grottoes rich with ferns. walls had been knocked away and arches had been constructed. the leads behind had been supported and walled in, and covered and carpeted. the ball had possession of the ground floor and first floor, and the house seemed to be endless. "it's to cost sixty thousand pounds," said the marchioness of auld reekie to her old friend the countess of mid-lothian. the marchioness had come in spite of her son's misfortune when she heard that the duchess of stevenage was to be there. "and worse spent money never was wasted," said the countess. "by all accounts it was as badly come by," said the marchioness. then the two old noblewomen, one after the other, made graciously flattering speeches to the much-worn bohemian jewess, who was standing in fairyland to receive her guests, almost fainting under the greatness of the occasion. the three saloons on the first or drawing-room floor had been prepared for dancing, and here marie was stationed. the duchess had however undertaken to see that somebody should set the dancing going, and she had commissioned her nephew miles grendall, the young gentleman who now frequented the city, to give directions to the band and to make himself generally useful. indeed there had sprung up a considerable intimacy between the grendall family,--that is lord alfred's branch of the grendalls,--and the melmottes; which was as it should be, as each could give much and each receive much. it was known that lord alfred had not a shilling; but his brother was a duke and his sister was a duchess, and for the last thirty years there had been one continual anxiety for poor dear alfred, who had tumbled into an unfortunate marriage without a shilling, had spent his own moderate patrimony, had three sons and three daughters, and had lived now for a very long time entirely on the unwilling contributions of his noble relatives. melmotte could support the whole family in affluence without feeling the burden;--and why should he not? there had once been an idea that miles should attempt to win the heiress, but it had soon been found expedient to abandon it. miles had no title, no position of his own, and was hardly big enough for the place. it was in all respects better that the waters of the fountain should be allowed to irrigate mildly the whole grendall family;--and so miles went into the city. the ball was opened by a quadrille in which lord buntingford, the eldest son of the duchess, stood up with marie. various arrangements had been made, and this among them. we may say that it had been part of a bargain. lord buntingford had objected mildly, being a young man devoted to business, fond of his own order, rather shy, and not given to dancing. but he had allowed his mother to prevail. "of course they are vulgar," the duchess had said,--"so much so as to be no longer distasteful because of the absurdity of the thing. i dare say he hasn't been very honest. when men make so much money, i don't know how they can have been honest. of course it's done for a purpose. it's all very well saying that it isn't right, but what are we to do about alfred's children? miles is to have £ a-year. and then he is always about the house. and between you and me they have got up those bills of alfred's, and have said they can lie in their safe till it suits your uncle to pay them." "they will lie there a long time," said lord buntingford. "of course they expect something in return; do dance with the girl once." lord buntingford disapproved--mildly, and did as his mother asked him. the affair went off very well. there were three or four card-tables in one of the lower rooms, and at one of them sat lord alfred grendall and mr. melmotte, with two or three other players, cutting in and out at the end of each rubber. playing whist was lord alfred's only accomplishment, and almost the only occupation of his life. he began it daily at his club at three o'clock, and continued playing till two in the morning with an interval of a couple of hours for his dinner. this he did during ten months of the year, and during the other two he frequented some watering-place at which whist prevailed. he did not gamble, never playing for more than the club stakes and bets. he gave to the matter his whole mind, and must have excelled those who were generally opposed to him. but so obdurate was fortune to lord alfred that he could not make money even of whist. melmotte was very anxious to get into lord alfred's club,--the peripatetics. it was pleasant to see the grace with which he lost his money, and the sweet intimacy with which he called his lordship alfred. lord alfred had a remnant of feeling left, and would have liked to kick him. though melmotte was by far the bigger man, and was also the younger, lord alfred would not have lacked the pluck to kick him. lord alfred, in spite of his habitual idleness and vapid uselessness, had still left about him a dash of vigour, and sometimes thought that he would kick melmotte and have done with it. but there were his poor boys, and those bills in melmotte's safe. and then melmotte lost his points so regularly, and paid his bets with such absolute good humour! "come and have a glass of champagne, alfred," melmotte said, as the two cut out together. lord alfred liked champagne, and followed his host; but as he went he almost made up his mind that on some future day he would kick the man. late in the evening marie melmotte was waltzing with felix carbury, and henrietta carbury was then standing by talking to one mr. paul montague. lady carbury was also there. she was not well inclined either to balls or to such people as the melmottes; nor was henrietta. but felix had suggested that, bearing in mind his prospects as to the heiress, they had better accept the invitation which he would cause to have sent to them. they did so; and then paul montague also got a card, not altogether to lady carbury's satisfaction. lady carbury was very gracious to madame melmotte for two minutes, and then slid into a chair expecting nothing but misery for the evening. she, however, was a woman who could do her duty and endure without complaint. "it is the first great ball i ever was at in london," said hetta carbury to paul montague. "and how do you like it?" "not at all. how should i like it? i know nobody here. i don't understand how it is that at these parties people do know each other, or whether they all go dancing about without knowing." "just that; i suppose when they are used to it they get introduced backwards and forwards, and then they can know each other as fast as they like. if you would wish to dance why won't you dance with me?" "i have danced with you,--twice already." "is there any law against dancing three times?" "but i don't especially want to dance," said henrietta. "i think i'll go and console poor mamma, who has got nobody to speak to her." just at this moment, however, lady carbury was not in that wretched condition, as an unexpected friend had come to her relief. sir felix and marie melmotte had been spinning round and round throughout a long waltz, thoroughly enjoying the excitement of the music and the movement. to give felix carbury what little praise might be his due, it is necessary to say that he did not lack physical activity. he would dance, and ride, and shoot eagerly, with an animation that made him happy for the moment. it was an affair not of thought or calculation, but of physical organisation. and marie melmotte had been thoroughly happy. she loved dancing with all her heart if she could only dance in a manner pleasant to herself. she had been warned especially as to some men,--that she should not dance with them. she had been almost thrown into lord nidderdale's arms, and had been prepared to take him at her father's bidding. but she had never had the slightest pleasure in his society, and had only not been wretched because she had not as yet recognised that she had an identity of her own in the disposition of which she herself should have a voice. she certainly had never cared to dance with lord nidderdale. lord grasslough she had absolutely hated, though at first she had hardly dared to say so. one or two others had been obnoxious to her in different ways, but they had passed on, or were passing on, out of her way. there was no one at the present moment whom she had been commanded by her father to accept should an offer be made. but she did like dancing with sir felix carbury. it was not only that the man was handsome but that he had a power of changing the expression of his countenance, a play of face, which belied altogether his real disposition. he could seem to be hearty and true till the moment came in which he had really to expose his heart,--or to try to expose it. then he failed, knowing nothing about it. but in the approaches to intimacy with a girl he could be very successful. he had already nearly got beyond this with marie melmotte; but marie was by no means quick in discovering his deficiencies. to her he had seemed like a god. if she might be allowed to be wooed by sir felix carbury, and to give herself to him, she thought that she would be contented. "how well you dance," said sir felix, as soon as he had breath for speaking. "do i?" she spoke with a slightly foreign accent, which gave a little prettiness to her speech. "i was never told so. but nobody ever told me anything about myself." "i should like to tell you everything about yourself, from the beginning to the end." "ah,--but you don't know." "i would find out. i think i could make some good guesses. i'll tell you what you would like best in all the world." "what is that?" "somebody that liked you best in all the world." "ah,--yes; if one knew who?" "how can you know, miss melmotte, but by believing?" "that is not the way to know. if a girl told me that she liked me better than any other girl, i should not know it, just because she said so. i should have to find it out." "and if a gentleman told you so?" "i shouldn't believe him a bit, and i should not care to find out. but i should like to have some girl for a friend whom i could love, oh, ten times better than myself." "so should i." "have you no particular friend?" "i mean a girl whom i could love,--oh, ten times better than myself." "now you are laughing at me, sir felix," said miss melmotte. "i wonder whether that will come to anything?" said paul montague to miss carbury. they had come back into the drawing-room, and had been watching the approaches to love-making which the baronet was opening. "you mean felix and miss melmotte. i hate to think of such things, mr. montague." "it would be a magnificent chance for him." "to marry a girl, the daughter of vulgar people, just because she will have a great deal of money? he can't care for her really,--because she is rich." "but he wants money so dreadfully! it seems to me that there is no other condition of things under which felix can face the world, but by being the husband of an heiress." "what a dreadful thing to say!" "but isn't it true? he has beggared himself." "oh, mr. montague." "and he will beggar you and your mother." "i don't care about myself." "others do though." as he said this he did not look at her, but spoke through his teeth, as if he were angry both with himself and her. "i did not think you would have spoken so harshly of felix." "i don't speak harshly of him, miss carbury. i haven't said that it was his own fault. he seems to be one of those who have been born to spend money; and as this girl will have plenty of money to spend, i think it would be a good thing if he were to marry her. if felix had £ , a year, everybody would think him the finest fellow in the world." in saying this, however, mr. paul montague showed himself unfit to gauge the opinion of the world. whether sir felix be rich or poor, the world, evil-hearted as it is, will never think him a fine fellow. lady carbury had been seated for nearly half an hour in uncomplaining solitude under a bust, when she was delighted by the appearance of mr. ferdinand alf. "you here?" she said. "why not? melmotte and i are brother adventurers." "i should have thought you would find so little here to amuse you." "i have found you; and, in addition to that, duchesses and their daughters without number. they expect prince george!" "do they?" "and legge wilson from the india office is here already. i spoke to him in some jewelled bower as i made my way here, not five minutes since. it's quite a success. don't you think it very nice, lady carbury?" "i don't know whether you are joking or in earnest." "i never joke. i say it is very nice. these people are spending thousands upon thousands to gratify you and me and others, and all they want in return is a little countenance." "do you mean to give it then?" "i am giving it them." "ah;--but the countenance of the 'evening pulpit.' do you mean to give them that?" "well; it is not in our line exactly to give a catalogue of names and to record ladies' dresses. perhaps it may be better for our host himself that he should be kept out of the newspapers." "are you going to be very severe upon poor me, mr. alf?" said the lady after a pause. "we are never severe upon anybody, lady carbury. here's the prince. what will they do with him now they've caught him! oh, they're going to make him dance with the heiress. poor heiress!" "poor prince!" said lady carbury. "not at all. she's a nice little girl enough, and he'll have nothing to trouble him. but how is she, poor thing, to talk to royal blood?" poor thing indeed! the prince was brought into the big room where marie was still being talked to by felix carbury, and was at once made to understand that she was to stand up and dance with royalty. the introduction was managed in a very business-like manner. miles grendall first came in and found the female victim; the duchess followed with the male victim. madame melmotte, who had been on her legs till she was ready to sink, waddled behind, but was not allowed to take any part in the affair. the band were playing a galop, but that was stopped at once, to the great confusion of the dancers. in two minutes miles grendall had made up a set. he stood up with his aunt, the duchess, as vis-a-vis to marie and the prince, till, about the middle of the quadrille, legge wilson was found and made to take his place. lord buntingford had gone away; but then there were still present two daughters of the duchess who were rapidly caught. sir felix carbury, being good-looking and having a name, was made to dance with one of them, and lord grasslough with the other. there were four other couples, all made up of titled people, as it was intended that this special dance should be chronicled, if not in the "evening pulpit," in some less serious daily journal. a paid reporter was present in the house ready to rush off with the list as soon as the dance should be a realized fact. the prince himself did not quite understand why he was there, but they who marshalled his life for him had so marshalled it for the present moment. he himself probably knew nothing about the lady's diamonds which had been rescued, or the considerable subscription to st. george's hospital which had been extracted from mr. melmotte as a make-weight. poor marie felt as though the burden of the hour would be greater than she could bear, and looked as though she would have fled had flight been possible. but the trouble passed quickly, and was not really severe. the prince said a word or two between each figure, and did not seem to expect a reply. he made a few words go a long way, and was well trained in the work of easing the burden of his own greatness for those who were for the moment inflicted with it. when the dance was over he was allowed to escape after the ceremony of a single glass of champagne drank in the presence of the hostess. considerable skill was shown in keeping the presence of his royal guest a secret from the host himself till the prince was gone. melmotte would have desired to pour out that glass of wine with his own hands, to solace his tongue by royal highnesses, and would probably have been troublesome and disagreeable. miles grendall had understood all this and had managed the affair very well. "bless my soul;--his royal highness come and gone!" exclaimed melmotte. "you and my father were so fast at your whist that it was impossible to get you away," said miles. melmotte was not a fool, and understood it all;--understood not only that it had been thought better that he should not speak to the prince, but also that it might be better that it should be so. he could not have everything at once. miles grendall was very useful to him, and he would not quarrel with miles, at any rate as yet. [illustration: the duchess followed with the male victim.] "have another rubber, alfred?" he said to miles's father as the carriages were taking away the guests. lord alfred had taken sundry glasses of champagne, and for a moment forgot the bills in the safe, and the good things which his boys were receiving. "damn that kind of nonsense," he said. "call people by their proper names." then he left the house without a further word to the master of it. that night before they went to sleep melmotte required from his weary wife an account of the ball, and especially of marie's conduct. "marie," madame melmotte said, "had behaved well, but had certainly preferred 'sir carbury' to any other of the young men." hitherto mr. melmotte had heard very little of "sir carbury," except that he was a baronet. though his eyes and ears were always open, though he attended to everything, and was a man of sharp intelligence, he did not yet quite understand the bearing and sequence of english titles. he knew that he must get for his daughter either an eldest son, or one absolutely in possession himself. sir felix, he had learned, was only a baronet; but then he was in possession. he had discovered also that sir felix's son would in course of time also become sir felix. he was not therefore at the present moment disposed to give any positive orders as to his daughter's conduct to the young baronet. he did not, however, conceive that the young baronet had as yet addressed his girl in such words as felix had in truth used when they parted. "you know who it is," he whispered, "likes you better than any one else in the world." "nobody does;--don't, sir felix." "i do," he said as he held her hand for a minute. he looked into her face and she thought it very sweet. he had studied the words as a lesson, and, repeating them as a lesson, he did it fairly well. he did it well enough at any rate to send the poor girl to bed with a sweet conviction that at last a man had spoken to her whom she could love. chapter v. after the ball. "it's weary work," said sir felix as he got into the brougham with his mother and sister. "what must it have been to me then, who had nothing to do?" said his mother. "it's the having something to do that makes me call it weary work. by-the-bye, now i think of it, i'll run down to the club before i go home." so saying he put his head out of the brougham, and stopped the driver. "it is two o'clock, felix," said his mother. "i'm afraid it is, but you see i'm hungry. you had supper, perhaps; i had none." "are you going down to the club for supper at this time in the morning?" "i must go to bed hungry if i don't. good night." then he jumped out of the brougham, called a cab, and had himself driven to the beargarden. he declared to himself that the men there would think it mean of him if he did not give them their revenge. he had renewed his play on the preceding night, and had again won. dolly longestaffe owed him now a considerable sum of money, and lord grasslough was also in his debt. he was sure that grasslough would go to the club after the ball, and he was determined that they should not think that he had submitted to be carried home by his mother and sister. so he argued with himself; but in truth the devil of gambling was hot within his bosom; and though he feared that in losing he might lose real money, and that if he won it would be long before he was paid, yet he could not keep himself from the card-table. neither mother or daughter said a word till they reached home and had got up-stairs. then the elder spoke of the trouble that was nearest to her heart at the moment. "do you think he gambles?" "he has got no money, mamma." "i fear that might not hinder him. and he has money with him, though, for him and such friends as he has, it is not much. if he gambles everything is lost." "i suppose they all do play,--more or less." "i have not known that he played. i am wearied too, out of all heart, by his want of consideration to me. it is not that he will not obey me. a mother perhaps should not expect obedience from a grown-up son. but my word is nothing to him. he has no respect for me. he would as soon do what is wrong before me as before the merest stranger." "he has been so long his own master, mamma." "yes,--his own master! and yet i must provide for him as though he were but a child. hetta, you spent the whole evening talking to paul montague." "no, mamma;--that is unjust." "he was always with you." "i knew nobody else. i could not tell him not to speak to me. i danced with him twice." her mother was seated, with both her hands up to her forehead, and shook her head. "if you did not want me to speak to paul you should not have taken me there." "i don't wish to prevent your speaking to him. you know what i want." henrietta came up and kissed her, and bade her good night. "i think i am the unhappiest woman in all london," she said, sobbing hysterically. "is it my fault, mamma?" "you could save me from much if you would. i work like a horse, and i never spend a shilling that i can help. i want nothing for myself,--nothing for myself. nobody has suffered as i have. but felix never thinks of me for a moment." "i think of you, mamma." "if you did you would accept your cousin's offer. what right have you to refuse him? i believe it is all because of that young man." "no, mamma; it is not because of that young man. i like my cousin very much;--but that is all. good night, mamma." lady carbury just allowed herself to be kissed, and then was left alone. at eight o'clock the next morning daybreak found four young men who had just risen from a card-table at the beargarden. the beargarden was so pleasant a club that there was no rule whatsoever as to its being closed,--the only law being that it should not be opened before three in the afternoon. a sort of sanction had, however, been given to the servants to demur to producing supper or drinks after six in the morning, so that, about eight, unrelieved tobacco began to be too heavy even for juvenile constitutions. the party consisted of dolly longestaffe, lord grasslough, miles grendall, and felix carbury, and the four had amused themselves during the last six hours with various innocent games. they had commenced with whist, and had culminated during the last half-hour with blind hookey. but during the whole night felix had won. miles grendall hated him, and there had been an expressed opinion between miles and the young lord that it would be both profitable and proper to relieve sir felix of the winnings of the last two nights. the two men had played with the same object, and being young had shown their intention,--so that a certain feeling of hostility had been engendered. the reader is not to understand that either of them had cheated, or that the baronet had entertained any suspicion of foul play. but felix had felt that grendall and grasslough were his enemies, and had thrown himself on dolly for sympathy and friendship. dolly, however, was very tipsy. at eight o'clock in the morning there came a sort of settling, though no money then passed. the ready-money transactions had not lasted long through the night. grasslough was the chief loser, and the figures and scraps of paper which had been passed over to carbury, when counted up, amounted to nearly £ , . his lordship contested the fact bitterly, but contested it in vain. there were his own initials and his own figures, and even miles grendall, who was supposed to be quite wide awake, could not reduce the amount. then grendall had lost over £ to carbury,--an amount, indeed, that mattered little, as miles could, at present, as easily have raised £ , . however, he gave his i.o.u. to his opponent with an easy air. grasslough, also, was impecunious; but he had a father,--also impecunious, indeed; but with them the matter would not be hopeless. dolly longestaffe was so tipsy that he could not even assist in making up his own account. that was to be left between him and carbury for some future occasion. "i suppose you'll be here to-morrow,--that is to-night," said miles. "certainly,--only one thing," answered felix. "what one thing?" "i think these things should be squared before we play any more!" "what do you mean by that?" said grasslough angrily. "do you mean to hint anything?" "i never hint anything, my grassy," said felix. "i believe when people play cards, it's intended to be ready-money, that's all. but i'm not going to stand on p's and q's with you. i'll give you your revenge to-night." "that's all right," said miles. "i was speaking to lord grasslough," said felix. "he is an old friend, and we know each other. you have been rather rough to-night, mr. grendall." "rough;--what the devil do you mean by that?" "and i think it will be as well that our account should be settled before we begin again." "a settlement once a week is the kind of thing i'm used to," said grendall. there was nothing more said; but the young men did not part on good terms. felix, as he got himself taken home, calculated that if he could realize his spoil, he might begin the campaign again with horses, servants, and all luxuries as before. if all were paid, he would have over £ , ! chapter vi. roger carbury and paul montague. roger carbury, of carbury hall, the owner of a small property in suffolk, was the head of the carbury family. the carburys had been in suffolk a great many years,--certainly from the time of the war of the roses,--and had always held up their heads. but they had never held them very high. it was not known that any had risen ever to the honour of knighthood before sir patrick, going higher than that, had been made a baronet. they had, however, been true to their acres and their acres true to them through the perils of civil wars, reformation, commonwealth, and revolution, and the head carbury of the day had always owned, and had always lived at, carbury hall. at the beginning of the present century the squire of carbury had been a considerable man, if not in his county, at any rate in his part of the county. the income of the estate had sufficed to enable him to live plenteously and hospitably, to drink port wine, to ride a stout hunter, and to keep an old lumbering coach for his wife's use when she went avisiting. he had an old butler who had never lived anywhere else, and a boy from the village who was in a way apprenticed to the butler. there was a cook, not too proud to wash up her own dishes, and a couple of young women;--while the house was kept by mrs. carbury herself, who marked and gave out her own linen, made her own preserves, and looked to the curing of her own hams. in the year the carbury property was sufficient for the carbury house. since that time the carbury property has considerably increased in value, and the rents have been raised. even the acreage has been extended by the enclosure of commons. but the income is no longer comfortably adequate to the wants of an english gentleman's household. if a moderate estate in land be left to a man now, there arises the question whether he is not damaged unless an income also be left to him wherewith to keep up the estate. land is a luxury, and of all luxuries is the most costly. now the carburys never had anything but land. suffolk has not been made rich and great either by coal or iron. no great town had sprung up on the confines of the carbury property. no eldest son had gone into trade or risen high in a profession so as to add to the carbury wealth. no great heiress had been married. there had been no ruin,--no misfortune. but in the days of which we write the squire of carbury hall had become a poor man simply through the wealth of others. his estate was supposed to bring him in £ , a year. had he been content to let the manor house, to live abroad, and to have an agent at home to deal with the tenants, he would undoubtedly have had enough to live luxuriously. but he lived on his own land among his own people, as all the carburys before him had done, and was poor because he was surrounded by rich neighbours. the longestaffes of caversham,--of which family dolly longestaffe was the eldest son and hope,--had the name of great wealth, but the founder of the family had been a lord mayor of london and a chandler as lately as in the reign of queen anne. the hepworths, who could boast good blood enough on their own side, had married into new money. the primeros,--though the good nature of the country folk had accorded to the head of them the title of squire primero,--had been trading spaniards fifty years ago, and had bought the bundlesham property from a great duke. the estates of those three gentlemen, with the domain of the bishop of elmham, lay all around the carbury property, and in regard to wealth enabled their owners altogether to overshadow our squire. the superior wealth of a bishop was nothing to him. he desired that bishops should be rich, and was among those who thought that the country had been injured when the territorial possessions of our prelates had been converted into stipends by act of parliament. but the grandeur of the longestaffes and the too apparent wealth of the primeros did oppress him, though he was a man who would never breathe a word of such oppression into the ear even of his dearest friend. it was his opinion,--which he did not care to declare loudly, but which was fully understood to be his opinion by those with whom he lived intimately,--that a man's standing in the world should not depend at all upon his wealth. the primeros were undoubtedly beneath him in the social scale, although the young primeros had three horses apiece, and killed legions of pheasants annually at about _s_. a head. hepworth of eardly was a very good fellow, who gave himself no airs and understood his duties as a country gentleman; but he could not be more than on a par with carbury of carbury, though he was supposed to enjoy £ , a year. the longestaffes were altogether oppressive. their footmen, even in the country, had powdered hair. they had a house in town,--a house of their own,--and lived altogether as magnates. the lady was lady pomona longestaffe. the daughters, who certainly were handsome, had been destined to marry peers. the only son, dolly, had, or had had, a fortune of his own. they were an oppressive people in a country neighbourhood. and to make the matter worse, rich as they were, they never were able to pay anybody anything that they owed. they continued to live with all the appurtenances of wealth. the girls always had horses to ride, both in town and country. the acquaintance of dolly the reader has already made. dolly, who certainly was a poor creature though good natured, had energy in one direction. he would quarrel perseveringly with his father, who only had a life interest in the estate. the house at caversham park was during six or seven months, of the year full of servants, if not of guests, and all the tradesmen in the little towns around, bungay, beccles, and harlestone, were aware that the longestaffes were the great people of that country. though occasionally much distressed for money, they would always execute the longestaffe orders with submissive punctuality, because there was an idea that the longestaffe property was sound at the bottom. and, then, the owner of a property so managed cannot scrutinise bills very closely. carbury of carbury had never owed a shilling that he could not pay, or his father before him. his orders to the tradesmen at beccles were not extensive, and care was used to see that the goods supplied were neither overcharged nor unnecessary. the tradesmen, consequently, of beccles did not care much for carbury of carbury;--though perhaps one or two of the elders among them entertained some ancient reverence for the family. roger carbury, esq., was carbury of carbury,--a distinction of itself, which, from its nature, could not belong to the longestaffes and primeros, which did not even belong to the hepworths of eardly. the very parish in which carbury hall stood,--or carbury manor house, as it was more properly called,--was carbury parish. and there was carbury chase, partly in carbury parish and partly in bundlesham,--but belonging, unfortunately, in its entirety to the bundlesham estate. roger carbury himself was all alone in the world. his nearest relatives of the name were sir felix and henrietta, but they were no more than second cousins. he had sisters, but they had long since been married and had gone away into the world with their husbands, one to india, and another to the far west of the united states. at present he was not much short of forty years of age, and was still unmarried. he was a stout, good-looking man, with a firmly set square face, with features finely cut, a small mouth, good teeth, and well-formed chin. his hair was red, curling round his head, which was now partly bald at the top. he wore no other beard than small, almost unnoticeable whiskers. his eyes were small, but bright, and very cheery when his humour was good. he was about five feet nine in height, having the appearance of great strength and perfect health. a more manly man to the eye was never seen. and he was one with whom you would instinctively wish at first sight to be on good terms,--partly because in looking at him there would come on you an unconscious conviction that he would be very stout in holding his own against his opponents; partly also from a conviction equally strong, that he would be very pleasant to his friends. when sir patrick had come home from india as an invalid, roger carbury had hurried up to see him in london, and had proffered him all kindness. would sir patrick and his wife and children like to go down to the old place in the country? sir patrick did not care a straw for the old place in the country, and so told his cousin in almost those very words. there had not, therefore, been much friendship during sir patrick's life. but when the violent ill-conditioned old man was dead, roger paid a second visit, and again offered hospitality to the widow and her daughter,--and to the young baronet. the young baronet had just joined his regiment and did not care to visit his cousin in suffolk; but lady carbury and henrietta had spent a month there, and everything had been done to make them happy. the effort as regarded henrietta had been altogether successful. as regarded the widow, it must be acknowledged that carbury hall had not quite suited her tastes. she had already begun to sigh for the glories of a literary career. a career of some kind,--sufficient to repay her for the sufferings of her early life,--she certainly desired. "dear cousin roger," as she called him, had not seemed to her to have much power of assisting her in these views. she was a woman who did not care much for country charms. she had endeavoured to get up some mild excitement with the bishop, but the bishop had been too plain spoken and sincere for her. the primeros had been odious; the hepworths stupid; the longestaffes,--she had endeavoured to make up a little friendship with lady pomona,--insufferably supercilious. she had declared to henrietta "that carbury hall was very dull." but then there had come a circumstance which altogether changed her opinions as to carbury hall, and its proprietor. the proprietor after a few weeks followed them up to london, and made a most matter-of-fact offer to the mother for the daughter's hand. he was at that time thirty-six, and henrietta was not yet twenty. he was very cool;--some might have thought him phlegmatic in his love-making. henrietta declared to her mother that she had not in the least expected it. but he was very urgent, and very persistent. lady carbury was eager on his side. though the carbury manor house did not exactly suit her, it would do admirably for henrietta. and as for age, to her thinking, she being then over forty, a man of thirty-six was young enough for any girl. but henrietta had an opinion of her own. she liked her cousin, but did not love him. she was amazed, and even annoyed by the offer. she had praised him and praised the house so loudly to her mother,--having in her innocence never dreamed of such a proposition as this,--so that now she found it difficult to give an adequate reason for her refusal. yes;--she had undoubtedly said that her cousin was charming, but she had not meant charming in that way. she did refuse the offer very plainly, but still with some apparent lack of persistency. when roger suggested that she should take a few months to think of it, and her mother supported roger's suggestion, she could say nothing stronger than that she was afraid that thinking about it would not do any good. their first visit to carbury had been made in september. in the following february she went there again,--much against the grain as far as her own wishes were concerned; and when there had been cold, constrained, almost dumb in the presence of her cousin. before they left the offer was renewed, but henrietta declared that she could not do as they would have her. she could give no reason, only she did not love her cousin in that way. but roger declared that he by no means intended to abandon his suit. in truth he verily loved the girl, and love with him was a serious thing. all this happened a full year before the beginning of our present story. but something else happened also. while that second visit was being made at carbury there came to the hall a young man of whom roger carbury had said much to his cousins,--one paul montague, of whom some short account shall be given in this chapter. the squire,--roger carbury was always called the squire about his own place,--had anticipated no evil when he so timed this second visit of his cousins to his house that they must of necessity meet paul montague there. but great harm had come of it. paul montague had fallen into love with his cousin's guest, and there had sprung up much unhappiness. lady carbury and henrietta had been nearly a month at carbury, and paul montague had been there barely a week, when roger carbury thus spoke to the guest who had last arrived. "i've got to tell you something, paul." "anything serious?" "very serious to me. i may say so serious that nothing in my own life can approach it in importance." he had unconsciously assumed that look, which his friend so thoroughly understood, indicating his resolve to hold to what he believed to be his own, and to fight if fighting be necessary. montague knew him well, and became half aware that he had done something, he knew not what, militating against this serious resolve of his friend. he looked up, but said nothing. "i have offered my hand in marriage to my cousin henrietta," said roger very gravely. "miss carbury?" "yes; to henrietta carbury. she has not accepted it. she has refused me twice. but i still have hopes of success. perhaps i have no right to hope, but i do. i tell it you just as it is. everything in life to me depends upon it. i think i may count upon your sympathy." "why did you not tell me before?" said paul montague in a hoarse voice. then there had come a sudden and rapid interchange of quick speaking between the men, each of them speaking the truth exactly, each of them declaring himself to be in the right and to be ill-used by the other, each of them equally hot, equally generous, and equally unreasonable. montague at once asserted that he also loved henrietta carbury. he blurted out his assurance in the baldest and most incomplete manner, but still in such words as to leave no doubt. no;--he had not said a word to her. he had intended to consult roger carbury himself,--should have done so in a day or two,--perhaps on that very day had not roger spoken to him. "you have neither of you a shilling in the world," said roger; "and now you know what my feelings are you must abandon it." then montague declared that he had a right to speak to miss carbury. he did not suppose that miss carbury cared a straw about him. he had not the least reason to think that she did. it was altogether impossible. but he had a right to his chance. that chance was all the world to him. as to money,--he would not admit that he was a pauper, and, moreover, he might earn an income as well as other men. had carbury told him that the young lady had shown the slightest intention to receive his, carbury's, addresses, he, paul, would at once have disappeared from the scene. but as it was not so, he would not say that he would abandon his hope. the scene lasted for above an hour. when it was ended, paul montague packed up all his clothes and was driven away to the railway station by roger himself, without seeing either of the ladies. there had been very hot words between the men, but the last words which roger spoke to the other on the railway platform were not quarrelsome in their nature. "god bless you, old fellow," he said, pressing paul's hands. paul's eyes were full of tears, and he replied only by returning the pressure. paul montague's father and mother had long been dead. the father had been a barrister in london, having perhaps some small fortune of his own. he had, at any rate, left to this son, who was one among others, a sufficiency with which to begin the world. paul when he had come of age had found himself possessed of about £ , . he was then at oxford, and was intended for the bar. an uncle of his, a younger brother of his father, had married a carbury, the younger sister of two, though older than her brother roger. this uncle many years since had taken his wife out to california, and had there become an american. he had a large tract of land, growing wool, and wheat, and fruit; but whether he prospered or whether he did not, had not always been plain to the montagues and carburys at home. the intercourse between the two families had in the quite early days of paul montague's life, created an affection between him and roger, who, as will be understood by those who have carefully followed the above family history, were not in any degree related to each other. roger, when quite a young man, had had the charge of the boy's education, and had sent him to oxford. but the oxford scheme, to be followed by the bar, and to end on some one of the many judicial benches of the country, had not succeeded. paul had got into a "row" at balliol, and had been rusticated,--had then got into another row, and was sent down. indeed he had a talent for rows,--though, as roger carbury always declared, there was nothing really wrong about any of them. paul was then twenty-one, and he took himself and his money out to california, and joined his uncle. he had perhaps an idea,--based on very insufficient grounds,--that rows are popular in california. at the end of three years he found that he did not like farming life in california,--and he found also that he did not like his uncle. so he returned to england, but on returning was altogether unable to get his £ , out of the californian farm. indeed he had been compelled to come away without any of it, with funds insufficient even to take him home, accepting with much dissatisfaction an assurance from his uncle that an income amounting to ten per cent. upon his capital should be remitted to him with the regularity of clockwork. the clock alluded to must have been one of sam slick's. it had gone very badly. at the end of the first quarter there came the proper remittance;--then half the amount;--then there was a long interval without anything; then some dropping payments now and again;--and then a twelvemonth without anything. at the end of that twelvemonth he paid a second visit to california, having borrowed money from roger for his journey. he had now again returned, with some little cash in hand, and with the additional security of a deed executed in his favour by one hamilton k. fisker, who had gone into partnership with his uncle, and who had added a vast flour-mill to his uncle's concerns. in accordance with this deed he was to get twelve per cent. on his capital, and had enjoyed the gratification of seeing his name put up as one of the firm, which now stood as fisker, montague, and montague. a business declared by the two elder partners to be most promising had been opened at fiskerville, about two hundred and fifty miles from san francisco, and the hearts of fisker and the elder montague were very high. paul hated fisker horribly, did not love his uncle much, and would willingly have got back his £ , had he been able. but he was not able, and returned as one of fisker, montague, and montague, not altogether unhappy, as he had succeeded in obtaining enough of his back income to pay what he owed to roger, and to live for a few months. he was intent on considering how he should bestow himself, consulting daily with roger on the subject, when suddenly roger had perceived that the young man was becoming attached to the girl whom he himself loved. what then occurred has been told. not a word was said to lady carbury or her daughter of the real cause of paul's sudden disappearance. it had been necessary that he should go to london. each of the ladies probably guessed something of the truth, but neither spoke a word to the other on the subject. before they left the manor the squire again pleaded his cause with henrietta, but he pleaded it in vain. henrietta was colder than ever,--but she made use of one unfortunate phrase which destroyed all the effect which her coldness might have had. she said that she was too young to think of marrying yet. she had meant to imply that the difference in their ages was too great, but had not known how to say it. it was easy to tell her that in a twelvemonth she would be older;--but it was impossible to convince her that any number of twelvemonths would alter the disparity between her and her cousin. but even that disparity was not now her strongest reason for feeling sure that she could not marry roger carbury. within a week of the departure of lady carbury from the manor house, paul montague returned, and returned as a still dear friend. he had promised before he went that he would not see henrietta again for three months, but he would promise nothing further. "if she won't take you, there is no reason why i shouldn't try." that had been his argument. roger would not accede to the justice even of this. it seemed to him that paul was bound to retire altogether, partly because he had got no income, partly because of roger's previous claim,--partly no doubt in gratitude, but of this last reason roger never said a word. if paul did not see this himself, paul was not such a man as his friend had taken him to be. paul did see it himself, and had many scruples. but why should his friend be a dog in the manger? he would yield at once to roger carbury's older claims if roger could make anything of them. indeed he could have no chance if the girl were disposed to take roger for her husband. roger had all the advantage of carbury manor at his back, whereas he had nothing but his share in the doubtful business of fisker, montague, and montague, in a wretched little town miles further off than san francisco! but if, with all this, roger could not prevail, why should he not try? what roger said about want of money was mere nonsense. paul was sure that his friend would have created no such difficulty had not he himself been interested. paul declared to himself that he had money, though doubtful money, and that he certainly would not give up henrietta on that score. he came up to london at various times in search of certain employment which had been half promised him, and, after the expiration of the three months, constantly saw lady carbury and her daughter. but from time to time he had given renewed promises to roger carbury that he would not declare his passion,--now for two months, then for six weeks, then for a month. in the meantime the two men were fast friends,--so fast that montague spent by far the greater part of his time as his friend's guest,--and all this was done with the understanding that roger carbury was to blaze up into hostile wrath should paul ever receive the privilege to call himself henrietta carbury's favoured lover, but that everything was to be smooth between them should henrietta be persuaded to become the mistress of carbury hall. so things went on up to the night at which montague met henrietta at madame melmotte's ball. the reader should also be informed that there had been already a former love affair in the young life of paul montague. there had been, and indeed there still was, a widow, one mrs. hurtle, whom he had been desperately anxious to marry before his second journey to california;--but the marriage had been prevented by the interference of roger carbury. chapter vii. mentor. lady carbury's desire for a union between roger and her daughter was greatly increased by her solicitude in respect to her son. since roger's offer had first been made, felix had gone on from bad to worse, till his condition had become one of hopeless embarrassment. if her daughter could but be settled in the world, lady carbury said to herself, she could then devote herself to the interests of her son. she had no very clear idea of what that devotion would be. but she did know that she had paid so much money for him, and would have so much more extracted from her, that it might well come to pass that she would be unable to keep a home for her daughter. in all these troubles she constantly appealed to roger carbury for advice,--which, however, she never followed. he recommended her to give up her house in town, to find a home for her daughter elsewhere, and also for felix if he would consent to follow her. should he not so consent, then let the young man bear the brunt of his own misdoings. doubtless, when he could no longer get bread in london he would find her out. roger was always severe when he spoke of the baronet,--or seemed to lady carbury to be severe. but, in truth, she did not ask for advice in order that she might follow it. she had plans in her head with which she knew that roger would not sympathise. she still thought that sir felix might bloom and burst out into grandeur, wealth, and fashion, as the husband of a great heiress, and in spite of her son's vices, was proud of him in that anticipation. when he succeeded in obtaining from her money, as in the case of that £ ,--when, with brazen-faced indifference to her remonstrances, he started off to his club at two in the morning, when with impudent drollery he almost boasted of the hopelessness of his debts, a sickness of heart would come upon her, and she would weep hysterically, and lie the whole night without sleeping. but could he marry miss melmotte, and thus conquer all his troubles by means of his own personal beauty,--then she would be proud of all that had passed. with such a condition of mind roger carbury could have no sympathy. to him it seemed that a gentleman was disgraced who owed money to a tradesman which he could not pay. and lady carbury's heart was high with other hopes,--in spite of her hysterics and her fears. the "criminal queens" might be a great literary success. she almost thought that it would be a success. messrs. leadham and loiter, the publishers, were civil to her. mr. broune had promised. mr. booker had said that he would see what could be done. she had gathered from mr. alf's caustic and cautious words that the book would be noticed in the "evening pulpit." no;--she would not take dear roger's advice as to leaving london. but she would continue to ask roger's advice. men like to have their advice asked. and, if possible, she would arrange the marriage. what country retirement could be so suitable for a lady carbury when she wished to retire for awhile,--as carbury manor, the seat of her own daughter? and then her mind would fly away into regions of bliss. if only by the end of this season henrietta could be engaged to her cousin, felix be the husband of the richest bride in europe, and she be the acknowledged author of the cleverest book of the year, what a paradise of triumph might still be open to her after all her troubles! then the sanguine nature of the woman would bear her up almost to exultation, and for an hour she would be happy, in spite of everything. a few days after the ball roger carbury was up in town, and was closeted with her in her back drawing-room. the declared cause of his coming was the condition of the baronet's affairs and the indispensable necessity,--so roger thought,--of taking some steps by which at any rate the young man's present expenses might be brought to an end. it was horrible to him that a man who had not a shilling in the world or any prospect of a shilling, who had nothing and never thought of earning anything, should have hunters! he was very much in earnest about it, and quite prepared to speak his mind to the young man himself,--if he could get hold of him. "where is he now, lady carbury;--at this moment?" "i think he's out with the baron." being "out with the baron" meant that the young man was hunting with the stag hounds some forty miles away from london. "how does he manage it? whose horses does he ride? who pays for them?" "don't be angry with me, roger. what can i do to prevent it?" "i think you should refuse to have anything to do with him while he continues in such courses." "my own son!" "yes;--exactly. but what is to be the end of it? is he to be allowed to ruin you, and hetta? it can't go on long." "you wouldn't have me throw him over." "i think he is throwing you over. and then it is so thoroughly dishonest,--so ungentlemanlike! i don't understand how it goes on from day to day. i suppose you don't supply him with ready money." "he has had a little." roger frowned angrily. "i can understand that you should provide him with bed and food, but not that you should pander to his vices by giving him money." this was very plain speaking, and lady carbury winced under it. "the kind of life that he is leading requires a large income of itself. i understand the thing, and know that with all i have in the world i could not do it myself." "you are so different." "i am older of course,--very much older. but he is not so young that he should not begin to comprehend. has he any money beyond what you give him?" then lady carbury revealed certain suspicions which she had begun to entertain during the last day or two. "i think he has been playing." "that is the way to lose money,--not to get it," said roger. "i suppose somebody wins,--sometimes." "they who win are the sharpers. they who lose are the dupes. i would sooner that he were a fool than a knave." "o roger, you are so severe!" "you say he plays. how would he pay, were he to lose?" "i know nothing about it. i don't even know that he does play; but i have reason to think that during the last week he has had money at his command. indeed i have seen it. he comes home at all manner of hours and sleeps late. yesterday i went into his room about ten and did not wake him. there were notes and gold lying on his table;--ever so much." "why did you not take them?" "what; rob my own boy?" "when you tell me that you are absolutely in want of money to pay your own bills, and that he has not hesitated to take yours from you! why does he not repay you what he has borrowed?" "ah, indeed;--why not? he ought to if he has it. and there were papers there;--i. o. u.'s, signed by other men." "you looked at them." "i saw as much as that. it is not that i am curious, but one does feel about one's own son. i think he has bought another horse. a groom came here and said something about it to the servants." "oh dear;--oh dear!" "if you could only induce him to stop the gambling! of course it is very bad whether he wins or loses,--though i am sure that felix would do nothing unfair. nobody ever said that of him. if he has won money, it would be a great comfort if he would let me have some of it,--for, to tell the truth, i hardly know how to turn. i am sure nobody can say that i spend it on myself." then roger again repeated his advice. there could be no use in attempting to keep up the present kind of life in welbeck street. welbeck street might be very well without a penniless spendthrift such as sir felix, but must be ruinous under the present conditions. if lady carbury felt, as no doubt she did feel, bound to afford a home to her ruined son in spite of all his wickedness and folly, that home should be found far away from london. if he chose to remain in london, let him do so on his own resources. the young man should make up his mind to do something for himself. a career might possibly be opened for him in india. "if he be a man he would sooner break stones than live on you," said roger. yes, he would see his cousin to-morrow and speak to him;--that is if he could possibly find him. "young men who gamble all night, and hunt all day are not easily found." but he would come at twelve as felix generally breakfasted at that hour. then he gave an assurance to lady carbury which to her was not the least comfortable part of the interview. in the event of her son not giving her the money which she at once required he, roger, would lend her a hundred pounds till her half year's income should be due. after that his voice changed altogether, as he asked a question on another subject, "can i see henrietta to-morrow?" "certainly;--why not? she is at home now, i think." "i will wait till to-morrow,--when i call to see felix. i should like her to know that i am coming. paul montague was in town the other day. he was here, i suppose?" "yes;--he called." "was that all you saw of him?" "he was at the melmottes' ball. felix got a card for him;--and we were there. has he gone down to carbury?" "no;--not to carbury. i think he had some business about his partners at liverpool. there is another case of a young man without anything to do. not that paul is at all like sir felix." this he was induced to say by the spirit of honesty which was always strong within him. "don't be too hard upon poor felix," said lady carbury. roger, as he took his leave, thought that it would be impossible to be too hard upon sir felix carbury. the next morning lady carbury was in her son's bedroom before he was up, and with incredible weakness told him that his cousin roger was coming to lecture him. "what the devil's the use of it?" said felix from beneath the bedclothes. "if you speak to me in that way, felix, i must leave the room." "but what is the use of his coming to me? i know what he has got to say just as if it were said. it's all very well preaching sermons to good people, but nothing ever was got by preaching to people who ain't good." "why shouldn't you be good?" "i shall do very well, mother, if that fellow will leave me alone. i can play my hand better than he can play it for me. if you'll go now i'll get up." she had intended to ask him for some of the money which she believed he still possessed, but her courage failed her. if she asked for his money, and took it, she would in some fashion recognise and tacitly approve his gambling. it was not yet eleven, and it was early for him to leave his bed; but he had resolved that he would get out of the house before that horrible bore should be upon him with his sermon. to do this he must be energetic. he was actually eating his breakfast at half-past eleven, and had already contrived in his mind how he would turn the wrong way as soon as he got into the street,--towards marylebone road, by which route roger would certainly not come. he left the house at ten minutes before twelve, cunningly turned away, dodging round by the first corner,--and just as he had turned it encountered his cousin. roger, anxious in regard to his errand, with time at his command, had come before the hour appointed and had strolled about, thinking not of felix but of felix's sister. the baronet felt that he had been caught,--caught unfairly, but by no means abandoned all hope of escape. "i was going to your mother's house on purpose to see you," said roger. "were you indeed? i am so sorry. i have an engagement out here with a fellow which i must keep. i could meet you at any other time, you know." "you can come back for ten minutes," said roger, taking him by the arm. "well;--not conveniently at this moment." "you must manage it. i am here at your mother's request, and can't afford to remain in town day after day looking for you. i go down to carbury this afternoon. your friend can wait. come along." his firmness was too much for felix, who lacked the courage to shake his cousin off violently, and to go his way. but as he returned he fortified himself with the remembrance of all the money in his pocket,--for he still had his winnings,--remembered too certain sweet words which had passed between him and marie melmotte since the ball, and resolved that he would not be "sat upon" by roger carbury. the time was coming,--he might almost say that the time had come,--in which he might defy roger carbury. nevertheless, he dreaded the words which were now to be spoken to him with a craven fear. "your mother tells me," said roger, "that you still keep hunters." "i don't know what she calls hunters. i have one that i didn't part with when the others went." "you have only one horse?" "well;--if you want to be exact, i have a hack as well as the horse i ride." "and another up here in town?" "who told you that? no; i haven't. at least there is one staying at some stables which has been sent for me to look at." "who pays for all these horses?" "at any rate i shall not ask you to pay for them." "no;--you would be afraid to do that. but you have no scruple in asking your mother, though you should force her to come to me or to other friends for assistance. you have squandered every shilling of your own, and now you are ruining her." "that isn't true. i have money of my own." "where did you get it?" "this is all very well, roger; but i don't know that you have any right to ask me these questions. i have money. if i buy a horse i can pay for it. if i keep one or two i can pay for them. of course i owe a lot of money, but other people owe me money too. i'm all right, and you needn't frighten yourself." "then why do you beg her last shilling from your mother, and when you have money not pay it back to her?" "she can have the twenty pounds, if you mean that." "i mean that, and a good deal more than that. i suppose you have been gambling." "i don't know that i am bound to answer your questions, and i won't do it. if you have nothing else to say, i'll go about my own business." "i have something else to say, and i mean to say it." felix had walked towards the door, but roger was before him, and now leaned his back against it. "i am not going to be kept here against my will," said felix. "you have to listen to me, so you may as well sit still. do you wish to be looked upon as a blackguard by all the world?" "oh,--go on." "that is what it will be. you have spent every shilling of your own,--and because your mother is affectionate and weak, you are now spending all that she has, and are bringing her and your sister to beggary." "i don't ask them to pay anything for me." "not when you borrow her money?" "there is the £ . take it and give it her," said felix, counting the notes out of the pocket-book. "when i asked her for it, i did not think she would make such a row about such a trifle." roger took up the notes and thrust them into his pocket. "now, have you done?" said felix. [illustration: "there's the £ ."] "not quite. do you purpose that your mother should keep you and clothe you for the rest of your life?" "i hope to be able to keep her before long, and to do it much better than it has ever been done before. the truth is, roger, you know nothing about it. if you'll leave me to myself, you'll find that i shall do very well." "i don't know any young man who ever did worse, or one who had less moral conception of what is right and wrong." "very well. that's your idea. i differ from you. people can't all think alike, you know. now, if you please, i'll go." roger felt that he hadn't half said what he had to say, but he hardly knew how to get it said. and of what use could it be to talk to a young man who was altogether callous and without feeling? the remedy for the evil ought to be found in the mother's conduct rather than the son's. she, were she not foolishly weak, would make up her mind to divide herself utterly from her son, at any rate for a while, and to leave him to suffer utter penury. that would bring him round. and then when the agony of want had tamed him, he would be content to take bread and meat from her hand and would be humble. at present he had money in his pocket, and would eat and drink of the best, and be free from inconvenience for the moment. while this prosperity remained it would be impossible to touch him. "you will ruin your sister, and break your mother's heart," said roger, firing a last harmless shot after the young reprobate. when lady carbury came into the room, which she did as soon as the front door was closed behind her son, she seemed to think that a great success had been achieved because the £ had been recovered. "i knew he would give it me back, if he had it," she said. "why did he not bring it to you of his own accord?" "i suppose he did not like to talk about it. has he said that he got it by--playing?" "no,--he did not speak a word of truth while he was here. you may take it for granted that he did get it by gambling. how else should he have it? and you may take it for granted also that he will lose all that he has got. he talked in the wildest way,--saying that he would soon have a home for you and hetta." "did he;--dear boy!" "had he any meaning?" "oh; yes. and it is quite on the cards that it should be so. you have heard of miss melmotte." "i have heard of the great french swindler who has come over here, and who is buying his way into society." "everybody visits them now, roger." "more shame for everybody. who knows anything about him,--except that he left paris with the reputation of a specially prosperous rogue? but what of him?" "some people think that felix will marry his only child. felix is handsome; isn't he? what young man is there nearly so handsome? they say she'll have half a million of money." "that's his game;--is it?" "don't you think he is right?" "no; i think he's wrong. but we shall hardly agree with each other about that. can i see henrietta for a few minutes?" chapter viii. love-sick. roger carbury said well that it was very improbable that he and his cousin, the widow, should agree in their opinions as to the expedience of fortune-hunting by marriage. it was impossible that they should ever understand each other. to lady carbury the prospect of a union between her son and miss melmotte was one of unmixed joy and triumph. could it have been possible that marie melmotte should be rich and her father be a man doomed to a deserved sentence in a penal settlement, there might perhaps be a doubt about it. the wealth even in that case would certainly carry the day against the disgrace, and lady carbury would find reasons why "poor marie" should not be punished for her father's sins, even while enjoying the money which those sins had produced. but how different were the existing facts? mr. melmotte was not at the galleys, but was entertaining duchesses in grosvenor square. people said that mr. melmotte had a reputation throughout europe as a gigantic swindler,--as one who in the dishonest and successful pursuit of wealth had stopped at nothing. people said of him that he had framed and carried out long premeditated and deeply laid schemes for the ruin of those who had trusted him, that he had swallowed up the property of all who had come in contact with him, that he was fed with the blood of widows and children;--but what was all this to lady carbury? if the duchesses condoned it all, did it become her to be prudish? people also said that melmotte would yet get a fall,--that a man who had risen after such a fashion never could long keep his head up. but he might keep his head up long enough to give marie her fortune. and then felix wanted a fortune so badly;--was so exactly the young man who ought to marry a fortune! to lady carbury there was no second way of looking at the matter. and to roger carbury also there was no second way of looking at it. that condonation of antecedents which, in the hurry of the world, is often vouchsafed to success, that growing feeling which induces people to assert to themselves that they are not bound to go outside the general verdict, and that they may shake hands with whomsoever the world shakes hands with, had never reached him. the old-fashioned idea that the touching of pitch will defile still prevailed with him. he was a gentleman;--and would have felt himself disgraced to enter the house of such a one as augustus melmotte. not all the duchesses in the peerage, or all the money in the city, could alter his notions or induce him to modify his conduct. but he knew that it would be useless for him to explain this to lady carbury. he trusted, however, that one of the family might be taught to appreciate the difference between honour and dishonour. henrietta carbury had, he thought, a higher turn of mind than her mother, and had as yet been kept free from soil. as for felix,--he had so grovelled in the gutters as to be dirt all over. nothing short of the prolonged sufferings of half a life could cleanse him. he found henrietta alone in the drawing-room. "have you seen felix?" she said, as soon as they had greeted each other. "yes. i caught him in the street." "we are so unhappy about him." "i cannot say but that you have reason. i think, you know, that your mother indulges him foolishly." "poor mamma! she worships the very ground he treads on." "even a mother should not throw her worship away like that. the fact is that your brother will ruin you both if this goes on." "what can mamma do?" "leave london, and then refuse to pay a shilling on his behalf." "what would felix do in the country?" "if he did nothing, how much better would that be than what he does in town? you would not like him to become a professional gambler." "oh, mr. carbury; you do not mean that he does that!" "it seems cruel to say such things to you,--but in a matter of such importance one is bound to speak the truth. i have no influence over your mother; but you may have some. she asks my advice, but has not the slightest idea of listening to it. i don't blame her for that; but i am anxious for the sake of--, for the sake of the family." "i am sure you are." "especially for your sake. you will never throw him over." "you would not ask me to throw him over." "but he may drag you into the mud. for his sake you have already been taken into the house of that man melmotte." "i do not think that i shall be injured by anything of that kind," said henrietta, drawing herself up. "pardon me if i seem to interfere." "oh, no;--it is no interference from you." "pardon me then if i am rough. to me it seems that an injury is done to you if you are made to go to the house of such a one as this man. why does your mother seek his society? not because she likes him; not because she has any sympathy with him or his family;--but simply because there is a rich daughter." "everybody goes there, mr. carbury." "yes,--that is the excuse which everybody makes. is that sufficient reason for you to go to a man's house? is there not another place to which we are told that a great many are going, simply because the road has become thronged and fashionable? have you no feeling that you ought to choose your friends for certain reasons of your own? i admit there is one reason here. they have a great deal of money, and it is thought possible that he may get some of it by falsely swearing to a girl that he loves her. after what you have heard, are the melmottes people with whom you would wish to be connected?" "i don't know." "i do. i know very well. they are absolutely disgraceful. a social connection with the first crossing-sweeper would be less objectionable." he spoke with a degree of energy of which he was himself altogether unaware. he knit his brows, and his eyes flashed, and his nostrils were extended. of course she thought of his own offer to herself. of course her mind at once conceived,--not that the melmotte connection could ever really affect him, for she felt sure that she would never accept his offer,--but that he might think that he would be so affected. of course she resented the feeling which she thus attributed to him. but, in truth, he was much too simple-minded for any such complex idea. "felix," he continued, "has already descended so far that i cannot pretend to be anxious as to what houses he may frequent. but i should be sorry to think that you should often be seen at mr. melmotte's." "i think, mr. carbury, that mamma will take care that i am not taken where i ought not to be taken." "i wish you to have some opinion of your own as to what is proper for you." "i hope i have. i am sorry you should think that i have not." "i am old-fashioned, hetta." "and we belong to a newer and worse sort of world. i dare say it is so. you have been always very kind, but i almost doubt whether you can change us now. i have sometimes thought that you and mamma were hardly fit for each other." "i have thought that you and i were,--or possibly might be fit for each other." "oh,--as for me, i shall always take mamma's side. if mamma chooses to go to the melmottes i shall certainly go with her. if that is contamination, i suppose i must be contaminated. i don't see why i'm to consider myself better than any one else." "i have always thought that you were better than any one else." "that was before i went to the melmottes. i am sure you have altered your opinion now. indeed, you have told me so. i am afraid, mr. carbury, you must go your way, and we must go ours." he looked into her face as she spoke, and gradually began to perceive the working of her mind. he was so true himself that he did not understand that there should be with her even that violet-coloured tinge of prevarication which women assume as an additional charm. could she really have thought that he was attending to his own possible future interests when he warned her as to the making of new acquaintances? "for myself," he said, putting out his hand and making a slight vain effort to get hold of hers, "i have only one wish in the world; and that is, to travel the same road with you. i do not say that you ought to wish it too; but you ought to know that i am sincere. when i spoke of the melmottes, did you believe that i was thinking of myself?" "oh no;--how should i?" "i was speaking to you then as to a cousin who might regard me as an elder brother. no contact with legions of melmottes could make you other to me than the woman on whom my heart has settled. even were you in truth disgraced,--could disgrace touch one so pure as you,--it would be the same. i love you so well that i have already taken you for better or for worse. i cannot change. my nature is too stubborn for such changes. have you a word to say to comfort me?" she turned away her head, but did not answer him at once. "do you understand how much i am in need of comfort?" "you can do very well without comfort from me." "no, indeed. i shall live, no doubt; but i shall not do very well. as it is, i am not doing at all well. i am becoming sour and moody, and ill at ease with my friends. i would have you believe me, at any rate, when i say i love you." "i suppose you mean something." "i mean a great deal, dear. i mean all that a man can mean. that is it. you hardly understand that i am serious to the extent of ecstatic joy on the one side, and utter indifference to the world on the other. i shall never give it up till i learn that you are to be married to some one else." "what can i say, mr. carbury?" "that you will love me." "but if i don't?" "say that you will try." "no; i will not say that. love should come without a struggle. i don't know how one person is to try to love another in that way. i like you very much; but being married is such a terrible thing." "it would not be terrible to me, dear." "yes;--when you found that i was too young for your tastes." "i shall persevere, you know. will you assure me of this,--that if you promise your hand to another man, you will let me know at once?" "i suppose i may promise that," she said, after pausing for a moment. "there is no one as yet?" "there is no one. but, mr. carbury, you have no right to question me. i don't think it generous. i allow you to say things that nobody else could say because you are a cousin and because mamma trusts you so much. no one but mamma has a right to ask me whether i care for any one." "are you angry with me?" "no." "if i have offended you it is because i love you so dearly." "i am not offended, but i don't like to be questioned by a gentleman. i don't think any girl would like it. i am not to tell everybody all that happens." "perhaps when you reflect how much of my happiness depends upon it you will forgive me. good-bye now." she put out her hand to him and allowed it to remain in his for a moment. "when i walk about the old shrubberies at carbury where we used to be together, i am always asking myself what chance there is of your walking there as the mistress." "there is no chance." "i am, of course, prepared to hear you say so. well; good-bye, and may god bless you." the man had no poetry about him. he did not even care for romance. all the outside belongings of love which are so pleasant to many men and which to many women afford the one sweetness in life which they really relish, were nothing to him. there are both men and women to whom even the delays and disappointments of love are charming, even when they exist to the detriment of hope. it is sweet to such persons to be melancholy, sweet to pine, sweet to feel that they are now wretched after a romantic fashion as have been those heroes and heroines of whose sufferings they have read in poetry. but there was nothing of this with roger carbury. he had, as he believed, found the woman that he really wanted, who was worthy of his love, and now, having fixed his heart upon her, he longed for her with an amazing longing. he had spoken the simple truth when he declared that life had become indifferent to him without her. no man in england could be less likely to throw himself off the monument or to blow out his brains. but he felt numbed in all the joints of his mind by this sorrow. he could not make one thing bear upon another, so as to console himself after any fashion. there was but one thing for him;--to persevere till he got her, or till he had finally lost her. and should the latter be his fate, as he began to fear that it would be, then, he would live, but live only, like a crippled man. he felt almost sure in his heart of hearts that the girl loved that other, younger man. that she had never owned to such love he was quite sure. the man himself and henrietta also had both assured him on this point, and he was a man easily satisfied by words and prone to believe. but he knew that paul montague was attached to her, and that it was paul's intention to cling to his love. sorrowfully looking forward through the vista of future years, he thought he saw that henrietta would become paul's wife. were it so, what should he do? annihilate himself as far as all personal happiness in the world was concerned, and look solely to their happiness, their prosperity, and their joys? be as it were a beneficent old fairy to them, though the agony of his own disappointment should never depart from him? should he do this, and be blessed by them,--or should he let paul montague know what deep resentment such ingratitude could produce? when had a father been kinder to a son, or a brother to a brother, than he had been to paul? his home had been the young man's home, and his purse the young man's purse. what right could the young man have to come upon him just as he was perfecting his bliss and rob him of all that he had in the world? he was conscious all the while that there was a something wrong in his argument,--that paul when he commenced to love the girl knew nothing of his friend's love,--that the girl, though paul had never come in the way, might probably have been as obdurate as she was now to his entreaties. he knew all this because his mind was clear. but yet the injustice,--at any rate, the misery was so great, that to forgive it and to reward it would be weak, womanly, and foolish. roger carbury did not quite believe in the forgiveness of injuries. if you pardon all the evil done to you, you encourage others to do you evil! if you give your cloak to him who steals your coat, how long will it be before your shirt and trousers will go also? roger carbury returned that afternoon to suffolk, and as he thought of it all throughout the journey, he resolved that he would never forgive paul montague if paul montague should become his cousin's husband. chapter ix. the great railway to vera cruz. "you have been a guest in his house. then, i guess, the thing's about as good as done." these words were spoken with a fine, sharp, nasal twang by a brilliantly-dressed american gentleman in one of the smartest private rooms of the great railway hotel at liverpool, and they were addressed to a young englishman who was sitting opposite to him. between them there was a table covered with maps, schedules, and printed programmes. the american was smoking a very large cigar, which he kept constantly turning in his mouth, and half of which was inside his teeth. the englishman had a short pipe. mr. hamilton k. fisker, of the firm of fisker, montague, and montague, was the american, and the englishman was our friend paul, the junior member of that firm. "but i didn't even speak to him," said paul. "in commercial affairs that matters nothing. it quite justifies you in introducing me. we are not going to ask your friend to do us a favour. we don't want to borrow money." "i thought you did." "if he'll go in for the thing he'd be one of us, and there would be no borrowing then. he'll join us if he's as clever as they say, because he'll see his way to making a couple of million of dollars out of it. if he'd take the trouble to run over and show himself in san francisco, he'd make double that. the moneyed men would go in with him at once, because they know that he understands the game and has got the pluck. a man who has done what he has by financing in europe,--by george! there's no limit to what he might do with us. we're a bigger people than any of you and have more room. we go after bigger things, and don't stand shilly-shally on the brink as you do. but melmotte pretty nigh beats the best among us. anyway he should come and try his luck, and he couldn't have a bigger thing or a safer thing than this. he'd see it immediately if i could talk to him for half an hour." "mr. fisker," said paul mysteriously, "as we are partners, i think i ought to let you know that many people speak very badly of mr. melmotte's honesty." mr. fisker smiled gently, turned his cigar twice round in his mouth, and then closed one eye. "there is always a want of charity," he said, "when a man is successful." the scheme in question was the grand proposal for a south central pacific and mexican railway, which was to run from the salt lake city, thus branching off from the san francisco and chicago line,--and pass down through the fertile lands of new mexico and arizona, into the territory of the mexican republic, run by the city of mexico, and come out on the gulf at the port of vera cruz. mr. fisker admitted at once that it was a great undertaking, acknowledged that the distance might be perhaps something over , miles, acknowledged that no computation had or perhaps could be made as to the probable cost of the railway; but seemed to think that questions such as these were beside the mark and childish. melmotte, if he would go into the matter at all, would ask no such questions. but we must go back a little. paul montague had received a telegram from his partner, hamilton k. fisker, sent on shore at queenstown from one of the new york liners, requesting him to meet fisker at liverpool immediately. with this request he had felt himself bound to comply. personally he had disliked fisker,--and perhaps not the less so because when in california he had never found himself able to resist the man's good humour, audacity, and cleverness combined. he had found himself talked into agreeing with any project which mr. fisker might have in hand. it was altogether against the grain with him, and yet by his own consent, that the flour-mill had been opened at fiskerville. he trembled for his money and never wished to see fisker again; but still, when fisker came to england, he was proud to remember that fisker was his partner, and he obeyed the order and went down to liverpool. if the flour-mill had frightened him, what must the present project have done! fisker explained that he had come with two objects,--first to ask the consent of the english partner to the proposed change in their business, and secondly to obtain the co-operation of english capitalists. the proposed change in the business meant simply the entire sale of the establishment at fiskerville, and the absorption of the whole capital in the work of getting up the railway. "if you could realise all the money it wouldn't make a mile of the railway," said paul. mr. fisker laughed at him. the object of fisker, montague, and montague was not to make a railway to vera cruz, but to float a company. paul thought that mr. fisker seemed to be indifferent whether the railway should ever be constructed or not. it was clearly his idea that fortunes were to be made out of the concern before a spadeful of earth had been moved. if brilliantly printed programmes might avail anything, with gorgeous maps, and beautiful little pictures of trains running into tunnels beneath snowy mountains and coming out of them on the margin of sunlit lakes, mr. fisker had certainly done much. but paul, when he saw all these pretty things, could not keep his mind from thinking whence had come the money to pay for them. mr. fisker had declared that he had come over to obtain his partner's consent, but it seemed to that partner that a great deal had been done without any consent. and paul's fears on this hand were not allayed by finding that on all these beautiful papers he himself was described as one of the agents and general managers of the company. each document was signed fisker, montague, and montague. references on all matters were to be made to fisker, montague, and montague,--and in one of the documents it was stated that a member of the firm had proceeded to london with the view of attending to british interests in the matter. fisker had seemed to think that his young partner would express unbounded satisfaction at the greatness which was thus falling upon him. a certain feeling of importance, not altogether unpleasant, was produced, but at the same time there was another conviction forced upon montague's mind, not altogether pleasant, that his money was being made to disappear without any consent given by him, and that it behoved him to be cautious lest such consent should be extracted from him unawares. "what has become of the mill?" he asked. "we have put an agent into it." "is not that dangerous? what check have you on him?" "he pays us a fixed sum, sir. but, my word! when there is such a thing as this on hand a trumpery mill like that is not worth speaking of." "you haven't sold it?" "well;--no. but we've arranged a price for a sale." "you haven't taken the money for it?" "well;--yes; we have. we've raised money on it, you know. you see you weren't there, and so the two resident partners acted for the firm. but mr. montague, you'd better go with us. you had indeed." "and about my own income?" "that's a flea-bite. when we've got a little ahead with this it won't matter, sir, whether you spend twenty thousand or forty thousand dollars a year. we've got the concession from the united states government through the territories, and we're in correspondence with the president of the mexican republic. i've no doubt we've an office open already in mexico and another at vera cruz." "where's the money to come from?" "money to come from, sir? where do you suppose the money comes from in all these undertakings? if we can float the shares, the money'll come in quick enough. we hold three million dollars of the stock ourselves." "six hundred thousand pounds!" said montague. "we take them at par, of course,--and as we sell we shall pay for them. but of course we shall only sell at a premium. if we can run them up even to , there would be three hundred thousand dollars. but we'll do better than that. i must try and see melmotte at once. you had better write a letter now." "i don't know the man." "never mind. look here--i'll write it, and you can sign it." whereupon mr. fisker did write the following letter:-- langham hotel, london. march , --. dear sir,--i have the pleasure of informing you that my partner, mr. fisker,--of fisker, montague, and montague, of san francisco,--is now in london with the view of allowing british capitalists to assist in carrying out perhaps the greatest work of the age,--namely, the south central pacific and mexican railway, which is to give direct communication between san francisco and the gulf of mexico. he is very anxious to see you upon his arrival, as he is aware that your co-operation would be desirable. we feel assured that with your matured judgment in such matters you would see at once the magnificence of the enterprise. if you will name a day and an hour, mr. fisker will call upon you. i have to thank you and madame melmotte for a very pleasant evening spent at your house last week. mr. fisker proposes returning to new york. i shall remain here, superintending the british interests which may be involved. i have the honour to be, dear sir, most faithfully yours, ---- ----. "but i have never said that i would superintend the interests," said montague. "you can say so now. it binds you to nothing. you regular john bull englishmen are so full of scruples that you lose as much of life as should serve to make an additional fortune." after some further conversation paul montague recopied the letter and signed it. he did it with doubt,--almost with dismay. but he told himself that he could do no good by refusing. if this wretched american, with his hat on one side and rings on his fingers, had so far got the upper hand of paul's uncle as to have been allowed to do what he liked with the funds of the partnership, paul could not stop it. on the following morning they went up to london together, and in the course of the afternoon mr. fisker presented himself in abchurch lane. the letter written at liverpool, but dated from the langham hotel, had been posted at the euston square railway station at the moment of fisker's arrival. fisker sent in his card, and was asked to wait. in the course of twenty minutes he was ushered into the great man's presence by no less a person than miles grendall. it has been already said that mr. melmotte was a big man with large whiskers, rough hair, and with an expression of mental power on a harsh vulgar face. he was certainly a man to repel you by his presence unless attracted to him by some internal consideration. he was magnificent in his expenditure, powerful in his doings, successful in his business, and the world around him therefore was not repelled. fisker, on the other hand, was a shining little man,--perhaps about forty years of age, with a well-twisted moustache, greasy brown hair, which was becoming bald at the top, good-looking if his features were analysed, but insignificant in appearance. he was gorgeously dressed, with a silk waistcoat and chains, and he carried a little stick. one would at first be inclined to say that fisker was not much of a man; but after a little conversation most men would own that there was something in fisker. he was troubled by no shyness, by no scruples, and by no fears. his mind was not capacious, but such as it was it was his own, and he knew how to use it. abchurch lane is not a grand site for the offices of a merchant prince. here, at a small corner house, there was a small brass plate on a swing door, bearing the words "melmotte & co." of whom the co. was composed no one knew. in one sense mr. melmotte might be said to be in company with all the commercial world, for there was no business to which he would refuse his co-operation on certain terms. but he had never burthened himself with a partner in the usual sense of the term. here fisker found three or four clerks seated at desks, and was desired to walk up-stairs. the steps were narrow and crooked, and the rooms were small and irregular. here he stayed for a while in a small dark apartment in which "the daily telegraph" was left for the amusement of its occupant till miles grendall announced to him that mr. melmotte would see him. the millionaire looked at him for a moment or two, just condescending to touch with his fingers the hand which fisker had projected. "i don't seem to remember," he said, "the gentleman who has done me the honour of writing to me about you." "i dare say not, mr. melmotte. when i'm at home in san francisco, i make acquaintance with a great many gents whom i don't remember afterwards. my partner i think told me that he went to your house with his friend, sir felix carbury." "i know a young man called sir felix carbury." "that's it. i could have got any amount of introductions to you if i had thought this would not have sufficed." mr. melmotte bowed. "our account here in london is kept with the city and west end joint stock. but i have only just arrived, and as my chief object in coming to london is to see you, and as i met my partner, mr. montague, in liverpool, i took a note from him and came on straight." "and what can i do for you, mr. fisker?" then mr. fisker began his account of the great south central pacific and mexican railway, and exhibited considerable skill by telling it all in comparatively few words. and yet he was gorgeous and florid. in two minutes he had displayed his programme, his maps, and his pictures before mr. melmotte's eyes, taking care that mr. melmotte should see how often the names of fisker, montague, and montague, reappeared upon them. as mr. melmotte read the documents, fisker from time to time put in a word. but the words had no reference at all to the future profits of the railway, or to the benefit which such means of communication would confer upon the world at large; but applied solely to the appetite for such stock as theirs, which might certainly be produced in the speculating world by a proper manipulation of the affairs. [illustration: then mr. fisker began his account.] "you seem to think you couldn't get it taken up in your own country," said melmotte. "there's not a doubt about getting it all taken up there. our folk, sir, are quick enough at the game; but you don't want me to teach you, mr. melmotte, that nothing encourages this kind of thing like competition. when they hear at st. louis and chicago that the thing is alive in london, they'll be alive there. and it's the same here, sir. when they know that the stock is running like wildfire in america, they'll make it run here too." "how far have you got?" "what we've gone to work upon is a concession for making the line from the united states congress. we're to have the land for nothing, of course, and a grant of one thousand acres round every station, the stations to be twenty-five miles apart." "and the land is to be made over to you,--when?" "when we have made the line up to the station." fisker understood perfectly that mr. melmotte did not ask the question in reference to any value that he might attach to the possession of such lands, but to the attractiveness of such a prospectus in the eyes of the outside world of speculators. "and what do you want me to do, mr. fisker?" "i want to have your name there," he said. and he placed his finger down on a spot on which it was indicated that there was, or was to be, a chairman of an english board of directors, but with a space for the name, hitherto blank. "who are to be your directors here, mr. fisker?" "we should ask you to choose them, sir. mr. paul montague should be one, and perhaps his friend sir felix carbury might be another. we could get probably one of the directors of the city and west end. but we would leave it all to you,--as also the amount of stock you would like to take yourself. if you gave yourself to it, heart and soul, mr. melmotte, it would be the finest thing that there has been out for a long time. there would be such a mass of stock!" "you have to back that with a certain amount of paid-up capital?" "we take care, sir, in the west not to cripple commerce too closely by old-fashioned bandages. look at what we've done already, sir, by having our limbs pretty free. look at our line, sir, right across the continent, from san francisco to new york. look at--" "never mind that, mr. fisker. people wanted to go from new york to san francisco, and i don't know that they do want to go to vera cruz. but i will look at it, and you shall hear from me." the interview was over, and mr. fisker was contented with it. had mr. melmotte not intended at least to think of it he would not have given ten minutes to the subject. after all, what was wanted from mr. melmotte was little more than his name, for the use of which mr. fisker proposed that he should receive from the speculative public two or three hundred thousand pounds. at the end of a fortnight from the date of mr. fisker's arrival in london, the company was fully launched in england, with a body of london directors, of whom mr. melmotte was the chairman. among the directors were lord alfred grendall, sir felix carbury, samuel cohenlupe, esq., member of parliament for staines, a gentleman of the jewish persuasion, lord nidderdale, who was also in parliament, and mr. paul montague. it may be thought that the directory was not strong, and that but little help could be given to any commercial enterprise by the assistance of lord alfred or sir felix;--but it was felt that mr. melmotte was himself so great a tower of strength that the fortune of the company,--as a company,--was made. chapter x. mr. fisker's success. mr. fisker was fully satisfied with the progress he had made, but he never quite succeeded in reconciling paul montague to the whole transaction. mr. melmotte was indeed so great a reality, such a fact in the commercial world of london, that it was no longer possible for such a one as montague to refuse to believe in the scheme. melmotte had the telegraph at his command, and had been able to make as close inquiries as though san francisco and salt lake city had been suburbs of london. he was chairman of the british branch of the company, and had had shares allocated to him,--or as he said to the house,--to the extent of two millions of dollars. but still there was a feeling of doubt, and a consciousness that melmotte, though a tower of strength, was thought by many to have been built upon the sands. paul had now of course given his full authority to the work, much in opposition to the advice of his old friend roger carbury,--and had come up to live in town, that he might personally attend to the affairs of the great railway. there was an office just behind the exchange, with two or three clerks and a secretary, the latter position being held by miles grendall, esq. paul, who had a conscience in the matter and was keenly alive to the fact that he was not only a director but was also one of the firm of fisker, montague, and montague which was responsible for the whole affair, was grievously anxious to be really at work, and would attend most inopportunely at the company's offices. fisker, who still lingered in london, did his best to put a stop to this folly, and on more than one occasion somewhat snubbed his partner. "my dear fellow, what's the use of your flurrying yourself? in a thing of this kind, when it has once been set agoing, there is nothing else to do. you may have to work your fingers off before you can make it move, and then fail. but all that has been done for you. if you go there on the thursdays that's quite as much as you need do. you don't suppose that such a man as melmotte would put up with any real interference." paul endeavoured to assert himself, declaring that as one of the managers he meant to take a part in the management;--that his fortune, such as it was, had been embarked in the matter, and was as important to him as was mr. melmotte's fortune to mr. melmotte. but fisker got the better of him and put him down. "fortune! what fortune had either of us? a few beggarly thousands of dollars not worth talking of, and barely sufficient to enable a man to look at an enterprise. and now where are you? look here, sir;--there's more to be got out of the smashing up of such an affair as this, if it should smash up, than could be made by years of hard work out of such fortunes as yours and mine in the regular way of trade." paul montague certainly did not love mr. fisker personally, nor did he relish his commercial doctrines; but he allowed himself to be carried away by them. "when and how was i to have helped myself?" he wrote to roger carbury. "the money had been raised and spent before this man came here at all. it's all very well to say that he had no right to do it; but he had done it. i couldn't even have gone to law with him without going over to california, and then i should have got no redress." through it all he disliked fisker, and yet fisker had one great merit which certainly recommended itself warmly to montague's appreciation. though he denied the propriety of paul's interference in the business, he quite acknowledged paul's right to a share in the existing dash of prosperity. as to the real facts of the money affairs of the firm he would tell paul nothing. but he was well provided with money himself, and took care that his partner should be in the same position. he paid him all the arrears of his stipulated income up to the present moment, and put him nominally into possession of a large number of shares in the railway,--with, however, an understanding that he was not to sell them till they had reached ten per cent. above par, and that in any sale transacted he was to touch no other money than the amount of profit which would thus accrue. what melmotte was to be allowed to do with his shares, he never heard. as far as montague could understand, melmotte was in truth to be powerful over everything. all this made the young man unhappy, restless, and extravagant. he was living in london and had money at command, but he never could rid himself of the fear that the whole affair might tumble to pieces beneath his feet and that he might be stigmatised as one among a gang of swindlers. we all know how, in such circumstances, by far the greater proportion of a man's life will be given up to the enjoyments that are offered to him and the lesser proportion to the cares, sacrifices, and sorrows. had this young director been describing to his intimate friend the condition in which he found himself, he would have declared himself to be distracted by doubts, suspicions, and fears till his life was a burden to him. and yet they who were living with him at this time found him to be a very pleasant fellow, fond of amusement, and disposed to make the most of all the good things which came in his way. under the auspices of sir felix carbury he had become a member of the beargarden, at which best of all possible clubs the mode of entrance was as irregular as its other proceedings. when any young man desired to come in who was thought to be unfit for its style of living, it was shown to him that it would take three years before his name could be brought up at the usual rate of vacancies; but in regard to desirable companions the committee had a power of putting them at the top of the list of candidates and bringing them in at once. paul montague had suddenly become credited with considerable commercial wealth and greater commercial influence. he sat at the same board with melmotte and melmotte's men; and was on this account elected at the beargarden without any of that harassing delay to which other less fortunate candidates are subjected. and,--let it be said with regret, for paul montague was at heart honest and well-conditioned,--he took to living a good deal at the beargarden. a man must dine somewhere, and everybody knows that a man dines cheaper at his club than elsewhere. it was thus he reasoned with himself. but paul's dinners at the beargarden were not cheap. he saw a good deal of his brother directors, sir felix carbury and lord nidderdale, entertained lord alfred more than once at the club, and had twice dined with his great chairman amidst all the magnificence of merchant-princely hospitality in grosvenor square. it had indeed been suggested to him by mr. fisker that he also ought to enter himself for the great marie melmotte plate. lord nidderdale had again declared his intention of running, owing to considerable pressure put upon him by certain interested tradesmen, and with this intention had become one of the directors of the mexican railway company. at the time, however, of which we are now writing, sir felix was the favourite for the race among fashionable circles generally. the middle of april had come, and fisker was still in london. when millions of dollars are at stake,--belonging perhaps to widows and orphans, as fisker remarked,--a man was forced to set his own convenience on one side. but this devotion was not left without reward, for mr. fisker had "a good time" in london. he also was made free of the beargarden, as an honorary member, and he also spent a good deal of money. but there is this comfort in great affairs, that whatever you spend on yourself can be no more than a trifle. champagne and ginger-beer are all the same when you stand to win or lose thousands,--with this only difference, that champagne may have deteriorating results which the more innocent beverage will not produce. the feeling that the greatness of these operations relieved them from the necessity of looking to small expenses operated in the champagne direction, both on fisker and montague, and the result was deleterious. the beargarden, no doubt, was a more lively place than carbury manor, but montague found that he could not wake up on these london mornings with thoughts as satisfactory as those which attended his pillow at the old manor house. on saturday, the th of april, fisker was to leave london on his return to new york, and on the th a farewell dinner was to be given to him at the club. mr. melmotte was asked to meet him, and on such an occasion all the resources of the club were to be brought forth. lord alfred grendall was also to be a guest, and mr. cohenlupe, who went about a good deal with melmotte. nidderdale, carbury, montague, and miles grendall were members of the club, and gave the dinner. no expense was spared. herr vossner purveyed the viands and wines,--and paid for them. lord nidderdale took the chair, with fisker on his right hand, and melmotte on his left, and, for a fast-going young lord, was supposed to have done the thing well. there were only two toasts drunk, to the healths of mr. melmotte and mr. fisker, and two speeches were of course made by them. mr. melmotte may have been held to have clearly proved the genuineness of that english birth which he claimed by the awkwardness and incapacity which he showed on the occasion. he stood with his hands on the table and with his face turned to his plate blurted out his assurance that the floating of this railway company would be one of the greatest and most successful commercial operations ever conducted on either side of the atlantic. it was a great thing,--a very great thing;--he had no hesitation in saying that it was one of the greatest things out. he didn't believe a greater thing had ever come out. he was happy to give his humble assistance to the furtherance of so great a thing,--and so on. these assertions, not varying much one from the other, he jerked out like so many separate interjections, endeavouring to look his friends in the face at each, and then turning his countenance back to his plate as though seeking for inspiration for the next attempt. he was not eloquent; but the gentlemen who heard him remembered that he was the great augustus melmotte, that he might probably make them all rich men, and they cheered him to the echo. lord alfred had reconciled himself to be called by his christian name, since he had been put in the way of raising two or three hundred pounds on the security of shares which were to be allotted to him, but of which in the flesh he had as yet seen nothing. wonderful are the ways of trade! if one can only get the tip of one's little finger into the right pie, what noble morsels, what rich esculents, will stick to it as it is extracted! when melmotte sat down fisker made his speech, and it was fluent, fast, and florid. without giving it word for word, which would be tedious, i could not adequately set before the reader's eye the speaker's pleasing picture of world-wide commercial love and harmony which was to be produced by a railway from salt lake city to vera cruz, nor explain the extent of gratitude from the world at large which might be claimed by, and would finally be accorded to, the great firms of melmotte & co. of london, and fisker, montague, and montague of san francisco. mr. fisker's arms were waved gracefully about. his head was turned now this way and now that, but never towards his plate. it was very well done. but there was more faith in one ponderous word from mr. melmotte's mouth than in all the american's oratory. there was not one of them then present who had not after some fashion been given to understand that his fortune was to be made, not by the construction of the railway, but by the floating of the railway shares. they had all whispered to each other their convictions on this head. even montague did not beguile himself into an idea that he was really a director in a company to be employed in the making and working of a railway. people out of doors were to be advertised into buying shares, and they who were so to say indoors were to have the privilege of manufacturing the shares thus to be sold. that was to be their work, and they all knew it. but now, as there were eight of them collected together, they talked of humanity at large and of the coming harmony of nations. after the first cigar, melmotte withdrew, and lord alfred went with him. lord alfred would have liked to remain, being a man who enjoyed tobacco and soda and brandy,--but momentous days had come upon him, and he thought it well to cling to his melmotte. mr. samuel cohenlupe also went, not having taken a very distinguished part in the entertainment. then the young men were left alone, and it was soon proposed that they should adjourn to the cardroom. it had been rather hoped that fisker would go with the elders. nidderdale, who did not understand much about the races of mankind, had his doubts whether the american gentleman might not be a "heathen chinee," such as he had read of in poetry. but mr. fisker liked to have his amusement as well as did the others, and went up resolutely into the cardroom. here they were joined by lord grasslough, and were very quickly at work, having chosen loo as their game. mr. fisker made an allusion to poker as a desirable pastime, but lord nidderdale, remembering his poetry, shook his head. "oh! bother," he said, "let's have some game that christians play." mr. fisker declared himself ready for any game,--irrespective of religious prejudices. it must be explained that the gambling at the beargarden had gone on with very little interruption, and that on the whole sir felix carbury kept his luck. there had of course been vicissitudes, but his star had been in the ascendant. for some nights together this had been so continual that mr. miles grendall had suggested to his friend lord grasslough that there must be foul play. lord grasslough, who had not many good gifts, was, at least, not suspicious, and repudiated the idea. "we'll keep an eye on him," miles grendall had said. "you may do as you like, but i'm not going to watch any one," grasslough had replied. miles had watched, and had watched in vain, and it may as well be said at once that sir felix, with all his faults, was not as yet a blackleg. both of them now owed sir felix a considerable sum of money, as did also dolly longestaffe, who was not present on this occasion. latterly very little ready money had passed hands,--very little in proportion to the sums which had been written down on paper,--though sir felix was still so well in funds as to feel himself justified in repudiating any caution that his mother might give him. when i.o.u.'s have for some time passed freely in such a company as that now assembled the sudden introduction of a stranger is very disagreeable, particularly when that stranger intends to start for san francisco on the following morning. if it could be arranged that the stranger should certainly lose, no doubt then he would be regarded as a godsend. such strangers have ready money in their pockets, a portion of which would be felt to descend like a soft shower in a time of drought. when these dealings in unsecured paper have been going on for a considerable time real bank notes come to have a loveliness which they never possessed before. but should the stranger win, then there may arise complications incapable of any comfortable solution. in such a state of things some herr vossner must be called in, whose terms are apt to be ruinous. on this occasion things did not arrange themselves comfortably. from the very commencement fisker won, and quite a budget of little papers fell into his possession, many of which were passed to him from the hands of sir felix,--bearing, however, a "g" intended to stand for grasslough, or an "n" for nidderdale, or a wonderful hieroglyphic which was known at the beargarden to mean d. l----, or dolly longestaffe, the fabricator of which was not present on the occasion. then there was the m. g. of miles grendall, which was a species of paper peculiarly plentiful and very unattractive on these commercial occasions. paul montague hitherto had never given an i.o.u. at the beargarden,--nor of late had our friend sir felix. on the present occasion montague won, though not heavily. sir felix lost continually, and was almost the only loser. but mr. fisker won nearly all that was lost. he was to start for liverpool by train at . a.m., and at a.m. he counted up his bits of paper and found himself the winner of about £ . "i think that most of them came from you, sir felix," he said,--handing the bundle across the table. "i dare say they did, but they are all good against these other fellows." then fisker, with most perfect good humour, extracted one from the mass which indicated dolly longestaffe's indebtedness to the amount of £ . "that's longestaffe," said felix, "and i'll change that of course." then out of his pocket-book he extracted other minute documents bearing that m. g. which was so little esteemed among them,--and so made up the sum. "you seem to have £ from grasslough, £ from nidderdale, and £ _s._ from grendall," said the baronet. then sir felix got up as though he had paid his score. fisker, with smiling good humour, arranged the little bits of paper before him and looked round upon the company. "this won't do, you know," said nidderdale. "mr. fisker must have his money before he leaves. you've got it, carbury." "of course he has," said grasslough. "as it happens i have not," said sir felix;--"but what if i had?" "mr. fisker starts for new york immediately," said lord nidderdale. "i suppose we can muster £ among us. ring the bell for vossner. i think carbury ought to pay the money as he lost it, and we didn't expect to have our i.o.u.'s brought up in this way." "lord nidderdale," said sir felix, "i have already said that i have not got the money about me. why should i have it more than you, especially as i knew i had i.o.u.'s more than sufficient to meet anything i could lose when i sat down?" "mr. fisker must have his money at any rate," said lord nidderdale, ringing the bell again. "it doesn't matter one straw, my lord," said the american. "let it be sent to me to frisco, in a bill, my lord." and so he got up to take his hat, greatly to the delight of miles grendall. but the two young lords would not agree to this. "if you must go this very minute i'll meet you at the train with the money," said nidderdale. fisker begged that no such trouble should be taken. of course he would wait ten minutes if they wished. but the affair was one of no consequence. wasn't the post running every day? then herr vossner came from his bed, suddenly arrayed in a dressing-gown, and there was a conference in a corner between him, the two lords, and mr. grendall. in a very few minutes herr vossner wrote a cheque for the amount due by the lords, but he was afraid that he had not money at his banker's sufficient for the greater claim. it was well understood that herr vossner would not advance money to mr. grendall unless others would pledge themselves for the amount. "i suppose i'd better send you a bill over to america," said miles grendall, who had taken no part in the matter as long as he was in the same boat with the lords. "just so. my partner, montague, will tell you the address." then bustling off, taking an affectionate adieu of paul, shaking hands with them all round, and looking as though he cared nothing for the money, he took his leave. "one cheer for the south central pacific and mexican railway," he said as he went out of the room. not one there had liked fisker. his manners were not as their manners; his waistcoat not as their waistcoats. he smoked his cigar after a fashion different from theirs, and spat upon the carpet. he said "my lord" too often, and grated their prejudices equally whether he treated them with familiarity or deference. but he had behaved well about the money, and they felt that they were behaving badly. sir felix was the immediate offender, as he should have understood that he was not entitled to pay a stranger with documents which, by tacit contract, were held to be good among themselves. but there was no use now in going back to that. something must be done. "vossner must get the money," said nidderdale. "let's have him up again." "i don't think it's my fault," said miles. "of course no one thought he was to be called upon in this sort of way." "why shouldn't you be called upon?" said carbury. "you acknowledge that you owe the money." "i think carbury ought to have paid it," said grasslough. "grassy, my boy," said the baronet, "your attempts at thinking are never worth much. why was i to suppose that a stranger would be playing among us? had you a lot of ready money with you to pay if you had lost it? i don't always walk about with six hundred pounds in my pocket;--nor do you!" "it's no good jawing," said nidderdale; "let's get the money." then montague offered to undertake the debt himself, saying that there were money transactions between him and his partner. but this could not be allowed. he had only lately come among them, had as yet had no dealing in i.o.u.'s, and was the last man in the company who ought to be made responsible for the impecuniosity of miles grendall. he, the impecunious one,--the one whose impecuniosity extended to the absolute want of credit,--sat silent, stroking his heavy moustache. there was a second conference between herr vossner and the two lords in another room, which ended in the preparation of a document by which miles grendall undertook to pay to herr vossner £ at the end of three months, and this was endorsed by the two lords, by sir felix, and by paul montague; and in return for this the german produced £ _s._ in notes and gold. this had taken some considerable time. then a cup of tea was prepared and swallowed; after which nidderdale, with montague, started off to meet fisker at the railway station. "it'll only be a trifle over £ each," said nidderdale, in the cab. "won't mr. grendall pay it?" "oh, dear no. how the devil should he?" "then he shouldn't play." "that 'd be hard on him, poor fellow. if you went to his uncle the duke, i suppose you could get it. or buntingford might put it right for you. perhaps he might win, you know, some day, and then he'd make it square. he'd be fair enough if he had it. poor miles!" they found fisker wonderfully brilliant with bright rugs, and greatcoats with silk linings. "we've brought you the tin," said nidderdale, accosting him on the platform. "upon my word, my lord, i'm sorry you have taken so much trouble about such a trifle." "a man should always have his money when he wins." "we don't think anything about such little matters at frisco, my lord." "you're fine fellows at frisco, i dare say. here we pay up,--when we can. sometimes we can't, and then it is not pleasant." fresh adieus were made between the two partners, and between the american and the lord;--and then fisker was taken off on his way towards frisco. "he's not half a bad fellow, but he's not a bit like an englishman," said lord nidderdale, as he walked out of the station. chapter xi. lady carbury at home. during the last six weeks lady carbury had lived a life of very mixed depression and elevation. her great work had come out,--the "criminal queens,"--and had been very widely reviewed. in this matter it had been by no means all pleasure, in as much as many very hard words had been said of her. in spite of the dear friendship between herself and mr. alf, one of mr. alf's most sharp-nailed subordinates had been set upon her book, and had pulled it to pieces with almost rabid malignity. one would have thought that so slight a thing could hardly have been worthy of such protracted attention. error after error was laid bare with merciless prolixity. no doubt the writer of the article must have had all history at his finger-ends, as in pointing out the various mistakes made he always spoke of the historical facts which had been misquoted, misdated, or misrepresented, as being familiar in all their bearings to every schoolboy of twelve years old. the writer of the criticism never suggested the idea that he himself, having been fully provided with books of reference, and having learned the art of finding in them what he wanted at a moment's notice, had, as he went on with his work, checked off the blunders without any more permanent knowledge of his own than a housekeeper has of coals when she counts so many sacks into the coal-cellar. he spoke of the parentage of one wicked ancient lady, and the dates of the frailties of another, with an assurance intended to show that an exact knowledge of all these details abided with him always. he must have been a man of vast and varied erudition, and his name was jones. the world knew him not, but his erudition was always there at the command of mr. alf,--and his cruelty. the greatness of mr. alf consisted in this, that he always had a mr. jones or two ready to do his work for him. it was a great business, this of mr. alf's, for he had his jones also for philology, for science, for poetry, for politics, as well as for history, and one special jones, extraordinarily accurate and very well posted up in his references, entirely devoted to the elizabethan drama. there is the review intended to sell a book,--which comes out immediately after the appearance of the book, or sometimes before it; the review which gives reputation, but does not affect the sale, and which comes a little later; the review which snuffs a book out quietly; the review which is to raise or lower the author a single peg, or two pegs, as the case may be; the review which is suddenly to make an author, and the review which is to crush him. an exuberant jones has been known before now to declare aloud that he would crush a man, and a self-confident jones has been known to declare that he has accomplished the deed. of all reviews, the crushing review is the most popular, as being the most readable. when the rumour goes abroad that some notable man has been actually crushed,--been positively driven over by an entire juggernaut's car of criticism till his literary body be a mere amorphous mass,--then a real success has been achieved, and the alf of the day has done a great thing; but even the crushing of a poor lady carbury, if it be absolute, is effective. such a review will not make all the world call for the "evening pulpit," but it will cause those who do take the paper to be satisfied with their bargain. whenever the circulation of such a paper begins to slacken, the proprietors should, as a matter of course, admonish their alf to add a little power to the crushing department. lady carbury had been crushed by the "evening pulpit." we may fancy that it was easy work, and that mr. alf's historical mr. jones was not forced to fatigue himself by the handling of many books of reference. the errors did lie a little near the surface; and the whole scheme of the work, with its pandering to bad tastes by pretended revelations of frequently fabulous crime, was reprobated in mr. jones's very best manner. but the poor authoress, though utterly crushed, and reduced to little more than literary pulp for an hour or two, was not destroyed. on the following morning she went to her publishers, and was closeted for half an hour with the senior partner, mr. leadham. "i've got it all in black and white," she said, full of the wrong which had been done her, "and can prove him to be wrong. it was in that the man first came to paris, and he couldn't have been her lover before that. i got it all out of the 'biographie universelle.' i'll write to mr. alf myself,--a letter to be published, you know." "pray don't do anything of the kind, lady carbury." "i can prove that i'm right." "and they can prove that you're wrong." "i've got all the facts,--and the figures." mr. leadham did not care a straw for facts or figures,--had no opinion of his own whether the lady or the reviewer were right; but he knew very well that the "evening pulpit" would surely get the better of any mere author in such a contention. "never fight the newspapers, lady carbury. who ever yet got any satisfaction by that kind of thing? it's their business, and you are not used to it." "and mr. alf is my particular friend! it does seem so hard," said lady carbury, wiping hot tears from her cheeks. "it won't do us the least harm, lady carbury." "it'll stop the sale?" "not much. a book of that sort couldn't hope to go on very long, you know. the 'breakfast table' gave it an excellent lift, and came just at the right time. i rather like the notice in the 'pulpit,' myself." "like it!" said lady carbury, still suffering in every fibre of her self-love from the soreness produced by those juggernaut's car-wheels. "anything is better than indifference, lady carbury. a great many people remember simply that the book has been noticed, but carry away nothing as to the purport of the review. it's a very good advertisement." "but to be told that i have got to learn the abc of history,--after working as i have worked!" "that's a mere form of speech, lady carbury." "you think the book has done pretty well?" "pretty well;--just about what we hoped, you know." "there'll be something coming to me, mr. leadham?" mr. leadham sent for a ledger, and turned over a few pages and ran up a few figures, and then scratched his head. there would be something, but lady carbury was not to imagine that it could be very much. it did not often happen that a great deal could be made by a first book. nevertheless, lady carbury, when she left the publisher's shop, did carry a cheque with her. she was smartly dressed and looked very well, and had smiled on mr. leadham. mr. leadham, too, was no more than man, and had written--a small cheque. mr. alf certainly had behaved badly to her; but both mr. broune of the "breakfast table," and mr. booker of the "literary chronicle," had been true to her interests. lady carbury had, as she promised, "done" mr. booker's "new tale of a tub" in the "breakfast table." that is, she had been allowed, as a reward for looking into mr. broune's eyes, and laying her soft hand on mr. broune's sleeve, and suggesting to mr. broune that no one understood her so well as he did, to bedaub mr. booker's very thoughtful book in a very thoughtless fashion,--and to be paid for her work. what had been said about his work in the "breakfast table" had been very distasteful to poor mr. booker. it grieved his inner contemplative intelligence that such rubbish should be thrown upon him; but in his outside experience of life he knew that even the rubbish was valuable, and that he must pay for it in the manner to which he had unfortunately become accustomed. so mr. booker himself wrote the article on the "criminal queens" in the "literary chronicle," knowing that what he wrote would also be rubbish. "remarkable vivacity." "power of delineating character." "excellent choice of subject." "considerable intimacy with the historical details of various periods." "the literary world would be sure to hear of lady carbury again." the composition of the review, together with the reading of the book, consumed altogether perhaps an hour of mr. booker's time. he made no attempt to cut the pages, but here and there read those that were open. he had done this kind of thing so often, that he knew well what he was about. he could have reviewed such a book when he was three parts asleep. when the work was done he threw down his pen and uttered a deep sigh. he felt it to be hard upon him that he should be compelled, by the exigencies of his position, to descend so low in literature; but it did not occur to him to reflect that in fact he was not compelled, and that he was quite at liberty to break stones, or to starve honestly, if no other honest mode of carrying on his career was open to him. "if i didn't, somebody else would," he said to himself. but the review in the "morning breakfast table" was the making of lady carbury's book, as far as it ever was made. mr. broune saw the lady after the receipt of the letter given in the first chapter of this tale, and was induced to make valuable promises which had been fully performed. two whole columns had been devoted to the work, and the world had been assured that no more delightful mixture of amusement and instruction had ever been concocted than lady carbury's "criminal queens." it was the very book that had been wanted for years. it was a work of infinite research and brilliant imagination combined. there had been no hesitation in the laying on of the paint. at that last meeting lady carbury had been very soft, very handsome, and very winning; mr. broune had given the order with good will, and it had been obeyed in the same feeling. therefore, though the crushing had been very real, there had also been some elation; and as a net result, lady carbury was disposed to think that her literary career might yet be a success. mr. leadham's cheque had been for a small amount, but it might probably lead the way to something better. people at any rate were talking about her, and her tuesday evenings at home were generally full. but her literary life, and her literary successes, her flirtations with mr. broune, her business with mr. booker, and her crushing by mr. alf's mr. jones, were after all but adjuncts to that real inner life of hers of which the absorbing interest was her son. and with regard to him too she was partly depressed, and partly elated, allowing her hopes however to dominate her fears. there was very much to frighten her. even the moderate reform in the young man's expenses which had been effected under dire necessity had been of late abandoned. though he never told her anything, she became aware that during the last month of the hunting season he had hunted nearly every day. she knew, too, that he had a horse up in town. she never saw him but once in the day, when she visited him in his bed about noon, and was aware that he was always at his club throughout the night. she knew that he was gambling, and she hated gambling as being of all pastimes the most dangerous. but she knew that he had ready money for his immediate purposes, and that two or three tradesmen who were gifted with a peculiar power of annoying their debtors, had ceased to trouble her in welbeck street. for the present, therefore, she consoled herself by reflecting that his gambling was successful. but her elation sprung from a higher source than this. from all that she could hear, she thought it likely that felix would carry off the great prize; and then,--should he do that,--what a blessed son would he have been to her! how constantly in her triumph would she be able to forget all his vices, his debts, his gambling, his late hours, and his cruel treatment of herself! as she thought of it the bliss seemed to be too great for the possibility of realisation. she was taught to understand that £ , a year, to begin with, would be the least of it; and that the ultimate wealth might probably be such as to make sir felix carbury the richest commoner in england. in her very heart of hearts she worshipped wealth, but desired it for him rather than for herself. then her mind ran away to baronies and earldoms, and she was lost in the coming glories of the boy whose faults had already nearly engulfed her in his own ruin. and she had another ground for elation, which comforted her much, though elation from such a cause was altogether absurd. she had discovered that her son had become a director of the south central pacific and mexican railway company. she must have known,--she certainly did know,--that felix, such as he was, could not lend assistance by his work to any company or commercial enterprise in the world. she was aware that there was some reason for such a choice hidden from the world, and which comprised and conveyed a falsehood. a ruined baronet of five-and-twenty, every hour of whose life since he had been left to go alone had been loaded with vice and folly,--whose egregious misconduct warranted his friends in regarding him as one incapable of knowing what principle is,--of what service could he be, that he should be made a director? but lady carbury, though she knew that he could be of no service, was not at all shocked. she was now able to speak up a little for her boy, and did not forget to send the news by post to roger carbury. and her son sat at the same board with mr. melmotte! what an indication was this of coming triumphs! fisker had started, as the reader will perhaps remember, on the morning of saturday, th april, leaving sir felix at the club at about seven in the morning. all that day his mother was unable to see him. she found him asleep in his room at noon and again at two; and when she sought him again he had flown. but on the sunday she caught him. "i hope," she said, "you'll stay at home on tuesday evening." hitherto she had never succeeded in inducing him to grace her evening parties by his presence. "all your people are coming! you know, mother, it is such an awful bore." "madame melmotte and her daughter will be here." "one looks such a fool carrying on that kind of thing in one's own house. everybody sees that it has been contrived. and it is such a pokey, stuffy little place!" then lady carbury spoke out her mind. "felix, i think you must be a fool. i have given over ever expecting that you would do anything to please me. i sacrifice everything for you and i do not even hope for a return. but when i am doing everything to advance your own interests, when i am working night and day to rescue you from ruin, i think you might at any rate help a little,--not for me of course, but for yourself." "i don't know what you mean by working day and night. i don't want you to work day and night." "there is hardly a young man in london that is not thinking of this girl, and you have chances that none of them have. i am told they are going out of town at whitsuntide, and that she's to meet lord nidderdale down in the country." "she can't endure nidderdale. she says so herself." "she will do as she is told,--unless she can be made to be downright in love with some one like yourself. why not ask her at once on tuesday?" "if i'm to do it at all i must do it after my own fashion. i'm not going to be driven." "of course if you will not take the trouble to be here to see her when she comes to your own house, you cannot expect her to think that you really love her." "love her! what a bother there is about loving! well;--i'll look in. what time do the animals come to feed?" "there will be no feeding. felix, you are so heartless and so cruel that i sometimes think i will make up my mind to let you go your own way and never to speak to you again. my friends will be here about ten;--i should say from ten till twelve. i think you should be here to receive her, not later than ten." "if i can get my dinner out of my throat by that time, i will come." when the tuesday came, the over-driven young man did contrive to get his dinner eaten, and his glass of brandy sipped, and his cigar smoked, and perhaps his game of billiards played, so as to present himself in his mother's drawing-room not long after half-past ten. madame melmotte and her daughter were already there,--and many others, of whom the majority were devoted to literature. among them mr. alf was in the room, and was at this very moment discussing lady carbury's book with mr. booker. he had been quite graciously received, as though he had not authorised the crushing. lady carbury had given him her hand with that energy of affection with which she was wont to welcome her literary friends, and had simply thrown one glance of appeal into his eyes as she looked into his face,--as though asking him how he had found it in his heart to be so cruel to one so tender, so unprotected, so innocent as herself. "i cannot stand this kind of thing," said mr. alf, to mr. booker. "there's a regular system of touting got abroad, and i mean to trample it down." "if you're strong enough," said mr. booker. "well, i think i am. i'm strong enough, at any rate, to show that i'm not afraid to lead the way. i've the greatest possible regard for our friend here;--but her book is a bad book, a thoroughly rotten book, an unblushing compilation from half-a-dozen works of established reputation, in pilfering from which she has almost always managed to misapprehend her facts, and to muddle her dates. then she writes to me and asks me to do the best i can for her. i have done the best i could." mr. alf knew very well what mr. booker had done, and mr. booker was aware of the extent of mr. alf's knowledge. "what you say is all very right," said mr. booker; "only you want a different kind of world to live in." "just so;--and therefore we must make it different. i wonder how our friend broune felt when he saw that his critic had declared that the 'criminal queens' was the greatest historical work of modern days." "i didn't see the notice. there isn't much in the book, certainly, as far as i have looked at it. i should have said that violent censure or violent praise would be equally thrown away upon it. one doesn't want to break a butterfly on the wheel;--especially a friendly butterfly." "as to the friendship, it should be kept separate. that's my idea," said mr. alf, moving away. "i'll never forget what you've done for me,--never!" said lady carbury, holding mr. broune's hand for a moment, as she whispered to him. "nothing more than my duty," said he, smiling. "i hope you'll learn to know that a woman can really be grateful," she replied. then she let go his hand and moved away to some other guest. there was a dash of true sincerity in what she had said. of enduring gratitude it may be doubtful whether she was capable: but at this moment she did feel that mr. broune had done much for her, and that she would willingly make him some return of friendship. of any feeling of another sort, of any turn at the moment towards flirtation, of any idea of encouragement to a gentleman who had once acted as though he were her lover, she was absolutely innocent. she had forgotten that little absurd episode in their joint lives. she was at any rate too much in earnest at the present moment to think about it. but it was otherwise with mr. broune. he could not quite make up his mind whether the lady was or was not in love with him,--or whether, if she were, it was incumbent on him to indulge her;--and if so, in what manner. then as he looked after her, he told himself that she was certainly very beautiful, that her figure was distinguished, that her income was certain, and her rank considerable. nevertheless, mr. broune knew of himself that he was not a marrying man. he had made up his mind that marriage would not suit his business, and he smiled to himself as he reflected how impossible it was that such a one as lady carbury should turn him from his resolution. "i am so glad that you have come to-night, mr. alf," lady carbury said to the high-minded editor of the "evening pulpit." "am i not always glad to come, lady carbury?" "you are very good. but i feared,--" "feared what, lady carbury?" "that you might perhaps have felt that i should be unwilling to welcome you after,--well, after the compliments of last thursday." "i never allow the two things to join themselves together. you see, lady carbury, i don't write all these things myself." "no indeed. what a bitter creature you would be if you did." "to tell the truth, i never write any of them. of course we endeavour to get people whose judgments we can trust, and if, as in this case, it should unfortunately happen that the judgment of our critic should be hostile to the literary pretensions of a personal friend of my own, i can only lament the accident, and trust that my friend may have spirit enough to divide me as an individual from that mr. alf who has the misfortune to edit a newspaper." "it is because you have so trusted me that i am obliged to you," said lady carbury with her sweetest smile. she did not believe a word that mr. alf had said to her. she thought, and thought rightly, that mr. alf's mr. jones had taken direct orders from his editor, as to his treatment of the "criminal queens." but she remembered that she intended to write another book, and that she might perhaps conquer even mr. alf by spirit and courage under her present infliction. it was lady carbury's duty on the occasion to say pretty things to everybody. and she did her duty. but in the midst of it all she was ever thinking of her son and marie melmotte, and she did at last venture to separate the girl from her mother. marie herself was not unwilling to be talked to by sir felix. he had never bullied her, had never seemed to scorn her; and then he was so beautiful! she, poor girl, bewildered among various suitors, utterly confused by the life to which she was introduced, troubled by fitful attacks of admonition from her father, who would again, fitfully, leave her unnoticed for a week at a time; with no trust in her pseudo-mother--for poor marie had in truth been born before her father had been a married man, and had never known what was her own mother's fate,--with no enjoyment in her present life, had come solely to this conclusion, that it would be well for her to be taken away somewhere by somebody. many a varied phase of life had already come in her way. she could just remember the dirty street in the german portion of new york in which she had been born and had lived for the first four years of her life, and could remember too the poor, hardly-treated woman who had been her mother. she could remember being at sea, and her sickness,--but could not quite remember whether that woman had been with her. then she had run about the streets of hamburgh, and had sometimes been very hungry, sometimes in rags,--and she had a dim memory of some trouble into which her father had fallen, and that he was away from her for a time. she had up to the present splendid moment her own convictions about that absence, but she had never mentioned them to a human being. then her father had married her present mother in francfort. that she could remember distinctly, as also the rooms in which she was then taken to live, and the fact that she was told that from henceforth she was to be a jewess. but there had soon come another change. they went from francfort to paris, and there they were all christians. from that time they had lived in various apartments in the french capital, but had always lived well. sometimes there had been a carriage, sometimes there had been none. and then there came a time in which she was grown woman enough to understand that her father was being much talked about. her father to her had always been alternately capricious and indifferent rather than cross or cruel, but just at this period he was cruel both to her and to his wife. and madame melmotte would weep at times and declare that they were all ruined. then, at a moment, they burst out into sudden splendour at paris. there was an hotel, with carriages and horses almost unnumbered;--and then there came to their rooms a crowd of dark, swarthy, greasy men, who were entertained sumptuously; but there were few women. at this time marie was hardly nineteen, and young enough in manner and appearance to be taken for seventeen. suddenly again she was told that she was to be taken to london, and the migration had been effected with magnificence. she was first taken to brighton, where the half of an hotel had been hired, and had then been brought to grosvenor square, and at once thrown into the matrimonial market. no part of her life had been more disagreeable to her, more frightful, than the first months in which she had been trafficked for by the nidderdales and grassloughs. she had been too frightened, too much of a coward to object to anything proposed to her, but still had been conscious of a desire to have some hand in her own future destiny. luckily for her, the first attempts at trafficking with the nidderdales and grassloughs had come to nothing; and at length she was picking up a little courage, and was beginning to feel that it might be possible to prevent a disposition of herself which did not suit her own tastes. she was also beginning to think that there might be a disposition of herself which would suit her own tastes. felix carbury was standing leaning against a wall, and she was seated on a chair close to him. "i love you better than anyone in the world," he said, speaking plainly enough for her to hear, perhaps indifferent as to the hearing of others. "oh, sir felix, pray do not talk like that." "you knew that before. now i want you to say whether you will be my wife." "how can i answer that myself? papa settles everything." "may i go to papa?" "you may if you like," she replied in a very low whisper. it was thus that the greatest heiress of the day, the greatest heiress of any day if people spoke truly, gave herself away to a man without a penny. chapter xii. sir felix in his mother's house. when all her friends were gone lady carbury looked about for her son,--not expecting to find him, for she knew how punctual was his nightly attendance at the beargarden, but still with some faint hope that he might have remained on this special occasion to tell her of his fortune. she had watched the whispering, had noticed the cool effrontery with which felix had spoken,--for without hearing the words she had almost known the very moment in which he was asking,--and had seen the girl's timid face, and eyes turned to the ground, and the nervous twitching of her hands as she replied. as a woman, understanding such things, who had herself been wooed, who had at least dreamed of love, she had greatly disapproved her son's manner. but yet, if it might be successful, if the girl would put up with love-making so slight as that, and if the great melmotte would accept in return for his money a title so modest as that of her son, how glorious should her son be to her in spite of his indifference! "i heard him leave the house before the melmottes went," said henrietta, when the mother spoke of going up to her son's bedroom. "he might have stayed to-night. do you think he asked her?" "how can i say, mamma?" "i should have thought you would have been anxious about your brother. i feel sure he did,--and that she accepted him." "if so i hope he will be good to her. i hope he loves her." "why shouldn't he love her as well as any one else? a girl need not be odious because she has money. there is nothing disagreeable about her." "no,--nothing disagreeable. i do not know that she is especially attractive." "who is? i don't see anybody specially attractive. it seems to me you are quite indifferent about felix." "do not say that, mamma." "yes you are. you don't understand all that he might be with this girl's fortune, and what he must be unless he gets money by marriage. he is eating us both up." "i would not let him do that, mamma." "it's all very well to say that, but i have some heart. i love him. i could not see him starve. think what he might be with £ , a-year!" "if he is to marry for that only, i cannot think that they will be happy." "you had better go to bed, henrietta. you never say a word to comfort me in all my troubles." then henrietta went to bed, and lady carbury absolutely sat up the whole night waiting for her son, in order that she might hear his tidings. she went up to her room, disembarrassed herself of her finery, and wrapped herself in a white dressing-gown. as she sat opposite to her glass, relieving her head from its garniture of false hair, she acknowledged to herself that age was coming on her. she could hide the unwelcome approach by art,--hide it more completely than can most women of her age; but, there it was, stealing on her with short grey hairs over her ears and around her temples, with little wrinkles round her eyes easily concealed by unobjectionable cosmetics, and a look of weariness round the mouth which could only be removed by that self-assertion of herself which practice had made always possible to her in company, though it now so frequently deserted her when she was alone. but she was not a woman to be unhappy because she was growing old. her happiness, like that of most of us, was ever in the future,--never reached but always coming. she, however, had not looked for happiness to love and loveliness, and need not therefore be disappointed on that score. she had never really determined what it was that might make her happy,--having some hazy aspiration after social distinction and literary fame, in which was ever commingled solicitude respecting money. but at the present moment her great fears and her great hopes were centred on her son. she would not care how grey might be her hair, or how savage might be mr. alf, if her felix were to marry this heiress. on the other hand, nothing that pearl-powder or the "morning breakfast table" could do would avail anything, unless he could be extricated from the ruin that now surrounded him. so she went down into the dining-room, that she might be sure to hear the key in the door, even should she sleep, and waited for him with a volume of french memoirs in her hand. unfortunate woman! she might have gone to bed and have been duly called about her usual time, for it was past eight and the full staring daylight shone into her room when felix's cab brought him to the door. the night had been very wretched to her. she had slept, and the fire had sunk nearly to nothing and had refused to become again comfortable. she could not keep her mind to her book, and while she was awake the time seemed to be everlasting. and then it was so terrible to her that he should be gambling at such hours as these! why should he desire to gamble if this girl's fortune was ready to fall into his hands? fool, to risk his health, his character, his beauty, the little money which at this moment of time might be so indispensable to his great project, for the chance of winning something which in comparison with marie melmotte's money must be despicable! but at last he came! she waited patiently till he had thrown aside his hat and coat, and then she appeared at the dining-room door. she had studied her part for the occasion. she would not say a harsh word, and now she endeavoured to meet him with a smile. "mother," he said, "you up at this hour!" his face was flushed, and she thought that there was some unsteadiness in his gait. she had never seen him tipsy, and it would be doubly terrible to her if such should be his condition. "i could not go to bed till i had seen you." "why not? why should you want to see me? i'll go to bed now. there'll be plenty of time by-and-bye." "is anything the matter, felix?" "matter;--what should be the matter? there's been a gentle row among the fellows at the club;--that's all. i had to tell grasslough a bit of my mind, and he didn't like it. i didn't mean that he should." "there is not going to be any fighting, felix?" "what, duelling; oh no,--nothing so exciting as that. whether somebody may not have to kick somebody is more than i can say at present. you must let me go to bed now, for i am about used up." "what did marie melmotte say to you?" "nothing particular." and he stood with his hand on the door as he answered her. "and what did you say to her?" "nothing particular. good heavens, mother, do you think that a man is in a condition to talk about such stuff as that at eight o'clock in the morning, when he has been up all night?" "if you knew all that i suffer on your behalf you would speak a word to me," she said, imploring him, holding him by the arm, and looking into his purple face and bloodshot eyes. she was sure that he had been drinking. she could smell it in his breath. "i must go to the old fellow, of course." "she told you to go to her father?" "as far as i remember, that was about it. of course, he means to settle it as he likes. i should say that it's ten to one against me." pulling himself away with some little roughness from his mother's hold, he made his way up to his own bedroom, occasionally stumbling against the stairs. then the heiress herself had accepted her son! if so, surely the thing might be done. lady carbury recalled to mind her old conviction that a daughter may always succeed in beating a hard-hearted parent in a contention about marriage, if she be well in earnest. but then the girl must be really in earnest, and her earnestness will depend on that of her lover. in this case, however, there was as yet no reason for supposing that the great man would object. as far as outward signs went, the great man had shown some partiality for her son. no doubt it was mr. melmotte who had made sir felix a director of the great american company. felix had also been kindly received in grosvenor square. and then sir felix was sir felix,--a real baronet. mr. melmotte had no doubt endeavoured to catch this and that lord; but, failing a lord, why should he not content himself with a baronet? lady carbury thought that her son wanted nothing but money to make him an acceptable suitor to such a father-in-law as mr. melmotte;--not money in the funds, not a real fortune, not so many thousands a-year that could be settled;--the man's own enormous wealth rendered this unnecessary;--but such a one as mr. melmotte would not like outward palpable signs of immediate poverty. there should be means enough for present sleekness and present luxury. he must have a horse to ride, and rings and coats to wear, and bright little canes to carry, and above all the means of making presents. he must not be seen to be poor. fortunately, most fortunately, chance had befriended him lately and had given him some ready money. but if he went on gambling chance would certainly take it all away again. for aught that the poor mother knew, chance might have done so already. and then again, it was indispensable that he should abandon the habit of play--at any rate for the present, while his prospects depended on the good opinions of mr. melmotte. of course such a one as mr. melmotte could not like gambling at a club, however much he might approve of it in the city. why, with such a preceptor to help him, should not felix learn to do his gambling on the exchange, or among the brokers, or in the purlieus of the bank? lady carbury would at any rate instigate him to be diligent in his position as director of the great mexican railway,--which position ought to be the beginning to him of a fortune to be made on his own account. but what hope could there be for him if he should take to drink? would not all hopes be over with mr. melmotte should he ever learn that his daughter's lover reached home and tumbled up-stairs to bed between eight and nine o'clock in the morning? she watched for his appearance on the following day, and began at once on the subject. "do you know, felix, i think i shall go down to your cousin roger for whitsuntide." "to carbury manor!" said he, as he eat some devilled kidneys which the cook had been specially ordered to get for his breakfast. "i thought you found it so dull that you didn't mean to go there any more." "i never said so, felix. and now i have a great object." "what will hetta do?" "go too--why shouldn't she?" "oh; i didn't know. i thought that perhaps she mightn't like it." "i don't see why she shouldn't like it. besides, everything can't give way to her." "has roger asked you?" "no; but i'm sure he'd be pleased to have us if i proposed that we should all go." "not me, mother!" "yes; you especially." "not if i know it, mother. what on earth should i do at carbury manor?" "madame melmotte told me last night that they were all going down to caversham to stay three or four days with the longestaffes. she spoke of lady pomona as quite her particular friend." "oh--h! that explains it all." "explains what, felix?" said lady carbury, who had heard of dolly longestaffe, and was not without some fear that this projected visit to caversham might have some matrimonial purpose in reference to that delightful young heir. "they say at the club that melmotte has taken up old longestaffe's affairs, and means to put them straight. there's an old property in sussex as well as caversham, and they say that melmotte is to have that himself. there's some bother because dolly, who would do anything for anybody else, won't join his father in selling. so the melmottes are going to caversham!" "madame melmotte told me so." "and the longestaffes are the proudest people in england." "of course we ought to be at carbury manor while they are there. what can be more natural? everybody goes out of town at whitsuntide; and why shouldn't we run down to the family place?" "all very natural if you can manage it, mother." "and you'll come?" "if marie melmotte goes, i'll be there at any rate for one day and night," said felix. his mother thought that, for him, the promise had been graciously made. chapter xiii. the longestaffes. mr. adolphus longestaffe, the squire of caversham in suffolk, and of pickering park in sussex, was closeted on a certain morning for the best part of an hour with mr. melmotte in abchurch lane, had there discussed all his private affairs, and was about to leave the room with a very dissatisfied air. there are men,--and old men too, who ought to know the world,--who think that if they can only find the proper medea to boil the cauldron for them, they can have their ruined fortunes so cooked that they shall come out of the pot fresh and new and unembarrassed. these great conjurors are generally sought for in the city; and in truth the cauldrons are kept boiling though the result of the process is seldom absolute rejuvenescence. no greater medea than mr. melmotte had ever been potent in money matters, and mr. longestaffe had been taught to believe that if he could get the necromancer even to look at his affairs everything would be made right for him. but the necromancer had explained to the squire that property could not be created by the waving of any wand or the boiling of any cauldron. he, mr. melmotte, could put mr. longestaffe in the way of realising property without delay, of changing it from one shape into another, or could find out the real market value of the property in question; but he could create nothing. "you have only a life interest, mr. longestaffe." "no; only a life interest. that is customary with family estates in this country, mr. melmotte." "just so. and therefore you can dispose of nothing else. your son, of course, could join you, and then you could sell either one estate or the other." "there is no question of selling caversham, sir. lady pomona and i reside there." "your son will not join you in selling the other place?" "i have not directly asked him; but he never does do anything that i wish. i suppose you would not take pickering park on a lease for my life." "i think not, mr. longestaffe. my wife would not like the uncertainty." then mr. longestaffe took his leave with a feeling of outraged aristocratic pride. his own lawyer would almost have done as much for him, and he need not have invited his own lawyer as a guest to caversham,--and certainly not his own lawyer's wife and daughter. he had indeed succeeded in borrowing a few thousand pounds from the great man at a rate of interest which the great man's head clerk was to arrange, and this had been effected simply on the security of the lease of a house in town. there had been an ease in this, an absence of that delay which generally took place between the expression of his desire for money and the acquisition of it,--and this had gratified him. but he was already beginning to think that he might pay too dearly for that gratification. at the present moment, too, mr. melmotte was odious to him for another reason. he had condescended to ask mr. melmotte to make him a director of the south central pacific and mexican railway, and he,--adolphus longestaffe of caversham,--had had his request refused! mr. longestaffe had condescended very low. "you have made lord alfred grendall one!" he had said in a complaining tone. then mr. melmotte explained that lord alfred possessed peculiar aptitudes for the position. "i'm sure i could do anything that he does," said mr. longestaffe. upon this mr. melmotte, knitting his brows and speaking with some roughness, replied that the number of directors required was completed. since he had had two duchesses at his house mr. melmotte was beginning to feel that he was entitled to bully any mere commoner, especially a commoner who could ask him for a seat at his board. mr. longestaffe was a tall, heavy man, about fifty, with hair and whiskers carefully dyed, whose clothes were made with great care, though they always seemed to fit him too tightly, and who thought very much of his personal appearance. it was not that he considered himself handsome, but that he was specially proud of his aristocratic bearing. he entertained an idea that all who understood the matter would perceive at a single glance that he was a gentleman of the first water, and a man of fashion. he was intensely proud of his position in life, thinking himself to be immensely superior to all those who earned their bread. there were no doubt gentlemen of different degrees, but the english gentleman of gentlemen was he who had land, and family title-deeds, and an old family place, and family portraits, and family embarrassments, and a family absence of any useful employment. he was beginning even to look down upon peers, since so many men of much less consequence than himself had been made lords; and, having stood and been beaten three or four times for his county, he was of opinion that a seat in the house was rather a mark of bad breeding. he was a silly man, who had no fixed idea that it behoved him to be of use to any one; but, yet, he had compassed a certain nobility of feeling. there was very little that his position called upon him to do, but there was much that it forbad him to do. it was not allowed to him to be close in money matters. he could leave his tradesmen's bills unpaid till the men were clamorous, but he could not question the items in their accounts. he could be tyrannical to his servants, but he could not make inquiry as to the consumption of his wines in the servants' hall. he had no pity for his tenants in regard to game, but he hesitated much as to raising their rent. he had his theory of life and endeavoured to live up to it; but the attempt had hardly brought satisfaction to himself or to his family. at the present moment, it was the great desire of his heart to sell the smaller of his two properties and disembarrass the other. the debt had not been altogether of his own making, and the arrangement would, he believed, serve his whole family as well as himself. it would also serve his son, who was blessed with a third property of his own which he had already managed to burden with debt. the father could not bear to be refused; and he feared that his son would decline. "but adolphus wants money as much as any one," lady pomona had said. he had shaken his head and pished and pshawed. women never could understand anything about money. now he walked down sadly from mr. melmotte's office and was taken in his brougham to his lawyer's chambers in lincoln's inn. even for the accommodation of those few thousand pounds he was forced to condescend to tell his lawyers that the title-deeds of his house in town must be given up. mr. longestaffe felt that the world in general was very hard on him. "what on earth are we to do with them?" said sophia, the eldest miss longestaffe, to her mother. "i do think it's a shame of papa," said georgiana, the second daughter. "i certainly shan't trouble myself to entertain them." "of course you will leave them all on my hands," said lady pomona wearily. "but what's the use of having them?" urged sophia. "i can understand going to a crush at their house in town when everybody else goes. one doesn't speak to them, and need not know them afterwards. as to the girl, i'm sure i shouldn't remember her if i were to see her." "it would be a fine thing if adolphus would marry her," said lady pomona. "dolly will never marry anybody," said georgiana. "the idea of his taking the trouble of asking a girl to have him! besides, he won't come down to caversham; cart-ropes wouldn't bring him. if that is to be the game, mamma, it is quite hopeless." "why should dolly marry such a creature as that?" asked sophia. "because everybody wants money," said lady pomona. "i'm sure i don't know what your papa is to do, or how it is that there never is any money for anything. i don't spend it." "i don't think that we do anything out of the way," said sophia. "i haven't the slightest idea what papa's income is; but if we're to live at all, i don't know how we are to make a change." "it's always been like this ever since i can remember," said georgiana, "and i don't mean to worry about it any more. i suppose it's just the same with other people, only one doesn't know it." "but, my dears--when we are obliged to have such people as these melmottes!" "as for that, if we didn't have them somebody else would. i shan't trouble myself about them. i suppose it will only be for two days." "my dear, they're coming for a week!" "then papa must take them about the country, that's all. i never did hear of anything so absurd. what good can they do papa by being down there?" "he is wonderfully rich," said lady pomona. "but i don't suppose he'll give papa his money," continued georgiana. "of course i don't pretend to understand, but i think there is more fuss about these things than they deserve. if papa hasn't got money to live at home, why doesn't he go abroad for a year? the sydney beauchamps did that, and the girls had quite a nice time of it in florence. it was there that clara beauchamp met young lord liffey. i shouldn't at all mind that kind of thing, but i think it quite horrible to have these sort of people brought down upon us at caversham. no one knows who they are, or where they came from, or what they'll turn to." so spoke georgiana, who among the longestaffes was supposed to have the strongest head, and certainly the sharpest tongue. this conversation took place in the drawing-room of the longestaffes' family town-house in bruton street. it was not by any means a charming house, having but few of those luxuries and elegancies which have been added of late years to newly-built london residences. it was gloomy and inconvenient, with large drawing-rooms, bad bedrooms, and very little accommodation for servants. but it was the old family town-house, having been inhabited by three or four generations of longestaffes, and did not savour of that radical newness which prevails, and which was peculiarly distasteful to mr. longestaffe. queen's gate and the quarters around were, according to mr. longestaffe, devoted to opulent tradesmen. even belgrave square, though its aristocratic properties must be admitted, still smelt of the mortar. many of those living there and thereabouts had never possessed in their families real family town-houses. the old streets lying between piccadilly and oxford street, with one or two well-known localities to the south and north of these boundaries, were the proper sites for these habitations. when lady pomona, instigated by some friend of high rank but questionable taste, had once suggested a change to eaton square, mr. longestaffe had at once snubbed his wife. if bruton street wasn't good enough for her and the girls then they might remain at caversham. the threat of remaining at caversham had been often made, for mr. longestaffe, proud as he was of his town-house, was, from year to year, very anxious to save the expense of the annual migration. the girls' dresses and the girls' horses, his wife's carriage and his own brougham, his dull london dinner-parties, and the one ball which it was always necessary that lady pomona should give, made him look forward to the end of july, with more dread than to any other period. it was then that he began to know what that year's season would cost him. but he had never yet been able to keep his family in the country during the entire year. the girls, who as yet knew nothing of the continent beyond paris, had signified their willingness to be taken about germany and italy for twelve months, but had shown by every means in their power that they would mutiny against any intention on their father's part to keep them at caversham during the london season. georgiana had just finished her strong-minded protest against the melmottes, when her brother strolled into the room. dolly did not often show himself in bruton street. he had rooms of his own, and could seldom even be induced to dine with his family. his mother wrote to him notes without end,--notes every day, pressing invitations of all sorts upon him; would he come and dine; would he take them to the theatre; would he go to this ball; would he go to that evening-party? these dolly barely read, and never answered. he would open them, thrust them into some pocket, and then forget them. consequently his mother worshipped him; and even his sisters, who were at any rate superior to him in intellect, treated him with a certain deference. he could do as he liked, and they felt themselves to be slaves, bound down by the dulness of the longestaffe regime. his freedom was grand to their eyes, and very enviable, although they were aware that he had already so used it as to impoverish himself in the midst of his wealth. "my dear adolphus," said the mother, "this is so nice of you." "i think it is rather nice," said dolly, submitting himself to be kissed. "oh dolly, whoever would have thought of seeing you?" said sophia. "give him some tea," said his mother. lady pomona was always having tea from four o'clock till she was taken away to dress for dinner. "i'd sooner have soda and brandy," said dolly. "my darling boy!" "i didn't ask for it, and i don't expect to get it; indeed i don't want it. i only said i'd sooner have it than tea. where's the governor?" they all looked at him with wondering eyes. there must be something going on more than they had dreamed of, when dolly asked to see his father. "papa went out in the brougham immediately after lunch," said sophia gravely. "i'll wait a little for him," said dolly, taking out his watch. "do stay and dine with us," said lady pomona. "i could not do that, because i've got to go and dine with some fellow." "some fellow! i believe you don't know where you're going," said georgiana. "my fellow knows. at least he's a fool if he don't." "adolphus," began lady pomona very seriously, "i've got a plan and i want you to help me." "i hope there isn't very much to do in it, mother." "we're all going to caversham, just for whitsuntide, and we particularly want you to come." "by george! no; i couldn't do that." "you haven't heard half. madame melmotte and her daughter are coming." "the d---- they are!" ejaculated dolly. "dolly!" said sophia, "do remember where you are." "yes i will;--and i'll remember too where i won't be. i won't go to caversham to meet old mother melmotte." "my dear boy," continued the mother, "do you know that miss melmotte will have twenty--thousand--a year the day she marries; and that in all probability her husband will some day be the richest man in europe?" "half the fellows in london are after her," said dolly. "why shouldn't you be one of them?" "she isn't going to stay in the same house with half the fellows in london," suggested georgiana. "if you've a mind to try it you'll have a chance which nobody else can have just at present." "but i haven't any mind to try it. good gracious me;--oh dear! it isn't at all in my way, mother." "i knew he wouldn't," said georgiana. "it would put everything so straight," said lady pomona. "they'll have to remain crooked if nothing else will put them straight. there's the governor. i heard his voice. now for a row." then mr. longestaffe entered the room. "my dear," said lady pomona, "here's adolphus come to see us." the father nodded his head at his son but said nothing. "we want him to stay and dine, but he's engaged." "though he doesn't know where," said sophia. "my fellow knows;--he keeps a book. i've got a letter, sir, ever so long, from those fellows in lincoln's inn. they want me to come and see you about selling something; so i've come. it's an awful bore, because i don't understand anything about it. perhaps there isn't anything to be sold. if so i can go away again, you know." "you'd better come with me into the study," said the father. "we needn't disturb your mother and sisters about business." then the squire led the way out of the room, and dolly followed, making a woful grimace at his sisters. the three ladies sat over their tea for about half-an-hour, waiting,--not the result of the conference, for with that they did not suppose that they would be made acquainted,--but whatever signs of good or evil might be collected from the manner and appearance of the squire when he should return to them. dolly they did not expect to see again,--probably for a month. he and the squire never did come together without quarrelling, and careless as was the young man in every other respect, he had hitherto been obdurate as to his own rights in any dealings which he had with his father. at the end of the half hour mr. longestaffe returned to the drawing-room, and at once pronounced the doom of the family. "my dear," he said, "we shall not return from caversham to london this year." he struggled hard to maintain a grand dignified tranquillity as he spoke, but his voice quivered with emotion. [illustration: then the squire led the way out of the room, and dolly followed.] "papa!" screamed sophia. "my dear, you don't mean it," said lady pomona. "of course papa doesn't mean it," said georgiana rising to her feet. "i mean it accurately and certainly," said mr. longestaffe. "we go to caversham in about ten days, and we shall not return from caversham to london this year." "our ball is fixed," said lady pomona. "then it must be unfixed." so saying, the master of the house left the drawing-room and descended to his study. the three ladies, when left to deplore their fate, expressed their opinions as to the sentence which had been pronounced very strongly. but the daughters were louder in their anger than was their mother. "he can't really mean it," said sophia. "he does," said lady pomona, with tears in her eyes. "he must unmean it again;--that's all," said georgiana. "dolly has said something to him very rough, and he resents it upon us. why did he bring us up at all if he means to take us down before the season has begun?" "i wonder what adolphus has said to him. your papa is always hard upon adolphus." "dolly can take care of himself," said georgiana, "and always does do so. dolly does not care for us." "not a bit," said sophia. "i'll tell you what you must do, mamma. you mustn't stir from this at all. you must give up going to caversham altogether, unless he promises to bring us back. i won't stir,--unless he has me carried out of the house." "my dear, i couldn't say that to him." "then i will. to go and be buried down in that place for a whole year with no one near us but the rusty old bishop and mr. carbury, who is rustier still. i won't stand it. there are some sort of things that one ought not to stand. if you go down i shall stay up with the primeros. mrs. primero would have me i know. it wouldn't be nice of course. i don't like the primeros. i hate the primeros. oh yes;--it's quite true; i know that as well as you, sophia; they are vulgar; but not half so vulgar, mamma, as your friend madame melmotte." "that's ill-natured, georgiana. she is not a friend of mine." "but you're going to have her down at caversham. i can't think what made you dream of going to caversham just now, knowing as you do how hard papa is to manage." "everybody has taken to going out of town at whitsuntide, my dear." "no, mamma; everybody has not. people understand too well the trouble of getting up and down for that. the primeros aren't going down. i never heard of such a thing in all my life. what does he expect is to become of us? if he wants to save money why doesn't he shut caversham up altogether and go abroad? caversham costs a great deal more than is spent in london, and it's the dullest house, i think, in all england." the family party in bruton street that evening was not very gay. nothing was being done, and they sat gloomily in each other's company. whatever mutinous resolutions might be formed and carried out by the ladies of the family, they were not brought forward on that occasion. the two girls were quite silent, and would not speak to their father, and when he addressed them they answered simply by monosyllables. lady pomona was ill, and sat in a corner of a sofa, wiping her eyes. to her had been imparted up-stairs the purport of the conversation between dolly and his father. dolly had refused to consent to the sale of pickering unless half the produce of the sale were to be given to him at once. when it had been explained to him that the sale would be desirable in order that the caversham property might be freed from debt, which caversham property would eventually be his, he replied that he also had an estate of his own which was a little mortgaged and would be the better for money. the result seemed to be that pickering could not be sold,--and, as a consequence of that, mr. longestaffe had determined that there should be no more london expenses that year. the girls, when they got up to go to bed, bent over him and kissed his head, as was their custom. there was very little show of affection in the kiss. "you had better remember that what you have to do in town must be done this week," he said. they heard the words, but marched in stately silence out of the room without deigning to notice them. chapter xiv. carbury manor. "i don't think it quite nice, mamma; that's all. of course if you have made up your mind to go, i must go with you." "what on earth can be more natural than that you should go to your own cousin's house?" "you know what i mean, mamma." "it's done now, my dear, and i don't think there is anything at all in what you say." this little conversation arose from lady carbury's announcement to her daughter of her intention of soliciting the hospitality of carbury manor for the whitsun week. it was very grievous to henrietta that she should be taken to the house of a man who was in love with her, even though he was her cousin. but she had no escape. she could not remain in town by herself, nor could she even allude to her grievance to anyone but to her mother. lady carbury, in order that she might be quite safe from opposition, had posted the following letter to her cousin before she spoke to her daughter:-- welbeck street, th april, --. my dear roger, we know how kind you are and how sincere, and that if what i am going to propose doesn't suit you'll say so at once. i have been working very hard,--too hard indeed, and i feel that nothing will do me so much real good as getting into the country for a day or two. would you take us for a part of whitsun week? we would come down on the th may and stay over the sunday if you would keep us. felix says he would run down though he would not trouble you for so long a time as we talk of staying. i'm sure you must have been glad to hear of his being put upon that great american railway board as a director. it opens a new sphere of life to him, and will enable him to prove that he can make himself useful. i think it was a great confidence to place in one so young. of course you will say so at once if my little proposal interferes with any of your plans, but you have been so very very kind to us that i have no scruple in making it. henrietta joins with me in kind love. your affectionate cousin, matilda carbury. there was much in this letter that disturbed and even annoyed roger carbury. in the first place he felt that henrietta should not be brought to his house. much as he loved her, dear as her presence to him always was, he hardly wished to have her at carbury unless she would come with a resolution to be its future mistress. in one respect he did lady carbury an injustice. he knew that she was anxious to forward his suit, and he thought that henrietta was being brought to his house with that object. he had not heard that the great heiress was coming into his neighbourhood, and therefore knew nothing of lady carbury's scheme in that direction. he was, too, disgusted by the ill-founded pride which the mother expressed at her son's position as a director. roger carbury did not believe in the railway. he did not believe in fisker, nor in melmotte, and certainly not in the board generally. paul montague had acted in opposition to his advice in yielding to the seductions of fisker. the whole thing was to his mind false, fraudulent, and ruinous. of what nature could be a company which should have itself directed by such men as lord alfred grendall and sir felix carbury? and then as to their great chairman, did not everybody know, in spite of all the duchesses, that mr. melmotte was a gigantic swindler? although there was more than one immediate cause for bitterness between them, roger loved paul montague well and could not bear with patience the appearance of his friend's name on such a list. and now he was asked for warm congratulations because sir felix carbury was one of the board! he did not know which to despise most, sir felix for belonging to such a board, or the board for having such a director. "new sphere of life!" he said to himself. "the only proper sphere for them all would be newgate!" and there was another trouble. he had asked paul montague to come to carbury for this special week, and paul had accepted the invitation. with the constancy, which was perhaps his strongest characteristic, he clung to his old affection for the man. he could not bear the idea of a permanent quarrel, though he knew that there must be a quarrel if the man interfered with his dearest hopes. he had asked him down to carbury intending that the name of henrietta carbury should not be mentioned between them;--and now it was proposed to him that henrietta carbury should be at the manor house at the very time of paul's visit! he made up his mind at once that he must tell paul not to come. he wrote his two letters at once. that to lady carbury was very short. he would be delighted to see her and henrietta at the time named,--and would be very glad should it suit felix to come also. he did not say a word about the board, or the young man's probable usefulness in his new sphere of life. to montague his letter was longer. "it is always best to be open and true," he said. "since you were kind enough to say that you would come to me, lady carbury has proposed to visit me just at the same time and to bring her daughter. after what has passed between us i need hardly say that i could not make you both welcome here together. it is not pleasant to me to have to ask you to postpone your visit, but i think you will not accuse me of a want of hospitality towards you." paul wrote back to say that he was sure that there was no want of hospitality, and that he would remain in town. suffolk is not especially a picturesque county, nor can it be said that the scenery round carbury was either grand or beautiful; but there were little prettinesses attached to the house itself and the grounds around it which gave it a charm of its own. the carbury river,--so called, though at no place is it so wide but that an active schoolboy might jump across it,--runs, or rather creeps into the waveney, and in its course is robbed by a moat which surrounds carbury manor house. the moat has been rather a trouble to the proprietors, and especially so to roger, as in these days of sanitary considerations it has been felt necessary either to keep it clean with at any rate moving water in it, or else to fill it up and abolish it altogether. that plan of abolishing it had to be thought of and was seriously discussed about ten years since; but then it was decided that such a proceeding would altogether alter the character of the house, would destroy the gardens, and would create a waste of mud all round the place which it would take years to beautify, or even to make endurable. and then an important question had been asked by an intelligent farmer who had long been a tenant on the property; "fill un oop;--eh, eh; sooner said than doone, squoire. where be the stoof to come from?" the squire, therefore, had given up that idea, and instead of abolishing his moat had made it prettier than ever. the high road from bungay to beccles ran close to the house,--so close that the gable ends of the building were separated from it only by the breadth of the moat. a short, private road, not above a hundred yards in length, led to the bridge which faced the front door. the bridge was old, and high, with sundry architectural pretensions, and guarded by iron gates in the centre, which, however, were very rarely closed. between the bridge and the front door there was a sweep of ground just sufficient for the turning of a carriage, and on either side of this the house was brought close to the water, so that the entrance was in a recess, or irregular quadrangle, of which the bridge and moat formed one side. at the back of the house there were large gardens screened from the road by a wall ten feet high, in which there were yew trees and cypresses said to be of wonderful antiquity. the gardens were partly inside the moat, but chiefly beyond them, and were joined by two bridges--a foot bridge and one with a carriage way,--and there was another bridge at the end of the house furthest from the road, leading from the back door to the stables and farmyard. the house itself had been built in the time of charles ii., when that which we call tudor architecture was giving way to a cheaper, less picturesque, though perhaps more useful form. but carbury manor house, through the whole county, had the reputation of being a tudor building. the windows were long, and for the most part low, made with strong mullions, and still contained small, old-fashioned panes; for the squire had not as yet gone to the expense of plate glass. there was one high bow window, which belonged to the library, and which looked out on to the gravel sweep, at the left of the front door as you entered it. all the other chief rooms faced upon the garden. the house itself was built of a stone that had become buff, or almost yellow with years, and was very pretty. it was still covered with tiles, as were all the attached buildings. it was only two stories high, except at the end, where the kitchens were placed and the offices, which thus rose above the other part of the edifice. the rooms throughout were low, and for the most part long and narrow, with large wide fire-places and deep wainscotings. taking it altogether, one would be inclined to say, that it was picturesque rather than comfortable. such as it was its owner was very proud of it,--with a pride of which he never spoke to anyone, which he endeavoured studiously to conceal, but which had made itself known to all who knew him well. the houses of the gentry around him were superior to his in material comfort and general accommodation, but to none of them belonged that thoroughly established look of old county position which belonged to carbury. bundlesham, where the primeros lived, was the finest house in that part of the county, but it looked as if it had been built within the last twenty years. it was surrounded by new shrubs and new lawns, by new walls and new outhouses, and savoured of trade;--so at least thought roger carbury, though he never said the words. caversham was a very large mansion, built in the early part of george iii.'s reign, when men did care that things about them should be comfortable, but did not care that they should be picturesque. there was nothing at all to recommend caversham but its size. eardly park, the seat of the hepworths, had, as a park, some pretensions. carbury possessed nothing that could be called a park, the enclosures beyond the gardens being merely so many home paddocks. but the house of eardly was ugly and bad. the bishop's palace was an excellent gentleman's residence, but then that too was comparatively modern, and had no peculiar features of its own. now carbury manor house was peculiar, and in the eyes of its owner was pre-eminently beautiful. it often troubled him to think what would come of the place when he was gone. he was at present forty years old, and was perhaps as healthy a man as you could find in the whole county. those around who had known him as he grew into manhood among them, especially the farmers of the neighbourhood, still regarded him as a young man. they spoke of him at the country fairs as the young squire. when in his happiest moods he could be almost a boy, and he still had something of old-fashioned boyish reverence for his elders. but of late there had grown up a great care within his breast,--a care which does not often, perhaps, in these days bear so heavily on men's hearts as it used to do. he had asked his cousin to marry him,--having assured himself with certainty that he did love her better than any other woman,--and she had declined. she had refused him more than once, and he believed her implicitly when she told him that she could not love him. he had a way of believing people, especially when such belief was opposed to his own interests, and had none of that self-confidence which makes a man think that if opportunity be allowed him he can win a woman even in spite of herself. but if it were fated that he should not succeed with henrietta, then,--so he felt assured,--no marriage would now be possible to him. in that case he must look out for an heir, and could regard himself simply as a stop-gap among the carburys. in that case he could never enjoy the luxury of doing the best he could with the property in order that a son of his own might enjoy it. now sir felix was the next heir. roger was hampered by no entail, and could leave every acre of the property as he pleased. in one respect the natural succession to it by sir felix would generally be considered fortunate. it had happened that a title had been won in a lower branch of the family, and were this succession to take place the family title and the family property would go together. no doubt to sir felix himself such an arrangement would seem to be the most proper thing in the world,--as it would also to lady carbury were it not that she looked to carbury manor as the future home of another child. but to all this the present owner of the property had very strong objections. it was not only that he thought ill of the baronet himself,--so ill as to feel thoroughly convinced that no good could come from that quarter,--but he thought ill also of the baronetcy itself. sir patrick, to his thinking, had been altogether unjustifiable in accepting an enduring title, knowing that he would leave behind him no property adequate for its support. a baronet, so thought roger carbury, should be a rich man, rich enough to grace the rank which he assumed to wear. a title, according to roger's doctrine on such subjects, could make no man a gentleman, but, if improperly worn, might degrade a man who would otherwise be a gentleman. he thought that a gentleman, born and bred, acknowledged as such without doubt, could not be made more than a gentleman by all the titles which the queen could give. with these old-fashioned notions roger hated the title which had fallen upon a branch of his family. he certainly would not leave his property to support the title which sir felix unfortunately possessed. but sir felix was the natural heir, and this man felt himself constrained, almost as by some divine law, to see that his land went by natural descent. though he was in no degree fettered as to its disposition, he did not presume himself to have more than a life interest in the estate. it was his duty to see that it went from carbury to carbury as long as there was a carbury to hold it, and especially his duty to see that it should go from his hands, at his death, unimpaired in extent or value. there was no reason why he should himself die for the next twenty or thirty years,--but were he to die sir felix would undoubtedly dissipate the acres, and then there would be an end of carbury. but in such case he, roger carbury, would at any rate have done his duty. he knew that no human arrangements can be fixed, let the care in making them be ever so great. to his thinking it would be better that the estate should be dissipated by a carbury than held together by a stranger. he would stick to the old name while there was one to bear it, and to the old family while a member of it was left. so thinking he had already made his will, leaving the entire property to the man whom of all others he most despised, should he himself die without child. in the afternoon of the day on which lady carbury was expected, he wandered about the place thinking of all this. how infinitely better it would be that he should have an heir of his own. how wonderfully beautiful would the world be to him if at last his cousin would consent to be his wife! how wearily insipid must it be if no such consent could be obtained from her. and then he thought much of her welfare too. in very truth he did not like lady carbury. he saw through her character, judging her with almost absolute accuracy. the woman was affectionate, seeking good things for others rather than for herself; but she was essentially worldly, believing that good could come out of evil, that falsehood might in certain conditions be better than truth, that shams and pretences might do the work of true service, that a strong house might be built upon the sand! it was lamentable to him that the girl he loved should be subjected to this teaching, and live in an atmosphere so burdened with falsehood. would not the touch of pitch at last defile her? in his heart of hearts he believed that she loved paul montague; and of paul himself he was beginning to fear evil. what but a sham could be a man who consented to pretend to sit as one of a board of directors to manage an enormous enterprise with such colleagues as lord alfred grendall and sir felix carbury, under the absolute control of such a one as mr. augustus melmotte? was not this building a house upon the sand with a vengeance? what a life it would be for henrietta carbury were she to marry a man striving to become rich without labour and without capital, and who might one day be wealthy and the next a beggar,--a city adventurer, who of all men was to him the vilest and most dishonest? he strove to think well of paul montague, but such was the life which he feared the young man was preparing for himself. then he went into the house and wandered up through the rooms which the two ladies were to occupy. as their host, a host without a wife or mother or sister, it was his duty to see that things were comfortable, but it may be doubted whether he would have been so careful had the mother been coming alone. in the smaller room of the two the hangings were all white, and the room was sweet with may flowers; and he brought a white rose from the hot-house, and placed it in a glass on the dressing table. surely she would know who put it there. then he stood at the open window, looking down upon the lawn, gazing vacantly for half an hour, till he heard the wheels of the carriage before the front door. during that half hour he resolved that he would try again as though there had as yet been no repulse. chapter xv. "you should remember that i am his mother." "this is so kind of you," said lady carbury, grasping her cousin's hand as she got out of the carriage. "the kindness is on your part," said roger. "i felt so much before i dared to ask you to take us. but i did so long to get into the country, and i do so love carbury. and--and--" "where should a carbury go to escape from london smoke, but to the old house? i am afraid henrietta will find it dull." "oh no," said hetta smiling. "you ought to remember that i am never dull in the country." "the bishop and mrs. yeld are coming here to dine to-morrow,--and the hepworths." "i shall be so glad to meet the bishop once more," said lady carbury. "i think everybody must be glad to meet him, he is such a dear, good fellow, and his wife is just as good. and there is another gentleman coming whom you have never seen." "a new neighbour?" "yes,--a new neighbour;--father john barham, who has come to beccles as priest. he has got a little cottage about a mile from here, in this parish, and does duty both at beccles and bungay. i used to know something of his family." "he is a gentleman then?" "certainly he is a gentleman. he took his degree at oxford, and then became what we call a pervert, and what i suppose they call a convert. he has not got a shilling in the world beyond what they pay him as a priest, which i take it amounts to about as much as the wages of a day labourer. he told me the other day that he was absolutely forced to buy second-hand clothes." "how shocking!" said lady carbury, holding up her hands. "he didn't seem to be at all shocked at telling it. we have got to be quite friends." "will the bishop like to meet him?" "why should not the bishop like to meet him? i've told the bishop all about him, and the bishop particularly wishes to know him. he won't hurt the bishop. but you and hetta will find it very dull." "i shan't find it dull, mr. carbury," said henrietta. "it was to escape from the eternal parties that we came down here," said lady carbury. she had nevertheless been anxious to hear what guests were expected at the manor house. sir felix had promised to come down on saturday, with the intention of returning on monday, and lady carbury had hoped that some visiting might be arranged between caversham and the manor house, so that her son might have the full advantage of his closeness to marie melmotte. "i have asked the longestaffes for monday," said roger. "they are down here then?" "i think they arrived yesterday. there is always a flustering breeze in the air and a perturbation generally through the county when they come or go, and i think i perceived the effects about four in the afternoon. they won't come, i dare say." "why not?" "they never do. they have probably a house full of guests, and they know that my accommodation is limited. i've no doubt they'll ask us on tuesday or wednesday, and if you like we will go." "i know they are to have guests," said lady carbury. "what guests?" "the melmottes are coming to them." lady carbury, as she made the announcement, felt that her voice and countenance and self-possession were failing her, and that she could not mention the thing as she would any matter that was indifferent to her. "the melmottes coming to caversham!" said roger, looking at henrietta, who blushed with shame as she remembered that she had been brought into her lover's house solely in order that her brother might have an opportunity of seeing marie melmotte in the country. "oh yes,--madame melmotte told me. i take it they are very intimate." "mr. longestaffe ask the melmottes to visit him at caversham!" "why not?" "i should almost as soon have believed that i myself might have been induced to ask them here." "i fancy, roger, that mr. longestaffe does want a little pecuniary assistance." "and he condescends to get it in this way! i suppose it will make no difference soon whom one knows, and whom one doesn't. things aren't as they were, of course, and never will be again. perhaps it's all for the better;--i won't say it isn't. but i should have thought that such a man as mr. longestaffe might have kept such another man as mr. melmotte out of his wife's drawing-room." henrietta became redder than ever. even lady carbury flushed up, as she remembered that roger carbury knew that she had taken her daughter to madame melmotte's ball. he thought of this himself as soon as the words were spoken, and then tried to make some half apology. "i don't approve of them in london, you know; but i think they are very much worse in the country." then there was a movement. the ladies were shown into their rooms, and roger again went out into the garden. he began to feel that he understood it all. lady carbury had come down to his house in order that she might be near the melmottes! there was something in this which he felt it difficult not to resent. it was for no love of him that she was there. he had felt that henrietta ought not to have been brought to his house; but he could have forgiven that, because her presence there was a charm to him. he could have forgiven that, even while he was thinking that her mother had brought her there with the object of disposing of her. if it were so, the mother's object would be the same as his own, and such a manoeuvre he could pardon, though he could not approve. his self-love had to some extent been gratified. but now he saw that he and his house had been simply used in order that a vile project of marrying two vile people to each other might be furthered! as he was thinking of all this, lady carbury came out to him in the garden. she had changed her travelling dress, and made herself pretty, as she well knew how to do. and now she dressed her face in her sweetest smiles. her mind, also, was full of the melmottes, and she wished to explain to her stern, unbending cousin all the good that might come to her and hers by an alliance with the heiress. "i can understand, roger," she said, taking his arm, "that you should not like those people." "what people?" "the melmottes." "i don't dislike them. how should i dislike people that i never saw? i dislike those who seek their society simply because they have the reputation of being rich." "meaning me." "no; not meaning you. i don't dislike you, as you know very well, though i do dislike the fact that you should run after these people. i was thinking of the longestaffes then." "do you suppose, my friend, that i run after them for my own gratification? do you think that i go to their house because i find pleasure in their magnificence; or that i follow them down here for any good that they will do me?" "i would not follow them at all." "i will go back if you bid me, but i must first explain what i mean. you know my son's condition,--better, i fear, than he does himself." roger nodded assent to this, but said nothing. "what is he to do? the only chance for a young man in his position is that he should marry a girl with money. he is good-looking; you can't deny that." "nature has done enough for him." "we must take him as he is. he was put into the army very young, and was very young when he came into possession of his own small fortune. he might have done better; but how many young men placed in such temptations do well? as it is, he has nothing left." "i fear not." "and therefore is it not imperative that he should marry a girl with money?" "i call that stealing a girl's money, lady carbury." "oh, roger, how hard you are!" "a man must be hard or soft,--which is best?" "with women i think that a little softness has the most effect. i want to make you understand this about the melmottes. it stands to reason that the girl will not marry felix unless she loves him." "but does he love her?" "why should he not? is a girl to be debarred from being loved because she has money? of course she looks to be married, and why should she not have felix if she likes him best? cannot you sympathize with my anxiety so to place him that he shall not be a disgrace to the name and to the family?" "we had better not talk about the family, lady carbury." "but i think so much about it." "you will never get me to say that i think the family will be benefited by a marriage with the daughter of mr. melmotte. i look upon him as dirt in the gutter. to me, in my old-fashioned way, all his money, if he has it, can make no difference. when there is a question of marriage people at any rate should know something of each other. who knows anything of this man? who can be sure that she is his daughter?" "he would give her her fortune when she married." "yes; it all comes to that. men say openly that he is an adventurer and a swindler. no one pretends to think that he is a gentleman. there is a consciousness among all who speak of him that he amasses his money not by honest trade, but by unknown tricks,--as does a card sharper. he is one whom we would not admit into our kitchens, much less to our tables, on the score of his own merits. but because he has learned the art of making money, we not only put up with him, but settle upon his carcase as so many birds of prey." "do you mean that felix should not marry the girl, even if they love each other?" he shook his head in disgust, feeling sure that any idea of love on the part of the young man was a sham and a pretence, not only as regarded him, but also his mother. he could not quite declare this, and yet he desired that she should understand that he thought so. "i have nothing more to say about it," he continued. "had it gone on in london i should have said nothing. it is no affair of mine. when i am told that the girl is in the neighbourhood, at such a house as caversham, and that felix is coming here in order that he may be near to his prey, and when i am asked to be a party to the thing, i can only say what i think. your son would be welcome to my house, because he is your son and my cousin, little as i approve his mode of life; but i could have wished that he had chosen some other place for the work that he has on hand." "if you wish it, roger, we will return to london. i shall find it hard to explain to hetta;--but we will go." "no; i certainly do not wish that." "but you have said such hard things! how are we to stay? you speak of felix as though he were all bad." she looked at him hoping to get from him some contradiction of this, some retractation, some kindly word; but it was what he did think, and he had nothing to say. she could bear much. she was not delicate as to censure implied, or even expressed. she had endured rough usage before, and was prepared to endure more. had he found fault with herself, or with henrietta, she would have put up with it, for the sake of benefits to come,--would have forgiven it the more easily because perhaps it might not have been deserved. but for her son she was prepared to fight. if she did not defend him, who would? "i am grieved, roger, that we should have troubled you with our visit, but i think that we had better go. you are very harsh, and it crushes me." "i have not meant to be harsh." "you say that felix is seeking for his--prey, and that he is to be brought here to be near--his prey. what can be more harsh than that? at any rate, you should remember that i am his mother." [illustration: "you should remember that i am his mother."] she expressed her sense of injury very well. roger began to be ashamed of himself, and to think that he had spoken unkind words. and yet he did not know how to recall them. "if i have hurt you, i regret it much." "of course you have hurt me. i think i will go in now. how very hard the world is! i came here thinking to find peace and sunshine, and there has come a storm at once." "you asked me about the melmottes, and i was obliged to speak. you cannot think that i meant to offend you." they walked on in silence till they had reached the door leading from the garden into the house, and here he stopped her. "if i have been over hot with you, let me beg your pardon." she smiled and bowed; but her smile was not one of forgiveness; and then she essayed to pass on into the house. "pray do not speak of going, lady carbury." "i think i will go to my room now. my head aches so that i can hardly stand." it was late in the afternoon,--about six,--and according to his daily custom he should have gone round to the offices to see his men as they came from their work, but he stood still for a few moments on the spot where lady carbury had left him and went slowly across the lawn to the bridge and there seated himself on the parapet. could it really be that she meant to leave his house in anger and to take her daughter with her? was it thus that he was to part with the one human being in the world that he loved? he was a man who thought much of the duties of hospitality, feeling that a man in his own house was bound to exercise a courtesy towards his guests sweeter, softer, more gracious than the world required elsewhere. and of all guests those of his own name were the best entitled to such courtesy at carbury. he held the place in trust for the use of others. but if there were one among all others to whom the house should be a house of refuge from care, not an abode of trouble, on whose behalf were it possible he would make the very air softer, and the flowers sweeter than their wont, to whom he would declare, were such words possible to his tongue, that of him and of his house, and of all things there she was the mistress, whether she would condescend to love him or no,--that one was his cousin hetta. and now he had been told by his guest that he had been so rough to her that she and her daughter must return to london! and he could not acquit himself. he knew that he had been rough. he had said very hard words. it was true that he could not have expressed his meaning without hard words, nor have repressed his meaning without self-reproach. but in his present mood he could not comfort himself by justifying himself. she had told him that he ought to have remembered that felix was her son; and as she spoke she had acted well the part of an outraged mother. his heart was so soft that though he knew the woman to be false and the son to be worthless, he utterly condemned himself. look where he would there was no comfort. when he had sat half-an-hour upon the bridge he turned towards the house to dress for dinner,--and to prepare himself for an apology, if any apology might be accepted. at the door, standing in the doorway as though waiting for him, he met his cousin hetta. she had on her bosom the rose he had placed in her room, and as he approached her he thought that there was more in her eyes of graciousness towards him than he had ever seen there before. "mr. carbury," she said, "mamma is so unhappy!" "i fear that i have offended her." "it is not that, but that you should be so,--so angry about felix." "i am vexed with myself that i have vexed her,--more vexed than i can tell you." "she knows how good you are." "no, i'm not. i was very bad just now. she was so offended with me that she talked of going back to london." he paused for her to speak, but hetta had no words ready for the moment. "i should be wretched indeed if you and she were to leave my house in anger." "i do not think she will do that." "and you?" "i am not angry. i should never dare to be angry with you. i only wish that felix would be better. they say that young men have to be bad, and that they do get to be better as they grow older. he is something in the city now, a director they call him, and mamma thinks that the work will be of service to him." roger could express no hope in this direction or even look as though he approved of the directorship. "i don't see why he should not try at any rate." "dear hetta, i only wish he were like you." "girls are so different, you know." it was not till late in the evening, long after dinner, that he made his apology in form to lady carbury; but he did make it, and at last it was accepted. "i think i was rough to you, talking about felix," he said,--"and i beg your pardon." "you were energetic, that was all." "a gentleman should never be rough to a lady, and a man should never be rough to his own guests. i hope you will forgive me." she answered him by putting out her hand and smiling on him; and so the quarrel was over. lady carbury understood the full extent of her triumph, and was enabled by her disposition to use it thoroughly. felix might now come down to carbury, and go over from thence to caversham, and prosecute his wooing, and the master of carbury could make no further objection. and felix, if he would come, would not now be snubbed. roger would understand that he was constrained to courtesy by the former severity of his language. such points as these lady carbury never missed. he understood it too, and though he was soft and gracious in his bearing, endeavouring to make his house as pleasant as he could to his two guests, he felt that he had been cheated out of his undoubted right to disapprove of all connection with the melmottes. in the course of the evening there came a note,--or rather a bundle of notes,--from caversham. that addressed to roger was in the form of a letter. lady pomona was sorry to say that the longestaffe party were prevented from having the pleasure of dining at carbury hall by the fact that they had a house full of guests. lady pomona hoped that mr. carbury and his relatives, who, lady pomona heard, were with him at the hall, would do the longestaffes the pleasure of dining at caversham either on the monday or tuesday following, as might best suit the carbury plans. that was the purport of lady pomona's letter to roger carbury. then there were cards of invitation for lady carbury and her daughter, and also for sir felix. roger, as he read his own note, handed the others over to lady carbury, and then asked her what she would wish to have done. the tone of his voice, as he spoke, grated on her ear, as there was something in it of his former harshness. but she knew how to use her triumph. "i should like to go," she said. "i certainly shall not go," he replied; "but there will be no difficulty whatever in sending you over. you must answer at once, because their servant is waiting." "monday will be best," she said; "--that is, if nobody is coming here." "there will be nobody here." "i suppose i had better say that i, and hetta,--and felix will accept their invitation." "i can make no suggestion," said roger, thinking how delightful it would be if henrietta could remain with him; how objectionable it was that henrietta should be taken to caversham to meet the melmottes. poor hetta herself could say nothing. she certainly did not wish to meet the melmottes, nor did she wish to dine, alone, with her cousin roger. "that will be best," said lady carbury after a moment's thought. "it is very good of you to let us go, and to send us." "of course you will do here just as you please," he replied. but there was still that tone in his voice which lady carbury feared. a quarter of an hour later the caversham servant was on his way home with two letters,--the one from roger expressing his regret that he could not accept lady pomona's invitation, and the other from lady carbury declaring that she and her son and daughter would have great pleasure in dining at caversham on the monday. chapter xvi. the bishop and the priest. the afternoon on which lady carbury arrived at her cousin's house had been very stormy. roger carbury had been severe, and lady carbury had suffered under his severity,--or had at least so well pretended to suffer as to leave on roger's mind a strong impression that he had been cruel to her. she had then talked of going back at once to london, and when consenting to remain, had remained with a very bad feminine headache. she had altogether carried her point, but had done so in a storm. the next morning was very calm. that question of meeting the melmottes had been settled, and there was no need for speaking of them again. roger went out by himself about the farm, immediately after breakfast, having told the ladies that they could have the waggonnette when they pleased. "i'm afraid you'll find it tiresome driving about our lanes," he said. lady carbury assured him that she was never dull when left alone with books. just as he was starting he went into the garden and plucked a rose which he brought to henrietta. he only smiled as he gave it her, and then went his way. he had resolved that he would say nothing to her of his suit till monday. if he could prevail with her then he would ask her to remain with him when her mother and brother would be going out to dine at caversham. she looked up into his face as she took the rose and thanked him in a whisper. she fully appreciated the truth, and honour, and honesty of his character, and could have loved him so dearly as her cousin if he would have contented himself with such cousinly love! she was beginning, within her heart, to take his side against her mother and brother, and to feel that he was the safest guide that she could have. but how could she be guided by a lover whom she did not love? "i am afraid, my dear, we shall have a bad time of it here," said lady carbury. "why so, mamma?" "it will be so dull. your cousin is the best friend in all the world, and would make as good a husband as could be picked out of all the gentlemen of england; but in his present mood with me he is not a comfortable host. what nonsense he did talk about the melmottes!" "i don't suppose, mamma, that mr. and mrs. melmotte can be nice people." "why shouldn't they be as nice as anybody else? pray, henrietta, don't let us have any of that nonsense from you. when it comes from the superhuman virtue of poor dear roger it has to be borne, but i beg that you will not copy him." "mamma, i think that is unkind." "and i shall think it very unkind if you take upon yourself to abuse people who are able and willing to set poor felix on his legs. a word from you might undo all that we are doing." "what word?" "what word? any word! if you have any influence with your brother you should use it in inducing him to hurry this on. i am sure the girl is willing enough. she did refer him to her father." "then why does he not go to mr. melmotte?" "i suppose he is delicate about it on the score of money. if roger could only let it be understood that felix is the heir to this place, and that some day he will be sir felix carbury of carbury, i don't think there would be any difficulty even with old melmotte." "how could he do that, mamma?" "if your cousin were to die as he is now, it would be so. your brother would be his heir." "you should not think of such a thing, mamma." "why do you dare to tell me what i am to think? am i not to think of my own son? is he not to be dearer to me than any one? and what i say, is so. if roger were to die to-morrow he would be sir felix carbury of carbury." "but, mamma, he will live and have a family. why should he not?" "you say he is so old that you will not look at him." "i never said so. when we were joking, i said he was old. you know i did not mean that he was too old to get married. men a great deal older get married every day." "if you don't accept him he will never marry. he is a man of that kind,--so stiff and stubborn and old-fashioned that nothing will change him. he will go on boodying over it, till he will become an old misanthrope. if you would take him i would be quite contented. you are my child as well as felix. but if you mean to be obstinate i do wish that the melmottes should be made to understand that the property and title and name of the place will all go together. it will be so, and why should not felix have the advantage?" "who is to say it?" "ah;--that's where it is. roger is so violent and prejudiced that one cannot get him to speak rationally." "oh, mamma;--you wouldn't suggest it to him;--that this place is to go to--felix, when he--is dead!" "it would not kill him a day sooner." "you would not dare to do it, mamma." "i would dare to do anything for my children. but you need not look like that, henrietta. i am not going to say anything to him of the kind. he is not quick enough to understand of what infinite service he might be to us without in any way hurting himself." henrietta would fain have answered that their cousin was quick enough for anything, but was by far too honest to take part in such a scheme as that proposed. she refrained, however, and was silent. there was no sympathy on the matter between her and her mother. she was beginning to understand the tortuous mazes of manoeuvres in which her mother's mind had learned to work, and to dislike and almost to despise them. but she felt it to be her duty to abstain from rebukes. in the afternoon lady carbury, alone, had herself driven into beccles that she might telegraph to her son. "you are to dine at caversham on monday. come on saturday if you can. she is there." lady carbury had many doubts as to the wording of this message. the female in the office might too probably understand who was the "she," who was spoken of as being at caversham, and might understand also the project, and speak of it publicly. but then it was essential that felix should know how great and certain was the opportunity afforded to him. he had promised to come on saturday and return on monday,--and, unless warned, would too probably stick to his plan and throw over the longestaffes and their dinner-party. again if he were told to come simply for the monday, he would throw over the chance of wooing her on the sunday. it was lady carbury's desire to get him down for as long a period as was possible, and nothing surely would so tend to bring him and to keep him, as a knowledge that the heiress was already in the neighbourhood. then she returned, and shut herself up in her bedroom, and worked for an hour or two at a paper which she was writing for the "breakfast table." nobody should ever accuse her justly of idleness. and afterwards, as she walked by herself round and round the garden, she revolved in her mind the scheme of a new book. whatever might happen she would persevere. if the carburys were unfortunate their misfortunes should come from no fault of hers. henrietta passed the whole day alone. she did not see her cousin from breakfast till he appeared in the drawing-room before dinner. but she was thinking of him during every minute of the day,--how good he was, how honest, how thoroughly entitled to demand at any rate kindness at her hand! her mother had spoken of him as of one who might be regarded as all but dead and buried, simply because of his love for her. could it be true that his constancy was such that he would never marry unless she would take his hand? she came to think of him with more tenderness than she had ever felt before, but, yet, she would not tell herself she loved him. it might, perhaps, be her duty to give herself to him without loving him,--because he was so good; but she was sure that she did not love him. in the evening the bishop came, and his wife, mrs. yeld, and the hepworths of eardly, and father john barham, the beccles priest. the party consisted of eight, which is, perhaps, the best number for a mixed gathering of men and women at a dinner-table,--especially if there be no mistress whose prerogative and duty it is to sit opposite to the master. in this case mr. hepworth faced the giver of the feast, the bishop and the priest were opposite to each other, and the ladies graced the four corners. roger, though he spoke of such things to no one, turned them over much in his mind, believing it to be the duty of a host to administer in all things to the comfort of his guests. in the drawing-room he had been especially courteous to the young priest, introducing him first to the bishop and his wife, and then to his cousins. henrietta watched him through the whole evening, and told herself that he was a very mirror of courtesy in his own house. she had seen it all before, no doubt; but she had never watched him as she now watched him since her mother had told her that he would die wifeless and childless because she would not be his wife and the mother of his children. the bishop was a man sixty years of age, very healthy and handsome, with hair just becoming grey, clear eyes, a kindly mouth, and something of a double chin. he was all but six feet high, with a broad chest, large hands, and legs which seemed to have been made for clerical breeches and clerical stockings. he was a man of fortune outside his bishopric; and, as he never went up to london, and had no children on whom to spend his money, he was able to live as a nobleman in the country. he did live as a nobleman, and was very popular. among the poor around him he was idolized, and by such clergy of his diocese as were not enthusiastic in their theology either on the one side or on the other, he was regarded as a model bishop. by the very high and the very low,--by those rather who regarded ritualism as being either heavenly or devilish,--he was looked upon as a time-server, because he would not put to sea in either of those boats. he was an unselfish man, who loved his neighbour as himself, and forgave all trespasses, and thanked god for his daily bread from his heart, and prayed heartily to be delivered from temptation. but i doubt whether he was competent to teach a creed,--or even to hold one, if it be necessary that a man should understand and define his creed before he can hold it. whether he was free from, or whether he was scared by, any inward misgivings, who shall say? if there were such he never whispered a word of them even to the wife of his bosom. from the tone of his voice and the look of his eye, you would say that he was unscathed by that agony which doubt on such a matter would surely bring to a man so placed. and yet it was observed of him that he never spoke of his faith, or entered into arguments with men as to the reasons on which he had based it. he was diligent in preaching,--moral sermons that were short, pithy, and useful. he was never weary in furthering the welfare of his clergymen. his house was open to them and to their wives. the edifice of every church in his diocese was a care to him. he laboured at schools, and was zealous in improving the social comforts of the poor; but he was never known to declare to man or woman that the human soul must live or die for ever according to its faith. perhaps there was no bishop in england more loved or more useful in his diocese than the bishop of elmham. a man more antagonistic to the bishop than father john barham, the lately appointed roman catholic priest at beccles, it would be impossible to conceive;--and yet they were both eminently good men. father john was not above five feet nine in height, but so thin, so meagre, so wasted in appearance, that, unless when he stooped, he was taken to be tall. he had thick dark brown hair, which was cut short in accordance with the usage of his church; but which he so constantly ruffled by the action of his hands, that, though short, it seemed to be wild and uncombed. in his younger days, when long locks straggled over his forehead, he had acquired a habit, while talking energetically, of rubbing them back with his finger, which he had not since dropped. in discussions he would constantly push back his hair, and then sit with his hand fixed on the top of his head. he had a high, broad forehead, enormous blue eyes, a thin, long nose, cheeks very thin and hollow, a handsome large mouth, and a strong square chin. he was utterly without worldly means, except those which came to him from the ministry of his church, and which did not suffice to find him food and raiment; but no man ever lived more indifferent to such matters than father john barham. he had been the younger son of an english country gentleman of small fortune, had been sent to oxford that he might hold a family living, and on the eve of his ordination had declared himself a roman catholic. his family had resented this bitterly, but had not quarrelled with him till he had drawn a sister with him. when banished from the house he had still striven to achieve the conversion of other sisters by his letters, and was now absolutely an alien from his father's heart and care. but of this he never complained. it was a part of the plan of his life that he should suffer for his faith. had he been able to change his creed without incurring persecution, worldly degradation, and poverty, his own conversion would not have been to him comfortable and satisfactory as it was. he considered that his father, as a protestant,--and in his mind protestant and heathen were all the same,--had been right to quarrel with him. but he loved his father, and was endless in prayer, wearying his saints with supplications, that his father might see the truth and be as he was. to him it was everything that a man should believe and obey,--that he should abandon his own reason to the care of another or of others, and allow himself to be guided in all things by authority. faith being sufficient and of itself all in all, moral conduct could be nothing to a man, except as a testimony of faith; for to him, whose belief was true enough to produce obedience, moral conduct would certainly be added. the dogmas of his church were to father barham a real religion; and he would teach them in season and out of season, always ready to commit himself to the task of proving their truth, afraid of no enemy, not even fearing the hostility which his perseverance would create. he had but one duty before him,--to do his part towards bringing over the world to his faith. it might be that with the toil of his whole life he should convert but one; that he should but half convert one; that he should do no more than disturb the thoughts of one so that future conversion might be possible. but even that would be work done. he would sow the seed if it might be so; but if it were not given to him to do that, he would at any rate plough the ground. he had come to beccles lately, and roger carbury had found out that he was a gentleman by birth and education. roger had found out also that he was very poor, and had consequently taken him by the hand. the young priest had not hesitated to accept his neighbour's hospitality, having on one occasion laughingly protested that he should be delighted to dine at carbury, as he was much in want of a dinner. he had accepted presents from the garden and the poultry yard, declaring that he was too poor to refuse anything. the apparent frankness of the man about himself had charmed roger, and the charm had not been seriously disturbed when father barham, on one winter evening in the parlour at carbury, had tried his hand at converting his host. "i have the most thorough respect for your religion," roger had said; "but it would not suit me." the priest had gone on with his logic; if he could not sow the seed he might plough the ground. this had been repeated two or three times, and roger had begun to feel it to be disagreeable. but the man was in earnest, and such earnestness commanded respect. and roger was quite sure that though he might be bored, he could not be injured by such teaching. then it occurred to him one day that he had known the bishop of elmham intimately for a dozen years, and had never heard from the bishop's mouth,--except when in the pulpit,--a single word of religious teaching; whereas this man, who was a stranger to him, divided from him by the very fact of his creed, was always talking to him about his faith. roger carbury was not a man given to much deep thinking, but he felt that the bishop's manner was the pleasanter of the two. lady carbury at dinner was all smiles and pleasantness. no one looking at her, or listening to her, could think that her heart was sore with many troubles. she sat between the bishop and her cousin, and was skilful enough to talk to each without neglecting the other. she had known the bishop before, and had on one occasion spoken to him of her soul. the first tone of the good man's reply had convinced her of her error, and she never repeated it. to mr. alf she commonly talked of her mind; to mr. broune of her heart; to mr. booker of her body--and its wants. she was quite ready to talk of her soul on a proper occasion, but she was much too wise to thrust the subject even on a bishop. now she was full of the charms of carbury and its neighbourhood. "yes, indeed," said the bishop, "i think suffolk is a very nice county; and as we are only a mile or two from norfolk, i'll say as much for norfolk too. 'it's an ill bird that fouls its own nest.'" "i like a county in which there is something left of county feeling," said lady carbury. "staffordshire and warwickshire, cheshire and lancashire have become great towns, and have lost all local distinctions." "we still keep our name and reputation," said the bishop; "silly suffolk!" "but that was never deserved." "as much, perhaps, as other general epithets. i think we are a sleepy people. we've got no coal, you see, and no iron. we have no beautiful scenery, like the lake country,--no rivers great for fishing, like scotland,--no hunting grounds, like the shires." "partridges!" pleaded lady carbury, with pretty energy. "yes; we have partridges, fine churches, and the herring fishery. we shall do very well if too much is not expected of us. we can't increase and multiply as they do in the great cities." "i like this part of england so much the best for that very reason. what is the use of a crowded population?" "the earth has to be peopled, lady carbury." "oh, yes," said her ladyship, with some little reverence added to her voice, feeling that the bishop was probably adverting to a divine arrangement. "the world must be peopled; but for myself i like the country better than the town." "so do i," said roger; "and i like suffolk. the people are hearty, and radicalism is not quite so rampant as it is elsewhere. the poor people touch their hats, and the rich people think of the poor. there is something left among us of old english habits." "that is so nice," said lady carbury. "something left of old english ignorance," said the bishop. "all the same i dare say we're improving, like the rest of the world. what beautiful flowers you have here, mr. carbury! at any rate, we can grow flowers in suffolk." mrs. yeld, the bishop's wife, was sitting next to the priest, and was in truth somewhat afraid of her neighbour. she was, perhaps, a little stauncher than her husband in protestantism; and though she was willing to admit that mr. barham might not have ceased to be a gentleman when he became a roman catholic priest, she was not quite sure that it was expedient for her or her husband to have much to do with him. mr. carbury had not taken them unawares. notice had been given that the priest was to be there, and the bishop had declared that he would be very happy to meet the priest. but mrs. yeld had had her misgivings. she never ventured to insist on her opinion after the bishop had expressed his; but she had an idea that right was right, and wrong wrong,--and that roman catholics were wrong, and therefore ought to be put down. and she thought also that if there were no priests there would be no roman catholics. mr. barham was, no doubt, a man of good family, which did make a difference. mr. barham always made his approaches very gradually. the taciturn humility with which he commenced his operations was in exact proportion to the enthusiastic volubility of his advanced intimacy. mrs. yeld thought that it became her to address to him a few civil words, and he replied to her with a shame-faced modesty that almost overcame her dislike to his profession. she spoke of the poor of beccles, being very careful to allude only to their material position. there was too much beer drunk, no doubt, and the young women would have finery. where did they get the money to buy those wonderful bonnets which appeared every sunday? mr. barham was very meek, and agreed to everything that was said. no doubt he had a plan ready formed for inducing mrs. yeld to have mass said regularly within her husband's palace, but he did not even begin to bring it about on this occasion. it was not till he made some apparently chance allusion to the superior church-attending qualities of "our people," that mrs. yeld drew herself up and changed the conversation by observing that there had been a great deal of rain lately. when the ladies were gone the bishop at once put himself in the way of conversation with the priest, and asked questions as to the morality of beccles. it was evidently mr. barham's opinion that "his people" were more moral than other people, though very much poorer. "but the irish always drink," said mr. hepworth. "not so much as the english, i think," said the priest. "and you are not to suppose that we are all irish. of my flock the greater proportion are english." "it is astonishing how little we know of our neighbours," said the bishop. "of course i am aware that there are a certain number of persons of your persuasion round about us. indeed, i could give the exact number in this diocese. but in my own immediate neighbourhood i could not put my hand upon any families which i know to be roman catholic." "it is not, my lord, because there are none." "of course not. it is because, as i say, i do not know my neighbours." "i think, here in suffolk, they must be chiefly the poor," said mr. hepworth. "they were chiefly the poor who at first put their faith in our saviour," said the priest. "i think the analogy is hardly correctly drawn," said the bishop, with a curious smile. "we were speaking of those who are still attached to an old creed. our saviour was the teacher of a new religion. that the poor in the simplicity of their hearts should be the first to acknowledge the truth of a new religion is in accordance with our idea of human nature. but that an old faith should remain with the poor after it has been abandoned by the rich is not so easily intelligible." [illustration: the bishop thinks that the priest's analogy is not correct.] "the roman population still believed," said carbury, "when the patricians had learned to regard their gods as simply useful bugbears." "the patricians had not ostensibly abandoned their religion. the people clung to it thinking that their masters and rulers clung to it also." "the poor have ever been the salt of the earth, my lord," said the priest. "that begs the whole question," said the bishop, turning to his host, and beginning to talk about a breed of pigs which had lately been imported into the palace styes. father barham turned to mr. hepworth and went on with his argument, or rather began another. it was a mistake to suppose that the catholics in the county were all poor. there were the a----s and the b----s, and the c----s and the d----s. he knew all their names and was proud of their fidelity. to him these faithful ones were really the salt of the earth, who would some day be enabled by their fidelity to restore england to her pristine condition. the bishop had truly said that of many of his neighbours he did not know to what church they belonged; but father barham, though he had not as yet been twelve months in the county, knew the name of nearly every roman catholic within its borders. "your priest is a very zealous man," said the bishop afterwards to roger carbury, "and i do not doubt but that he is an excellent gentleman; but he is perhaps a little indiscreet." "i like him because he is doing the best he can according to his lights; without any reference to his own worldly welfare." "that is all very grand, and i am perfectly willing to respect him. but i do not know that i should care to talk very freely in his company." "i am sure he would repeat nothing." "perhaps not; but he would always be thinking that he was going to get the best of me." "i don't think it answers," said mrs. yeld to her husband as they went home. "of course i don't want to be prejudiced; but protestants are protestants, and roman catholics are roman catholics." "you may say the same of liberals and conservatives, but you wouldn't have them decline to meet each other." "it isn't quite the same, my dear. after all religion is religion." "it ought to be," said the bishop. "of course i don't mean to put myself up against you, my dear; but i don't know that i want to meet mr. barham again." "i don't know that i do, either," said the bishop; "but if he comes in my way i hope i shall treat him civilly." chapter xvii. marie melmotte hears a love tale. on the following morning there came a telegram from felix. he was to be expected at beccles on that afternoon by a certain train; and roger, at lady carbury's request, undertook to send a carriage to the station for him. this was done, but felix did not arrive. there was still another train by which he might come so as to be just in time for dinner if dinner were postponed for half an hour. lady carbury with a tender look, almost without speaking a word, appealed to her cousin on behalf of her son. he knit his brows, as he always did, involuntarily, when displeased; but he assented. then the carriage had to be sent again. now carriages and carriage-horses were not numerous at carbury. the squire kept a waggonnette and a pair of horses which, when not wanted for house use, were employed about the farm. he himself would walk home from the train, leaving the luggage to be brought by some cheap conveyance. he had already sent the carriage once on this day,--and now sent it again, lady carbury having said a word which showed that she hoped that this would be done. but he did it with deep displeasure. to the mother her son was sir felix, the baronet, entitled to special consideration because of his position and rank,--because also of his intention to marry the great heiress of the day. to roger carbury, felix was a vicious young man, peculiarly antipathetic to himself, to whom no respect whatever was due. nevertheless the dinner was put off, and the waggonnette was sent. but the waggonnette again came back empty. that evening was spent by roger, lady carbury, and henrietta, in very much gloom. about four in the morning the house was roused by the coming of the baronet. failing to leave town by either of the afternoon trains, he had contrived to catch the evening mail, and had found himself deposited at some distant town from which he had posted to carbury. roger came down in his dressing-gown to admit him, and lady carbury also left her room. sir felix evidently thought that he had been a very fine fellow in going through so much trouble. roger held a very different opinion, and spoke little or nothing. "oh, felix," said the mother, "you have so terrified us!" "i can tell you i was terrified myself when i found that i had to come fifteen miles across the country with a pair of old jades who could hardly get up a trot." "but why didn't you come by the train you named?" "i couldn't get out of the city," said the baronet with a ready lie. "i suppose you were at the board?" to this felix made no direct answer. roger knew that there had been no board. mr. melmotte was in the country and there could be no board, nor could sir felix have had business in the city. it was sheer impudence,--sheer indifference, and, into the bargain, a downright lie. the young man, who was of himself so unwelcome, who had come there on a project which he, roger, utterly disapproved,--who had now knocked him and his household up at four o'clock in the morning,--had uttered no word of apology. "miserable cub!" roger muttered between his teeth. then he spoke aloud, "you had better not keep your mother standing here. i will show you your room." "all right, old fellow," said sir felix. "i'm awfully sorry to disturb you all in this way. i think i'll just take a drop of brandy and soda before i go to bed, though." this was another blow to roger. "i doubt whether we have soda-water in the house, and if we have, i don't know where to get it. i can give you some brandy if you will come with me." he pronounced the word "brandy" in a tone which implied that it was a wicked, dissipated beverage. it was a wretched work to roger. he was forced to go up-stairs and fetch a key in order that he might wait upon this cub,--this cur! he did it, however, and the cub drank his brandy-and-water, not in the least disturbed by his host's ill-humour. as he went to bed he suggested the probability of his not showing himself till lunch on the following day, and expressed a wish that he might have breakfast sent to him in bed. "he is born to be hung," said roger to himself as he went to his room,--"and he'll deserve it." on the following morning, being sunday, they all went to church,--except felix. lady carbury always went to church when she was in the country, never when she was at home in london. it was one of those moral habits, like early dinners and long walks, which suited country life. and she fancied that were she not to do so, the bishop would be sure to know it and would be displeased. she liked the bishop. she liked bishops generally; and was aware that it was a woman's duty to sacrifice herself for society. as to the purpose for which people go to church, it had probably never in her life occurred to lady carbury to think of it. on their return they found sir felix smoking a cigar on the gravel path, close in front of the open drawing-room window. "felix," said his cousin, "take your cigar a little farther. you are filling the house with tobacco." "oh heavens,--what a prejudice!" said the baronet. "let it be so, but still do as i ask you." sir felix chucked the cigar out of his mouth on to the gravel walk, whereupon roger walked up to the spot and kicked the offending weed away. this was the first greeting of the day between the two men. after lunch lady carbury strolled about with her son, instigating him to go over at once to caversham. "how the deuce am i to get there?" "your cousin will lend you a horse." "he's as cross as a bear with a sore head. he's a deal older than i am, and a cousin and all that, but i'm not going to put up with insolence. if it were anywhere else i should just go into the yard and ask if i could have a horse and saddle as a matter of course." "roger has not a great establishment." "i suppose he has a horse and saddle, and a man to get it ready. i don't want anything grand." "he is vexed because he sent twice to the station for you yesterday." "i hate the kind of fellow who is always thinking of little grievances. such a man expects you to go like clockwork, and because you are not wound up just as he is, he insults you. i shall ask him for a horse as i would any one else, and if he does not like it, he may lump it." about half an hour after this he found his cousin. "can i have a horse to ride over to caversham this afternoon?" he said. "our horses never go out on sunday," said roger. then he added, after a pause, "you can have it. i'll give the order." sir felix would be gone on tuesday, and it should be his own fault if that odious cousin ever found his way into carbury house again! so he declared to himself as felix rode out of the yard; but he soon remembered how probable it was that felix himself would be the owner of carbury. and should it ever come to pass,--as still was possible,--that henrietta should be the mistress of carbury, he could hardly forbid her to receive her brother. he stood for a while on the bridge watching his cousin as he cantered away upon the road, listening to the horse's feet. the young man was offensive in every possible way. who does not know that ladies only are allowed to canter their friends' horses upon roads? a gentleman trots his horse, and his friend's horse. roger carbury had but one saddle horse,--a favourite old hunter that he loved as a friend. and now this dear old friend, whose legs probably were not quite so good as they once were, was being galloped along the hard road by that odious cub! "soda and brandy!" roger exclaimed to himself almost aloud, thinking of the discomfiture of that early morning. "he'll die some day of delirium tremens in a hospital!" before the longestaffes left london to receive their new friends the melmottes at caversham, a treaty had been made between mr. longestaffe, the father, and georgiana, the strong-minded daughter. the daughter on her side undertook that the guests should be treated with feminine courtesy. this might be called the most-favoured-nation clause. the melmottes were to be treated exactly as though old melmotte had been a gentleman and madame melmotte a lady. in return for this the longestaffe family were to be allowed to return to town. but here again the father had carried another clause. the prolonged sojourn in town was to be only for six weeks. on the th of july the longestaffes were to be removed into the country for the remainder of the year. when the question of a foreign tour was proposed, the father became absolutely violent in his refusal. "in god's name where do you expect the money is to come from?" when georgiana urged that other people had money to go abroad, her father told her that a time was coming in which she might think it lucky if she had a house over her head. this, however, she took as having been said with poetical licence, the same threat having been made more than once before. the treaty was very clear, and the parties to it were prepared to carry it out with fair honesty. the melmottes were being treated with decent courtesy, and the house in town was not dismantled. the idea, hardly ever in truth entertained but which had been barely suggested from one to another among the ladies of the family, that dolly should marry marie melmotte, had been abandoned. dolly, with all his vapid folly, had a will of his own, which, among his own family, was invincible. he was never persuaded to any course either by his father or mother. dolly certainly would not marry marie melmotte. therefore when the longestaffes heard that sir felix was coming to the country, they had no special objection to entertaining him at caversham. he had been lately talked of in london as the favourite in regard to marie melmotte. georgiana longestaffe had a grudge of her own against lord nidderdale, and was on that account somewhat well inclined towards sir felix's prospects. soon after the melmottes' arrival she contrived to say a word to marie respecting sir felix. "there is a friend of yours going to dine here on monday, miss melmotte." marie, who was at the moment still abashed by the grandeur and size and general fashionable haughtiness of her new acquaintances, made hardly any answer. "i think you know sir felix carbury," continued georgiana. "oh yes, we know sir felix carbury." "he is coming down to his cousin's. i suppose it is for your bright eyes, as carbury manor would hardly be just what he would like." "i don't think he is coming because of me," said marie blushing. she had once told him that he might go to her father, which according to her idea had been tantamount to accepting his offer as far as her power of acceptance went. since that she had seen him, indeed, but he had not said a word to press his suit, nor, as far as she knew, had he said a word to mr. melmotte. but she had been very rigorous in declining the attentions of other suitors. she had made up her mind that she was in love with felix carbury, and she had resolved on constancy. but she had begun to tremble, fearing his faithlessness. "we had heard," said georgiana, "that he was a particular friend of yours." and she laughed aloud, with a vulgarity which madame melmotte certainly could not have surpassed. sir felix, on the sunday afternoon, found all the ladies out on the lawn, and he also found mr. melmotte there. at the last moment lord alfred grendall had been asked,--not because he was at all in favour with any of the longestaffes, but in order that he might be useful in disposing of the great director. lord alfred was used to him and could talk to him, and might probably know what he liked to eat and drink. therefore lord alfred had been asked to caversham, and lord alfred had come, having all his expenses paid by the great director. when sir felix arrived, lord alfred was earning his entertainment by talking to mr. melmotte in a summer-house. he had cool drink before him and a box of cigars, but was probably thinking at the time how hard the world had been to him. lady pomona was languid, but not uncivil in her reception. she was doing her best to perform her part of the treaty in reference to madame melmotte. sophia was walking apart with a certain mr. whitstable, a young squire in the neighbourhood, who had been asked to caversham because as sophia was now reputed to be twenty-eight,--they who decided the question might have said thirty-one without falsehood,--it was considered that mr. whitstable was good enough, or at least as good as could be expected. sophia was handsome, but with a big, cold, unalluring handsomeness, and had not quite succeeded in london. georgiana had been more admired, and boasted among her friends of the offers which she had rejected. her friends on the other hand were apt to tell of her many failures. nevertheless she held her head up, and had not as yet come down among the rural whitstables. at the present moment her hands were empty, and she was devoting herself to such a performance of the treaty as should make it impossible for her father to leave his part of it unfulfilled. for a few minutes sir felix sat on a garden chair making conversation to lady pomona and madame melmotte. "beautiful garden," he said; "for myself i don't much care for gardens; but if one is to live in the country, this is the sort of thing that one would like." "delicious," said madame melmotte, repressing a yawn, and drawing her shawl higher round her throat. it was the end of may, and the weather was very warm for the time of the year; but, in her heart of hearts, madame melmotte did not like sitting out in the garden. "it isn't a pretty place; but the house is comfortable, and we make the best of it," said lady pomona. "plenty of glass, i see," said sir felix. "if one is to live in the country, i like that kind of thing. carbury is a very poor place." there was offence in this;--as though the carbury property and the carbury position could be compared to the longestaffe property and the longestaffe position. though dreadfully hampered for money, the longestaffes were great people. "for a small place," said lady pomona, "i think carbury is one of the nicest in the county. of course it is not extensive." "no, by jove," said sir felix, "you may say that, lady pomona. it's like a prison to me with that moat round it." then he jumped up and joined marie melmotte and georgiana. georgiana, glad to be released for a time from performance of the treaty, was not long before she left them together. she had understood that the two horses now in the running were lord nidderdale and sir felix; and though she would not probably have done much to aid sir felix, she was quite willing to destroy lord nidderdale. sir felix had his work to do, and was willing to do it,--as far as such willingness could go with him. the prize was so great, and the comfort of wealth was so sure, that even he was tempted to exert himself. it was this feeling which had brought him into suffolk, and induced him to travel all night, across dirty roads, in an old cab. for the girl herself he cared not the least. it was not in his power really to care for anybody. he did not dislike her much. he was not given to disliking people strongly, except at the moments in which they offended him. he regarded her simply as the means by which a portion of mr. melmotte's wealth might be conveyed to his uses. in regard to feminine beauty he had his own ideas, and his own inclinations. he was by no means indifferent to such attraction. but marie melmotte, from that point of view, was nothing to him. such prettiness as belonged to her came from the brightness of her youth, and from a modest shy demeanour joined to an incipient aspiration for the enjoyment of something in the world which should be her own. there was, too, arising within her bosom a struggle to be something in the world, an idea that she, too, could say something, and have thoughts of her own, if only she had some friend near her whom she need not fear. though still shy, she was always resolving that she would abandon her shyness, and already had thoughts of her own as to the perfectly open confidence which should exist between two lovers. when alone,--and she was much alone,--she would build castles in the air, which were bright with art and love, rather than with gems and gold. the books she read, poor though they generally were, left something bright on her imagination. she fancied to herself brilliant conversations in which she bore a bright part, though in real life she had hitherto hardly talked to any one since she was a child. sir felix carbury, she knew, had made her an offer. she knew also, or thought that she knew, that she loved the man. and now she was with him alone! now surely had come the time in which some one of her castles in the air might be found to be built of real materials. "you know why i have come down here?" he said. [illustration: "you know why i have come down here?"] "to see your cousin." "no, indeed. i'm not particularly fond of my cousin, who is a methodical stiff-necked old bachelor,--as cross as the mischief." "how disagreeable!" "yes; he is disagreeable. i didn't come down to see him, i can tell you. but when i heard that you were going to be here with the longestaffes, i determined to come at once. i wonder whether you are glad to see me?" "i don't know," said marie, who could not at once find that brilliancy of words with which her imagination supplied her readily enough in her solitude. "do you remember what you said to me that evening at my mother's?" "did i say anything? i don't remember anything particular." "do you not? then i fear you can't think very much of me." he paused as though he supposed that she would drop into his mouth like a cherry. "i thought you told me that you would love me." "did i?" "did you not?" "i don't know what i said. perhaps if i said that, i didn't mean it." "am i to believe that?" "perhaps you didn't mean it yourself." "by george, i did. i was quite in earnest. there never was a fellow more in earnest than i was. i've come down here on purpose to say it again." "to say what?" "whether you'll accept me?" "i don't know whether you love me well enough." she longed to be told by him that he loved her. he had no objection to tell her so, but, without thinking much about it, felt it to be a bore. all that kind of thing was trash and twaddle. he desired her to accept him; and he would have wished, were it possible, that she should have gone to her father for his consent. there was something in the big eyes and heavy jaws of mr. melmotte which he almost feared. "do you really love me well enough?" she whispered. "of course i do. i'm bad at making pretty speeches, and all that, but you know i love you." "do you?" "by george, yes. i always liked you from the first moment i saw you. i did indeed." it was a poor declaration of love, but it sufficed. "then i will love you," she said. "i will with all my heart." "there's a darling!" "shall i be your darling? indeed i will. i may call you felix now;--mayn't i?" "rather." "oh, felix, i hope you will love me. i will so dote upon you. you know a great many men have asked me to love them." "i suppose so." "but i have never, never cared for one of them in the least;--not in the least." "you do care for me?" "oh yes." she looked up into his beautiful face as she spoke, and he saw that her eyes were swimming with tears. he thought at the moment that she was very common to look at. as regarded appearance only he would have preferred even sophia longestaffe. there was indeed a certain brightness of truth which another man might have read in marie's mingled smiles and tears, but it was thrown away altogether upon him. they were walking in some shrubbery quite apart from the house, where they were unseen; so, as in duty bound, he put his arm round her waist and kissed her. "oh, felix," she said, giving her face up to him; "no one ever did it before." he did not in the least believe her, nor was the matter one of the slightest importance to him. "say that you will be good to me, felix. i will be so good to you." "of course i will be good to you." "men are not always good to their wives. papa is often very cross to mamma." "i suppose he can be cross?" "yes, he can. he does not often scold me. i don't know what he'll say when we tell him about this." "but i suppose he intends that you shall be married?" "he wanted me to marry lord nidderdale and lord grasslough, but i hated them both. i think he wants me to marry lord nidderdale again now. he hasn't said so, but mamma tells me. but i never will;--never!" "i hope not, marie." "you needn't be a bit afraid. i would not do it if they were to kill me. i hate him,--and i do so love you." then she leaned with all her weight upon his arm and looked up again into his beautiful face. "you will speak to papa; won't you?" "will that be the best way?" "i suppose so. how else?" "i don't know whether madame melmotte ought not--" "oh dear no. nothing would induce her. she is more afraid of him than anybody;--more afraid of him than i am. i thought the gentleman always did that." "of course i'll do it," said sir felix. "i'm not afraid of him. why should i? he and i are very good friends, you know." "i'm glad of that." "he made me a director of one of his companies the other day." "did he? perhaps he'll like you for a son-in-law." "there's no knowing;--is there?" "i hope he will. i shall like you for papa's son-in-law. i hope it isn't wrong to say that. oh, felix, say that you love me." then she put her face up towards his again. "of course i love you," he said, not thinking it worth his while to kiss her. "it's no good speaking to him here. i suppose i had better go and see him in the city." "he is in a good humour now," said marie. "but i couldn't get him alone. it wouldn't be the thing to do down here." "wouldn't it?" "not in the country,--in another person's house. shall you tell madame melmotte?" "yes, i shall tell mamma; but she won't say anything to him. mamma does not care much about me. but i'll tell you all that another time. of course i shall tell you everything now. i never yet had anybody to tell anything to, but i shall never be tired of telling you." then he left her as soon as he could, and escaped to the other ladies. mr. melmotte was still sitting in the summer-house, and lord alfred was still with him, smoking and drinking brandy and seltzer. as sir felix passed in front of the great man he told himself that it was much better that the interview should be postponed till they were all in london. mr. melmotte did not look as though he were in a good humour. sir felix said a few words to lady pomona and madame melmotte. yes; he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing them with his mother and sister on the following day. he was aware that his cousin was not coming. he believed that his cousin roger never did go any where like any one else. no; he had not seen mr. longestaffe. he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing him to-morrow. then he escaped, and got on his horse, and rode away. "that's going to be the lucky man," said georgiana to her mother, that evening. "in what way lucky?" "he is going to get the heiress and all the money. what a fool dolly has been!" "i don't think it would have suited dolly," said lady pomona. "after all, why should not dolly marry a lady?" chapter xviii. ruby ruggles hears a love tale. miss ruby ruggles, the granddaughter of old daniel ruggles, of sheep's acre, in the parish of sheepstone, close to bungay, received the following letter from the hands of the rural post letter-carrier on that sunday morning;--"a friend will be somewhere near sheepstone birches between four and five o'clock on sunday afternoon." there was not another word in the letter, but miss ruby ruggles knew well from whom it came. daniel ruggles was a farmer, who had the reputation of considerable wealth, but who was not very well looked on in the neighbourhood as being somewhat of a curmudgeon and a miser. his wife was dead;--he had quarrelled with his only son, whose wife was also dead, and had banished him from his home;--his daughters were married and away; and the only member of his family who lived with him was his granddaughter ruby. and this granddaughter was a great trouble to the old man. she was twenty-three years old, and had been engaged to a prosperous young man at bungay in the meal and pollard line, to whom old ruggles had promised to give £ on their marriage. but ruby had taken it into her foolish young head that she did not like meal and pollard, and now she had received the above very dangerous letter. though the writer had not dared to sign his name she knew well that it came from sir felix carbury,--the most beautiful gentleman she had ever set her eyes upon. poor ruby ruggles! living down at sheep's acre, on the waveney, she had heard both too much and too little of the great world beyond her ken. there were, she thought, many glorious things to be seen which she would never see were she in these her early years to become the wife of john crumb, the dealer in meal and pollard at bungay. therefore she was full of a wild joy, half joy half fear, when she got her letter; and, therefore, punctually at four o'clock on that sunday she was ensconced among the sheepstone birches, so that she might see without much danger of being seen. poor ruby ruggles, who was left to be so much mistress of herself at the time of her life in which she most required the kindness of a controlling hand! mr. ruggles held his land, or the greater part of it, on what is called a bishop's lease, sheep's acre farm being a part of the property which did belong to the bishopric of elmham, and which was still set apart for its sustentation;--but he also held a small extent of outlying meadow which belonged to the carbury estate, so that he was one of the tenants of roger carbury. those sheepstone birches, at which felix made his appointment, belonged to roger. on a former occasion, when the feeling between the two cousins was kinder than that which now existed, felix had ridden over with the landlord to call on the old man, and had then first seen ruby;--and had heard from roger something of ruby's history up to that date. it had then been just made known that she was to marry john crumb. since that time not a word had been spoken between the men respecting the girl. mr. carbury had heard, with sorrow, that the marriage was either postponed or abandoned,--but his growing dislike to the baronet had made it very improbable that there should be any conversation between them on the subject. sir felix, however, had probably heard more of ruby ruggles than her grandfather's landlord. there is, perhaps, no condition of mind more difficult for the ordinarily well-instructed inhabitant of a city to realise than that of such a girl as ruby ruggles. the rural day labourer and his wife live on a level surface which is comparatively open to the eye. their aspirations, whether for good or evil,--whether for food and drink to be honestly earned for themselves and children, or for drink first, to be come by either honestly or dishonestly,--are, if looked at at all, fairly visible. and with the men of the ruggles class one can generally find out what they would be at, and in what direction their minds are at work. but the ruggles woman,--especially the ruggles young woman,--is better educated, has higher aspirations and a brighter imagination, and is infinitely more cunning than the man. if she be good-looking and relieved from the pressure of want, her thoughts soar into a world which is as unknown to her as heaven is to us, and in regard to which her longings are apt to be infinitely stronger than are ours for heaven. her education has been much better than that of the man. she can read, whereas he can only spell words from a book. she can write a letter after her fashion, whereas he can barely spell words out on a paper. her tongue is more glib, and her intellect sharper. but her ignorance as to the reality of things is much more gross than his. by such contact as he has with men in markets, in the streets of the towns he frequents, and even in the fields, he learns something unconsciously of the relative condition of his countrymen,--and, as to that which he does not learn, his imagination is obtuse. but the woman builds castles in the air, and wonders, and longs. to the young farmer the squire's daughter is a superior being very much out of his way. to the farmer's daughter the young squire is an apollo, whom to look at is a pleasure,--by whom to be looked at is a delight. the danger for the most part is soon over. the girl marries after her kind, and then husband and children put the matter at rest for ever. a mind more absolutely uninstructed than that of ruby ruggles as to the world beyond suffolk and norfolk it would be impossible to find. but her thoughts were as wide as they were vague, and as active as they were erroneous. why should she with all her prettiness, and all her cleverness,--with all her fortune to boot,--marry that dustiest of all men, john crumb, before she had seen something of the beauties of the things of which she had read in the books which came in her way? john crumb was not bad-looking. he was a sturdy, honest fellow, too,--slow of speech but sure of his points when he had got them within his grip,--fond of his beer but not often drunk, and the very soul of industry at his work. but though she had known him all her life she had never known him otherwise than dusty. the meal had so gotten within his hair, and skin, and raiment, that it never came out altogether even on sundays. his normal complexion was a healthy pallor, through which indeed some records of hidden ruddiness would make themselves visible, but which was so judiciously assimilated to his hat and coat and waistcoat, that he was more like a stout ghost than a healthy young man. nevertheless it was said of him that he could thrash any man in bungay, and carry two hundred weight of flour upon his back. and ruby also knew this of him,--that he worshipped the very ground on which she trod. but, alas, she thought there might be something better than such worship; and, therefore, when felix carbury came in her way, with his beautiful oval face, and his rich brown colour, and his bright hair and lovely moustache, she was lost in a feeling which she mistook for love; and when he sneaked over to her a second and a third time, she thought more of his listless praise than ever she had thought of john crumb's honest promises. but, though she was an utter fool, she was not a fool without a principle. she was miserably ignorant; but she did understand that there was a degradation which it behoved her to avoid. she thought, as the moths seem to think, that she might fly into the flame and not burn her wings. after her fashion she was pretty, with long glossy ringlets, which those about the farm on week days would see confined in curl-papers, and large round dark eyes, and a clear dark complexion, in which the blood showed itself plainly beneath the soft brown skin. she was strong, and healthy, and tall,--and had a will of her own which gave infinite trouble to old daniel ruggles, her grandfather. felix carbury took himself two miles out of his way in order that he might return by sheepstone birches, which was a little copse distant not above half a mile from sheep's acre farmhouse. a narrow angle of the little wood came up to the road, by which there was a gate leading into a grass meadow, which sir felix had remembered when he made his appointment. the road was no more than a country lane, unfrequented at all times, and almost sure to be deserted on sundays. he approached the gate in a walk, and then stood awhile looking into the wood. he had not stood long before he saw the girl's bonnet beneath a tree standing just outside the wood, in the meadow, but on the bank of the ditch. thinking for a moment what he would do about his horse, he rode him into the field, and then, dismounting, fastened him to a rail which ran down the side of the copse. then he sauntered on till he stood looking down upon ruby ruggles as she sat beneath the tree. "i like your impudence," she said, "in calling yourself a friend." "ain't i a friend, ruby?" "a pretty sort of friend, you! when you was going away, you was to be back at carbury in a fortnight; and that is,--oh, ever so long ago now." "but i wrote to you, ruby." "what's letters? and the postman to know all as in 'em for anything anybody knows, and grandfather to be almost sure to see 'em. i don't call letters no good at all, and i beg you won't write 'em any more." "did he see them?" "no thanks to you if he didn't. i don't know why you are come here, sir felix,--nor yet i don't know why i should come and meet you. it's all just folly like." "because i love you;--that's why i come; eh, ruby? and you have come because you love me; eh, ruby? is not that about it?" then he threw himself on the ground beside her, and got his arm round her waist. it would boot little to tell here all that they said to each other. the happiness of ruby ruggles for that half hour was no doubt complete. she had her london lover beside her; and though in every word he spoke there was a tone of contempt, still he talked of love, and made her promises, and told her that she was pretty. he probably did not enjoy it much; he cared very little about her, and carried on the liaison simply because it was the proper sort of thing for a young man to do. he had begun to think that the odour of patchouli was unpleasant, and that the flies were troublesome, and the ground hard, before the half hour was over. she felt that she could be content to sit there for ever and to listen to him. this was a realisation of those delights of life of which she had read in the thrice-thumbed old novels which she had gotten from the little circulating library at bungay. but what was to come next? she had not dared to ask him to marry her,--had not dared to say those very words; and he had not dared to ask her to be his mistress. there was an animal courage about her, and an amount of strength also, and a fire in her eye, of which he had learned to be aware. before the half hour was over i think that he wished himself away;--but when he did go, he made a promise to see her again on the tuesday morning. her grandfather would be at harlestone market, and she would meet him at about noon at the bottom of the kitchen garden belonging to the farm. as he made the promise he resolved that he would not keep it. he would write to her again, and bid her come to him in london, and would send her money for the journey. "i suppose i am to be his wedded wife," said ruby to herself, as she crept away down from the road, away also from her own home;--so that on her return her presence should not be associated with that of the young man, should any one chance to see the young man on the road. "i'll never be nothing unless i'm that," she said to herself. then she allowed her mind to lose itself in expatiating on the difference between john crumb and sir felix carbury. chapter xix. hetta carbury hears a love tale. "i have half a mind to go back to-morrow morning," felix said to his mother that sunday evening after dinner. at that moment roger was walking round the garden by himself, and henrietta was in her own room. "to-morrow morning, felix! you are engaged to dine with the longestaffes!" "you could make any excuse you like about that." "it would be the most uncourteous thing in the world. the longestaffes you know are the leading people in this part of the country. no one knows what may happen. if you should ever be living at carbury, how sad it would be that you should have quarrelled with them." "you forget, mother, that dolly longestaffe is about the most intimate friend i have in the world." "that does not justify you in being uncivil to the father and mother. and you should remember what you came here for." "what did i come for?" "that you might see marie melmotte more at your ease than you can in their london house." "that's all settled," said sir felix, in the most indifferent tone that he could assume. "settled!" "as far as the girl is concerned. i can't very well go to the old fellow for his consent down here." "do you mean to say, felix, that marie melmotte has accepted you?" "i told you that before." "my dear felix. oh, my boy!" in her joy the mother took her unwilling son in her arms and caressed him. here was the first step taken not only to success, but to such magnificent splendour as should make her son to be envied by all young men, and herself to be envied by all mothers in england! "no, you didn't tell me before. but i am so happy. is she really fond of you? i don't wonder that any girl should be fond of you." "i can't say anything about that, but i think she means to stick to it." "if she is firm, of course her father will give way at last. fathers always do give way when the girl is firm. why should he oppose it?" "i don't know that he will." "you are a man of rank, with a title of your own. i suppose what he wants is a gentleman for his girl. i don't see why he should not be perfectly satisfied. with all his enormous wealth a thousand a year or so can't make any difference. and then he made you one of the directors at his board. oh felix;--it is almost too good to be true." "i ain't quite sure that i care very much about being married, you know." "oh, felix, pray don't say that. why shouldn't you like being married? she is a very nice girl, and we shall all be so fond of her! don't let any feeling of that kind come over you; pray don't. you will be able to do just what you please when once the question of her money is settled. of course you can hunt as often as you like, and you can have a house in any part of london you please. you must understand by this time how very disagreeable it is to have to get on without an established income." "i quite understand that." "if this were once done you would never have any more trouble of that kind. there would be plenty of money for everything as long as you live. it would be complete success. i don't know how to say enough to you, or to tell you how dearly i love you, or to make you understand how well i think you have done it all." then she caressed him again, and was almost beside herself in an agony of mingled anxiety and joy. if, after all, her beautiful boy, who had lately been her disgrace and her great trouble because of his poverty, should shine forth to the world as a baronet with £ , a year, how glorious would it be! she must have known,--she did know,--how poor, how selfish a creature he was. but her gratification at the prospect of his splendour obliterated the sorrow with which the vileness of his character sometimes oppressed her. were he to win this girl with all her father's money, neither she nor his sister would be the better for it, except in this, that the burden of maintaining him would be taken from her shoulders. but his magnificence would be established. he was her son, and the prospect of his fortune and splendour was sufficient to elate her into a very heaven of beautiful dreams. "but, felix," she continued, "you really must stay and go to the longestaffes' to-morrow. it will only be one day.--and now were you to run away--" "run away! what nonsense you talk." "if you were to start back to london at once i mean, it would be an affront to her, and the very thing to set melmotte against you. you should lay yourself out to please him;--indeed you should." "oh, bother!" said sir felix. but nevertheless he allowed himself to be persuaded to remain. the matter was important even to him, and he consented to endure the almost unendurable nuisance of spending another day at the manor house. lady carbury, almost lost in delight, did not know where to turn for sympathy. if her cousin were not so stiff, so pig-headed, so wonderfully ignorant of the affairs of the world, he would have at any rate consented to rejoice with her. though he might not like felix,--who, as his mother admitted to herself, had been rude to her cousin,--he would have rejoiced for the sake of the family. but, as it was, she did not dare to tell him. he would have received her tidings with silent scorn. and even henrietta would not be enthusiastic. she felt that though she would have delighted to expatiate on this great triumph, she must be silent at present. it should now be her great effort to ingratiate herself with mr. melmotte at the dinner party at caversham. during the whole of that evening roger carbury hardly spoke to his cousin hetta. there was not much conversation between them till quite late, when father barham came in for supper. he had been over at bungay among his people there, and had walked back, taking carbury on the way. "what did you think of our bishop?" roger asked him, rather imprudently. "not much of him as a bishop. i don't doubt that he makes a very nice lord, and that he does more good among his neighbours than an average lord. but you don't put power or responsibility into the hands of any one sufficient to make him a bishop." "nine-tenths of the clergy in the diocese would be guided by him in any matter of clerical conduct which might come before him." "because they know that he has no strong opinion of his own, and would not therefore desire to dominate theirs. take any of your bishops that has an opinion,--if there be one left,--and see how far your clergy consent to his teaching!" roger turned round and took up his book. he was already becoming tired of his pet priest. he himself always abstained from saying a word derogatory to his new friend's religion in the man's hearing; but his new friend did not by any means return the compliment. perhaps also roger felt that were he to take up the cudgels for an argument he might be worsted in the combat, as in such combats success is won by practised skill rather than by truth. henrietta was also reading, and felix was smoking elsewhere,--wondering whether the hours would ever wear themselves away in that castle of dulness, in which no cards were to be seen, and where, except at meal-times, there was nothing to drink. but lady carbury was quite willing to allow the priest to teach her that all appliances for the dissemination of religion outside his own church must be naught. "i suppose our bishops are sincere in their beliefs," she said with her sweetest smile. "i'm sure i hope so. i have no possible reason to doubt it as to the two or three whom i have seen,--nor indeed as to all the rest whom i have not seen." "they are so much respected everywhere as good and pious men!" "i do not doubt it. nothing tends so much to respect as a good income. but they may be excellent men without being excellent bishops. i find no fault with them, but much with the system by which they are controlled. is it probable that a man should be fitted to select guides for other men's souls because he has succeeded by infinite labour in his vocation in becoming the leader of a majority in the house of commons?" "indeed, no," said lady carbury, who did not in the least understand the nature of the question put to her. "and when you've got your bishop, is it likely that a man should be able to do his duty in that capacity who has no power of his own to decide whether a clergyman under him is or is not fit for his duty?" "hardly, indeed." "the english people, or some of them,--that some being the richest, and, at present, the most powerful,--like to play at having a church, though there is not sufficient faith in them to submit to the control of a church." "do you think men should be controlled by clergymen, mr. barham?" "in matters of faith i do; and so, i suppose, do you; at least you make that profession. you declare it to be your duty to submit yourself to your spiritual pastors and masters." "that, i thought, was for children," said lady carbury. "the clergyman, in the catechism, says, 'my good child.'" "it is what you were taught as a child before you had made profession of your faith to a bishop, in order that you might know your duty when you had ceased to be a child. i quite agree, however, that the matter, as viewed by your church, is childish altogether, and intended only for children. as a rule, adults with you want no religion." "i am afraid that is true of a great many." "it is marvellous to me that, when a man thinks of it, he should not be driven by very fear to the comforts of a safer faith,--unless, indeed, he enjoy the security of absolute infidelity." "that is worse than anything," said lady carbury with a sigh and a shudder. "i don't know that it is worse than a belief which is no belief," said the priest with energy;--"than a creed which sits so easily on a man that he does not even know what it contains, and never asks himself as he repeats it, whether it be to him credible or incredible." "that is very bad," said lady carbury. "we're getting too deep, i think," said roger, putting down the book which he had in vain been trying to read. "i think it is so pleasant to have a little serious conversation on sunday evening," said lady carbury. the priest drew himself back into his chair and smiled. he was quite clever enough to understand that lady carbury had been talking nonsense, and clever enough also to be aware of the cause of roger's uneasiness. but lady carbury might be all the easier converted because she understood nothing and was fond of ambitious talking; and roger carbury might possibly be forced into conviction by the very feeling which at present made him unwilling to hear arguments. "i don't like hearing my church ill-spoken of," said roger. "you wouldn't like me if i thought ill of it and spoke well of it," said the priest. "and, therefore, the less said the sooner mended," said roger, rising from his chair. upon this father barham took his departure and walked away to beccles. it might be that he had sowed some seed. it might be that he had, at any rate, ploughed some ground. even the attempt to plough the ground was a good work which would not be forgotten. the following morning was the time on which roger had fixed for repeating his suit to henrietta. he had determined that it should be so, and though the words had been almost on his tongue during that sunday afternoon, he had repressed them because he would do as he had determined. he was conscious, almost painfully conscious, of a certain increase of tenderness in his cousin's manner towards him. all that pride of independence, which had amounted almost to roughness, when she was in london, seemed to have left her. when he greeted her morning and night, she looked softly into his face. she cherished the flowers which he gave her. he could perceive that if he expressed the slightest wish in any matter about the house she would attend to it. there had been a word said about punctuality, and she had become punctual as the hand of the clock. there was not a glance of her eye, nor a turn of her hand, that he did not watch, and calculate its effect as regarded himself. but because she was tender to him and observant, he did not by any means allow himself to believe that her heart was growing into love for him. he thought that he understood the working of her mind. she could see how great was his disgust at her brother's doings; how fretted he was by her mother's conduct. her grace, and sweetness, and sense, took part with him against those who were nearer to herself, and therefore,--in pity,--she was kind to him. it was thus he read it, and he read it almost with exact accuracy. "hetta," he said after breakfast, "come out into the garden awhile." "are not you going to the men?" "not yet, at any rate. i do not always go to the men as you call it." she put on her hat and tripped out with him, knowing well that she had been summoned to hear the old story. she had been sure, as soon as she found the white rose in her room, that the old story would be repeated again before she left carbury;--and, up to this time, she had hardly made up her mind what answer she would give to it. that she could not take his offer, she thought she did know. she knew well that she loved the other man. that other man had never asked her for her love, but she thought that she knew that he desired it. but in spite of all this there had in truth grown up in her bosom a feeling of tenderness towards her cousin so strong that it almost tempted her to declare to herself that he ought to have what he wanted, simply because he wanted it. he was so good, so noble, so generous, so devoted, that it almost seemed to her that she could not be justified in refusing him. and she had gone entirely over to his side in regard to the melmottes. her mother had talked to her of the charm of mr. melmotte's money, till her very heart had been sickened. there was nothing noble there; but, as contrasted with that, roger's conduct and bearing were those of a fine gentleman who knew neither fear nor shame. should such a one be doomed to pine for ever because a girl could not love him,--a man born to be loved, if nobility and tenderness and truth were lovely! "hetta," he said, "put your arm here." she gave him her arm. "i was a little annoyed last night by that priest. i want to be civil to him, and now he is always turning against me." "he doesn't do any harm, i suppose?" "he does do harm if he teaches you and me to think lightly of those things which we have been brought up to revere." so, thought henrietta, it isn't about love this time; it's only about the church. "he ought not to say things before my guests as to our way of believing, which i wouldn't under any circumstances say as to his. i didn't quite like your hearing it." "i don't think he'll do me any harm. i'm not at all that way given. i suppose they all do it. it's their business." "poor fellow! i brought him here just because i thought it was a pity that a man born and bred like a gentleman should never see the inside of a comfortable house." "i liked him;--only i didn't like his saying stupid things about the bishop." "and i like him." then there was a pause. "i suppose your brother does not talk to you much about his own affairs." "his own affairs, roger? do you mean money? he never says a word to me about money." "i meant about the melmottes." "no; not to me. felix hardly ever speaks to me about anything." "i wonder whether she has accepted him." "i think she very nearly did accept him in london." "i can't quite sympathise with your mother in all her feelings about this marriage, because i do not think that i recognise as she does the necessity of money." "felix is so disposed to be extravagant." "well; yes. but i was going to say that though i cannot bring myself to say anything to encourage her about this heiress, i quite recognise her unselfish devotion to his interests." "mamma thinks more of him than of anything," said hetta, not in the least intending to accuse her mother of indifference to herself. "i know it; and though i happen to think myself that her other child would better repay her devotion,"--this he said, looking up to hetta and smiling,--"i quite feel how good a mother she is to felix. you know, when she first came the other day we almost had a quarrel." "i felt that there was something unpleasant." "and then felix coming after his time put me out. i am getting old and cross, or i should not mind such things." "i think you are so good,--and so kind." as she said this she leaned upon his arm almost as though she meant to tell him that she loved him. "i have been angry with myself," he said, "and so i am making you my father confessor. open confession is good for the soul sometimes, and i think that you would understand me better than your mother." "i do understand you; but don't think there is any fault to confess." "you will not exact any penance?" she only looked at him and smiled. "i am going to put a penance on myself all the same. i can't congratulate your brother on his wooing over at caversham, as i know nothing about it, but i will express some civil wish to him about things in general." "will that be a penance?" "if you could look into my mind you'd find that it would. i'm full of fretful anger against him for half-a-dozen little frivolous things. didn't he throw his cigar on the path? didn't he lie in bed on sunday instead of going to church?" "but then he was travelling all the saturday night." "whose fault was that? but don't you see it is the triviality of the offence which makes the penance necessary. had he knocked me over the head with a pickaxe, or burned the house down, i should have had a right to be angry. but i was angry because he wanted a horse on sunday;--and therefore i must do penance." there was nothing of love in all this. hetta, however, did not wish him to talk of love. he was certainly now treating her as a friend,--as a most intimate friend. if he would only do that without making love to her, how happy could she be! but his determination still held good. "and now," said he, altering his tone altogether, "i must speak about myself." immediately the weight of her hand upon his arm was lessened. thereupon he put his left hand round and pressed her arm to his. "no," he said; "do not make any change towards me while i speak to you. whatever comes of it we shall at any rate be cousins and friends." "always friends!" she said. "yes;--always friends. and now listen to me for i have much to say. i will not tell you again that i love you. you know it, or else you must think me the vainest and falsest of men. it is not only that i love you, but i am so accustomed to concern myself with one thing only, so constrained by the habits and nature of my life to confine myself to single interests, that i cannot as it were escape from my love. i am thinking of it always, often despising myself because i think of it so much. for, after all, let a woman be ever so good,--and you to me are all that is good,--a man should not allow his love to dominate his intellect." "oh, no!" "i do. i calculate my chances within my own bosom almost as a man might calculate his chances of heaven. i should like you to know me just as i am, the weak and the strong together. i would not win you by a lie if i could. i think of you more than i ought to do. i am sure,--quite sure that you are the only possible mistress of this house during my tenure of it. if i am ever to live as other men do, and to care about the things which other men care for, it must be as your husband." "pray,--pray do not say that." "yes; i think that i have a right to say it,--and a right to expect that you should believe me. i will not ask you to be my wife if you do not love me. not that i should fear aught for myself, but that you should not be pressed to make a sacrifice of yourself because i am your friend and cousin. but i think it is quite possible you might come to love me,--unless your heart be absolutely given away elsewhere." "what am i to say?" "we each of us know of what the other is thinking. if paul montague has robbed me of my love--?" "mr. montague has never said a word." "if he had, i think he would have wronged me. he met you in my house, and i think must have known what my feelings were towards you." "but he never has." "we have been like brothers together,--one brother being very much older than the other, indeed; or like father and son. i think he should place his hopes elsewhere." "what am i to say? if he have such hope he has not told me. i think it almost cruel that a girl should be asked in that way." "hetta, i should not wish to be cruel to you. of course i know the way of the world in such matters. i have no right to ask you about paul montague,--no right to expect an answer. but it is all the world to me. you can understand that i should think you might learn to love even me, if you loved no one else." the tone of his voice was manly, and at the same time full of entreaty. his eyes as he looked at her were bright with love and anxiety. she not only believed him as to the tale which he now told her; but she believed in him altogether. she knew that he was a staff on which a woman might safely lean, trusting to it for comfort and protection in life. in that moment she all but yielded to him. had he seized her in his arms and kissed her then, i think she would have yielded. she did all but love him. she so regarded him that had it been some other woman that he craved, she would have used every art she knew to have backed his suit, and would have been ready to swear that any woman was a fool who refused him. she almost hated herself because she was unkind to one who so thoroughly deserved kindness. as it was she made him no answer, but continued to walk beside him trembling. "i thought i would tell it you all, because i wish you to know exactly the state of my mind. i would show you if i could all my heart and all my thoughts about yourself as in a glass case. do not coy your love for me if you can feel it. when you know, dear, that a man's heart is set upon a woman as mine is set on you, so that it is for you to make his life bright or dark, for you to open or to shut the gates of his earthly paradise, i think you will be above keeping him in darkness for the sake of a girlish scruple." "oh, roger!" "if ever there should come a time in which you can say it truly, remember my truth to you and say it boldly. i at least shall never change. of course if you love another man and give yourself to him, it will be all over. tell me that boldly also. i have said it all now. god bless you, my own heart's darling. i hope,--i hope i may be strong enough through it all to think more of your happiness than of my own." then he parted from her abruptly, taking his way over one of the bridges, and leaving her to find her way into the house alone. chapter xx. lady pomona's dinner party. roger carbury's half formed plan of keeping henrietta at home while lady carbury and sir felix went to dine at caversham fell to the ground. it was to be carried out only in the event of hetta's yielding to his prayer. but he had in fact not made a prayer, and hetta had certainly yielded nothing. when the evening came, lady carbury started with her son and daughter, and roger was left alone. in the ordinary course of his life he was used to solitude. during the greater part of the year he would eat and drink and live without companionship; so that there was to him nothing peculiarly sad in this desertion. but on the present occasion he could not prevent himself from dwelling on the loneliness of his lot in life. these cousins of his who were his guests cared nothing for him. lady carbury had come to his house simply that it might be useful to her; sir felix did not pretend to treat him with even ordinary courtesy; and hetta herself, though she was soft to him and gracious, was soft and gracious through pity rather than love. on this day he had, in truth, asked her for nothing; but he had almost brought himself to think that she might give all that he wanted without asking. and yet, when he told her of the greatness of his love, and of its endurance, she was simply silent. when the carriage taking them to dinner went away down the road, he sat on the parapet of the bridge in front of the house listening to the sound of the horses' feet, and telling himself that there was nothing left for him in life. if ever one man had been good to another, he had been good to paul montague, and now paul montague was robbing him of everything he valued in the world. his thoughts were not logical, nor was his mind exact. the more he considered it, the stronger was his inward condemnation of his friend. he had never mentioned to anyone the services he had rendered to montague. in speaking of him to hetta he had alluded only to the affection which had existed between them. but he felt that because of those services his friend montague had owed it to him not to fall in love with the girl he loved; and he thought that if, unfortunately, this had happened unawares, montague should have retired as soon as he learned the truth. he could not bring himself to forgive his friend, even though hetta had assured him that his friend had never spoken to her of love. he was sore all over, and it was paul montague who made him sore. had there been no such man at carbury when hetta came there, hetta might now have been mistress of the house. he sat there till the servant came to tell him that his dinner was on the table. then he crept in and ate,--so that the man might not see his sorrow; and, after dinner, he sat with a book in his hand seeming to read. but he read not a word, for his mind was fixed altogether on his cousin hetta. "what a poor creature a man is," he said to himself, "who is not sufficiently his own master to get over a feeling like this." at caversham there was a very grand party,--as grand almost as a dinner party can be in the country. there were the earl and countess of loddon and lady jane pewet from loddon park, and the bishop and his wife, and the hepworths. these, with the carburys and the parson's family, and the people staying in the house, made twenty-four at the dinner table. as there were fourteen ladies and only ten men, the banquet can hardly be said to have been very well arranged. but those things cannot be done in the country with the exactness which the appliances of london make easy; and then the longestaffes, though they were decidedly people of fashion, were not famous for their excellence in arranging such matters. if aught, however, was lacking in exactness, it was made up in grandeur. there were three powdered footmen, and in that part of the country lady pomona alone was served after this fashion; and there was a very heavy butler, whose appearance of itself was sufficient to give éclat to a family. the grand saloon in which nobody ever lived was thrown open, and sofas and chairs on which nobody ever sat were uncovered. it was not above once in the year that this kind of thing was done at caversham; but when it was done, nothing was spared which could contribute to the magnificence of the fête. lady pomona and her two tall daughters standing up to receive the little countess of loddon and lady jane pewet, who was the image of her mother on a somewhat smaller scale, while madame melmotte and marie stood behind as though ashamed of themselves, was a sight to see. then the carburys came, and then mrs. yeld with the bishop. the grand room was soon fairly full; but nobody had a word to say. the bishop was generally a man of much conversation, and lady loddon, if she were well pleased with her listeners, could talk by the hour without ceasing. but on this occasion nobody could utter a word. lord loddon pottered about, making a feeble attempt, in which he was seconded by no one. lord alfred stood, stock-still, stroking his grey moustache with his hand. that much greater man, augustus melmotte, put his thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, and was impassible. the bishop saw at a glance the hopelessness of the occasion, and made no attempt. the master of the house shook hands with each guest as he entered, and then devoted his mind to expectation of the next comer. lady pomona and her two daughters were grand and handsome, but weary and dumb. in accordance with the treaty, madame melmotte had been entertained civilly for four entire days. it could not be expected that the ladies of caversham should come forth unwearied after such a struggle. when dinner was announced felix was allowed to take in marie melmotte. there can be no doubt but that the caversham ladies did execute their part of the treaty. they were led to suppose that this arrangement would be desirable to the melmottes, and they made it. the great augustus himself went in with lady carbury, much to her satisfaction. she also had been dumb in the drawing-room; but now, if ever, it would be her duty to exert herself. "i hope you like suffolk," she said. "pretty well, i thank you. oh, yes;--very nice place for a little fresh air." "yes;--that's just it, mr. melmotte. when the summer comes one does long so to see the flowers." "we have better flowers in our balconies than any i see down here," said mr. melmotte. "no doubt;--because you can command the floral tribute of the world at large. what is there that money will not do? it can turn a london street into a bower of roses, and give you grottoes in grosvenor square." "it's a very nice place, is london." "if you have got plenty of money, mr. melmotte." "and if you have not, it's the best place i know to get it. do you live in london, ma'am?" he had quite forgotten lady carbury even if he had seen her at his house, and with the dulness of hearing common to men, had not picked up her name when told to take her out to dinner. "oh, yes, i live in london. i have had the honour of being entertained by you there." this she said with her sweetest smile. "oh, indeed. so many do come, that i don't always just remember." "how should you,--with all the world flocking round you? i am lady carbury, the mother of sir felix carbury, whom i think you will remember." "yes; i know sir felix. he's sitting there, next to my daughter." "happy fellow!" "i don't know much about that. young men don't get their happiness in that way now. they've got other things to think of." "he thinks so much of his business." "oh! i didn't know," said mr. melmotte. "he sits at the same board with you, i think, mr. melmotte." "oh;--that's his business!" said mr. melmotte, with a grim smile. lady carbury was very clever as to many things, and was not ill-informed on matters in general that were going on around her; but she did not know much about the city, and was profoundly ignorant as to the duties of those directors of whom, from time to time, she saw the names in a catalogue. "i trust that he is diligent, there," she said; "and that he is aware of the great privilege which he enjoys in having the advantage of your counsel and guidance." "he don't trouble me much, ma'am, and i don't trouble him much." after this lady carbury said no more as to her son's position in the city. she endeavoured to open various other subjects of conversation; but she found mr. melmotte to be heavy on her hands. after a while she had to abandon him in despair, and give herself up to raptures in favour of protestantism at the bidding of the caversham parson, who sat on the other side of her, and who had been worked to enthusiasm by some mention of father barham's name. opposite to her, or nearly so, sat sir felix and his love. "i have told mamma," marie had whispered, as she walked in to dinner with him. she was now full of the idea so common to girls who are engaged,--and as natural as it is common,--that she might tell everything to her lover. "did she say anything?" he asked. then marie had to take her place and arrange her dress before she could reply to him. "as to her, i suppose it does not matter what she says, does it?" "she said a great deal. she thinks that papa will think you are not rich enough. hush! talk about something else, or people will hear." so much she had been able to say during the bustle. felix was not at all anxious to talk about his love, and changed the subject very willingly. "have you been riding?" he asked. "no; i don't think there are horses here,--not for visitors, that is. how did you get home? did you have any adventures?" "none at all," said felix, remembering ruby ruggles. "i just rode home quietly. i go to town to-morrow." "and we go on wednesday. mind you come and see us before long." this she said bringing her voice down to a whisper. "of course i shall. i suppose i'd better go to your father in the city. does he go every day?" "oh yes, every day. he's back always about seven. sometimes he's good-natured enough when he comes back, but sometimes he's very cross. he's best just after dinner. but it's so hard to get to him then. lord alfred is almost always there; and then other people come, and they play cards. i think the city will be best." "you'll stick to it?" he asked. "oh, yes;--indeed i will. now that i've once said it nothing will ever turn me. i think papa knows that." felix looked at her as she said this, and thought that he saw more in her countenance than he had ever read there before. perhaps she would consent to run away with him; and, if so, being the only child, she would certainly,--almost certainly,--be forgiven. but if he were to run away with her and marry her, and then find that she were not forgiven, and that melmotte allowed her to starve without a shilling of fortune, where would he be then? looking at the matter in all its bearings, considering among other things the trouble and the expense of such a measure, he thought that he could not afford to run away with her. after dinner he hardly spoke to her; indeed, the room itself,--the same big room in which they had been assembled before the feast,--seemed to be ill-adapted for conversation. again nobody talked to anybody, and the minutes went very heavily till at last the carriages were there to take them all home. "they arranged that you should sit next to her," said lady carbury to her son, as they were in the carriage. "oh, i suppose that came naturally;--one young man and one young woman, you know." "those things are always arranged, and they would not have done it unless they had thought that it would please mr. melmotte. oh, felix! if you can bring it about." "i shall if i can, mother; you needn't make a fuss about it." "no, i won't. you cannot wonder that i should be anxious. you behaved beautifully to her at dinner; i was so happy to see you together. good night, felix, and god bless you!" she said again, as they were parting for the night. "i shall be the happiest and the proudest mother in england if this comes about." chapter xxi. everybody goes to them. when the melmottes went from caversham the house was very desolate. the task of entertaining these people was indeed over, and had the return to london been fixed for a certain near day, there would have been comfort at any rate among the ladies of the family. but this was so far from being the case that the thursday and friday passed without anything being settled, and dreadful fears began to fill the minds of lady pomona and sophia longestaffe. georgiana was also impatient, but she asserted boldly that treachery, such as that which her mother and sister contemplated, was impossible. their father, she thought, would not dare to propose it. on each of these days,--three or four times daily,--hints were given and questions were asked, but without avail. mr. longestaffe would not consent to have a day fixed till he had received some particular letter, and would not even listen to the suggestion of a day. "i suppose we can go at any rate on tuesday," georgiana said on the friday evening. "i don't know why you should suppose anything of the kind," the father replied. poor lady pomona was urged by her daughters to compel him to name a day; but lady pomona was less audacious in urging the request than her younger child, and at the same time less anxious for its completion. on the sunday morning before they went to church there was a great discussion up-stairs. the bishop of elmham was going to preach at caversham church, and the three ladies were dressed in their best london bonnets. they were in their mother's room, having just completed the arrangements of their church-going toilet. it was supposed that the expected letter had arrived. mr. longestaffe had certainly received a dispatch from his lawyer, but had not as yet vouchsafed any reference to its contents. he had been more than ordinarily silent at breakfast, and,--so sophia asserted,--more disagreeable than ever. the question had now arisen especially in reference to their bonnets. "you might as well wear them," said lady pomona, "for i am sure you will not be in london again this year." "you don't mean it, mamma," said sophia. "i do, my dear. he looked like it when he put those papers back into his pocket. i know what his face means so well." "it is not possible," said sophia. "he promised, and he got us to have those horrid people because he promised." "well, my dear, if your father says that we can't go back, i suppose we must take his word for it. it is he must decide of course. what he meant i suppose was, that he would take us back if he could." "mamma!" shouted georgiana. was there to be treachery not only on the part of their natural adversary, who, adversary though he was, had bound himself to terms by a treaty, but treachery also in their own camp! "my dear, what can we do?" said lady pomona. "do!" georgiana was now going to speak out plainly. "make him understand that we are not going to be sat upon like that. i'll do something, if that's going to be the way of it. if he treats me like that i'll run off with the first man that will take me, let him be who it may." "don't talk like that, georgiana, unless you wish to kill me." "i'll break his heart for him. he does not care about us,--not the least,--whether we are happy or miserable; but he cares very much about the family name. i'll tell him that i'm not going to be a slave. i'll marry a london tradesman before i'll stay down here." the younger miss longestaffe was lost in passion at the prospect before her. "oh, georgey, don't say such horrid things as that," pleaded her sister. "it's all very well for you, sophy. you've got george whitstable." "i haven't got george whitstable." "yes, you have, and your fish is fried. dolly does just what he pleases, and spends money as fast as he likes. of course it makes no difference to you, mamma, where you are." "you are very unjust," said lady pomona, wailing, "and you say horrid things." "i ain't unjust at all. it doesn't matter to you. and sophy is the same as settled. but i'm to be sacrificed! how am i to see anybody down here in this horrid hole? papa promised and he must keep his word." then there came to them a loud voice calling to them from the hall. "are any of you coming to church, or are you going to keep the carriage waiting all day?" of course they were all going to church. they always did go to church when they were at caversham; and would more especially do so to-day, because of the bishop and because of the bonnets. they trooped down into the hall and into the carriage, lady pomona leading the way. georgiana stalked along, passing her father at the front door without condescending to look at him. not a word was spoken on the way to church, or on the way home. during the service mr. longestaffe stood up in the corner of his pew, and repeated the responses in a loud voice. in performing this duty he had been an example to the parish all his life. the three ladies knelt on their hassocks in the most becoming fashion, and sat during the sermon without the slightest sign either of weariness or of attention. they did not collect the meaning of any one combination of sentences. it was nothing to them whether the bishop had or had not a meaning. endurance of that kind was their strength. had the bishop preached for forty-five minutes instead of half an hour they would not have complained. it was the same kind of endurance which enabled georgiana to go on from year to year waiting for a husband of the proper sort. she could put up with any amount of tedium if only the fair chance of obtaining ultimate relief were not denied to her. but to be kept at caversham all the summer would be as bad as hearing a bishop preach for ever! after the service they came back to lunch, and that meal also was eaten in silence. when it was over the head of the family put himself into the dining-room arm-chair, evidently meaning to be left alone there. in that case he would have meditated upon his troubles till he went to sleep, and would have thus got through the afternoon with comfort. but this was denied to him. the two daughters remained steadfast while the things were being removed; and lady pomona, though she made one attempt to leave the room, returned when she found that her daughters would not follow her. georgiana had told her sister that she meant to "have it out" with her father, and sophia had of course remained in the room in obedience to her sister's behest. when the last tray had been taken out, georgiana began. "papa, don't you think you could settle now when we are to go back to town? of course we want to know about engagements and all that. there is lady monogram's party on wednesday. we promised to be there ever so long ago." "you had better write to lady monogram and say you can't keep your engagement." "but why not, papa? we could go up on wednesday morning." "you can't do anything of the kind." "but, my dear, we should all like to have a day fixed," said lady pomona. then there was a pause. even georgiana, in her present state of mind, would have accepted some distant, even some undefined time, as a compromise. "then you can't have a day fixed," said mr. longestaffe. "how long do you suppose that we shall be kept here?" said sophia, in a low constrained voice. "i do not know what you mean by being kept here. this is your home, and this is where you may make up your minds to live." "but we are to go back?" demanded sophia. georgiana stood by in silence, listening, resolving, and biding her time. "you'll not return to london this season," said mr. longestaffe, turning himself abruptly to a newspaper which he held in his hands. "do you mean that that is settled?" said lady pomona. "i mean to say that that is settled," said mr. longestaffe. was there ever treachery like this! the indignation in georgiana's mind approached almost to virtue as she thought of her father's falseness. she would not have left town at all but for that promise. she would not have contaminated herself with the melmottes but for that promise. and now she was told that the promise was to be absolutely broken, when it was no longer possible that she could get back to london,--even to the house of the hated primeros,--without absolutely running away from her father's residence! "then, papa," she said, with affected calmness, "you have simply and with premeditation broken your word to us." "how dare you speak to me in that way, you wicked child!" "i am not a child, papa, as you know very well. i am my own mistress,--by law." "then go and be your own mistress. you dare to tell me, your father, that i have premeditated a falsehood! if you tell me that again, you shall eat your meals in your own room or not eat them in this house." "did you not promise that we should go back if we would come down and entertain these people?" "i will not argue with a child, insolent and disobedient as you are. if i have anything to say about it, i will say it to your mother. it should be enough for you that i, your father, tell you that you have to live here. now go away, and if you choose to be sullen, go and be sullen where i shan't see you." georgiana looked round on her mother and sister and then marched majestically out of the room. she still meditated revenge, but she was partly cowed, and did not dare in her father's presence to go on with her reproaches. she stalked off into the room in which they generally lived, and there she stood panting with anger, breathing indignation through her nostrils. [illustration: she marched majestically out of the room.] "and you mean to put up with it, mamma?" she said. "what can we do, my dear?" "i will do something. i'm not going to be cheated and swindled and have my life thrown away into the bargain. i have always behaved well to him. i have never run up bills without saying anything about them." this was a cut at her elder sister, who had once got into some little trouble of that kind. "i have never got myself talked about with any body. if there is anything to be done i always do it. i have written his letters for him till i have been sick, and when you were ill i never asked him to stay out with us after two or half-past two at the latest. and now he tells me that i am to eat my meals up in my bedroom because i remind him that he distinctly promised to take us back to london! did he not promise, mamma?" "i understood so, my dear." "you know he promised, mamma. if i do anything now he must bear the blame of it. i am not going to keep myself straight for the sake of the family, and then be treated in that way." "you do that for your own sake, i suppose," said her sister. "it is more than you've been able to do for anybody's sake," said georgiana, alluding to a very old affair,--to an ancient flirtation, in the course of which the elder daughter had made a foolish and a futile attempt to run away with an officer of dragoons whose private fortune was very moderate. ten years had passed since that, and the affair was never alluded to except in moments of great bitterness. "i've kept myself as straight as you have," said sophia. "it's easy enough to be straight, when a person never cares for anybody, and nobody cares for a person." "my dears, if you quarrel what am i to do?" said their mother. "it is i that have to suffer," continued georgiana. "does he expect me to find anybody here that i could take? poor george whitstable is not much; but there is nobody else at all." "you may have him if you like," said sophia, with a chuck of her head. "thank you, my dear, but i shouldn't like it at all. i haven't come to that quite yet." "you were talking of running away with somebody." "i shan't run away with george whitstable; you may be sure of that. i'll tell you what i shall do,--i will write papa a letter. i suppose he'll condescend to read it. if he won't take me up to town himself, he must send me up to the primeros. what makes me most angry in the whole thing is that we should have condescended to be civil to the melmottes down in the country. in london one does those things, but to have them here was terrible!" during that entire afternoon nothing more was said. not a word passed between them on any subject beyond those required by the necessities of life. georgiana had been as hard to her sister as to her father, and sophia in her quiet way resented the affront. she was now almost reconciled to the sojourn in the country, because it inflicted a fitting punishment on georgiana, and the presence of mr. whitstable at a distance of not more than ten miles did of course make a difference to herself. lady pomona complained of a headache, which was always an excuse with her for not speaking;--and mr. longestaffe went to sleep. georgiana during the whole afternoon remained apart, and on the next morning the head of the family found the following letter on his dressing-table;-- my dear papa,-- i don't think you ought to be surprised because we feel that our going up to town is so very important to us. if we are not to be in london at this time of the year we can never see anybody, and of course you know what that must mean for me. if this goes on about sophia, it does not signify for her, and, though mamma likes london, it is not of real importance. but it is very, very hard upon me. it isn't for pleasure that i want to go up. there isn't so very much pleasure in it. but if i'm to be buried down here at caversham, i might just as well be dead at once. if you choose to give up both houses for a year, or for two years, and take us all abroad, i should not grumble in the least. there are very nice people to be met abroad, and perhaps things go easier that way than in town. and there would be nothing for horses, and we could dress very cheap and wear our old things. i'm sure i don't want to run up bills. but if you would only think what caversham must be to me, without any one worth thinking about within twenty miles, you would hardly ask me to stay here. you certainly did say that if we would come down here with those melmottes we should be taken back to town, and you cannot be surprised that we should be disappointed when we are told that we are to be kept here after that. it makes me feel that life is so hard that i can't bear it. i see other girls having such chances when i have none, that sometimes i think i don't know what will happen to me. this was the nearest approach which she dared to make in writing to that threat which she had uttered to her mother of running away with somebody. i suppose that now it is useless for me to ask you to take us all back this summer,--though it was promised; but i hope you'll give me money to go up to the primeros. it would only be me and my maid. julia primero asked me to stay with them when you first talked of not going up, and i should not in the least object to reminding her, only it should be done at once. their house in queen's gate is very large, and i know they've a room. they all ride, and i should want a horse; but there would be nothing else, as they have plenty of carriages, and the groom who rides with julia would do for both of us. pray answer this at once, papa. your affectionate daughter, georgiana longestaffe. mr. longestaffe did condescend to read the letter. he, though he had rebuked his mutinous daughter with stern severity, was also to some extent afraid of her. at a sudden burst he could stand upon his authority, and assume his position with parental dignity; but not the less did he dread the wearing toil of continued domestic strife. he thought that upon the whole his daughter liked a row in the house. if not, there surely would not be so many rows. he himself thoroughly hated them. he had not any very lively interest in life. he did not read much; he did not talk much; he was not specially fond of eating and drinking; he did not gamble, and he did not care for the farm. to stand about the door and hall and public rooms of the clubs to which he belonged and hear other men talk politics or scandal, was what he liked better than anything else in the world. but he was quite willing to give this up for the good of his family. he would be contented to drag through long listless days at caversham, and endeavour to nurse his property, if only his daughter would allow it. by assuming a certain pomp in his living, which had been altogether unserviceable to himself and family, by besmearing his footmen's heads, and bewigging his coachmen, by aping, though never achieving, the grand ways of grander men than himself, he had run himself into debt. his own ambition had been a peerage, and he had thought that this was the way to get it. a separate property had come to his son from his wife's mother,--some £ , or £ , a year, magnified by the world into double its amount,--and the knowledge of this had for a time reconciled him to increasing the burdens on the family estates. he had been sure that adolphus, when of age, would have consented to sell the sussex property in order that the suffolk property might be relieved. but dolly was now in debt himself, and though in other respects the most careless of men, was always on his guard in any dealings with his father. he would not consent to the sale of the sussex property unless half of the proceeds were to be at once handed to himself. the father could not bring himself to consent to this, but, while refusing it, found the troubles of the world very hard upon him. melmotte had done something for him,--but in doing this melmotte was very hard and tyrannical. melmotte, when at caversham, had looked into his affairs, and had told him very plainly that with such an establishment in the country he was not entitled to keep a house in town. mr. longestaffe had then said something about his daughters,--something especially about georgiana,--and mr. melmotte had made a suggestion. mr. longestaffe, when he read his daughter's appeal, did feel for her, in spite of his anger. but if there was one man he hated more than another, it was his neighbour mr. primero; and if one woman, it was mrs. primero. primero, whom mr. longestaffe regarded as quite an upstart, and anything but a gentleman, owed no man anything. he paid his tradesmen punctually, and never met the squire of caversham without seeming to make a parade of his virtue in that direction. he had spent many thousands for his party in county elections and borough elections, and was now himself member for a metropolitan district. he was a radical, of course, or, according to mr. longestaffe's view of his political conduct, acted and voted on the radical side because there was nothing to be got by voting and acting on the other. and now there had come into suffolk a rumour that mr. primero was to have a peerage. to others the rumour was incredible, but mr. longestaffe believed it, and to mr. longestaffe that belief was an agony. a baron bundlesham just at his door, and such a baron bundlesham, would be more than mr. longestaffe could endure. it was quite impossible that his daughter should be entertained in london by the primeros. but another suggestion had been made. georgiana's letter had been laid on her father's table on the monday morning. on the following morning, when there could have been no intercourse with london by letter, lady pomona called her younger daughter to her, and handed her a note to read. "your papa has this moment given it me. of course you must judge for yourself." this was the note;-- my dear mr. longestaffe, as you seem determined not to return to london this season, perhaps one of your young ladies would like to come to us. mrs. melmotte would be delighted to have miss georgiana for june and july. if so, she need only give mrs. melmotte a day's notice. yours truly, augustus melmotte. georgiana, as soon as her eye had glanced down the one side of note paper on which this invitation was written, looked up for the date. it was without a date, and had, she felt sure, been left in her father's hands to be used as he might think fit. she breathed very hard. both her father and mother had heard her speak of these melmottes, and knew what she thought of them. there was an insolence in the very suggestion. but at the first moment she said nothing of that. "why shouldn't i go to the primeros?" she asked. "your father will not hear of it. he dislikes them especially." "and i dislike the melmottes. i dislike the primeros of course, but they are not so bad as the melmottes. that would be dreadful." "you must judge for yourself, georgiana." "it is that,--or staying here?" "i think so, my dear." "if papa chooses i don't know why i am to mind. it will be awfully disagreeable,--absolutely disgusting!" "she seemed to be very quiet." "pooh, mamma! quiet! she was quiet here because she was afraid of us. she isn't yet used to be with people like us. she'll get over that if i'm in the house with her. and then she is, oh! so frightfully vulgar! she must have been the very sweeping of the gutters. did you not see it, mamma? she could not even open her mouth, she was so ashamed of herself. i shouldn't wonder if they turned out to be something quite horrid. they make me shudder. was there ever anything so dreadful to look at as he is?" "everybody goes to them," said lady pomona. "the duchess of stevenage has been there over and over again, and so has lady auld reekie. everybody goes to their house." "but everybody doesn't go and live with them. oh, mamma,--to have to sit down to breakfast every day for ten weeks with that man and that woman!" "perhaps they'll let you have your breakfast up-stairs." "but to have to go out with them;--walking into the room after her! only think of it!" "but you are so anxious to be in london, my dear." "of course i am anxious. what other chance have i, mamma? and, oh dear, i am so tired of it! pleasure, indeed! papa talks of pleasure. if papa had to work half as hard as i do, i wonder what he'd think of it. i suppose i must do it. i know it will make me so ill that i shall almost die under it. horrid, horrid people! and papa to propose it, who has always been so proud of everything,--who used to think so much of being with the right set." "things are changed, georgiana," said the anxious mother. "indeed they are when papa wants me to go and stay with people like that. why, mamma, the apothecary in bungay is a fine gentleman compared with mr. melmotte, and his wife is a fine lady compared with madame melmotte. but i'll go. if papa chooses me to be seen with such people it is not my fault. there will be no disgracing one's self after that. i don't believe in the least that any decent man would propose to a girl in such a house, and you and papa must not be surprised if i take some horrid creature from the stock exchange. papa has altered his ideas; and so, i suppose, i had better alter mine." georgiana did not speak to her father that night, but lady pomona informed mr. longestaffe that mr. melmotte's invitation was to be accepted. she herself would write a line to madame melmotte, and georgiana would go up on the friday following. "i hope she'll like it," said mr. longestaffe. the poor man had no intention of irony. it was not in his nature to be severe after that fashion. but to poor lady pomona the words sounded very cruel. how could any one like to live in a house with mr. and madame melmotte! on the friday morning there was a little conversation between the two sisters, just before georgiana's departure to the railway station, which was almost touching. she had endeavoured to hold up her head as usual, but had failed. the thing that she was going to do cowed her even in the presence of her sister. "sophy, i do so envy you staying here." "but it was you who were so determined to be in london." "yes; i was determined, and am determined. i've got to get myself settled somehow, and that can't be done down here. but you are not going to disgrace yourself." "there's no disgrace in it, georgey." "yes, there is. i believe the man to be a swindler and a thief; and i believe her to be anything low that you can think of. as to their pretensions to be gentlefolk, it is monstrous. the footmen and housemaids would be much better." "then don't go, georgey." "i must go. it's the only chance that is left. if i were to remain down here everybody would say that i was on the shelf. you are going to marry whitstable, and you'll do very well. it isn't a big place, but there's no debt on it, and whitstable himself isn't a bad sort of fellow." "is he, now?" "of course he hasn't much to say for himself, for he's always at home. but he is a gentleman." "that he certainly is." "as for me i shall give over caring about gentlemen now. the first man that comes to me with four or five thousand a year, i'll take him, though he'd come out of newgate or bedlam. and i shall always say it has been papa's doing." and so georgiana longestaffe went up to london and stayed with the melmottes. chapter xxii. lord nidderdale's morality. it was very generally said in the city about this time that the great south central pacific and mexican railway was the very best thing out. it was known that mr. melmotte had gone into it with heart and hand. there were many who declared,--with gross injustice to the great fisker,--that the railway was melmotte's own child, that he had invented it, advertised it, agitated it, and floated it; but it was not the less popular on that account. a railway from salt lake city to mexico no doubt had much of the flavour of a castle in spain. our far-western american brethren are supposed to be imaginative. mexico has not a reputation among us for commercial security, or that stability which produces its four, five, or six per cent. with the regularity of clockwork. but there was the panama railway, a small affair which had paid twenty-five per cent.; and there was the great line across the continent to san francisco, in which enormous fortunes had been made. it came to be believed that men with their eyes open might do as well with the great south central as had ever been done before with other speculations, and this belief was no doubt founded on mr. melmotte's partiality for the enterprise. mr. fisker had "struck 'ile" when he induced his partner, montague, to give him a note to the great man. paul montague himself, who cannot be said to have been a man having his eyes open, in the city sense of the word, could not learn how the thing was progressing. at the regular meetings of the board, which never sat for above half an hour, two or three papers were read by miles grendall. melmotte himself would speak a few slow words, intended to be cheery, and always indicative of triumph, and then everybody would agree to everything, somebody would sign something, and the "board" for that day would be over. to paul montague this was very unsatisfactory. more than once or twice he endeavoured to stay the proceedings, not as disapproving, but "simply as desirous of being made to understand;" but the silent scorn of his chairman put him out of countenance, and the opposition of his colleagues was a barrier which he was not strong enough to overcome. lord alfred grendall would declare that he "did not think all that was at all necessary." lord nidderdale, with whom montague had now become intimate at the beargarden, would nudge him in the ribs and bid him hold his tongue. mr. cohenlupe would make a little speech in fluent but broken english, assuring the committee that everything was being done after the approved city fashion. sir felix, after the first two meetings, was never there. and thus paul montague, with a sorely burdened conscience, was carried along as one of the directors of the great south central pacific and mexican railway company. i do not know whether the burden was made lighter to him or heavier, by the fact that the immediate pecuniary result was certainly very comfortable. the company had not yet been in existence quite six weeks,--or at any rate melmotte had not been connected with it above that time,--and it had already been suggested to him twice that he should sell fifty shares at £ _s_. he did not even yet know how many shares he possessed, but on both occasions he consented to the proposal, and on the following day received a cheque for £ ,--that sum representing the profit over and above the original nominal price of £ a share. the suggestion was made to him by miles grendall, and when he asked some questions as to the manner in which the shares had been allocated, he was told that all that would be arranged in accordance with the capital invested and must depend on the final disposition of the californian property. "but from what we see, old fellow," said miles, "i don't think you have anything to fear. you seem to be about the best in of them all. melmotte wouldn't advise you to sell out gradually, if he didn't look upon the thing as a certain income as far as you are concerned." paul montague understood nothing of all this, and felt that he was standing on ground which might be blown from under his feet at any moment. the uncertainty, and what he feared might be the dishonesty, of the whole thing, made him often very miserable. in those wretched moments his conscience was asserting itself. but again there were times in which he also was almost triumphant, and in which he felt the delight of his wealth. though he was snubbed at the board when he wanted explanations, he received very great attention outside the board-room from those connected with the enterprise. melmotte had asked him to dine two or three times. mr. cohenlupe had begged him to go down to his little place at rickmansworth,--an entreaty with which montague had not as yet complied. lord alfred was always gracious to him, and nidderdale and carbury were evidently anxious to make him one of their set at the club. many other houses became open to him from the same source. though melmotte was supposed to be the inventor of the railway, it was known that fisker, montague, and montague were largely concerned in it, and it was known also that paul montague was one of the montagues named in that firm. people, both in the city and the west end, seemed to think that he knew all about it, and treated him as though some of the manna falling from that heaven were at his disposition. there were results from this which were not unpleasing to the young man. he only partially resisted the temptation; and though determined at times to probe the affair to the bottom, was so determined only at times. the money was very pleasant to him. the period would now soon arrive before which he understood himself to be pledged not to make a distinct offer to henrietta carbury; and when that period should have been passed, it would be delightful to him to know that he was possessed of property sufficient to enable him to give a wife a comfortable home. in all his aspirations, and in all his fears, he was true to hetta carbury, and made her the centre of his hopes. nevertheless, had hetta known everything, it may be feared that she would have at any rate endeavoured to dismiss him from her heart. there was considerable uneasiness in the bosoms of others of the directors, and a disposition to complain against the grand director, arising from a grievance altogether different from that which afflicted montague. neither had sir felix carbury nor lord nidderdale been invited to sell shares, and consequently neither of them had received any remuneration for the use of their names. they knew well that montague had sold shares. he was quite open on the subject, and had told felix, whom he hoped some day to regard as his brother-in-law, exactly what shares he had sold, and for how much;--and the two men had endeavoured to make the matter intelligible between themselves. the original price of the shares being £ each, and £ _s._ a share having been paid to montague as the premium, it was to be supposed that the original capital was re-invested in other shares. but each owned to the other that the matter was very complicated to him, and montague could only write to hamilton k. fisker at san francisco asking for explanation. as yet he had received no answer. but it was not the wealth flowing into montague's hands which embittered nidderdale and carbury. they understood that he had really brought money into the concern, and was therefore entitled to take money out of it. nor did it occur to them to grudge melmotte his more noble pickings, for they knew how great a man was melmotte. of cohenlupe's doings they heard nothing; but he was a regular city man, and had probably supplied funds. cohenlupe was too deep for their inquiry. but they knew that lord alfred had sold shares, and had received the profit; and they knew also how utterly impossible it was that lord alfred should have produced capital. if lord alfred grendall was entitled to plunder, why were not they? and if their day for plunder had not yet come, why had lord alfred's? and if there was so much cause to fear lord alfred that it was necessary to throw him a bone, why should not they also make themselves feared? lord alfred passed all his time with melmotte,--had, as these young men said, become melmotte's head valet,--and therefore had to be paid. but that reason did not satisfy the young men. "you haven't sold any shares;--have you?" this question sir felix asked lord nidderdale at the club. nidderdale was constant in his attendance at the board, and felix was not a little afraid that he might be jockied also by him. "not a share." "nor got any profits?" "not a shilling of any kind. as far as money is concerned my only transaction has been my part of the expense of fisker's dinner." "what do you get then, by going into the city?" asked sir felix. "i'm blessed if i know what i get. i suppose something will turn up some day." "in the meantime, you know, there are our names. and grendall is making a fortune out of it." "poor old duffer," said his lordship. "if he's doing so well, i think miles ought to be made to pay up something of what he owes. i think we ought to tell him that we shall expect him to have the money ready when that bill of vossner's comes round." "yes, by george; let's tell him that. will you do it?" "not that it will be the least good. it would be quite unnatural to him to pay anything." "fellows used to pay their gambling debts," said sir felix, who was still in funds, and who still held a considerable assortment of i. o. u.'s. "they don't now,--unless they like it. how did a fellow manage before, if he hadn't got it?" "he went smash," said sir felix, "and disappeared and was never heard of any more. it was just the same as if he'd been found cheating. i believe a fellow might cheat now and nobody'd say anything!" "i shouldn't," said lord nidderdale. "what's the use of being beastly ill-natured? i'm not very good at saying my prayers, but i do think there's something in that bit about forgiving people. of course cheating isn't very nice: and it isn't very nice for a fellow to play when he knows he can't pay; but i don't know that it's worse than getting drunk like dolly longestaffe, or quarrelling with everybody as grasslough does,--or trying to marry some poor devil of a girl merely because she's got money. i believe in living in glass houses, but i don't believe in throwing stones. do you ever read the bible, carbury?" "read the bible! well;--yes;--no;--that is, i suppose, i used to do." "i often think i shouldn't have been the first to pick up a stone and pitch it at that woman. live and let live;--that's my motto." "but you agree that we ought to do something about these shares?" said sir felix, thinking that this doctrine of forgiveness might be carried too far. "oh, certainly. i'll let old grendall live with all my heart; but then he ought to let me live too. only, who's to bell the cat?" "what cat?" "it's no good our going to old grendall," said lord nidderdale, who had some understanding in the matter, "nor yet to young grendall. the one would only grunt and say nothing, and the other would tell every lie that came into his head. the cat in this matter i take to be our great master, augustus melmotte." this little meeting occurred on the day after felix carbury's return from suffolk, and at a time at which, as we know, it was the great duty of his life to get the consent of old melmotte to his marriage with marie melmotte. in doing that he would have to put one bell on the cat, and he thought that for the present that was sufficient. in his heart of hearts he was afraid of melmotte. but then, as he knew very well, nidderdale was intent on the same object. nidderdale, he thought, was a very queer fellow. that talking about the bible, and the forgiving of trespasses, was very queer; and that allusion to the marrying of heiresses very queer indeed. he knew that nidderdale wanted to marry the heiress, and nidderdale must also know that he wanted to marry her. and yet nidderdale was indelicate enough to talk about it! and now the man asked who should bell the cat! "you go there oftener than i do, and perhaps you could do it best," said sir felix. "go where?" "to the board." "but you're always at his house. he'd be civil to me, perhaps, because i'm a lord: but then, for the same reason, he'd think i was the bigger fool of the two." "i don't see that at all," said sir felix. "i ain't afraid of him, if you mean that," continued lord nidderdale. "he's a wretched old reprobate, and i don't doubt but he'd skin you and me if he could make money off our carcasses. but as he can't skin me, i'll have a shy at him. on the whole i think he rather likes me, because i've always been on the square with him. if it depended on him, you know, i should have the girl to-morrow." "would you?" sir felix did not at all mean to doubt his friend's assertion, but felt it hard to answer so very strange a statement. "but then she don't want me, and i ain't quite sure that i want her. where the devil would a fellow find himself if the money wasn't all there?" lord nidderdale then sauntered away, leaving the baronet in a deep study of thought as to such a condition of things as that which his lordship had suggested. where the--mischief would he, sir felix carbury, be, if he were to marry the girl, and then to find that the money was not all there? on the following friday, which was the board day, nidderdale went to the great man's offices in abchurch lane, and so contrived that he walked with the great man to the board meeting. melmotte was always very gracious in his manner to lord nidderdale, but had never, up to this moment, had any speech with his proposed son-in-law about business. "i wanted just to ask you something," said the lord, hanging on the chairman's arm. "anything you please, my lord." "don't you think that carbury and i ought to have some shares to sell?" "no, i don't,--if you ask me." "oh;--i didn't know. but why shouldn't we as well as the others?" "have you and sir felix put any money into it?" "well, if you come to that, i don't suppose we have. how much has lord alfred put into it?" "_i_ have taken shares for lord alfred," said melmotte, putting very heavy emphasis on the personal pronoun. "if it suits me to advance money to lord alfred grendall, i suppose i may do so without asking your lordship's consent, or that of sir felix carbury." "oh, certainly. i don't want to make inquiry as to what you do with your money." "i'm sure you don't, and, therefore, we won't say anything more about it. you wait awhile, lord nidderdale, and you'll find it will come all right. if you've got a few thousand pounds loose, and will put them into the concern, why, of course you can sell; and, if the shares are up, can sell at a profit. it's presumed just at present that, at some early day, you'll qualify for your directorship by doing so, and till that is done, the shares are allocated to you, but cannot be transferred to you." "that's it, is it," said lord nidderdale, pretending to understand all about it. "if things go on as we hope they will between you and marie, you can have pretty nearly any number of shares that you please;--that is, if your father consents to a proper settlement." "i hope it'll all go smooth, i'm sure," said nidderdale. "thank you; i'm ever so much obliged to you, and i'll explain it all to carbury." chapter xxiii. "yes;--i'm a baronet." how eager lady carbury was that her son should at once go in form to marie's father and make his proposition may be easily understood. "my dear felix," she said, standing over his bedside a little before noon, "pray don't put it off; you don't know how many slips there may be between the cup and the lip." "it's everything to get him in a good humour," pleaded sir felix. "but the young lady will feel that she is ill-used." "there's no fear of that; she's all right. what am i to say to him about money? that's the question." "i shouldn't think of dictating anything, felix." "nidderdale, when he was on before, stipulated for a certain sum down; or his father did for him. so much cash was to be paid over before the ceremony, and it only went off because nidderdale wanted the money to do what he liked with." "you wouldn't mind having it settled?" "no;--i'd consent to that on condition that the money was paid down, and the income insured to me,--say £ , or £ , a year. i wouldn't do it for less, mother; it wouldn't be worth while." "but you have nothing left of your own." "i've got a throat that i can cut, and brains that i can blow out," said the son, using an argument which he conceived might be efficacious with his mother; though, had she known him, she might have been sure that no man lived less likely to cut his own throat or blow out his own brains. "oh, felix! how brutal it is to speak to me in that way." "it may be brutal; but you know, mother, business is business. you want me to marry this girl because of her money." "you want to marry her yourself." "i'm quite a philosopher about it. i want her money; and when one wants money, one should make up one's mind how much or how little one means to take,--and whether one is sure to get it." "i don't think there can be any doubt." "if i were to marry her, and if the money wasn't there, it would be very like cutting my throat then, mother. if a man plays and loses, he can play again and perhaps win; but when a fellow goes in for an heiress, and gets the wife without the money, he feels a little hampered you know." "of course he'd pay the money first." "it's very well to say that. of course he ought; but it would be rather awkward to refuse to go into church after everything had been arranged because the money hadn't been paid over. he's so clever, that he'd contrive that a man shouldn't know whether the money had been paid or not. you can't carry £ , a year about in your pocket, you know. if you'll go, mother, perhaps i might think of getting up." lady carbury saw the danger, and turned over the affair on every side in her own mind. but she could also see the house in grosvenor square, the expenditure without limit, the congregating duchesses, the general acceptation of the people, and the mercantile celebrity of the man. and she could weigh against that the absolute pennilessness of her baronet-son. as he was, his condition was hopeless. such a one must surely run some risk. the embarrassments of such a man as lord nidderdale were only temporary. there were the family estates, and the marquisate, and a golden future for him; but there was nothing coming to felix in the future. all the goods he would ever have of his own, he had now;--position, a title, and a handsome face. surely he could afford to risk something! even the ruins and wreck of such wealth as that displayed in grosvenor square would be better than the baronet's present condition. and then, though it was possible that old melmotte should be ruined some day, there could be no doubt as to his present means; and would it not be probable that he would make hay while the sun shone by securing his daughter's position? she visited her son again on the next morning, which was sunday, and again tried to persuade him to the marriage. "i think you should be content to run a little risk," she said. sir felix had been unlucky at cards on saturday night, and had taken, perhaps, a little too much wine. he was at any rate sulky, and in a humour to resent interference. "i wish you'd leave me alone," he said, "to manage my own business." "is it not my business too?" "no; you haven't got to marry her, and to put up with these people. i shall make up my mind what to do myself, and i don't want anybody to meddle with me." "you ungrateful boy!" "i understand all about that. of course i'm ungrateful when i don't do everything just as you wish it. you don't do any good. you only set me against it all." "how do you expect to live, then? are you always to be a burden on me and your sister? i wonder that you've no shame. your cousin roger is right. i will quit london altogether, and leave you to your own wretchedness." "that's what roger says; is it? i always thought roger was a fellow of that sort." "he is the best friend i have." what would roger have thought had he heard this assertion from lady carbury? "he's an ill-tempered, close-fisted, interfering cad, and if he meddles with my affairs again, i shall tell him what i think of him. upon my word, mother, these little disputes up in my bedroom ain't very pleasant. of course it's your house; but if you do allow me a room, i think you might let me have it to myself." it was impossible for lady carbury, in her present mood, and in his present mood, to explain to him that in no other way and at no other time could she ever find him. if she waited till he came down to breakfast, he escaped from her in five minutes, and then he returned no more till some unholy hour in the morning. she was as good a pelican as ever allowed the blood to be torn from her own breast to satisfy the greed of her young, but she felt that she should have something back for her blood,--some return for her sacrifices. this chick would take all as long as there was a drop left, and then resent the fondling of the mother-bird as interference. again and again there came upon her moments in which she thought that roger carbury was right. and yet she knew that when the time came she would not be able to be severe. she almost hated herself for the weakness of her own love,--but she acknowledged it. if he should fall utterly, she must fall with him. in spite of his cruelty, his callous hardness, his insolence to herself, his wickedness and ruinous indifference to the future, she must cling to him to the last. all that she had done, and all that she had borne,--all that she was doing and bearing,--was it not for his sake? sir felix had been in grosvenor square since his return from carbury, and had seen madame melmotte and marie; but he had seen them together, and not a word had been said about the engagement. he could not make much use of the elder woman. she was as gracious as was usual with her; but then she was never very gracious. she had told him that miss longestaffe was coming to her, which was a great bore, as the young lady was "fatigante." upon this marie had declared that she intended to like the young lady very much. "pooh!" said madame melmotte. "you never like no person at all." at this marie had looked over to her lover and smiled. "ah, yes; that is all very well,--while it lasts; but you care for no friend." from which felix had judged that madame melmotte at any rate knew of his offer, and did not absolutely disapprove of it. on the saturday he had received a note at his club from marie. "come on sunday at half-past two. you will find papa after lunch." this was in his possession when his mother visited him in his bedroom, and he had determined to obey the behest. but he would not tell her of his intention, because he had drunk too much wine, and was sulky. at about three on sunday he knocked at the door in grosvenor square and asked for the ladies. up to the moment of his knocking,--even after he had knocked, and when the big porter was opening the door,--he intended to ask for mr. melmotte; but at the last his courage failed him, and he was shown up into the drawing-room. there he found madame melmotte, marie, georgiana longestaffe, and--lord nidderdale. marie looked anxiously into his face, thinking that he had already been with her father. he slid into a chair close to madame melmotte, and endeavoured to seem at his ease. lord nidderdale continued his flirtation with miss longestaffe,--a flirtation which she carried on in a half whisper, wholly indifferent to her hostess or the young lady of the house. "we know what brings you here," she said. "i came on purpose to see you." "i'm sure, lord nidderdale, you didn't expect to find me here." "lord bless you, i knew all about it, and came on purpose. it's a great institution; isn't it?" "it's an institution you mean to belong to,--permanently." "no, indeed. i did have thoughts about it as fellows do when they talk of going into the army or to the bar; but i couldn't pass. that fellow there is the happy man. i shall go on coming here, because you're here. i don't think you'll like it a bit, you know." "i don't suppose i shall, lord nidderdale." after a while marie contrived to be alone with her lover near one of the windows for a few seconds. "papa is down-stairs in the book-room," she said. "lord alfred was told when he came that he was out." it was evident to sir felix that everything was prepared for him. "you go down," she continued, "and ask the man to show you into the book-room." "shall i come up again?" "no; but leave a note for me here under cover to madame didon." now sir felix was sufficiently at home in the house to know that madame didon was madame melmotte's own woman, commonly called didon by the ladies of the family. "or send it by post,--under cover to her. that will be better. go at once, now." it certainly did seem to sir felix that the very nature of the girl was altered. but he went, just shaking hands with madame melmotte, and bowing to miss longestaffe. in a few moments he found himself with mr. melmotte in the chamber which had been dignified with the name of the book-room. the great financier was accustomed to spend his sunday afternoons here, generally with the company of lord alfred grendall. it may be supposed that he was meditating on millions, and arranging the prices of money and funds for the new york, paris, and london exchanges. but on this occasion he was waked from slumber, which he seemed to have been enjoying with a cigar in his mouth. "how do you do, sir felix?" he said. "i suppose you want the ladies." "i've just been in the drawing-room, but i thought i'd look in on you as i came down." it immediately occurred to melmotte that the baronet had come about his share of the plunder out of the railway, and he at once resolved to be stern in his manner, and perhaps rude also. he believed that he should thrive best by resenting any interference with him in his capacity as financier. he thought that he had risen high enough to venture on such conduct, and experience had told him that men who were themselves only half-plucked, might easily be cowed by a savage assumption of superiority. and he, too, had generally the advantage of understanding the game, while those with whom he was concerned did not, at any rate, more than half understand it. he could thus trade either on the timidity or on the ignorance of his colleagues. when neither of these sufficed to give him undisputed mastery, then he cultivated the cupidity of his friends. he liked young associates because they were more timid and less greedy than their elders. lord nidderdale's suggestions had soon been put at rest, and mr. melmotte anticipated no greater difficulty with sir felix. lord alfred he had been obliged to buy. "i'm very glad to see you, and all that," said melmotte, assuming a certain exaltation of the eyebrows, which they who had many dealings with him often found to be very disagreeable; "but this is hardly a day for business, sir felix, nor,--yet a place for business." sir felix wished himself at the beargarden. he certainly had come about business,--business of a particular sort; but marie had told him that of all days sunday would be the best, and had also told him that her father was more likely to be in a good humour on sunday than on any other day. sir felix felt that he had not been received with good humour. "i didn't mean to intrude, mr. melmotte," he said. "i dare say not. i only thought i'd tell you. you might have been going to speak about that railway." "oh dear no." "your mother was saying to me down in the country that she hoped you attended to the business. i told her that there was nothing to attend to." "my mother doesn't understand anything at all about it," said sir felix. "women never do. well;--what can i do for you, now that you are here?" "mr. melmotte, i'm come,--i'm come to;--in short, mr. melmotte, i want to propose myself as a suitor for your daughter's hand." "the d---- you do!" "well, yes; and we hope you'll give us your consent." "she knows you're coming then?" "yes;--she knows." "and my wife;--does she know?" "i've never spoken to her about it. perhaps miss melmotte has." "and how long have you and she understood each other?" "i've been attached to her ever since i saw her," said sir felix. "i have indeed. i've spoken to her sometimes. you know how that kind of thing goes on." "i'm blessed if i do. i know how it ought to go on. i know that when large sums of money are supposed to be concerned, the young man should speak to the father before he speaks to the girl. he's a fool if he don't, if he wants to get the father's money. so she has given you a promise?" "i don't know about a promise." "do you consider that she's engaged to you?" "not if she's disposed to get out of it," said sir felix, hoping that he might thus ingratiate himself with the father. "of course, i should be awfully disappointed." "she has consented to your coming to me?" "well, yes;--in a sort of a way. of course she knows that it all depends on you." "not at all. she's of age. if she chooses to marry you, she can marry you. if that's all you want, her consent is enough. you're a baronet, i believe?" "oh, yes, i'm a baronet." "and therefore you've come to your own property. you haven't to wait for your father to die, and i dare say you are indifferent about money." this was a view of things which sir felix felt that he was bound to dispel, even at the risk of offending the father. "not exactly that," he said. "i suppose you will give your daughter a fortune, of course." "then i wonder you didn't come to me before you went to her. if my daughter marries to please me, i shall give her money, no doubt. how much is neither here nor there. if she marries to please herself, without considering me, i shan't give her a farthing." "i had hoped that you might consent, mr. melmotte." "i've said nothing about that. it is possible. you're a man of fashion and have a title of your own,--and no doubt a property. if you'll show me that you've an income fit to maintain her, i'll think about it at any rate. what is your property, sir felix?" what could three or four thousand a year, or even five or six, matter to a man like melmotte? it was thus that sir felix looked at it. when a man can hardly count his millions he ought not to ask questions about trifling sums of money. but the question had been asked, and the asking of such a question was no doubt within the prerogative of a proposed father-in-law. at any rate, it must be answered. for a moment it occurred to sir felix that he might conveniently tell the truth. it would be nasty for the moment, but there would be nothing to come after. were he to do so he could not be dragged down lower and lower into the mire by cross-examinings. there might be an end of all his hopes, but there would at the same time be an end of all his misery. but he lacked the necessary courage. "it isn't a large property, you know," he said. "not like the marquis of westminster's, i suppose," said the horrid, big, rich scoundrel. "no;--not quite like that," said sir felix, with a sickly laugh. "but you have got enough to support a baronet's title?" "that depends on how you want to support it," said sir felix, putting off the evil day. "where's your family seat?" "carbury manor, down in suffolk, near the longestaffes, is the old family place." "that doesn't belong to you," said melmotte, very sharply. "no; not yet. but i'm the heir." perhaps if there is one thing in england more difficult than another to be understood by men born and bred out of england, it is the system under which titles and property descend together, or in various lines. the jurisdiction of our courts of law is complex, and so is the business of parliament. but the rules regulating them, though anomalous, are easy to the memory compared with the mixed anomalies of the peerage and primogeniture. they who are brought up among it, learn it as children do a language, but strangers who begin the study in advanced life, seldom make themselves perfect in it. it was everything to melmotte that he should understand the ways of the country which he had adopted; and when he did not understand, he was clever at hiding his ignorance. now he was puzzled. he knew that sir felix was a baronet, and therefore presumed him to be the head of the family. he knew that carbury manor belonged to roger carbury, and he judged by the name it must be an old family property. and now the baronet declared that he was heir to the man who was simply an esquire. "oh, the heir are you? but how did he get it before you? you're the head of the family?" "yes, i am the head of the family, of course," said sir felix, lying directly. "but the place won't be mine till he dies. it would take a long time to explain it all." "he's a young man, isn't he?" "no,--not what you'd call a young man. he isn't very old." "if he were to marry and have children, how would it be then?" sir felix was beginning to think that he might have told the truth with discretion. "i don't quite know how it would be. i have always understood that i am the heir. it's not very likely that he will marry." "and in the meantime what is your own property?" [illustration: "in the meantime what is your own property?"] "my father left me money in the funds and in railway stock,--and then i am my mother's heir." "you have done me the honour of telling me that you wish to marry my daughter." "certainly." "would you then object to inform me the amount and nature of the income on which you intend to support your establishment as a married man? i fancy that the position you assume justifies the question on my part." the bloated swindler, the vile city ruffian, was certainly taking a most ungenerous advantage of the young aspirant for wealth. it was then that sir felix felt his own position. was he not a baronet, and a gentleman, and a very handsome fellow, and a man of the world who had been in a crack regiment? if this surfeited sponge of speculation, this crammed commercial cormorant, wanted more than that for his daughter, why could he not say so without asking disgusting questions such as these,--questions which it was quite impossible that a gentleman should answer? was it not sufficiently plain that any gentleman proposing to marry the daughter of such a man as melmotte, must do so under the stress of pecuniary embarrassment? would it not be an understood bargain that as he provided the rank and position, she would provide the money? and yet the vulgar wretch took advantage of his assumed authority to ask these dreadful questions! sir felix stood silent, trying to look the man in the face, but failing;--wishing that he was well out of the house, and at the beargarden. "you don't seem to be very clear about your own circumstances, sir felix. perhaps you will get your lawyer to write to me." "perhaps that will be best," said the lover. "either that, or to give it up. my daughter, no doubt, will have money; but money expects money." at this moment lord alfred entered the room. "you're very late to-day, alfred. why didn't you come as you said you would?" "i was here more than an hour ago, and they said you were out." "i haven't been out of this room all day,--except to lunch. good morning, sir felix. ring the bell, alfred, and we'll have a little soda and brandy." sir felix had gone through some greeting with his fellow director, lord alfred, and at last succeeded in getting melmotte to shake hands with him before he went. "do you know anything about that young fellow?" melmotte asked as soon as the door was closed. "he's a baronet without a shilling;--was in the army and had to leave it," said lord alfred as he buried his face in a big tumbler. "without a shilling! i supposed so. but he's heir to a place down in suffolk;--eh?" "not a bit of it. it's the same name, and that's about all. mr. carbury has a small property there, and he might give it to me to-morrow. i wish he would, though there isn't much of it. that young fellow has nothing to do with it whatever." "hasn't he now?" mr. melmotte as he speculated upon it, almost admired the young man's impudence. chapter xxiv. miles grendall's triumph. sir felix as he walked down to his club felt that he had been checkmated,--and was at the same time full of wrath at the insolence of the man who had so easily beaten him out of the field. as far as he could see, the game was over. no doubt he might marry marie melmotte. the father had told him so much himself, and he perfectly believed the truth of that oath which marie had sworn. he did not doubt but that she'd stick to him close enough. she was in love with him, which was natural; and was a fool,--which was perhaps also natural. but romance was not the game which he was playing. people told him that when girls succeeded in marrying without their parents' consent, fathers were always constrained to forgive them at last. that might be the case with ordinary fathers. but melmotte was decidedly not an ordinary father. he was,--so sir felix declared to himself,--perhaps the greatest brute ever created. sir felix could not but remember that elevation of the eyebrows, and the brazen forehead, and the hard mouth. he had found himself quite unable to stand up against melmotte, and now he cursed and swore at the man as he was carried down to the beargarden in a cab. but what should he do? should he abandon marie melmotte altogether, never go to grosvenor square again, and drop the whole family, including the great mexican railway? then an idea occurred to him. nidderdale had explained to him the result of his application for shares. "you see we haven't bought any and therefore can't sell any. there seems to be something in that. i shall explain it all to my governor, and get him to go a thou' or two. if he sees his way to get the money back, he'd do that and let me have the difference." on that sunday afternoon sir felix thought over all this. "why shouldn't he 'go a thou,' and get the difference?" he made a mental calculation. £ _s._ per £ ! £ for a thousand! and all paid in ready money. as far as sir felix could understand, directly the one operation had been perfected the thousand pounds would be available for another. as he looked into it with all his intelligence he thought that he began to perceive that that was the way in which the melmottes of the world made their money. there was but one objection. he had not got the entire thousand pounds. but luck had been on the whole very good to him. he had more than the half of it in real money, lying at a bank in the city at which he had opened an account. and he had very much more than the remainder in i. o. u.'s from dolly longestaffe and miles grendall. in fact if every man had his own,--and his bosom glowed with indignation as he reflected on the injustice with which he was kept out of his own,--he could go into the city and take up his shares to-morrow, and still have ready money at his command. if he could do this, would not such conduct on his part be the best refutation of that charge of not having any fortune which melmotte had brought against him? he would endeavour to work the money out of dolly longestaffe;--and he entertained an idea that though it would be impossible to get cash from miles grendall, he might use his claim against miles in the city. miles was secretary to the board, and might perhaps contrive that the money required for the shares should not be all ready money. sir felix was not very clear about it, but thought that he might possibly in this way use the indebtedness of miles grendall. "how i do hate a fellow who does not pay up," he said to himself as he sat alone in his club, waiting for some friend to come in. and he formed in his head draconic laws which he would fain have executed upon men who lost money at play and did not pay. "how the deuce fellows can look one in the face, is what i can't understand," he said to himself. he thought over this great stroke of exhibiting himself to melmotte as a capitalist till he gave up his idea of abandoning his suit. so he wrote a note to marie melmotte in accordance with her instructions. dear m., your father cut up very rough,--about money. perhaps you had better see him yourself; or would your mother? yours always, f. this, as directed, he put under cover to madame didon,--grosvenor square, and posted at the club. he had put nothing at any rate in the letter which could commit him. there was generally on sundays a house dinner, so called, at eight o'clock. five or six men would sit down, and would always gamble afterwards. on this occasion dolly longestaffe sauntered in at about seven in quest of sherry and bitters, and felix found the opportunity a good one to speak of his money. "you couldn't cash your i. o. u.'s for me to-morrow;--could you?" "to-morrow! oh, lord!" "i'll tell you why. you know i'd tell you anything because i think we are really friends. i'm after that daughter of melmotte's." "i'm told you're to have her." "i don't know about that. i mean to try at any rate. i've gone in you know for that board in the city." "i don't know anything about boards, my boy." "yes, you do, dolly. you remember that american fellow, montague's friend, that was here one night and won all our money." "the chap that had the waistcoat, and went away in the morning to california. fancy starting to california after a hard night. i always wondered whether he got there alive." "well;--i can't explain to you all about it, because you hate those kinds of things." "and because i am such a fool." "i don't think you're a fool at all, but it would take a week. but it's absolutely essential for me to take up a lot of shares in the city to-morrow;--or perhaps wednesday might do. i'm bound to pay for them, and old melmotte will think that i'm utterly hard up if i don't. indeed he said as much, and the only objection about me and this girl of his is as to money. can't you understand, now, how important it may be?" "it's always important to have a lot of money. i know that." "i shouldn't have gone in for this kind of thing if i hadn't thought i was sure. you know how much you owe me, don't you?" "not in the least." "it's about eleven hundred pounds!" "i shouldn't wonder." "and miles grendall owes me two thousand. grasslough and nidderdale when they lose always pay with miles's i. o. u.'s." "so should i, if i had them." "it'll come to that soon that there won't be any other stuff going, and they really ain't worth anything. i don't see what's the use of playing when this rubbish is shoved about the table. as for grendall himself, he has no feeling about it." "not the least, i should say." "you'll try and get me the money, won't you, dolly?" "melmotte has been at me twice. he wants me to agree to sell something. he's an old thief, and of course he means to rob me. you may tell him that if he'll let me have the money in the way i've proposed, you are to have a thousand pounds out of it. i don't know any other way." "you could write me that,--in a business sort of way." "i couldn't do that, carbury. what's the use? i never write any letters. i can't do it. you tell him that; and if the sale comes off, i'll make it straight." miles grendall also dined there, and after dinner, in the smoking-room, sir felix tried to do a little business with the secretary. he began his operations with unusual courtesy, believing that the man must have some influence with the great distributor of shares. "i'm going to take up my shares in that company," said sir felix. "ah;--indeed." and miles enveloped himself from head to foot in smoke. "i didn't quite understand about it, but nidderdale saw melmotte and he has explained it. i think i shall go in for a couple of thousand on wednesday." "oh;--ah." "it will be the proper thing to do;--won't it?" "very good--thing to do!" miles grendall smoked harder and harder as the suggestions were made to him. "is it always ready money?" "always ready money," said miles shaking his head, as though in reprobation of so abominable an institution. "i suppose they allow some time to their own directors, if a deposit, say per cent., is made for the shares?" "they'll give you half the number, which would come to the same thing." sir felix turned this over in his mind, but let him look at it as he would, could not see the truth of his companion's remark. "you know i should want to sell again,--for the rise." "oh; you'll want to sell again." "and therefore i must have the full number." "you could sell half the number, you know," said miles. "i'm determined to begin with ten shares;--that's £ , . well;--i have got the money, but i don't want to draw out so much. couldn't you manage for me that i should get them on paying per cent. down?" "melmotte does all that himself." "you could explain, you know, that you are a little short in your own payments to me." this sir felix said, thinking it to be a delicate mode of introducing his claim upon the secretary. "that's private," said miles frowning. "of course it's private; but if you would pay me the money i could buy the shares with it, though they are public." "i don't think we could mix the two things together, carbury." "you can't help me?" "not in that way." "then, when the deuce will you pay me what you owe me?" sir felix was driven to this plain expression of his demand by the impassibility of his debtor. here was a man who did not pay his debts of honour, who did not even propose any arrangement for paying them, and who yet had the impudence to talk of not mixing up private matters with affairs of business! it made the young baronet very sick. miles grendall smoked on in silence. there was a difficulty in answering the question, and he therefore made no answer. "do you know how much you owe me?" continued the baronet, determined to persist now that he had commenced the attack. there was a little crowd of other men in the room, and the conversation about the shares had been commenced in an under-tone. these two last questions sir felix had asked in a whisper, but his countenance showed plainly that he was speaking in anger. "of course i know," said miles. "well?" "i'm not going to talk about it here." "not going to talk about it here?" "no. this is a public room." "i am going to talk about it," said sir felix, raising his voice. "will any fellow come up-stairs and play a game of billiards?" said miles grendall rising from his chair. then he walked slowly out of the room, leaving sir felix to take what revenge he pleased. for a moment sir felix thought that he would expose the transaction to the whole room; but he was afraid, thinking that miles grendall was a more popular man than himself. it was sunday night; but not the less were the gamblers assembled in the card-room at about eleven. dolly longestaffe was there, and with him the two lords, and sir felix, and miles grendall of course, and, i regret to say, a much better man than any of them, paul montague. sir felix had doubted much as to the propriety of joining the party. what was the use of playing with a man who seemed by general consent to be liberated from any obligation to pay? but then if he did not play with him, where should he find another gambling table? they began with whist, but soon laid that aside and devoted themselves to loo. the least respected man in that confraternity was grendall, and yet it was in compliance with the persistency of his suggestion that they gave up the nobler game. "let's stick to whist; i like cutting out," said grasslough. "it's much more jolly having nothing to do now and then; one can always bet," said dolly shortly afterwards. "i hate loo," said sir felix in answer to a third application. "i like whist best," said nidderdale, "but i'll play anything anybody likes;--pitch and toss if you please." but miles grendall had his way, and loo was the game. at about two o'clock grendall was the only winner. the play had not been very high, but nevertheless he had won largely. whenever a large pool had collected itself he swept it into his garners. the men opposed to him hardly grudged him this stroke of luck. he had hitherto been unlucky; and they were able to pay him with his own paper, which was so valueless that they parted with it without a pang. even dolly longestaffe seemed to have a supply of it. the only man there not so furnished was montague, and while the sums won were quite small he was allowed to pay with cash. but to sir felix it was frightful to see ready money going over to miles grendall, as under no circumstances could it be got back from him. "montague," he said, "just change these for the time. i'll take them back, if you still have them when we've done." and he handed a lot of miles's paper across the table. the result of course would be that felix would receive so much real money, and that miles would get back more of his own worthless paper. to montague it would make no difference, and he did as he was asked;--or rather was preparing to do so, when miles interfered. on what principle of justice could sir felix come between him and another man? "i don't understand this kind of thing," he said. "when i win from you, carbury, i'll take my i. o. u.'s, as long as you have any." "by george, that's kind." "but i won't have them handed about the table to be changed." "pay them yourself, then," said sir felix, laying a handful down on the table. "don't let's have a row," said lord nidderdale. "carbury is always making a row," said grasslough. "of course he is," said miles grendall. "i don't make more row than anybody else; but i do say that as we have such a lot of these things, and as we all know that we don't get cash for them as we want it, grendall shouldn't take money and walk off with it." "who is walking off?" said miles. "and why should you be entitled to montague's money more than any of us?" asked grasslough. the matter was debated, and was thus decided. it was not to be allowed that miles's paper should be negotiated at the table in the manner that sir felix had attempted to adopt. but mr. grendall pledged his honour that when they broke up the party he would apply any money that he might have won to the redemption of his i. o. u.'s, paying a regular percentage to the holders of them. the decision made sir felix very cross. he knew that their condition at six or seven in the morning would not be favourable to such commercial accuracy,--which indeed would require an accountant to effect it; and he felt sure that miles, if still a winner, would in truth walk off with the ready money. for a considerable time he did not speak, and became very moderate in his play, tossing his cards about, almost always losing, but losing a minimum, and watching the board. he was sitting next to grendall, and he thought that he observed that his neighbour moved his chair farther and farther away from him, and nearer to dolly longestaffe, who was next to him on the other side. this went on for an hour, during which grendall still won,--and won heavily from paul montague. "i never saw a fellow have such a run of luck in my life," said grasslough. "you've had two trumps dealt to you every hand almost since we began!" "ever so many hands i haven't played at all," said miles. "you've always won when i've played," said dolly. "i've been looed every time." "you oughtn't to begrudge me one run of luck, when i've lost so much," said miles, who, since he began, had destroyed paper counters of his own making, supposed to represent considerably above £ , , and had also,--which was of infinitely greater concern to him,--received an amount of ready money which was quite a godsend to him. "what's the good of talking about it?" said nidderdale. "i hate all this row about winning and losing. let's go on, or go to bed." the idea of going to bed was absurd. so they went on. sir felix, however, hardly spoke at all, played very little, and watched miles grendall without seeming to watch him. at last he felt certain that he saw a card go into the man's sleeve, and remembered at the moment that the winner had owed his success to a continued run of aces. he was tempted to rush at once upon the player, and catch the card on his person. but he feared. grendall was a big man; and where would he be if there should be no card there? and then, in the scramble, there would certainly be at any rate a doubt. and he knew that the men around him would be most unwilling to believe such an accusation. grasslough was grendall's friend, and nidderdale and dolly longestaffe would infinitely rather be cheated than suspect any one of their own set of cheating them. he feared both the violence of the man he should accuse, and also the impassive good humour of the others. he let that opportunity pass by, again watched, and again saw the card abstracted. thrice he saw it, till it was wonderful to him that others also should not see it. as often as the deal came round, the man did it. felix watched more closely, and was certain that in each round the man had an ace at least once. it seemed to him that nothing could be easier. at last he pleaded a headache, got up, and went away, leaving the others playing. he had lost nearly a thousand pounds, but it had been all in paper. "there's something the matter with that fellow," said grasslough. "there's always something the matter with him, i think," said miles. "he is so awfully greedy about his money." miles had become somewhat triumphant in his success. "the less said about that, grendall, the better," said nidderdale. "we have put up with a good deal, you know, and he has put up with as much as anybody." miles was cowed at once, and went on dealing without manoeuvring a card on that hand. chapter xxv. in grosvenor square. marie melmotte was hardly satisfied with the note which she received from didon early on the monday morning. with a volubility of french eloquence, didon declared that she would be turned out of the house if either monsieur or madame were to know what she was doing. marie told her that madame would certainly never dismiss her. "well, perhaps not madame," said didon, who knew too much about madame to be dismissed; "but monsieur!" marie declared that by no possibility could monsieur know anything about it. in that house nobody ever told anything to monsieur. he was regarded as the general enemy, against whom the whole household was always making ambushes, always firing guns from behind rocks and trees. it is not a pleasant condition for a master of a house; but in this house the master at any rate knew how he was placed. it never occurred to him to trust any one. of course his daughter might run away. but who would run away with her without money? and there could be no money except from him. he knew himself and his own strength. he was not the man to forgive a girl, and then bestow his wealth on the lothario who had injured him. his daughter was valuable to him because she might make him the father-in-law of a marquis or an earl; but the higher that he rose without such assistance, the less need had he of his daughter's aid. lord alfred was certainly very useful to him. lord alfred had whispered into his ear that by certain conduct and by certain uses of his money, he himself might be made a baronet. "but if they should say that i'm not an englishman?" suggested melmotte. lord alfred had explained that it was not necessary that he should have been born in england, or even that he should have an english name. no questions would be asked. let him first get into parliament, and then spend a little money on the proper side,--by which lord alfred meant the conservative side,--and be munificent in his entertainments, and the baronetcy would be almost a matter of course. indeed, there was no knowing what honours might not be achieved in the present days by money scattered with a liberal hand. in these conversations, melmotte would speak of his money and power of making money as though they were unlimited,--and lord alfred believed him. marie was dissatisfied with her letter,--not because it described her father as "cutting up very rough." to her who had known her father all her life that was a matter of course. but there was no word of love in the note. an impassioned correspondence carried on through didon would be delightful to her. she was quite capable of loving, and she did love the young man. she had, no doubt, consented to accept the addresses of others whom she did not love,--but this she had done at the moment almost of her first introduction to the marvellous world in which she was now living. as days went on she ceased to be a child, and her courage grew within her. she became conscious of an identity of her own, which feeling was produced in great part by the contempt which accompanied her increasing familiarity with grand people and grand names and grand things. she was no longer afraid of saying no to the nidderdales on account of any awe of them personally. it might be that she should acknowledge herself to be obliged to obey her father, though she was drifting away even from the sense of that obligation. had her mind been as it was now when lord nidderdale first came to her, she might indeed have loved him, who, as a man, was infinitely better than sir felix, and who, had he thought it to be necessary, would have put some grace into his love-making. but at that time she had been childish. he, finding her to be a child, had hardly spoken to her. and she, child though she was, had resented such usage. but a few months in london had changed all this, and now she was a child no longer. she was in love with sir felix, and had told her love. whatever difficulties there might be, she intended to be true. if necessary, she would run away. sir felix was her idol, and she abandoned herself to its worship. but she desired that her idol should be of flesh and blood, and not of wood. she was at first half-inclined to be angry; but as she sat with his letter in her hand, she remembered that he did not know didon as well as she did, and that he might be afraid to trust his raptures to such custody. she could write to him at his club, and having no such fear, she could write warmly. --, grosvenor square. early monday morning. dearest, dearest felix, i have just got your note;--such a scrap! of course papa would talk about money because he never thinks of anything else. i don't know anything about money, and i don't care in the least how much you have got. papa has got plenty, and i think he would give us some if we were once married. i have told mamma, but mamma is always afraid of everything. papa is very cross to her sometimes;--more so than to me. i will try to tell him, though i can't always get at him. i very often hardly see him all day long. but i don't mean to be afraid of him, and will tell him that on my word and honour i will never marry any one except you. i don't think he will beat me, but if he does, i'll bear it,--for your sake. he does beat mamma sometimes, i know. you can write to me quite safely through didon. i think if you would call some day and give her something, it would help, as she is very fond of money. do write and tell me that you love me. i love you better than anything in the world, and i will never,--never give you up. i suppose you can come and call,--unless papa tells the man in the hall not to let you in. i'll find that out from didon, but i can't do it before sending this letter. papa dined out yesterday somewhere with that lord alfred, so i haven't seen him since you were here. i never see him before he goes into the city in the morning. now i am going down-stairs to breakfast with mamma and that miss longestaffe. she is a stuck-up thing. didn't you think so at caversham? good-bye. you are my own, own, own darling felix, and i am your own, own affectionate ladylove, marie. sir felix when he read this letter at his club in the afternoon of the monday, turned up his nose and shook his head. he thought if there were much of that kind of thing to be done, he could not go on with it, even though the marriage were certain, and the money secure. "what an infernal little ass!" he said to himself as he crumpled the letter up. marie having intrusted her letter to didon, together with a little present of gloves and shoes, went down to breakfast. her mother was the first there, and miss longestaffe soon followed. that lady, when she found that she was not expected to breakfast with the master of the house, abandoned the idea of having her meal sent to her in her own room. madame melmotte she must endure. with madame melmotte she had to go out in the carriage every day. indeed she could only go to those parties to which madame melmotte accompanied her. if the london season was to be of any use at all, she must accustom herself to the companionship of madame melmotte. the man kept himself very much apart from her. she met him only at dinner, and that not often. madame melmotte was very bad; but she was silent, and seemed to understand that her guest was only her guest as a matter of business. but miss longestaffe already perceived that her old acquaintances were changed in their manner to her. she had written to her dear friend lady monogram, whom she had known intimately as miss triplex, and whose marriage with sir damask monogram had been splendid preferment, telling how she had been kept down in suffolk at the time of her friend's last party, and how she had been driven to consent to return to london as the guest of madame melmotte. she hoped her friend would not throw her off on that account. she had been very affectionate, with a poor attempt at fun, and rather humble. georgiana longestaffe had never been humble before; but the monograms were people so much thought of and in such an excellent set! she would do anything rather than lose the monograms. but it was of no use. she had been humble in vain, for lady monogram had not even answered her note. "she never really cared for anybody but herself," georgiana said in her wretched solitude. then, too, she had found that lord nidderdale's manner to her had been quite changed. she was not a fool, and could read these signs with sufficient accuracy. there had been little flirtations between her and nidderdale,--meaning nothing, as every one knew that nidderdale must marry money; but in none of them had he spoken to her as he spoke when he met her in madame melmotte's drawing-room. she could see it in the faces of people as they greeted her in the park,--especially in the faces of the men. she had always carried herself with a certain high demeanour, and had been able to maintain it. all that was now gone from her, and she knew it. though the thing was as yet but a few days old she understood that others understood that she had degraded herself. "what's all this about?" lord grasslough had said to her, seeing her come into a room behind madame melmotte. she had simpered, had tried to laugh, and had then turned away her face. "impudent scoundrel!" she said to herself, knowing that a fortnight ago he would not have dared to address her in such a tone. a day or two afterwards an occurrence took place worthy of commemoration. dolly longestaffe called on his sister! his mind must have been much stirred when he allowed himself to be moved to such uncommon action. he came too at a very early hour, not much after noon, when it was his custom to be eating his breakfast in bed. he declared at once to the servant that he did not wish to see madame melmotte or any of the family. he had called to see his sister. he was therefore shown into a separate room where georgiana joined him. "what's all this about?" she tried to laugh as she tossed her head. "what brings you here, i wonder? this is quite an unexpected compliment." "my being here doesn't matter. i can go anywhere without doing much harm. why are you staying with these people?" "ask papa." "i don't suppose he sent you here?" "that's just what he did do." "you needn't have come, i suppose, unless you liked it. is it because they are none of them coming up?" "exactly that, dolly. what a wonderful young man you are for guessing!" "don't you feel ashamed of yourself?" "no;--not a bit." "then i feel ashamed for you." "everybody comes here." "no;--everybody does not come and stay here as you are doing. everybody doesn't make themselves a part of the family. i have heard of nobody doing it except you. i thought you used to think so much of yourself." "i think as much of myself as ever i did," said georgiana, hardly able to restrain her tears. "i can tell you nobody else will think much of you if you remain here. i could hardly believe it when nidderdale told me." "what did he say, dolly?" "he didn't say much to me, but i could see what he thought. and of course everybody thinks the same. how you can like the people yourself is what i can't understand!" "i don't like them,--i hate them." "then why do you come and live with them?" "oh, dolly, it is impossible to make you understand. a man is so different. you can go just where you please, and do what you like. and if you're short of money, people will give you credit. and you can live by yourself, and all that sort of thing. how should you like to be shut up down at caversham all the season?" "i shouldn't mind it,--only for the governor." "you have got a property of your own. your fortune is made for you. what is to become of me?" "you mean about marrying?" "i mean altogether," said the poor girl, unable to be quite as explicit with her brother, as she had been with her father, and mother, and sister. "of course i have to think of myself." "i don't see how the melmottes are to help you. the long and the short of it is, you oughtn't to be here. it's not often i interfere, but when i heard it i thought i'd come and tell you. i shall write to the governor, and tell him too. he should have known better." "don't write to papa, dolly!" "yes, i shall. i am not going to see everything going to the devil without saying a word. good-bye." as soon as he had left he hurried down to some club that was open,--not the beargarden, as it was long before the beargarden hours,--and actually did write a letter to his father. my dear father, i have seen georgiana at mr. melmotte's house. she ought not to be there. i suppose you don't know it, but everybody says he's a swindler. for the sake of the family i hope you will get her home again. it seems to me that bruton street is the proper place for the girls at this time of the year. your affectionate son, adolphus longestaffe. this letter fell upon old mr. longestaffe at caversham like a thunderbolt. it was marvellous to him that his son should have been instigated to write a letter. the melmottes must be very bad indeed,--worse than he had thought,--or their iniquities would not have brought about such energy as this. but the passage which angered him most was that which told him that he ought to have taken his family back to town. this had come from his son, who had refused to do anything to help him in his difficulties. chapter xxvi. mrs. hurtle. paul montague at this time lived in comfortable lodgings in sackville street, and ostensibly the world was going well with him. but he had many troubles. his troubles in reference to fisker, montague, and montague,--and also their consolation,--are already known to the reader. he was troubled too about his love, though when he allowed his mind to expatiate on the success of the great railway he would venture to hope that on that side his life might perhaps be blessed. henrietta had at any rate as yet showed no disposition to accept her cousin's offer. he was troubled too about the gambling, which he disliked, knowing that in that direction there might be speedy ruin, and yet returning to it from day to day in spite of his own conscience. but there was yet another trouble which culminated just at this time. one morning, not long after that sunday night which had been so wretchedly spent at the beargarden, he got into a cab in piccadilly and had himself taken to a certain address in islington. here he knocked at a decent, modest door,--at such a house as men live in with two or three hundred a year,--and asked for mrs. hurtle. yes;--mrs. hurtle lodged there, and he was shown into the drawing-room. there he stood by the round table for a quarter of an hour turning over the lodging-house books which lay there, and then mrs. hurtle entered the room. mrs. hurtle was a widow whom he had once promised to marry. "paul," she said, with a quick, sharp voice, but with a voice which could be very pleasant when she pleased,--taking him by the hand as she spoke, "paul, say that that letter of yours must go for nothing. say that it shall be so, and i will forgive everything." "i cannot say that," he replied, laying his hand in hers. "you cannot say it! what do you mean? will you dare to tell me that your promises to me are to go for nothing?" "things are changed," said paul hoarsely. he had come thither at her bidding because he had felt that to remain away would be cowardly, but the meeting was inexpressibly painful to him. he did think that he had sufficient excuse for breaking his troth to this woman, but the justification of his conduct was founded on reasons which he hardly knew how to plead to her. he had heard that of her past life which, had he heard it before, would have saved him from his present difficulty. but he had loved her,--did love her in a certain fashion; and her offences, such as they were, did not debar her from his sympathies. "how are they changed? i am two years older, if you mean that." as she said this she looked round at the glass, as though to see whether she was become so haggard with age as to be unfit to become this man's wife. she was very lovely, with a kind of beauty which we seldom see now. in these days men regard the form and outward lines of a woman's face and figure more than either the colour or the expression, and women fit themselves to men's eyes. with padding and false hair without limit a figure may be constructed of almost any dimensions. the sculptors who construct them, male and female, hairdressers and milliners, are very skilful, and figures are constructed of noble dimensions, sometimes with voluptuous expansion, sometimes with classic reticence, sometimes with dishevelled negligence which becomes very dishevelled indeed when long out of the sculptors' hands. colours indeed are added, but not the colours which we used to love. the taste for flesh and blood has for the day given place to an appetite for horsehair and pearl powder. but mrs. hurtle was not a beauty after the present fashion. she was very dark,--a dark brunette,--with large round blue eyes, that could indeed be soft, but could also be very severe. her silken hair, almost black, hung in a thousand curls all round her head and neck. her cheeks and lips and neck were full, and the blood would come and go, giving a varying expression to her face with almost every word she spoke. her nose also was full, and had something of the pug. but nevertheless it was a nose which any man who loved her would swear to be perfect. her mouth was large, and she rarely showed her teeth. her chin was full, marked by a large dimple, and as it ran down to her neck was beginning to form a second. her bust was full and beautifully shaped; but she invariably dressed as though she were oblivious, or at any rate neglectful, of her own charms. her dress, as montague had seen her, was always black,--not a sad weeping widow's garment, but silk or woollen or cotton as the case might be, always new, always nice, always well-fitting, and most especially always simple. she was certainly a most beautiful woman, and she knew it. she looked as though she knew it,--but only after that fashion in which a woman ought to know it. of her age she had never spoken to montague. she was in truth over thirty,--perhaps almost as near thirty-five as thirty. but she was one of those whom years hardly seem to touch. "you are beautiful as ever you were," he said. "psha! do not tell me of that. i care nothing for my beauty unless it can bind me to your love. sit down there and tell me what it means." then she let go his hand, and seated herself opposite to the chair which she gave him. "i told you in my letter." "you told me nothing in your letter,--except that it was to be--off. why is it to be--off? do you not love me?" then she threw herself upon her knees, and leaned upon his, and looked up in his face. "paul," she said, "i have come again across the atlantic on purpose to see you,--after so many months,--and will you not give me one kiss? even though you should leave me for ever, give me one kiss." of course he kissed her, not once, but with a long, warm embrace. how could it have been otherwise? with all his heart he wished that she would have remained away, but while she knelt there at his feet what could he do but embrace her? "now tell me everything," she said, seating herself on a footstool at his feet. [illustration: "i have come across the atlantic to see you."] she certainly did not look like a woman whom a man might ill treat or scorn with impunity. paul felt, even while she was lavishing her caresses upon him, that she might too probably turn and rend him before he left her. he had known something of her temper before, though he had also known the truth and warmth of her love. he had travelled with her from san francisco to england, and she had been very good to him in illness, in distress of mind and in poverty,--for he had been almost penniless in new york. when they landed at liverpool they were engaged as man and wife. he had told her all his affairs, had given her the whole history of his life. this was before his second journey to america, when hamilton k. fisker was unknown to him. but she had told him little or nothing of her own life,--but that she was a widow, and that she was travelling to paris on business. when he left her at the london railway station, from which she started for dover, he was full of all a lover's ardour. he had offered to go with her, but that she had declined. but when he remembered that he must certainly tell his friend roger of his engagement, and remembered also how little he knew of the lady to whom he was engaged, he became embarrassed. what were her means he did not know. he did know that she was some years older than himself, and that she had spoken hardly a word to him of her own family. she had indeed said that her husband had been one of the greatest miscreants ever created, and had spoken of her release from him as the one blessing she had known before she had met paul montague. but it was only when he thought of all this after she had left him,--only when he reflected how bald was the story which he must tell roger carbury,--that he became dismayed. such had been the woman's cleverness, such her charm, so great her power of adaptation, that he had passed weeks in her daily company, with still progressing intimacy and affection, without feeling that anything had been missing. he had told his friend, and his friend had declared to him that it was impossible that he should marry a woman whom he had met in a railway train without knowing something about her. roger did all he could to persuade the lover to forget his love,--and partially succeeded. it is so pleasant and so natural that a young man should enjoy the company of a clever, beautiful woman on a long journey,--so natural that during the journey he should allow himself to think that she may during her whole life be all in all to him as she is at that moment;--and so natural again that he should see his mistake when he has parted from her! but montague, though he was half false to his widow, was half true to her. he had pledged his word, and that he said ought to bind him. then he returned to california, and learned through the instrumentality of hamilton k. fisker, that in san francisco mrs. hurtle was regarded as a mystery. some people did not quite believe that there ever had been a mr. hurtle. others said that there certainly had been a mr. hurtle, and that to the best of their belief he still existed. the fact, however, best known of her was, that she had shot a man through the head somewhere in oregon. she had not been tried for it, as the world of oregon had considered that the circumstances justified the deed. everybody knew that she was very clever and very beautiful,--but everybody also thought that she was very dangerous. "she always had money when she was here," hamilton fisker said, "but no one knew where it came from." then he wanted to know why paul inquired. "i don't think, you know, that i should like to go in for a life partnership, if you mean that," said hamilton k. fisker. montague had seen her in new york as he passed through on his second journey to san francisco, and had then renewed his promises in spite of his cousin's caution. he told her that he was going to see what he could make of his broken fortunes,--for at this time, as the reader will remember, there was no great railway in existence,--and she had promised to follow him. since that they had never met till this day. she had not made the promised journey to san francisco, at any rate before he had left it. letters from her had reached him in england, and these he had answered by explaining to her, or endeavouring to explain, that their engagement must be at an end. and now she had followed him to london! "tell me everything," she said, leaning upon him and looking up into his face. "but you,--when did you arrive here?" "here, at this house, i arrived the night before last. on tuesday i reached liverpool. there i found that you were probably in london, and so i came on. i have come only to see you. i can understand that you should have been estranged from me. that journey home is now so long ago! our meeting in new york was so short and wretched. i would not tell you because you then were poor yourself, but at that moment i was penniless. i have got my own now out from the very teeth of robbers." as she said this, she looked as though she could be very persistent in claiming her own,--or what she might think to be her own. "i could not get across to san francisco as i said i would, and when i was there you had quarrelled with your uncle and returned. and now i am here. i at any rate have been faithful." as she said this his arm was again thrown over her, so as to press her head to his knee. "and now," she said, "tell me about yourself?" his position was embarrassing and very odious to himself. had he done his duty properly, he would gently have pushed her from him, have sprung to his legs, and have declared that, however faulty might have been his previous conduct, he now found himself bound to make her understand that he did not intend to become her husband. but he was either too much of a man or too little of a man for conduct such as that. he did make the avowal to himself, even at that moment as she sat there. let the matter go as it would, she should never be his wife. he would marry no one unless it was hetta carbury. but he did not at all know how to get this said with proper emphasis, and yet with properly apologetic courtesy. "i am engaged here about this railway," he said. "you have heard, i suppose, of our projected scheme?" "heard of it! san francisco is full of it. hamilton fisker is the great man of the day there, and, when i left, your uncle was buying a villa for seventy-four thousand dollars. and yet they say that the best of it all has been transferred to you londoners. many there are very hard upon fisker for coming here and doing as he did." "it's doing very well, i believe," said paul, with some feeling of shame, as he thought how very little he knew about it. "you are the manager here in england?" "no,--i am a member of the firm that manages it at san francisco; but the real manager here is our chairman, mr. melmotte." "ah,--i have heard of him. he is a great man;--a frenchman, is he not? there was a talk of inviting him to california. you know him of course?" "yes;--i know him. i see him once a week." "i would sooner see that man than your queen, or any of your dukes or lords. they tell me that he holds the world of commerce in his right hand. what power;--what grandeur!" "grand enough," said paul, "if it all came honestly." "such a man rises above honesty," said mrs. hurtle, "as a great general rises above humanity when he sacrifices an army to conquer a nation. such greatness is incompatible with small scruples. a pigmy man is stopped by a little ditch, but a giant stalks over the rivers." "i prefer to be stopped by the ditches," said montague. "ah, paul, you were not born for commerce. and i will grant you this, that commerce is not noble unless it rises to great heights. to live in plenty by sticking to your counter from nine in the morning to nine at night, is not a fine life. but this man with a scratch of his pen can send out or call in millions of dollars. do they say here that he is not honest?" "as he is my partner in this affair perhaps i had better say nothing against him." "of course such a man will be abused. people have said that napoleon was a coward, and washington a traitor. you must take me where i shall see melmotte. he is a man whose hand i would kiss; but i would not condescend to speak even a word of reverence to any of your emperors." "i fear you will find that your idol has feet of clay." "ah,--you mean that he is bold in breaking those precepts of yours about coveting worldly wealth. all men and women break that commandment, but they do so in a stealthy fashion, half drawing back the grasping hand, praying to be delivered from temptation while they filch only a little, pretending to despise the only thing that is dear to them in the world. here is a man who boldly says that he recognises no such law; that wealth is power, and that power is good, and that the more a man has of wealth the greater and the stronger and the nobler he can be. i love a man who can turn the hobgoblins inside out and burn the wooden bogies that he meets." montague had formed his own opinions about melmotte. though connected with the man, he believed their grand director to be as vile a scoundrel as ever lived. mrs. hurtle's enthusiasm was very pretty, and there was something of feminine eloquence in her words. but it was shocking to see them lavished on such a subject. "personally, i do not like him," said paul. "i had thought to find that you and he were hand and glove." "oh no." "but you are prospering in this business?" "yes,--i suppose we are prospering. it is one of those hazardous things in which a man can never tell whether he be really prosperous till he is out of it. i fell into it altogether against my will. i had no alternative." "it seems to me to have been a golden chance." "as far as immediate results go it has been golden." "that at any rate is well, paul. and now,--now that we have got back into our old way of talking, tell me what all this means. i have talked to no one after this fashion since we parted. why should our engagement be over? you used to love me, did you not?" he would willingly have left her question unanswered, but she waited for an answer. "you know i did," he said. "i thought so. this i know, that you were sure and are sure of my love to you. is it not so? come, speak openly like a man. do you doubt me?" he did not doubt her, and was forced to say so. "no, indeed." "oh, with what bated, half-mouthed words you speak,--fit for a girl from a nursery! out with it if you have anything to say against me! you owe me so much at any rate. i have never ill-treated you. i have never lied to you. i have taken nothing from you,--if i have not taken your heart. i have given you all that i have to give." then she leaped to her feet and stood a little apart from him. "if you hate me, say so." "winifrid," he said, calling her by her name. "winifrid! yes, now for the first time, though i have called you paul from the moment you entered the room. well, speak out. is there another woman that you love?" at this moment paul montague proved that at any rate he was no coward. knowing the nature of the woman, how ardent, how impetuous she could be, and how full of wrath, he had come at her call intending to tell her the truth which he now spoke. "there is another," he said. she stood silent, looking into his face, thinking how she would commence her attack upon him. she fixed her eyes upon him, standing quite upright, squeezing her own right hand with the fingers of the left. "oh," she said, in a whisper;--"that is the reason why i am told that i am to be--off." "that was not the reason." "what;--can there be more reason than that,--better reason than that? unless, indeed, it be that as you have learned to love another so also you have learned to--hate me." "listen to me, winifrid." "no, sir; no winifrid now! how did you dare to kiss me, knowing that it was on your tongue to tell me i was to be cast aside? and so you love--some other woman! i am too old to please you, too rough,--too little like the dolls of your own country! what were your--other reasons? let me hear your--other reasons, that i may tell you that they are lies." the reasons were very difficult to tell, though when put forward by roger carbury they had been easily pleaded. paul knew but little about winifrid hurtle, and nothing at all about the late mr. hurtle. his reasons curtly put forward might have been so stated. "we know too little of each other," he said. "what more do you want to know? you can know all for the asking. did i ever refuse to answer you? as to my knowledge of you and your affairs, if i think it sufficient, need you complain? what is it that you want to know? ask anything and i will tell you. is it about my money? you knew when you gave me your word that i had next to none. now i have ample means of my own. you knew that i was a widow. what more? if you wish to hear of the wretch that was my husband, i will deluge you with stories. i should have thought that a man who loved would not have cared to hear much of one--who perhaps was loved once." he knew that his position was perfectly indefensible. it would have been better for him not to have alluded to any reasons, but to have remained firm to his assertion that he loved another woman. he must have acknowledged himself to be false, perjured, inconstant, and very base. a fault that may be venial to those who do not suffer, is damnable, deserving of an eternity of tortures, in the eyes of the sufferer. he must have submitted to be told that he was a fiend, and might have had to endure whatever of punishment a lady in her wrath could inflict upon him. but he would have been called upon for no further mental effort. his position would have been plain. but now he was all at sea. "i wish to hear nothing," he said. "then why tell me that we know so little of each other? that, surely, is a poor excuse to make to a woman,--after you have been false to her. why did you not say that when we were in new york together? think of it, paul. is not that mean?" "i do not think that i am mean." "no;--a man will lie to a woman, and justify it always. who is--this lady?" he knew that he could not at any rate be warranted in mentioning hetta carbury's name. he had never even asked her for her love, and certainly had received no assurance that he was loved. "i can not name her." "and i, who have come hither from california to see you, am to return satisfied because you tell me that you have--changed your affections? that is to be all, and you think that fair? that suits your own mind, and leaves no sore spot in your heart? you can do that, and shake hands with me, and go away,--without a pang, without a scruple?" "i did not say so." "and you are the man who cannot bear to hear me praise augustus melmotte because you think him dishonest! are you a liar?" "i hope not." "did you say you would be my husband? answer me, sir." "i did say so." "do you now refuse to keep your promise? you shall answer me." "i cannot marry you." "then, sir, are you not a liar?" it would have taken him long to explain to her, even had he been able, that a man may break a promise and yet not tell a lie. he had made up his mind to break his engagement before he had seen hetta carbury, and therefore he could not accuse himself of falseness on her account. he had been brought to his resolution by the rumours he had heard of her past life, and as to his uncertainty about her husband. if mr. hurtle were alive, certainly then he would not be a liar because he did not marry mrs. hurtle. he did not think himself to be a liar, but he was not at once ready with his defence. "oh, paul," she said, changing at once into softness,--"i am pleading to you for my life. oh, that i could make you feel that i am pleading for my life. have you given a promise to this lady also?" "no," said he. "i have given no promise." "but she loves you?" "she has never said so." "you have told her of your love?" "never." "there is nothing, then, between you? and you would put her against me,--some woman who has nothing to suffer, no cause of complaint, who, for aught you know, cares nothing for you. is that so?" "i suppose it is," said paul. "then you may still be mine. oh, paul, come back to me. will any woman love you as i do;--live for you as i do? think what i have done in coming here, where i have no friend,--not a single friend,--unless you are a friend. listen to me. i have told the woman here that i am engaged to marry you." "you have told the woman of the house?" "certainly i have. was i not justified? were you not engaged to me? am i to have you to visit me here, and to risk her insults, perhaps to be told to take myself off and to find accommodation elsewhere, because i am too mealy-mouthed to tell the truth as to the cause of my being here? i am here because you have promised to make me your wife, and, as far as i am concerned, i am not ashamed to have the fact advertised in every newspaper in the town. i told her that i was the promised wife of one paul montague, who was joined with mr. melmotte in managing the new great american railway, and that mr. paul montague would be with me this morning. she was too far-seeing to doubt me, but had she doubted, i could have shown her your letters. now go and tell her that what i have said is false,--if you dare." the woman was not there, and it did not seem to be his immediate duty to leave the room in order that he might denounce a lady whom he certainly had ill-used. the position was one which required thought. after a while he took up his hat to go. "do you mean to tell her that my statement is untrue?" "no,--" he said; "not to-day." "and you will come back to me?" "yes;--i will come back." "i have no friend here, but you, paul. remember that. remember all your promises. remember all our love,--and be good to me." then she let him go without another word. chapter xxvii. mrs. hurtle goes to the play. on the day after the visit just recorded, paul montague received the following letter from mrs. hurtle:-- my dear paul,-- i think that perhaps we hardly made ourselves understood to each other yesterday, and i am sure that you do not understand how absolutely my whole life is now at stake. i need only refer you to our journey from san francisco to london to make you conscious that i really love you. to a woman such love is all important. she cannot throw it from her as a man may do amidst the affairs of the world. nor, if it has to be thrown from her, can she bear the loss as a man bears it. her thoughts have dwelt on it with more constancy than his;--and then too her devotion has separated her from other things. my devotion to you has separated me from everything. but i scorn to come to you as a suppliant. if you choose to say after hearing me that you will put me away from you because you have seen some one fairer than i am, whatever course i may take in my indignation, i shall not throw myself at your feet to tell you of my wrongs. i wish, however, that you should hear me. you say that there is some one you love better than you love me, but that you have not committed yourself to her. alas, i know too much of the world to be surprised that a man's constancy should not stand out two years in the absence of his mistress. a man cannot wrap himself up and keep himself warm with an absent love as a woman does. but i think that some remembrance of the past must come back upon you now that you have seen me again. i think that you must have owned to yourself that you did love me, and that you could love me again. you sin against me to my utter destruction if you leave me. i have given up every friend i have to follow you. as regards the other--nameless lady, there can be no fault; for, as you tell me, she knows nothing of your passion. you hinted that there were other reasons,--that we know too little of each other. you meant no doubt that you knew too little of me. is it not the case that you were content when you knew only what was to be learned in those days of our sweet intimacy, but that you have been made discontented by stories told you by your partners at san francisco? if this be so, trouble yourself at any rate to find out the truth before you allow yourself to treat a woman as you propose to treat me. i think you are too good a man to cast aside a woman you have loved,--like a soiled glove,--because ill-natured words have been spoken of her by men, or perhaps by women, who know nothing of her life. my late husband, caradoc hurtle, was attorney-general in the state of kansas when i married him, i being then in possession of a considerable fortune left to me by my mother. there his life was infamously bad. he spent what money he could get of mine, and then left me and the state, and took himself to texas;--where he drank himself to death. i did not follow him, and in his absence i was divorced from him in accordance with the laws of kansas state. i then went to san francisco about property of my mother's, which my husband had fraudulently sold to a countryman of ours now resident in paris,--having forged my name. there i met you, and in that short story i tell you all that there is to be told. it may be that you do not believe me now; but if so, are you not bound to go where you can verify your own doubts or my word? i try to write dispassionately, but i am in truth overborne by passion. i also have heard in california rumours about myself, and after much delay i received your letter. i resolved to follow you to england as soon as circumstances would permit me. i have been forced to fight a battle about my property, and i have won it. i had two reasons for carrying this through by my personal efforts before i saw you. i had begun it and had determined that i would not be beaten by fraud. and i was also determined that i would not plead to you as a pauper. we have talked too freely together in past days of our mutual money matters for me to feel any delicacy in alluding to them. when a man and woman have agreed to be husband and wife there should be no delicacy of that kind. when we came here together we were both embarrassed. we both had some property, but neither of us could enjoy it. since that i have made my way through my difficulties. from what i have heard at san francisco i suppose that you have done the same. i at any rate shall be perfectly contented if from this time our affairs can be made one. and now about myself,--immediately. i have come here all alone. since i last saw you in new york i have not had altogether a good time. i have had a great struggle and have been thrown on my own resources and have been all alone. very cruel things have been said of me. you heard cruel things said, but i presume them to have been said to you with reference to my late husband. since that they have been said to others with reference to you. i have not now come, as my countrymen do generally, backed with a trunk full of introductions and with scores of friends ready to receive me. it was necessary to me that i should see you and hear my fate,--and here i am. i appeal to you to release me in some degree from the misery of my solitude. you know,--no one so well,--that my nature is social and that i am not given to be melancholy. let us be cheerful together, as we once were, if it be only for a day. let me see you as i used to see you, and let me be seen as i used to be seen. come to me and take me out with you, and let us dine together, and take me to one of your theatres. if you wish it i will promise you not to allude to that revelation you made to me just now, though of course it is nearer to my heart than any other matter. perhaps some woman's vanity makes me think that if you would only see me again, and talk to me as you used to talk, you would think of me as you used to think. you need not fear but you will find me at home. i have no whither to go,--and shall hardly stir from the house till you come to me. send me a line, however, that i may have my hat on if you are minded to do as i ask you. yours with all my heart, winifrid hurtle. this letter took her much time to write, though she was very careful so to write as to make it seem that it had flown easily from her pen. she copied it from the first draught, but she copied it rapidly, with one or two premeditated erasures, so that it should look to have been done hurriedly. there had been much art in it. she had at any rate suppressed any show of anger. in calling him to her she had so written as to make him feel that if he would come he need not fear the claws of an offended lioness:--and yet she was angry as a lioness who had lost her cub. she had almost ignored that other lady whose name she had not yet heard. she had spoken of her lover's entanglement with that other lady as a light thing which might easily be put aside. she had said much of her own wrongs, but had not said much of the wickedness of the wrong doer. invited as she had invited him, surely he could not but come to her! and then, in her reference to money, not descending to the details of dollars and cents, she had studied how to make him feel that he might marry her without imprudence. as she read it over to herself she thought that there was a tone through it of natural feminine uncautious eagerness. she put her letter up in an envelope, stuck a stamp on it and addressed it,--and then threw herself back in her chair to think of her position. he should marry her,--or there should be something done which should make the name of winifrid hurtle known to the world! she had no plan of revenge yet formed. she would not talk of revenge,--she told herself that she would not even think of revenge,--till she was quite sure that revenge would be necessary. but she did think of it, and could not keep her thoughts from it for a moment. could it be possible that she, with all her intellectual gifts as well as those of her outward person, should be thrown over by a man whom well as she loved him,--and she did love him with all her heart,--she regarded as greatly inferior to herself! he had promised to marry her; and he should marry her, or the world should hear the story of his perjury! paul montague felt that he was surrounded by difficulties as soon as he read the letter. that his heart was all the other way he was quite sure; but yet it did seem to him that there was no escape from his troubles open to him. there was not a single word in this woman's letter that he could contradict. he had loved her and had promised to make her his wife,--and had determined to break his word to her because he found that she was enveloped in dangerous mystery. he had so resolved before he had ever seen hetta carbury, having been made to believe by roger carbury that a marriage with an unknown american woman,--of whom he only did know that she was handsome and clever,--would be a step to ruin. the woman, as roger said, was an adventuress,--might never have had a husband,--might at this moment have two or three,--might be overwhelmed with debt,--might be anything bad, dangerous, and abominable. all that he had heard at san francisco had substantiated roger's views. "any scrape is better than that scrape," roger had said to him. paul had believed his mentor, and had believed with a double faith as soon as he had seen hetta carbury. but what should he do now? it was impossible, after what had passed between them, that he should leave mrs. hurtle at her lodgings at islington without any notice. it was clear enough to him that she would not consent to be so left. then her present proposal,--though it seemed to be absurd and almost comical in the tragical condition of their present circumstances,--had in it some immediate comfort. to take her out and give her a dinner, and then go with her to some theatre, would be easy and perhaps pleasant. it would be easier, and certainly much pleasanter, because she had pledged herself to abstain from talking of her grievances. then he remembered some happy evenings, delicious hours, which he had so passed with her, when they were first together at new york. there could be no better companion for such a festival. she could talk,--and she could listen as well as talk. and she could sit silent, conveying to her neighbour the sense of her feminine charms by her simple proximity. he had been very happy when so placed. had it been possible he would have escaped the danger now, but the reminiscence of past delights in some sort reconciled him to the performance of this perilous duty. but when the evening should be over, how would he part with her? when the pleasant hour should have passed away and he had brought her back to her door, what should he say to her then? he must make some arrangement as to a future meeting. he knew that he was in a great peril, and he did not know how he might best escape it. he could not now go to roger carbury for advice; for was not roger carbury his rival? it would be for his friend's interest that he should marry the widow. roger carbury, as he knew well, was too honest a man to allow himself to be guided in any advice he might give by such a feeling, but, still, on this matter, he could no longer tell everything to roger carbury. he could not say all that he would have to say without speaking of hetta;--and of his love for hetta he could not speak to his rival. he had no other friend in whom he could confide. there was no other human being he could trust, unless it was hetta herself. he thought for a moment that he would write a stern and true letter to the woman, telling her that as it was impossible that there should ever be marriage between them, he felt himself bound to abstain from her society. but then he remembered her solitude, her picture of herself in london without even an acquaintance except himself, and he convinced himself that it would be impossible that he should leave her without seeing her. so he wrote to her thus;-- dear winifrid, i will come for you to-morrow at half-past five. we will dine together at the thespian;--and then i will have a box at the haymarket. the thespian is a good sort of place, and lots of ladies dine there. you can dine in your bonnet. yours affectionately, p. m. some half-formed idea ran through his brain that p. m. was a safer signature than paul montague. then came a long train of thoughts as to the perils of the whole proceeding. she had told him that she had announced herself to the keeper of the lodging-house as engaged to him, and he had in a manner authorised the statement by declining to contradict it at once. and now, after that announcement, he was assenting to her proposal that they should go out and amuse themselves together. hitherto she had always seemed to him to be open, candid, and free from intrigue. he had known her to be impulsive, capricious, at times violent, but never deceitful. perhaps he was unable to read correctly the inner character of a woman whose experience of the world had been much wider than his own. his mind misgave him that it might be so; but still he thought that he knew that she was not treacherous. and yet did not her present acts justify him in thinking that she was carrying on a plot against him? the note, however, was sent, and he prepared for the evening of the play, leaving the dangers of the occasion to adjust themselves. he ordered the dinner and he took the box, and at the hour fixed he was again at her lodgings. the woman of the house with a smile showed him into mrs. hurtle's sitting-room, and he at once perceived that the smile was intended to welcome him as an accepted lover. it was a smile half of congratulation to the lover, half of congratulation to herself as a woman that another man had been caught by the leg and made fast. who does not know the smile? what man, who has been caught and made sure, has not felt a certain dissatisfaction at being so treated, understanding that the smile is intended to convey to him a sense of his own captivity? it has, however, generally mattered but little to us. if we have felt that something of ridicule was intended, because we have been regarded as cocks with their spurs cut away, then we also have a pride when we have declared to ourselves that upon the whole we have gained more than we have lost. but with paul montague at the present moment there was no satisfaction, no pride,--only a feeling of danger which every hour became deeper, and stronger, with less chance of escape. he was almost tempted at this moment to detain the woman, and tell her the truth,--and bear the immediate consequences. but there would be treason in doing so, and he would not, could not do it. he was left hardly a moment to think of this. almost before the woman had shut the door, mrs. hurtle came to him out of her bedroom, with her hat on her head. nothing could be more simple than her dress, and nothing prettier. it was now june, and the weather was warm, and the lady wore a light gauzy black dress,--there is a fabric which the milliners i think call grenadine,--coming close up round her throat. it was very pretty, and she was prettier even than her dress. and she had on a hat, black also, small and simple, but very pretty. there are times at which a man going to a theatre with a lady wishes her to be bright in her apparel,--almost gorgeous; in which he will hardly be contented unless her cloak be scarlet, and her dress white, and her gloves of some bright hue,--unless she wear roses or jewels in her hair. it is thus our girls go to the theatre now, when they go intending that all the world shall know who they are. but there are times again in which a man would prefer that his companion should be very quiet in her dress,--but still pretty; in which he would choose that she should dress herself for him only. all this mrs. hurtle had understood accurately; and paul montague, who understood nothing of it, was gratified. "you told me to have a hat, and here i am,--hat and all." she gave him her hand, and laughed, and looked pleasantly at him, as though there was no cause of unhappiness between them. the lodging-house woman saw them enter the cab, and muttered some little word as they went off. paul did not hear the word, but was sure that it bore some indistinct reference to his expected marriage. neither during the drive, nor at the dinner, nor during the performance at the theatre, did she say a word in allusion to her engagement. it was with them, as in former days it had been at new york. she whispered pleasant words to him, touching his arm now and again with her finger as she spoke, seeming ever better inclined to listen than to speak. now and again she referred, after some slightest fashion, to little circumstances that had occurred between them, to some joke, some hour of tedium, some moment of delight; but it was done as one man might do it to another,--if any man could have done it so pleasantly. there was a scent which he had once approved, and now she bore it on her handkerchief. there was a ring which he had once given her, and she wore it on the finger with which she touched his sleeve. with his own hands he had once adjusted her curls, and each curl was as he had placed it. she had a way of shaking her head, that was very pretty,--a way that might, one would think, have been dangerous at her age, as likely to betray those first grey hairs which will come to disturb the last days of youth. he had once told her in sport to be more careful. she now shook her head again, and, as he smiled, she told him that she could still dare to be careless. there are a thousand little silly softnesses which are pretty and endearing between acknowledged lovers, with which no woman would like to dispense, to which even men who are in love submit sometimes with delight; but which in other circumstances would be vulgar,--and to the woman distasteful. there are closenesses and sweet approaches, smiles and nods and pleasant winkings, whispers, innuendoes and hints, little mutual admirations and assurances that there are things known to those two happy ones of which the world beyond is altogether ignorant. much of this comes of nature, but something of it sometimes comes by art. of such art as there may be in it mrs. hurtle was a perfect master. no allusion was made to their engagement,--not an unpleasant word was spoken; but the art was practised with all its pleasant adjuncts. paul was flattered to the top of his bent; and, though the sword was hanging over his head, though he knew that the sword must fall,--must partly fall that very night,--still he enjoyed it. there are men who, of their natures, do not like women, even though they may have wives and legions of daughters, and be surrounded by things feminine in all the affairs of their lives. others again have their strongest affinities and sympathies with women, and are rarely altogether happy when removed from their influence. paul montague was of the latter sort. at this time he was thoroughly in love with hetta carbury, and was not in love with mrs. hurtle. he would have given much of his golden prospects in the american railway to have had mrs. hurtle reconveyed suddenly to san francisco. and yet he had a delight in her presence. "the acting isn't very good," he said when the piece was nearly over. "what does it signify? what we enjoy or what we suffer depends upon the humour. the acting is not first-rate, but i have listened and laughed and cried, because i have been happy." he was bound to tell her that he also had enjoyed the evening, and was bound to say it in no voice of hypocritical constraint. "it has been very jolly," he said. "and one has so little that is really jolly, as you call it. i wonder whether any girl ever did sit and cry like that because her lover talked to another woman. what i find fault with is that the writers and actors are so ignorant of men and women as we see them every day. it's all right that she should cry, but she shouldn't cry there." the position described was so nearly her own, that he could say nothing to this. she had so spoken on purpose,--fighting her own battle after her own fashion, knowing well that her words would confuse him. "a woman hides such tears. she may be found crying because she is unable to hide them;--but she does not willingly let the other woman see them. does she?" "i suppose not." "medea did not weep when she was introduced to creusa." "women are not all medeas," he replied. "there's a dash of the savage princess about most of them. i am quite ready if you like. i never want to see the curtain fall. and i have had no nosegay brought in a wheelbarrow to throw on to the stage. are you going to see me home?" "certainly." "you need not. i'm not a bit afraid of a london cab by myself." but of course he accompanied her to islington. he owed her at any rate as much as that. she continued to talk during the whole journey. what a wonderful place london was,--so immense, but so dirty! new york of course was not so big, but was, she thought, pleasanter. but paris was the gem of gems among towns. she did not like frenchmen, and she liked englishmen even better than americans; but she fancied that she could never like english women. "i do so hate all kinds of buckram. i like good conduct, and law, and religion too if it be not forced down one's throat; but i hate what your women call propriety. i suppose what we have been doing to-night is very improper; but i am quite sure that it has not been in the least wicked." "i don't think it has," said paul montague very tamely. it is a long way from the haymarket to islington, but at last the cab reached the lodging-house door. "yes, this is it," she said. "even about the houses there is an air of stiff-necked propriety which frightens me." she was getting out as she spoke, and he had already knocked at the door. "come in for one moment," she said as he paid the cabman. the woman the while was standing with the door in her hand. it was near midnight,--but, when people are engaged, hours do not matter. the woman of the house, who was respectability herself,--a nice kind widow, with five children, named pipkin,--understood that and smiled again as he followed the lady into the sitting-room. she had already taken off her hat and was flinging it on to the sofa as he entered. "shut the door for one moment," she said; and he shut it. then she threw herself into his arms, not kissing him but looking up into his face. "oh paul," she exclaimed, "my darling! oh paul, my love! i will not bear to be separated from you. no, no;--never. i swear it, and you may believe me. there is nothing i cannot do for love of you,--but to lose you." then she pushed him from her and looked away from him, clasping her hands together. "but paul, i mean to keep my pledge to you to-night. it was to be an island in our troubles, a little holiday in our hard school-time, and i will not destroy it at its close. you will see me again soon,--will you not?" he nodded assent, then took her in his arms and kissed her, and left her without a word. chapter xxviii. dolly longestaffe goes into the city. it has been told how the gambling at the beargarden went on one sunday night. on the following monday sir felix did not go to the club. he had watched miles grendall at play, and was sure that on more than one or two occasions the man had cheated. sir felix did not quite know what in such circumstances it would be best for him to do. reprobate as he was himself, this work of villainy was new to him and seemed to be very terrible. what steps ought he to take? he was quite sure of his facts, and yet he feared that nidderdale and grasslough and longestaffe would not believe him. he would have told montague, but montague had, he thought, hardly enough authority at the club to be of any use to him. on the tuesday again he did not go to the club. he felt severely the loss of the excitement to which he had been accustomed, but the thing was too important to him to be slurred over. he did not dare to sit down and play with the man who had cheated him without saying anything about it. on the wednesday afternoon life was becoming unbearable to him and he sauntered into the building at about five in the afternoon. there, as a matter of course, he found dolly longestaffe drinking sherry and bitters. "where the blessed angels have you been?" said dolly. dolly was at that moment alert with the sense of a duty performed. he had just called on his sister and written a sharp letter to his father, and felt himself to be almost a man of business. "i've had fish of my own to fry," said felix, who had passed the last two days in unendurable idleness. then he referred again to the money which dolly owed him, not making any complaint, not indeed asking for immediate payment, but explaining with an air of importance that if a commercial arrangement could be made, it might, at this moment, be very serviceable to him. "i'm particularly anxious to take up those shares," said felix. "of course you ought to have your money." "i don't say that at all, old fellow. i know very well that you're all right. you're not like that fellow, miles grendall." "well; no. poor miles has got nothing to bless himself with. i suppose i could get it, and so i ought to pay." "that's no excuse for grendall," said sir felix, shaking his head. "a chap can't pay if he hasn't got it, carbury. a chap ought to pay of course. i've had a letter from our lawyer within the last half hour--here it is." and dolly pulled a letter out of his pocket which he had opened and read indeed within the last hour, but which had been duly delivered at his lodgings early in the morning. "my governor wants to sell pickering, and melmotte wants to buy the place. my governor can't sell without me, and i've asked for half the plunder. i know what's what. my interest in the property is greater than his. it isn't much of a place, and they are talking of £ , , over and above the debt upon it. £ , would pay off what i owe on my own property, and make me very square. from what this fellow says i suppose they're going to give in to my terms." "by george, that'll be a grand thing for you, dolly." "oh yes. of course i want it. but i don't like the place going. i'm not much of a fellow, i know. i'm awfully lazy and can't get myself to go in for things as i ought to do; but i've a sort of feeling that i don't like the family property going to pieces. a fellow oughtn't to let his family property go to pieces." "you never lived at pickering." "no;--and i don't know that it is any good. it gives us per cent. on the money it's worth, while the governor is paying per cent., and i'm paying , for the money we've borrowed. i know more about it than you'd think. it ought to be sold, and now i suppose it will be sold. old melmotte knows all about it, and if you like i'll go with you to the city to-morrow and make it straight about what i owe you. he'll advance me £ , , and then you can get the shares. are you going to dine here?" sir felix said that he would dine at the club, but declared, with considerable mystery in his manner, that he could not stay and play whist afterwards. he acceded willingly to dolly's plan of visiting abchurch lane on the following day, but had some difficulty in inducing his friend to consent to fix on an hour early enough for city purposes. dolly suggested that they should meet at the club at p.m. sir felix had named noon, and promised to call at dolly's lodgings. they split the difference at last and agreed to start at two. they then dined together, miles grendall dining alone at the next table to them. dolly and grendall spoke to each other frequently, but in that conversation the young baronet would not join. nor did grendall ever address himself to sir felix. "is there anything up between you and miles?" said dolly, when they had adjourned to the smoking-room. "i can't bear him." "there never was any love between you two, i know. but you used to speak, and you've played with him all through." "played with him! i should think i have. though he did get such a haul last sunday he owes me more than you do now." "is that the reason you haven't played the last two nights?" sir felix paused a moment. "no;--that is not the reason. i'll tell you all about it in the cab to-morrow." then he left the club, declaring that he would go up to grosvenor square and see marie melmotte. he did go up to the square, and when he came to the house he would not go in. what was the good? he could do nothing further till he got old melmotte's consent, and in no way could he so probably do that as by showing that he had got money wherewith to buy shares in the railway. what he did with himself during the remainder of the evening the reader need not know, but on his return home at some comparatively early hour, he found this note from marie. wednesday afternoon. dearest felix, why don't we see you? mamma would say nothing if you came. papa is never in the drawing-room. miss longestaffe is here of course, and people always come in in the evening. we are just going to dine out at the duchess of stevenage's. papa, and mamma and i. mamma told me that lord nidderdale is to be there, but you need not be a bit afraid. i don't like lord nidderdale, and i will never take any one but the man i love. you know who that is. miss longestaffe is so angry because she can't go with us. what do you think of her telling me that she did not understand being left alone? we are to go afterwards to a musical party at lady gamut's. miss longestaffe is going with us, but she says that she hates music. she is such a set-up thing! i wonder why papa has her here. we don't go anywhere to-morrow evening, so pray come. and why haven't you written me something and sent it to didon? she won't betray us. and if she did, what matters? i mean to be true. if papa were to beat me into a mummy i would stick to you. he told me once to take lord nidderdale, and then he told me to refuse him. and now he wants me to take him again. but i won't. i'll take no one but my own darling. yours for ever and ever, marie. now that the young lady had begun to have an interest of her own in life, she was determined to make the most of it. all this was delightful to her, but to sir felix it was simply "a bother." sir felix was quite willing to marry the girl to-morrow,--on condition of course that the money was properly arranged; but he was not willing to go through much work in the way of love-making with marie melmotte. in such business he preferred ruby ruggles as a companion. on the following day felix was with his friend at the appointed time, and was only kept an hour waiting while dolly ate his breakfast and struggled into his coat and boots. on their way to the city felix told his dreadful story about miles grendall. "by george!" said dolly. "and you think you saw him do it!" "it's not thinking at all. i'm sure i saw him do it three times. i believe he always had an ace somewhere about him." dolly sat quite silent thinking of it. "what had i better do?" asked sir felix. "by george;--i don't know." "what should you do?" "nothing at all. i shouldn't believe my own eyes. or if i did, should take care not to look at him." "you wouldn't go on playing with him?" "yes i should. it'd be such a bore breaking up." "but dolly,--if you think of it!" "that's all very fine, my dear fellow, but i shouldn't think of it." "and you won't give me your advice." "well;--no; i think i'd rather not. i wish you hadn't told me. why did you pick me out to tell me? why didn't you tell nidderdale?" "he might have said, why didn't you tell longestaffe?" "no, he wouldn't. nobody would suppose that anybody would pick me out for this kind of thing. if i'd known that you were going to tell me such a story as this i wouldn't have come with you." "that's nonsense, dolly." "very well. i can't bear these kind of things. i feel all in a twitter already." "you mean to go on playing just the same?" "of course i do. if he won anything very heavy i should begin to think about it, i suppose. oh; this is abchurch lane, is it? now for the man of money." the man of money received them much more graciously than sir felix had expected. of course nothing was said about marie and no further allusion was made to the painful subject of the baronet's "property." both dolly and sir felix were astonished by the quick way in which the great financier understood their views and the readiness with which he undertook to comply with them. no disagreeable questions were asked as to the nature of the debt between the young men. dolly was called upon to sign a couple of documents, and sir felix to sign one,--and then they were assured that the thing was done. mr. adolphus longestaffe had paid sir felix carbury a thousand pounds, and sir felix carbury's commission had been accepted by mr. melmotte for the purchase of railway stock to that amount. sir felix attempted to say a word. he endeavoured to explain that his object in this commercial transaction was to make money immediately by reselling the shares,--and to go on continually making money by buying at a low price and selling at a high price. he no doubt did believe that, being a director, if he could once raise the means of beginning this game, he could go on with it for an unlimited period;--buy and sell, buy and sell;--so that he would have an almost regular income. this, as far as he could understand, was what paul montague was allowed to do,--simply because he had become a director with a little money. mr. melmotte was cordiality itself, but he could not be got to go into particulars. it was all right. "you will wish to sell again, of course;--of course. i'll watch the market for you." when the young men left the room all they knew, or thought that they knew, was, that dolly longestaffe had authorised melmotte to pay a thousand pounds on his behalf to sir felix, and that sir felix had instructed the same great man to buy shares with the amount. "but why didn't he give you the scrip?" said dolly on his way westwards. "i suppose it's all right with him," said sir felix. "oh yes;--it's all right. thousands of pounds to him are only like half-crowns to us fellows. i should say it's all right. all the same, he's the biggest rogue out, you know." sir felix already began to be unhappy about his thousand pounds. chapter xxix. miss melmotte's courage. lady carbury continued to ask frequent questions as to the prosecution of her son's suit, and sir felix began to think that he was persecuted. "i have spoken to her father," he said crossly. "and what did mr. melmotte say?" "say;--what should he say? he wanted to know what income i had got. after all he's an old screw." "did he forbid you to come there any more?" "now, mother, it's no use your cross-examining me. if you'll let me alone i'll do the best i can." "she has accepted you, herself?" "of course she has. i told you that at carbury." "then, felix, if i were you i'd run off with her. i would indeed. it's done every day, and nobody thinks any harm of it when you marry the girl. you could do it now because i know you've got money. from all i can hear she's just the sort of girl that would go with you." the son sat silent, listening to these maternal councils. he did believe that marie would go off with him, were he to propose the scheme to her. her own father had almost alluded to such a proceeding,--had certainly hinted that it was feasible,--but at the same time had very clearly stated that in such case the ardent lover would have to content himself with the lady alone. in any such event as that there would be no fortune. but then, might not that only be a threat? rich fathers generally do forgive their daughters, and a rich father with only one child would surely forgive her when she returned to him, as she would do in this instance, graced with a title. sir felix thought of all this as he sat there silent. his mother read his thoughts as she continued. "of course, felix, there must be some risk." "fancy what it would be to be thrown over at last!" he exclaimed. "i couldn't bear it. i think i should kill her." "oh no, felix; you wouldn't do that. but when i say there would be some risk i mean that there would be very little. there would be nothing in it that ought to make him really angry. he has nobody else to give his money to, and it would be much nicer to have his daughter, lady carbury, with him, than to be left all alone in the world." "i couldn't live with him, you know. i couldn't do it." "you needn't live with him, felix. of course she would visit her parents. when the money was once settled you need see as little of them as you pleased. pray do not allow trifles to interfere with you. if this should not succeed, what are you to do? we shall all starve unless something be done. if i were you, felix, i would take her away at once. they say she is of age." "i shouldn't know where to take her," said sir felix, almost stunned into thoughtfulness by the magnitude of the proposition made to him. "all that about scotland is done with now." "of course you would marry her at once." "i suppose so,--unless it were better to stay as we were, till the money was settled." "oh, no; no! everybody would be against you. if you take her off in a spirited sort of way and then marry her, everybody will be with you. that's what you want. the father and mother will be sure to come round, if--" "the mother is nothing." "he will come round if people speak up in your favour. i could get mr. alf and mr. broune to help. i'd try it, felix; indeed i would. ten thousand a year is not to be had every year." sir felix gave no assent to his mother's views. he felt no desire to relieve her anxiety by an assurance of activity in the matter. but the prospect was so grand that it had excited even him. he had money sufficient for carrying out the scheme, and if he delayed the matter now, it might well be that he would never again find himself so circumstanced. he thought that he would ask somebody whither he ought to take her, and what he ought to do with her;--and that he would then make the proposition to herself. miles grendall would be the man to tell him, because, with all his faults, miles did understand things. but he could not ask miles. he and nidderdale were good friends; but nidderdale wanted the girl for himself. grasslough would be sure to tell nidderdale. dolly would be altogether useless. he thought that, perhaps, herr vossner would be the man to help him. there would be no difficulty out of which herr vossner would not extricate "a fellow,"--if "the fellow" paid him. on thursday evening he went to grosvenor square, as desired by marie,--but unfortunately found melmotte in the drawing-room. lord nidderdale was there also, and his lordship's old father, the marquis of auld reekie, whom felix, when he entered the room, did not know. he was a fierce-looking, gouty old man, with watery eyes, and very stiff grey hair,--almost white. he was standing up supporting himself on two sticks when sir felix entered the room. there were also present madame melmotte, miss longestaffe, and marie. as felix had entered the hall one huge footman had said that the ladies were not at home; then there had been for a moment a whispering behind a door,--in which he afterwards conceived that madame didon had taken a part;--and upon that a second tall footman had contradicted the first and had ushered him up to the drawing-room. he felt considerably embarrassed, but shook hands with the ladies, bowed to melmotte, who seemed to take no notice of him, and nodded to lord nidderdale. he had not had time to place himself, when the marquis arranged things. "suppose we go down-stairs," said the marquis. "certainly, my lord," said melmotte. "i'll show your lordship the way." the marquis did not speak to his son, but poked at him with his stick, as though poking him out of the door. so instigated nidderdale followed the financier, and the gouty old marquis toddled after them. madame melmotte was beside herself with trepidation. "you should not have been made to come up at all," she said. "il faut que vous vous retirez." "i am very sorry," said sir felix, looking quite aghast. "i think that i had at any rate better retire," said miss longestaffe, raising herself to her full height and stalking out of the room. "qu'elle est méchante," said madame melmotte. "oh, she is so bad. sir felix, you had better go too. yes,--indeed." "no," said marie, running to him, and taking hold of his arm. "why should he go? i want papa to know." "il vous tuera," said madame melmotte. "my god, yes." "then he shall," said marie, clinging to her lover. "i will never marry lord nidderdale. if he were to cut me into bits i wouldn't do it. felix, you love me;--do you not?" "certainly," said sir felix, slipping his arm round her waist. "mamma," said marie, "i will never have any other man but him;--never, never, never. oh, felix, tell her that you love me." "you know that, don't you, ma'am?" sir felix was a little troubled in his mind as to what he should say, or what he should do. "oh, love! it is a beastliness," said madame melmotte. "sir felix, you had better go. yes, indeed. will you be so obliging?" "don't go," said marie. "no, mamma, he shan't go. what has he to be afraid of? i will walk down among them into papa's room, and say that i will never marry that man, and that this is my lover. felix, will you come?" sir felix did not quite like the proposition. there had been a savage ferocity in that marquis's eye, and there was habitually a heavy sternness about melmotte, which together made him resist the invitation. "i don't think i have a right to do that," he said, "because it is mr. melmotte's own house." "i wouldn't mind," said marie. "i told papa to-day that i wouldn't marry lord nidderdale." "was he angry with you?" "he laughed at me. he manages people till he thinks that everybody must do exactly what he tells them. he may kill me, but i will not do it. i have quite made up my mind. felix, if you will be true to me, nothing shall separate us. i will not be ashamed to tell everybody that i love you." madame melmotte had now thrown herself into a chair and was sighing. sir felix stood on the rug with his arm round marie's waist, listening to her protestations, but saying little in answer to them,--when, suddenly, a heavy step was heard ascending the stairs. "c'est lui," screamed madame melmotte, bustling up from her seat and hurrying out of the room by a side door. the two lovers were alone for one moment, during which marie lifted up her face, and sir felix kissed her lips. "now be brave," she said, escaping from his arm, "and i'll be brave." mr. melmotte looked round the room as he entered. "where are the others?" he asked. "mamma has gone away, and miss longestaffe went before mamma." "sir felix, it is well that i should tell you that my daughter is engaged to marry lord nidderdale." "sir felix, i am not engaged--to--marry lord nidderdale," said marie. "it's no good, papa. i won't do it. if you chop me to pieces, i won't do it." "she will marry lord nidderdale," continued mr. melmotte, addressing himself to sir felix. "as that is arranged, you will perhaps think it better to leave us. i shall be happy to renew my acquaintance with you as soon as the fact is recognised;--or happy to see you in the city at any time." "papa, he is my lover," said marie. "pooh!" "it is not pooh. he is. i will never have any other. i hate lord nidderdale; and as for that dreadful old man, i could not bear to look at him. sir felix is as good a gentleman as he is. if you loved me, papa, you would not want to make me unhappy all my life." her father walked up to her rapidly with his hand raised, and she clung only the closer to her lover's arm. at this moment sir felix did not know what he might best do, but he thoroughly wished himself out in the square. "jade!" said melmotte, "get to your room." [illustration: "get to your room."] "of course i will go to bed, if you tell me, papa." "i do tell you. how dare you take hold of him in that way before me! have you no idea of disgrace?" "i am not disgraced. it is not more disgraceful to love him than that other man. oh, papa, don't. you hurt me. i am going." he took her by the arm and dragged her to the door, and then thrust her out. "i am very sorry, mr. melmotte," said sir felix, "to have had a hand in causing this disturbance." "go away, and don't come back any more;--that's all. you can't both marry her. all you have got to understand is this. i'm not the man to give my daughter a single shilling if she marries against my consent. by the god that hears me, sir felix, she shall not have one shilling. but look you,--if you'll give this up, i shall be proud to co-operate with you in anything you may wish to have done in the city." after this sir felix left the room, went down the stairs, had the door opened for him, and was ushered into the square. but as he went through the hall a woman managed to shove a note into his hand,--which he read as soon as he found himself under a gas lamp. it was dated that morning, and had therefore no reference to the fray which had just taken place. it ran as follows:-- i hope you will come to-night. there is something i cannot tell you then, but you ought to know it. when we were in france papa thought it wise to settle a lot of money on me. i don't know how much, but i suppose it was enough to live on if other things went wrong. he never talked to me about it, but i know it was done. and it hasn't been undone, and can't be without my leave. he is very angry about you this morning, for i told him i would never give you up. he says he won't give me anything if i marry without his leave. but i am sure he cannot take it away. i tell you, because i think i ought to tell you everything. m. sir felix as he read this could not but think that he had become engaged to a very enterprising young lady. it was evident that she did not care to what extent she braved her father on behalf of her lover, and now she coolly proposed to rob him. but sir felix saw no reason why he should not take advantage of the money made over to the girl's name, if he could lay his hands on it. he did not know much of such transactions, but he knew more than marie melmotte, and could understand that a man in melmotte's position should want to secure a portion of his fortune against accidents, by settling it on his daughter. whether having so settled it, he could again resume it without the daughter's assent, sir felix did not know. marie, who had no doubt been regarded as an absolutely passive instrument when the thing was done, was now quite alive to the benefit which she might possibly derive from it. her proposition, put into plain english, amounted to this: "take me and marry me without my father's consent,--and then you and i together can rob my father of the money which, for his own purposes, he has settled upon me." he had looked upon the lady of his choice as a poor weak thing, without any special character of her own, who was made worthy of consideration only by the fact that she was a rich man's daughter; but now she began to loom before his eyes as something bigger than that. she had had a will of her own when the mother had none. she had not been afraid of her brutal father when he, sir felix, had trembled before him. she had offered to be beaten, and killed, and chopped to pieces on behalf of her lover. there could be no doubt about her running away if she were asked. it seemed to him that within the last month he had gained a great deal of experience, and that things which heretofore had been troublesome to him, or difficult, or perhaps impossible, were now coming easily within his reach. he had won two or three thousand pounds at cards, whereas invariable loss had been the result of the small play in which he had before indulged. he had been set to marry this heiress, having at first no great liking for the attempt, because of its difficulties and the small amount of hope which it offered him. the girl was already willing and anxious to jump into his arms. then he had detected a man cheating at cards,--an extent of iniquity that was awful to him before he had seen it,--and was already beginning to think that there was not very much in that. if there was not much in it, if such a man as miles grendall could cheat at cards and be brought to no punishment, why should not he try it? it was a rapid way of winning, no doubt. he remembered that on one or two occasions he had asked his adversary to cut the cards a second time at whist, because he had observed that there was no honour at the bottom. no feeling of honesty had interfered with him. the little trick had hardly been premeditated, but when successful without detection had not troubled his conscience. now it seemed to him that much more than that might be done without detection. but nothing had opened his eyes to the ways of the world so widely as the sweet little lover-like proposition made by miss melmotte for robbing her father. it certainly recommended the girl to him. she had been able at an early age, amidst the circumstances of a very secluded life, to throw off from her altogether those scruples of honesty, those bugbears of the world, which are apt to prevent great enterprises in the minds of men. what should he do next? this sum of money of which marie wrote so easily was probably large. it would not have been worth the while of such a man as mr. melmotte to make a trifling provision of this nature. it could hardly be less than £ , ,--might probably be very much more. but this was certain to him,--that if he and marie were to claim this money as man and wife, there could then be no hope of further liberality. it was not probable that such a man as mr. melmotte would forgive even an only child such an offence as that. even if it were obtained, £ , would not be very much. and melmotte might probably have means, even if the robbery were duly perpetrated, of making the possession of the money very uncomfortable. these were deep waters into which sir felix was preparing to plunge; and he did not feel himself to be altogether comfortable, although he liked the deep waters. chapter xxx. mr. melmotte's promise. on the following saturday there appeared in mr. alf's paper, the "evening pulpit," a very remarkable article on the south central pacific and mexican railway. it was an article that attracted a great deal of attention and was therefore remarkable, but it was in nothing more remarkable than in this,--that it left on the mind of its reader no impression of any decided opinion about the railway. the editor would at any future time be able to refer to his article with equal pride whether the railway should become a great cosmopolitan fact, or whether it should collapse amidst the foul struggles of a horde of swindlers. in utrumque paratus, the article was mysterious, suggestive, amusing, well-informed,--that in the "evening pulpit" was a matter of course,--and, above all things, ironical. next to its omniscience its irony was the strongest weapon belonging to the "evening pulpit." there was a little praise given, no doubt in irony, to the duchesses who served mr. melmotte. there was a little praise, given of course in irony, to mr. melmotte's board of english directors. there was a good deal of praise, but still alloyed by a dash of irony, bestowed on the idea of civilising mexico by joining it to california. praise was bestowed upon england for taking up the matter, but accompanied by some ironical touches at her incapacity to believe thoroughly in any enterprise not originated by herself. then there was something said of the universality of mr. melmotte's commercial genius, but whether said in a spirit prophetic of ultimate failure and disgrace, or of heavenborn success and unequalled commercial splendour, no one could tell. it was generally said at the clubs that mr. alf had written this article himself. old splinter, who was one of a body of men possessing an excellent cellar of wine and calling themselves paides pallados, and who had written for the heavy quarterlies any time this last forty years, professed that he saw through the article. the "evening pulpit" had been, he explained, desirous of going as far as it could in denouncing mr. melmotte without incurring the danger of an action for libel. mr. splinter thought that the thing was clever but mean. these new publications generally were mean. mr. splinter was constant in that opinion; but, putting the meanness aside, he thought that the article was well done. according to his view it was intended to expose mr. melmotte and the railway. but the paides pallados generally did not agree with him. under such an interpretation, what had been the meaning of that paragraph in which the writer had declared that the work of joining one ocean to another was worthy of the nearest approach to divinity that had been granted to men? old splinter chuckled and gabbled as he heard this, and declared that there was not wit enough left now even among the paides pallados to understand a shaft of irony. there could be no doubt, however, at the time, that the world did not go with old splinter, and that the article served to enhance the value of shares in the great railway enterprise. lady carbury was sure that the article was intended to write up the railway, and took great joy in it. she entertained in her brain a somewhat confused notion that if she could only bestir herself in the right direction and could induce her son to open his eyes to his own advantage, very great things might be achieved, so that wealth might become his handmaid and luxury the habit and the right of his life. he was the beloved and the accepted suitor of marie melmotte. he was a director of this great company, sitting at the same board with the great commercial hero. he was the handsomest young man in london. and he was a baronet. very wild ideas occurred to her. should she take mr. alf into her entire confidence? if melmotte and alf could be brought together what might they not do? alf could write up melmotte, and melmotte could shower shares upon alf. and if melmotte would come and be smiled upon by herself, be flattered as she thought that she could flatter him, be told that he was a god, and have that passage about the divinity of joining ocean to ocean construed to him as she could construe it, would not the great man become plastic under her hands? and if, while this was a-doing, felix would run away with marie, could not forgiveness be made easy? and her creative mind ranged still farther. mr. broune might help, and even mr. booker. to such a one as melmotte, a man doing great things through the force of the confidence placed in him by the world at large, the freely-spoken support of the press would be everything. who would not buy shares in a railway as to which mr. broune and mr. alf would combine in saying that it was managed by "divinity"? her thoughts were rather hazy, but from day to day she worked hard to make them clear to herself. on the sunday afternoon mr. booker called on her and talked to her about the article. she did not say much to mr. booker as to her own connection with mr. melmotte, telling herself that prudence was essential in the present emergency. but she listened with all her ears. it was mr. booker's idea that the man was going "to make a spoon or spoil a horn." "you think him honest;--don't you?" asked lady carbury. mr. booker smiled and hesitated. "of course, i mean honest as men can be in such very large transactions." "perhaps that is the best way of putting it," said mr. booker. "if a thing can be made great and beneficent, a boon to humanity, simply by creating a belief in it, does not a man become a benefactor to his race by creating that belief?" "at the expense of veracity?" suggested mr. booker. "at the expense of anything?" rejoined lady carbury with energy. "one cannot measure such men by the ordinary rule." "you would do evil to produce good?" asked mr. booker. "i do not call it doing evil. you have to destroy a thousand living creatures every time you drink a glass of water, but you do not think of that when you are athirst. you cannot send a ship to sea without endangering lives. you do send ships to sea though men perish yearly. you tell me this man may perhaps ruin hundreds, but then again he may create a new world in which millions will be rich and happy." "you are an excellent casuist, lady carbury." "i am an enthusiastic lover of beneficent audacity," said lady carbury, picking her words slowly, and showing herself to be quite satisfied with herself as she picked them. "did i hold your place, mr. booker, in the literature of my country,--" "i hold no place, lady carbury." "yes;--and a very distinguished place. were i circumstanced as you are i should have no hesitation in lending the whole weight of my periodical, let it be what it might, to the assistance of so great a man and so great an object as this." "i should be dismissed to-morrow," said mr. booker, getting up and laughing as he took his departure. lady carbury felt that, as regarded mr. booker, she had only thrown out a chance word that could not do any harm. she had not expected to effect much through mr. booker's instrumentality. on the tuesday evening,--her regular tuesday as she called it,--all her three editors came to her drawing-room; but there came also a greater man than either of them. she had taken the bull by the horns, and without saying anything to anybody had written to mr. melmotte himself, asking him to honour her poor house with his presence. she had written a very pretty note to him, reminding him of their meeting at caversham, telling him that on a former occasion madame melmotte and his daughter had been so kind as to come to her, and giving him to understand that of all the potentates now on earth he was the one to whom she could bow the knee with the purest satisfaction. he wrote back,--or miles grendall did for him,--a very plain note, accepting the honour of lady carbury's invitation. the great man came, and lady carbury took him under her immediate wing with a grace that was all her own. she said a word about their dear friends at caversham, expressed her sorrow that her son's engagements did not admit of his being there, and then with the utmost audacity rushed off to the article in the "pulpit." her friend, mr. alf, the editor, had thoroughly appreciated the greatness of mr. melmotte's character, and the magnificence of mr. melmotte's undertakings. mr. melmotte bowed and muttered something that was inaudible. "now i must introduce you to mr. alf," said the lady. the introduction was effected, and mr. alf explained that it was hardly necessary, as he had already been entertained as one of mr. melmotte's guests. "there were a great many there i never saw, and probably never shall see," said mr. melmotte. "i was one of the unfortunates," said mr. alf. "i'm sorry you were unfortunate. if you had come into the whist-room you would have found me." "ah,--if i had but known!" said mr. alf. the editor, as was proper, carried about with him samples of the irony which his paper used so effectively, but it was altogether thrown away upon melmotte. lady carbury finding that no immediate good results could be expected from this last introduction, tried another. "mr. melmotte," she said, whispering to him, "i do so want to make you known to mr. broune. mr. broune i know you have never met before. a morning paper is a much heavier burden to an editor than one published in the afternoon. mr. broune, as of course you know, manages the 'breakfast table.' there is hardly a more influential man in london than mr. broune. and they declare, you know," she said, lowering the tone of her whisper as she communicated the fact, "that his commercial articles are gospel,--absolutely gospel." then the two men were named to each other, and lady carbury retreated;--but not out of hearing. "getting very hot," said mr. melmotte. "very hot indeed," said mr. broune. "it was over in the city to-day. i call that very hot for june." "very hot indeed," said mr. broune again. then the conversation was over. mr. broune sidled away, and mr. melmotte was left standing in the middle of the room. lady carbury told herself at the moment that rome was not built in a day. she would have been better satisfied certainly if she could have laid a few more bricks on this day. perseverance, however, was the thing wanted. but mr. melmotte himself had a word to say, and before he left the house he said it. "it was very good of you to ask me, lady carbury;--very good." lady carbury intimated her opinion that the goodness was all on the other side. "and i came," continued mr. melmotte, "because i had something particular to say. otherwise i don't go out much to evening parties. your son has proposed to my daughter." lady carbury looked up into his face with all her eyes;--clasped both her hands together; and then, having unclasped them, put one upon his sleeve. "my daughter, ma'am, is engaged to another man." "you would not enslave her affections, mr. melmotte?" "i won't give her a shilling if she marries any one else; that's all. you reminded me down at caversham that your son is a director at our board." "i did;--i did." "i have a great respect for your son, ma'am. i don't want to hurt him in any way. if he'll signify to my daughter that he withdraws from this offer of his, because i'm against it, i'll see that he does uncommon well in the city. i'll be the making of him. good night, ma'am." then mr. melmotte took his departure without another word. here at any rate was an undertaking on the part of the great man that he would be the "making of felix," if felix would only obey him--accompanied, or rather preceded, by a most positive assurance that if felix were to succeed in marrying his daughter he would not give his son-in-law a shilling! there was very much to be considered in this. she did not doubt that felix might be "made" by mr. melmotte's city influences, but then any perpetuity of such making must depend on qualifications in her son which she feared that he did not possess. the wife without the money would be terrible! that would be absolute ruin! there could be no escape then; no hope. there was an appreciation of real tragedy in her heart while she contemplated the position of sir felix married to such a girl as she supposed marie melmotte to be, without any means of support for either of them but what she could supply. it would kill her. and for those young people there would be nothing before them, but beggary and the workhouse. as she thought of this she trembled with true maternal instincts. her beautiful boy,--so glorious with his outward gifts, so fit, as she thought him, for all the graces of the grand world! though the ambition was vilely ignoble, the mother's love was noble and disinterested. but the girl was an only child. the future honours of the house of melmotte could be made to settle on no other head. no doubt the father would prefer a lord for a son-in-law; and, having that preference, would of course do as he was now doing. that he should threaten to disinherit his daughter if she married contrary to his wishes was to be expected. but would it not be equally a matter of course that he should make the best of the marriage if it were once effected? his daughter would return to him with a title, though with one of a lower degree than his ambition desired. to herself personally, lady carbury felt that the great financier had been very rude. he had taken advantage of her invitation that he might come to her house and threaten her. but she would forgive that. she could pass that over altogether if only anything were to be gained by passing it over. she looked round the room, longing for a friend, whom she might consult with a true feeling of genuine womanly dependence. her most natural friend was roger carbury. but even had he been there she could not have consulted him on any matter touching the melmottes. his advice would have been very clear. he would have told her to have nothing at all to do with such adventurers. but then dear roger was old fashioned, and knew nothing of people as they are now. he lived in a world which, though slow, had been good in its way; but which, whether bad or good, had now passed away. then her eye settled on mr. broune. she was afraid of mr. alf. she had almost begun to think that mr. alf was too difficult of management to be of use to her. but mr. broune was softer. mr. booker was serviceable for an article, but would not be sympathetic as a friend. mr. broune had been very courteous to her lately;--so much so that on one occasion she had almost feared that the "susceptible old goose" was going to be a goose again. that would be a bore; but still she might make use of the friendly condition of mind which such susceptibility would produce. when her guests began to leave her, she spoke a word aside to him. she wanted his advice. would he stay for a few minutes after the rest of the company? he did stay, and when all the others were gone she asked her daughter to leave them. "hetta," she said, "i have something of business to communicate to mr. broune." and so they were left alone. "i'm afraid you didn't make much of mr. melmotte," she said smiling. he had seated himself on the end of a sofa, close to the arm-chair which she occupied. in reply, he only shook his head and laughed. "i saw how it was, and i was sorry for it; for he certainly is a wonderful man." "i suppose he is, but he is one of those men whose powers do not lie, i should say, chiefly in conversation. though, indeed, there is no reason why he should not say the same of me;--for if he said little, i said less." "it didn't just come off," lady carbury suggested with her sweetest smile. "but now i want to tell you something. i think i am justified in regarding you as a real friend." "certainly," he said, putting out his hand for hers. she gave it to him for a moment, and then took it back again,--finding that he did not relinquish it of his own accord. "stupid old goose!" she said to herself. "and now to my story. you know my boy, felix?" the editor nodded his head. "he is engaged to marry that man's daughter." "engaged to marry miss melmotte?" then lady carbury nodded her head. "why, she is said to be the greatest heiress that the world has ever produced. i thought she was to marry lord nidderdale." "she has engaged herself to felix. she is desperately in love with him,--as is he with her." she tried to tell her story truly, knowing that no advice can be worth anything that is not based on a true story;--but lying had become her nature. "melmotte naturally wants her to marry the lord. he came here to tell me that if his daughter married felix she should not have a penny." "do you mean that he volunteered that,--as a threat?" "just so;--and he told me that he had come here simply with the object of saying so. it was more candid than civil, but we must take it as we get it." "he would be sure to make some such threat." "exactly. that is just what i feel. and in these days young people are not often kept from marrying simply by a father's fantasy. but i must tell you something else. he told me that if felix would desist, he would enable him to make a fortune in the city." "that's bosh," said broune with decision. "do you think it must be so;--certainly?" "yes, i do. such an undertaking, if intended by melmotte, would give me a worse opinion of him than i have ever held." "he did make it." "then he did very wrong. he must have spoken with the purpose of deceiving." "you know my son is one of the directors of that great american railway. it was not just as though the promise were made to a young man who was altogether unconnected with him." "sir felix's name was put there, in a hurry, merely because he has a title, and because melmotte thought he, as a young man, would not be likely to interfere with him. it may be that he will be able to sell a few shares at a profit; but, if i understand the matter rightly, he has no capital to go into such a business." "no;--he has no capital." "dear lady carbury, i would place no dependence at all on such a promise as that." "you think he should marry the girl then in spite of the father?" mr. broune hesitated before he replied to this question. but it was to this question that lady carbury especially wished for a reply. she wanted some one to support her under the circumstances of an elopement. she rose from her chair, and he rose at the same time. "perhaps i should have begun by saying that felix is all but prepared to take her off. she is quite ready to go. she is devoted to him. do you think he would be wrong?" "that is a question very hard to answer." "people do it every day. lionel goldsheiner ran away the other day with lady julia start, and everybody visits them." "oh yes, people do run away, and it all comes right. it was the gentleman had the money then, and it is said you know that old lady catchboy, lady julia's mother, had arranged the elopement herself as offering the safest way of securing the rich prize. the young lord didn't like it, so the mother had it done in that fashion." "there would be nothing disgraceful." "i didn't say there would;--but nevertheless it is one of those things a man hardly ventures to advise. if you ask me whether i think that melmotte would forgive her, and make her an allowance afterwards,--i think he would." "i am so glad to hear you say that." "and i feel quite certain that no dependence whatever should be placed on that promise of assistance." "i quite agree with you. i am so much obliged to you," said lady carbury, who was now determined that felix should run off with the girl. "you have been so very kind." then again she gave him her hand, as though to bid him farewell for the night. "and now," he said, "i also have something to say to you." chapter xxxi. mr. broune has made up his mind. "and now i have something to say to you." mr. broune as he thus spoke to lady carbury rose up to his feet and then sat down again. there was an air of perturbation about him which was very manifest to the lady, and the cause and coming result of which she thought that she understood. "the susceptible old goose is going to do something highly ridiculous and very disagreeable." it was thus that she spoke to herself of the scene that she saw was prepared for her, but she did not foresee accurately the shape in which the susceptibility of the "old goose" would declare itself. "lady carbury," said mr. broune, standing up a second time, "we are neither of us so young as we used to be." "no, indeed;--and therefore it is that we can afford to ourselves the luxury of being friends. nothing but age enables men and women to know each other intimately." this speech was a great impediment to mr. broune's progress. it was evidently intended to imply that he at least had reached a time of life at which any allusion to love would be absurd. and yet, as a fact, he was nearer fifty than sixty, was young of his age, could walk his four or five miles pleasantly, could ride his cob in the park with as free an air as any man of forty, and could afterwards work through four or five hours of the night with an easy steadiness which nothing but sound health could produce. mr. broune, thinking of himself and his own circumstances, could see no reason why he should not be in love. "i hope we know each other intimately at any rate," he said somewhat lamely. "oh, yes;--and it is for that reason that i have come to you for advice. had i been a young woman i should not have dared to ask you." "i don't see that. i don't quite understand that. but it has nothing to do with my present purpose. when i said that we were neither of us so young as we once were, i uttered what was a stupid platitude,--a foolish truism." "i did not think so," said lady carbury smiling. "or would have been, only that i intended something further." mr. broune had got himself into a difficulty and hardly knew how to get out of it. "i was going on to say that i hoped we were not too old to--love." foolish old darling! what did he mean by making such an ass of himself? this was worse even than the kiss, as being more troublesome and less easily pushed on one side and forgotten. it may serve to explain the condition of lady carbury's mind at the time if it be stated that she did not even at this moment suppose that the editor of the "morning breakfast table" intended to make her an offer of marriage. she knew, or thought she knew, that middle-aged men are fond of prating about love, and getting up sensational scenes. the falseness of the thing, and the injury which may come of it, did not shock her at all. had she known that the editor professed to be in love with some lady in the next street, she would have been quite ready to enlist the lady in the next street among her friends that she might thus strengthen her own influence with mr. broune. for herself such make-belief of an improper passion would be inconvenient, and therefore to be avoided. but that any man, placed as mr. broune was in the world,--blessed with power, with a large income, with influence throughout all the world around him, courted, fêted, feared and almost worshipped,--that he should desire to share her fortunes, her misfortunes, her struggles, her poverty and her obscurity, was not within the scope of her imagination. there was a homage in it, of which she did not believe any man to be capable,--and which to her would be the more wonderful as being paid to herself. she thought so badly of men and women generally, and of mr. broune and herself as a man and a woman individually, that she was unable to conceive the possibility of such a sacrifice. "mr. broune," she said, "i did not think that you would take advantage of the confidence i have placed in you to annoy me in this way." "to annoy you, lady carbury! the phrase at any rate is singular. after much thought i have determined to ask you to be my wife. that i should be--annoyed, and more than annoyed by your refusal, is a matter of course. that i ought to expect such annoyance is perhaps too true. but you can extricate yourself from the dilemma only too easily." the word "wife" came upon her like a thunder-clap. it at once changed all her feelings towards him. she did not dream of loving him. she felt sure that she never could love him. had it been on the cards with her to love any man as a lover, it would have been some handsome spendthrift who would have hung from her neck like a nether millstone. this man was a friend to be used,--to be used because he knew the world. and now he gave her this clear testimony that he knew as little of the world as any other man. mr. broune of the "daily breakfast table" asking her to be his wife! but mixed with her other feelings there was a tenderness which brought back some memory of her distant youth, and almost made her weep. that a man,--such a man,--should offer to take half her burdens, and to confer upon her half his blessings! what an idiot! but what a god! she had looked upon the man as all intellect, alloyed perhaps by some passionless remnants of the vices of his youth; and now she found that he not only had a human heart in his bosom, but a heart that she could touch. how wonderfully sweet! how infinitely small! it was necessary that she should answer him--and to her it was only natural that she should at first think what answer would best assist her own views without reference to his. it did not occur to her that she could love him; but it did occur to her that he might lift her out of her difficulties. what a benefit it would be to her to have a father, and such a father, for felix! how easy would be a literary career to the wife of the editor of the "morning breakfast table!" and then it passed through her mind that somebody had told her that the man was paid £ , a year for his work. would not the world, or any part of it that was desirable, come to her drawing-room if she were the wife of mr. broune? it all passed through her brain at once during that minute of silence which she allowed herself after the declaration was made to her. but other ideas and other feelings were present to her also. perhaps the truest aspiration of her heart had been the love of freedom which the tyranny of her late husband had engendered. once she had fled from that tyranny and had been almost crushed by the censure to which she had been subjected. then her husband's protection and his tyranny had been restored to her. after that the freedom had come. it had been accompanied by many hopes never as yet fulfilled, and embittered by many sorrows which had been always present to her; but still the hopes were alive and the remembrance of the tyranny was very clear to her. at last the minute was over and she was bound to speak. "mr. broune," she said, "you have quite taken away my breath. i never expected anything of this kind." and now mr. broune's mouth was opened, and his voice was free. "lady carbury," he said, "i have lived a long time without marrying, and i have sometimes thought that it would be better for me to go on in the same way to the end. i have worked so hard all my life that when i was young i had no time to think of love. and, as i have gone on, my mind has been so fully employed, that i have hardly realised the want which nevertheless i have felt. and so it has been with me till i fancied, not that i was too old for love, but that others would think me so. then i met you. as i said at first, perhaps with scant gallantry, you also are not as young as you once were. but you keep the beauty of your youth, and the energy, and something of the freshness of a young heart. and i have come to love you. i speak with absolute frankness, risking your anger. i have doubted much before i resolved upon this. it is so hard to know the nature of another person. but i think i understand yours;--and if you can confide your happiness with me, i am prepared to intrust mine to your keeping." poor mr. broune! though endowed with gifts peculiarly adapted for the editing of a daily newspaper, he could have had but little capacity for reading a woman's character when he talked of the freshness of lady carbury's young mind! and he must have surely been much blinded by love, before convincing himself that he could trust his happiness to such keeping. "you do me infinite honour. you pay me a great compliment," ejaculated lady carbury. "well?" "how am i to answer you at a moment? i expected nothing of this. as god is to be my judge it has come upon me like a dream. i look upon your position as almost the highest in england,--on your prosperity as the uttermost that can be achieved." "that prosperity, such as it is, i desire most anxiously to share with you." "you tell me so;--but i can hardly yet believe it. and then how am i to know my own feelings so suddenly? marriage as i have found it, mr. broune, has not been happy. i have suffered much. i have been wounded in every joint, hurt in every nerve,--tortured till i could hardly endure my punishment. at last i got my liberty, and to that i have looked for happiness." "has it made you happy?" "it has made me less wretched. and there is so much to be considered! i have a son and a daughter, mr. broune." "your daughter i can love as my own. i think i prove my devotion to you when i say that i am willing for your sake to encounter the troubles which may attend your son's future career." "mr. broune, i love him better,--always shall love him better,--than anything in the world." this was calculated to damp the lover's ardour, but he probably reflected that should he now be successful, time might probably change the feeling which had just been expressed. "mr. broune," she said, "i am now so agitated that you had better leave me. and it is very late. the servant is sitting up, and will wonder that you should remain. it is near two o'clock." "when may i hope for an answer?" "you shall not be kept waiting. i will write to you, almost at once. i will write to you,--to-morrow; say the day after to-morrow, on thursday. i feel that i ought to have been prepared with an answer; but i am so surprised that i have none ready." he took her hand in his, and kissing it, left her without another word. as he was about to open the front door to let himself out, a key from the other side raised the latch, and sir felix, returning from his club, entered his mother's house. the young man looked up into mr. broune's face with mingled impudence and surprise. "halloo, old fellow," he said, "you've been keeping it up late here; haven't you?" he was nearly drunk, and mr. broune, perceiving his condition, passed him without a word. lady carbury was still standing in the drawing-room, struck with amazement at the scene which had just passed, full of doubt as to her future conduct, when she heard her son stumbling up the stairs. it was impossible for her not to go out to him. "felix," she said, "why do you make so much noise as you come in?" "noish! i'm not making any noish. i think i'm very early. your people's only just gone. i shaw shat editor fellow at the door that won't call himself brown. he'sh great ass'h, that fellow. all right, mother. oh, ye'sh i'm all right." and so he stumbled up to bed, and his mother followed him to see that the candle was at any rate placed squarely on the table, beyond the reach of the bed curtains. mr. broune as he walked to his newspaper office experienced all those pangs of doubts which a man feels when he has just done that which for days and weeks past he has almost resolved that he had better leave undone. that last apparition which he had encountered at his lady love's door certainly had not tended to reassure him. what curse can be much greater than that inflicted by a drunken, reprobate son? the evil, when in the course of things it comes upon a man, has to be borne; but why should a man in middle life unnecessarily afflict himself with so terrible a misfortune? the woman, too, was devoted to the cub! then thousands of other thoughts crowded upon him. how would this new life suit him? he must have a new house, and new ways; must live under a new dominion, and fit himself to new pleasures. and what was he to gain by it? lady carbury was a handsome woman, and he liked her beauty. he regarded her too as a clever woman; and, because she had flattered him, he had liked her conversation. he had been long enough about town to have known better,--and as he now walked along the streets, he almost felt that he ought to have known better. every now and again he warmed himself a little with the remembrance of her beauty, and told himself that his new home would be pleasanter, though it might perhaps be less free, than the old one. he tried to make the best of it; but as he did so was always repressed by the memory of the appearance of that drunken young baronet. whether for good or for evil, the step had been taken and the thing was done. it did not occur to him that the lady would refuse him. all his experience of the world was against such refusal. towns which consider, always render themselves. ladies who doubt always solve their doubts in the one direction. of course she would accept him;--and of course he would stand to his guns. as he went to his work he endeavoured to bathe himself in self-complacency; but, at the bottom of it, there was a substratum of melancholy which leavened his prospects. lady carbury went from the door of her son's room to her own chamber, and there sat thinking through the greater part of the night. during these hours she perhaps became a better woman, as being more oblivious of herself, than she had been for many a year. it could not be for the good of this man that he should marry her,--and she did in the midst of her many troubles try to think of the man's condition. although in the moments of her triumph,--and such moments were many,--she would buoy herself up with assurances that her felix would become a rich man, brilliant with wealth and rank, an honour to her, a personage whose society would be desired by many, still in her heart of hearts she knew how great was the peril, and in her imagination she could foresee the nature of the catastrophe which might come. he would go utterly to the dogs and would take her with him. and whithersoever he might go, to what lowest canine regions he might descend, she knew herself well enough to be sure that whether married or single she would go with him. though her reason might be ever so strong in bidding her to desert him, her heart, she knew, would be stronger than her reason. he was the one thing in the world that overpowered her. in all other matters she could scheme, and contrive, and pretend; could get the better of her feelings and fight the world with a double face, laughing at illusions and telling herself that passions and preferences were simply weapons to be used. but her love for her son mastered her,--and she knew it. as it was so, could it be fit that she should marry another man? and then her liberty! even though felix should bring her to utter ruin, nevertheless she would be and might remain a free woman. should the worse come to the worst she thought that she could endure a bohemian life in which, should all her means have been taken from her, she could live on what she earned. though felix was a tyrant after a kind, he was not a tyrant who could bid her do this or that. a repetition of marriage vows did not of itself recommend itself to her. as to loving the man, liking his caresses, and being specially happy because he was near her,--no romance of that kind ever presented itself to her imagination. how would it affect felix and her together,--and mr. broune as connected with her and felix? if felix should go to the dogs, then would mr. broune not want her. should felix go to the stars instead of the dogs, and become one of the gilded ornaments of the metropolis, then would not he and she want mr. broune. it was thus that she regarded the matter. she thought very little of her daughter as she considered all this. there was a home for hetta, with every comfort, if hetta would only condescend to accept it. why did not hetta marry her cousin roger carbury and let there be an end of that trouble? of course hetta must live wherever her mother lived till she should marry; but hetta's life was so much at her own disposal that her mother did not feel herself bound to be guided in the great matter by hetta's predispositions. but she must tell hetta should she ultimately make up her mind to marry the man, and in that case the sooner this was done the better. on that night she did not make up her mind. ever and again as she declared to herself that she would not marry him, the picture of a comfortable assured home over her head, and the conviction that the editor of the "morning breakfast table" would be powerful for all things, brought new doubts to her mind. but she could not convince herself, and when at last she went to her bed her mind was still vacillating. the next morning she met hetta at breakfast, and with assumed nonchalance asked a question about the man who was perhaps about to be her husband. "do you like mr. broune, hetta?" "yes;--pretty well. i don't care very much about him. what makes you ask, mamma?" "because among my acquaintances in london there is no one so truly kind to me as he is." "he always seems to me to like to have his own way." "why shouldn't he like it?" "he has to me that air of selfishness which is so very common with people in london;--as though what he said were all said out of surface politeness." "i wonder what you expect, hetta, when you talk of--london people? why should not london people be as kind as other people? i think mr. broune is as obliging a man as any one i know. but if i like anybody, you always make little of him. the only person you seem to think well of is mr. montague." "mamma, that is unfair and unkind. i never mention mr. montague's name if i can help it,--and i should not have spoken of mr. broune, had you not asked me." chapter xxxii. lady monogram. georgiana longestaffe had now been staying with the melmottes for a fortnight, and her prospects in regard to the london season had not much improved. her brother had troubled her no further, and her family at caversham had not, as far as she was aware, taken any notice of dolly's interference. twice a week she received a cold, dull letter from her mother,--such letters as she had been accustomed to receive when away from home; and these she had answered, always endeavouring to fill her sheet with some customary description of fashionable doings, with some bit of scandal such as she would have repeated for her mother's amusement,--and her own delectation in the telling of it,--had there been nothing painful in the nature of her sojourn in london. of the melmottes she hardly spoke. she did not say that she was taken to the houses in which it was her ambition to be seen. she would have lied directly in saying so. but she did not announce her own disappointment. she had chosen to come up to the melmottes in preference to remaining at caversham, and she would not declare her own failure. "i hope they are kind to you," lady pomona always said. but georgiana did not tell her mother whether the melmottes were kind or unkind. in truth, her "season" was a very unpleasant season. her mode of living was altogether different to anything she had already known. the house in bruton street had never been very bright, but the appendages of life there had been of a sort which was not known in the gorgeous mansion in grosvenor square. it had been full of books and little toys and those thousand trifling household gods which are accumulated in years, and which in their accumulation suit themselves to the taste of their owners. in grosvenor square there were no lares;--no toys, no books, nothing but gold and grandeur, pomatum, powder and pride. the longestaffe life had not been an easy, natural, or intellectual life; but the melmotte life was hardly endurable even by a longestaffe. she had, however, come prepared to suffer much, and was endowed with considerable power of endurance in pursuit of her own objects. having willed to come, even to the melmottes, in preference to remaining at caversham, she fortified herself to suffer much. could she have ridden in the park at mid-day in desirable company, and found herself in proper houses at midnight, she would have borne the rest, bad as it might have been. but it was not so. she had her horse, but could with difficulty get any proper companion. she had been in the habit of riding with one of the primero girls,--and old primero would accompany them, or perhaps a brother primero, or occasionally her own father. and then, when once out, she would be surrounded by a cloud of young men,--and though there was but little in it, a walking round and round the same bit of ground with the same companions and with the smallest attempt at conversation, still it had been the proper thing and had satisfied her. now it was with difficulty that she could get any cavalier such as the laws of society demand. even penelope primero snubbed her,--whom she, georgiana longestaffe, had hitherto endured and snubbed. she was just allowed to join them when old primero rode, and was obliged even to ask for that assistance. but the nights were still worse. she could only go where madame melmotte went, and madame melmotte was more prone to receive people at home than to go out. and the people she did receive were antipathetic to miss longestaffe. she did not even know who they were, whence they came, or what was their nature. they seemed to be as little akin to her as would have been the shopkeepers in the small town near caversham. she would sit through long evenings almost speechless, trying to fathom the depth of the vulgarity of her associates. occasionally she was taken out, and was then, probably, taken to very grand houses. the two duchesses and the marchioness of auld reekie received madame melmotte, and the garden parties of royalty were open to her. and some of the most elaborate fêtes of the season,--which indeed were very elaborate on behalf of this and that travelling potentate,--were attained. on these occasions miss longestaffe was fully aware of the struggle that was always made for invitations, often unsuccessfully, but sometimes with triumph. even the bargains, conducted by the hands of lord alfred and his mighty sister, were not altogether hidden from her. the emperor of china was to be in london and it was thought proper that some private person, some untitled individual, should give the emperor a dinner, so that the emperor might see how an english merchant lives. mr. melmotte was chosen on condition that he would spend £ , on the banquet;--and, as a part of his payment for this expenditure, was to be admitted with his family, to a grand entertainment given to the emperor at windsor park. of these good things georgiana longestaffe would receive her share. but she went to them as a melmotte and not as a longestaffe,--and when amidst these gaieties, though she could see her old friends, she was not with them. she was ever behind madame melmotte, till she hated the make of that lady's garments and the shape of that lady's back. she had told both her father and mother very plainly that it behoved her to be in london at this time of the year that she might--look for a husband. she had not hesitated in declaring her purpose; and that purpose, together with the means of carrying it out, had not appeared to them to be unreasonable. she wanted to be settled in life. she had meant, when she first started on her career, to have a lord;--but lords are scarce. she was herself not very highly born, not very highly gifted, not very lovely, not very pleasant, and she had no fortune. she had long made up her mind that she could do without a lord, but that she must get a commoner of the proper sort. he must be a man with a place in the country and sufficient means to bring him annually to london. he must be a gentleman,--and, probably, in parliament. and above all things he must be in the right set. she would rather go on for ever struggling than take some country whitstable as her sister was about to do. but now the men of the right sort never came near her. the one object for which she had subjected herself to all this ignominy seemed to have vanished altogether in the distance. when by chance she danced or exchanged a few words with the nidderdales and grassloughs whom she used to know, they spoke to her with a want of respect which she felt and tasted but could hardly analyse. even miles grendall, who had hitherto been below her notice, attempted to patronise her in a manner that bewildered her. all this nearly broke her heart. and then from time to time little rumours reached her ears which made her aware that, in the teeth of all mr. melmotte's social successes, a general opinion that he was a gigantic swindler was rather gaining ground than otherwise. "your host is a wonderful fellow, by george!" said lord nidderdale. "no one seems to know which way he'll turn up at last." "there's nothing like being a robber, if you can only rob enough," said lord grasslough,--not exactly naming melmotte, but very clearly alluding to him. there was a vacancy for a member of parliament at westminster, and melmotte was about to come forward as a candidate. "if he can manage that i think he'll pull through," she heard one man say. "if money'll do it, it will be done," said another. she could understand it all. mr. melmotte was admitted into society, because of some enormous power which was supposed to lie in his hands; but even by those who thus admitted him he was regarded as a thief and a scoundrel. this was the man whose house had been selected by her father in order that she might make her search for a husband from beneath his wing! in her agony she wrote to her old friend julia triplex, now the wife of sir damask monogram. she had been really intimate with julia triplex, and had been sympathetic when a brilliant marriage had been achieved. julia had been without fortune, but very pretty. sir damask was a man of great wealth, whose father had been a contractor. but sir damask himself was a sportsman, keeping many horses on which other men often rode, a yacht in which other men sunned themselves, a deer forest, a moor, a large machinery for making pheasants. he shot pigeons at hurlingham, drove four-in-hand in the park, had a box at every race-course, and was the most good-natured fellow known. he had really conquered the world, had got over the difficulty of being the grandson of a butcher, and was now as good as though the monograms had gone to the crusades. julia triplex was equal to her position, and made the very most of it. she dispensed champagne and smiles, and made everybody, including herself, believe that she was in love with her husband. lady monogram had climbed to the top of the tree, and in that position had been, of course, invaluable to her old friend. we must give her her due and say that she had been fairly true to friendship while georgiana--behaved herself. she thought that georgiana in going to the melmottes had--not behaved herself, and therefore she had determined to drop georgiana. "heartless, false, purse-proud creature," georgiana said to herself as she wrote the following letter in humiliating agony. dear lady monogram, i think you hardly understand my position. of course you have cut me. haven't you? and of course i must feel it very much. you did not use to be ill-natured, and i hardly think you can have become so now when you have everything pleasant around you. i do not think that i have done anything that should make an old friend treat me in this way, and therefore i write to ask you to let me see you. of course it is because i am staying here. you know me well enough to be sure that it can't be my own choice. papa arranged it all. if there is anything against these people, i suppose papa does not know it. of course they are not nice. of course they are not like anything that i have been used to. but when papa told me that the house in bruton street was to be shut up and that i was to come here, of course i did as i was bid. i don't think an old friend like you, whom i have always liked more than anybody else, ought to cut me for it. it's not about the parties, but about yourself that i mind. i don't ask you to come here, but if you will see me i can have the carriage and will go to you. yours, as ever, georgiana longestaffe. it was a troublesome letter to get written. lady monogram was her junior in age and had once been lower than herself in social position. in the early days of their friendship she had sometimes domineered over julia triplex, and had been entreated by julia, in reference to balls here and routes there. the great monogram marriage had been accomplished very suddenly, and had taken place,--exalting julia very high,--just as georgiana was beginning to allow her aspirations to descend. it was in that very season that she moved her castle in the air from the upper to the lower house. and now she was absolutely begging for notice, and praying that she might not be cut! she sent her letter by post and on the following day received a reply, which was left by a footman. dear georgiana, of course i shall be delighted to see you. i don't know what you mean by cutting. i never cut anybody. we happen to have got into different sets, but that is not my fault. sir damask won't let me call on the melmottes. i can't help that. you wouldn't have me go where he tells me not. i don't know anything about them myself, except that i did go to their ball. but everybody knows that's different. i shall be at home all to-morrow till three,--that is to-day i mean, for i'm writing after coming home from lady killarney's ball; but if you wish to see me alone you had better come before lunch. yours affectionately, j. monogram. georgiana condescended to borrow the carriage and reached her friend's house a little after noon. the two ladies kissed each other when they met--of course, and then miss longestaffe at once began. "julia, i did think that you would at any rate have asked me to your second ball." "of course you would have been asked if you had been up in bruton street. you know that as well as i do. it would have been a matter of course." "what difference does a house make?" "but the people in a house make a great deal of difference, my dear. i don't want to quarrel with you, my dear; but i can't know the melmottes." "who asks you?" "you are with them." "do you mean to say that you can't ask anybody to your house without asking everybody that lives with that person? it's done every day." "somebody must have brought you." "i would have come with the primeros, julia." "i couldn't do it. i asked damask and he wouldn't have it. when that great affair was going on in february, we didn't know much about the people. i was told that everybody was going and therefore i got sir damask to let me go. he says now that he won't let me know them; and after having been at their house i can't ask you out of it, without asking them too." "i don't see it at all, julia." "i'm very sorry, my dear, but i can't go against my husband." "everybody goes to their house," said georgiana, pleading her cause to the best of her ability. "the duchess of stevenage has dined in grosvenor square since i have been there." "we all know what that means," replied lady monogram. "and people are giving their eyes to be asked to the dinner party which he is to give to the emperor in july;--and even to the reception afterwards." "to hear you talk, georgiana, one would think that you didn't understand anything," said lady monogram. "people are going to see the emperor, not to see the melmottes. i dare say we might have gone,--only i suppose we shan't now because of this row." "i don't know what you mean by a row, julia." "well;--it is a row, and i hate rows. going there when the emperor of china is there, or anything of that kind, is no more than going to the play. somebody chooses to get all london into his house, and all london chooses to go. but it isn't understood that that means acquaintance. i should meet madame melmotte in the park afterwards and not think of bowing to her." "i should call that rude." "very well. then we differ. but really it does seem to me that you ought to understand these things as well as anybody. i don't find any fault with you for going to the melmottes,--though i was very sorry to hear it; but when you have done it, i don't think you should complain of people because they won't have the melmottes crammed down their throats." "nobody has wanted it," said georgiana sobbing. at this moment the door was opened, and sir damask came in. "i'm talking to your wife about the melmottes," she continued, determined to take the bull by the horns. "i'm staying there, and--i think it--unkind that julia--hasn't been--to see me. that's all." "how'd you do, miss longestaffe? she doesn't know them." and sir damask, folding his hands together, raising his eyebrows, and standing on the rug, looked as though he had solved the whole difficulty. [illustration: sir damask solving the difficulty.] "she knows me, sir damask." "oh yes;--she knows you. that's a matter of course. we're delighted to see you, miss longestaffe--i am, always. wish we could have had you at ascot. but--." then he looked as though he had again explained everything. "i've told her that you don't want me to go to the melmottes," said lady monogram. "well, no;--not just to go there. stay and have lunch, miss longestaffe." "no, thank you." "now you're here, you'd better," said lady monogram. "no, thank you. i'm sorry that i have not been able to make you understand me. i could not allow our very long friendship to be dropped without a word." "don't say--dropped," exclaimed the baronet. "i do say dropped, sir damask. i thought we should have understood each other;--your wife and i. but we haven't. wherever she might have gone, i should have made it my business to see her; but she feels differently. good-bye." "good-bye, my dear. if you will quarrel, it isn't my doing." then sir damask led miss longestaffe out, and put her into madame melmotte's carriage. "it's the most absurd thing i ever knew in my life," said the wife as soon as her husband had returned to her. "she hasn't been able to bear to remain down in the country for one season, when all the world knows that her father can't afford to have a house for them in town. then she condescends to come and stay with these abominations and pretends to feel surprised that her old friends don't run after her. she is old enough to have known better." "i suppose she likes parties," said sir damask. "likes parties! she'd like to get somebody to take her. it's twelve years now since georgiana longestaffe came out. i remember being told of the time when i was first entered myself. yes, my dear, you know all about it, i dare say. and there she is still. i can feel for her, and do feel for her. but if she will let herself down in that way she can't expect not to be dropped. you remember the woman;--don't you?" "what woman?" "madame melmotte?" "never saw her in my life." "oh yes, you did. you took me there that night when prince ---- danced with the girl. don't you remember the blowsy fat woman at the top of the stairs;--a regular horror?" "didn't look at her. i was only thinking what a lot of money it all cost." "i remember her, and if georgiana longestaffe thinks i'm going there to make an acquaintance with madame melmotte she is very much mistaken. and if she thinks that that is the way to get married, i think she is mistaken again." nothing perhaps is so efficacious in preventing men from marrying as the tone in which married women speak of the struggles made in that direction by their unmarried friends. chapter xxxiii. john crumb. sir felix carbury made an appointment for meeting ruby ruggles a second time at the bottom of the kitchen-garden belonging to sheep's acre farm, which appointment he neglected, and had, indeed, made without any intention of keeping it. but ruby was there, and remained hanging about among the cabbages till her grandfather returned from harlestone market. an early hour had been named; but hours may be mistaken, and ruby had thought that a fine gentleman, such as was her lover, used to live among fine people up in london, might well mistake the afternoon for the morning. if he would come at all she could easily forgive such a mistake. but he did not come, and late in the afternoon she was obliged to obey her grandfather's summons as he called her into the house. after that for three weeks she heard nothing of her london lover, but she was always thinking of him;--and though she could not altogether avoid her country lover, she was in his company as little as possible. one afternoon her grandfather returned from bungay and told her that her country lover was coming to see her. "john crumb be a coming over by-and-by," said the old man. "see and have a bit o' supper ready for him." "john crumb coming here, grandfather? he's welcome to stay away then, for me." "that be dommed." the old man thrust his old hat on to his head and seated himself in a wooden arm-chair that stood by the kitchen-fire. whenever he was angry he put on his hat, and the custom was well understood by ruby. "why not welcome, and he all one as your husband? look ye here, ruby, i'm going to have an eend o' this. john crumb is to marry you next month, and the banns is to be said." "the parson may say what he pleases, grandfather. i can't stop his saying of 'em. it isn't likely i shall try, neither. but no parson among 'em all can marry me without i'm willing." "and why should you no be willing, you contrairy young jade, you?" "you've been a' drinking, grandfather." he turned round at her sharp, and threw his old hat at her head;--nothing to ruby's consternation, as it was a practice to which she was well accustomed. she picked it up, and returned it to him with a cool indifference which was intended to exasperate him. "look ye here, ruby," he said, "out o' this place you go. if you go as john crumb's wife you'll go with five hun'erd pound, and we'll have a dinner here, and a dance, and all bungay." "who cares for all bungay,--a set of beery chaps as knows nothing but swilling and smoking;--and john crumb the main of 'em all? there never was a chap for beer like john crumb." "never saw him the worse o' liquor in all my life." and the old farmer, as he gave this grand assurance, rattled his fist down upon the table. "it ony just makes him stoopider and stoopider the more he swills. you can't tell me, grandfather, about john crumb. i knows him." "didn't ye say as how ye'd have him? didn't ye give him a promise?" "if i did, i ain't the first girl as has gone back of her word,--and i shan't be the last." "you means you won't have him?" "that's about it, grandfather." "then you'll have to have somebody to fend for ye, and that pretty sharp,--for you won't have me." "there ain't no difficulty about that, grandfather." "very well. he's a coming here to-night, and you may settle it along wi' him. out o' this ye shall go. i know of your doings." "what doings! you don't know of no doings. there ain't no doings. you don't know nothing ag'in me." "he's a coming here to-night, and if you can make it up wi' him, well and good. there's five hun'erd pound, and ye shall have the dinner and the dance and all bungay. he ain't a going to be put off no longer;--he ain't." "whoever wanted him to be put on? let him go his own gait." "if you can't make it up wi' him--" "well, grandfather, i shan't anyways." "let me have my say, will ye, yer jade, you? there's five hun'erd pound! and there ain't ere a farmer in suffolk or norfolk paying rent for a bit of land like this can do as well for his darter as that,--let alone only a granddarter. you never thinks o' that;--you don't. if you don't like to take it,--leave it. but you'll leave sheep's acre too." "bother sheep's acre. who wants to stop at sheep's acre? it's the stoopidest place in all england." "then find another. then find another. that's all aboot it. john crumb's a coming up for a bit o' supper. you tell him your own mind. i'm dommed if i trouble aboot it. on'y you don't stay here. sheep's acre ain't good enough for you, and you'd best find another home. stoopid, is it? you'll have to put up wi' places stoopider nor sheep's acre, afore you've done." in regard to the hospitality promised to mr. crumb, miss ruggles went about her work with sufficient alacrity. she was quite willing that the young man should have a supper, and she did understand that, so far as the preparation of the supper went, she owed her service to her grandfather. she therefore went to work herself, and gave directions to the servant girl who assisted her in keeping her grandfather's house. but as she did this, she determined that she would make john crumb understand that she would never be his wife. upon that she was now fully resolved. as she went about the kitchen, taking down the ham and cutting the slices that were to be broiled, and as she trussed the fowl that was to be boiled for john crumb, she made mental comparisons between him and sir felix carbury. she could see, as though present to her at the moment, the mealy, floury head of the one, with hair stiff with perennial dust from his sacks, and the sweet glossy dark well-combed locks of the other, so bright, so seductive, that she was ever longing to twine her fingers among them. and she remembered the heavy, flat, broad honest face of the meal-man, with his mouth slow in motion, and his broad nose looking like a huge white promontory, and his great staring eyes, from the corners of which he was always extracting meal and grit;--and then also she remembered the white teeth, the beautiful soft lips, the perfect eyebrows, and the rich complexion of her london lover. surely a lease of paradise with the one, though but for one short year, would be well purchased at the price of a life with the other! "it's no good going against love," she said to herself, "and i won't try. he shall have his supper, and be told all about it, and then go home. he cares more for his supper than he do for me." and then, with this final resolution firmly made, she popped the fowl into the pot. her grandfather wanted her to leave sheep's acre. very well. she had a little money of her own, and would take herself off to london. she knew what people would say, but she cared nothing for old women's tales. she would know how to take care of herself, and could always say in her own defence that her grandfather had turned her out of sheep's acre. seven had been the hour named, and punctually at that hour john crumb knocked at the back door of sheep's acre farm-house. nor did he come alone. he was accompanied by his friend joe mixet, the baker of bungay, who, as all bungay knew, was to be his best man at his marriage. john crumb's character was not without many fine attributes. he could earn money,--and having earned it could spend and keep it in fair proportion. he was afraid of no work, and,--to give him his due,--was afraid of no man. he was honest, and ashamed of nothing that he did. and after his fashion he had chivalrous ideas about women. he was willing to thrash any man that ill-used a woman, and would certainly be a most dangerous antagonist to any man who would misuse a woman belonging to him. but ruby had told the truth of him in saying that he was slow of speech, and what the world calls stupid in regard to all forms of expression. he knew good meal from bad as well as any man, and the price at which he could buy it so as to leave himself a fair profit at the selling. he knew the value of a clear conscience, and without much argument had discovered for himself that honesty is in truth the best policy. joe mixet, who was dapper of person and glib of tongue, had often declared that any one buying john crumb for a fool would lose his money. joe mixet was probably right; but there had been a want of prudence, a lack of worldly sagacity, in the way in which crumb had allowed his proposed marriage with ruby ruggles to become a source of gossip to all bungay. his love was now an old affair; and, though he never talked much, whenever he did talk, he talked about that. he was proud of ruby's beauty, and of her fortune, and of his own status as her acknowledged lover,--and he did not hide his light under a bushel. perhaps the publicity so produced had some effect in prejudicing ruby against the man whose offer she had certainly once accepted. now when he came to settle the day,--having heard more than once or twice that there was a difficulty with ruby,--he brought his friend mixet with him as though to be present at his triumph. "if here isn't joe mixet," said ruby to herself. "was there ever such a stoopid as john crumb? there's no end to his being stoopid." the old man had slept off his anger and his beer while ruby had been preparing the feast, and now roused himself to entertain his guests. "what, joe mixet; is that thou? thou'rt welcome. come in, man. well, john, how is it wi' you? ruby's a stewing o' something for us to eat a bit. don't 'e smell it?"--john crumb lifted up his great nose, sniffed and grinned. "john didn't like going home in the dark like," said the baker, with his little joke. "so i just come along to drive away the bogies." "the more the merrier;--the more the merrier. ruby 'll have enough for the two o' you, i'll go bail. so john crumb's afraid of bogies;--is he? the more need he to have some 'un in his house to scart 'em away." the lover had seated himself without speaking a word; but now he was instigated to ask a question. "where be she, muster ruggles?" they were seated in the outside or front kitchen, in which the old man and his granddaughter always lived; while ruby was at work in the back kitchen. as john crumb asked this question she could be heard distinctly among the pots and the plates. she now came out, and wiping her hands on her apron, shook hands with the two young men. she had enveloped herself in a big household apron when the cooking was in hand, and had not cared to take it off for the greeting of this lover. "grandfather said as how you was a coming out for your supper, so i've been a seeing to it. you'll excuse the apron, mr. mixet." "you couldn't look nicer, miss, if you was to try it ever so. my mother says as it's housifery as recommends a girl to the young men. what do you say, john?" "i loiks to see her loik o' that," said john rubbing his hands down the back of his trowsers, and stooping till he had brought his eyes down to a level with those of his sweetheart. [illlustration: "i loiks to see her loik o' that."] "it looks homely; don't it, john?" said mixet. "bother!" said ruby, turning round sharp, and going back to the other kitchen. john crumb turned round also, and grinned at his friend, and then grinned at the old man. "you've got it all afore you," said the farmer,--leaving the lover to draw what lesson he might from this oracular proposition. "and i don't care how soon i ha'e it in hond;--that i don't," said john. "that's the chat," said joe mixet. "there ain't nothing wanting in his house;--is there, john? it's all there,--cradle, caudle-cup, and the rest of it. a young woman going to john knows what she'll have to eat when she gets up, and what she'll lie down upon when she goes to bed." this he declared in a loud voice for the benefit of ruby in the back kitchen. "that she do," said john, grinning again. "there's a hun'erd and fifty poond o' things in my house forbye what mother left behind her." after this there was no more conversation till ruby reappeared with the boiled fowl, and without her apron. she was followed by the girl with a dish of broiled ham and an enormous pyramid of cabbage. then the old man got up slowly and opening some private little door of which he kept the key in his breeches pocket, drew a jug of ale and placed it on the table. and from a cupboard of which he also kept the key, he brought out a bottle of gin. everything being thus prepared, the three men sat round the table, john crumb looking at his chair again and again before he ventured to occupy it. "if you'll sit yourself down, i'll give you a bit of something to eat," said ruby at last. then he sank at once into his chair. ruby cut up the fowl standing, and dispensed the other good things, not even placing a chair for herself at the table,--and apparently not expected to do so, for no one invited her. "is it to be spirits or ale, mr. crumb?" she said, when the other two men had helped themselves. he turned round and gave her a look of love that might have softened the heart of an amazon; but instead of speaking he held up his tumbler, and bobbed his head at the beer jug. then she filled it to the brim, frothing it in the manner in which he loved to have it frothed. he raised it to his mouth slowly, and poured the liquor in as though to a vat. then she filled it again. he had been her lover, and she would be as kind to him as she knew how,--short of love. there was a good deal of eating done, for more ham came in, and another mountain of cabbage; but very little or nothing was said. john crumb ate whatever was given to him of the fowl, sedulously picking the bones, and almost swallowing them; and then finished the second dish of ham, and after that the second instalment of cabbage. he did not ask for more beer, but took it as often as ruby replenished his glass. when the eating was done, ruby retired into the back kitchen, and there regaled herself with some bone or merry-thought of the fowl, which she had with prudence reserved, sharing her spoils however with the other maiden. this she did standing, and then went to work, cleaning the dishes. the men lit their pipes and smoked in silence, while ruby went through her domestic duties. so matters went on for half an hour; during which ruby escaped by the back door, went round into the house, got into her own room, and formed the grand resolution of going to bed. she began her operations in fear and trembling, not being sure but that her grandfather would bring the man up-stairs to her. as she thought of this she stayed her hand, and looked to the door. she knew well that there was no bolt there. it would be terrible to her to be invaded by john crumb after his fifth or sixth glass of beer. and, she declared to herself, that should he come he would be sure to bring joe mixet with him to speak his mind for him. so she paused and listened. when they had smoked for some half hour the old man called for his granddaughter, but called of course in vain. "where the mischief is the jade gone?" he said, slowly making his way into the back kitchen. the maid as soon as she heard her master moving, escaped into the yard and made no response, while the old man stood bawling at the back door. "the devil's in them. they're off some gates," he said aloud. "she'll make the place hot for her, if she goes on this way." then he returned to the two young men. "she's playing off her games somwheres," he said. "take a glass of sperrits and water, mr. crumb, and i'll see after her." "i'll just take a drop of y'ell," said john crumb, apparently quite unmoved by the absence of his sweetheart. it was sad work for the old man. he went down the yard and into the garden, hobbling among the cabbages, not daring to call very loud, as he did not wish to have it supposed that the girl was lost; but still anxious, and sore at heart as to the ingratitude shown to him. he was not bound to give the girl a home at all. she was not his own child. and he had offered her £ ! "domm her," he said aloud as he made his way back to the house. after much search and considerable loss of time he returned to the kitchen in which the two men were sitting, leading ruby in his hand. she was not smart in her apparel, for she had half undressed herself, and been then compelled by her grandfather to make herself fit to appear in public. she had acknowledged to herself that she had better go down and tell john crumb the truth. for she was still determined that she would never be john crumb's wife. "you can answer him as well as i, grandfather," she had said. then the farmer had cuffed her, and told her that she was an idiot. "oh, if it comes to that," said ruby, "i'm not afraid of john crumb, nor yet of nobody else. only i didn't think you'd go to strike me, grandfather." "i'll knock the life out of thee, if thou goest on this gate," he had said. but she had consented to come down, and they entered the room together. "we're a disturbing you a'most too late, miss," said mr. mixet. "it ain't that at all, mr. mixet. if grandfather chooses to have a few friends, i ain't nothing against it. i wish he'd have a few friends a deal oftener than he do. i likes nothing better than to do for 'em;--only when i've done for 'em and they're smoking their pipes and that like, i don't see why i ain't to leave 'em to 'emselves." "but we've come here on a hauspicious occasion, miss ruby." "i don't know nothing about auspicious, mr. mixet. if you and mr. crumb've come out to sheep's acre farm for a bit of supper--" "which we ain't," said john crumb very loudly;--"nor yet for beer;--not by no means." "we've come for the smiles of beauty," said joe mixet. ruby chucked up her head. "mr. mixet, if you'll be so good as to stow that! there ain't no beauty here as i knows of, and if there was it isn't nothing to you." "except in the way of friendship," said mixet. "i'm just as sick of all this as a man can be," said mr. ruggles, who was sitting low in his chair, with his back bent, and his head forward. "i won't put up with it no more." "who wants you to put up with it?" said ruby. "who wants 'em to come here with their trash? who brought 'em to-night? i don't know what business mr. mixet has interfering along o' me. i never interfere along o' him." "john crumb, have you anything to say?" asked the old man. then john crumb slowly arose from his chair, and stood up at his full height. "i hove," said he, swinging his head to one side. "then say it." "i will," said he. he was still standing bolt upright with his hands down by his side. then he stretched out his left to his glass which was half full of beer, and strengthened himself as far as that would strengthen him. having done this he slowly deposited the pipe which he still held in his right hand. "now speak your mind, like a man," said mixet. "i intends it," said john. but he still stood dumb, looking down upon old ruggles, who from his crouched position was looking up at him. ruby was standing with both her hands upon the table and her eyes intent upon the wall over the fire-place. "you've asked miss ruby to be your wife a dozen times;--haven't you, john?" suggested mixet. "i hove." "and you mean to be as good as your word?" "i do." "and she has promised to have you?" "she hove." "more nor once or twice?" to this proposition crumb found it only necessary to bob his head. "you're ready,--and willing?" "i om." "you're wishing to have the banns said without any more delay?" "there ain't no delay 'bout me;--never was." "everything is ready in your own house?" "they is." "and you will expect miss ruby to come to the scratch?" "i sholl." "that's about it, i think," said joe mixet, turning to the grandfather. "i don't think there was ever anything much more straightforward than that. you know, i know, miss ruby knows all about john crumb. john crumb didn't come to bungay yesterday,--nor yet the day before. there's been a talk of five hundred pounds, mr. ruggles." mr. ruggles made a slight gesture of assent with his head. "five hundred pounds is very comfortable; and added to what john has will make things that snug that things never was snugger. but john crumb isn't after miss ruby along of her fortune." "nohow's," said the lover, shaking his head and still standing upright with his hands by his side. "not he;--it isn't his ways, and them as knows him'll never say it of him. john has a heart in his buzsom." "i has," said john, raising his hand a little above his stomach. "and feelings as a man. it's true love as has brought john crumb to sheep's acre farm this night;--love of that young lady, if she'll let me make so free. he's a proposed to her, and she's a haccepted him, and now it's about time as they was married. that's what john crumb has to say." "that's what i has to say," repeated john crumb, "and i means it." "and now, miss," continued mixet, addressing himself to ruby, "you've heard what john has to say." "i've heard you, mr. mixet, and i've heard quite enough." "you can't have anything to say against it, miss; can you? there's your grandfather as is willing, and the money as one may say counted out,--and john crumb is willing, with his house so ready that there isn't a ha'porth to do. all we want is for you to name the day." "say to-morrow, ruby, and i'll not be agon it," said john crumb, slapping his thigh. "i won't say to-morrow, mr. crumb, nor yet the day after to-morrow, nor yet no day at all. i'm not going to have you. i've told you as much before." "that was only in fun, loike." "then now i tell you in earnest. there's some folk wants such a deal of telling." "you don't mean,--never?" "i do mean never, mr. crumb." "didn't you say as you would, ruby? didn't you say so as plain as the nose on my face?" john as he asked these questions could hardly refrain from tears. "young women is allowed to change their minds," said ruby. "brute!" exclaimed old ruggles. "pig! jade! i'll tell'ee what, john. she'll go out o' this into the streets;--that's what she wull. i won't keep her here, no longer;--nasty, ungrateful, lying slut." "she ain't that;--she ain't that," said john. "she ain't that at all. she's no slut. i won't hear her called so;--not by her grandfather. but, oh, she has a mind to put me so abouts, that i'll have to go home and hang myself." "dash it, miss ruby, you ain't a going to serve a young man that way," said the baker. "if you'll jist keep yourself to yourself, i'll be obliged to you, mr. mixet," said ruby. "if you hadn't come here at all things might have been different." "hark at that now," said john, looking at his friend almost with indignation. mr. mixet, who was fully aware of his rare eloquence and of the absolute necessity there had been for its exercise if any arrangement were to be made at all, could not trust himself to words after this. he put on his hat and walked out through the back kitchen into the yard declaring that his friend would find him there, round by the pig-stye wall, whenever he was ready to return to bungay. as soon as mixet was gone john looked at his sweetheart out of the corners of his eyes and made a slow motion towards her, putting out his right hand as a feeler. "he's aff now, ruby," said john. "and you'd better be aff after him," said the cruel girl. "and when'll i come back again?" "never. it ain't no use. what's the good of more words, mr. crumb?" "domm her; domm her," said old ruggles. "i'll even it to her. she'll have to be out on the roads this night." "she shall have the best bed in my house if she'll come for it," said john, "and the old woman to look arter her; and i won't come nigh her till she sends for me." "i can find a place for myself, thank ye, mr. crumb." old ruggles sat grinding his teeth, and swearing to himself, taking his hat off and putting it on again, and meditating vengeance. "and now if you please, mr. crumb, i'll go up-stairs to my own room." "you don't go up to any room here, you jade you." the old man as he said this got up from his chair as though to fly at her. and he would have struck her with his stick but that he was stopped by john crumb. "don't hit the girl, no gate, mr. ruggles." "domm her, john; she breaks my heart." while her lover held her grandfather ruby escaped, and seated herself on the bedside, again afraid to undress, lest she should be disturbed by her grandfather. "ain't it more nor a man ought to have to bear;--ain't it, mr. crumb?" said the grandfather appealing to the young man. "it's the ways on 'em, mr. ruggles." "ways on 'em! a whipping at the cart-tail ought to be the ways on her. she's been and seen some young buck." then john crumb turned red all over, through the flour, and sparks of anger flashed from his eyes. "you ain't a meaning of it, master?" "i'm told there's been the squoire's cousin aboot,--him as they call the baronite." "been along wi' ruby?" the old man nodded at him. "by the mortials i'll baronite him;--i wull," said john seizing his hat and stalking off through the back kitchen after his friend. chapter xxxiv. ruby ruggles obeys her grandfather. the next day there was great surprise at sheep's acre farm, which communicated itself to the towns of bungay and beccles, and even affected the ordinary quiet life of carbury manor. ruby ruggles had gone away, and at about twelve o'clock in the day the old farmer became aware of the fact. she had started early, at about seven in the morning; but ruggles himself had been out long before that, and had not condescended to ask for her when he returned to the house for his breakfast. there had been a bad scene up in the bedroom overnight, after john crumb had left the farm. the old man in his anger had tried to expel the girl; but she had hung on to the bed-post and would not go; and he had been frightened, when the maid came up crying and screaming murder. "you'll be out o' this to-morrow as sure as my name's dannel ruggles," said the farmer panting for breath. but for the gin which he had taken he would hardly have struck her;--but he had struck her, and pulled her by the hair, and knocked her about;--and in the morning she took him at his word and was away. about twelve he heard from the servant girl that she had gone. she had packed a box and had started up the road carrying the box herself. "grandfather says i'm to go, and i'm gone," she had said to the girl. at the first cottage she had got a boy to carry her box into beccles, and to beccles she had walked. for an hour or two ruggles sat, quiet, within the house, telling himself that she might do as she pleased with herself,--that he was well rid of her, and that from henceforth he would trouble himself no more about her. but by degrees there came upon him a feeling half of compassion and half of fear, with perhaps some mixture of love, instigating him to make search for her. she had been the same to him as a child, and what would people say of him if he allowed her to depart from him after this fashion? then he remembered his violence the night before, and the fact that the servant girl had heard if she had not seen it. he could not drop his responsibility in regard to ruby, even if he would. so, as a first step, he sent in a message to john crumb, at bungay, to tell him that ruby ruggles had gone off with a box to beccles. john crumb went open-mouthed with the news to joe mixet, and all bungay soon knew that ruby ruggles had run away. after sending his message to crumb the old man still sat thinking, and at last made up his mind that he would go to his landlord. he held a part of his farm under roger carbury, and roger carbury would tell him what he ought to do. a great trouble had come upon him. he would fain have been quiet, but his conscience and his heart and his terrors all were at work together,--and he found that he could not eat his dinner. so he had out his cart and horse and drove himself off to carbury hall. it was past four when he started, and he found the squire seated on the terrace after an early dinner, and with him was father barham, the priest. the old man was shown at once round into the garden, and was not long in telling his story. there had been words between him and his granddaughter about her lover. her lover had been accepted and had come to the farm to claim his bride. ruby had behaved very badly. the old man made the most of ruby's bad behaviour, and of course as little as possible of his own violence. but he did explain that there had been threats used when ruby refused to take the man, and that ruby had, this day, taken herself off. "i always thought it was settled they were to be man and wife," said roger. "it was settled, squoire;--and he war to have five hun'erd pound down;--money as i'd saved myself. drat the jade." "didn't she like him, daniel?" "she liked him well enough till she'd seed somebody else." then old daniel paused, and shook his head, and was evidently the owner of a secret. the squire got up and walked round the garden with him,--and then the secret was told. the farmer was of opinion that there was something between the girl and sir felix. sir felix some weeks since had been seen near the farm and on the same occasion ruby had been observed at some little distance from the house with her best clothes on. "he's been so little here, daniel," said the squire. "it goes as tinder and a spark o' fire, that does," said the farmer. "girls like ruby don't want no time to be wooed by one such as that, though they'll fall-lall with a man like john crumb for years." "i suppose she's gone to london." "don't know nothing of where she's gone, squoire;--only she have gone some'eres. may be it's lowestoffe. there's lots of quality at lowestoffe a' washing theyselves in the sea." then they returned to the priest, who might be supposed to be cognisant of the guiles of the world and competent to give advice on such an occasion as this. "if she was one of our people," said father barham, "we should have her back quick enough." "would ye now?" said ruggles, wishing at the moment that he and all his family had been brought up as roman catholics. "i don't see how you would have more chance of catching her than we have," said carbury. "she'd catch herself. wherever she might be she'd go to the priest, and he wouldn't leave her till he'd seen her put on the way back to her friends." "with a flea in her lug," suggested the farmer. "your people never go to a clergyman in their distress. it's the last thing they'd think of. any one might more probably be regarded as a friend than the parson. but with us the poor know where to look for sympathy." "she ain't that poor, neither," said the grandfather. "she had money with her?" "i don't know just what she had; but she ain't been brought up poor. and i don't think as our ruby'd go of herself to any clergyman. it never was her way." "it never is the way with a protestant," said the priest. "we'll say no more about that for the present," said roger, who was waxing wroth with the priest. that a man should be fond of his own religion is right; but roger carbury was beginning to think that father barham was too fond of his religion. "what had we better do? i suppose we shall hear something of her at the railway. there are not so many people leaving beccles but that she may be remembered." so the waggonette was ordered, and they all prepared to go off to the station together. but before they started john crumb rode up to the door. he had gone at once to the farm on hearing of ruby's departure, and had followed the farmer from thence to carbury. now he found the squire and the priest and the old man standing around as the horses were being put to the carriage. "ye ain't a' found her, mr. ruggles, ha' ye?" he asked as he wiped the sweat from his brow. "noa;--we ain't a' found no one yet." "if it was as she was to come to harm, mr. carbury, i'd never forgive myself,--never," said crumb. "as far as i can understand it is no doing of yours, my friend," said the squire. "in one way, it ain't; and in one way it is. i was over there last night a bothering of her. she'd a' come round may be, if she'd a' been left alone. she wouldn't a' been off now, only for our going over to sheep's acre. but,--oh!" "what is it, mr. crumb?" "he's a coosin o' yours, squoire; and long as i've known suffolk, i've never known nothing but good o' you and yourn. but if your baronite has been and done this! oh, mr. carbury! if i was to wring his neck round, you wouldn't say as how i was wrong; would ye, now?" roger could hardly answer the question. on general grounds the wringing of sir felix's neck, let the immediate cause for such a performance have been what it might, would have seemed to him to be a good deed. the world would be better, according to his thinking, with sir felix out of it than in it. but still the young man was his cousin and a carbury, and to such a one as john crumb he was bound to defend any member of his family as far as he might be defensible. "they says as how he was groping about sheep's acre when he was last here, a hiding himself and skulking behind hedges. drat 'em all. they've gals enough of their own,--them fellows. why can't they let a fellow alone? i'll do him a mischief, master roger; i wull;--if he's had a hand in this." poor john crumb! when he had his mistress to win he could find no words for himself; but was obliged to take an eloquent baker with him to talk for him. now in his anger he could talk freely enough. "but you must first learn that sir felix has had anything to do with this, mr. crumb." "in coorse; in coorse. that's right. that's right. must l'arn as he did it, afore i does it. but when i have l'arned!"-- and john crumb clenched his fist as though a very short lesson would suffice for him upon this occasion. they all went to the beccles station, and from thence to the beccles post office,--so that beccles soon knew as much about it as bungay. at the railway station ruby was distinctly remembered. she had taken a second-class ticket by the morning train for london, and had gone off without any appearance of secrecy. she had been decently dressed, with a hat and cloak, and her luggage had been such as she might have been expected to carry, had all her friends known that she was going. so much was made clear at the railway station, but nothing more could be learned there. then a message was sent by telegraph to the station in london, and they all waited, loitering about the post office, for a reply. one of the porters in london remembered seeing such a girl as was described, but the man who was supposed to have carried her box for her to a cab had gone away for the day. it was believed that she had left the station in a four-wheel cab. "i'll be arter her. i'll be arter her at once," said john crumb. but there was no train till night, and roger carbury was doubtful whether his going would do any good. it was evidently fixed on crumb's mind that the first step towards finding ruby would be the breaking of every bone in the body of sir felix carbury. now it was not at all apparent to the squire that his cousin had had anything to do with this affair. it had been made quite clear to him that the old man had quarrelled with his granddaughter and had threatened to turn her out of his house, not because she had misbehaved with sir felix, but on account of her refusing to marry john crumb. john crumb had gone over to the farm expecting to arrange it all, and up to that time there had been no fear about felix carbury. nor was it possible that there should have been communication between ruby and felix since the quarrel at the farm. even if the old man were right in supposing that ruby and the baronet had been acquainted,--and such acquaintance could not but be prejudicial to the girl,--not on that account would the baronet be responsible for her abduction. john crumb was thirsting for blood and was not very capable in his present mood of arguing the matter out coolly, and roger, little as he loved his cousin, was not desirous that all suffolk should know that sir felix carbury had been thrashed within an inch of his life by john crumb of bungay. "i'll tell you what i'll do," said he, putting his hand kindly on the old man's shoulder. "i'll go up myself by the first train to-morrow. i can trace her better than mr. crumb can do, and you will both trust me." "there's not one in the two counties i'd trust so soon," said the old man. "but you'll let us know the very truth," said john crumb. roger carbury made him an indiscreet promise that he would let him know the truth. so the matter was settled, and the grandfather and lover returned together to bungay. chapter xxxv. melmotte's glory. augustus melmotte was becoming greater and greater in every direction,--mightier and mightier every day. he was learning to despise mere lords, and to feel that he might almost domineer over a duke. in truth he did recognise it as a fact that he must either domineer over dukes, or else go to the wall. it can hardly be said of him that he had intended to play so high a game, but the game that he had intended to play had become thus high of its own accord. a man cannot always restrain his own doings and keep them within the limits which he had himself planned for them. they will very often fall short of the magnitude to which his ambition has aspired. they will sometimes soar higher than his own imagination. so it had now been with mr. melmotte. he had contemplated great things; but the things which he was achieving were beyond his contemplation. the reader will not have thought much of fisker on his arrival in england. fisker was, perhaps, not a man worthy of much thought. he had never read a book. he had never written a line worth reading. he had never said a prayer. he cared nothing for humanity. he had sprung out of some californian gully, was perhaps ignorant of his own father and mother, and had tumbled up in the world on the strength of his own audacity. but, such as he was, he had sufficed to give the necessary impetus for rolling augustus melmotte onwards into almost unprecedented commercial greatness. when mr. melmotte took his offices in abchurch lane, he was undoubtedly a great man, but nothing so great as when the south central pacific and mexican railway had become not only an established fact, but a fact established in abchurch lane. the great company indeed had an office of its own, where the board was held; but everything was really managed in mr. melmotte's own commercial sanctum. obeying, no doubt, some inscrutable law of commerce, the grand enterprise,--"perhaps the grandest when you consider the amount of territory manipulated, which has ever opened itself before the eyes of a great commercial people," as mr. fisker with his peculiar eloquence observed through his nose, about this time to a meeting of shareholders at san francisco,--had swung itself across from california to london, turning itself to the centre of the commercial world as the needle turns to the pole, till mr. fisker almost regretted the deed which himself had done. and melmotte was not only the head, but the body also, and the feet of it all. the shares seemed to be all in melmotte's pocket, so that he could distribute them as he would; and it seemed also that when distributed and sold, and when bought again and sold again, they came back to melmotte's pocket. men were contented to buy their shares and to pay their money, simply on melmotte's word. sir felix had realised a large portion of his winnings at cards,--with commendable prudence for one so young and extravagant,--and had brought his savings to the great man. the great man had swept the earnings of the beargarden into his till, and had told sir felix that the shares were his. sir felix had been not only contented, but supremely happy. he could now do as paul montague was doing,--and lord alfred grendall. he could realize a perennial income, buying and selling. it was only after the reflection of a day or two that he found that he had as yet got nothing to sell. it was not only sir felix that was admitted into these good things after this fashion. sir felix was but one among hundreds. in the meantime the bills in grosvenor square were no doubt paid with punctuality,--and these bills must have been stupendous. the very servants were as tall, as gorgeous, almost as numerous, as the servants of royalty,--and remunerated by much higher wages. there were four coachmen with egregious wigs, and eight footmen, not one with a circumference of calf less than eighteen inches. and now there appeared a paragraph in the "morning breakfast table," and another appeared in the "evening pulpit," telling the world that mr. melmotte had bought pickering park, the magnificent sussex property of adolphus longestaffe, esq., of caversham. and it was so. the father and son who never had agreed before, and who now had come to no agreement in the presence of each other, had each considered that their affairs would be safe in the hands of so great a man as mr. melmotte, and had been brought to terms. the purchase-money, which was large, was to be divided between them. the thing was done with the greatest ease,--there being no longer any delay as is the case when small people are at work. the magnificence of mr. melmotte affected even the longestaffe lawyers. were i to buy a little property, some humble cottage with a garden,--or you, o reader, unless you be magnificent,--the money to the last farthing would be wanted, or security for the money more than sufficient, before we should be able to enter in upon our new home. but money was the very breath of melmotte's nostrils, and therefore his breath was taken for money. pickering was his, and before a week was over a london builder had collected masons and carpenters by the dozen down at chichester, and was at work upon the house to make it fit to be a residence for madame melmotte. there were rumours that it was to be made ready for the goodwood week, and that the melmotte entertainment during that festival would rival the duke's. but there was still much to be done in london before the goodwood week should come round in all of which mr. melmotte was concerned, and of much of which mr. melmotte was the very centre. a member for westminster had succeeded to a peerage, and thus a seat was vacated. it was considered to be indispensable to the country that mr. melmotte should go into parliament, and what constituency could such a man as melmotte so fitly represent as one combining as westminster does all the essences of the metropolis? there was the popular element, the fashionable element, the legislative element, the legal element, and the commercial element. melmotte undoubtedly was the man for westminster. his thorough popularity was evinced by testimony which perhaps was never before given in favour of any candidate for any county or borough. in westminster there must of course be a contest. a seat for westminster is a thing not to be abandoned by either political party without a struggle. but, at the beginning of the affair, when each party had to seek the most suitable candidate which the country could supply, each party put its hand upon melmotte. and when the seat, and the battle for the seat, were suggested to melmotte, then for the first time was that great man forced to descend from the altitudes on which his mind generally dwelt, and to decide whether he would enter parliament as a conservative or a liberal. he was not long in convincing himself that the conservative element in british society stood the most in need of that fiscal assistance which it would be in his province to give; and on the next day every hoarding in london declared to the world that melmotte was the conservative candidate for westminster. it is needless to say that his committee was made up of peers, bankers, and publicans, with all that absence of class prejudice for which the party has become famous since the ballot was introduced among us. some unfortunate liberal was to be made to run against him, for the sake of the party; but the odds were ten to one on melmotte. this no doubt was a great matter,--this affair of the seat; but the dinner to be given to the emperor of china was much greater. it was the middle of june, and the dinner was to be given on monday, th july, now three weeks hence;--but all london was already talking of it. the great purport proposed was to show to the emperor by this banquet what an english merchant-citizen of london could do. of course there was a great amount of scolding and a loud clamour on the occasion. some men said that melmotte was not a citizen of london, others that he was not a merchant, others again that he was not an englishman. but no man could deny that he was both able and willing to spend the necessary money; and as this combination of ability and will was the chief thing necessary, they who opposed the arrangement could only storm and scold. on the th of june the tradesmen were at work, throwing up a building behind, knocking down walls, and generally transmuting the house in grosvenor square in such a fashion that two hundred guests might be able to sit down to dinner in the dining-room of a british merchant. but who were to be the two hundred? it used to be the case that when a gentleman gave a dinner he asked his own guests;--but when affairs become great, society can hardly be carried on after that simple fashion. the emperor of china could not be made to sit at table without english royalty, and english royalty must know whom it has to meet,--must select at any rate some of its comrades. the minister of the day also had his candidates for the dinner,--in which arrangement there was however no private patronage, as the list was confined to the cabinet and their wives. the prime minister took some credit to himself in that he would not ask for a single ticket for a private friend. but the opposition as a body desired their share of seats. melmotte had elected to stand for westminster on the conservative interest, and was advised that he must insist on having as it were a conservative cabinet present, with its conservative wives. he was told that he owed it to his party, and that his party exacted payment of the debt. but the great difficulty lay with the city merchants. this was to be a city merchant's private feast, and it was essential that the emperor should meet this great merchant's brother merchants at the merchant's board. no doubt the emperor would see all the merchants at the guildhall; but that would be a semi-public affair, paid for out of the funds of a corporation. this was to be a private dinner. now the lord mayor had set his face against it, and what was to be done? meetings were held; a committee was appointed; merchant guests were selected, to the number of fifteen with their fifteen wives;--and subsequently the lord mayor was made a baronet on the occasion of receiving the emperor in the city. the emperor with his suite was twenty. royalty had twenty tickets, each ticket for guest and wife. the existing cabinet was fourteen; but the coming was numbered at about eleven only;--each one for self and wife. five ambassadors and five ambassadresses were to be asked. there were to be fifteen real merchants out of the city. ten great peers,--with their peeresses,--were selected by the general committee of management. there were to be three wise men, two poets, three independent members of the house of commons, two royal academicians, three editors of papers, an african traveller who had just come home, and a novelist;--but all these latter gentlemen were expected to come as bachelors. three tickets were to be kept over for presentation to bores endowed with a power of making themselves absolutely unendurable if not admitted at the last moment,--and ten were left for the giver of the feast and his own family and friends. it is often difficult to make things go smooth,--but almost all roughnesses may be smoothed at last with patience and care, and money and patronage. but the dinner was not to be all. eight hundred additional tickets were to be issued for madame melmotte's evening entertainment, and the fight for these was more internecine than for seats at the dinner. the dinner-seats, indeed, were handled in so statesmanlike a fashion that there was not much visible fighting about them. royalty manages its affairs quietly. the existing cabinet was existing, and though there were two or three members of it who could not have got themselves elected at a single unpolitical club in london, they had a right to their seats at melmotte's table. what disappointed ambition there might be among conservative candidates was never known to the public. those gentlemen do not wash their dirty linen in public. the ambassadors of course were quiet, but we may be sure that the minister from the united states was among the favoured five. the city bankers and bigwigs, as has been already said, were at first unwilling to be present, and therefore they who were not chosen could not afterwards express their displeasure. no grumbling was heard among the peers, and that which came from the peeresses floated down into the current of the great fight about the evening entertainment. the poet laureate was of course asked, and the second poet was as much a matter of course. only two academicians had in this year painted royalty, so that there was no ground for jealousy there. there were three, and only three, specially insolent and specially disagreeable independent members of parliament at that time in the house, and there was no difficulty in selecting them. the wise men were chosen by their age. among editors of newspapers there was some ill-blood. that mr. alf and mr. broune should be selected was almost a matter of course. they were hated accordingly, but still this was expected. but why was mr. booker there? was it because he had praised the prime minister's translation of catullus? the african traveller chose himself by living through all his perils and coming home. a novelist was selected; but as royalty wanted another ticket at the last moment, the gentleman was only asked to come in after dinner. his proud heart, however, resented the treatment, and he joined amicably with his literary brethren in decrying the festival altogether. we should be advancing too rapidly into this portion of our story were we to concern ourselves deeply at the present moment with the feud as it raged before the evening came round, but it may be right to indicate that the desire for tickets at last became a burning passion, and a passion which in the great majority of cases could not be indulged. the value of the privilege was so great that madame melmotte thought that she was doing almost more than friendship called for when she informed her guest, miss longestaffe, that unfortunately there would be no seat for her at the dinner-table; but that, as payment for her loss, she should receive an evening ticket for herself and a joint ticket for a gentleman and his wife. georgiana was at first indignant, but she accepted the compromise. what she did with her tickets shall be hereafter told. from all this i trust it will be understood that the mr. melmotte of the present hour was a very different man from that mr. melmotte who was introduced to the reader in the early chapters of this chronicle. royalty was not to be smuggled in and out of his house now without his being allowed to see it. no manoeuvres now were necessary to catch a simple duchess. duchesses were willing enough to come. lord alfred when he was called by his christian name felt no aristocratic twinges. he was only too anxious to make himself more and more necessary to the great man. it is true that all this came as it were by jumps, so that very often a part of the world did not know on what ledge in the world the great man was perched at that moment. miss longestaffe who was staying in the house did not at all know how great a man her host was. lady monogram when she refused to go to grosvenor square, or even to allow any one to come out of the house in grosvenor square to her parties, was groping in outer darkness. madame melmotte did not know. marie melmotte did not know. the great man did not quite know himself where, from time to time, he was standing. but the world at large knew. the world knew that mr. melmotte was to be member for westminster, that mr. melmotte was to entertain the emperor of china, that mr. melmotte carried the south central pacific and mexican railway in his pocket;--and the world worshipped mr. melmotte. in the meantime mr. melmotte was much troubled about his private affairs. he had promised his daughter to lord nidderdale, and as he rose in the world had lowered the price which he offered for this marriage,--not so much in the absolute amount of fortune to be ultimately given, as in the manner of giving it. fifteen thousand a year was to be settled on marie and on her eldest son, and twenty thousand pounds were to be paid into nidderdale's hands six months after the marriage. melmotte gave his reasons for not paying this sum at once. nidderdale would be more likely to be quiet, if he were kept waiting for that short time. melmotte was to purchase and furnish for them a house in town. it was, too, almost understood that the young people were to have pickering park for themselves, except for a week or so at the end of july. it was absolutely given out in the papers that pickering was to be theirs. it was said on all sides that nidderdale was doing very well for himself. the absolute money was not perhaps so great as had been at first asked; but then, at that time, melmotte was not the strong rock, the impregnable tower of commerce, the very navel of the commercial enterprise of the world,--as all men now regarded him. nidderdale's father, and nidderdale himself, were, in the present condition of things, content with a very much less stringent bargain than that which they had endeavoured at first to exact. but, in the midst of all this, marie, who had at one time consented at her father's instance to accept the young lord, and who in some speechless fashion had accepted him, told both the young lord and her father, very roundly, that she had changed her mind. her father scowled at her and told her that her mind in the matter was of no concern. he intended that she should marry lord nidderdale, and himself fixed some day in august for the wedding. "it is no use, father, for i will never have him," said marie. "is it about that other scamp?" he asked angrily. "if you mean sir felix carbury, it is about him. he has been to you and told you, and therefore i don't know why i need hold my tongue." "you'll both starve, my lady; that's all." marie however was not so wedded to the grandeur which she encountered in grosvenor square as to be afraid of the starvation which she thought she might have to suffer if married to sir felix carbury. melmotte had not time for any long discussion. as he left her he took hold of her and shook her. "by ----," he said, "if you run rusty after all i've done for you, i'll make you suffer. you little fool; that man's a beggar. he hasn't the price of a petticoat or a pair of stockings. he's looking only for what you haven't got, and shan't have if you marry him. he wants money, not you, you little fool!" but after that she was quite settled in her purpose when nidderdale spoke to her. they had been engaged and then it had been off;--and now the young nobleman, having settled everything with the father, expected no great difficulty in resettling everything with the girl. he was not very skilful at making love,--but he was thoroughly good-humoured, from his nature anxious to please, and averse to give pain. there was hardly any injury which he could not forgive, and hardly any kindness which he would not do,--so that the labour upon himself was not too great. "well, miss melmotte," he said; "governors are stern beings: are they not?" "is yours stern, my lord?" "what i mean is that sons and daughters have to obey them. i think you understand what i mean. i was awfully spoony on you that time before; i was indeed." "i hope it didn't hurt you much, lord nidderdale." "that's so like a woman; that is. you know well enough that you and i can't marry without leave from the governors." "nor with it," said marie, nodding her head. "i don't know how that may be. there was some hitch somewhere,--i don't quite know where."--the hitch had been with himself, as he demanded ready money. "but it's all right now. the old fellows are agreed. can't we make a match of it, miss melmotte?" "no, lord nidderdale; i don't think we can." "do you mean that?" "i do mean it. when that was going on before i knew nothing about it. i have seen more of things since then." "and you've seen somebody you like better than me?" "i say nothing about that, lord nidderdale. i don't think you ought to blame me, my lord." "oh dear no." "there was something before, but it was you that was off first. wasn't it now?" "the governors were off, i think." "the governors have a right to be off, i suppose. but i don't think any governor has a right to make anybody marry any one." "i agree with you there;--i do indeed," said lord nidderdale. "and no governor shall make me marry. i've thought a great deal about it since that other time, and that's what i've come to determine." "but i don't know why you shouldn't--just marry me--because you--like me." "only,--just because i don't. well; i do like you, lord nidderdale." "thanks;--so much!" "i like you ever so,--only marrying a person is different." "there's something in that to be sure." "and i don't mind telling you," said marie with an almost solemn expression on her countenance, "because you are good-natured and won't get me into a scrape if you can help it, that i do like somebody else;--oh, so much." "i supposed that was it." "that is it." "it's a deuced pity. the governors had settled everything, and we should have been awfully jolly. i'd have gone in for all the things you go in for; and though your governor was screwing us up a bit, there would have been plenty of tin to go on with. you couldn't think of it again?" "i tell you, my lord, i'm--in love." "oh, ah;--yes. so you were saying. it's an awful bore. that's all. i shall come to the party all the same if you send me a ticket." and so nidderdale took his dismissal, and went away,--not however without an idea that the marriage would still come off. there was always,--so he thought,--such a bother about things before they would get themselves fixed. this happened some days after mr. broune's proposal to lady carbury, more than a week since marie had seen sir felix. as soon as lord nidderdale was gone she wrote again to sir felix begging that she might hear from him,--and entrusted her letter to didon. chapter xxxvi. mr. broune's perils. lady carbury had allowed herself two days for answering mr. broune's proposition. it was made on tuesday night and she was bound by her promise to send a reply some time on thursday. but early on the wednesday morning she had made up her mind; and at noon on that day her letter was written. she had spoken to hetta about the man, and she had seen that hetta had disliked him. she was not disposed to be much guided by hetta's opinion. in regard to her daughter she was always influenced by a vague idea that hetta was an unnecessary trouble. there was an excellent match ready for her if she would only accept it. there was no reason why hetta should continue to add herself to the family burden. she never said this even to herself,--but she felt it, and was not therefore inclined to consult hetta's comfort on this occasion. but nevertheless, what her daughter said had its effect. she had encountered the troubles of one marriage, and they had been very bad. she did not look upon that marriage as a mistake,--having even up to this day a consciousness that it had been the business of her life, as a portionless girl, to obtain maintenance and position at the expense of suffering and servility. but that had been done. the maintenance was, indeed, again doubtful, because of her son's vices; but it might so probably be again secured,--by means of her son's beauty! hetta had said that mr. broune liked his own way. had not she herself found that all men liked their own way? and she liked her own way. she liked the comfort of a home to herself. personally she did not want the companionship of a husband. and what scenes would there be between felix and the man! and added to all this there was something within her, almost amounting to conscience, which told her that it was not right that she should burden any one with the responsibility and inevitable troubles of such a son as her son felix. what would she do were her husband to command her to separate herself from her son? in such circumstances she would certainly separate herself from her husband. having considered these things deeply, she wrote as follows to mr. broune:-- dearest friend, i need not tell you that i have thought much of your generous and affectionate offer. how could i refuse such a prospect as you offer me without much thought? i regard your career as the most noble which a man's ambition can achieve. and in that career no one is your superior. i cannot but be proud that such a one as you should have asked me to be his wife. but, my friend, life is subject to wounds which are incurable, and my life has been so wounded. i have not strength left me to make my heart whole enough to be worthy of your acceptance. i have been so cut and scotched and lopped by the sufferings which i have endured that i am best alone. it cannot all be described;--and yet with you i would have no reticence. i would put the whole history before you to read, with all my troubles past and still present, all my hopes, and all my fears,--with every circumstance as it has passed by and every expectation that remains, were it not that the poor tale would be too long for your patience. the result of it would be to make you feel that i am no longer fit to enter in upon a new home. i should bring showers instead of sunshine, melancholy in lieu of mirth. i will, however, be bold enough to assure you that could i bring myself to be the wife of any man i would now become your wife. but i shall never marry again. nevertheless, i am your most affectionate friend, matilda carbury. about six o'clock in the afternoon she sent this letter to mr. broune's rooms in pall mall east, and then sat for awhile alone,--full of regrets. she had thrown away from her a firm footing which would certainly have served her for her whole life. even at this moment she was in debt,--and did not know how to pay her debts without mortgaging her life income. she longed for some staff on which she could lean. she was afraid of the future. when she would sit with her paper before her, preparing her future work for the press, copying a bit here and a bit there, inventing historical details, dovetailing her chronicle, her head would sometimes seem to be going round as she remembered the unpaid baker, and her son's horses, and his unmeaning dissipation, and all her doubts about the marriage. as regarded herself, mr. broune would have made her secure,--but that now was all over. poor woman! this at any rate may be said for her,--that had she accepted the man her regrets would have been as deep. mr. broune's feelings were more decided in their tone than those of the lady. he had not made his offer without consideration, and yet from the very moment in which it had been made he repented it. that gently sarcastic appellation by which lady carbury had described him to herself when he had kissed her best explained that side of mr. broune's character which showed itself in this matter. he was a susceptible old goose. had she allowed him to kiss her without objection, the kissing might probably have gone on; and, whatever might have come of it, there would have been no offer of marriage. he had believed that her little manoeuvres had indicated love on her part, and he had felt himself constrained to reciprocate the passion. she was beautiful in his eyes. she was bright. she wore her clothes like a lady; and,--if it was written in the book of the fates that some lady was to sit at the top of his table,--lady carbury would look as well there as any other. she had repudiated the kiss, and therefore he had felt himself bound to obtain for himself the right to kiss her. the offer had no sooner been made than he met her son reeling in, drunk, at the front door. as he made his escape the lad had insulted him. this, perhaps, helped to open his eyes. when he woke the next morning, or rather late in the next day, after his night's work, he was no longer able to tell himself that the world was all right with him. who does not know that sudden thoughtfulness at waking, that first matutinal retrospection, and pro-spection, into things as they have been and are to be; and the lowness of heart, the blankness of hope which follows the first remembrance of some folly lately done, some word ill-spoken, some money misspent,--or perhaps a cigar too much, or a glass of brandy and soda-water which he should have left untasted? and when things have gone well, how the waker comforts himself among the bedclothes as he claims for himself to be whole all over, teres atque rotundus,--so to have managed his little affairs that he has to fear no harm, and to blush inwardly at no error! mr. broune, the way of whose life took him among many perils, who in the course of his work had to steer his bark among many rocks, was in the habit of thus auditing his daily account as he shook off sleep about noon,--for such was his lot, that he seldom was in bed before four or five in the morning. on this wednesday he found that he could not balance his sheet comfortably. he had taken a very great step and he feared that he had not taken it with wisdom. as he drank the cup of tea with which his servant supplied him while he was yet in bed, he could not say of himself, teres atque rotundus, as he was wont to do when things were well with him. everything was to be changed. as he lit a cigarette he bethought himself that lady carbury would not like him to smoke in her bedroom. then he remembered other things. "i'll be d---- if he shall live in my house," he said to himself. and there was no way out of it. it did not occur to the man that his offer could be refused. during the whole of that day he went about among his friends in a melancholy fashion, saying little snappish uncivil things at the club, and at last dining by himself with about fifteen newspapers around him. after dinner he did not speak a word to any man, but went early to the office of the newspaper in trafalgar square at which he did his nightly work. here he was lapped in comforts,--if the best of chairs, of sofas, of writing tables, and of reading lamps can make a man comfortable who has to read nightly thirty columns of a newspaper, or at any rate to make himself responsible for their contents. he seated himself to his work like a man, but immediately saw lady carbury's letter on the table before him. it was his custom when he did not dine at home to have such documents brought to him at his office as had reached his home during his absence;--and here was lady carbury's letter. he knew her writing well, and was aware that here was the confirmation of his fate. it had not been expected, as she had given herself another day for her answer,--but here it was, beneath his hand. surely this was almost unfeminine haste. he chucked the letter, unopened, a little from him, and endeavoured to fix his attention on some printed slip that was ready for him. for some ten minutes his eyes went rapidly down the lines, but he found that his mind did not follow what he was reading. he struggled again, but still his thoughts were on the letter. he did not wish to open it, having some vague idea that, till the letter should have been read, there was a chance of escape. the letter would not become due to be read till the next day. it should not have been there now to tempt his thoughts on this night. but he could do nothing while it lay there. "it shall be a part of the bargain that i shall never have to see him," he said to himself, as he opened it. the second line told him that the danger was over. when he had read so far he stood up with his back to the fire-place, leaving the letter on the table. then, after all, the woman wasn't in love with him! but that was a reading of the affair which he could hardly bring himself to look upon as correct. the woman had shown her love by a thousand signs. there was no doubt, however, that she now had her triumph. a woman always has a triumph when she rejects a man,--and more especially when she does so at a certain time of life. would she publish her triumph? mr. broune would not like to have it known about among brother editors, or by the world at large, that he had offered to marry lady carbury and that lady carbury had refused him. he had escaped; but the sweetness of his present safety was not in proportion to the bitterness of his late fears. he could not understand why lady carbury should have refused him! as he reflected upon it, all memory of her son for the moment passed away from him. full ten minutes had passed, during which he had still stood upon the rug, before he read the entire letter. "'cut and scotched and lopped!' i suppose she has been," he said to himself. he had heard much of sir patrick, and knew well that the old general had been no lamb. "i shouldn't have cut her, or scotched her, or lopped her." when he had read the whole letter patiently there crept upon him gradually a feeling of admiration for her, greater than he had ever yet felt,--and, for awhile, he almost thought that he would renew his offer to her. "'showers instead of sunshine; melancholy instead of mirth,'" he repeated to himself. "i should have done the best for her, taking the showers and the melancholy if they were necessary." he went to his work in a mixed frame of mind, but certainly without that dragging weight which had oppressed him when he entered the room. gradually, through the night, he realised the conviction that he had escaped, and threw from him altogether the idea of repeating his offer. before he left he wrote her a line-- be it so. it need not break our friendship. n. b. this he sent by a special messenger, who returned with a note to his lodgings long before he was up on the following morning. no;--no; certainly not. no word of this will ever pass my mouth. m. c. mr. broune thought that he was very well out of the danger, and resolved that lady carbury should never want anything that his friendship could do for her. chapter xxxvii. the board-room. on friday, the st june, the board of the south central pacific and mexican railway sat in its own room behind the exchange, as was the board's custom every friday. on this occasion all the members were there, as it had been understood that the chairman was to make a special statement. there was the great chairman as a matter of course. in the midst of his numerous and immense concerns he never threw over the railway, or delegated to other less experienced hands those cares which the commercial world had intrusted to his own. lord alfred was there, with mr. cohenlupe, the hebrew gentleman, and paul montague, and lord nidderdale,--and even sir felix carbury. sir felix had come, being very anxious to buy and sell, and not as yet having had an opportunity of realising his golden hopes, although he had actually paid a thousand pounds in hard money into mr. melmotte's hands. the secretary, mr. miles grendall, was also present as a matter of course. the board always met at three, and had generally been dissolved at a quarter past three. lord alfred and mr. cohenlupe sat at the chairman's right and left hand. paul montague generally sat immediately below, with miles grendall opposite to him;--but on this occasion the young lord and the young baronet took the next places. it was a nice little family party, the great chairman with his two aspiring sons-in-law, his two particular friends,--the social friend, lord alfred, and the commercial friend mr. cohenlupe,--and miles, who was lord alfred's son. it would have been complete in its friendliness, but for paul montague, who had lately made himself disagreeable to mr. melmotte;--and most ungratefully so, for certainly no one had been allowed so free a use of the shares as the younger member of the house of fisker, montague, and montague. [illustration: the board-room.] it was understood that mr. melmotte was to make a statement. lord nidderdale and sir felix had conceived that this was to be done as it were out of the great man's own heart, of his own wish, so that something of the condition of the company might be made known to the directors of the company. but this was not perhaps exactly the truth. paul montague had insisted on giving vent to certain doubts at the last meeting but one, and, having made himself very disagreeable indeed, had forced this trouble on the great chairman. on the intermediate friday the chairman had made himself very unpleasant to paul, and this had seemed to be an effort on his part to frighten the inimical director out of his opposition, so that the promise of a statement need not be fulfilled. what nuisance can be so great to a man busied with immense affairs, as to have to explain,--or to attempt to explain,--small details to men incapable of understanding them? but montague had stood to his guns. he had not intended, he said, to dispute the commercial success of the company. but he felt very strongly, and he thought that his brother directors should feel as strongly, that it was necessary that they should know more than they did know. lord alfred had declared that he did not in the least agree with his brother director. "if anybody don't understand, it's his own fault," said mr. cohenlupe. but paul would not give way, and it was understood that mr. melmotte would make a statement. the "boards" were always commenced by the reading of a certain record of the last meeting out of a book. this was always done by miles grendall; and the record was supposed to have been written by him. but montague had discovered that this statement in the book was always prepared and written by a satellite of melmotte's from abchurch lane who was never present at the meeting. the adverse director had spoken to the secretary,--it will be remembered that they were both members of the beargarden,--and miles had given a somewhat evasive reply. "a cussed deal of trouble and all that, you know! he's used to it, and it's what he's meant for. i'm not going to flurry myself about stuff of that kind." montague after this had spoken on the subject both to nidderdale and felix carbury. "he couldn't do it, if it was ever so," nidderdale had said. "i don't think i'd bully him if i were you. he gets £ a-year, and if you knew all he owes, and all he hasn't got, you wouldn't try to rob him of it." with felix carbury montague had as little success. sir felix hated the secretary, had detected him cheating at cards, had resolved to expose him,--and had then been afraid to do so. he had told dolly longestaffe, and the reader will perhaps remember with what effect. he had not mentioned the affair again, and had gradually fallen back into the habit of playing at the club. loo, however, had given way to whist, and sir felix had satisfied himself with the change. he still meditated some dreadful punishment for miles grendall, but, in the meantime, felt himself unable to oppose him at the board. since the day at which the aces had been manipulated at the club he had not spoken to miles grendall except in reference to the affairs of the whist-table. the "board" was now commenced as usual. miles read the short record out of the book,--stumbling over every other word, and going through the performance so badly that had there been anything to understand no one could have understood it. "gentlemen," said mr. melmotte, in his usual hurried way, "is it your pleasure that i shall sign the record?" paul montague rose to say that it was not his pleasure that the record should be signed. but melmotte had made his scrawl, and was deep in conversation with mr. cohenlupe before paul could get upon his legs. melmotte, however, had watched the little struggle. melmotte, whatever might be his faults, had eyes to see and ears to hear. he perceived that montague had made a little struggle and had been cowed; and he knew how hard it is for one man to persevere against five or six, and for a young man to persevere against his elders. nidderdale was filliping bits of paper across the table at carbury. miles grendall was poring over the book which was in his charge. lord alfred sat back in his chair, the picture of a model director, with his right hand within his waistcoat. he looked aristocratic, respectable, and almost commercial. in that room he never by any chance opened his mouth, except when called on to say that mr. melmotte was right, and was considered by the chairman really to earn his money. melmotte for a minute or two went on conversing with cohenlupe, having perceived that montague for the moment was cowed. then paul put both his hands upon the table, intending to rise and ask some perplexing question. melmotte saw this also and was upon his legs before montague had risen from his chair. "gentlemen," said mr. melmotte, "it may perhaps be as well if i take this occasion of saying a few words to you about the affairs of the company." then, instead of going on with his statement, he sat down again, and began to turn over sundry voluminous papers very slowly, whispering a word or two every now and then to mr. cohenlupe. lord alfred never changed his posture and never took his hand from his breast. nidderdale and carbury filliped their paper pellets backwards and forwards. montague sat profoundly listening,--or ready to listen when anything should be said. as the chairman had risen from his chair to commence his statement, paul felt that he was bound to be silent. when a speaker is in possession of the floor, he is in possession even though he be somewhat dilatory in looking to his references, and whispering to his neighbour. and, when that speaker is a chairman, of course some additional latitude must be allowed to him. montague understood this, and sat silent. it seemed that melmotte had much to say to cohenlupe, and cohenlupe much to say to melmotte. since cohenlupe had sat at the board he had never before developed such powers of conversation. nidderdale didn't quite understand it. he had been there twenty minutes, was tired of his present amusement, having been unable to hit carbury on the nose, and suddenly remembered that the beargarden would now be open. he was no respecter of persons, and had got over any little feeling of awe with which the big table and the solemnity of the room may have first inspired him. "i suppose that's about all," he said, looking up at melmotte. "well;--perhaps as your lordship is in a hurry, and as my lord here is engaged elsewhere,"--turning round to lord alfred, who had not uttered a syllable or made a sign since he had been in his seat,--"we had better adjourn this meeting for another week." "i cannot allow that," said paul montague. "i suppose then we must take the sense of the board," said the chairman. "i have been discussing certain circumstances with our friend and chairman," said cohenlupe, "and i must say that it is not expedient just at present to go into matters too freely." "my lords and gentlemen," said melmotte. "i hope that you trust me." lord alfred bowed down to the table and muttered something which was intended to convey most absolute confidence. "hear, hear," said mr. cohenlupe. "all right," said lord nidderdale; "go on;" and he fired another pellet with improved success. "i trust," said the chairman, "that my young friend, sir felix, doubts neither my discretion nor my ability." "oh dear, no;--not at all," said the baronet, much flattered at being addressed in this kindly tone. he had come there with objects of his own, and was quite prepared to support the chairman on any matter whatever. "my lords and gentlemen," continued melmotte, "i am delighted to receive this expression of your confidence. if i know anything in the world i know something of commercial matters. i am able to tell you that we are prospering. i do not know that greater prosperity has ever been achieved in a shorter time by a commercial company. i think our friend here, mr. montague, should be as feelingly aware of that as any gentleman." "what do you mean by that, mr. melmotte?" asked paul. "what do i mean?--certainly nothing adverse to your character, sir. your firm in san francisco, sir, know very well how the affairs of the company are being transacted on this side of the water. no doubt you are in correspondence with mr. fisker. ask him. the telegraph wires are open to you, sir. but, my lords and gentlemen, i am able to inform you that in affairs of this nature great discretion is necessary. on behalf of the shareholders at large whose interests are in our hands, i think it expedient that any general statement should be postponed for a short time, and i flatter myself that in that opinion i shall carry the majority of this board with me." mr. melmotte did not make his speech very fluently; but, being accustomed to the place which he occupied, he did manage to get the words spoken in such a way as to make them intelligible to the company. "i now move that this meeting be adjourned to this day week," he added. "i second that motion," said lord alfred, without moving his hand from his breast. "i understood that we were to have a statement," said montague. "you've had a statement," said mr. cohenlupe. "i will put my motion to the vote," said the chairman. "i shall move an amendment," said paul, determined that he would not be altogether silenced. "there is nobody to second it," said mr. cohenlupe. "how do you know till i've made it?" asked the rebel. "i shall ask lord nidderdale to second it, and when he has heard it i think that he will not refuse." "oh, gracious me! why me? no;--don't ask me. i've got to go away. i have indeed." "at any rate i claim the right of saying a few words. i do not say whether every affair of this company should or should not be published to the world." "you'd break up everything if you did," said cohenlupe. "perhaps everything ought to be broken up. but i say nothing about that. what i do say is this. that as we sit here as directors and will be held to be responsible as such by the public, we ought to know what is being done. we ought to know where the shares really are. i for one do not even know what scrip has been issued." "you've bought and sold enough to know something about it," said melmotte. paul montague became very red in the face. "i, at any rate, began," he said, "by putting what was to me a large sum of money into the affair." "that's more than i know," said melmotte. "whatever shares you have, were issued at san francisco, and not here." "i have taken nothing that i haven't paid for," said montague. "nor have i yet had allotted to me anything like the number of shares which my capital would represent. but i did not intend to speak of my own concerns." "it looks very like it," said cohenlupe. "so far from it that i am prepared to risk the not improbable loss of everything i have in the world. i am determined to know what is being done with the shares, or to make it public to the world at large that i, one of the directors of the company, do not in truth know anything about it. i cannot, i suppose, absolve myself from further responsibility; but i can at any rate do what is right from this time forward,--and that course i intend to take." "the gentleman had better resign his seat at this board," said melmotte. "there will be no difficulty about that." "bound up as i am with fisker and montague in california i fear that there will be difficulty." "not in the least," continued the chairman. "you need only gazette your resignation and the thing is done. i had intended, gentlemen, to propose an addition to our number. when i name to you a gentleman, personally known to many of you, and generally esteemed throughout england as a man of business, as a man of probity, and as a man of fortune, a man standing deservedly high in all british circles, i mean mr. longestaffe of caversham--" "young dolly, or old?" asked lord nidderdale. "i mean mr. adolphus longestaffe, senior, of caversham. i am sure that you will all be glad to welcome him among you. i had thought to strengthen our number by this addition. but if mr. montague is determined to leave us,--and no one will regret the loss of his services so much as i shall,--it will be my pleasing duty to move that adolphus longestaffe, senior, esquire, of caversham, be requested to take his place. if on reconsideration mr. montague shall determine to remain with us,--and i for one most sincerely hope that such reconsideration may lead to such determination,--then i shall move that an additional director be added to our number, and that mr. longestaffe be requested to take the chair of that additional director." the latter speech mr. melmotte got through very glibly, and then immediately left the chair, so as to show that the business of the board was closed for that day without any possibility of reopening it. paul went up to him and took him by the sleeve, signifying that he wished to speak to him before they parted. "certainly," said the great man bowing. "carbury," he said, looking round on the young baronet with his blandest smile, "if you are not in a hurry, wait a moment for me. i have a word or two to say before you go. now, mr. montague, what can i do for you?" paul began his story, expressing again the opinion which he had already very plainly expressed at the table. but melmotte stopped him very shortly, and with much less courtesy than he had shown in the speech which he had made from the chair. "the thing is about this way, i take it, mr. montague;--you think you know more of this matter than i do." "not at all, mr. melmotte." "and i think that i know more of it than you do. either of us may be right. but as i don't intend to give way to you, perhaps the less we speak together about it the better. you can't be in earnest in the threat you made, because you would be making public things communicated to you under the seal of privacy,--and no gentleman would do that. but as long as you are hostile to me, i can't help you;--and so good afternoon." then, without giving montague the possibility of a reply, he escaped into an inner room which had the word "private" painted on the door, and which was supposed to belong to the chairman individually. he shut the door behind him, and then, after a few moments, put out his head and beckoned to sir felix carbury. nidderdale was gone. lord alfred with his son were already on the stairs. cohenlupe was engaged with melmotte's clerk on the record-book. paul montague finding himself without support and alone, slowly made his way out into the court. sir felix had come into the city intending to suggest to the chairman that having paid his thousand pounds he should like to have a few shares to go on with. he was, indeed, at the present moment very nearly penniless, and had negotiated, or lost at cards, all the i.o.u.'s which were in any degree serviceable. he still had a pocket-book full of those issued by miles grendall; but it was now an understood thing at the beargarden that no one was to be called upon to take them except miles grendall himself;--an arrangement which robbed the card-table of much of its delight. beyond this, also, he had lately been forced to issue a little paper himself,--in doing which he had talked largely of his shares in the railway. his case certainly was hard. he had actually paid a thousand pounds down in hard cash, a commercial transaction which, as performed by himself, he regarded as stupendous. it was almost incredible to himself that he should have paid any one a thousand pounds, but he had done it with much difficulty,--having carried dolly junior with him all the way into the city,--in the belief that he would thus put himself in the way of making a continual and unfailing income. he understood that as a director he would be always entitled to buy shares at par, and, as a matter of course, always able to sell them at the market price. this he understood to range from ten to fifteen and twenty per cent. profit. he would have nothing to do but to buy and sell daily. he was told that lord alfred was allowed to do it to a small extent; and that melmotte was doing it to an enormous extent. but before he could do it he must get something,--he hardly knew what,--out of melmotte's hands. melmotte certainly did not seem disposed to shun him, and therefore there could be no difficulty about the shares. as to danger;--who could think of danger in reference to money intrusted to the hands of augustus melmotte? "i am delighted to see you here," said melmotte, shaking him cordially by the hand. "you come regularly, and you'll find that it will be worth your while. there's nothing like attending to business. you should be here every friday." "i will," said the baronet. "and let me see you sometimes up at my place in abchurch lane. i can put you more in the way of understanding things there than i can here. this is all a mere formal sort of thing. you can see that." "oh yes, i see that." "we are obliged to have this kind of thing for men like that fellow montague. by-the-bye, is he a friend of yours?" "not particularly. he is a friend of a cousin of mine; and the women know him at home. he isn't a pal of mine if you mean that." "if he makes himself disagreeable, he'll have to go to the wall;--that's all. but never mind him at present. was your mother speaking to you of what i said to her?" "no, mr. melmotte," said sir felix, staring with all his eyes. "i was talking to her about you, and i thought that perhaps she might have told you. this is all nonsense, you know, about you and marie." sir felix looked into the man's face. it was not savage, as he had seen it. but there had suddenly come upon his brow that heavy look of a determined purpose which all who knew the man were wont to mark. sir felix had observed it a few minutes since in the board-room, when the chairman was putting down the rebellious director. "you understand that; don't you?" sir felix still looked at him, but made no reply. "it's all d---- nonsense. you haven't got a brass farthing, you know. you've no income at all; you're just living on your mother, and i'm afraid she's not very well off. how can you suppose that i shall give my girl to you?" felix still looked at him but did not dare to contradict a single statement made. yet when the man told him that he had not a brass farthing he thought of his own thousand pounds which were now in the man's pocket. "you're a baronet, and that's about all, you know," continued melmotte. "the carbury property, which is a very small thing, belongs to a distant cousin who may leave it to me if he pleases;--and who isn't very much older than you are yourself." "oh, come, mr. melmotte; he's a great deal older than me." "it wouldn't matter if he were as old as adam. the thing is out of the question, and you must drop it." then the look on his brow became a little heavier. "you hear what i say. she is going to marry lord nidderdale. she was engaged to him before you ever saw her. what do you expect to get by it?" sir felix had not the courage to say that he expected to get the girl he loved. but as the man waited for an answer he was obliged to say something. "i suppose it's the old story," he said. "just so;--the old story. you want my money, and she wants you, just because she has been told to take somebody else. you want something to live on;--that's what you want. come;--out with it. is not that it? when we understand each other i'll put you in the way of making money." "of course i'm not very well off," said felix. "about as badly as any young man that i can hear of. you give me your written promise that you'll drop this affair with marie, and you shan't want for money." "a written promise!" "yes;--a written promise. i give nothing for nothing. i'll put you in the way of doing so well with these shares that you shall be able to marry any other girl you please;--or to live without marrying, which you'll find to be better." there was something worthy of consideration in mr. melmotte's proposition. marriage of itself, simply as a domestic institution, had not specially recommended itself to sir felix carbury. a few horses at leighton, ruby ruggles or any other beauty, and life at the beargarden were much more to his taste. and then he was quite alive to the fact that it was possible that he might find himself possessed of the wife without the money. marie, indeed, had a grand plan of her own, with reference to that settled income; but then marie might be mistaken,--or she might be lying. if he were sure of making money in the way melmotte now suggested, the loss of marie would not break his heart. but then also melmotte might be--lying. "by-the-bye, mr. melmotte," said he, "could you let me have those shares?" "what shares?" and the heavy brow became still heavier. "don't you know?--i gave you a thousand pounds, and i was to have ten shares." "you must come about that on the proper day, to the proper place." "when is the proper day?" "it is the twentieth of each month i think." sir felix looked very blank at hearing this, knowing that this present was the twenty-first of the month. "but what does that signify? do you want a little money?" "well, i do," said sir felix. "a lot of fellows owe me money, but it's so hard to get it." "that tells a story of gambling," said mr. melmotte. "you think i'd give my girl to a gambler?" "nidderdale's in it quite as thick as i am." "nidderdale has a settled property which neither he nor his father can destroy. but don't you be such a fool as to argue with me. you won't get anything by it. if you'll write that letter here now--" "what;--to marie?" "no;--not to marie at all; but to me. it need never be shown to her. if you'll do that i'll stick to you and make a man of you. and if you want a couple of hundred pounds i'll give you a cheque for it before you leave the room. mind, i can tell you this. on my word of honour as a gentleman, if my daughter were to marry you, she'd never have a single shilling. i should immediately make a will and leave all my property to st. george's hospital. i have quite made up my mind about that." "and couldn't you manage that i should have the shares before the twentieth of next month?" "i'll see about it. perhaps i could let you have a few of my own. at any rate i won't see you short of money." the terms were enticing and the letter was of course written. melmotte himself dictated the words, which were not romantic in their nature. the reader shall see the letter. dear sir, in consideration of the offers made by you to me, and on a clear understanding that such a marriage would be disagreeable to you and to the lady's mother, and would bring down a father's curse upon your daughter, i hereby declare and promise that i will not renew my suit to the young lady, which i hereby altogether renounce. i am, dear sir, your obedient servant, felix carbury. augustus melmotte, esq., --, grosvenor square. the letter was dated st july, and bore the printed address of the offices of the south central pacific and mexican railway. "you'll give me that cheque for £ , mr. melmotte?" the financier hesitated for a moment, but did give the baronet the cheque as promised. "and you'll see about letting me have those shares?" "you can come to me in abchurch lane, you know." sir felix said that he would call in abchurch lane. as he went westward towards the beargarden, the baronet was not happy in his mind. ignorant as he was as to the duties of a gentleman, indifferent as he was to the feelings of others, still he felt ashamed of himself. he was treating the girl very badly. even he knew that he was behaving badly. he was so conscious of it that he tried to console himself by reflecting that his writing such a letter as that would not prevent his running away with the girl, should he, on consideration, find it to be worth his while to do so. that night he was again playing at the beargarden, and he lost a great part of mr. melmotte's money. he did in fact lose much more than the £ ; but when he found his ready money going from him he issued paper. chapter xxxviii. paul montague's troubles. paul montague had other troubles on his mind beyond this trouble of the mexican railway. it was now more than a fortnight since he had taken mrs. hurtle to the play, and she was still living in lodgings at islington. he had seen her twice, once on the following day, when he was allowed to come and go without any special reference to their engagement, and again, three or four days afterwards, when the meeting was by no means so pleasant. she had wept, and after weeping had stormed. she had stood upon what she called her rights, and had dared him to be false to her. did he mean to deny that he had promised to marry her? was not his conduct to her, ever since she had now been in london, a repetition of that promise? and then again she became soft, and pleaded with him. but for the storm he might have given way. at that moment he had felt that any fate in life would be better than a marriage on compulsion. her tears and her pleadings, nevertheless, touched him very nearly. he had promised her most distinctly. he had loved her and had won her love. and she was lovely. the very violence of the storm made the sunshine more sweet. she would sit down on a stool at his feet, and it was impossible to drive her away from him. she would look up in his face and he could not but embrace her. then there had come a passionate flood of tears and she was in his arms. how he had escaped he hardly knew, but he did know that he had promised to be with her again before two days should have passed. on the day named he wrote to her a letter excusing himself, which was at any rate true in words. he had been summoned, he said, to liverpool on business, and must postpone seeing her till his return. and he explained that the business on which he was called was connected with the great american railway, and, being important, demanded his attention. in words this was true. he had been corresponding with a gentleman at liverpool with whom he had become acquainted on his return home after having involuntarily become a partner in the house of fisker, montague, and montague. this man he trusted and had consulted, and the gentleman, mr. ramsbottom by name, had suggested that he should come to him at liverpool. he had gone, and his conduct at the board had been the result of the advice which he had received; but it may be doubted whether some dread of the coming interview with mrs. hurtle had not added strength to mr. ramsbottom's invitation. in liverpool he had heard tidings of mrs. hurtle, though it can hardly be said that he obtained any trustworthy information. the lady after landing from an american steamer had been at mr. ramsbottom's office, inquiring for him, paul; and mr. ramsbottom had thought that the inquiries were made in a manner indicating danger. he therefore had spoken to a fellow-traveller with mrs. hurtle, and the fellow-traveller had opined that mrs. hurtle was "a queer card." "on board ship we all gave it up to her that she was about the handsomest woman we had ever seen, but we all said that there was a bit of the wild cat in her breeding." then mr. ramsbottom had asked whether the lady was a widow. "there was a man on board from kansas," said the fellow-traveller, "who knew a man named hurtle at leavenworth, who was separated from his wife and is still alive. there was, according to him, a queer story about the man and his wife having fought a duel with pistols, and then having separated." this mr. ramsbottom, who in an earlier stage of the affair had heard something of paul and mrs. hurtle together, managed to communicate to the young man. his advice about the railway company was very clear and general, and such as an honest man would certainly give; but it might have been conveyed by letter. the information, such as it was, respecting mrs. hurtle, could only be given vivâ voce, and perhaps the invitation to liverpool had originated in mr. ramsbottom's appreciation of this fact. "as she was asking after you here, perhaps it is as well that you should know," his friend said to him. paul had only thanked him, not daring on the spur of the moment to speak of his own difficulties. in all this there had been increased dismay, but there had also been some comfort. it had only been at moments in which he had been subject to her softer influences that paul had doubted as to his adherence to the letter which he had written to her, breaking off his engagement. when she told him of her wrongs and of her love; of his promise and his former devotion to her; when she assured him that she had given up everything in life for him, and threw her arms round him, looking into his eyes;--then he would almost yield. but when, what the traveller called the breeding of the wild cat, showed itself;--and when, having escaped from her, he thought of hetta carbury and of her breeding,--he was fully determined that, let his fate be what it might, it should not be that of being the husband of mrs. hurtle. that he was in a mass of troubles from which it would be very difficult for him to extricate himself he was well aware;--but if it were true that mr. hurtle was alive, that fact might help him. she certainly had declared him to be,--not separated, or even divorced,--but dead. and if it were true also that she had fought a duel with one husband, that also ought to be a reason why a gentleman should object to become her second husband. these facts would at any rate justify himself to himself, and would enable himself to break from his engagement without thinking himself to be a false traitor. but he must make up his mind as to some line of conduct. she must be made to know the truth. if he meant to reject the lady finally on the score of her being a wild cat, he must tell her so. he felt very strongly that he must not flinch from the wild cat's claws. that he would have to undergo some severe handling, an amount of clawing which might perhaps go near his life, he could perceive. having done what he had done he would have no right to shrink from such usage. he must tell her to her face that he was not satisfied with her past life, and that therefore he would not marry her. of course he might write to her;--but when summoned to her presence he would be unable to excuse himself, even to himself, for not going. it was his misfortune,--and also his fault,--that he had submitted to be loved by a wild cat. but it might be well that before he saw her he should get hold of information that might have the appearance of real evidence. he returned from liverpool to london on the morning of the friday on which the board was held, and thought even more of all this than he did of the attack which he was prepared to make on mr. melmotte. if he could come across that traveller he might learn something. the husband's name had been caradoc carson hurtle. if caradoc carson hurtle had been seen in the state of kansas within the last two years, that certainly would be sufficient evidence. as to the duel he felt that it might be very hard to prove that, and that if proved, it might be hard to found upon the fact any absolute right on his part to withdraw from the engagement. but there was a rumour also, though not corroborated during his last visit to liverpool, that she had shot a gentleman in oregon. could he get at the truth of that story? if they were all true, surely he could justify himself to himself. but this detective's work was very distasteful to him. after having had the woman in his arms how could he undertake such inquiries as these? and it would be almost necessary that he should take her in his arms again while he was making them,--unless indeed he made them with her knowledge. was it not his duty, as a man, to tell everything to herself? to speak to her thus;--"i am told that your life with your last husband was, to say the least of it, eccentric; that you even fought a duel with him. i could not marry a woman who had fought a duel,--certainly not a woman who had fought with her own husband. i am told also that you shot another gentleman in oregon. it may well be that the gentleman deserved to be shot; but there is something in the deed so repulsive to me,--no doubt irrationally,--that, on that score also, i must decline to marry you. i am told also that mr. hurtle has been seen alive quite lately. i had understood from you that he is dead. no doubt you may have been deceived. but as i should not have engaged myself to you had i known the truth, so now i consider myself justified in absolving myself from an engagement which was based on a misconception." it would no doubt be difficult to get through all these details; but it might be accomplished gradually,--unless in the process of doing so he should incur the fate of the gentleman in oregon. at any rate he would declare to her as well as he could the ground on which he claimed a right to consider himself free, and would bear the consequences. such was the resolve which he made on his journey up from liverpool, and that trouble was also on his mind when he rose up to attack mr. melmotte single-handed at the board. when the board was over, he also went down to the beargarden. perhaps, with reference to the board, the feeling which hurt him most was the conviction that he was spending money which he would never have had to spend had there been no board. he had been twitted with this at the board-meeting, and had justified himself by referring to the money which had been invested in the company of fisker, montague, and montague, which money was now supposed to have been made over to the railway. but the money which he was spending had come to him after a loose fashion, and he knew that if called upon for an account, he could hardly make out one which would be square and intelligible to all parties. nevertheless he spent much of his time at the beargarden, dining there when no engagement carried him elsewhere. on this evening he joined his table with nidderdale's, at the young lord's instigation. "what made you so savage at old melmotte to-day?" said the young lord. "i didn't mean to be savage, but i think that as we call ourselves directors we ought to know something about it." "i suppose we ought. i don't know, you know. i'll tell you what i've been thinking. i can't make out why the mischief they made me a director." "because you're a lord," said paul bluntly. "i suppose there's something in that. but what good can i do them? nobody thinks that i know anything about business. of course i'm in parliament, but i don't often go there unless they want me to vote. everybody knows that i'm hard up. i can't understand it. the governor said that i was to do it, and so i've done it." "they say, you know,--there's something between you and melmotte's daughter." "but if there is, what has that to do with a railway in the city? and why should carbury be there? and, heaven and earth, why should old grendall be a director? i'm impecunious; but if you were to pick out the two most hopeless men in london in regard to money, they would be old grendall and young carbury. i've been thinking a good deal about it, and i can't make it out." "i have been thinking about it too," said paul. "i suppose old melmotte is all right?" asked nidderdale. this was a question which montague found it difficult to answer. how could he be justified in whispering suspicions to the man who was known to be at any rate one of the competitors for marie melmotte's hand? "you can speak out to me, you know," said nidderdale, nodding his head. "i've got nothing to speak. people say that he is about the richest man alive." "he lives as though he were." "i don't see why it shouldn't be all true. nobody, i take it, knows very much about him." when his companion had left him, nidderdale sat down, thinking of it all. it occurred to him that he would "be coming a cropper rather," were he to marry melmotte's daughter for her money, and then find that she had got none. a little later in the evening he invited montague to go up to the card-room. "carbury, and grasslough, and dolly longestaffe are there waiting," he said. but paul declined. he was too full of his troubles for play. "poor miles isn't there, if you're afraid of that," said nidderdale. "miles grendall wouldn't hinder me," said montague. "nor me either. of course it's a confounded shame. i know that as well as any body. but, god bless me, i owe a fellow down in leicestershire heaven knows how much for keeping horses, and that's a shame." "you'll pay him some day." "i suppose i shall,--if i don't die first. but i should have gone on with the horses just the same if there had never been anything to come;--only they wouldn't have given me tick, you know. as far as i'm concerned it's just the same. i like to live whether i've got money or not. and i fear i don't have many scruples about paying. but then i like to let live too. there's carbury always saying nasty things about poor miles. he's playing himself without a rap to back him. if he were to lose, vossner wouldn't stand him a £ note. but because he has won, he goes on as though he were old melmotte himself. you'd better come up." but montague wouldn't go up. without any fixed purpose he left the club, and slowly sauntered northwards through the streets till he found himself in welbeck street. he hardly knew why he went there, and certainly had not determined to call on lady carbury when he left the beargarden. his mind was full of mrs. hurtle. as long as she was present in london,--as long at any rate as he was unable to tell himself that he had finally broken away from her,--he knew himself to be an unfit companion for henrietta carbury. and, indeed, he was still under some promise made to roger carbury, not that he would avoid hetta's company, but that for a certain period, as yet unexpired, he would not ask her to be his wife. it had been a foolish promise, made and then repented without much attention to words;--but still it was existing, and paul knew well that roger trusted that it would be kept. nevertheless paul made his way up to welbeck street and almost unconsciously knocked at the door. no;--lady carbury was not at home. she was out somewhere with mr. roger carbury. up to that moment paul had not heard that roger was in town; but the reader may remember that he had come up in search of ruby ruggles. miss carbury was at home, the page went on to say. would mr. montague go up and see miss carbury? without much consideration mr. montague said that he would go up and see miss carbury. "mamma is out with roger," said hetta endeavouring to save herself from confusion. "there is a soirée of learned people somewhere, and she made poor roger take her. the ticket was only for her and her friend, and therefore i could not go." "i am so glad to see you. what an age it is since we met." "hardly since the melmottes' ball," said hetta. "hardly indeed. i have been here once since that. what has brought roger up to town?" "i don't know what it is. some mystery, i think. whenever there is a mystery i am always afraid that there is something wrong about felix. i do get so unhappy about felix, mr. montague." "i saw him to-day in the city, at the railway board." "but roger says the railway board is all a sham,"--paul could not keep himself from blushing as he heard this,--"and that felix should not be there. and then there is something going on about that horrid man's daughter." "she is to marry lord nidderdale, i think." "is she? they are talking of her marrying felix, and of course it is for her money. and i believe that man is determined to quarrel with them." "what man, miss carbury?" "mr. melmotte himself. it's all horrid from beginning to end." "but i saw them in the city to-day and they seemed to be the greatest friends. when i wanted to see mr. melmotte he bolted himself into an inner room, but he took your brother with him. he would not have done that if they had not been friends. when i saw it i almost thought that he had consented to the marriage." "roger has the greatest dislike to mr. melmotte." "i know he has," said paul. "and roger is always right. it is always safe to trust him. don't you think so, mr. montague?" paul did think so, and was by no means disposed to deny to his rival the praise which rightly belonged to him; but still he found the subject difficult. "of course i will never go against mamma," continued hetta, "but i always feel that my cousin roger is a rock of strength, so that if one did whatever he said one would never get wrong. i never found any one else that i thought that of, but i do think it of him." "no one has more reason to praise him than i have." "i think everybody has reason to praise him that has to do with him. and i'll tell you why i think it is. whenever he thinks anything he says it;--or, at least, he never says anything that he doesn't think. if he spent a thousand pounds, everybody would know that he'd got it to spend; but other people are not like that." "you're thinking of melmotte." "i'm thinking of everybody, mr. montague;--of everybody except roger." "is he the only man you can trust? but it is abominable to me to seem even to contradict you. roger carbury has been to me the best friend that any man ever had. i think as much of him as you do." "i didn't say he was the only person;--or i didn't mean to say so. but of all my friends--" "am i among the number, miss carbury?" "yes;--i suppose so. of course you are. why not? of course you are a friend,--because you are his friend." "look here, hetta," he said. "it is no good going on like this. i love roger carbury,--as well as one man can love another. he is all that you say,--and more. you hardly know how he denies himself, and how he thinks of everybody near him. he is a gentleman all round and every inch. he never lies. he never takes what is not his own. i believe he does love his neighbour as himself." "oh, mr. montague! i am so glad to hear you speak of him like that." "i love him better than any man,--as well as a man can love a man. if you will say that you love him as well as a woman can love a man,--i will leave england at once, and never return to it." "there's mamma," said henrietta;--for at that moment there was a double knock at the door. chapter xxxix. "i do love him." so it was. lady carbury had returned home from the soirée of learned people, and had brought roger carbury with her. they both came up to the drawing-room and found paul and henrietta together. it need hardly be said that they were both surprised. roger supposed that montague was still at liverpool, and, knowing that he was not a frequent visitor in welbeck street, could hardly avoid a feeling that a meeting between the two had now been planned in the mother's absence. the reader knows that it was not so. roger certainly was a man not liable to suspicion, but the circumstances in this case were suspicious. there would have been nothing to suspect,--no reason why paul should not have been there,--but from the promise which had been given. there was, indeed, no breach of that promise proved by paul's presence in welbeck street; but roger felt rather than thought that the two could hardly have spent the evening together without such breach. whether paul had broken the promise by what he had already said the reader must be left to decide. lady carbury was the first to speak. "this is quite an unexpected pleasure, mr. montague." whether roger suspected anything or not, she did. the moment she saw paul the idea occurred to her that the meeting between hetta and him had been preconcerted. "yes," he said,--making a lame excuse, where no excuse should have been made,--"i had nothing to do, and was lonely, and thought that i would come up and see you." lady carbury disbelieved him altogether, but roger felt assured that his coming in lady carbury's absence had been an accident. the man had said so, and that was enough. "i thought you were at liverpool," said roger. "i came back to-day,--to be present at that board in the city. i have had a good deal to trouble me. i will tell you all about it just now. what has brought you to london?" "a little business," said roger. then there was an awkward silence. lady carbury was angry, and hardly knew whether she ought or ought not to show her anger. for henrietta it was very awkward. she, too, could not but feel that she had been caught, though no innocence could be whiter than hers. she knew well her mother's mind, and the way in which her mother's thoughts would run. silence was frightful to her, and she found herself forced to speak. "have you had a pleasant evening, mamma?" "have you had a pleasant evening, my dear?" said lady carbury, forgetting herself in her desire to punish her daughter. "indeed, no," said hetta, attempting to laugh, "i have been trying to work hard at dante, but one never does any good when one has to try to work. i was just going to bed when mr. montague came in. what did you think of the wise men and the wise women, roger?" "i was out of my element, of course; but i think your mother liked it." "i was very glad indeed to meet dr. palmoil. it seems that if we can only open the interior of africa a little further, we can get everything that is wanted to complete the chemical combination necessary for feeding the human race. isn't that a grand idea, roger?" "a little more elbow grease is the combination that i look to." "surely, roger, if the bible is to go for anything, we are to believe that labour is a curse and not a blessing. adam was not born to labour." "but he fell; and i doubt whether dr. palmoil will be able to put his descendants back into eden." "roger, for a religious man, you do say the strangest things! i have quite made up my mind to this;--if ever i can see things so settled here as to enable me to move, i will visit the interior of africa. it is the garden of the world." this scrap of enthusiasm so carried them through their immediate difficulties that the two men were able to take their leave and to get out of the room with fair comfort. as soon as the door was closed behind them lady carbury attacked her daughter. "what brought him here?" "he brought himself, mamma." "don't answer me in that way, hetta. of course he brought himself. that is insolent." "insolent, mamma! how can you say such hard words? i meant that he came of his own accord." "how long was he here?" "two minutes before you came in. why do you cross-question me like this? i could not help his coming. i did not desire that he might be shown up." "you did not know that he was to come?" "mamma, if i am to be suspected, all is over between us." "what do you mean by that?" "if you can think that i would deceive you, you will think so always. if you will not trust me, how am i to live with you as though you did? i knew nothing of his coming." "tell me this, hetta; are you engaged to marry him?" "no;--i am not." "has he asked you to marry him?" hetta paused a moment, considering, before she answered this question. "i do not think he ever has." "you do not think?" "i was going on to explain. he never has asked me. but he has said that which makes me know that he wishes me to be his wife." "what has he said? when did he say it?" again she paused. but again she answered with straightforward simplicity. "just before you came in, he said--; i don't know what he said; but it meant that." "you told me he had been here but a minute." "it was but very little more. if you take me at my word in that way, of course you can make me out to be wrong, mamma. it was almost no time, and yet he said it." "he had come prepared to say it." "how could he,--expecting to find you?" "psha! he expected nothing of the kind." "i think you do him wrong, mamma. i am sure you are doing me wrong. i think his coming was an accident, and that what he said was--an accident." "an accident!" "it was not intended,--not then, mamma. i have known it ever so long;--and so have you. it was natural that he should say so when we were alone together." "and you;--what did you say?" "nothing. you came." "i am sorry that my coming should have been so inopportune. but i must ask one other question, hetta. what do you intend to say?" hetta was again silent, and now for a longer space. she put her hand up to her brow and pushed back her hair as she thought whether her mother had a right to continue this cross-examination. she had told her mother everything as it had happened. she had kept back no deed done, no word spoken, either now or at any time. but she was not sure that her mother had a right to know her thoughts, feeling as she did that she had so little sympathy from her mother. "how do you intend to answer him?" demanded lady carbury. "i do not know that he will ask again." "that is prevaricating." "no, mamma;--i do not prevaricate. it is unfair to say that to me. i do love him. there. i think it ought to have been enough for you to know that i should never give him encouragement without telling you about it. i do love him, and i shall never love any one else." "he is a ruined man. your cousin says that all this company in which he is involved will go to pieces." hetta was too clever to allow this argument to pass. she did not doubt that roger had so spoken of the railway to her mother, but she did doubt that her mother had believed the story. "if so," said she, "mr. melmotte will be a ruined man too, and yet you want felix to marry marie melmotte." "it makes me ill to hear you talk,--as if you understood these things. and you think you will marry this man because he is to make a fortune out of the railway!" lady carbury was able to speak with an extremity of scorn in reference to the assumed pursuit by one of her children of an advantageous position which she was doing all in her power to recommend to the other child. "i have not thought of his fortune. i have not thought of marrying him, mamma. i think you are very cruel to me. you say things so hard, that i cannot bear them." "why will you not marry your cousin?" "i am not good enough for him." "nonsense!" "very well; you say so. but that is what i think. he is so much above me, that, though i do love him, i cannot think of him in that way. and i have told you that i do love some one else. i have no secret from you now. good night, mamma," she said, coming up to her mother and kissing her. "do be kind to me; and pray,--pray,--do believe me." lady carbury then allowed herself to be kissed, and allowed her daughter to leave the room. [illustration: lady carbury allowed herself to be kissed.] there was a great deal said that night between roger carbury and paul montague before they parted. as they walked together to roger's hotel he said not a word as to paul's presence in welbeck street. paul had declared his visit in lady carbury's absence to have been accidental,--and therefore there was nothing more to be said. montague then asked as to the cause of carbury's journey to london. "i do not wish it to be talked of," said roger after a pause,--"and of course i could not speak of it before hetta. a girl has gone away from our neighbourhood. you remember old ruggles?" "you do not mean that ruby has levanted? she was to have married john crumb." "just so,--but she has gone off, leaving john crumb in an unhappy frame of mind. john crumb is an honest man and almost too good for her." "ruby is very pretty. has she gone with any one?" "no;--she went alone. but the horror of it is this. they think down there that felix has,--well, made love to her, and that she has been taken to london by him." "that would be very bad." "he certainly has known her. though he lied, as he always lies, when i first spoke to him, i brought him to admit that he and she had been friends down in suffolk. of course we know what such friendship means. but i do not think that she came to london at his instance. of course he would lie about that. he would lie about anything. if his horse cost him a hundred pounds, he would tell one man that he gave fifty, and another two hundred. but he has not lived long enough yet to be able to lie and tell the truth with the same eye. when he is as old as i am he'll be perfect." "he knows nothing about her coming to town?" "he did not when i first asked him. i am not sure, but i fancy that i was too quick after her. she started last saturday morning. i followed on the sunday, and made him out at his club. i think that he knew nothing then of her being in town. he is very clever if he did. since that he has avoided me. i caught him once but only for half a minute, and then he swore that he had not seen her." "you still believed him?" "no;--he did it very well, but i knew that he was prepared for me. i cannot say how it may have been. to make matters worse old ruggles has now quarrelled with crumb, and is no longer anxious to get back his granddaughter. he was frightened at first; but that has gone off, and he is now reconciled to the loss of the girl and the saving of his money." after that paul told all his own story,--the double story, both in regard to melmotte and to mrs. hurtle. as regarded the railway, roger could only tell him to follow explicitly the advice of his liverpool friend. "i never believed in the thing, you know." "nor did i. but what could i do?" "i'm not going to blame you. indeed, knowing you as i do, feeling sure that you intend to be honest, i would not for a moment insist on my own opinion, if it did not seem that mr. ramsbottom thinks as i do. in such a matter, when a man does not see his own way clearly, it behoves him to be able to show that he has followed the advice of some man whom the world esteems and recognises. you have to bind your character to another man's character; and that other man's character, if it be good, will carry you through. from what i hear mr. ramsbottom's character is sufficiently good;--but then you must do exactly what he tells you." but the railway business, though it comprised all that montague had in the world, was not the heaviest of his troubles. what was he to do about mrs. hurtle? he had now, for the first time, to tell his friend that mrs. hurtle had come to london, and that he had been with her three or four times. there was this difficulty in the matter, too,--that it was very hard to speak of his engagement with mrs. hurtle without in some sort alluding to his love for henrietta carbury. roger knew of both loves;--had been very urgent with his friend to abandon the widow, and at any rate equally urgent with him to give up the other passion. were he to marry the widow, all danger on the other side would be at an end. and yet, in discussing the question of mrs. hurtle, he was to do so as though there were no such person existing as henrietta carbury. the discussion did take place exactly as though there were no such person as henrietta carbury. paul told it all,--the rumoured duel, the rumoured murder, and the rumour of the existing husband. "it may be necessary that you should go out to kansas,--and to oregon," said roger. "but even if the rumours be untrue i will not marry her," said paul. roger shrugged his shoulders. he was doubtless thinking of hetta carbury, but he said nothing. "and what would she do, remaining here?" continued paul. roger admitted that it would be awkward. "i am determined that under no circumstances will i marry her. i know i have been a fool. i know i have been wrong. but of course, if there be a fair cause for my broken word, i will use it if i can." "you will get out of it, honestly if you can; but you will get out of it honestly or--any other way." "did you not advise me to get out of it, roger;--before we knew as much as we do now?" "i did,--and i do. if you make a bargain with the devil, it may be dishonest to cheat him,--and yet i would have you cheat him if you could. as to this woman, i do believe she has deceived you. if i were you, nothing should induce me to marry her;--not though her claws were strong enough to tear me utterly in pieces. i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll go and see her if you like it." but paul would not submit to this. he felt that he was bound himself to incur the risk of those claws, and that no substitute could take his place. they sat long into the night, and it was at last resolved between them that on the next morning paul should go to islington, should tell mrs. hurtle all the stories which he had heard, and should end by declaring his resolution that under no circumstances would he marry her. they both felt how improbable it was that he should ever be allowed to get to the end of such a story,--how almost certain it was that the breeding of the wild cat would show itself before that time should come. but, still, that was the course to be pursued as far as circumstances would admit; and paul was at any rate to declare, claws or no claws, husband or no husband,--whether the duel or the murder was admitted or denied,--that he would never make mrs. hurtle his wife. "i wish it were over, old fellow," said roger. "so do i," said paul, as he took his leave. he went to bed like a man condemned to die on the next morning, and he awoke in the same condition. he had slept well, but as he shook from him his happy dream, the wretched reality at once overwhelmed him. but the man who is to be hung has no choice. he cannot, when he wakes, declare that he has changed his mind, and postpone the hour. it was quite open to paul montague to give himself such instant relief. he put his hand up to his brow, and almost made himself believe that his head was aching. this was saturday. would it not be well that he should think of it further, and put off his execution till monday? monday was so far distant that he felt that he could go to islington quite comfortably on monday. was there not some hitherto forgotten point which it would be well that he should discuss with his friend roger before he saw the lady? should he not rush down to liverpool, and ask a few more questions of mr. ramsbottom? why should he go forth to execution, seeing that the matter was in his own hands? at last he jumped out of bed and into his tub, and dressed himself as quickly as he could. he worked himself up into a fit of fortitude, and resolved that the thing should be done before the fit was over. he ate his breakfast about nine, and then asked himself whether he might not be too early were he to go at once to islington. but he remembered that she was always early. in every respect she was an energetic woman, using her time for some purpose, either good or bad, not sleeping it away in bed. if one has to be hung on a given day, would it not be well to be hung as soon after waking as possible? i can fancy that the hangman would hardly come early enough. and if one had to be hung in a given week, would not one wish to be hung on the first day of the week, even at the risk of breaking one's last sabbath day in this world? whatever be the misery to be endured, get it over. the horror of every agony is in its anticipation. paul had realised something of this when he threw himself into a hansom cab, and ordered the man to drive him to islington. how quick that cab went! nothing ever goes so quick as a hansom cab when a man starts for a dinner-party a little too early;--nothing so slow when he starts too late. of all cabs this, surely, was the quickest. paul was lodging in suffolk street, close to pall mall,--whence the way to islington, across oxford street, across tottenham court road, across numerous squares north-east of the museum, seems to be long. the end of goswell road is the outside of the world in that direction, and islington is beyond the end of goswell road. and yet that hansom cab was there before paul montague had been able to arrange the words with which he would begin the interview. he had given the street and the number of the street. it was not till after he had started that it occurred to him that it might be well that he should get out at the end of the street, and walk to the house,--so that he might, as it were, fetch his breath before the interview was commenced. but the cabman dashed up to the door in a manner purposely devised to make every inmate of the house aware that a cab had just arrived before it. there was a little garden before the house. we all know the garden;--twenty-four feet long, by twelve broad;--and an iron-grated door, with the landlady's name on a brass plate. paul, when he had paid the cabman,--giving the man half-a-crown, and asking for no change in his agony,--pushed in the iron gate and walked very quickly up to the door, rang rather furiously, and before the door was well opened asked for mrs. hurtle. "mrs. hurtle is out for the day," said the girl who opened the door. "leastways, she went out yesterday and won't be back till to-night." providence had sent him a reprieve! but he almost forgot the reprieve, as he looked at the girl and saw that she was ruby ruggles. "oh laws, mr. montague, is that you?" ruby ruggles had often seen paul down in suffolk, and recognised him as quickly as he did her. it occurred to her at once that he had come in search of herself. she knew that roger carbury was up in town looking for her. so much she had of course learned from sir felix,--for at this time she had seen the baronet more than once since her arrival. montague, she knew, was roger carbury's intimate friend, and now she felt that she was caught. in her terror she did not at first remember that the visitor had asked for mrs. hurtle. "yes, it is i. i was sorry to hear, miss ruggles, that you had left your home." "i'm all right, mr. montague;--i am. mrs. pipkin is my aunt, or, leastways, my mother's brother's widow, though grandfather never would speak to her. she's quite respectable, and has five children, and lets lodgings. there's a lady here now, and has gone away with her just for one night down to southend. they'll be back this evening, and i've the children to mind, with the servant girl. i'm quite respectable here, mr. montague, and nobody need be a bit afraid about me." "mrs. hurtle has gone down to southend?" "yes, mr. montague; she wasn't quite well, and wanted a breath of air, she said. and aunt didn't like she should go alone, as mrs. hurtle is such a stranger. and mrs. hurtle said as she didn't mind paying for two, and so they've gone, and the baby with them. mrs. pipkin said as the baby shouldn't be no trouble. and mrs. hurtle,--she's most as fond of the baby as aunt. do you know mrs. hurtle, sir?" "yes; she's a friend of mine." "oh; i didn't know. i did know as there was some friend as was expected and as didn't come. be i to say, sir, as you was here?" paul thought it might be as well to shift the subject and to ask ruby a few questions about herself while he made up his mind what message he would leave for mrs. hurtle. "i'm afraid they are very unhappy about you down at bungay, miss ruggles." "then they've got to be unhappy; that's all about it, mr. montague. grandfather is that provoking as a young woman can't live with him, nor yet i won't try never again. he lugged me all about the room by my hair, mr. montague. how is a young woman to put up with that? and i did everything for him,--that careful that no one won't do it again;--did his linen, and his victuals, and even cleaned his boots of a sunday, 'cause he was that mean he wouldn't have anybody about the place only me and the girl who had to milk the cows. there wasn't nobody to do anything, only me. and then he went to drag me about by the hairs of my head. you won't see me again at sheep's acre, mr. montague;--nor yet won't the squire." "but i thought there was somebody else was to give you a home." "john crumb! oh, yes, there's john crumb. there's plenty of people to give me a home, mr. montague." "you were to have been married to john crumb, i thought." "ladies is to change their minds if they like it, mr. montague. i'm sure you've heard that before. grandfather made me say i'd have him,--but i never cared that for him." "i'm afraid, miss ruggles, you won't find a better man up here in london." "i didn't come here to look for a man, mr. montague; i can tell you that. they has to look for me, if they want me. but i am looked after; and that by one as john crumb ain't fit to touch." that told the whole story. paul when he heard the little boast was quite sure that roger's fear about felix was well founded. and as for john crumb's fitness to touch sir felix, paul felt that the bungay mealman might have an opinion of his own on that matter. "but there's betsy a crying up-stairs, and i promised not to leave them children for one minute." "i will tell the squire that i saw you, miss ruggles." "what does the squire want o' me? i ain't nothing to the squire,--except that i respects him. you can tell if you please, mr. montague, of course. i'm a coming, my darling." paul made his way into mrs. hurtle's sitting-room and wrote a note for her in pencil. he had come, he said, immediately on his return from liverpool, and was sorry to find that she was away for the day. when should he call again? if she would make an appointment he would attend to it. he felt as he wrote this that he might very safely have himself made an appointment for the morrow; but he cheated himself into half believing that the suggestion he now made was the more gracious and civil. at any rate it would certainly give him another day. mrs. hurtle would not return till late in the evening, and as the following day was sunday there would be no delivery by post. when the note was finished he left it on the table, and called to ruby to tell her that he was going. "mr. montague," she said in a confidential whisper, as she tripped down the stairs, "i don't see why you need be saying anything about me, you know." "mr. carbury is up in town looking after you." "what 'm i to mr. carbury?" "your grandfather is very anxious about you." "not a bit of it, mr. montague. grandfather knows very well where i am. there! grandfather doesn't want me back, and i ain't a going. why should the squire bother himself about me? i don't bother myself about him." "he's afraid, miss ruggles, that you are trusting yourself to a young man who is not trustworthy." "i can mind myself very well, mr. montague." "tell me this. have you seen sir felix carbury since you've been in town?" ruby, whose blushes came very easily, now flushed up to her forehead. "you may be sure that he means no good to you. what can come of an intimacy between you and such a one as he?" "i don't see why i shouldn't have my friend, mr. montague, as well as you. howsomever, if you'll not tell, i'll be ever so much obliged." "but i must tell mr. carbury." "then i ain't obliged to you one bit," said ruby, shutting the door. paul as he walked away could not help thinking of the justice of ruby's reproach to him. what business had he to take upon himself to be a mentor to any one in regard to an affair of love;--he, who had engaged himself to marry mrs. hurtle, and who the evening before had for the first time declared his love to hetta carbury? in regard to mrs. hurtle he had got a reprieve, as he thought, for two days;--but it did not make him happy or even comfortable. as he walked back to his lodgings he knew it would have been better for him to have had the interview over. but, at any rate, he could now think of hetta carbury, and the words he had spoken to her. had he heard that declaration which she had made to her mother, he would have been able for the hour to have forgotten mrs. hurtle. chapter xl. "unanimity is the very soul of these things." that evening montague was surprised to receive at the beargarden a note from mr. melmotte, which had been brought thither by a messenger from the city,--who had expected to have an immediate answer, as though montague lived at the club. "dear sir," said the letter, if not inconvenient would you call on me in grosvenor square to-morrow, sunday, at half past eleven. if you are going to church, perhaps you will make an appointment in the afternoon; if not, the morning will suit best. i want to have a few words with you in private about the company. my messenger will wait for answer if you are at the club. yours truly, augustus melmotte. paul montague, esq., the beargarden. paul immediately wrote to say that he would call at grosvenor square at the hour appointed,--abandoning any intentions which he might have had in reference to sunday morning service. but this was not the only letter he received that evening. on his return to his lodgings he found a note, containing only one line, which mrs. hurtle had found the means of sending to him after her return from southend. "i am so sorry to have been away. i will expect you all to-morrow. w. h." the period of the reprieve was thus curtailed to less than a day. on the sunday morning he breakfasted late and then walked up to grosvenor square, much pondering what the great man could have to say to him. the great man had declared himself very plainly in the board-room,--especially plainly after the board had risen. paul had understood that war was declared, and had understood also that he was to fight the battle single-handed, knowing nothing of such strategy as would be required, while his antagonist was a great master of financial tactics. he was prepared to go to the wall in reference to his money, only hoping that in doing so he might save his character and keep the reputation of an honest man. he was quite resolved to be guided altogether by mr. ramsbottom, and intended to ask mr. ramsbottom to draw up for him such a statement as would be fitting for him to publish. but it was manifest now that mr. melmotte would make some proposition, and it was impossible that he should have mr. ramsbottom at his elbow to help him. he had been in melmotte's house on the night of the ball, but had contented himself after that with leaving a card. he had heard much of the splendour of the place, but remembered simply the crush and the crowd, and that he had danced there more than once or twice with hetta carbury. when he was shown into the hall he was astonished to find that it was not only stripped, but was full of planks, and ladders, and trussels, and mortar. the preparations for the great dinner had been already commenced. through all this he made his way to the stairs, and was taken up to a small room on the second floor, where the servant told him that mr. melmotte would come to him. here he waited a quarter of an hour looking out into the yard at the back. there was not a book in the room, or even a picture with which he could amuse himself. he was beginning to think whether his own personal dignity would not be best consulted by taking his departure, when melmotte himself, with slippers on his feet and enveloped in a magnificent dressing-gown, bustled into the room. "my dear sir, i am so sorry. you are a punctual man i see. so am i. a man of business should be punctual. but they ain't always. brehgert,--from the house of todd, brehgert, and goldsheiner, you know,--has just been with me. we had to settle something about the moldavian loan. he came a quarter late, and of course he went a quarter late. and how is a man to catch a quarter of an hour? i never could do it." montague assured the great man that the delay was of no consequence. "and i am so sorry to ask you into such a place as this. i had brehgert in my room down-stairs, and then the house is so knocked about! we get into a furnished house a little way off in bruton street to-morrow. longestaffe lets me his house for a month till this affair of the dinner is over. by-the-bye, montague, if you'd like to come to the dinner, i've got a ticket i can let you have. you know how they're run after." montague had heard of the dinner, but had perhaps heard as little of it as any man frequenting a club at the west end of london. he did not in the least want to be at the dinner, and certainly did not wish to receive any extraordinary civility from mr. melmotte's hands. but he was very anxious to know why mr. melmotte should offer it. he excused himself saying that he was not particularly fond of big dinners, and that he did not like standing in the way of other people. "ah, indeed," said melmotte. "there are ever so many people of title would give anything for a ticket. you'd be astonished at the persons who have asked. we've had to squeeze in a chair on one side for the master of the buckhounds, and on another for the bishop of--; i forget what bishop it is, but we had the two archbishops before. they say he must come because he has something to do with getting up the missionaries for thibet. but i've got the ticket, if you'll have it." this was the ticket which was to have taken in georgiana longestaffe as one of the melmotte family, had not melmotte perceived that it might be useful to him as a bribe. but paul would not take the bribe. "you're the only man in london then," said melmotte, somewhat offended. "but at any rate you'll come in the evening, and i'll have one of madame melmotte's tickets sent to you." paul, not knowing how to escape, said that he would come in the evening. "i am particularly anxious," continued he, "to be civil to those who are connected with our great railway, and of course, in this country, your name stands first,--next to my own." then the great man paused, and paul began to wonder whether it could be possible that he had been sent for to grosvenor square on a sunday morning in order that he might be asked to dine in the same house a fortnight later. but that was impossible. "have you anything special to say about the railway?" he asked. "well, yes. it is so hard to get things said at the board. of course there are some there who do not understand matters." "i doubt if there be any one there who does understand this matter," said paul. melmotte affected to laugh. "well, well; i am not prepared to go quite so far as that. my friend cohenlupe has had great experience in these affairs, and of course you are aware that he is in parliament. and lord alfred sees farther into them than perhaps you give him credit for." "he may easily do that." "well, well. perhaps you don't know him quite as well as i do." the scowl began to appear on mr. melmotte's brow. hitherto it had been banished as well as he knew how to banish it. "what i wanted to say to you was this. we didn't quite agree at the last meeting." "no; we did not." "i was very sorry for it. unanimity is everything in the direction of such an undertaking as this. with unanimity we can do--everything." mr. melmotte in the ecstasy of his enthusiasm lifted up both his hands over his head. "without unanimity we can do--nothing." and the two hands fell. "unanimity should be printed everywhere about a board-room. it should, indeed, mr. montague." "but suppose the directors are not unanimous." "they should be unanimous. they should make themselves unanimous. god bless my soul! you don't want to see the thing fall to pieces!" "not if it can be carried on honestly." "honestly! who says that anything is dishonest?" again the brow became very heavy. "look here, mr. montague. if you and i quarrel in that board-room, there is no knowing the amount of evil we may do to every individual shareholder in the company. i find the responsibility on my own shoulders so great that i say the thing must be stopped. damme, mr. montague, it must be stopped. we mustn't ruin widows and children, mr. montague. we mustn't let those shares run down below par for a mere chimera. i've known a fine property blasted, mr. montague, sent straight to the dogs,--annihilated, sir;--so that it all vanished into thin air, and widows and children past counting were sent out to starve about the streets,--just because one director sat in another director's chair. i did, by g----! what do you think of that, mr. montague? gentlemen who don't know the nature of credit, how strong it is,--as the air,--to buoy you up; how slight it is,--as a mere vapour,--when roughly touched, can do an amount of mischief of which they themselves don't in the least understand the extent! what is it you want, mr. montague?" "what do i want?" melmotte's description of the peculiar susceptibility of great mercantile speculations had not been given without some effect on montague, but this direct appeal to himself almost drove that effect out of his mind. "i only want justice." "but you should know what justice is before you demand it at the expense of other people. look here, mr. montague. i suppose you are like the rest of us, in this matter. you want to make money out of it." "for myself, i want interest for my capital; that is all. but i am not thinking of myself." "you are getting very good interest. if i understand the matter,"--and here melmotte pulled out a little book, showing thereby how careful he was in mastering details,--"you had about £ , embarked in the business when fisker joined your firm. you imagine yourself to have that still." "i don't know what i've got." "i can tell you then. you have that, and you've drawn nearly a thousand pounds since fisker came over, in one shape or another. that's not bad interest on your money." "there was back interest due to me." "if so, it's due still. i've nothing to do with that. look here, mr. montague. i am most anxious that you should remain with us. i was about to propose, only for that little rumpus the other day, that, as you're an unmarried man, and have time on your hands, you should go out to california and probably across to mexico, in order to get necessary information for the company. were i of your age, unmarried, and without impediment, it is just the thing i should like. of course you'd go at the company's expense. i would see to your own personal interests while you were away;--or you could appoint any one by power of attorney. your seat at the board would be kept for you; but, should anything occur amiss,--which it won't, for the thing is as sound as anything i know,--of course you, as absent, would not share the responsibility. that's what i was thinking. it would be a delightful trip;--but if you don't like it, you can of course remain at the board, and be of the greatest use to me. indeed, after a bit i could devolve nearly the whole management on you;--and i must do something of the kind, as i really haven't the time for it. but,--if it is to be that way,--do be unanimous. unanimity is the very soul of these things;--the very soul, mr. montague." "but if i can't be unanimous?" "well;--if you can't, and if you won't take my advice about going out;--which, pray, think about, for you would be most useful. it might be the very making of the railway;--then i can only suggest that you should take your £ , and leave us. i, myself, should be greatly distressed; but if you are determined that way i will see that you have your money. i will make myself personally responsible for the payment of it,--some time before the end of the year." paul montague told the great man that he would consider the whole matter, and see him in abchurch lane before the next board day. "and now, good-bye," said mr. melmotte, as he bade his young friend adieu in a hurry. "i'm afraid that i'm keeping sir gregory gribe, the bank director, waiting down-stairs." chapter xli. all prepared. during all these days miss melmotte was by no means contented with her lover's prowess, though she would not allow herself to doubt his sincerity. she had not only assured him of her undying affection in the presence of her father and mother, had not only offered to be chopped in pieces on his behalf, but had also written to him, telling how she had a large sum of her father's money within her power, and how willing she was to make it her own, to throw over her father and mother, and give herself and her fortune to her lover. she felt that she had been very gracious to her lover, and that her lover was a little slow in acknowledging the favours conferred upon him. but, nevertheless, she was true to her lover, and believed that he was true to her. didon had been hitherto faithful. marie had written various letters to sir felix, and had received two or three very short notes in reply, containing hardly more than a word or two each. but now she was told that a day was absolutely fixed for her marriage with lord nidderdale, and that her things were to be got ready. she was to be married in the middle of august, and here they were, approaching the end of june. "you may buy what you like, mamma," she said; "and if papa agrees about felix, why then i suppose they'll do. but they'll never be of any use about lord nidderdale. if you were to sew me up in the things by main force, i wouldn't have him." madame melmotte groaned, and scolded in english, french, and german, and wished that she were dead; she told marie that she was a pig, and ass, and a toad, and a dog. and ended, as she always did end, by swearing that melmotte must manage the matter himself. "nobody shall manage this matter for me," said marie. "i know what i'm about now, and i won't marry anybody just because it will suit papa." "que nous étions encore à francfort, ou new york," said the elder lady, remembering the humbler but less troubled times of her earlier life. marie did not care for francfort or new york; for paris or for london;--but she did care for sir felix carbury. while her father on sunday morning was transacting business in his own house with paul montague and the great commercial magnates of the city,--though it may be doubted whether that very respectable gentleman sir gregory gribe was really in grosvenor square when his name was mentioned,--marie was walking inside the gardens; didon was also there at some distance from her; and sir felix carbury was there also close along side of her. marie had the key of the gardens for her own use; and had already learned that her neighbours in the square did not much frequent the place during church time on sunday morning. her lover's letter to her father had of course been shown to her, and she had taxed him with it immediately. sir felix, who had thought much of the letter as he came from welbeck street to keep his appointment,--having been assured by didon that the gate should be left unlocked, and that she would be there to close it after he had come in,--was of course ready with a lie. "it was the only thing to do, marie;--it was indeed." "but you said you had accepted some offer." "you don't suppose i wrote the letter?" "it was your handwriting, felix." "of course it was. i copied just what he put down. he'd have sent you clean away where i couldn't have got near you if i hadn't written it." "and you have accepted nothing?" "not at all. as it is, he owes me money. is not that odd? i gave him a thousand pounds to buy shares, and i haven't got anything from him yet." sir felix, no doubt, forgot the cheque for £ . "nobody ever does who gives papa money," said the observant daughter. "don't they? dear me! but i just wrote it because i thought anything better than a downright quarrel." "i wouldn't have written it, if it had been ever so." "it's no good scolding, marie. i did it for the best. what do you think we'd best do now?" marie looked at him, almost with scorn. surely it was for him to propose and for her to yield. "i wonder whether you're sure you're right about that money which you say is settled." [illustration: "it's no good scolding."] "i'm quite sure. mamma told me in paris,--just when we were coming away,--that it was done so that there might be something if things went wrong. and papa told me that he should want me to sign something from time to time; and of course i said i would. but of course i won't,--if i should have a husband of my own." felix walked along, pondering the matter, with his hands in his trowsers pockets. he entertained those very fears which had latterly fallen upon lord nidderdale. there would be no "cropper" which a man could "come" so bad as would be his cropper were he to marry marie melmotte, and then find that he was not to have a shilling! and, were he now to run off with marie, after having written that letter, the father would certainly not forgive him. this assurance of marie's as to the settled money was too doubtful! the game to be played was too full of danger! and in that case he would certainly get neither his £ , nor the shares. and if he were true to melmotte, melmotte would probably supply him with ready money. but then here was the girl at his elbow, and he no more dared to tell her to her face that he meant to give her up, than he dared to tell melmotte that he intended to stick to his engagement. some half promise would be the only escape for the present. "what are you thinking of, felix?" she asked. "it's d---- difficult to know what to do." "but you do love me?" "of course i do. if i didn't love you why should i be here walking round this stupid place? they talk of your being married to nidderdale about the end of august." "some day in august. but that's all nonsense, you know. they can't take me up and marry me, as they used to do the girls ever so long ago. i won't marry him. he don't care a bit for me, and never did. i don't think you care much, felix." "yes, i do. a fellow can't go on saying so over and over again in a beastly place like this. if we were anywhere jolly together, then i could say it often enough." "i wish we were, felix. i wonder whether we ever shall be." "upon my word i hardly see my way as yet." "you're not going to give it up!" "oh no;--not give it up; certainly not. but the bother is a fellow doesn't know what to do." "you've heard of young mr. goldsheiner, haven't you?" suggested marie. "he's one of those city chaps." "and lady julia start?" "she's old lady catchboy's daughter. yes; i've heard of them. they got spliced last winter." "yes,--somewhere in switzerland, i think. at any rate they went to switzerland, and now they've got a house close to albert gate." "how jolly for them! he is awfully rich, isn't he?" "i don't suppose he's half so rich as papa. they did all they could to prevent her going, but she met him down at folkestone just as the tidal boat was starting. didon says that nothing was easier." "oh;--ah. didon knows all about it." "that she does." "but she'd lose her place." "there are plenty of places. she could come and live with us, and be my maid. if you would give her £ for herself, she'd arrange it all." "and would you come to folkestone?" "i think that would be stupid, because lady julia did that. we should make it a little different. if you liked i wouldn't mind going to--new york. and then, perhaps, we might--get--married, you know, on board. that's what didon thinks." "and would didon go too?" "that's what she proposes. she could go as my aunt, and i'd call myself by her name;--any french name you know. i should go as a french girl. and you could call yourself smith, and be an american. we wouldn't go together, but we'd get on board just at the last moment. if they wouldn't--marry us on board, they would at new york, instantly." "that's didon's plan?" "that's what she thinks best,--and she'll do it, if you'll give her £ for herself, you know. the 'adriatic,'--that's a white star boat, goes on thursday week at noon. there's an early train that would take us down that morning. you had better go and sleep at liverpool, and take no notice of us at all till we meet on board. we could be back in a month,--and then papa would be obliged to make the best of it." sir felix at once felt that it would be quite unnecessary for him to go to herr vossner or to any other male counsellor for advice as to the best means of carrying off his love. the young lady had it all at her fingers' ends,--even to the amount of the fee required by the female counsellor. but thursday week was very near, and the whole thing was taking uncomfortably defined proportions. where was he to get funds if he were to resolve that he would do this thing? he had been fool enough to intrust his ready money to melmotte, and now he was told that when melmotte got hold of ready money he was not apt to release it. and he had nothing to show;--no security that he could offer to vossner. and then,--this idea of starting to new york with melmotte's daughter immediately after he had written to melmotte renouncing the girl, frightened him. "there is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood leads on to fortune." sir felix did not know these lines, but the lesson taught by them came home to him at this moment. now was the tide in his affairs at which he might make himself, or utterly mar himself. "it's deuced important," he said at last with a groan. "it's not more important for you than me," said marie. "if you're wrong about the money, and he shouldn't come round, where should we be then?" "nothing venture, nothing have," said the heiress. "that's all very well; but one might venture everything and get nothing after all." "you'd get me," said marie with a pout. "yes;--and i'm awfully fond of you. of course i should get you! but--" "very well then;--if that's your love," said marie, turning back from him. sir felix gave a great sigh, and then announced his resolution. "i'll venture it." "oh, felix, how grand it will be!" "there's a great deal to do, you know. i don't know whether it can be thursday week." he was putting in the coward's plea for a reprieve. "i shall be afraid of didon if it's delayed long." "there's the money to get, and all that." "i can get some money. mamma has money in the house." "how much?" asked the baronet eagerly. "a hundred pounds, perhaps;--perhaps two hundred." "that would help certainly. i must go to your father for money. won't that be a sell? to get it from him, to take you away!" it was decided that they were to go to new york, on a thursday,--on thursday week if possible, but as to that he was to let her know in a day or two. didon was to pack up the clothes and get it sent out of the house. didon was to have £ before she went on board; and as one of the men must know about it, and must assist in having the trunks smuggled out of the house, he was to have £ . all had been settled beforehand, so that sir felix really had no need to think about anything. "and now," said marie, "there's didon. nobody's looking and she can open that gate for you. when we're gone, do you creep out. the gate can be left, you know. then we'll get out on the other side." marie melmotte was certainly a clever girl. chapter xlii. "can you be ready in ten minutes?" after leaving melmotte's house on sunday morning paul montague went to roger carbury's hotel and found his friend just returning from church. he was bound to go to islington on that day, but had made up his mind that he would defer his visit till the evening. he would dine early and be with mrs. hurtle about seven o'clock. but it was necessary that roger should hear the news about ruby ruggles. "it's not so bad as you thought," said he, "as she is living with her aunt." "i never heard of such an aunt." "she says her grandfather knows where she is, and that he doesn't want her back again." "does she see felix carbury?" "i think she does," said paul. "then it doesn't matter whether the woman's her aunt or not. i'll go and see her and try to get her back to bungay." "why not send for john crumb?" roger hesitated for a moment, and then answered, "he'd give felix such a thrashing as no man ever had before. my cousin deserves it as well as any man ever deserved a thrashing; but there are reasons why i should not like it. and he could not force her back with him. i don't suppose the girl is all bad,--if she could see the truth." "i don't think she's bad at all." "at any rate i'll go and see her," said roger. "perhaps i shall see your widow at the same time." paul sighed, but said nothing more about his widow at that moment. "i'll walk up to welbeck street now," said roger, taking his hat. "perhaps i shall see you to-morrow." paul felt that he could not go to welbeck street with his friend. he dined in solitude at the beargarden, and then again made that journey to islington in a cab. as he went he thought of the proposal that had been made to him by melmotte. if he could do it with a clear conscience, if he could really make himself believe in the railway, such an expedition would not be displeasing to him. he had said already more than he had intended to say to hetta carbury; and though he was by no means disposed to flatter himself, yet he almost thought that what he had said had been well received. at the moment they had been disturbed, but she, as she heard the sound of her mother coming, had at any rate expressed no anger. he had almost been betrayed into breaking a promise. were he to start now on this journey, the period of the promise would have passed by before his return. of course he would take care that she should know that he had gone in the performance of a duty. and then he would escape from mrs. hurtle, and would be able to make those inquiries which had been suggested to him. it was possible that mrs. hurtle should offer to go with him,--an arrangement which would not at all suit him. that at any rate must be avoided. but then how could he do this without a belief in the railway generally? and how was it possible that he should have such belief? mr. ramsbottom did not believe in it, nor did roger carbury. he himself did not in the least believe in fisker, and fisker had originated the railway. then, would it not be best that he should take the chairman's offer as to his own money? if he could get his £ , back and have done with the railway, he would certainly think himself a lucky man. but he did not know how far he could with honesty lay aside his responsibility; and then he doubted whether he could put implicit trust in melmotte's personal guarantee for the amount. this at any rate was clear to him,--that melmotte was very anxious to secure his absence from the meetings of the board. now he was again at mrs. pipkin's door, and again it was opened by ruby ruggles. his heart was in his mouth as he thought of the things he had to say. "the ladies have come back from southend, miss ruggles?" "oh yes, sir, and mrs. hurtle is expecting you all the day." then she put in a whisper on her own account. "you didn't tell him as you'd seen me, mr. montague?" "indeed i did, miss ruggles." "then you might as well have left it alone, and not have been ill-natured,--that's all," said ruby as she opened the door of mrs. hurtle's room. mrs. hurtle got up to receive him with her sweetest smile,--and her smile could be very sweet. she was a witch of a woman, and, as like most witches she could be terrible, so like most witches she could charm. "only fancy," she said, "that you should have come the only day i have been two hundred yards from the house, except that evening when you took me to the play. i was so sorry." "why should you be sorry? it is easy to come again." "because i don't like to miss you, even for a day. but i wasn't well, and i fancied that the house was stuffy, and mrs. pipkin took a bright idea and proposed to carry me off to southend. she was dying to go herself. she declared that southend was paradise." "a cockney paradise." "oh, what a place it is! do your people really go to southend and fancy that that is the sea?" "i believe they do. i never went to southend myself,--so that you know more about it than i do." "how very english it is,--a little yellow river,--and you call it the sea! ah;--you never were at newport!" "but i've been at san francisco." "yes; you've been at san francisco, and heard the seals howling. well; that's better than southend." "i suppose we do have the sea here in england. it's generally supposed we're an island." "of course;--but things are so small. if you choose to go to the west of ireland, i suppose you'd find the atlantic. but nobody ever does go there for fear of being murdered." paul thought of the gentleman in oregon, but said nothing;--thought, perhaps, of his own condition, and remembered that a man might be murdered without going either to oregon or the west of ireland. "but we went to southend, i, and mrs. pipkin and the baby, and upon my word i enjoyed it. she was so afraid that the baby would annoy me, and i thought the baby was so much the best of it. and then we ate shrimps, and she was so humble. you must acknowledge that with us nobody would be so humble. of course i paid. she has got all her children, and nothing but what she can make out of these lodgings. people are just as poor with us;--and other people who happen to be a little better off, pay for them. but nobody is humble to another, as you are here. of course we like to have money as well as you do, but it doesn't make so much difference." "he who wants to receive, all the world over, will make himself as agreeable as he can to him who can give." "but mrs. pipkin was so humble. however we got back all right yesterday evening, and then i found that you had been here,--at last." "you knew that i had to go to liverpool." "i'm not going to scold. did you get your business done at liverpool?" "yes;--one generally gets something done, but never anything very satisfactorily. of course it's about this railway." "i should have thought that that was satisfactory. everybody talks of it as being the greatest thing ever invented. i wish i was a man that i might be concerned with a really great thing like that. i hate little peddling things. i should like to manage the greatest bank in the world, or to be captain of the biggest fleet, or to make the largest railway. it would be better even than being president of a republic, because one would have more of one's own way. what is it that you do in it, paul?" "they want me now to go out to mexico about it," said he slowly. "shall you go?" said she, throwing herself forward and asking the question with manifest anxiety. "i think not." "why not? do go. oh, paul, i would go with you. why should you not go? it is just the thing for such a one as you to do. the railway will make mexico a new country, and then you would be the man who had done it. why should you throw away such a chance as that? it will never come again. emperors and kings have tried their hands at mexico and have been able to do nothing. emperors and kings never can do anything. think what it would be to be the regenerator of mexico!" "think what it would be to find one's self there without the means of doing anything, and to feel that one had been sent there merely that one might be out of the way." "i would make the means of doing something." "means are money. how can i make that?" "there is money going. there must be money where there is all this buying and selling of shares. where does your uncle get the money with which he is living like a prince at san francisco? where does fisker get the money with which he is speculating in new york? where does melmotte get the money which makes him the richest man in the world? why should not you get it as well as the others?" "if i were anxious to rob on my own account perhaps i might do it." "why should it be robbery? i do not want you to live in a palace and spend millions of dollars on yourself. but i want you to have ambition. go to mexico, and chance it. take san francisco in your way, and get across the country. i will go every yard with you. make people there believe that you are in earnest, and there will be no difficulty about the money." he felt that he was taking no steps to approach the subject which he should have to discuss before he left her,--or rather the statement which he had resolved that he would make. indeed every word which he allowed her to say respecting this mexican project carried him farther away from it. he was giving reasons why the journey should not be made; but was tacitly admitting that if it were to be made she might be one of the travellers. the very offer on her part implied an understanding that his former abnegation of his engagement had been withdrawn, and yet he shrunk from the cruelty of telling her, in a side-way fashion, that he would not submit to her companionship either for the purpose of such a journey or for any other purpose. the thing must be said in a solemn manner, and must be introduced on its own basis. but such preliminary conversation as this made the introduction of it infinitely more difficult. "you are not in a hurry?" she said. "oh no." "you're going to spend the evening with me like a good man? then i'll ask them to let us have tea." she rang the bell and ruby came in, and the tea was ordered. "that young lady tells me that you are an old friend of hers." "i've known about her down in the country, and was astonished to find her here yesterday." "there's some lover, isn't there;--some would-be husband whom she does not like?" "and some won't-be husband, i fear, whom she does like." "that's quite of course, if the other is true. miss ruby isn't the girl to have come to her time of life without a preference. the natural liking of a young woman for a man in a station above her, because he is softer and cleaner and has better parts of speech,--just as we keep a pretty dog if we keep a dog at all,--is one of the evils of the inequality of mankind. the girl is content with the love without having the love justified, because the object is more desirable. she can only have her love justified with an object less desirable. if all men wore coats of the same fabric, and had to share the soil of the work of the world equally between them, that evil would come to an end. a woman here and there might go wrong from fantasy and diseased passions, but the ever-existing temptation to go wrong would be at an end." "if men were equal to-morrow and all wore the same coats, they would wear different coats the next day." "slightly different. but there would be no more purple and fine linen, and no more blue woad. it isn't to be done in a day of course, nor yet in a century,--nor in a decade of centuries; but every human being who looks into it honestly will see that his efforts should be made in that direction. i remember; you never take sugar; give me that." neither had he come here to discuss the deeply interesting questions of women's difficulties and immediate or progressive equality. but having got on to these rocks,--having, as the reader may perceive, been taken on to them wilfully by the skill of the woman,--he did not know how to get his bark out again into clear waters. but having his own subject before him, with all its dangers, the wild-cat's claws, and the possible fate of the gentleman in oregon, he could not talk freely on the subjects which she introduced, as had been his wont in former years. "thanks," he said, changing his cup. "how well you remember!" "do you think i shall ever forget your preferences and dislikings? do you recollect telling me about that blue scarf of mine, that i should never wear blue?" she stretched herself out towards him, waiting for an answer, so that he was obliged to speak. "of course i do. black is your colour;--black and grey; or white,--and perhaps yellow when you choose to be gorgeous; crimson possibly. but not blue or green." "i never thought much of it before, but i have taken your word for gospel. it is very good to have an eye for such things,--as you have, paul. but i fancy that taste comes with, or at any rate forbodes, an effete civilisation." "i am sorry that mine should be effete," he said smiling. "you know what i mean, paul. i speak of nations, not individuals. civilisation was becoming effete, or at any rate men were, in the time of the great painters; but savanarola and galileo were individuals. you should throw your lot in with a new people. this railway to mexico gives you the chance." "are the mexicans a new people?" "they who will rule the mexicans are. all american women i dare say have bad taste in gowns,--and so the vain ones and rich ones send to paris for their finery; but i think our taste in men is generally good. we like our philosophers; we like our poets; we like our genuine workmen;--but we love our heroes. i would have you a hero, paul." he got up from his chair and walked about the room in an agony of despair. to be told that he was expected to be a hero at the very moment in his life in which he felt more devoid of heroism, more thoroughly given up to cowardice than he had ever been before, was not to be endured! and yet, with what utmost stretch of courage,--even though he were willing to devote himself certainly and instantly to the worst fate that he had pictured to himself,--could he immediately rush away from these abstract speculations, encumbered as they were with personal flattery, into his own most unpleasant, most tragic matter! it was the unfitness that deterred him and not the possible tragedy. nevertheless, through it all, he was sure,--nearly sure,--that she was playing her game, and playing it in direct antagonism to the game which she knew that he wanted to play. would it not be better that he should go away and write another letter? in a letter he could at any rate say what he had to say;--and having said it he would then strengthen himself to adhere to it. "what makes you so uneasy?" she asked; still speaking in her most winning way, caressing him with the tones of her voice. "do you not like me to say that i would have you be a hero?" "winifrid," he said, "i came here with a purpose, and i had better carry it out." "what purpose?" she still leaned forward, but now supported her face on her two hands with her elbows resting on her knees, looking at him intently. but one would have said that there was only love in her eyes;--love which might be disappointed, but still love. the wild cat, if there, was all within, still hidden from sight. paul stood with his hands on the back of a chair, propping himself up and trying to find fitting words for the occasion. "stop, my dear," she said. "must the purpose be told to-night?" "why not to-night?" "paul, i am not well;--i am weak now. i am a coward. you do not know the delight to me of having a few words of pleasant talk to an old friend after the desolation of the last weeks. mrs. pipkin is not very charming. even her baby cannot supply all the social wants of my life. i had intended that everything should be sweet to-night. oh, paul, if it was your purpose to tell me of your love, to assure me that you are still my dear, dear friend, to speak with hope of future days, or with pleasure of those that are past,--then carry out your purpose. but if it be cruel, or harsh, or painful; if you had come to speak daggers;--then drop your purpose for to-night. try and think what my solitude must have been to me, and let me have one hour of comfort." of course he was conquered for that night, and could only have that solace which a most injurious reprieve could give him. "i will not harass you, if you are ill," he said. "i am ill. it was because i was afraid that i should be really ill that i went to southend. the weather is hot, though of course the sun here is not as we have it. but the air is heavy,--what mrs. pipkin calls muggy. i was thinking if i were to go somewhere for a week, it would do me good. where had i better go?" paul suggested brighton. "that is full of people; is it not?--a fashionable place?" "not at this time of the year." "but it is a big place. i want some little place that would be pretty. you could take me down; could you not? not very far, you know;--not that any place can be very far from here." paul, in his john bull displeasure, suggested penzance, telling her, untruly, that it would take twenty-four hours. "not penzance then, which i know is your very ultima thule;--not penzance, nor yet orkney. is there no other place,--except southend?" "there is cromer in norfolk,--perhaps ten hours." "is cromer by the sea?" "yes;--what we call the sea." "i mean really the sea, paul?" "if you start from cromer right away, a hundred miles would perhaps take you across to holland. a ditch of that kind wouldn't do perhaps." "ah,--now i see you are laughing at me. is cromer pretty?" "well, yes;--i think it is. i was there once, but i don't remember much. there's ramsgate." "mrs. pipkin told me of ramsgate. i don't think i should like ramsgate." "there's the isle of wight. the isle of wight is very pretty." "that's the queen's place. there would not be room for her and me too." "or lowestoft. lowestoft is not so far as cromer, and there is a railway all the distance." "and sea?" "sea enough for anything. if you can't see across it, and if there are waves, and wind enough to knock you down, and shipwrecks every other day, i don't see why a hundred miles isn't as good as a thousand." "a hundred miles is just as good as a thousand. but, paul, at southend it isn't a hundred miles across to the other side of the river. you must admit that. but you will be a better guide than mrs. pipkin. you would not have taken me to southend when i expressed a wish for the ocean;--would you? let it be lowestoft. is there an hotel?" "a small little place." "very small? uncomfortably small? but almost any place would do for me." "they make up, i believe, about a hundred beds; but in the states it would be very small." "paul," said she, delighted to have brought him back to this humour, "if i were to throw the tea things at you, it would serve you right. this is all because i did not lose myself in awe at the sight of the southend ocean. it shall be lowestoft." then she rose up and came to him, and took his arm. "you will take me down, will you not? it is desolate for a woman to go into such a place all alone. i will not ask you to stay. and i can return by myself." she had put both hands on one arm, and turned herself round, and looked into his face. "you will do that for old acquaintance sake?" for a moment or two he made no answer, and his face was troubled, and his brow was black. he was endeavouring to think;--but he was only aware of his danger, and could see no way through it. "i don't think you will let me ask in vain for such a favour as that," she said. "no;" he replied. "i will take you down. when will you go?" he had cockered himself up with some vain idea that the railway carriage would be a good place for the declaration of his purpose, or perhaps the sands at lowestoft. "when will i go? when will you take me? you have boards to attend, and shares to look to, and mexico to regenerate. i am a poor woman with nothing on hand but mrs. pipkin's baby. can you be ready in ten minutes?--because i could." paul shook his head and laughed. "i've named a time and that doesn't suit. now, sir, you name another, and i'll promise it shall suit." paul suggested saturday, the th. he must attend the next board, and had promised to see melmotte before the board day. saturday of course would do for mrs. hurtle. should she meet him at the railway station? of course he undertook to come and fetch her. then, as he took his leave, she stood close against him, and put her cheek up for him to kiss. there are moments in which a man finds it utterly impossible that he should be prudent,--as to which, when he thought of them afterwards, he could never forgive himself for prudence, let the danger have been what it may. of course he took her in his arms, and kissed her lips as well as her cheeks. chapter xliii. the city road. the statement made by ruby as to her connection with mrs. pipkin was quite true. ruby's father had married a pipkin whose brother had died leaving a widow behind him at islington. the old man at sheep's acre farm had greatly resented this marriage, had never spoken to his daughter-in-law,--or to his son after the marriage, and had steeled himself against the whole pipkin race. when he undertook the charge of ruby he had made it matter of agreement that she should have no intercourse with the pipkins. this agreement ruby had broken, corresponding on the sly with her uncle's widow at islington. when therefore she ran away from suffolk she did the best she could with herself in going to her aunt's house. mrs. pipkin was a poor woman, and could not offer a permanent home to ruby; but she was good-natured, and came to terms. ruby was to be allowed to stay at any rate for a month, and was to work in the house for her bread. but she made it a part of her bargain that she should be allowed to go out occasionally. mrs. pipkin immediately asked after a lover. "i'm all right," said ruby. if the lover was what he ought to be, had he not better come and see her? this was mrs. pipkin's suggestion. mrs. pipkin thought that scandal might in this way be avoided. "that's as it may be, by-and-by," said ruby. then she told all the story of john crumb:--how she hated john crumb; how resolved she was that nothing should make her marry john crumb. and she gave her own account of that night on which john crumb and mr. mixet ate their supper at the farm, and of the manner in which her grandfather had treated her because she would not have john crumb. mrs. pipkin was a respectable woman in her way, always preferring respectable lodgers if she could get them;--but bound to live. she gave ruby very good advice. of course if she was "dead-set" against john crumb, that was one thing! but then there was nothing a young woman should look to so much as a decent house over her head,--and victuals. "what's all the love in the world, ruby, if a man can't do for you?" ruby declared that she knew somebody who could do for her, and could do very well for her. she knew what she was about, and wasn't going to be put off it. mrs. pipkin's morals were good wearing morals, but she was not strait-laced. if ruby chose to manage in her own way about her lover she must. mrs. pipkin had an idea that young women in these days did have, and would have, and must have more liberty than was allowed when she was young. the world was being changed very fast. mrs. pipkin knew that as well as others. and therefore when ruby went to the theatre once and again,--by herself as far as mrs. pipkin knew, but probably in company with her lover,--and did not get home till past midnight, mrs. pipkin said very little about it, attributing such novel circumstances to the altered condition of her country. she had not been allowed to go to the theatre with a young man when she had been a girl,--but that had been in the earlier days of queen victoria, fifteen years ago, before the new dispensation had come. ruby had never yet told the name of her lover to mrs. pipkin, having answered all inquiries by saying that she was all right. sir felix's name had never even been mentioned in islington till paul montague had mentioned it. she had been managing her own affairs after her own fashion,--not altogether with satisfaction, but still without interruption; but now she knew that interference would come. mr. montague had found her out, and had told her grandfather's landlord. the squire would be after her, and then john crumb would come, accompanied of course by mr. mixet,--and after that, as she said to herself on retiring to the couch which she shared with two little pipkins, "the fat would be in the fire." "who do you think was at our place yesterday?" said ruby one evening to her lover. they were sitting together at a music-hall,--half music-hall, half theatre, which pleasantly combined the allurements of the gin-palace, the theatre, and the ball-room, trenching hard on those of other places. sir felix was smoking, dressed, as he himself called it, "incognito," with a tom-and-jerry hat, and a blue silk cravat, and a green coat. ruby thought it was charming. felix entertained an idea that were his west end friends to see him in this attire they would not know him. he was smoking, and had before him a glass of hot brandy and water, which was common to himself and ruby. he was enjoying life. poor ruby! she was half-ashamed of herself, half-frightened, and yet supported by a feeling that it was a grand thing to have got rid of restraints, and be able to be with her young man. why not? the miss longestaffes were allowed to sit and dance and walk about with their young men,--when they had any. why was she to be given up to a great mass of stupid dust like john crumb, without seeing anything of the world? but yet as she sat sipping her lover's brandy and water between eleven and twelve at the music-hall in the city road, she was not altogether comfortable. she saw things which she did not like to see. and she heard things which she did not like to hear. and her lover, though he was beautiful,--oh, so beautiful!--was not all that a lover should be. she was still a little afraid of him, and did not dare as yet to ask him for the promise which she expected him to make to her. her mind was set upon--marriage, but the word had hardly passed between them. to have his arm round her waist was heaven to her! could it be possible that he and john crumb were of the same order of human beings? but how was this to go on? even mrs. pipkin made disagreeable allusions, and she could not live always with mrs. pipkin, coming out at nights to drink brandy and water and hear music with sir felix carbury. she was glad therefore to take the first opportunity of telling her lover that something was going to happen. "who do you suppose was at our place yesterday?" sir felix changed colour, thinking of marie melmotte, thinking that perhaps some emissary from marie melmotte had been there; perhaps didon herself. he was amusing himself during these last evenings of his in london; but the business of his life was about to take him to new york. that project was still being elaborated. he had had an interview with didon, and nothing was wanting but the money. didon had heard of the funds which had been intrusted by him to melmotte, and had been very urgent with him to recover them. therefore, though his body was not unfrequently present, late in the night, at the city road music-hall, his mind was ever in grosvenor square. "who was it, ruby?" "a friend of the squire's, a mr. montague. i used to see him about in bungay and beccles." "paul montague!" "do you know him, felix?" "well;--rather. he's a member of our club, and i see him constantly in the city--and i know him at home." "is he nice?" "well;--that depends on what you call nice. he's a prig of a fellow." "he's got a lady friend where i live." "the devil he has!" sir felix of course had heard of roger carbury's suit to his sister, and of the opposition to this suit on the part of hetta, which was supposed to have been occasioned by her preference for paul montague. "who is she, ruby?" "well;--she's a mrs. hurtle. such a stunning woman! aunt says she's an american. she's got lots of money." "is montague going to marry her?" "oh dear yes. it's all arranged. mr. montague comes quite regular to see her;--not so regular as he ought, though. when gentlemen are fixed as they're to be married, they never are regular afterwards. i wonder whether it'll be the same with you?" "wasn't john crumb regular, ruby?" "bother john crumb! that wasn't none of my doings. oh, he'd been regular enough, if i'd let him; he'd been like clockwork,--only the slowest clock out. but mr. montague has been and told the squire as he saw me. he told me so himself. the squire's coming about john crumb. i know that. what am i to tell him, felix?" "tell him to mind his own business. he can't do anything to you." "no;--he can't do nothing. i ain't done nothing wrong, and he can't send for the police to have me took back to sheep's acre. but he can talk,--and he can look. i ain't one of those, felix, as don't mind about their characters,--so don't you think it. shall i tell him as i'm with you?" "gracious goodness, no! what would you say that for?" "i didn't know. i must say something." "tell him you're nothing to him." "but aunt will be letting on about my being out late o'nights; i know she will. and who am i with? he'll be asking that." "your aunt does not know?" "no;--i've told nobody yet. but it won't do to go on like that, you know,--will it? you don't want it to go on always like that;--do you?" "it's very jolly, i think." "it ain't jolly for me. of course, felix, i like to be with you. that's jolly. but i have to mind them brats all the day, and to be doing the bedrooms. and that's not the worst of it." "what is the worst of it?" "i'm pretty nigh ashamed of myself. yes, i am." and now ruby burst out into tears. "because i wouldn't have john crumb, i didn't mean to be a bad girl. nor yet i won't. but what'll i do, if everybody turns again me? aunt won't go on for ever in this way. she said last night that--" "bother what she says!" felix was not at all anxious to hear what aunt pipkin might have to say upon such an occasion. "she's right too. of course she knows there's somebody. she ain't such a fool as to think that i'm out at these hours to sing psalms with a lot of young women. she says that whoever it is ought to speak out his mind. there;--that's what she says. and she's right. a girl has to mind herself, though she's ever so fond of a young man." sir felix sucked his cigar and then took a long drink of brandy and water. having emptied the beaker before him, he rapped for the waiter and called for another. he intended to avoid the necessity of making any direct reply to ruby's importunities. he was going to new york very shortly, and looked on his journey thither as an horizon in his future beyond which it was unnecessary to speculate as to any farther distance. he had not troubled himself to think how it might be with ruby when he was gone. he had not even considered whether he would or would not tell her that he was going, before he started. it was not his fault that she had come up to london. she was an "awfully jolly girl," and he liked the feeling of the intrigue better perhaps than the girl herself. but he assured himself that he wasn't going to give himself any "d----d trouble." the idea of john crumb coming up to london in his wrath had never occurred to him,--or he would probably have hurried on his journey to new york instead of delaying it, as he was doing now. "let's go in and have a dance," he said. ruby was very fond of dancing,--perhaps liked it better than anything in the world. it was heaven to her to be spinning round the big room with her lover's arm tight round her waist, with one hand in his and her other hanging over his back. she loved the music, and loved the motion. her ear was good, and her strength was great, and she never lacked breath. she could spin along and dance a whole room down, and feel at the time that the world could have nothing to give better worth having than that;--and such moments were too precious to be lost. she went and danced, resolving as she did so that she would have some answer to her question before she left her lover on that night. "and now i must go," she said at last. "you'll see me as far as the angel, won't you?" of course he was ready to see her as far as the angel. "what am i to say to the squire?" "say nothing." "and what am i to say to aunt?" "say to her? just say what you have said all along." "i've said nothing all along,--just to oblige you, felix. i must say something. a girl has got herself to mind. what have you got to say to me, felix?" he was silent for about a minute, meditating his answer. "if you bother me i shall cut it, you know." "cut it!" "yes;--cut it. can't you wait till i am ready to say something?" "waiting will be the ruin o' me, if i wait much longer. where am i to go, if mrs. pipkin won't have me no more?" "i'll find a place for you." "you find a place! no; that won't do. i've told you all that before. i'd sooner go into service, or--" "go back to john crumb." "john crumb has more respect for me nor you. he'd make me his wife to-morrow, and only be too happy." "i didn't tell you to come away from him," said sir felix. "yes, you did. you told me as i was to come up to london when i saw you at sheepstone beeches;--didn't you? and you told me you loved me;--didn't you? and that if i wanted anything you'd get it done for me;--didn't you?" "so i will. what do you want? i can give you a couple of sovereigns, if that's what it is." "no it isn't;--and i won't have your money. i'd sooner work my fingers off. i want you to say whether you mean to marry me. there!" as to the additional lie which sir felix might now have told, that would have been nothing to him. he was going to new york, and would be out of the way of any trouble; and he thought that lies of that kind to young women never went for anything. young women, he thought, didn't believe them, but liked to be able to believe afterwards that they had been deceived. it wasn't the lie that stuck in his throat, but the fact that he was a baronet. it was in his estimation "confounded impudence" on the part of ruby ruggles to ask to be his wife. he did not care for the lie, but he did not like to seem to lower himself by telling such a lie as that at her dictation. "marry, ruby! no, i don't ever mean to marry. it's the greatest bore out. i know a trick worth two of that." she stopped in the street and looked at him. this was a state of things of which she had never dreamed. she could imagine that a man should wish to put it off, but that he should have the face to declare to his young woman that he never meant to marry at all, was a thing that she could not understand. what business had such a man to go after any young woman? "and what do you mean that i'm to do, sir felix?" she said. "just go easy, and not make yourself a bother." "not make myself a bother! oh, but i will; i will. i'm to be carrying on with you, and nothing to come of it; but for you to tell me that you don't mean to marry, never at all! never?" "don't you see lots of old bachelors about, ruby?" "of course i does. there's the squire. but he don't come asking girls to keep him company." "that's more than you know, ruby." "if he did he'd marry her out of hand,--because he's a gentleman. that's what he is, every inch of him. he never said a word to a girl,--not to do her any harm, i'm sure," and ruby began to cry. "you mustn't come no further now, and i'll never see you again--never! i think you're the falsest young man, and the basest, and the lowest-minded that i ever heard tell of. i know there are them as don't keep their words. things turn up, and they can't. or they gets to like others better; or there ain't nothing to live on. but for a young man to come after a young woman, and then say, right out, as he never means to marry at all, is the lowest-spirited fellow that ever was. i never read of such a one in none of the books. no, i won't. you go your way, and i'll go mine." in her passion she was as good as her word, and escaped from him, running all the way to her aunt's door. there was in her mind a feeling of anger against the man, which she did not herself understand, in that he would incur no risk on her behalf. he would not even make a lover's easy promise, in order that the present hour might be made pleasant. ruby let herself into her aunt's house, and cried herself to sleep with a child on each side of her. on the next day roger called. she had begged mrs. pipkin to attend the door, and had asked her to declare, should any gentleman ask for ruby ruggles, that ruby ruggles was out. mrs. pipkin had not refused to do so; but, having heard sufficient of roger carbury to imagine the cause which might possibly bring him to the house, and having made up her mind that ruby's present condition of independence was equally unfavourable to the lodging-house and to ruby herself, she determined that the squire, if he did come, should see the young lady. when therefore ruby was called into the little back parlour and found roger carbury there, she thought that she had been caught in a trap. she had been very cross all the morning. though in her rage she had been able on the previous evening to dismiss her titled lover, and to imply that she never meant to see him again, now, when the remembrance of the loss came upon her amidst her daily work,--when she could no longer console herself in her drudgery by thinking of the beautiful things that were in store for her, and by flattering herself that though at this moment she was little better than a maid of all work in a lodging-house, the time was soon coming in which she would bloom forth as a baronet's bride,--now in her solitude she almost regretted the precipitancy of her own conduct. could it be that she would never see him again;--that she would dance no more in that gilded bright saloon? and might it not be possible that she had pressed him too hard? a baronet of course would not like to be brought to book, as she could bring to book such a one as john crumb. but yet,--that he should have said never;--that he would never marry! looking at it in any light, she was very unhappy, and this coming of the squire did not serve to cure her misery. roger was very kind to her, taking her by the hand, and bidding her sit down, and telling her how glad he was to find that she was comfortably settled with her aunt. "we were all alarmed, of course, when you went away without telling anybody where you were going." "grandfather 'd been that cruel to me that i couldn't tell him." "he wanted you to keep your word to an old friend of yours." "to pull me all about by the hairs of my head wasn't the way to make a girl keep her word;--was it, mr. carbury? that's what he did, then;--and sally hockett, who is there, heard it. i've been good to grandfather, whatever i may have been to john crumb; and he shouldn't have treated me like that. no girl 'd like to be pulled about the room by the hairs of her head, and she with her things all off, just getting into bed." the squire had no answer to make to this. that old ruggles should be a violent brute under the influence of gin and water did not surprise him. and the girl, when driven away from her home by such usage, had not done amiss in coming to her aunt. but roger had already heard a few words from mrs. pipkin as to ruby's late hours, had heard also that there was a lover, and knew very well who that lover was. he also was quite familiar with john crumb's state of mind. john crumb was a gallant, loving fellow who might be induced to forgive everything, if ruby would only go back to him; but would certainly persevere, after some slow fashion of his own, and "see the matter out," as he would say himself, if she did not go back. "as you found yourself obliged to run away," said roger, "i'm glad that you should be here; but you don't mean to stay here always?" "i don't know," said ruby. "you must think of your future life. you don't want to be always your aunt's maid." "oh dear, no." "it would be very odd if you did, when you may be the wife of such a man as mr. crumb." "oh, mr. crumb! everybody is going on about mr. crumb. i don't like mr. crumb, and i never will like him." "now look here, ruby; i have come to speak to you very seriously, and i expect you to hear me. nobody can make you marry mr. crumb, unless you please." "nobody can't, of course, sir." "but i fear you have given him up for somebody else, who certainly won't marry you, and who can only mean to ruin you." "nobody won't ruin me," said ruby. "a girl has to look to herself, and i mean to look to myself." "i'm glad to hear you say so, but being out at night with such a one as sir felix carbury is not looking to yourself. that means going to the devil head foremost." "i ain't a going to the devil," said ruby, sobbing and blushing. "but you will, if you put yourself into the hands of that young man. he's as bad as bad can be. he's my own cousin, and yet i'm obliged to tell you so. he has no more idea of marrying you than i have; but were he to marry you, he could not support you. he is ruined himself, and would ruin any young woman who trusted him. i'm almost old enough to be your father, and in all my experience i never came across so vile a young man as he is. he would ruin you and cast you from him without a pang of remorse. he has no heart in his bosom;--none." ruby had now given way altogether, and was sobbing with her apron to her eyes in one corner of the room. "that's what sir felix carbury is," said the squire, standing up so that he might speak with the more energy, and talk her down more thoroughly. "and if i understand it rightly," he continued, "it is for a vile thing such as he, that you have left a man who is as much above him in character, as the sun is above the earth. you think little of john crumb because he does not wear a fine coat." "i don't care about any man's coat," said ruby; "but john hasn't ever a word to say, was it ever so." [illustration: "i don't care about any man's coat."] "words to say! what do words matter? he loves you. he loves you after that fashion that he wants to make you happy and respectable, not to make you a bye-word and a disgrace." ruby struggled hard to make some opposition to the suggestion, but found herself to be incapable of speech at the moment. "he thinks more of you than of himself, and would give you all that he has. what would that other man give you? if you were once married to john crumb, would any one then pull you by the hairs of your head? would there be any want then, or any disgrace?" "there ain't no disgrace, mr. carbury." "no disgrace in going about at midnight with such a one as felix carbury? you are not a fool, and you know that it is disgraceful. if you are not unfit to be an honest man's wife, go back and beg that man's pardon." "john crumb's pardon! no!" "oh, ruby, if you knew how highly i respect that man, and how lowly i think of the other; how i look on the one as a noble fellow, and regard the other as dust beneath my feet, you would perhaps change your mind a little." her mind was being changed. his words did have their effect, though the poor girl struggled against the conviction that was borne in upon her. she had never expected to hear any one call john crumb noble. but she had never respected any one more highly than squire carbury, and he said that john crumb was noble. amidst all her misery and trouble she still told herself that it was but a dusty, mealy,--and also a dumb nobility. "i'll tell you what will take place," continued roger. "mr. crumb won't put up with this you know." "he can't do nothing to me, sir." "that's true enough. unless it be to take you in his arms and press you to his heart, he wants to do nothing to you. do you think he'd injure you if he could? you don't know what a man's love really means, ruby. but he could do something to somebody else. how do you think it would be with felix carbury, if they two were in a room together and nobody else by?" "john's mortial strong, mr. carbury." "if two men have equal pluck, strength isn't much needed. one is a brave man, and the other--a coward. which do you think is which?" "he's your own cousin, and i don't know why you should say everything again him." "you know i'm telling you the truth. you know it as well as i do myself;--and you're throwing yourself away, and throwing the man who loves you over,--for such a fellow as that! go back to him, ruby, and beg his pardon." "i never will;--never." "i've spoken to mrs. pipkin, and while you're here she will see that you don't keep such hours any longer. you tell me that you're not disgraced, and yet you are out at midnight with a young blackguard like that! i've said what i've got to say, and i'm going away. but i'll let your grandfather know." "grandfather don't want me no more." "and i'll come again. if you want money to go home, i will let you have it. take my advice at least in this;--do not see sir felix carbury any more." then he took his leave. if he had failed to impress her with admiration for john crumb, he had certainly been efficacious in lessening that which she had entertained for sir felix. chapter xliv. the coming election. the very greatness of mr. melmotte's popularity, the extent of the admiration which was accorded by the public at large to his commercial enterprise and financial sagacity, created a peculiar bitterness in the opposition that was organised against him at westminster. as the high mountains are intersected by deep valleys, as puritanism in one age begets infidelity in the next, as in many countries the thickness of the winter's ice will be in proportion to the number of the summer musquitoes, so was the keenness of the hostility displayed on this occasion in proportion to the warmth of the support which was manifested. as the great man was praised, so also was he abused. as he was a demi-god to some, so was he a fiend to others. and indeed there was hardly any other way in which it was possible to carry on the contest against him. from the moment in which mr. melmotte had declared his purpose of standing for westminster in the conservative interest, an attempt was made to drive him down the throats of the electors by clamorous assertions of his unprecedented commercial greatness. it seemed that there was but one virtue in the world, commercial enterprise,--and that melmotte was its prophet. it seemed, too, that the orators and writers of the day intended all westminster to believe that melmotte treated his great affairs in a spirit very different from that which animates the bosoms of merchants in general. he had risen above any feeling of personal profit. his wealth was so immense that there was no longer place for anxiety on that score. he already possessed,--so it was said,--enough to found a dozen families, and he had but one daughter! but by carrying on the enormous affairs which he held in his hands, he would be able to open up new worlds, to afford relief to the oppressed nationalities of the over-populated old countries. he had seen how small was the good done by the peabodys and the bairds, and, resolving to lend no ear to charities and religions, was intent on projects for enabling young nations to earn plentiful bread by the moderate sweat of their brows. he was the head and front of the railway which was to regenerate mexico. it was presumed that the contemplated line from ocean to ocean across british america would become a fact in his hands. it was he who was to enter into terms with the emperor of china for farming the tea-fields of that vast country. he was already in treaty with russia for a railway from moscow to khiva. he had a fleet,--or soon would have a fleet of emigrant ships,--ready to carry every discontented irishman out of ireland to whatever quarter of the globe the milesian might choose for the exercise of his political principles. it was known that he had already floated a company for laying down a submarine wire from penzance to point de galle, round the cape of good hope,--so that, in the event of general wars, england need be dependent on no other country for its communications with india. and then there was the philanthropic scheme for buying the liberty of the arabian fellahs from the khedive of egypt for thirty millions sterling,--the compensation to consist of the concession of a territory about four times as big as great britain in the lately annexed country on the great african lakes. it may have been the case that some of these things were as yet only matters of conversation,--speculations as to which mr. melmotte's mind and imagination had been at work, rather than his pocket or even his credit; but they were all sufficiently matured to find their way into the public press, and to be used as strong arguments why melmotte should become member of parliament for westminster. all this praise was of course gall to those who found themselves called upon by the demands of their political position to oppose mr. melmotte. you can run down a demi-god only by making him out to be a demi-devil. these very persons, the leading liberals of the leading borough in england as they called themselves, would perhaps have cared little about melmotte's antecedents had it not become their duty to fight him as a conservative. had the great man found at the last moment that his own british politics had been liberal in their nature, these very enemies would have been on his committee. it was their business to secure the seat. and as melmotte's supporters began the battle with an attempt at what the liberals called "bounce,"--to carry the borough with a rush by an overwhelming assertion of their candidate's virtues,--the other party was driven to make some enquiries as to that candidate's antecedents. they quickly warmed to the work, and were not less loud in exposing the satan of speculation, than had been the conservatives in declaring the commercial jove. emissaries were sent to paris and francfort, and the wires were used to vienna and new york. it was not difficult to collect stories,--true or false; and some quiet men, who merely looked on at the game, expressed an opinion that melmotte might have wisely abstained from the glories of parliament. nevertheless there was at first some difficulty in finding a proper liberal candidate to run against him. the nobleman who had been elevated out of his seat by the death of his father had been a great whig magnate, whose family was possessed of immense wealth and of popularity equal to its possessions. one of that family might have contested the borough at a much less expense than any other person,--and to them the expense would have mattered but little. but there was no such member of it forthcoming. lord this and lord that,--and the honourable this and the honourable that, sons of other cognate lords,--already had seats which they were unwilling to vacate in the present state of affairs. there was but one other session for the existing parliament; and the odds were held to be very greatly in melmotte's favour. many an outsider was tried, but the outsiders were either afraid of melmotte's purse or his influence. lord buntingford was asked, and he and his family were good old whigs. but he was nephew to lord alfred grendall, first cousin to miles grendall, and abstained on behalf of his relatives. an overture was made to sir damask monogram, who certainly could afford the contest. but sir damask did not see his way. melmotte was a working bee, while he was a drone,--and he did not wish to have the difference pointed out by mr. melmotte's supporters. moreover, he preferred his yacht and his four-in-hand. at last a candidate was selected, whose nomination and whose consent to occupy the position created very great surprise in the london world. the press had of course taken up the matter very strongly. the "morning breakfast table" supported mr. melmotte with all its weight. there were people who said that this support was given by mr. broune under the influence of lady carbury, and that lady carbury in this way endeavoured to reconcile the great man to a marriage between his daughter and sir felix. but it is more probable that mr. broune saw,--or thought that he saw,--which way the wind sat, and that he supported the commercial hero because he felt that the hero would be supported by the country at large. in praising a book, or putting foremost the merits of some official or military claimant, or writing up a charity,--in some small matter of merely personal interest,--the editor of the "morning breakfast table" might perhaps allow himself to listen to a lady whom he loved. but he knew his work too well to jeopardize his paper by such influences in any matter which might probably become interesting to the world of his readers. there was a strong belief in melmotte. the clubs thought that he would be returned for westminster. the dukes and duchesses fêted him. the city,--even the city was showing a wavering disposition to come round. bishops begged for his name on the list of promoters of their pet schemes. royalty without stint was to dine at his table. melmotte himself was to sit at the right hand of the brother of the sun and of the uncle of the moon, and british royalty was to be arranged opposite, so that every one might seem to have the place of most honour. how could a conscientious editor of a "morning breakfast table," seeing how things were going, do other than support mr. melmotte? in fair justice it may be well doubted whether lady carbury had exercised any influence in the matter. but the "evening pulpit" took the other side. now this was the more remarkable, the more sure to attract attention, inasmuch as the "evening pulpit" had never supported the liberal interest. as was said in the first chapter of this work, the motto of that newspaper implied that it was to be conducted on principles of absolute independence. had the "evening pulpit," like some of its contemporaries, lived by declaring from day to day that all liberal elements were godlike, and all their opposites satanic, as a matter of course the same line of argument would have prevailed as to the westminster election. but as it had not been so, the vigour of the "evening pulpit" on this occasion was the more alarming and the more noticeable,--so that the short articles which appeared almost daily in reference to mr. melmotte were read by everybody. now they who are concerned in the manufacture of newspapers are well aware that censure is infinitely more attractive than eulogy,--but they are quite as well aware that it is more dangerous. no proprietor or editor was ever brought before the courts at the cost of ever so many hundred pounds,--which if things go badly may rise to thousands,--because he had attributed all but divinity to some very poor specimen of mortality. no man was ever called upon for damages because he had attributed grand motives. it might be well for politics and literature and art,--and for truth in general, if it was possible to do so. but a new law of libel must be enacted before such salutary proceedings can take place. censure on the other hand is open to very grave perils. let the editor have been ever so conscientious, ever so beneficent,--even ever so true,--let it be ever so clear that what he has written has been written on behalf of virtue, and that he has misstated no fact, exaggerated no fault, never for a moment been allured from public to private matters,--and he may still be in danger of ruin. a very long purse, or else a very high courage is needed for the exposure of such conduct as the "evening pulpit" attributed to mr. melmotte. the paper took up this line suddenly. after the second article mr. alf sent back to mr. miles grendall, who in the matter was acting as mr. melmotte's secretary, the ticket of invitation for the dinner, with a note from mr. alf stating that circumstances connected with the forthcoming election for westminster could not permit him to have the great honour of dining at mr. melmotte's table in the presence of the emperor of china. miles grendall showed the note to the dinner committee, and, without consultation with mr. melmotte, it was decided that the ticket should be sent to the editor of a thorough-going conservative journal. this conduct on the part of the "evening pulpit" astonished the world considerably; but the world was more astonished when it was declared that mr. ferdinand alf himself was going to stand for westminster on the liberal interest. various suggestions were made. some said that as mr. alf had a large share in the newspaper, and as its success was now an established fact, he himself intended to retire from the laborious position which he filled, and was therefore free to go into parliament. others were of opinion that this was the beginning of a new era in literature, of a new order of things, and that from this time forward editors would frequently be found in parliament, if editors were employed of sufficient influence in the world to find constituencies. mr. broune whispered confidentially to lady carbury that the man was a fool for his pains, and that he was carried away by pride. "very clever,--and dashing," said mr. broune, "but he never had ballast." lady carbury shook her head. she did not want to give up mr. alf if she could help it. he had never said a civil word of her in his paper;--but still she had an idea that it was well to be on good terms with so great a power. she entertained a mysterious awe for mr. alf,--much in excess of any similar feeling excited by mr. broune, in regard to whom her awe had been much diminished since he had made her an offer of marriage. her sympathies as to the election of course were with mr. melmotte. she believed in him thoroughly. she still thought that his nod might be the means of making felix,--or if not his nod, then his money without the nod. "i suppose he is very rich," she said, speaking to mr. broune respecting mr. alf. "i dare say he has put by something. but this election will cost him £ , ;--and if he goes on as he is doing now, he had better allow another £ , for action for libel. they've already declared that they will indict the paper." "do you believe about the austrian insurance company?" this was a matter as to which mr. melmotte was supposed to have retired from paris not with clean hands. "i don't believe the 'evening pulpit' can prove it,--and i'm sure that they can't attempt to prove it without an expense of three or four thousand pounds. that's a game in which nobody wins but the lawyers. i wonder at alf. i should have thought that he would have known how to get all said that he wanted to have said without running with his head into the lion's mouth. he has been so clever up to this! god knows he has been bitter enough, but he has always sailed within the wind." mr. alf had a powerful committee. by this time an animus in regard to the election had been created strong enough to bring out the men on both sides, and to produce heat, when otherwise there might only have been a warmth or possibly frigidity. the whig marquises and the whig barons came forward, and with them the liberal professional men, and the tradesmen who had found that party to answer best, and the democratical mechanics. if melmotte's money did not, at last, utterly demoralise the lower class of voters, there would still be a good fight. and there was a strong hope that, under the ballot, melmotte's money might be taken without a corresponding effect upon the voting. it was found upon trial that mr. alf was a good speaker. and though he still conducted the "evening pulpit," he made time for addressing meetings of the constituency almost daily. and in his speeches he never spared melmotte. no one, he said, had a greater reverence for mercantile grandeur than himself. but let them take care that the grandeur was grand. how great would be the disgrace to such a borough as that of westminster if it should find that it had been taken in by a false spirit of speculation and that it had surrendered itself to gambling when it had thought to do honour to honest commerce. this, connected as of course it was, with the articles in the paper, was regarded as very open speaking. and it had its effect. some men began to say that melmotte had not been known long enough to deserve confidence in his riches, and the lord mayor was already beginning to think that it might be wise to escape the dinner by some excuse. melmotte's committee was also very grand. if alf was supported by marquises and barons, he was supported by dukes and earls. but his speaking in public did not of itself inspire much confidence. he had very little to say when he attempted to explain the political principles on which he intended to act. after a little he confined himself to remarks on the personal attacks made on him by the other side, and even in doing that was reiterative rather than diffusive. let them prove it. he defied them to prove it. englishmen were too great, too generous, too honest, too noble,--the men of westminster especially were a great deal too high-minded to pay any attention to such charges as these till they were proved. then he began again. let them prove it. such accusations as these were mere lies till they were proved. he did not say much himself in public as to actions for libel,--but assurances were made on his behalf to the electors, especially by lord alfred grendall and his son, that as soon as the election was over all speakers and writers would be indicted for libel, who should be declared by proper legal advice to have made themselves liable to such action. the "evening pulpit" and mr. alf would of course be the first victims. the dinner was fixed for monday, july the th. the election for the borough was to be held on tuesday the th. it was generally thought that the proximity of the two days had been arranged with the view of enhancing melmotte's expected triumph. but such in truth was not the case. it had been an accident, and an accident that was distressing to some of the melmottites. there was much to be done about the dinner,--which could not be omitted; and much also as to the election,--which was imperative. the two grendalls, father and son, found themselves to be so driven that the world seemed for them to be turned topsey-turvey. the elder had in old days been accustomed to electioneering in the interest of his own family, and had declared himself willing to make himself useful on behalf of mr. melmotte. but he found westminster to be almost too much for him. he was called here and sent there, till he was very near rebellion. "if this goes on much longer i shall cut it," he said to his son. "think of me, governor," said the son. "i have to be in the city four or five times a week." "you've a regular salary." "come, governor; you've done pretty well for that. what's my salary to the shares you've had? the thing is;--will it last?" "how last?" "there are a good many who say that melmotte will burst up." "i don't believe it," said lord alfred. "they don't know what they're talking about. there are too many in the same boat to let him burst up. it would be the bursting up of half london. but i shall tell him after this that he must make it easier. he wants to know who's to have every ticket for the dinner, and there's nobody to tell him except me. and i've got to arrange all the places, and nobody to help me except that fellow from the herald's office. i don't know about people's rank. which ought to come first: a director of the bank or a fellow who writes books?" miles suggested that the fellow from the herald's office would know all about that, and that his father need not trouble himself with petty details. "and you shall come to us for three days,--after it's over," said lady monogram to miss longestaffe; a proposition to which miss longestaffe acceded, willingly indeed, but not by any means as though a favour had been conferred upon her. now the reason why lady monogram had changed her mind as to inviting her old friend, and thus threw open her hospitality for three whole days to the poor young lady who had disgraced herself by staying with the melmottes, was as follows. miss longestaffe had the disposal of two evening tickets for madame melmotte's grand reception; and so greatly had the melmottes risen in general appreciation, that lady monogram had found that she was bound, on behalf of her own position in society, to be present on that occasion. it would not do that her name should not be in the printed list of the guests. therefore she had made a serviceable bargain with her old friend miss longestaffe. she was to have her two tickets for the reception, and miss longestaffe was to be received for three days as a guest by lady monogram. it had also been conceded that at any rate on one of these nights lady monogram should take miss longestaffe out with her, and that she should herself receive company on another. there was perhaps something slightly painful at the commencement of the negotiation; but such feelings soon fade away, and lady monogram was quite a woman of the world. chapter xlv. mr. melmotte is pressed for time. about this time, a fortnight or nearly so before the election, mr. longestaffe came up to town and saw mr. melmotte very frequently. he could not go into his own house, as he had let that for a month to the great financier, nor had he any establishment in town; but he slept at an hotel and lived at the carlton. he was quite delighted to find that his new friend was an honest conservative, and he himself proposed the honest conservative at the club. there was some idea of electing mr. melmotte out of hand, but it was decided that the club could not go beyond its rule, and could only admit mr. melmotte out of his regular turn as soon as he should occupy a seat in the house of commons. mr. melmotte, who was becoming somewhat arrogant, was heard to declare that if the club did not take him when he was willing to be taken, it might do without him. if not elected at once, he should withdraw his name. so great was his prestige at this moment with his own party that there were some, mr. longestaffe among the number, who pressed the thing on the committee. mr. melmotte was not like other men. it was a great thing to have mr. melmotte in the party. mr. melmotte's financial capabilities would in themselves be a tower of strength. rules were not made to control the club in a matter of such importance as this. a noble lord, one among seven who had been named as a fit leader of the upper house on the conservative side in the next session, was asked to take the matter up; and men thought that the thing might have been done had he complied. but he was old-fashioned, perhaps pig-headed; and the club for the time lost the honour of entertaining mr. melmotte. it may be remembered that mr. longestaffe had been anxious to become one of the directors of the mexican railway, and that he was rather snubbed than encouraged when he expressed his wish to mr. melmotte. like other great men, mr. melmotte liked to choose his own time for bestowing favours. since that request was made the proper time had come, and he had now intimated to mr. longestaffe that in a somewhat altered condition of things there would be a place for him at the board, and that he and his brother directors would be delighted to avail themselves of his assistance. the alliance between mr. melmotte and mr. longestaffe had become very close. the melmottes had visited the longestaffes at caversham. georgiana longestaffe was staying with madame melmotte in london. the melmottes were living in mr. longestaffe's town house, having taken it for a month at a very high rent. mr. longestaffe now had a seat at mr. melmotte's board. and mr. melmotte had bought mr. longestaffe's estate at pickering on terms very favourable to the longestaffes. it had been suggested to mr. longestaffe by mr. melmotte that he had better qualify for his seat at the board by taking shares in the company to the amount of--perhaps two or three thousand pounds, and mr. longestaffe had of course consented. there would be no need of any transaction in absolute cash. the shares could of course be paid for out of mr. longestaffe's half of the purchase money for pickering park, and could remain for the present in mr. melmotte's hands. to this also mr. longestaffe had consented, not quite understanding why the scrip should not be made over to him at once. it was a part of the charm of all dealings with this great man that no ready money seemed ever to be necessary for anything. great purchases were made and great transactions apparently completed without the signing even of a cheque. mr. longestaffe found himself to be afraid even to give a hint to mr. melmotte about ready money. in speaking of all such matters melmotte seemed to imply that everything necessary had been done, when he had said that it was done. pickering had been purchased and the title-deeds made over to mr. melmotte; but the £ , had not been paid,--had not been absolutely paid, though of course mr. melmotte's note assenting to the terms was security sufficient for any reasonable man. the property had been mortgaged, though not heavily, and mr. melmotte had no doubt satisfied the mortgagee; but there was still a sum of £ , to come, of which dolly was to have one half and the other was to be employed in paying off mr. longestaffe's debts to tradesmen and debts to the bank. it would have been very pleasant to have had this at once,--but mr. longestaffe felt the absurdity of pressing such a man as mr. melmotte, and was partly conscious of the gradual consummation of a new æra in money matters. "if your banker is pressing you, refer him to me," mr. melmotte had said. as for many years past we have exchanged paper instead of actual money for our commodities, so now it seemed that, under the new melmotte régime, an exchange of words was to suffice. but dolly wanted his money. dolly, idle as he was, foolish as he was, dissipated as he was and generally indifferent to his debts, liked to have what belonged to him. it had all been arranged. £ , would pay off all his tradesmen's debts and leave him comfortably possessed of money in hand, while the other £ , would make his own property free. there was a charm in this which awakened even dolly, and for the time almost reconciled him to his father's society. but now a shade of impatience was coming over him. he had actually gone down to caversham to arrange the terms with his father,--and had in fact made his own terms. his father had been unable to move him, and had consequently suffered much in spirit. dolly had been almost triumphant,--thinking that the money would come on the next day, or at any rate during the next week. now he came to his father early in the morning,--at about two o'clock,--to enquire what was being done. he had not as yet been made blessed with a single ten-pound note in his hand, as the result of the sale. "are you going to see melmotte, sir?" he asked somewhat abruptly. "yes;--i'm to be with him to-morrow, and he is to introduce me to the board." "you're going in for that, are you, sir? do they pay anything?" "i believe not." "nidderdale and young carbury belong to it. it's a sort of beargarden affair." "a bear-garden affair, adolphus. how so?" "i mean the club. we had them all there for dinner one day, and a jolly dinner we gave them. miles grendall and old alfred belong to it. i don't think they'd go in for it, if there was no money going. i'd make them fork out something if i took the trouble of going all that way." "i think that perhaps, adolphus, you hardly understand these things." "no, i don't. i don't understand much about business, i know. what i want to understand is, when melmotte is going to pay up this money." "i suppose he'll arrange it with the banks," said the father. "i beg that he won't arrange my money with the banks, sir. you'd better tell him not. a cheque upon his bank which i can pay in to mine is about the best thing going. you'll be in the city to-morrow, and you'd better tell him. if you don't like, you know, i'll get squercum to do it." mr. squercum was a lawyer whom dolly had employed of late years much to the annoyance of his parent. mr. squercum's name was odious to mr. longestaffe. "i beg you'll do nothing of the kind. it will be very foolish if you do;--perhaps ruinous." "then he'd better pay up, like anybody else," said dolly as he left the room. the father knew the son, and was quite sure that squercum would have his finger in the pie unless the money were paid quickly. when dolly had taken an idea into his head, no power on earth,--no power at least of which the father could avail himself,--would turn him. on that same day melmotte received two visits in the city from two of his fellow directors. at the time he was very busy. though his electioneering speeches were neither long nor pithy, still he had to think of them beforehand. members of his committee were always trying to see him. orders as to the dinner and the preparation of the house could not be given by lord alfred without some reference to him. and then those gigantic commercial affairs which were enumerated in the last chapter could not be adjusted without much labour on his part. his hands were not empty, but still he saw each of these young men,--for a few minutes. "my dear young friend, what can i do for you?" he said to sir felix, not sitting down, so that sir felix also should remain standing. "about that money, mr. melmotte?" "what money, my dear fellow? you see that a good many money matters pass through my hands." "the thousand pounds i gave you for shares. if you don't mind, and as the shares seem to be a bother, i'll take the money back." "it was only the other day you had £ ," said melmotte, showing that he could apply his memory to small transactions when he pleased. "exactly;--and you might as well let me have the £ ." "i've ordered the shares;--gave the order to my broker the other day." "then i'd better take the shares," said sir felix, feeling that it might very probably be that day fortnight before he could start for new york. "could i get them, mr. melmotte?" "my dear fellow, i really think you hardly calculate the value of my time when you come to me about such an affair as this." "i'd like to have the money or the shares," said sir felix, who was not specially averse to quarrelling with mr. melmotte now that he had resolved upon taking that gentleman's daughter to new york in direct opposition to his written promise. their quarrel would be so thoroughly internecine when the departure should be discovered, that any present anger could hardly increase its bitterness. what felix thought of now was simply his money, and the best means of getting it out of melmotte's hands. "you're a spendthrift," said melmotte, apparently relenting, "and i'm afraid a gambler. i suppose i must give you £ more on account." sir felix could not resist the touch of ready money, and consented to take the sum offered. as he pocketed the cheque he asked for the name of the brokers who were employed to buy the shares. but here melmotte demurred. "no, my friend," said melmotte; "you are only entitled to shares for £ pounds now. i will see that the thing is put right." so sir felix departed with £ only. marie had said that she could get £ . perhaps if he bestirred himself and wrote to some of miles's big relations he could obtain payment of a part of that gentleman's debt to him. sir felix going down the stairs in abchurch lane met paul montague coming up. carbury, on the spur of the moment, thought that he would "take a rise" as he called it out of montague. "what's this i hear about a lady at islington?" he asked. "who has told you anything about a lady at islington?" "a little bird. there are always little birds about telling of ladies. i'm told that i'm to congratulate you on your coming marriage." "then you've been told an infernal falsehood," said montague passing on. he paused a moment and added, "i don't know who can have told you, but if you hear it again, i'll trouble you to contradict it." as he was waiting in melmotte's outer room while the duke's nephew went in to see whether it was the great man's pleasure to see him, he remembered whence carbury must have heard tidings of mrs. hurtle. of course the rumour had come through ruby ruggles. miles grendall brought out word that the great man would see mr. montague; but he added a caution. "he's awfully full of work just now,--you won't forget that;--will you?" montague assured the duke's nephew that he would be concise, and was shown in. "i should not have troubled you," said paul, "only that i understood that i was to see you before the board met." "exactly;--of course. it was quite necessary,--only you see i am a little busy. if this d----d dinner were over i shouldn't mind. it's a deal easier to make a treaty with an emperor, than to give him a dinner; i can tell you that. well;--let me see. oh;--i was proposing that you should go out to pekin?" "to mexico." "yes, yes;--to mexico. i've so many things running in my head! well;--if you'll say when you're ready to start, we'll draw up something of instructions. you'd know better, however, than we can tell you what to do. you'll see fisker, of course. you and fisker will manage it. the chief thing will be a cheque for the expenses; eh? we must get that passed at the next board." mr. melmotte had been so quick that montague had been unable to interrupt him. "there need be no trouble about that, mr. melmotte, as i have made up my mind that it would not be fit that i should go." "oh, indeed!" there had been a shade of doubt on montague's mind, till the tone in which melmotte had spoken of the embassy grated on his ears. the reference to the expenses disgusted him altogether. "no;--even did i see my way to do any good in america my duties here would not be compatible with the undertaking." "i don't see that at all. what duties have you got here? what good are you doing the company? if you do stay, i hope you'll be unanimous; that's all;--or perhaps you intend to go out. if that's it, i'll look to your money. i think i told you that before." "that, mr. melmotte, is what i should prefer." "very well,--very well. i'll arrange it. sorry to lose you,--that's all. miles, isn't mr. goldsheiner waiting to see me?" "you're a little too quick, mr. melmotte," said paul. "a man with my business on his hands is bound to be quick, sir." "but i must be precise. i cannot tell you as a fact that i shall withdraw from the board till i receive the advice of a friend with whom i am consulting. i hardly yet know what my duty may be." "i'll tell you, sir, what can not be your duty. it cannot be your duty to make known out of that board-room any of the affairs of the company which you have learned in that board-room. it cannot be your duty to divulge the circumstances of the company or any differences which may exist between directors of the company, to any gentleman who is a stranger to the company. it cannot be your duty--." "thank you, mr. melmotte. on matters such as that i think that i can see my own way. i have been in fault in coming in to the board without understanding what duties i should have to perform--." "very much in fault, i should say," replied melmotte, whose arrogance in the midst of his inflated glory was overcoming him. "but in reference to what i may or may not say to any friend, or how far i should be restricted by the scruples of a gentleman, i do not want advice from you." "very well;--very well. i can't ask you to stay, because a partner from the house of todd, brehgert, and goldsheiner is waiting to see me, about matters which are rather more important than this of yours." montague had said what he had to say, and departed. on the following day, three-quarters of an hour before the meeting of the board of directors, old mr. longestaffe called in abchurch lane. he was received very civilly by miles grendall, and asked to sit down. mr. melmotte quite expected him, and would walk with him over to the offices of the railway, and introduce him to the board. mr. longestaffe, with some shyness, intimated his desire to have a few moments conversation with the chairman before the board met. fearing his son, especially fearing squercum, he had made up his mind to suggest that the little matter about pickering park should be settled. miles assured him that the opportunity should be given him, but that at the present moment the chief secretary of the russian legation was with mr. melmotte. either the chief secretary was very tedious with his business, or else other big men must have come in, for mr. longestaffe was not relieved till he was summoned to walk off to the board five minutes after the hour at which the board should have met. he thought that he could explain his views in the street; but on the stairs they were joined by mr. cohenlupe, and in three minutes they were in the board-room. mr. longestaffe was then presented, and took the chair opposite to miles grendall. montague was not there, but had sent a letter to the secretary explaining that for reasons with which the chairman was acquainted he should absent himself from the present meeting. "all right," said melmotte. "i know all about it. go on. i'm not sure but that mr. montague's retirement from among us may be an advantage. he could not be made to understand that unanimity in such an enterprise as this is essential. i am confident that the new director whom i have had the pleasure of introducing to you to-day will not sin in the same direction." then mr. melmotte bowed and smiled very sweetly on mr. longestaffe. mr. longestaffe was astonished to find how soon the business was done, and how very little he had been called on to do. miles grendall had read something out of a book which he had been unable to follow. then the chairman had read some figures. mr. cohenlupe had declared that their prosperity was unprecedented;--and the board was over. when mr. longestaffe explained to miles grendall that he still wished to speak to mr. melmotte, miles explained to him that the chairman had been obliged to run off to a meeting of gentlemen connected with the interior of africa, which was now being held at the cannon street hotel. chapter xlvi. roger carbury and his two friends. roger carbury having found ruby ruggles, and having ascertained that she was at any rate living in a respectable house with her aunt, returned to carbury. he had given the girl his advice, and had done so in a manner that was not altogether ineffectual. he had frightened her, and had also frightened mrs. pipkin. he had taught mrs. pipkin to believe that the new dispensation was not yet so completely established as to clear her from all responsibility as to her niece's conduct. having done so much, and feeling that there was no more to be done, he returned home. it was out of the question that he should take ruby with him. in the first place she would not have gone. and then,--had she gone,--he would not have known where to bestow her. for it was now understood throughout bungay,--and the news had spread to beccles,--that old farmer ruggles had sworn that his granddaughter should never again be received at sheep's acre farm. the squire on his return home heard all the news from his own housekeeper. john crumb had been at the farm and there had been a fierce quarrel between him and the old man. the old man had called ruby by every name that is most distasteful to a woman, and john had stormed and had sworn that he would have punched the old man's head but for his age. he wouldn't believe any harm of ruby,--or if he did he was ready to forgive that harm. but as for the baro-nite;--the baro-nite had better look to himself! old ruggles had declared that ruby should never have a shilling of his money;--whereupon crumb had anathematised old ruggles and his money too, telling him that he was an old hunx, and that he had driven the girl away by his cruelty. roger at once sent over to bungay for the dealer in meal, who was with him early on the following morning. "did ye find her, squoire?" "oh, yes, mr. crumb, i found her. she's living with her aunt, mrs. pipkin, at islington." "eh, now;--look at that." "you knew she had an aunt of that name up in london." "ye-es; i knew'd it, squoire. i a' heard tell of mrs. pipkin, but i never see'd her." "i wonder it did not occur to you that ruby would go there." john crumb scratched his head, as though acknowledging the shortcoming of his own intellect. "of course if she was to go to london it was the proper thing for her to do." "i knew she'd do the thing as was right. i said that all along. darned if i didn't. you ask mixet, squoire,--him as is baker down bardsey lane. i allays guv' it her that she'd do the thing as was right. but how about she and the baro-nite?" roger did not wish to speak of the baronet just at present. "i suppose the old man down here did ill use her?" "oh, dreadful;--there ain't no manner of doubt o' that. dragged her about awful;--as he ought to be took up, only for the rumpus like. d'ye think she's see'd the baro-nite since she's been in lon'on, muster carbury?" "i think she's a good girl, if you mean that." "i'm sure she be. i don't want none to tell me that, squoire. tho', squoire, it's better to me nor a ten pun' note to hear you say so. i allays had a leaning to you, squoire; but i'll more nor lean to you, now. i've said all through she was good, and if e'er a man in bungay said she warn't--; well, i was there, and ready." "i hope nobody has said so." "you can't stop them women, squoire. there ain't no dropping into them. but, lord love 'ee, she shall come and be missus of my house to-morrow, and what 'll it matter her then what they say? but, squoire,--did ye hear if the baro-nite had been a' hanging about that place?" "about islington, you mean." "he goes a hanging about; he do. he don't come out straight forrard, and tell a girl as he loves her afore all the parish. there ain't one in bungay, nor yet in mettingham, nor yet in all the ilketsals and all the elmhams, as don't know as i'm set on ruby ruggles. huggery-muggery is pi'son to me, squoire." "we all know that when you've made up your mind, you have made up your mind." "i hove. it's made up ever so as to ruby. what sort of a one is her aunt now, squoire?" "she keeps lodgings;--a very decent sort of a woman i should say." "she won't let the baro-nite come there?" "certainly not," said roger, who felt that he was hardly dealing sincerely with this most sincere of mealmen. hitherto he had shuffled off every question that had been asked him about felix, though he knew that ruby had spent many hours with her fashionable lover. "mrs. pipkin won't let him come there." "if i was to give her a ge'own now,--or a blue cloak;--them lodging-house women is mostly hard put to it;--or a chest of drawers like, for her best bedroom, wouldn't that make her more o' my side, squoire?" "i think she'll try to do her duty without that." "they do like things the like o' that; any ways i'll go up, squoire, arter sax'nam market, and see how things is lying." "i wouldn't go just yet, mr. crumb, if i were you. she hasn't forgotten the scene at the farm yet." "i said nothing as warn't as kind as kind." "but her own perversity runs in her own head. if you had been unkind she could have forgiven that; but as you were good-natured and she was cross, she can't forgive that." john crumb again scratched his head, and felt that the depths of a woman's character required more gauging than he had yet given to it. "and to tell you the truth, my friend, i think that a little hardship up at mrs. pipkin's will do her good." "don't she have a bellyful o' vittels?" asked john crumb, with intense anxiety. "i don't quite mean that. i dare say she has enough to eat. but of course she has to work for it with her aunt. she has three or four children to look after." "that moight come in handy by-and-by;--moightn't it, squoire?" said john crumb grinning. "as you say, she'll be learning something that may be useful to her in another sphere. of course there is a good deal to do, and i should not be surprised if she were to think after a bit that your house in bungay was more comfortable than mrs. pipkin's kitchen in london." "my little back parlour;--eh, squoire! and i've got a four-poster, most as big as any in bungay." "i am sure you have everything comfortable for her, and she knows it herself. let her think about all that,--and do you go and tell her again in a month's time. she'll be more willing to settle matters then than she is now." "but,--the baro-nite!" "mrs. pipkin will allow nothing of that." "girls is so 'cute. ruby is awful 'cute. it makes me feel as though i had two hun'erd weight o' meal on my stomach, lying awake o' nights and thinking as how he is, may be,--pulling of her about! if i thought that she'd let him--; oh! i'd swing for it, muster carbury. they'd have to make an eend o' me at bury, if it was that way. they would then." roger assured him again and again that he believed ruby to be a good girl, and promised that further steps should be taken to induce mrs. pipkin to keep a close watch upon her niece. john crumb made no promise that he would abstain from his journey to london after saxmundham fair; but left the squire with a conviction that his purpose of doing so was shaken. he was still however resolved to send mrs. pipkin the price of a new blue cloak, and declared his purpose of getting mixet to write the letter and enclose the money order. john crumb had no delicacy as to declaring his own deficiency in literary acquirements. he was able to make out a bill for meal or pollards, but did little beyond that in the way of writing letters. this happened on a saturday morning, and on that afternoon roger carbury rode over to lowestoft, to a meeting there on church matters at which his friend the bishop presided. after the meeting was over he dined at the inn with half a dozen clergymen and two or three neighbouring gentlemen, and then walked down by himself on to the long strand which has made lowestoft what it is. it was now just the end of june, and the weather was delightful;--but people were not as yet flocking to the sea-shore. every shopkeeper in every little town through the country now follows the fashion set by parliament and abstains from his annual holiday till august or september. the place therefore was by no means full. here and there a few of the townspeople, who at a bathing place are generally indifferent to the sea, were strolling about; and another few, indifferent to fashion, had come out from the lodging-houses and from the hotel, which had been described as being small and insignificant,--and making up only a hundred beds. roger carbury, whose house was not many miles distant from lowestoft, was fond of the sea-shore, and always came to loiter there for a while when any cause brought him into the town. now he was walking close down upon the marge of the tide,--so that the last little roll of the rising water should touch his feet,--with his hands joined behind his back, and his face turned down towards the shore, when he came upon a couple who were standing with their backs to the land, looking forth together upon the waves. he was close to them before he saw them, and before they had seen him. then he perceived that the man was his friend paul montague. leaning on paul's arm a lady stood, dressed very simply in black, with a dark straw hat on her head;--very simple in her attire, but yet a woman whom it would be impossible to pass without notice. the lady of course was mrs. hurtle. paul montague had been a fool to suggest lowestoft, but his folly had been natural. it was not the first place he had named; but when fault had been found with others, he had fallen back upon the sea sands which were best known to himself. lowestoft was just the spot which mrs. hurtle required. when she had been shown her room, and taken down out of the hotel on to the strand, she had declared herself to be charmed. she acknowledged with many smiles that of course she had had no right to expect that mrs. pipkin should understand what sort of place she needed. but paul would understand,--and had understood. "i think the hotel charming," she said. "i don't know what you mean by your fun about the american hotels, but i think this quite gorgeous, and the people so civil!" hotel people always are civil before the crowds come. of course it was impossible that paul should return to london by the mail train which started about an hour after his arrival. he would have reached london at four or five in the morning, and have been very uncomfortable. the following day was sunday, and of course he promised to stay till monday. of course he had said nothing in the train of those stern things which he had resolved to say. of course he was not saying them when roger carbury came upon him; but was indulging in some poetical nonsense, some probably very trite raptures as to the expanse of the ocean, and the endless ripples which connected shore with shore. mrs. hurtle, too, as she leaned with friendly weight upon his arm, indulged also in moonshine and romance. though at the back of the heart of each of them there was a devouring care, still they enjoyed the hour. we know that the man who is to be hung likes to have his breakfast well cooked. and so did paul like the companionship of mrs. hurtle because her attire, though simple, was becoming; because the colour glowed in her dark face; because of the brightness of her eyes, and the happy sharpness of her words, and the dangerous smile which played upon her lips. he liked the warmth of her close vicinity, and the softness of her arm, and the perfume from her hair,--though he would have given all that he possessed that she had been removed from him by some impassable gulf. as he had to be hanged,--and this woman's continued presence would be as bad as death to him,--he liked to have his meal well dressed. he certainly had been foolish to bring her to lowestoft, and the close neighbourhood of carbury manor;--and now he felt his folly. as soon as he saw roger carbury he blushed up to his forehead, and then leaving mrs. hurtle's arm he came forward, and shook hands with his friend. "it is mrs. hurtle," he said, "i must introduce you," and the introduction was made. roger took off his hat and bowed, but he did so with the coldest ceremony. mrs. hurtle, who was quick enough at gathering the minds of people from their looks, was just as cold in her acknowledgment of the courtesy. in former days she had heard much of roger carbury, and surmised that he was no friend to her. "i did not know that you were thinking of coming to lowestoft," said roger in a voice that was needlessly severe. but his mind at the present moment was severe, and he could not hide his mind. [illustration: the sands at lowestoft.] "i was not thinking of it. mrs. hurtle wished to get to the sea, and as she knew no one else here in england, i brought her." "mr. montague and i have travelled so many miles together before now," she said, "that a few additional will not make much difference." "do you stay long?" asked roger in the same voice. "i go back probably on monday," said montague. "as i shall be here a whole week, and shall not speak a word to any one after he has left me, he has consented to bestow his company on me for two days. will you join us at dinner, mr. carbury, this evening?" "thank you, madam;--i have dined." "then, mr. montague, i will leave you with your friend. my toilet, though it will be very slight, will take longer than yours. we dine you know in twenty minutes. i wish you could get your friend to join us." so saying, mrs. hurtle tripped back across the sand towards the hotel. "is this wise?" demanded roger in a voice that was almost sepulchral, as soon as the lady was out of hearing. "you may well ask that, carbury. nobody knows the folly of it so thoroughly as i do." "then why do you do it? do you mean to marry her?" "no; certainly not." "is it honest then, or like a gentleman, that you should be with her in this way? does she think that you intend to marry her?" "i have told her that i would not. i have told her--." then he stopped. he was going on to declare that he had told her that he loved another woman, but he felt that he could hardly touch that matter in speaking to roger carbury. "what does she mean then? has she no regard for her own character?" "i would explain it to you all, carbury, if i could. but you would never have the patience to hear me." "i am not naturally impatient." "but this would drive you mad. i wrote to her assuring her that it must be all over. then she came here and sent for me. was i not bound to go to her?" "yes;--to go to her and repeat what you had said in your letter." "i did do so. i went with that very purpose, and did repeat it." "then you should have left her." "ah; but you do not understand. she begged that i would not desert her in her loneliness. we have been so much together that i could not desert her." "i certainly do not understand that, paul. you have allowed yourself to be entrapped into a promise of marriage; and then, for reasons which we will not go into now but which we both thought to be adequate, you resolved to break your promise, thinking that you would be justified in doing so. but nothing can justify you in living with the lady afterwards on such terms as to induce her to suppose that your old promise holds good." "she does not think so. she cannot think so." "then what must she be, to be here with you? and what must you be, to be here, in public, with such a one as she is? i don't know why i should trouble you or myself about it. people live now in a way that i don't comprehend. if this be your way of living, i have no right to complain." "for god's sake, carbury, do not speak in that way. it sounds as though you meant to throw me over." "i should have said that you had thrown me over. you come down here to this hotel, where we are both known, with this lady whom you are not going to marry;--and i meet you, just by chance. had i known it, of course i could have turned the other way. but coming on you by accident, as i did, how am i not to speak to you? and if i speak, what am i to say? of course i think that the lady will succeed in marrying you." "never." "and that such a marriage will be your destruction. doubtless she is good-looking." "yes, and clever. and you must remember that the manners of her country are not as the manners of this country." "then if i marry at all," said roger, with all his prejudice expressed strongly in his voice, "i trust i may not marry a lady of her country. she does not think that she is to marry you, and yet she comes down here and stays with you. paul, i don't believe it. i believe you, but i don't believe her. she is here with you in order that she may marry you. she is cunning and strong. you are foolish and weak. believing as i do that marriage with her would be destruction, i should tell her my mind,--and leave her." paul at the moment thought of the gentleman in oregon, and of certain difficulties in leaving. "that's what i should do. you must go in now, i suppose, and eat your dinner." "i may come to the hall as i go back home?" "certainly you may come if you please," said roger. then he bethought himself that his welcome had not been cordial. "i mean that i shall be delighted to see you," he added, marching away along the strand. paul did go into the hotel, and did eat his dinner. in the meantime roger carbury marched far away along the strand. in all that he had said to montague he had spoken the truth, or that which appeared to him to be the truth. he had not been influenced for a moment by any reference to his own affairs. and yet he feared, he almost knew, that this man,--who had promised to marry a strange american woman and who was at this very moment living in close intercourse with the woman after he had told her that he would not keep his promise,--was the chief barrier between himself and the girl that he loved. as he had listened to john crumb while john spoke of ruby ruggles, he had told himself that he and john crumb were alike. with an honest, true, heart-felt desire they both panted for the companionship of a fellow-creature whom each had chosen. and each was to be thwarted by the make-believe regard of unworthy youth and fatuous good looks! crumb, by dogged perseverance and indifference to many things, would probably be successful at last. but what chance was there of success for him? ruby, as soon as want or hardship told upon her, would return to the strong arm that could be trusted to provide her with plenty and comparative ease. but hetta carbury, if once her heart had passed from her own dominion into the possession of another, would never change her love. it was possible, no doubt,--nay, how probable,--that her heart was still vacillating. roger thought that he knew that at any rate she had not as yet declared her love. if she were now to know,--if she could now learn,--of what nature was the love of this other man; if she could be instructed that he was living alone with a lady whom not long since he had promised to marry,--if she could be made to understand this whole story of mrs. hurtle, would not that open her eyes? would she not then see where she could trust her happiness, and where, by so trusting it, she would certainly be shipwrecked! "never," said roger to himself, hitting at the stones on the beach with his stick. "never." then he got his horse and rode back to carbury manor. chapter xlvii. mrs. hurtle at lowestoft. when paul got down into the dining-room mrs. hurtle was already there, and the waiter was standing by the side of the table ready to take the cover off the soup. she was radiant with smiles and made herself especially pleasant during dinner, but paul felt sure that everything was not well with her. though she smiled, and talked and laughed, there was something forced in her manner. he almost knew that she was only waiting till the man should have left the room to speak in a different strain. and so it was. as soon as the last lingering dish had been removed, and when the door was finally shut behind the retreating waiter, she asked the question which no doubt had been on her mind since she had walked across the strand to the hotel. "your friend was hardly civil; was he, paul?" "do you mean that he should have come in? i have no doubt it was true that he had dined." "i am quite indifferent about his dinner,--but there are two ways of declining as there are of accepting. i suppose he is on very intimate terms with you?" "oh, yes." "then his want of courtesy was the more evidently intended for me. in point of fact he disapproves of me. is not that it?" to this question montague did not feel himself called upon to make any immediate answer. "i can well understand that it should be so. an intimate friend may like or dislike the friend of his friend, without offence. but unless there be strong reason he is bound to be civil to his friend's friend, when accident brings them together. you have told me that mr. carbury was your beau ideal of an english gentleman." "so he is." "then why didn't he behave as such?" and mrs. hurtle again smiled. "did not you yourself feel that you were rebuked for coming here with me, when he expressed surprise at your journey? has he authority over you?" "of course he has not. what authority could he have?" "nay, i do not know. he may be your guardian. in this safe-going country young men perhaps are not their own masters till they are past thirty. i should have said that he was your guardian, and that he intended to rebuke you for being in bad company. i dare say he did after i had gone." this was so true that montague did not know how to deny it. nor was he sure that it would be well that he should deny it. the time must come, and why not now as well as at any future moment? he had to make her understand that he could not join his lot with her,--chiefly indeed because his heart was elsewhere, a reason on which he could hardly insist because she could allege that she had a prior right to his heart;--but also because her antecedents had been such as to cause all his friends to warn him against such a marriage. so he plucked up courage for the battle. "it was nearly that," he said. there are many,--and probably the greater portion of my readers will be among the number,--who will declare to themselves that paul montague was a poor creature, in that he felt so great a repugnance to face this woman with the truth. his folly in falling at first under the battery of her charms will be forgiven him. his engagement, unwise as it was, and his subsequent determination to break his engagement, will be pardoned. women, and perhaps some men also, will feel that it was natural that he should have been charmed, natural that he should have expressed his admiration in the form which unmarried ladies expect from unmarried men when any such expression is to be made at all;--natural also that he should endeavour to escape from the dilemma when he found the manifold dangers of the step which he had proposed to take. no woman, i think, will be hard upon him because of his breach of faith to mrs. hurtle. but they will be very hard on him on the score of his cowardice,--as, i think, unjustly. in social life we hardly stop to consider how much of that daring spirit which gives mastery comes from hardness of heart rather than from high purpose, or true courage. the man who succumbs to his wife, the mother who succumbs to her daughter, the master who succumbs to his servant, is as often brought to servility by a continual aversion to the giving of pain, by a softness which causes the fretfulness of others to be an agony to himself,--as by any actual fear which the firmness of the imperious one may have produced. there is an inner softness, a thinness of the mind's skin, an incapability of seeing or even thinking of the troubles of others with equanimity, which produces a feeling akin to fear; but which is compatible not only with courage, but with absolute firmness of purpose, when the demand for firmness arises so strongly as to assert itself. with this man it was not really that. he feared the woman;--or at least such fears did not prevail upon him to be silent; but he shrank from subjecting her to the blank misery of utter desertion. after what had passed between them he could hardly bring himself to tell her that he wanted her no further and to bid her go. but that was what he had to do. and for that his answer to her last question prepared the way. "it was nearly that," he said. "mr. carbury did take it upon himself to rebuke you for showing yourself on the sands at lowestoft with such a one as i am?" "he knew of the letter which i wrote to you." "you have canvassed me between you?" "of course we have. is that unnatural? would you have had me be silent about you to the oldest and the best friend i have in the world?" "no, i would not have had you be silent to your oldest and best friend. i presume you would declare your purpose. but i should not have supposed you would have asked his leave. when i was travelling with you, i thought you were a man capable of managing your own actions. i had heard that in your country girls sometimes hold themselves at the disposal of their friends,--but i did not dream that such could be the case with a man who had gone out into the world to make his fortune." paul montague did not like it. the punishment to be endured was being commenced. "of course you can say bitter things," he replied. "is it my nature to say bitter things? have i usually said bitter things to you? when i have hung round your neck and have sworn that you should be my god upon earth, was that bitter? i am alone and i have to fight my own battles. a woman's weapon is her tongue. say but one word to me, paul, as you know how to say it, and there will be soon an end to that bitterness. what shall i care for mr. carbury, except to make him the cause of some innocent joke, if you will speak but that one word? and think what it is i am asking. do you remember how urgent were once your own prayers to me;--how you swore that your happiness could only be secured by one word of mine? though i loved you, i doubted. there were considerations of money, which have now vanished. but i spoke it,--because i loved you, and because i believed you. give me that which you swore you had given before i made my gift to you." "i cannot say that word." "do you mean that, after all, i am to be thrown off like an old glove? i have had many dealings with men and have found them to be false, cruel, unworthy, and selfish. but i have met nothing like that. no man has ever dared to treat me like that. no man shall dare." "i wrote to you." "wrote to me;--yes! and i was to take that as sufficient! no. i think but little of my life and have but little for which to live. but while i do live i will travel over the world's surface to face injustice and to expose it, before i will put up with it. you wrote to me! heaven and earth;--i can hardly control myself when i hear such impudence!" she clenched her fist upon the knife that lay on the table as she looked at him, and raising it, dropped it again at a further distance. "wrote to me! could any mere letter of your writing break the bond by which we were bound together? had not the distance between us seemed to have made you safe would you have dared to write that letter? the letter must be unwritten. it has already been contradicted by your conduct to me since i have been in this country." "i am sorry to hear you say that." "am i not justified in saying it?" "i hope not. when i first saw you i told you everything. if i have been wrong in attending to your wishes since, i regret it." "this comes from your seeing your master for two minutes on the beach. you are acting now under his orders. no doubt he came with the purpose. had you told him you were to be here?" "his coming was an accident." "it was very opportune at any rate. well;--what have you to say to me? or am i to understand that you suppose yourself to have said all that is required of you? perhaps you would prefer that i should argue the matter out with your--friend, mr. carbury." "what has to be said, i believe i can say myself." "say it then. or are you so ashamed of it, that the words stick in your throat?" "there is some truth in that. i am ashamed of it. i must say that which will be painful, and which would not have been to be said, had i been fairly careful." then he paused. "don't spare me," she said. "i know what it all is as well as though it were already told. i know the lies with which they have crammed you at san francisco. you have heard that up in oregon--i shot a man. that is no lie. i did. i brought him down dead at my feet." then she paused, and rose from her chair, and looked at him. "do you wonder that that is a story that a woman should hesitate to tell? but not from shame. do you suppose that the sight of that dying wretch does not haunt me? that i do not daily hear his drunken screech, and see him bound from the earth, and then fall in a heap just below my hand? but did they tell you also that it was thus alone that i could save myself,--and that had i spared him, i must afterwards have destroyed myself? if i were wrong, why did they not try me for his murder? why did the women flock around me and kiss the very hems of my garments? in this soft civilization of yours you know nothing of such necessity. a woman here is protected,--unless it be from lies." "it was not that only," he whispered. "no; they told you other things," she continued, still standing over him. "they told you of quarrels with my husband. i know the lies, and who made them, and why. did i conceal from you the character of my former husband? did i not tell you that he was a drunkard and a scoundrel? how should i not quarrel with such a one? ah, paul; you can hardly know what my life has been." "they told me that--you fought him." "psha;--fought him! yes;--i was always fighting him. what are you to do but to fight cruelty, and fight falsehood, and fight fraud and treachery,--when they come upon you and would overwhelm you but for fighting? you have not been fool enough to believe that fable about a duel? i did stand once, armed, and guarded my bedroom door from him, and told him that he should only enter it over my body. he went away to the tavern and i did not see him for a week afterwards. that was the duel. and they have told you that he is not dead." "yes;--they have told me that." "who has seen him alive? i never said to you that i had seen him dead. how should i?" "there would be a certificate." "certificate;--in the back of texas;--five hundred miles from galveston! and what would it matter to you? i was divorced from him according to the law of the state of kansas. does not the law make a woman free here to marry again,--and why not with us? i sued for a divorce on the score of cruelty and drunkenness. he made no appearance, and the court granted it me. am i disgraced by that?" "i heard nothing of the divorce." "i do not remember. when we were talking of these old days before, you did not care how short i was in telling my story. you wanted to hear little or nothing then of caradoc hurtle. now you have become more particular. i told you that he was dead,--as i believed myself, and do believe. whether the other story was told or not i do not know." "it was not told." "then it was your own fault,--because you would not listen. and they have made you believe i suppose that i have failed in getting back my property?" "i have heard nothing about your property but what you yourself have said unasked. i have asked no question about your property." "you are welcome. at last i have made it again my own. and now, sir, what else is there? i think i have been open with you. is it because i protected myself from drunken violence that i am to be rejected? am i to be cast aside because i saved my life while in the hands of a reprobate husband, and escaped from him by means provided by law;--or because by my own energy i have secured my own property? if i am not to be condemned for these things, then say why am i condemned." she had at any rate saved him the trouble of telling the story, but in doing so had left him without a word to say. she had owned to shooting the man. well; it certainly may be necessary that a woman should shoot a man--especially in oregon. as to the duel with her husband,--she had half denied and half confessed it. he presumed that she had been armed with a pistol when she refused mr. hurtle admittance into the nuptial chamber. as to the question of hurtle's death,--she had confessed that perhaps he was not dead. but then,--as she had asked,--why should not a divorce for the purpose in hand be considered as good as a death? he could not say that she had not washed herself clean;--and yet, from the story as told by herself, what man would wish to marry her? she had seen so much of drunkenness, had become so handy with pistols, and had done so much of a man's work, that any ordinary man might well hesitate before he assumed to be her master. "i do not condemn you," he replied. "at any rate, paul, do not lie," she answered. "if you tell me that you will not be my husband, you do condemn me. is it not so?" "i will not lie if i can help it. i did ask you to be my wife--" "well;--rather. how often before i consented?" "it matters little; at any rate, till you did consent. i have since satisfied myself that such a marriage would be miserable for both of us." "you have?" "i have. of course, you can speak of me as you please and think of me as you please. i can hardly defend myself." "hardly, i think." "but, with whatever result, i know that i shall now be acting for the best in declaring that i will not become--your husband." "you will not?" she was still standing, and stretched out her right hand as though again to grasp something. he also now rose from his chair. "if i speak with abruptness it is only to avoid a show of indecision. i will not." "oh, god! what have i done that it should be my lot to meet man after man false and cruel as this! you tell me to my face that i am to bear it! who is the jade that has done it? has she money?--or rank? or is it that you are afraid to have by your side a woman who can speak for herself,--and even act for herself if some action be necessary? perhaps you think that i am--old." he was looking at her intently as she spoke, and it did seem to him that many years had been added to her face. it was full of lines round the mouth, and the light play of drollery was gone, and the colour was fixed,--and her eyes seemed to be deep in her head. "speak, man,--is it that you want a younger wife?" "you know it is not." "know! how should any one know anything from a liar? from what you tell me i know nothing. i have to gather what i can from your character. i see that you are a coward. it is that man that came to you, and who is your master, that has forced you to this. between me and him you tremble, and are a thing to be pitied. as for knowing what you would be at, from anything that you would say,--that is impossible. once again i have come across a mean wretch. oh, fool!--that men should be so vile, and think themselves masters of the world! my last word to you is, that you are--a liar. now for the present you can go. ten minutes since, had i had a weapon in my hand i should have shot another man." paul montague, as he looked round the room for his hat, could not but think that perhaps mrs. hurtle might have had some excuse. it seemed at any rate to be her custom to have a pistol with her,--though luckily, for his comfort, she had left it in her bedroom on the present occasion. "i will say good-bye to you," he said, when he had found his hat. "say no such thing. tell me that you have triumphed and got rid of me. pluck up your spirits, if you have any, and show me your joy. tell me that an englishman has dared to ill-treat an american woman. you would,--were you not afraid to indulge yourself." he was now standing in the doorway, and before he escaped she gave him an imperative command. "i shall not stay here now," she said--"i shall return on monday. i must think of what you have said, and must resolve what i myself will do. i shall not bear this without seeking a means of punishing you for your treachery. i shall expect you to come to me on monday." he closed the door as he answered her. "i do not see that it will serve any purpose." "it is for me, sir, to judge of that. i suppose you are not so much a coward that you are afraid to come to me. if so, i shall come to you; and you may be assured that i shall not be too timid to show myself and to tell my story." he ended by saying that if she desired it he would wait upon her, but that he would not at present fix a day. on his return to town he would write to her. when he was gone she went to the door and listened awhile. then she closed it, and turning the lock, stood with her back against the door and with her hands clasped. after a few moments she ran forward, and falling on her knees, buried her face in her hands upon the table. then she gave way to a flood of tears, and at last lay rolling upon the floor. was this to be the end of it? should she never know rest;--never have one draught of cool water between her lips? was there to be no end to the storms and turmoils and misery of her life? in almost all that she had said she had spoken the truth, though doubtless not all the truth,--as which among us would in giving the story of his life? she had endured violence, and had been violent. she had been schemed against, and had schemed. she had fitted herself to the life which had befallen her. but in regard to money, she had been honest and she had been loving of heart. with her heart of hearts she had loved this young englishman;--and now, after all her scheming, all her daring, with all her charms, this was to be the end of it! oh, what a journey would this be which she must now make back to her own country, all alone! but the strongest feeling which raged within her bosom was that of disappointed love. full as had been the vials of wrath which she had poured forth over montague's head, violent as had been the storm of abuse with which she had assailed him, there had been after all something counterfeited in her indignation. but her love was no counterfeit. at any moment if he would have returned to her and taken her in his arms, she would not only have forgiven him but have blessed him also for his kindness. she was in truth sick at heart of violence and rough living and unfeminine words. when driven by wrongs the old habit came back upon her. but if she could only escape the wrongs, if she could find some niche in the world which would be bearable to her, in which, free from harsh treatment, she could pour forth all the genuine kindness of her woman's nature,--then, she thought she could put away violence and be gentle as a young girl. when she first met this englishman and found that he took delight in being near her, she had ventured to hope that a haven would at last be open to her. but the reek of the gunpowder from that first pistol shot still clung to her, and she now told herself again, as she had often told herself before, that it would have been better for her to have turned the muzzle against her own bosom. after receiving his letter she had run over on what she had told herself was a vain chance. though angry enough when that letter first reached her, she had, with that force of character which marked her, declared to herself that such a resolution on his part was natural. in marrying her he must give up all his old allies, all his old haunts. the whole world must be changed to him. she knew enough of herself, and enough of englishwomen, to be sure that when her past life should be known, as it would be known, she would be avoided in england. with all the little ridicule she was wont to exercise in speaking of the old country there was ever mixed, as is so often the case in the minds of american men and women, an almost envious admiration of english excellence. to have been allowed to forget the past and to live the life of an english lady would have been heaven to her. but she, who was sometimes scorned and sometimes feared in the eastern cities of her own country, whose name had become almost a proverb for violence out in the far west,--how could she dare to hope that her lot should be so changed for her? she had reminded paul that she had required to be asked often before she had consented to be his wife; but she did not tell him that that hesitation had arisen from her own conviction of her own unfitness. but it had been so. circumstances had made her what she was. circumstances had been cruel to her. but she could not now alter them. then gradually, as she came to believe in his love, as she lost herself in love for him, she told herself that she would be changed. she had, however, almost known that it could not be so. but this man had relatives, had business, had property in her own country. though she could not be made happy in england, might not a prosperous life be opened for him in the far west? then had risen the offer of that journey to mexico with much probability that work of no ordinary kind might detain him there for years. with what joy would she have accompanied him as his wife! for that at any rate she would have been fit. she was conscious,--perhaps too conscious, of her own beauty. that at any rate, she felt, had not deserted her. she was hardly aware that time was touching it. and she knew herself to be clever, capable of causing happiness, and mirth and comfort. she had the qualities of a good comrade--which are so much in a woman. she knew all this of herself. if he and she could be together in some country in which those stories of her past life would be matter of indifference, could she not make him happy? but what was she that a man should give up everything and go away and spend his days in some half-barbarous country for her alone? she knew it all and was hardly angry with him in that he had decided against her. but treated as she had been she must play her game with such weapons as she possessed. it was consonant with her old character, it was consonant with her present plans that she should at any rate seem to be angry. sitting there alone late into the night she made many plans, but the plan that seemed best to suit the present frame of her mind was the writing of a letter to paul bidding him adieu, sending him her fondest love, and telling him that he was right. she did write the letter, but wrote it with a conviction that she would not have the strength to send it to him. the reader may judge with what feeling she wrote the following words:-- dear paul,-- you are right and i am wrong. our marriage would not have been fitting. i do not blame you. i attracted you when we were together; but you have learned and have learned truly that you should not give up your life for such attractions. if i have been violent with you, forgive me. you will acknowledge that i have suffered. always know that there is one woman who will love you better than any one else. i think too that you will love me even when some other woman is by your side. god bless you, and make you happy. write me the shortest, shortest word of adieu. not to do so would make you think yourself heartless. but do not come to me. for ever, w. h. this she wrote on a small slip of paper, and then having read it twice, she put it into her pocket-book. she told herself that she ought to send it; but told herself as plainly that she could not bring herself to do so. it was early in the morning before she went to bed but she had admitted no one into the room after montague had left her. paul, when he escaped from her presence, roamed out on to the sea-shore, and then took himself to bed, having ordered a conveyance to take him to carbury manor early in the morning. at breakfast he presented himself to the squire. "i have come earlier than you expected," he said. "yes, indeed;--much earlier. are you going back to lowestoft?" then he told the whole story. roger expressed his satisfaction, recalling however the pledge which he had given as to his return. "let her follow you, and bear it," he said. "of course you must suffer the effects of your own imprudence." on that evening paul montague returned to london by the mail train, being sure that he would thus avoid a meeting with mrs. hurtle in the railway-carriage. chapter xlviii. ruby a prisoner. ruby had run away from her lover in great dudgeon after the dance at the music hall, and had declared that she never wanted to see him again. but when reflection came with the morning her misery was stronger than her wrath. what would life be to her now without her lover? when she escaped from her grandfather's house she certainly had not intended to become nurse and assistant maid-of-all-work at a london lodging-house. the daily toil she could endure, and the hard life, as long as she was supported by the prospect of some coming delight. a dance with felix at the music hall, though it were three days distant from her, would so occupy her mind that she could wash and dress all the children without complaint. mrs. pipkin was forced to own to herself that ruby did earn her bread. but when she had parted with her lover almost on an understanding that they were never to meet again, things were very different with her. and perhaps she had been wrong. a gentleman like sir felix did not of course like to be told about marriage. if she gave him another chance, perhaps he would speak. at any rate she could not live without another dance. and so she wrote him a letter. ruby was glib enough with her pen, though what she wrote will hardly bear repeating. she underscored all her loves to him. she underscored the expression of her regret if she had vexed him. she did not want to hurry a gentleman. but she did want to have another dance at the music hall. would he be there next saturday? sir felix sent her a very short reply to say that he would be at the music hall on the tuesday. as at this time he proposed to leave london on the wednesday on his way to new york, he was proposing to devote his very last night to the companionship of ruby ruggles. mrs. pipkin had never interfered with her niece's letters. it is certainly a part of the new dispensation that young women shall send and receive letters without inspection. but since roger carbury's visit mrs. pipkin had watched the postman, and had also watched her niece. for nearly a week ruby said not a word of going out at night. she took the children for an airing in a broken perambulator, nearly as far as holloway, with exemplary care, and washed up the cups and saucers as though her mind was intent upon them. but mrs. pipkin's mind was intent on obeying mr. carbury's behests. she had already hinted something as to which ruby had made no answer. it was her purpose to tell her and to swear to her most solemnly,--should she find her preparing herself to leave the house after six in the evening,--that she should be kept out the whole night, having a purpose equally clear in her own mind that she would break her oath should she be unsuccessful in her effort to keep ruby at home. but on the tuesday, when ruby went up to her room to deck herself, a bright idea as to a better precaution struck mrs. pipkin's mind. ruby had been careless,--had left her lover's scrap of a note in an old pocket when she went out with the children, and mrs. pipkin knew all about it. it was nine o'clock when ruby went up-stairs,--and then mrs. pipkin locked both the front door and the area gate. mrs. hurtle had come home on the previous day. "you won't be wanting to go out to-night;--will you, mrs. hurtle?" said mrs. pipkin, knocking at her lodger's door. mrs. hurtle declared her purpose of remaining at home all the evening. "if you should hear words between me and my niece, don't you mind, ma'am." "i hope there's nothing wrong, mrs. pipkin?" "she'll be wanting to go out, and i won't have it. it isn't right; is it, ma'am? she's a good girl; but they've got such a way nowadays of doing just as they pleases, that one doesn't know what's going to come next." mrs. pipkin must have feared downright rebellion when she thus took her lodger into her confidence. ruby came down in her silk frock, as she had done before, and made her usual little speech. "i'm just going to step out, aunt, for a little time to-night. i've got the key, and i'll let myself in quite quiet." "indeed, ruby, you won't," said mrs. pipkin. "won't what, aunt?" "won't let yourself in, if you go out. if you go out to-night you'll stay out. that's all about it. if you go out to-night you won't come back here any more. i won't have it, and it isn't right that i should. you're going after that young man that they tell me is the greatest scamp in all england." "they tell you lies then, aunt pipkin." "very well. no girl is going out any more at nights out of my house; so that's all about it. if you had told me you was going before, you needn't have gone up and bedizened yourself. for now it's all to take off again." ruby could hardly believe it. she had expected some opposition,--what she would have called a few words; but she had never imagined that her aunt would threaten to keep her in the streets all night. it seemed to her that she had bought the privilege of amusing herself by hard work. nor did she believe now that her aunt would be as hard as her threat. "i've a right to go if i like," she said. "that's as you think. you haven't a right to come back again, any way." "yes, i have. i've worked for you a deal harder than the girl down-stairs, and i don't want no wages. i've a right to go out, and a right to come back;--and go i shall." "you'll be no better than you should be, if you do." "am i to work my very nails off, and push that perambulator about all day till my legs won't carry me,--and then i ain't to go out, not once in a week?" "not unless i know more about it, ruby. i won't have you go and throw yourself into the gutter;--not while you're with me." "who's throwing themselves into the gutter? i've thrown myself into no gutter. i know what i'm about." "there's two of us that way, ruby;--for i know what i'm about." "i shall just go then." and ruby walked off towards the door. "you won't get out that way, any way, for the door's locked;--and the area gate. you'd better be said, ruby, and just take your things off." poor ruby for the moment was struck dumb with mortification. mrs. pipkin had given her credit for more outrageous perseverance than she possessed, and had feared that she would rattle at the front door, or attempt to climb over the area gate. she was a little afraid of ruby, not feeling herself justified in holding absolute dominion over her as over a servant. and though she was now determined in her conduct,--being fully resolved to surrender neither of the keys which she held in her pocket,--still she feared that she might so far collapse as to fall away into tears, should ruby be violent. but ruby was crushed. her lover would be there to meet her, and the appointment would be broken by her! "aunt pipkin," she said, "let me go just this once." "no, ruby;--it ain't proper." "you don't know what you're a' doing of, aunt; you don't. you'll ruin me,--you will. dear aunt pipkin, do, do! i'll never ask again, if you don't like." mrs. pipkin had not expected this, and was almost willing to yield. but mr. carbury had spoken so very plainly! "it ain't the thing, ruby; and i won't do it." "and i'm to be--a prisoner! what have i done to be--a prisoner? i don't believe as you've any right to lock me up." "i've a right to lock my own doors." "then i shall go away to-morrow." "i can't help that, my dear. the door will be open to-morrow, if you choose to go out." "then why not open it to-night? where's the difference?" but mrs. pipkin was stern, and ruby, in a flood of tears, took herself up to her garret. mrs. pipkin knocked at mrs. hurtle's door again. "she's gone to bed," she said. "i'm glad to hear it. there wasn't any noise about it;--was there?" "not as i expected, mrs. hurtle, certainly. but she was put out a bit. poor girl! i've been a girl too, and used to like a bit of outing as well as any one,--and a dance too; only it was always when mother knew. she ain't got a mother, poor dear! and as good as no father. and she's got it into her head that she's that pretty that a great gentleman will marry her." "she is pretty!" "but what's beauty, mrs. hurtle? it's no more nor skin deep, as the scriptures tell us. and what'd a grand gentleman see in ruby to marry her? she says she'll leave to-morrow." "and where will she go?" "just nowhere. after this gentleman,--and you know what that means! you're going to be married yourself, mrs. hurtle." "we won't mind about that now, mrs. pipkin." "and this 'll be your second, and you know how these things are managed. no gentleman 'll marry her because she runs after him. girls as knows what they're about should let the gentlemen run after them. that's my way of looking at it." "don't you think they should be equal in that respect?" "anyways the girls shouldn't let on as they are running after the gentlemen. a gentleman goes here and he goes there, and he speaks up free, of course. in my time, girls usen't to do that. but then, maybe, i'm old-fashioned," added mrs. pipkin, thinking of the new dispensation. "i suppose girls do speak for themselves more than they did formerly." "a deal more, mrs. hurtle; quite different. you hear them talk of spooning with this fellow, and spooning with that fellow,--and that before their very fathers and mothers! when i was young we used to do it, i suppose,--only not like that." "you did it on the sly." "i think we got married quicker than they do, any way. when the gentlemen had to take more trouble they thought more about it. but if you wouldn't mind speaking to ruby to-morrow, mrs. hurtle, she'd listen to you when she wouldn't mind a word i said to her. i don't want her to go away from this, out into the street, till she knows where she's to go to, decent. as for going to her young man,--that's just walking the streets." mrs. hurtle promised that she would speak to ruby, though when making the promise she could not but think of her unfitness for the task. she knew nothing of the country. she had not a single friend in it, but paul montague;--and she had run after him with as little discretion as ruby ruggles was showing in running after her lover. who was she that she should take upon herself to give advice to any female? she had not sent her letter to paul, but she still kept it in her pocket-book. at some moments she thought that she would send it; and at others she told herself that she would never surrender this last hope till every stone had been turned. it might still be possible to shame him into a marriage. she had returned from lowestoft on the monday, and had made some trivial excuse to mrs. pipkin in her mildest voice. the place had been windy, and too cold for her;--and she had not liked the hotel. mrs. pipkin was very glad to see her back again. chapter xlix. sir felix makes himself ready. sir felix, when he promised to meet ruby at the music hall on the tuesday, was under an engagement to start with marie melmotte for new york on the thursday following, and to go down to liverpool on the wednesday. there was no reason, he thought, why he should not enjoy himself to the last, and he would say a parting word to poor little ruby. the details of his journey were settled between him and marie, with no inconsiderable assistance from didon, in the garden of grosvenor square, on the previous sunday,--where the lovers had again met during the hours of morning service. sir felix had been astonished at the completion of the preparations which had been made. "mind you go by the p.m. train," marie said. "that will take you into liverpool at . . there's an hotel at the railway-station. didon has got our tickets under the names of madame and mademoiselle racine. we are to have one cabin between us. you must get yours to-morrow. she has found out that there is plenty of room." "i'll be all right." "pray don't miss the train that afternoon. somebody would be sure to suspect something if we were seen together in the same train. we leave at a.m. i shan't go to bed all night, so as to be sure to be in time. robert,--he's the man,--will start a little earlier in the cab with my heavy box. what do you think is in it?" "clothes," suggested felix. "yes, but what clothes?--my wedding dresses. think of that! what a job to get them and nobody to know anything about it except didon and madame craik at the shop in mount street! they haven't come yet, but i shall be there whether they come or not. and i shall have all my jewels. i'm not going to leave them behind. they'll go off in our cab. we can get the things out behind the house into the mews. then didon and i follow in another cab. nobody ever is up before near nine, and i don't think we shall be interrupted." "if the servants were to hear." "i don't think they'd tell. but if i was to be brought back again, i should only tell papa that it was no good. he can't prevent me marrying." "won't your mother find out?" "she never looks after anything. i don't think she'd tell if she knew. papa leads her such a life! felix! i hope you won't be like that."--and she looked up into his face, and thought that it would be impossible that he should be. "i'm all right," said felix, feeling very uncomfortable at the time. this great effort of his life was drawing very near. there had been a pleasurable excitement in talking of running away with the great heiress of the day, but now that the deed had to be executed,--and executed after so novel and stupendous a fashion, he almost wished that he had not undertaken it. it must have been much nicer when men ran away with their heiresses only as far as gretna green. and even goldsheiner with lady julia had nothing of a job in comparison with this which he was expected to perform. and then if they should be wrong about the girl's fortune! he almost repented. he did repent, but he had not the courage to recede. "how about money though?" he said hoarsely. "you have got some?" "i have just the two hundred pounds which your father paid me, and not a shilling more. i don't see why he should keep my money, and not let me have it back." "look here," said marie, and she put her hand into her pocket. "i told you i thought i could get some. there is a cheque for two hundred and fifty pounds. i had money of my own enough for the tickets." "and whose is this?" said felix, taking the bit of paper with much trepidation. "it is papa's cheque. mamma gets ever so many of them to carry on the house and pay for things. but she gets so muddled about it that she doesn't know what she pays and what she doesn't." felix looked at the cheque and saw that it was payable to house or bearer, and that it was signed by augustus melmotte. "if you take it to the bank you'll get the money," said marie. "or shall i send didon, and give you the money on board the ship?" felix thought over the matter very anxiously. if he did go on the journey he would much prefer to have the money in his own pocket. he liked the feeling of having money in his pocket. perhaps if didon were entrusted with the cheque she also would like the feeling. but then might it not be possible that if he presented the cheque himself he might be arrested for stealing melmotte's money? "i think didon had better get the money," he said, "and bring it to me to-morrow, at four o'clock in the afternoon, to the club." if the money did not come he would not go down to liverpool, nor would he be at the expense of his ticket for new york. "you see," he said, "i'm so much in the city that they might know me at the bank." to this arrangement marie assented and took back the cheque. "and then i'll come on board on thursday morning," he said, "without looking for you." "oh dear, yes;--without looking for us. and don't know us even till we are out at sea. won't it be fun when we shall be walking about on the deck and not speaking to one another! and, felix;--what do you think? didon has found out that there is to be an american clergyman on board. i wonder whether he'd marry us." "of course he will." "won't that be jolly? i wish it was all done. then, directly it's done, and when we get to new york, we'll telegraph and write to papa, and we'll be ever so penitent and good; won't we? of course he'll make the best of it." "but he's so savage; isn't he?" "when there's anything to get;--or just at the moment. but i don't think he minds afterwards. he's always for making the best of everything;--misfortunes and all. things go wrong so often that if he was to go on thinking of them always they'd be too many for anybody. it'll be all right in a month's time. i wonder how lord nidderdale will look when he hears that we've gone off. i should so like to see him. he never can say that i've behaved bad to him. we were engaged, but it was he broke it. do you know, felix, that though we were engaged to be married, and everybody knew it, he never once kissed me!" felix at this moment almost wished that he had never done so. as to what the other man had done, he cared nothing at all. then they parted with the understanding that they were not to see each other again till they met on board the boat. all arrangements were made. but felix was determined that he would not stir in the matter unless didon brought him the full sum of £ ; and he almost thought, and indeed hoped, that she would not. either she would be suspected at the bank and apprehended, or she would run off with the money on her own account when she got it;--or the cheque would have been missed and the payment stopped. some accident would occur, and then he would be able to recede from his undertaking. he would do nothing till after monday afternoon. should he tell his mother that he was going? his mother had clearly recommended him to run away with the girl, and must therefore approve of the measure. his mother would understand how great would be the expense of such a trip, and might perhaps add something to his stock of money. he determined that he would tell his mother;--that is, if didon should bring him full change for the cheque. he walked into the beargarden exactly at four o'clock on the monday, and there he found didon standing in the hall. his heart sank within him as he saw her. now must he certainly go to new york. she made him a little curtsey, and without a word handed him an envelope, soft and fat with rich enclosures. he bade her wait a moment, and going into a little waiting-room counted the notes. the money was all there;--the full sum of £ . he must certainly go to new york. "c'est tout en règle?" said didon in a whisper as he returned to the hall. sir felix nodded his head, and didon took her departure. yes; he must go now. he had melmotte's money in his pocket, and was therefore bound to run away with melmotte's daughter. it was a great trouble to him as he reflected that melmotte had more of his money than he had of melmotte's. and now how should he dispose of his time before he went? gambling was too dangerous. even he felt that. where would he be were he to lose his ready money? he would dine that night at the club, and in the evening go up to his mother. on the tuesday he would take his place for new york in the city, and would spend the evening with ruby at the music hall. on the wednesday, he would start for liverpool,--according to his instructions. he felt annoyed that he had been so fully instructed. but should the affair turn out well nobody would know that. all the fellows would give him credit for the audacity with which he had carried off the heiress to america. at ten o'clock he found his mother and hetta in welbeck street--"what; felix?" exclaimed lady carbury. "you're surprised; are you not?" then he threw himself into a chair. "mother," he said, "would you mind coming into the other room?" lady carbury of course went with him. "i've got something to tell you," he said. "good news?" she asked, clasping her hands together. from his manner she thought that it was good news. money had in some way come into his hands,--or at any rate a prospect of money. "that's as may be," he said, and then he paused. "don't keep me in suspense, felix." "the long and the short of it is that i'm going to take marie off." "oh, felix." "you said you thought it was the right thing to do;--and therefore i'm going to do it. the worst of it is that one wants such a lot of money for this kind of thing." "but when?" "immediately. i wouldn't tell you till i had arranged everything. i've had it in my mind for the last fortnight." "and how is it to be? oh, felix, i hope it may succeed." "it was your own idea, you know. we're going to;--where do you think?" "how can i think?--boulogne." "you say that just because goldsheiner went there. that wouldn't have done at all for us. we're going to--new york." "to new york! but when will you be married?" "there will be a clergyman on board. it's all fixed. i wouldn't go without telling you." "oh; i wish you hadn't told me." "come now;--that's kind. you don't mean to say it wasn't you that put me up to it. i've got to get my things ready." "of course, if you tell me that you are going on a journey, i will have your clothes got ready for you. when do you start?" "wednesday afternoon." "for new york! we must get some things ready-made. oh, felix, how will it be if he does not forgive her?" he attempted to laugh. "when i spoke of such a thing as possible he had not sworn then that he would never give her a shilling." "they always say that." "you are going to risk it?" "i am going to take your advice." this was dreadful to the poor mother. "there is money settled on her." "settled on whom?" "on marie;--money which he can't get back again." "how much?" "she doesn't know;--but a great deal; enough for them all to live upon if things went amiss with them." "but that's only a form, felix. that money can't be her own, to give to her husband." "melmotte will find that it is, unless he comes to terms. that's the pull we've got over him. marie knows what she's about. she's a great deal sharper than any one would take her to be. what can you do for me about money, mother?" "i have none, felix." "i thought you'd be sure to help me, as you wanted me so much to do it." "that's not true, felix. i didn't want you to do it. oh, i am so sorry that that word ever passed my mouth! i have no money. there isn't £ at the bank altogether." "they would let you overdraw for £ or £ ." "i will not do it. i will not starve myself and hetta. you had ever so much money only lately. i will get some things for you, and pay for them as i can if you cannot pay for them after your marriage;--but i have not money to give you." "that's a blue look out," said he, turning himself in his chair,--"just when £ or £ might make a fellow for life! you could borrow it from your friend broune." "i will do no such thing, felix. £ or £ would make very little difference in the expense of such a trip as this. i suppose you have some money?" "some;--yes, some. but i'm so short that any little thing would help me." before the evening was over she absolutely did give him a cheque for £ , although she had spoken the truth in saying that she had not so much at her banker's. after this he went back to his club, although he himself understood the danger. he could not bear the idea of going to bed quietly at home at half-past ten. he got into a cab, and was very soon up in the card-room. he found nobody there, and went to the smoking-room, where dolly longestaffe and miles grendall were sitting silently together, with pipes in their mouths. "here's carbury," said dolly, waking suddenly into life. "now we can have a game at three-handed loo." "thank ye; not for me," said sir felix. "i hate three-handed loo." "dummy," suggested dolly. "i don't think i'll play to-night, old fellow. i hate three fellows sticking down together." miles sat silent, smoking his pipe, conscious of the baronet's dislike to play with him. "by-the-bye, grendall,--look here." and sir felix in his most friendly tone whispered into his enemy's ear a petition that some of the i. o. u.'s might be converted into cash. "'pon my word, i must ask you to wait till next week," said miles. "it's always waiting till next week with you," said sir felix, getting up and standing with his back to the fire-place. there were other men in the room, and this was said so that every one should hear it. "i wonder whether any fellow would buy these for five shillings in the pound?" and he held up the scraps of paper in his hand. he had been drinking freely before he went up to welbeck street, and had taken a glass of brandy on re-entering the club. "don't let's have any of that kind of thing down here," said dolly. "if there is to be a row about cards, let it be in the card-room." "of course," said miles. "i won't say a word about the matter down here. it isn't the proper thing." "come up into the card-room, then," said sir felix, getting up from his chair. "it seems to me that it makes no difference to you, what room you're in. come up, now; and dolly longestaffe shall come and hear what you say." but miles grendall objected to this arrangement. he was not going up into the card-room that night, as no one was going to play. he would be there to-morrow, and then if sir felix carbury had anything to say, he could say it. "how i do hate a row!" said dolly. "one has to have rows with one's own people, but there ought not to be rows at a club." "he likes a row,--carbury does," said miles. "i should like my money, if i could get it," said sir felix, walking out of the room. on the next day he went into the city, and changed his mother's cheque. this was done after a little hesitation. the money was given to him, but a gentleman from behind the desks begged him to remind lady carbury that she was overdrawing her account. "dear, dear;" said sir felix, as he pocketed the notes, "i'm sure she was unaware of it." then he paid for his passage from liverpool to new york under the name of walter jones, and felt as he did so that the intrigue was becoming very deep. this was on tuesday. he dined again at the club, alone, and in the evening went to the music hall. there he remained from ten till nearly twelve, very angry at the non-appearance of ruby ruggles. as he smoked and drank in solitude, he almost made up his mind that he had intended to tell her of his departure for new york. of course he would have done no such thing. but now, should she ever complain on that head he would have his answer ready. he had devoted his last night in england to the purpose of telling her, and she had broken her appointment. everything would now be her fault. whatever might happen to her she could not blame him. having waited till he was sick of the music hall,--for a music hall without ladies' society must be somewhat dull,--he went back to his club. he was very cross, as brave as brandy could make him, and well inclined to expose miles grendall if he could find an opportunity. up in the card-room he found all the accustomed men,--with the exception of miles grendall. nidderdale, grasslough, dolly, paul montague, and one or two others were there. there was, at any rate, comfort in the idea of playing without having to encounter the dead weight of miles grendall. ready money was on the table,--and there was none of the peculiar beargarden paper flying about. indeed the men at the beargarden had become sick of paper, and there had been formed a half-expressed resolution that the play should be somewhat lower, but the payments punctual. the i. o. u.'s had been nearly all converted into money,--with the assistance of herr vossner,--excepting those of miles grendall. the resolution mentioned did not refer back to grendall's former indebtedness, but was intended to include a clause that he must in future pay ready money. nidderdale had communicated to him the determination of the committee. "bygones are bygones, old fellow; but you really must stump up, you know, after this." miles had declared that he would "stump up." but on this occasion miles was absent. at three o'clock in the morning, sir felix had lost over a hundred pounds in ready money. on the following night about one he had lost a further sum of two hundred pounds. the reader will remember that he should at that time have been in the hotel at liverpool. but sir felix, as he played on in the almost desperate hope of recovering the money which he so greatly needed, remembered how fisker had played all night, and how he had gone off from the club to catch the early train for liverpool, and how he had gone on to new york without delay. chapter l. the journey to liverpool. marie melmotte, as she had promised, sat up all night, as did also the faithful didon. i think that to marie the night was full of pleasure,--or at any rate of pleasurable excitement. with her door locked, she packed and unpacked and repacked her treasures,--having more than once laid out on the bed the dress in which she purposed to be married. she asked didon her opinion whether that american clergyman of whom they had heard would marry them on board, and whether in that event the dress would be fit for the occasion. didon thought that the man, if sufficiently paid, would marry them, and that the dress would not much signify. she scolded her young mistress very often during the night for what she called nonsense; but was true to her, and worked hard for her. they determined to go without food in the morning, so that no suspicion should be raised by the use of cups and plates. they could get refreshment at the railway-station. at six they started. robert went first with the big boxes, having his ten pounds already in his pocket,--and marie and didon with smaller luggage followed in a second cab. no one interfered with them and nothing went wrong. the very civil man at euston square gave them their tickets, and even attempted to speak to them in french. they had quite determined that not a word of english was to be spoken by marie till the ship was out at sea. at the station they got some very bad tea and almost uneatable food,--but marie's restrained excitement was so great that food was almost unnecessary to her. they took their seats without any impediment,--and then they were off. during a great part of the journey they were alone, and then marie gabbled to didon about her hopes and her future career, and all the things she would do;--how she had hated lord nidderdale;--especially when, after she had been awed into accepting him, he had given her no token of love;--"pas un baiser!" didon suggested that such was the way with english lords. she herself had preferred lord nidderdale, but had been willing to join in the present plan,--as she said, from devoted affection to marie. marie went on to say that nidderdale was ugly, and that sir felix was as beautiful as the morning. "bah!" exclaimed didon, who was really disgusted that such considerations should prevail. didon had learned in some indistinct way that lord nidderdale would be a marquis and would have a castle, whereas sir felix would never be more than sir felix, and, of his own, would never have anything at all. she had striven with her mistress, but her mistress liked to have a will of her own. didon no doubt had thought that new york, with £ and other perquisites in hand, might offer her a new career. she had therefore yielded, but even now could hardly forbear from expressing disgust at the folly of her mistress. marie bore it with imperturbable good humour. she was running away,--and was running to a distant continent,--and her lover would be with her! she gave didon to understand that she cared nothing for marquises. as they drew near to liverpool didon explained that they must still be very careful. it would not do for them to declare at once their destination on the platform,--so that every one about the station should know that they were going on board the packet for new york. they had time enough. they must leisurely look for the big boxes and other things, and need say nothing about the steam packet till they were in a cab. marie's big box was directed simply "madame racine, passenger to liverpool;"--so also was directed a second box, nearly as big, which was didon's property. didon declared that her anxiety would not be over till she found the ship moving under her. marie was sure that all their dangers were over,--if only sir felix was safe on board. poor marie! sir felix was at this moment in welbeck street, striving to find temporary oblivion for his distressing situation and loss of money, and some alleviation for his racking temples, beneath the bedclothes. when the train ran into the station at liverpool the two women sat for a few moments quite quiet. they would not seek remark by any hurry or noise. the door was opened, and a well-mannered porter offered to take their luggage. didon handed out the various packages, keeping however the jewel-case in her own hands. she left the carriage first, and then marie. but marie had hardly put her foot on the platform, before a gentleman addressed her, touching his hat, "you, i think, are miss melmotte." marie was struck dumb, but said nothing. didon immediately became voluble in french. no; the young lady was not miss melmotte; the young lady was mademoiselle racine, her niece. she was madame racine. melmotte! what was melmotte? they knew nothing about melmottes. would the gentleman kindly allow them to pass on to their cab? [illustration: "you, i think, are miss melmotte."] but the gentleman would by no means kindly allow them to pass on to their cab. with the gentleman was another gentleman,--who did not seem to be quite so much of a gentleman;--and again, not far in the distance didon quickly espied a policeman, who did not at present connect himself with the affair, but who seemed to have his time very much at command, and to be quite ready if he were wanted. didon at once gave up the game,--as regarded her mistress. "i am afraid i must persist in asserting that you are miss melmotte," said the gentleman, "and that this other--person is your servant, elise didon. you speak english, miss melmotte." marie declared that she spoke french. "and english too," said the gentleman. "i think you had better make up your minds to go back to london. i will accompany you." "ah, didon, nous sommes perdues!" exclaimed marie. didon, plucking up her courage for the moment, asserted the legality of her own position and of that of her mistress. they had both a right to come to liverpool. they had both a right to get into the cab with their luggage. nobody had a right to stop them. they had done nothing against the laws. why were they to be stopped in this way? what was it to anybody whether they called themselves melmotte or racine? the gentleman understood the french oratory, but did not commit himself to reply in the same language. "you had better trust yourself to me; you had indeed," said the gentleman. "but why?" demanded marie. then the gentleman spoke in a very low voice. "a cheque has been changed which you took from your father's house. no doubt your father will pardon that when you are once with him. but in order that we may bring you back safely we can arrest you on the score of the cheque,--if you force us to do so. we certainly shall not let you go on board. if you will travel back to london with me, you shall be subjected to no inconvenience which can be avoided." there was certainly no help to be found anywhere. it may be well doubted whether upon the whole the telegraph has not added more to the annoyances than to the comforts of life, and whether the gentlemen who spent all the public money without authority ought not to have been punished with special severity in that they had injured humanity, rather than pardoned because of the good they had produced. who is benefited by telegrams? the newspapers are robbed of all their old interest, and the very soul of intrigue is destroyed. poor marie, when she heard her fate, would certainly have gladly hanged mr. scudamore. when the gentleman had made his speech, she offered no further opposition. looking into didon's face and bursting into tears, she sat down on one of the boxes. but didon became very clamorous on her own behalf,--and her clamour was successful. "who was going to stop her? what had she done? why should not she go where she pleased? did anybody mean to take her up for stealing anybody's money? if anybody did, that person had better look to himself. she knew the law. she would go where she pleased." so saying she began to tug the rope of her box as though she intended to drag it by her own force out of the station. the gentleman looked at his telegram,--looked at another document which he now held in his hand, ready prepared, should it be wanted. elise didon had been accused of nothing that brought her within the law. the gentleman in imperfect french suggested that didon had better return with her mistress. but didon clamoured only the more. no; she would go to new york. she would go wherever she pleased,--all the world over. nobody should stop her. then she addressed herself in what little english she could command to half-a-dozen cabmen who were standing round and enjoying the scene. they were to take her trunk at once. she had money and she could pay. she started off to the nearest cab, and no one stopped her. "but the box in her hand is mine," said marie, not forgetting her trinkets in her misery. didon surrendered the jewel-case, and ensconced herself in the cab without a word of farewell; and her trunk was hoisted on to the roof. then she was driven away out of the station,--and out of our story. she had a first-class cabin all to herself as far as new york, but what may have been her fate after that it matters not to us to enquire. poor marie! we who know how recreant a knight sir felix had proved himself, who are aware that had miss melmotte succeeded in getting on board the ship she would have passed an hour of miserable suspense, looking everywhere for her lover, and would then at last have been carried to new york without him, may congratulate her on her escape. and, indeed, we who know his character better than she did, may still hope in her behalf that she may be ultimately saved from so wretched a marriage. but to her her present position was truly miserable. she would have to encounter an enraged father; and when,--when should she see her lover again? poor, poor felix! what would be his feelings when he should find himself on his way to new york without his love! but in one matter she made up her mind steadfastly. she would be true to him! they might chop her in pieces! yes;--she had said it before, and she would say it again. there was, however, doubt on her mind from time to time, whether one course might not be better even than constancy. if she could contrive to throw herself out of the carriage and to be killed,--would not that be the best termination to her present disappointment? would not that be the best punishment for her father? but how then would it be with poor felix? "after all i don't know that he cares for me," she said to herself, thinking over it all. the gentleman was very kind to her, not treating her at all as though she were disgraced. as they got near town he ventured to give her a little advice. "put a good face on it," he said, "and don't be cast down." "oh, i won't," she answered. "i don't mean." "your mother will be delighted to have you back again." "i don't think that mamma cares. it's papa. i'd do it again to-morrow if i had the chance." the gentleman looked at her, not having expected so much determination. "i would. why is a girl to be made to marry to please any one but herself? i won't. and it's very mean saying that i stole the money. i always take what i want, and papa never says anything about it." "two hundred and fifty pounds is a large sum, miss melmotte." "it is nothing in our house. it isn't about the money. it's because papa wants me to marry another man;--and i won't. it was downright mean to send and have me taken up before all the people." "you wouldn't have come back if he hadn't done that." "of course i wouldn't," said marie. the gentleman had telegraphed up to grosvenor square while on the journey, and at euston square they were met by one of the melmotte carriages. marie was to be taken home in the carriage, and the box was to follow in a cab;--to follow at some interval so that grosvenor square might not be aware of what had taken place. grosvenor square, of course, very soon knew all about it. "and are you to come?" marie asked, speaking to the gentleman. the gentleman replied that he had been requested to see miss melmotte home. "all the people will wonder who you are," said marie laughing. then the gentleman thought that miss melmotte would be able to get through her troubles without much suffering. when she got home she was hurried up at once to her mother's room,--and there she found her father, alone. "this is your game, is it?" said he, looking down at her. "well, papa;--yes. you made me do it." "you fool you! you were going to new york,--were you?" to this she vouchsafed no reply. "as if i hadn't found out all about it. who was going with you?" "if you have found out all about it, you know, papa." "of course i know;--but you don't know all about it, you little idiot." "no doubt i'm a fool and an idiot. you always say so." "where do you suppose sir felix carbury is now?" then she opened her eyes and looked at him. "an hour ago he was in bed at his mother's house in welbeck street." "i don't believe it, papa." "you don't, don't you? you'll find it true. if you had gone to new york, you'd have gone alone. if i'd known at first that he had stayed behind, i think i'd have let you go." "i'm sure he didn't stay behind." "if you contradict me, i'll box your ears, you jade. he is in london at this moment. what has become of the woman that went with you?" "she's gone on board the ship." "and where is the money you took from your mother?" marie was silent. "who got the cheque changed?" "didon did." "and has she got the money?" "no, papa." "have you got it?" "no, papa." "did you give it to sir felix carbury?" "yes, papa." "then i'll be hanged if i don't prosecute him for stealing it." "oh, papa, don't do that;--pray don't do that. he didn't steal it. i only gave it him to take care of for us. he'll give it you back again." "i shouldn't wonder if he lost it at cards, and therefore didn't go to liverpool. will you give me your word that you'll never attempt to marry him again if i don't prosecute him?" marie considered. "unless you do that i shall go to a magistrate at once." "i don't believe you can do anything to him. he didn't steal it. i gave it to him." "will you promise me?" "no, papa, i won't. what's the good of promising when i should only break it. why can't you let me have the man i love? what's the good of all the money if people don't have what they like?" "all the money!--what do you know about the money? look here," and he took her by the arm. "i've been very good to you. you've had your share of everything that has been going;--carriages and horses, bracelets and brooches, silks and gloves, and every thing else." he held her very hard and shook her as he spoke. "let me go, papa; you hurt me. i never asked for such things. i don't care a straw about bracelets and brooches." "what do you care for?" "only for somebody to love me," said marie, looking down. "you'll soon have nobody to love you, if you go on this fashion. you've had everything done for you, and if you don't do something for me in return, by g---- you shall have a hard time of it. if you weren't such a fool you'd believe me when i say that i know more than you do." "you can't know better than me what'll make me happy." "do you think only of yourself? if you'll marry lord nidderdale you'll have a position in the world which nothing can take from you." "then i won't," said marie firmly. upon this he shook her till she cried, and calling for madame melmotte desired his wife not to let the girl for one minute out of her presence. the condition of sir felix was i think worse than that of the lady with whom he was to have run away. he had played at the beargarden till four in the morning and had then left the club, on the breaking-up of the card-table, intoxicated and almost penniless. during the last half hour he had made himself very unpleasant at the club, saying all manner of harsh things of miles grendall;--of whom, indeed, it was almost impossible to say things too hard, had they been said in a proper form and at a proper time. he declared that grendall would not pay his debts, that he had cheated when playing loo,--as to which sir felix appealed to dolly longestaffe; and he ended by asserting that grendall ought to be turned out of the club. they had a desperate row. dolly of course had said that he knew nothing about it, and lord grasslough had expressed an opinion that perhaps more than one person ought to be turned out. at four o'clock the party was broken up and sir felix wandered forth into the streets, with nothing more than the change of a ten pound note in his pocket. all his luggage was lying in the hall of the club, and there he left it. there could hardly have been a more miserable wretch than sir felix wandering about the streets of london that night. though he was nearly drunk, he was not drunk enough to forget the condition of his affairs. there is an intoxication that makes merry in the midst of affliction;--and there is an intoxication that banishes affliction by producing oblivion. but again there is an intoxication which is conscious of itself though it makes the feet unsteady, and the voice thick, and the brain foolish; and which brings neither mirth nor oblivion. sir felix trying to make his way to welbeck street and losing it at every turn, feeling himself to be an object of ridicule to every wanderer, and of dangerous suspicion to every policeman, got no good at all out of his intoxication. what had he better do with himself? he fumbled in his pocket, and managed to get hold of his ticket for new york. should he still make the journey? then he thought of his luggage, and could not remember where it was. at last, as he steadied himself against a letter-post, he was able to call to mind that his portmanteaus were at the club. by this time he had wandered into marylebone lane, but did not in the least know where he was. but he made an attempt to get back to his club, and stumbled half down bond street. then a policeman enquired into his purposes, and when he said that he lived in welbeck street, walked back with him as far as oxford street. having once mentioned the place where he lived, he had not strength of will left to go back to his purpose of getting his luggage and starting for liverpool. between six and seven he was knocking at the door in welbeck street. he had tried his latch-key, but had found it inefficient. as he was supposed to be at liverpool, the door had in fact been locked. at last it was opened by lady carbury herself. he had fallen more than once, and was soiled with the gutter. most of my readers will not probably know how a man looks when he comes home drunk at six in the morning; but they who have seen the thing will acknowledge that a sorrier sight can not meet a mother's eye than that of a son in such a condition. "oh, felix!" she exclaimed. "it'sh all up," he said, stumbling in. "what has happened, felix?" "discovered, and be d---- to it! the old shap'sh stopped ush." drunk as he was, he was able to lie. at that moment the "old shap" was fast asleep in grosvenor square, altogether ignorant of the plot; and marie, joyful with excitement, was getting into the cab in the mews. "bettersh go to bed." and so he stumbled up-stairs by daylight, the wretched mother helping him. she took off his clothes for him and his boots, and having left him already asleep, she went down to her own room, a miserable woman. chapter li. which shall it be? paul montague reached london on his return from suffolk early on the monday morning, and on the following day he wrote to mrs. hurtle. as he sat in his lodgings, thinking of his condition, he almost wished that he had taken melmotte's offer and gone to mexico. he might at any rate have endeavoured to promote the railway earnestly, and then have abandoned it if he found the whole thing false. in such case of course he would never have seen hetta carbury again; but, as things were, of what use to him was his love,--of what use to him or to her? the kind of life of which he dreamed, such a life in england as was that of roger carbury, or, as such life would be, if roger had a wife whom he loved, seemed to be far beyond his reach. nobody was like roger carbury! would it not be well that he should go away, and, as he went, write to hetta and bid her marry the best man that ever lived in the world? but the journey to mexico was no longer open to him. he had repudiated the proposition and had quarrelled with melmotte. it was necessary that he should immediately take some further step in regard to mrs. hurtle. twice lately he had gone to islington determined that he would see that lady for the last time. then he had taken her to lowestoft, and had been equally firm in his resolution that he would there put an end to his present bonds. now he had promised to go again to islington;--and was aware that if he failed to keep his promise, she would come to him. in this way there would never be an end to it. he would certainly go again, as he had promised,--if she should still require it; but he would first try what a letter would do,--a plain unvarnished tale. might it still be possible that a plain tale sent by post should have sufficient efficacy? this was his plain tale as he now told it. tuesday, nd july, . my dear mrs. hurtle,-- i promised that i would go to you again in islington, and so i will, if you still require it. but i think that such a meeting can be of no service to either of us. what is to be gained? i do not for a moment mean to justify my own conduct. it is not to be justified. when i met you on our journey hither from san francisco, i was charmed with your genius, your beauty, and your character. they are now what i found them to be then. but circumstances have made our lives and temperaments so far different, that i am certain that, were we married, we should not make each other happy. of course the fault was mine; but it is better to own that fault, and to take all the blame,--and the evil consequences, let them be what they may,-- to be shot, for instance, like the gentleman in oregon,-- than to be married with the consciousness that even at the very moment of the ceremony, such marriage will be a matter of sorrow and repentance. as soon as my mind was made up on this i wrote to you. i can not,--i dare not,--blame you for the step you have since taken. but i can only adhere to the resolution i then expressed. the first day i saw you here in london you asked me whether i was attached to another woman. i could answer you only by the truth. but i should not of my own accord have spoken to you of altered affections. it was after i had resolved to break my engagement with you that i first knew this girl. it was not because i had come to love her that i broke it. i have no grounds whatever for hoping that my love will lead to any results. i have now told you as exactly as i can the condition of my mind. if it were possible for me in any way to compensate the injury i have done you,--or even to undergo retribution for it,--i would do so. but what compensation can be given, or what retribution can you exact? i think that our further meeting can avail nothing. but if, after this, you wish me to come again, i will come for the last time,--because i have promised. your most sincere friend, paul montague. mrs. hurtle, as she read this, was torn in two ways. all that paul had written was in accordance with the words written by herself on a scrap of paper which she still kept in her own pocket. those words, fairly transcribed on a sheet of note-paper, would be the most generous and the fittest answer she could give. and she longed to be generous. she had all a woman's natural desire to sacrifice herself. but the sacrifice which would have been most to her taste would have been of another kind. had she found him ruined and penniless she would have delighted to share with him all that she possessed. had she found him a cripple, or blind, or miserably struck with some disease, she would have stayed by him and have nursed him and given him comfort. even had he been disgraced she would have fled with him to some far country and have pardoned all his faults. no sacrifice would have been too much for her that would have been accompanied by a feeling that he appreciated all that she was doing for him, and that she was loved in return. but to sacrifice herself by going away and never more being heard of, was too much for her! what woman can endure such sacrifice as that? to give up not only her love, but her wrath also;--that was too much for her! the idea of being tame was terrible to her. her life had not been very prosperous, but she was what she was because she had dared to protect herself by her own spirit. now, at last, should she succumb and be trodden on like a worm? should she be weaker even than an english girl? should she allow him to have amused himself with her love, to have had "a good time," and then to roam away like a bee, while she was so dreadfully scorched, so mutilated and punished! had not her whole life been opposed to the theory of such passive endurance? she took out the scrap of paper and read it; and, in spite of all, she felt that there was a feminine softness in it that gratified her. but no;--she could not send it. she could not even copy the words. and so she gave play to all her strongest feelings on the other side,--being in truth torn in two directions. then she sat herself down to her desk, and with rapid words, and flashing thoughts, wrote as follows:-- paul montague,-- i have suffered many injuries, but of all injuries this is the worst and most unpardonable,--and the most unmanly. surely there never was such a coward, never so false a liar. the poor wretch that i destroyed was mad with liquor and was only acting after his kind. even caradoc hurtle never premeditated such wrong as this. what;--you are to bind yourself to me by the most solemn obligation that can join a man and a woman together, and then tell me,--when they have affected my whole life,--that they are to go for nothing, because they do not suit your view of things? on thinking over it, you find that an american wife would not make you so comfortable as some english girl;--and therefore it is all to go for nothing! i have no brother, no man near me;--or you would not dare to do this. you can not but be a coward. you talk of compensation! do you mean money? you do not dare to say so, but you must mean it. it is an insult the more. but as to retribution; yes. you shall suffer retribution. i desire you to come to me,--according to your promise,--and you will find me with a horsewhip in my hand. i will whip you till i have not a breath in my body. and then i will see what you will dare to do;--whether you will drag me into a court of law for the assault. yes; come. you shall come. and now you know the welcome you shall find. i will buy the whip while this is reaching you, and you shall find that i know how to choose such a weapon. i call upon you to come. but should you be afraid and break your promise, i will come to you. i will make london too hot to hold you;--and if i do not find you i will go with my story to every friend you have. i have now told you as exactly as i can the condition of my mind. winifrid hurtle. having written this she again read the short note, and again gave way to violent tears. but on that day she sent no letter. on the following morning she wrote a third, and sent that. this was the third letter:-- yes. come. w. h. this letter duly reached paul montague at his lodgings. he started immediately for islington. he had now no desire to delay the meeting. he had at any rate taught her that his gentleness towards her, his going to the play with her, and drinking tea with her at mrs. pipkin's, and his journey with her to the sea, were not to be taken as evidence that he was gradually being conquered. he had declared his purpose plainly enough at lowestoft,--and plainly enough in his last letter. she had told him down at the hotel, that had she by chance have been armed at the moment, she would have shot him. she could arm herself now if she pleased;--but his real fear had not lain in that direction. the pang consisted in having to assure her that he was resolved to do her wrong. the worst of that was now over. the door was opened for him by ruby, who by no means greeted him with a happy countenance. it was the second morning after the night of her imprisonment; and nothing had occurred to alleviate her woe. at this very moment her lover should have been in liverpool, but he was, in fact, abed in welbeck street. "yes, sir; she's at home," said ruby, with a baby in her arms and a little child hanging on to her dress. "don't pull so, sally. please, sir, is sir felix still in london?" ruby had written to sir felix the very night of her imprisonment, but had not as yet received any reply. paul, whose mind was altogether intent on his own troubles, declared that at present he knew nothing about sir felix, and was then shown into mrs. hurtle's room. [illustration: the door was opened for him by ruby.] "so you have come," she said, without rising from her chair. "of course i came, when you desired it." "i don't know why you should. my wishes do not seem to affect you much. will you sit down there," she said, pointing to a seat at some distance from herself. "so you think it would be best that you and i should never see each other again?" she was very calm; but it seemed to him that the quietness was assumed, and that at any moment it might be converted into violence. he thought that there was that in her eye which seemed to foretell the spring of the wild-cat. "i did think so certainly. what more can i say?" "oh, nothing; clearly nothing." her voice was very low. "why should a gentleman trouble himself to say any more,--than that he has changed his mind? why make a fuss about such little things as a woman's life, or a woman's heart?" then she paused. "and having come, in consequence of my unreasonable request, of course you are wise to hold your peace." "i came because i promised." "but you did not promise to speak;--did you?" "what would you have me say?" "ah what! am i to be so weak as to tell you now what i would have you say? suppose you were to say, 'i am a gentleman, and a man of my word, and i repent me of my intended perfidy,' do you not think you might get your release that way? might it not be possible that i should reply that as your heart was gone from me, your hand might go after it;--that i scorned to be the wife of a man who did not want me?" as she asked this she gradually raised her voice, and half lifted herself in her seat, stretching herself towards him. "you might indeed," he replied, not well knowing what to say. "but i should not. i at least will be true. i should take you, paul,--still take you; with a confidence that i should yet win you to me by my devotion. i have still some kindness of feeling towards you,--none to that woman who is i suppose younger than i, and gentler, and a maid." she still looked as though she expected a reply, but there was nothing to be said in answer to this. "now that you are going to leave me, paul, is there any advice you can give me, as to what i shall do next? i have given up every friend in the world for you. i have no home. mrs. pipkin's room here is more my home than any other spot on the earth. i have all the world to choose from, but no reason whatever for a choice. i have my property. what shall i do with it, paul? if i could die and be no more heard of, you should be welcome to it." there was no answer possible to all this. the questions were asked because there was no answer possible. "you might at any rate advise me. paul, you are in some degree responsible,--are you not,--for my loneliness?" "i am. but you know that i cannot answer your questions." "you cannot wonder that i should be somewhat in doubt as to my future life. as far as i can see, i had better remain here. i do good at any rate to mrs. pipkin. she went into hysterics yesterday when i spoke of leaving her. that woman, paul, would starve in our country, and i shall be desolate in this." then she paused, and there was absolute silence for a minute. "you thought my letter very short; did you not?" "it said, i suppose, all you had to say." "no, indeed. i did have much more to say. that was the third letter i wrote. now you shall see the other two. i wrote three, and had to choose which i would send you. i fancy that yours to me was easier written than either one of mine. you had no doubts, you know. i had many doubts. i could not send them all by post, together. but you may see them all now. there is one. you may read that first. while i was writing it, i was determined that that should go." then she handed him the sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip. "i am glad you did not send that," he said. "i meant it." "but you have changed your mind?" "is there anything in it that seems to you to be unreasonable? speak out and tell me." "i am thinking of you, not of myself." "think of me, then. is there anything said there which the usage to which i have been subjected does not justify?" "you ask me questions which i cannot answer. i do not think that under any provocation a woman should use a horsewhip." "it is certainly more comfortable for gentlemen,--who amuse themselves,--that women should have that opinion. but, upon my word, i don't know what to say about that. as long as there are men to fight for women, it may be well to leave the fighting to the men. but when a woman has no one to help her, is she to bear everything without turning upon those who ill-use her? shall a woman be flayed alive because it is unfeminine in her to fight for her own skin? what is the good of being--feminine, as you call it? have you asked yourself that? that men may be attracted, i should say. but if a woman finds that men only take advantage of her assumed weakness, shall she not throw it off? if she be treated as prey, shall she not fight as a beast of prey? oh, no;--it is so unfeminine! i also, paul, had thought of that. the charm of womanly weakness presented itself to my mind in a soft moment,--and then i wrote this other letter. you may as well see them all." and so she handed him the scrap which had been written at lowestoft, and he read that also. he could hardly finish it, because of the tears which filled his eyes. but, having mastered its contents, he came across the room and threw himself on his knees at her feet, sobbing. "i have not sent it, you know," she said. "i only show it you that you may see how my mind has been at work." "it hurts me more than the other," he replied. "nay, i would not hurt you,--not at this moment. sometimes i feel that i could tear you limb from limb, so great is my disappointment, so ungovernable my rage! why,--why should i be such a victim? why should life be an utter blank to me, while you have everything before you? there, you have seen them all. which will you have?" "i cannot now take that other as the expression of your mind." "but it will be when you have left me;--and was when you were with me at the sea-side. and it was so i felt when i got your first letter in san francisco. why should you kneel there? you do not love me. a man should kneel to a woman for love, not for pardon." but though she spoke thus, she put her hand upon his forehead, and pushed back his hair, and looked into his face. "i wonder whether that other woman loves you. i do not want an answer, paul. i suppose you had better go." she took his hand and pressed it to her breast. "tell me one thing. when you spoke of--compensation, did you mean--money?" "no; indeed no." "i hope not;--i hope not that. well, there;--go. you shall be troubled no more with winifrid hurtle." she took the sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip and tore it into scraps. "and am i to keep the other?" he asked. "no. for what purpose would you have it? to prove my weakness? that also shall be destroyed." but she took it and restored it to her pocket-book. "good-bye, my friend," he said. "nay! this parting will not bear a farewell. go, and let there be no other word spoken." and so he went. as soon as the front door was closed behind him she rang the bell and begged ruby to ask mrs. pipkin to come to her. "mrs. pipkin," she said, as soon as the woman had entered the room; "everything is over between me and mr. montague." she was standing upright in the middle of the room, and as she spoke there was a smile on her face. "lord a' mercy," said mrs. pipkin, holding up both her hands. "as i have told you that i was to be married to him, i think it right now to tell you that i'm not going to be married to him." "and why not?--and he such a nice young man,--and quiet too." "as to the why not, i don't know that i am prepared to speak about that. but it is so. i was engaged to him." "i'm well sure of that, mrs. hurtle." "and now i'm no longer engaged to him. that's all." "dearie me! and you going down to lowestoft with him, and all." mrs. pipkin could not bear to think that she should hear no more of such an interesting story. "we did go down to lowestoft together, and we both came back,--not together. and there's an end of it." "i'm sure it's not your fault, mrs. hurtle. when a marriage is to be, and doesn't come off, it never is the lady's fault." "there's an end of it, mrs. pipkin. if you please, we won't say anything more about it." "and are you going to leave, ma'am?" said mrs. pipkin, prepared to have her apron up to her eyes at a moment's notice. where should she get such another lodger as mrs. hurtle,--a lady who not only did not inquire about victuals, but who was always suggesting that the children should eat this pudding or finish that pie, and who had never questioned an item in a bill since she had been in the house! "we'll say nothing about that yet, mrs. pipkin." then mrs. pipkin gave utterance to so many assurances of sympathy and help that it almost seemed that she was prepared to guarantee to her lodger another lover in lieu of the one who was now dismissed. chapter lii. the results of love and wine. two, three, four, and even five o'clock still found sir felix carbury in bed on that fatal thursday. more than once or twice his mother crept up to his room, but on each occasion he feigned to be fast asleep and made no reply to her gentle words. but his condition was one which only admits of short snatches of uneasy slumber. from head to foot, he was sick and ill and sore, and could find no comfort anywhere. to lie where he was, trying by absolute quiescence to soothe the agony of his brows and to remember that as long as he lay there he would be safe from attack by the outer world, was all the solace within his reach. lady carbury sent the page up to him, and to the page he was awake. the boy brought him tea. he asked for soda and brandy; but there was none to be had, and in his present condition he did not dare to hector about it till it was procured for him. the world surely was now all over to him. he had made arrangements for running away with the great heiress of the day, and had absolutely allowed the young lady to run away without him. the details of their arrangement had been such that she absolutely would start upon her long journey across the ocean before she could find out that he had failed to keep his appointment. melmotte's hostility would be incurred by the attempt, and hers by the failure. then he had lost all his money,--and hers. he had induced his poor mother to assist in raising a fund for him,--and even that was gone. he was so cowed that he was afraid even of his mother. and he could remember something, but no details, of some row at the club,--but still with a conviction on his mind that he had made the row. ah,--when would he summon courage to enter the club again? when could he show himself again anywhere? all the world would know that marie melmotte had attempted to run off with him, and that at the last moment he had failed her. what lie could he invent to cover his disgrace? and his clothes! all his things were at the club;--or he thought that they were, not being quite certain whether he had not made some attempt to carry them off to the railway station. he had heard of suicide. if ever it could be well that a man should cut his own throat, surely the time had come for him now. but as this idea presented itself to him he simply gathered the clothes around him and tried to sleep. the death of cato would hardly have for him persuasive charms. between five and six his mother again came up to him, and when he appeared to sleep, stood with her hand upon his shoulder. there must be some end to this. he must at any rate be fed. she, wretched woman, had been sitting all day,--thinking of it. as regarded her son himself, his condition told his story with sufficient accuracy. what might be the fate of the girl she could not stop to enquire. she had not heard all the details of the proposed scheme; but she had known that felix had proposed to be at liverpool on the wednesday night, and to start on thursday for new york with the young lady; and with the view of aiding him in his object she had helped him with money. she had bought clothes for him, and had been busy with hetta for two days preparing for his long journey,--having told some lie to her own daughter as to the cause of her brother's intended journey. he had not gone, but had come, drunk and degraded, back to the house. she had searched his pockets with less scruple than she had ever before felt, and had found his ticket for the vessel and the few sovereigns which were left to him. about him she could read the riddle plainly. he had stayed at his club till he was drunk, and had gambled away all his money. when she had first seen him she had asked herself what further lie she should now tell to her daughter. at breakfast there was instant need for some story. "mary says that felix came back this morning, and that he has not gone at all," hetta exclaimed. the poor woman could not bring herself to expose the vices of the son to her daughter. she could not say that he had stumbled into the house drunk at six o'clock. hetta no doubt had her own suspicions. "yes; he has come back," said lady carbury, broken-hearted by her troubles. "it was some plan about the mexican railway i believe, and has broken through. he is very unhappy and not well. i will see to him." after that hetta had said nothing during the whole day. and now, about an hour before dinner, lady carbury was standing by her son's bedside, determined that he should speak to her. "felix," she said,--"speak to me, felix.--i know that you are awake." he groaned, and turned himself away from her, burying himself, further under the bedclothes. "you must get up for your dinner. it is near six o'clock." "all right," he said at last. "what is the meaning of this, felix? you must tell me. it must be told sooner or later. i know you are unhappy. you had better trust your mother." "i am so sick, mother." "you will be better up. what were you doing last night? what has come of it all? where are your things?" "at the club.--you had better leave me now, and let sam come up to me." sam was the page. "i will leave you presently; but, felix, you must tell me about this. what has been done?" "it hasn't come off." "but how has it not come off?" "i didn't get away. what's the good of asking?" "you said this morning when you came in, that mr. melmotte had discovered it." "did i? then i suppose he has. oh, mother, i wish i could die. i don't see what's the use of anything. i won't get up to dinner. i'd rather stay here." "you must have something to eat, felix." "sam can bring it me. do let him get me some brandy and water. i'm so faint and sick with all this that i can hardly bear myself. i can't talk now. if he'll get me a bottle of soda water and some brandy, i'll tell you all about it then." "where is the money, felix?" "i paid it for the ticket," said he, with both his hands up to his head. then his mother again left him with the understanding that he was to be allowed to remain in bed till the next morning; but that he was to give her some further explanation when he had been refreshed and invigorated after his own prescription. the boy went out and got him soda water and brandy, and meat was carried up to him, and then he did succeed for a while in finding oblivion from his misery in sleep. "is he ill, mamma?" hetta asked. "yes, my dear." "had you not better send for a doctor?" "no, my dear. he will be better to-morrow." "mamma, i think you would be happier if you would tell me everything." "i can't," said lady carbury, bursting out into tears. "don't ask. what's the good of asking? it is all misery and wretchedness. there is nothing to tell,--except that i am ruined." "has he done anything, mamma?" "no. what should he have done? how am i to know what he does? he tells me nothing. don't talk about it any more. oh, god,--how much better it would be to be childless!" "oh, mamma, do you mean me?" said hetta, rushing across the room, and throwing herself close to her mother's side on the sofa. "mamma, say that you do not mean me." "it concerns you as well as me and him. i wish i were childless." "oh, mamma, do not be cruel to me! am i not good to you? do i not try to be a comfort to you?" "then marry your cousin, roger carbury, who is a good man, and who can protect you. you can, at any rate, find a home for yourself, and a friend for us. you are not like felix. you do not get drunk and gamble,--because you are a woman. but you are stiff-necked, and will not help me in my trouble." "shall i marry him, mamma, without loving him?" "love! have i been able to love? do you see much of what you call love around you? why should you not love him? he is a gentleman, and a good man,--soft-hearted, of a sweet nature, whose life would be one effort to make yours happy. you think that felix is very bad." "i have never said so." "but ask yourself whether you do not give as much pain, seeing what you could do for us if you would. but it never occurs to you to sacrifice even a fantasy for the advantage of others." hetta retired from her seat on the sofa, and when her mother again went up-stairs she turned it all over in her mind. could it be right that she should marry one man when she loved another? could it be right that she should marry at all, for the sake of doing good to her family? this man, whom she might marry if she would,--who did in truth worship the ground on which she trod,--was, she well knew, all that her mother had said. and he was more than that. her mother had spoken of his soft heart, and his sweet nature. but hetta knew also that he was a man of high honour and a noble courage. in such a condition as was hers now he was the very friend whose advice she could have asked,--had he not been the very lover who was desirous of making her his wife. hetta felt that she could sacrifice much for her mother. money, if she had it, she could have given, though she left herself penniless. her time, her inclinations, her very heart's treasure, and, as she thought, her life, she could give. she could doom herself to poverty, and loneliness, and heart-rending regrets for her mother's sake. but she did not know how she could give herself into the arms of a man she did not love. [illustration: "can i marry the man i do not love?"] "i don't know what there is to explain," said felix to his mother. she had asked him why he had not gone to liverpool, whether he had been interrupted by melmotte himself, whether news had reached him from marie that she had been stopped, or whether,--as might have been possible,--marie had changed her own mind. but he could not bring himself to tell the truth, or any story bordering on the truth. "it didn't come off," he said, "and of course that knocked me off my legs. well; yes. i did take some champagne when i found how it was. a fellow does get cut up by that kind of thing. oh, i heard it at the club,--that the whole thing was off. i can't explain anything more. and then i was so mad, i can't tell what i was after. i did get the ticket. there it is. that shows i was in earnest. i spent the £ in getting it. i suppose the change is there. don't take it, for i haven't another shilling in the world." of course he said nothing of marie's money, or of that which he had himself received from melmotte. and as his mother had heard nothing of these sums she could not contradict what he said. she got from him no further statement, but she was sure that there was a story to be told which would reach her ears sooner or later. that evening, about nine o'clock, mr. broune called in welbeck street. he very often did call now, coming up in a cab, staying for a cup of tea, and going back in the same cab to the office of his newspaper. since lady carbury had, so devotedly, abstained from accepting his offer, mr. broune had become almost sincerely attached to her. there was certainly between them now more of the intimacy of real friendship than had ever existed in earlier days. he spoke to her more freely about his own affairs, and even she would speak to him with some attempt at truth. there was never between them now even a shade of love-making. she did not look into his eyes, nor did he hold her hand. as for kissing her,--he thought no more of it than of kissing the maid-servant. but he spoke to her of the things that worried him,--the unreasonable exactions of proprietors, and the perilous inaccuracy of contributors. he told her of the exceeding weight upon his shoulders, under which an atlas would have succumbed. and he told her something too of his triumphs;--how he had had this fellow bowled over in punishment for some contradiction, and that man snuffed out for daring to be an enemy. and he expatiated on his own virtues, his justice and clemency. ah,--if men and women only knew his good nature and his patriotism;--how he had spared the rod here, how he had made the fortune of a man there, how he had saved the country millions by the steadiness of his adherence to some grand truth! lady carbury delighted in all this and repaid him by flattery, and little confidences of her own. under his teaching she had almost made up her mind to give up mr. alf. of nothing was mr. broune more certain than that mr. alf was making a fool of himself in regard to the westminster election and those attacks on melmotte. "the world of london generally knows what it is about," said mr. broune, "and the london world believes mr. melmotte to be sound. i don't pretend to say that he has never done anything that he ought not to do. i am not going into his antecedents. but he is a man of wealth, power, and genius, and alf will get the worst of it." under such teaching as this, lady carbury was almost obliged to give up mr. alf. sometimes they would sit in the front room with hetta, to whom also mr. broune had become attached; but sometimes lady carbury would be in her own sanctum. on this evening she received him there, and at once poured forth all her troubles about felix. on this occasion she told him everything, and almost told him everything truly. he had already heard the story. "the young lady went down to liverpool, and sir felix was not there." "he could not have been there. he has been in bed in this house all day. did she go?" "so i am told;--and was met at the station by the senior officer of the police at liverpool, who brought her back to london without letting her go down to the ship at all. she must have thought that her lover was on board;--probably thinks so now. i pity her." "how much worse it would have been, had she been allowed to start," said lady carbury. "yes; that would have been bad. she would have had a sad journey to new york, and a sadder journey back. has your son told you anything about money?" "what money?" "they say that the girl entrusted him with a large sum which she had taken from her father. if that be so he certainly ought to lose no time in restoring it. it might be done through some friend. i would do it for that matter. if it be so,--to avoid unpleasantness,--it should be sent back at once. it will be for his credit." this mr. broune said with a clear intimation of the importance of his advice. it was dreadful to lady carbury. she had no money to give back, nor, as she was well aware, had her son. she had heard nothing of any money. what did mr. broune mean by a large sum? "that would be dreadful," she said. "had you not better ask him about it?" lady carbury was again in tears. she knew that she could not hope to get a word of truth from her son. "what do you mean by a large sum?" "two or three hundred pounds, perhaps." "i have not a shilling in the world, mr. broune." then it all came out,--the whole story of her poverty, as it had been brought about by her son's misconduct. she told him every detail of her money affairs from the death of her husband, and his will, up to the present moment. "he is eating you up, lady carbury." lady carbury thought that she was nearly eaten up already, but she said nothing. "you must put a stop to this." "but how?" "you must rid yourself of him. it is dreadful to say so, but it must be done. you must not see your daughter ruined. find out what money he got from miss melmotte and i will see that it is repaid. that must be done;--and we will then try to get him to go abroad. no;--do not contradict me. we can talk of the money another time. i must be off now, as i have stayed too long. do as i bid you. make him tell you, and send me word down to the office. if you could do it early to-morrow, that would be best. god bless you." and so he hurried off. early on the following morning a letter from lady carbury was put into mr. broune's hands, giving the story of the money as far as she had been able to extract it from sir felix. sir felix declared that mr. melmotte had owed him £ , and that he had received £ out of this from miss melmotte,--so that there was still a large balance due to him. lady carbury went on to say that her son had at last confessed that he had lost this money at play. the story was fairly true; but lady carbury in her letter acknowledged that she was not justified in believing it because it was told to her by her son. chapter liii. a day in the city. melmotte had got back his daughter, and was half inclined to let the matter rest there. he would probably have done so had he not known that all his own household were aware that she had gone off to meet sir felix carbury, and had he not also received the condolence of certain friends in the city. it seemed that about two o'clock in the day the matter was known to everybody. of course lord nidderdale would hear of it, and if so all the trouble that he had taken in that direction would have been taken in vain. stupid fool of a girl to throw away her chance,--nay, to throw away the certainty of a brilliant career, in that way! but his anger against sir felix was infinitely more bitter than his anger against his daughter. the man had pledged himself to abstain from any step of this kind,--had given a written pledge,--had renounced under his own signature his intention of marrying marie! melmotte had of course learned all the details of the cheque for £ ,--how the money had been paid at the bank to didon, and how didon had given it to sir felix. marie herself acknowledged that sir felix had received the money. if possible he would prosecute the baronet for stealing his money. had melmotte been altogether a prudent man he would probably have been satisfied with getting back his daughter and would have allowed the money to go without further trouble. at this especial point in his career ready money was very valuable to him, but his concerns were of such magnitude that £ could make but little difference. but there had grown upon the man during the last few months an arrogance, a self-confidence inspired in him by the worship of other men, which clouded his intellect, and robbed him of much of that power of calculation which undoubtedly he naturally possessed. he remembered perfectly his various little transactions with sir felix. indeed it was one of his gifts to remember with accuracy all money transactions, whether great or small, and to keep an account book in his head, which was always totted up and balanced with accuracy. he knew exactly how he stood, even with the crossing-sweeper to whom he had given a penny last tuesday, as with the longestaffes, father and son, to whom he had not as yet made any payment on behalf of the purchase of pickering. but sir felix's money had been consigned into his hands for the purchase of shares,--and that consignment did not justify sir felix in taking another sum of money from his daughter. in such a matter he thought that an english magistrate, and an english jury, would all be on his side,--especially as he was augustus melmotte, the man about to be chosen for westminster, the man about to entertain the emperor of china! the next day was friday,--the day of the railway board. early in the morning he sent a note to lord nidderdale. my dear nidderdale,-- pray come to the board to-day;--or at any rate come to me in the city. i specially want to speak to you. yours, a. m. this he wrote, having made up his mind that it would be wise to make a clear breast of it with his hoped-for son-in-law. if there was still a chance of keeping the young lord to his guns that chance would be best supported by perfect openness on his part. the young lord would of course know what marie had done. but the young lord had for some weeks past been aware that there had been a difficulty in regard to sir felix carbury, and had not on that account relaxed his suit. it might be possible to persuade the young lord that as the young lady had now tried to elope and tried in vain, his own chance might on the whole be rather improved than injured. mr. melmotte on that morning had many visitors, among whom one of the earliest and most unfortunate was mr. longestaffe. at that time there had been arranged at the offices in abchurch lane a mode of double ingress and egress,--a front stairs and a back stairs approach and exit, as is always necessary with very great men,--in reference to which arrangement the honour and dignity attached to each is exactly contrary to that which generally prevails in the world; the front stairs being intended for everybody, and being both slow and uncertain, whereas the back stairs are quick and sure, and are used only for those who are favoured. miles grendall had the command of the stairs, and found that he had plenty to do in keeping people in their right courses. mr. longestaffe reached abchurch lane before one,--having altogether failed in getting a moment's private conversation with the big man on that other friday, when he had come later. he fell at once into miles's hands, and was ushered through the front stairs passage and into the front stairs waiting-room, with much external courtesy. miles grendall was very voluble. did mr. longestaffe want to see mr. melmotte? oh;--mr. longestaffe wanted to see mr. melmotte as soon as possible! of course mr. longestaffe should see mr. melmotte. he, miles, knew that mr. melmotte was particularly desirous of seeing mr. longestaffe. mr. melmotte had mentioned mr. longestaffe's name twice during the last three days. would mr. longestaffe sit down for a few minutes? had mr. longestaffe seen the "morning breakfast table"? mr. melmotte undoubtedly was very much engaged. at this moment a deputation from the canadian government was with him;--and sir gregory gribe was in the office waiting for a few words. but miles thought that the canadian government would not be long,--and as for sir gregory, perhaps his business might be postponed. miles would do his very best to get an interview for mr. longestaffe,--more especially as mr. melmotte was so very desirous himself of seeing his friend. it was astonishing that such a one as miles grendall should have learned his business so well and should have made himself so handy! we will leave mr. longestaffe with the "morning breakfast table" in his hands, in the front waiting-room, merely notifying the fact that there he remained for something over two hours. in the mean time both mr. broune and lord nidderdale came to the office, and both were received without delay. mr. broune was the first. miles knew who he was, and made no attempt to seat him in the same room with mr. longestaffe. "i'll just send him a note," said mr. broune, and he scrawled a few words at the office counter. "i'm commissioned to pay you some money on behalf of miss melmotte." those were the words, and they at once procured him admission to the sanctum. the canadian deputation must have taken its leave, and sir gregory could hardly have as yet arrived. lord nidderdale, who had presented himself almost at the same moment with the editor, was shown into a little private room,--which was, indeed, miles grendall's own retreat. "what's up with the governor?" asked the young lord. "anything particular do you mean?" said miles. "there are always so many things up here." "he has sent for me." "yes,--you'll go in directly. there's that fellow who does the 'breakfast table' in with him. i don't know what he's come about. you know what he has sent for you for?" lord nidderdale answered this question by another. "i suppose all this about miss melmotte is true?" "she did go off yesterday morning," said miles, in a whisper. "but carbury wasn't with her." "well, no;--i suppose not. he seems to have mulled it. he's such a d---- brute, he'd be sure to go wrong whatever he had in hand." "you don't like him, of course, miles. for that matter i've no reason to love him. he couldn't have gone. he staggered out of the club yesterday morning at four o'clock as drunk as cloe. he'd lost a pot of money, and had been kicking up a row about you for the last hour." "brute!" exclaimed miles, with honest indignation. "i dare say. but though he was able to make a row, i'm sure he couldn't get himself down to liverpool. and i saw all his things lying about the club hall late last night;--no end of portmanteaux and bags; just what a fellow would take to new york. by george! fancy taking a girl to new york! it was plucky." "it was all her doing," said miles, who was of course intimate with mr. melmotte's whole establishment, and had had means therefore of hearing the true story. "what a fiasco!" said the young lord, "i wonder what the old boy means to say to me about it." then there was heard the clear tingle of a little silver bell, and miles told lord nidderdale that his time had come. mr. broune had of late been very serviceable to mr. melmotte, and melmotte was correspondingly gracious. on seeing the editor he immediately began to make a speech of thanks in respect of the support given by the "breakfast table" to his candidature. but mr. broune cut him short. "i never talk about the 'breakfast table,'" said he. "we endeavour to get along as right as we can, and the less said the soonest mended." melmotte bowed. "i have come now about quite another matter, and perhaps, the less said the sooner mended about that also. sir felix carbury on a late occasion received a sum of money in trust from your daughter. circumstances have prevented its use in the intended manner, and, therefore, as sir felix's friend, i have called to return the money to you." mr. broune did not like calling himself the friend of sir felix, but he did even that for the lady who had been good enough to him not to marry him. "oh, indeed," said mr. melmotte, with a scowl on his face, which he would have repressed if he could. "no doubt you understand all about it." "yes;--i understand. d---- scoundrel!" "we won't discuss that, mr. melmotte. i've drawn a cheque myself, payable to your order,--to make the matter all straight. the sum was £ , i think." and mr. broune put a cheque for that amount down upon the table. "i dare say it's all right," said mr. melmotte. "but, remember, i don't think that this absolves him. he has been a scoundrel." "at any rate he has paid back the money, which chance put into his hands, to the only person entitled to receive it on the young lady's behalf. good morning." mr. melmotte did put out his hand in token of amity. then mr. broune departed and melmotte tinkled his bell. as nidderdale was shown in he crumpled up the cheque, and put it into his pocket. he was at once clever enough to perceive that any idea which he might have had of prosecuting sir felix must be abandoned. "well, my lord, and how are you?" said he with his pleasantest smile. nidderdale declared himself to be as fresh as paint. "you don't look down in the mouth, my lord." then lord nidderdale,--who no doubt felt that it behoved him to show a good face before his late intended father-in-law,--sang the refrain of an old song, which it is trusted my readers may remember. "cheer up, sam; don't let your spirits go down. there's many a girl that i know well, is waiting for you in the town." "ha, ha, ha," laughed melmotte, "very good. i've no doubt there is,--many a one. but you won't let this stupid nonsense stand in your way with marie." "upon my word, sir, i don't know about that. miss melmotte has given the most convincing proof of her partiality for another gentleman, and of her indifference to me." "a foolish baggage! a silly little romantic baggage! she's been reading novels till she has learned to think she couldn't settle down quietly till she had run off with somebody." "she doesn't seem to have succeeded on this occasion, mr. melmotte." "no;--of course we had her back again from liverpool." "but they say that she got further than the gentleman." "he is a dishonest, drunken scoundrel. my girl knows very well what he is now. she'll never try that game again. of course, my lord, i'm very sorry. you know that i've been on the square with you always. she's my only child, and sooner or later she must have all that i possess. what she will have at once will make any man wealthy,--that is, if she marries with my sanction; and in a year or two i expect that i shall be able to double what i give her now, without touching my capital. of course you understand that i desire to see her occupying high rank. i think that, in this country, that is a noble object of ambition. had she married that sweep i should have broken my heart. now, my lord, i want you to say that this shall make no difference to you. i am very honest with you. i do not try to hide anything. the thing of course has been a misfortune. girls will be romantic. but you may be sure that this little accident will assist rather than impede your views. after this she will not be very fond of sir felix carbury." "i dare say not. though, by jove, girls will forgive anything." "she won't forgive him. by george, she shan't. she shall hear the whole story. you'll come and see her just the same as ever!" "i don't know about that, mr. melmotte." "why not? you're not so weak as to surrender all your settled projects for such a piece of folly as that! he didn't even see her all the time." "that wasn't her fault." "the money will all be there, lord nidderdale." "the money's all right, i've no doubt. and there isn't a man in all london would be better pleased to settle down with a good income than i would. but, by jove, it's a rather strong order when a girl has just run away with another man. everybody knows it." "in three months' time everybody will have forgotten it." "to tell you the truth, sir, i think miss melmotte has got a will of her own stronger than you give her credit for. she has never given me the slightest encouragement. ever so long ago, about christmas, she did once say that she would do as you bade her. but she is very much changed since then. the thing was off." "she had nothing to do with that." "no;--but she has taken advantage of it, and i have no right to complain." "you just come to the house, and ask her again to-morrow. or come on sunday morning. don't let us be done out of all our settled arrangements by the folly of an idle girl. will you come on sunday morning about noon?" lord nidderdale thought of his position for a few moments and then said that perhaps he would come on sunday morning. after that melmotte proposed that they two should go and "get a bit of lunch" at a certain conservative club in the city. there would be time before the meeting of the railway board. nidderdale had no objection to the lunch, but expressed a strong opinion that the board was "rot." "that's all very well for you, young man," said the chairman, "but i must go there in order that you may be able to enjoy a splendid fortune." then he touched the young man on the shoulder and drew him back as he was passing out by the front stairs. "come this way, nidderdale;--come this way. i must get out without being seen. there are people waiting for me there who think that a man can attend to business from morning to night without ever having a bit in his mouth." and so they escaped by the back stairs. at the club, the city conservative world,--which always lunches well,--welcomed mr. melmotte very warmly. the election was coming on, and there was much to be said. he played the part of the big city man to perfection, standing about the room with his hat on, and talking loudly to a dozen men at once. and he was glad to show the club that lord nidderdale had come there with him. the club of course knew that lord nidderdale was the accepted suitor of the rich man's daughter,--accepted, that is, by the rich man himself,--and the club knew also that the rich man's daughter had tried,--but had failed,--to run away with sir felix carbury. there is nothing like wiping out a misfortune and having done with it. the presence of lord nidderdale was almost an assurance to the club that the misfortune had been wiped out, and, as it were, abolished. a little before three mr. melmotte returned to abchurch lane, intending to regain his room by the back way; while lord nidderdale went westward, considering within his own mind whether it was expedient that he should continue to show himself as a suitor for miss melmotte's hand. he had an idea that a few years ago a man could not have done such a thing--that he would be held to show a poor spirit should he attempt it; but that now it did not much matter what a man did,--if only he were successful. "after all it's only an affair of money," he said to himself. mr. longestaffe in the meantime had progressed from weariness to impatience, from impatience to ill-humour, and from ill-humour to indignation. more than once he saw miles grendall, but miles grendall was always ready with an answer. that canadian deputation was determined to settle the whole business this morning, and would not take itself away. and sir gregory gribe had been obstinate, beyond the ordinary obstinacy of a bank director. the rate of discount at the bank could not be settled for to-morrow without communication with mr. melmotte, and that was a matter on which the details were always most oppressive. at first mr. longestaffe was somewhat stunned by the deputation and sir gregory gribe; but as he waxed wroth the potency of those institutions dwindled away, and as, at last, he waxed hungry, they became as nothing to him. was he not mr. longestaffe of caversham, a deputy-lieutenant of his county, and accustomed to lunch punctually at two o'clock? when he had been in that waiting-room for two hours, it occurred to him that he only wanted his own, and that he would not remain there to be starved for any mr. melmotte in europe. it occurred to him also that that thorn in his side, squercum, would certainly get a finger into the pie to his infinite annoyance. then he walked forth, and attempted to see grendall for the fourth time. but miles grendall also liked his lunch, and was therefore declared by one of the junior clerks to be engaged at that moment on most important business with mr. melmotte. "then say that i can't wait any longer," said mr. longestaffe, stamping out of the room with angry feet. at the very door he met mr. melmotte. "ah, mr. longestaffe," said the great financier, seizing him by the hand, "you are the very man i am desirous of seeing." "i have been waiting two hours up in your place," said the squire of caversham. "tut, tut, tut;--and they never told me!" "i spoke to mr. grendall half a dozen times." "yes,--yes. and he did put a slip with your name on it on my desk. i do remember. my dear sir, i have so many things on my brain, that i hardly know how to get along with them. you are coming to the board? it's just the time now." "no;"--said mr. longestaffe. "i can stay no longer in the city." it was cruel that a man so hungry should be asked to go to a board by a chairman who had just lunched at his club. "i was carried away to the bank of england and could not help myself," said melmotte. "and when they get me there i can never get away again." "my son is very anxious to have the payments made about pickering," said mr. longestaffe, absolutely holding melmotte by the collar of his coat. "payments for pickering!" said melmotte, assuming an air of unimportant doubt,--of doubt as though the thing were of no real moment. "haven't they been made?" "certainly not," said mr. longestaffe, "unless made this morning." "there was something about it, but i cannot just remember what. my second cashier, mr. smith, manages all my private affairs, and they go clean out of my head. i'm afraid he's in grosvenor square at this moment. let me see;--pickering! wasn't there some question of a mortgage? i'm sure there was something about a mortgage." "there was a mortgage, of course;--but that only made three payments necessary instead of two." "but there was some unavoidable delay about the papers;--something occasioned by the mortgagee. i know there was. but you shan't be inconvenienced, mr. longestaffe." "it's my son, mr. melmotte. he's got a lawyer of his own." "i never knew a young man that wasn't in a hurry for his money," said melmotte laughing. "oh, yes;--there were three payments to be made; one to you, one to your son, and one to the mortgagee. i will speak to mr. smith myself to-morrow--and you may tell your son that he really need not trouble his lawyer. he will only be losing his money, for lawyers are expensive. what; you won't come to the board? i am sorry for that." mr. longestaffe, having after a fashion said what he had to say, declined to go to the board. a painful rumour had reached him the day before, which had been communicated to him in a very quiet way by a very old friend,--by a member of a private firm of bankers whom he was accustomed to regard as the wisest and most eminent man of his acquaintance,--that pickering had been already mortgaged to its full value by its new owner. "mind, i know nothing," said the banker. "the report has reached me, and if it be true, it shows that mr. melmotte must be much pressed for money. it does not concern you at all if you have got your price. but it seems to be rather a quick transaction. i suppose you have, or he wouldn't have the title-deeds." mr. longestaffe thanked his friend, and acknowledged that there had been something remiss on his part. therefore, as he went westward, he was low in spirits. but nevertheless he had been reassured by melmotte's manner. sir felix carbury of course did not attend the board; nor did paul montague, for reasons with which the reader has been made acquainted. lord nidderdale had declined, having had enough of the city for that day, and mr. longestaffe had been banished by hunger. the chairman was therefore supported only by lord alfred and mr. cohenlupe. but they were such excellent colleagues that the work was got through as well as though those absentees had all attended. when the board was over mr. melmotte and mr. cohenlupe retired together. "i must get that money for longestaffe," said melmotte to his friend. "what, eighty thousand pounds! you can't do it this week,--nor yet before this day week." "it isn't eighty thousand pounds. i've renewed the mortgage, and that makes it only fifty. if i can manage the half of that which goes to the son, i can put the father off." "you must raise what you can on the whole property." "i've done that already," said melmotte hoarsely. "and where's the money gone?" "brehgert has had £ , . i was obliged to keep it up with them. you can manage £ , for me by monday?" mr. cohenlupe said that he would try, but intimated his opinion that there would be considerable difficulty in the operation. chapter liv. the india office. the conservative party at this particular period was putting its shoulder to the wheel,--not to push the coach up any hill, but to prevent its being hurried along at a pace which was not only dangerous, but manifestly destructive. the conservative party now and then does put its shoulder to the wheel, ostensibly with the great national object above named; but also actuated by a natural desire to keep its own head well above water and be generally doing something, so that other parties may not suppose that it is moribund. there are, no doubt, members of it who really think that when some object has been achieved,--when, for instance, a good old tory has been squeezed into parliament for the borough of porcorum, which for the last three parliaments has been represented by a liberal,--the coach has been really stopped. to them, in their delightful faith, there comes at these triumphant moments a conviction that after all the people as a people have not been really in earnest in their efforts to take something from the greatness of the great, and to add something to the lowliness of the lowly. the handle of the windlass has been broken, the wheel is turning fast the reverse way, and the rope of radical progress is running back. who knows what may not be regained if the conservative party will only put its shoulder to the wheel and take care that the handle of the windlass be not mended! sticinthemud, which has ever been a doubtful little borough, has just been carried by a majority of fifteen! a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull altogether,--and the old day will come back again. venerable patriarchs think of lord liverpool and other heroes, and dream dreams of conservative bishops, conservative lord-lieutenants, and of a conservative ministry that shall remain in for a generation. such a time was now present. porcorum and sticinthemud had done their duty valiantly,--with much management. but westminster! if this special seat for westminster could be carried, the country then could hardly any longer have a doubt on the matter. if only mr. melmotte could be got in for westminster, it would be manifest that the people were sound at heart, and that all the great changes which had been effected during the last forty years,--from the first reform in parliament down to the ballot,--had been managed by the cunning and treachery of a few ambitious men. not, however, that the ballot was just now regarded by the party as an unmitigated evil, though it was the last triumph of radical wickedness. the ballot was on the whole popular with the party. a short time since, no doubt it was regarded by the party as being one and the same as national ruin and national disgrace. but it had answered well at porcorum, and with due manipulation had been found to be favourable at sticinthemud. the ballot might perhaps help the long pull and the strong pull,--and, in spite of the ruin and disgrace, was thought by some just now to be a highly conservative measure. it was considered that the ballot might assist melmotte at westminster very materially. any one reading the conservative papers of the time, and hearing the conservative speeches in the borough,--any one at least who lived so remote as not to have learned what these things really mean,--would have thought that england's welfare depended on melmotte's return. in the enthusiasm of the moment, the attacks made on his character were answered by eulogy as loud as the censure was bitter. the chief crime laid to his charge was connected with the ruin of some great continental assurance company, as to which it was said that he had so managed it as to leave it utterly stranded, with an enormous fortune of his own. it was declared that every shilling which he had brought to england with him had consisted of plunder stolen from the shareholders in the company. now the "evening pulpit," in its endeavour to make the facts of this transaction known, had placed what it called the domicile of this company in paris, whereas it was ascertained that its official head-quarters had in truth been placed at vienna. was not such a blunder as this sufficient to show that no merchant of higher honour than mr. melmotte had ever adorned the exchanges of modern capitals? and then two different newspapers of the time, both of them antagonistic to melmotte, failed to be in accord on a material point. one declared that mr. melmotte was not in truth possessed of any wealth. the other said that he had derived his wealth from those unfortunate shareholders. could anything betray so bad a cause as contradictions such as these? could anything be so false, so weak, so malignant, so useless, so wicked, so self-condemned,--in fact, so "liberal" as a course of action such as this? the belief naturally to be deduced from such statements, nay, the unavoidable conviction on the minds--of, at any rate, the conservative newspapers--was that mr. melmotte had accumulated an immense fortune, and that he had never robbed any shareholder of a shilling. the friends of melmotte had moreover a basis of hope, and were enabled to sound premonitory notes of triumph, arising from causes quite external to their party. the "breakfast table" supported melmotte, but the "breakfast table" was not a conservative organ. this support was given, not to the great man's political opinions, as to which a well-known writer in that paper suggested that the great man had probably not as yet given very much attention to the party questions which divided the country,--but to his commercial position. it was generally acknowledged that few men living,--perhaps no man alive,--had so acute an insight into the great commercial questions of the age as mr. augustus melmotte. in whatever part of the world he might have acquired his commercial experience,--for it had been said repeatedly that melmotte was not an englishman,--he now made london his home and great britain his country, and it would be for the welfare of the country that such a man should sit in the british parliament. such were the arguments used by the "breakfast table" in supporting mr. melmotte. this was, of course, an assistance;--and not the less so because it was asserted in other papers that the country would be absolutely disgraced by his presence in parliament. the hotter the opposition the keener will be the support. honest good men, men who really loved their country, fine gentlemen, who had received unsullied names from great ancestors, shed their money right and left, and grew hot in personally energetic struggles to have this man returned to parliament as the head of the great conservative mercantile interests of great britain! there was one man who thoroughly believed that the thing at the present moment most essentially necessary to england's glory was the return of mr. melmotte for westminster. this man was undoubtedly a very ignorant man. he knew nothing of any one political question which had vexed england for the last half century,--nothing whatever of the political history which had made england what it was at the beginning of that half century. of such names as hampden, somers, and pitt he had hardly ever heard. he had probably never read a book in his life. he knew nothing of the working of parliament, nothing of nationality,--had no preference whatever for one form of government over another, never having given his mind a moment's trouble on the subject. he had not even reflected how a despotic monarch or a federal republic might affect himself, and possibly did not comprehend the meaning of those terms. but yet he was fully confident that england did demand and ought to demand that mr. melmotte should be returned for westminster. this man was mr. melmotte himself. in this conjunction of his affairs mr. melmotte certainly lost his head. he had audacity almost sufficient for the very dangerous game which he was playing; but, as crisis heaped itself upon crisis, he became deficient in prudence. he did not hesitate to speak of himself as the man who ought to represent westminster, and of those who opposed him as little malignant beings who had mean interests of their own to serve. he went about in his open carriage, with lord alfred at his left hand, with a look on his face which seemed to imply that westminster was not good enough for him. he even hinted to certain political friends that at the next general election he should try the city. six months since he had been a humble man to a lord,--but now he scolded earls and snubbed dukes, and yet did it in a manner which showed how proud he was of connecting himself with their social pre-eminence, and how ignorant of the manner in which such pre-eminence affects english gentlemen generally. the more arrogant he became the more vulgar he was, till even lord alfred would almost be tempted to rush away to impecuniosity and freedom. perhaps there were some with whom this conduct had a salutary effect. no doubt arrogance will produce submission; and there are men who take other men at the price those other men put upon themselves. such persons could not refrain from thinking melmotte to be mighty because he swaggered; and gave their hinder parts to be kicked merely because he put up his toe. we all know men of this calibre,--and how they seem to grow in number. but the net result of his personal demeanour was injurious; and it was debated among some of the warmest of his supporters whether a hint should not be given him. "couldn't lord alfred say a word to him?" said the honourable beauchamp beauclerk, who, himself in parliament, a leading man in his party, thoroughly well acquainted with the borough, wealthy and connected by blood with half the great conservative families in the kingdom, had been moving heaven and earth on behalf of the great financial king, and working like a slave for his success. "alfred's more than half afraid of him," said lionel lupton, a young aristocrat, also in parliament, who had been inoculated with the idea that the interests of the party demanded melmotte in parliament, but who would have given up his scotch shooting rather than have undergone melmotte's company for a day. "something really must be done, mr. beauclerk," said mr. jones, who was the leading member of a very wealthy firm of builders in the borough, who had become a conservative politician, who had thoughts of the house for himself, but who never forgot his own position. "he is making a great many personal enemies." "he's the finest old turkey cock out," said lionel lupton. then it was decided that mr. beauclerk should speak a word to lord alfred. the rich man and the poor man were cousins, and had always been intimate. "alfred," said the chosen mentor at the club one afternoon, "i wonder whether you couldn't say something to melmotte about his manner." lord alfred turned sharp round and looked into his companion's face. "they tell me he is giving offence. of course he doesn't mean it. couldn't he draw it a little milder?" lord alfred made his reply almost in a whisper. "if you ask me, i don't think he could. if you got him down and trampled on him, you might make him mild. i don't think there's any other way." "you couldn't speak to him, then?" "not unless i did it with a horsewhip." this, coming from lord alfred, who was absolutely dependent on the man, was very strong. lord alfred had been much afflicted that morning. he had spent some hours with his friend, either going about the borough in the open carriage, or standing just behind him at meetings, or sitting close to him in committee-rooms,--and had been nauseated with melmotte. when spoken to about his friend he could not restrain himself. lord alfred had been born and bred a gentleman, and found the position in which he was now earning his bread to be almost insupportable. it had gone against the grain with him at first, when he was called alfred; but now that he was told "just to open the door," and "just to give that message," he almost meditated revenge. lord nidderdale, who was quick at observation, had seen something of this in grosvenor square, and declared that lord alfred had invested part of his recent savings in a cutting whip. mr. beauclerk, when he had got his answer, whistled and withdrew. but he was true to his party. melmotte was not the first vulgar man whom the conservatives had taken by the hand, and patted on the back, and told that he was a god. the emperor of china was now in england, and was to be entertained one night at the india office. the secretary of state for the second great asiatic empire was to entertain the ruler of the first. this was on saturday the th of july, and melmotte's dinner was to take place on the following monday. very great interest was made by the london world generally to obtain admission to the india office,--the making of such interest consisting in the most abject begging for tickets of admission, addressed to the secretary of state, to all the under secretaries, to assistant secretaries, secretaries of departments, chief clerks, and to head-messengers and their wives. if a petitioner could not be admitted as a guest into the splendour of the reception rooms, might not he,--or she,--be allowed to stand in some passage whence the emperor's back might perhaps be seen,--so that, if possible, the petitioner's name might be printed in the list of guests which would be published on the next morning? now mr. melmotte with his family was, of course, supplied with tickets. he, who was to spend a fortune in giving the emperor a dinner, was of course entitled to be present at other places to which the emperor would be brought to be shown. melmotte had already seen the emperor at a breakfast in windsor park, and at a ball in royal halls. but hitherto he had not been presented to the emperor. presentations have to be restricted,--if only on the score of time; and it had been thought that as mr. melmotte would of course have some communication with the hardworked emperor at his own house, that would suffice. but he had felt himself to be ill-used and was offended. he spoke with bitterness to some of his supporters of the royal family generally, because he had not been brought to the front rank either at the breakfast or at the ball,--and now, at the india office, was determined to have his due. but he was not on the list of those whom the secretary of state intended on this occasion to present to the brother of the sun. he had dined freely. at this period of his career he had taken to dining freely,--which was in itself imprudent, as he had need at all hours of his best intelligence. let it not be understood that he was tipsy. he was a man whom wine did not often affect after that fashion. but it made him, who was arrogant before, tower in his arrogance till he was almost sure to totter. it was probably at some moment after dinner that lord alfred decided upon buying the cutting whip of which he had spoken. melmotte went with his wife and daughter to the india office, and soon left them far in the background with a request,--we may say an order,--to lord alfred to take care of them. it may be observed here that marie melmotte was almost as great a curiosity as the emperor himself, and was much noticed as the girl who had attempted to run away to new york, but had gone without her lover. melmotte entertained some foolish idea that as the india office was in westminster, he had a peculiar right to demand an introduction on this occasion because of his candidature. he did succeed in getting hold of an unfortunate under secretary of state, a studious and invaluable young peer, known as earl de griffin. he was a shy man, of enormous wealth, of mediocre intellect, and no great physical ability, who never amused himself; but worked hard night and day, and read everything that anybody could write, and more than any other person could read, about india. had mr. melmotte wanted to know the exact dietary of the peasants in orissa, or the revenue of the punjaub, or the amount of crime in bombay, lord de griffin would have informed him without a pause. but in this matter of managing the emperor, the under secretary had nothing to do, and would have been the last man to be engaged in such a service. he was, however, second in command at the india office, and of his official rank melmotte was unfortunately made aware. "my lord," said he, by no means hiding his demand in a whisper, "i am desirous of being presented to his imperial majesty." lord de griffin looked at him in despair, not knowing the great man,--being one of the few men in that room who did not know him. "this is mr. melmotte," said lord alfred, who had deserted the ladies and still stuck to his master. "lord de griffin, let me introduce you to mr. melmotte." "oh--oh--oh," said lord de griffin, just putting out his hand. "i am delighted;--ah, yes," and pretending to see somebody, he made a weak and quite ineffectual attempt to escape. melmotte stood directly in his way, and with unabashed audacity repeated his demand. "i am desirous of being presented to his imperial majesty. will you do me the honour of making my request known to mr. wilson?" mr. wilson was the secretary of state, who was as busy as a secretary of state is sure to be on such an occasion. "i hardly know," said lord de griffin. "i'm afraid it's all arranged. i don't know anything about it myself." "you can introduce me to mr. wilson." "he's up there, mr. melmotte; and i couldn't get at him. really you must excuse me. i'm very sorry. if i see him i'll tell him." and the poor under secretary again endeavoured to escape. mr. melmotte put up his hand and stopped him. "i'm not going to stand this kind of thing," he said. the old marquis of auld reekie was close at hand, the father of lord nidderdale, and therefore the proposed father-in-law of melmotte's daughter, and he poked his thumb heavily into lord alfred's ribs. "it is generally understood, i believe," continued melmotte, "that the emperor is to do me the honour of dining at my poor house on monday. he don't dine there unless i'm made acquainted with him before he comes. i mean what i say. i ain't going to entertain even an emperor unless i'm good enough to be presented to him. perhaps you'd better let mr. wilson know, as a good many people intend to come." "here's a row," said the old marquis. "i wish he'd be as good as his word." "he has taken a little wine," whispered lord alfred. "melmotte," he said, still whispering; "upon my word it isn't the thing. they're only indian chaps and eastern swells who are presented here,--not a fellow among 'em all who hasn't been in india or china, or isn't a secretary of state, or something of that kind." "then they should have done it at windsor, or at the ball," said melmotte, pulling down his waistcoat. "by george, alfred! i'm in earnest, and somebody had better look to it. if i'm not presented to his imperial majesty to-night, by g----, there shall be no dinner in grosvenor square on monday. i'm master enough of my own house, i suppose, to be able to manage that." here was a row, as the marquis had said! lord de griffin was frightened, and lord alfred felt that something ought to be done. "there's no knowing how far the pig-headed brute may go in his obstinacy," lord alfred said to mr. lupton, who was there. it no doubt might have been wise to have allowed the merchant prince to return home with the resolution that his dinner should be abandoned. he would have repented probably before the next morning; and had he continued obdurate it would not have been difficult to explain to celestial majesty that something preferable had been found for that particular evening even to a banquet at the house of british commerce. the government would probably have gained the seat for westminster, as melmotte would at once have become very unpopular with the great body of his supporters. but lord de griffin was not the man to see this. he did make his way up to mr. wilson, and explained to the amphytrion of the night the demand which was made on his hospitality. a thoroughly well-established and experienced political minister of state always feels that if he can make a friend or appease an enemy without paying a heavy price he will be doing a good stroke of business. "bring him up," said mr. wilson. "he's going to do something out in the east, isn't he?" "nothing in india," said lord de griffin. "the submarine telegraph is quite impossible." mr. wilson, instructing some satellite to find out in what way he might properly connect mr. melmotte with china, sent lord de griffin away with his commission. "my dear alfred, just allow me to manage these things myself," mr. melmotte was saying when the under secretary returned. "i know my own position and how to keep it. there shall be no dinner. i'll be d---- if any of the lot shall dine in grosvenor square on monday." lord alfred was so astounded that he was thinking of making his way to the prime minister, a man whom he abhorred and didn't know, and of acquainting him with the terrible calamity which was threatened. but the arrival of the under secretary saved him the trouble. "if you will come with me," whispered lord de griffin, "it shall be managed. it isn't just the thing, but as you wish it, it shall be done." "i do wish it," said melmotte aloud. he was one of those men whom success never mollified, whose enjoyment of a point gained always demanded some hoarse note of triumph from his own trumpet. "if you will be so kind as to follow me," said lord de griffin. and so the thing was done. melmotte, as he was taken up to the imperial footstool, was resolved upon making a little speech, forgetful at the moment of interpreters,--of the double interpreters whom the majesty of china required; but the awful, quiescent solemnity of the celestial one quelled even him, and he shuffled by without saying a word even of his own banquet. but he had gained his point, and, as he was taken home to poor mr. longestaffe's house in bruton street, was intolerable. lord alfred tried to escape after putting madame melmotte and her daughter into the carriage, but melmotte insisted on his presence. "you might as well come, alfred;--there are two or three things i must settle before i go to bed." "i'm about knocked up," said the unfortunate man. "knocked up, nonsense! think what i've been through. i've been all day at the hardest work a man can do." had he as usual got in first, leaving his man-of-all-work to follow, the man-of-all-work would have escaped. melmotte, fearing such defection, put his hand on lord alfred's shoulder, and the poor fellow was beaten. as they were taken home a continual sound of cock-crowing was audible, but as the words were not distinguished they required no painful attention; but when the soda water and brandy and cigars made their appearance in mr. longestaffe's own back room, then the trumpet was sounded with a full blast. "i mean to let the fellows know what's what," said melmotte, walking about the room. lord alfred had thrown himself into an arm-chair, and was consoling himself as best he might with tobacco. "give and take is a very good motto. if i scratch their back, i mean them to scratch mine. they won't find many people to spend ten thousand pounds in entertaining a guest of the country's as a private enterprise. i don't know of any other man of business who could do it, or would do it. it's not much any of them can do for me. thank god, i don't want 'em. but if consideration is to be shown to anybody, i intend to be considered. the prince treated me very scurvily, alfred, and i shall take an opportunity of telling him so on monday. i suppose a man may be allowed to speak to his own guests." "you might turn the election against you if you said anything the prince didn't like." "d---- the election, sir. i stand before the electors of westminster as a man of business, not as a courtier,--as a man who understands commercial enterprise, not as one of the prince's toadies. some of you fellows in england don't realise the matter yet; but i can tell you that i think myself quite as great a man as any prince." lord alfred looked at him, with strong reminiscences of the old ducal home, and shuddered. "i'll teach them a lesson before long. didn't i teach 'em a lesson to-night,--eh? they tell me that lord de griffin has sixty thousand a-year to spend. what's sixty thousand a year? didn't i make him go on my business? and didn't i make 'em do as i chose? you want to tell me this and that, but i can tell you that i know more of men and women than some of you fellows do, who think you know a great deal." this went on through the whole of a long cigar; and afterwards, as lord alfred slowly paced his way back to his lodgings in mount street, he thought deeply whether there might not be means of escaping from his present servitude. "beast! brute! pig!" he said to himself over and over again as he slowly went to mount street. chapter lv. clerical charities. melmotte's success, and melmotte's wealth, and melmotte's antecedents were much discussed down in suffolk at this time. he had been seen there in the flesh, and there is no believing like that which comes from sight. he had been staying at caversham, and many in those parts knew that miss longestaffe was now living in his house in london. the purchase of the pickering estate had also been noticed in all the suffolk and norfolk newspapers. rumours, therefore, of his past frauds, rumour also as to the instability of his presumed fortune, were as current as those which declared him to be by far the richest man in england. miss melmotte's little attempt had also been communicated in the papers; and sir felix, though he was not recognised as being "real suffolk" himself, was so far connected with suffolk by name as to add something to this feeling of reality respecting the melmottes generally. suffolk is very old-fashioned. suffolk, taken as a whole, did not like the melmotte fashion. suffolk, which is, i fear, persistently and irrecoverably conservative, did not believe in melmotte as a conservative member of parliament. suffolk on this occasion was rather ashamed of the longestaffes, and took occasion to remember that it was barely the other day, as suffolk counts days, since the original longestaffe was in trade. this selling of pickering, and especially the selling of it to melmotte, was a mean thing. suffolk, as a whole, thoroughly believed that melmotte had picked the very bones of every shareholder in that franco-austrian assurance company. mr. hepworth was over with roger one morning, and they were talking about him,--or talking rather of the attempted elopement. "i know nothing about it," said roger, "and i do not intend to ask. of course i did know when they were down here that he hoped to marry her, and i did believe that she was willing to marry him. but whether the father had consented or not i never enquired." "it seems he did not consent." "nothing could have been more unfortunate for either of them than such a marriage. melmotte will probably be in the 'gazette' before long, and my cousin not only has not a shilling, but could not keep one if he had it." "you think melmotte will turn out a failure." "a failure! of course he's a failure, whether rich or poor;--a miserable imposition, a hollow vulgar fraud from beginning to end,--too insignificant for you and me to talk of, were it not that his position is a sign of the degeneracy of the age. what are we coming to when such as he is an honoured guest at our tables?" "at just a table here and there," suggested his friend. "no;--it is not that. you can keep your house free from him, and so can i mine. but we set no example to the nation at large. they who do set the example go to his feasts, and of course he is seen at theirs in return. and yet these leaders of the fashion know,--at any rate they believe,--that he is what he is because he has been a swindler greater than other swindlers. what follows as a natural consequence? men reconcile themselves to swindling. though they themselves mean to be honest, dishonesty of itself is no longer odious to them. then there comes the jealousy that others should be growing rich with the approval of all the world,--and the natural aptitude to do what all the world approves. it seems to me that the existence of a melmotte is not compatible with a wholesome state of things in general." roger dined with the bishop of elmham that evening, and the same hero was discussed under a different heading. "he has given £ ," said the bishop, "to the curates' aid society. i don't know that a man could spend his money much better than that." "clap-trap!" said roger, who in his present mood was very bitter. "the money is not clap-trap, my friend. i presume that the money is really paid." "i don't feel at all sure of that." "our collectors for clerical charities are usually stern men,--very ready to make known defalcations on the part of promising subscribers. i think they would take care to get the money during the election." "and you think that money got in that way redounds to his credit?" "such a gift shows him to be a useful member of society,--and i am always for encouraging useful men." "even though their own objects may be vile and pernicious?" "there you beg ever so many questions, mr. carbury. mr. melmotte wishes to get into parliament, and if there would vote on the side which you at any rate approve. i do not know that his object in that respect is pernicious. and as a seat in parliament has been a matter of ambition to the best of our countrymen for centuries, i do not know why we should say that it is vile in this man." roger frowned and shook his head. "of course mr. melmotte is not the sort of gentleman whom you have been accustomed to regard as a fitting member for a conservative constituency. but the country is changing." "it's going to the dogs, i think;--about as fast as it can go." "we build churches much faster than we used to do." "do we say our prayers in them when we have built them?" asked the squire. "it is very hard to see into the minds of men," said the bishop; "but we can see the results of their minds' work. i think that men on the whole do live better lives than they did a hundred years ago. there is a wider spirit of justice abroad, more of mercy from one to another, a more lively charity, and if less of religious enthusiasm, less also of superstition. men will hardly go to heaven, mr. carbury, by following forms only because their fathers followed the same forms before them." "i suppose men will go to heaven, my lord, by doing as they would be done by." "there can be no safer lesson. but we must hope that some may be saved even if they have not practised at all times that grand self-denial. who comes up to that teaching? do you not wish for, nay, almost demand, instant pardon for any trespass that you may commit,--of temper, or manner, for instance? and are you always ready to forgive in that way yourself? do you not writhe with indignation at being wrongly judged by others who condemn you without knowing your actions or the causes of them; and do you never judge others after that fashion?" "i do not put myself forward as an example." "i apologise for the personal form of my appeal. a clergyman is apt to forget that he is not in the pulpit. of course i speak of men in general. taking society as a whole, the big and the little, the rich and the poor, i think that it grows better from year to year, and not worse. i think, too, that they who grumble at the times, as horace did, and declare that each age is worse than its forerunner, look only at the small things beneath their eyes, and ignore the course of the world at large." "but roman freedom and roman manners were going to the dogs when horace wrote." "but christ was about to be born, and men were already being made fit by wider intelligence for christ's teaching. and as for freedom, has not freedom grown, almost every year, from that to this?" "in rome they were worshipping just such men as this melmotte. do you remember the man who sat upon the seats of the knights and scoured the via sacra with his toga, though he had been scourged from pillar to post for his villainies? i always think of that man when i hear melmotte's name mentioned. hoc, hoc tribuno militum! is this the man to be conservative member for westminster?" "do you know of the scourges, as a fact?" "i think i know that they are deserved." "that is hardly doing to others as you would be done by. if the man is what you say, he will surely be found out at last, and the day of his punishment will come. your friend in the ode probably had a bad time of it, in spite of his farms and his horses. the world perhaps is managed more justly than you think, mr. carbury." "my lord, i believe you're a radical at heart," said roger, as he took his leave. "very likely,--very likely. only don't say so to the prime minister, or i shall never get any of the better things which may be going." the bishop was not hopelessly in love with a young lady, and was therefore less inclined to take a melancholy view of things in general than roger carbury. to roger everything seemed to be out of joint. he had that morning received a letter from lady carbury, reminding him of the promise of a loan, should a time come to her of great need. it had come very quickly. roger carbury did not in the least begrudge the hundred pounds which he had already sent to his cousin; but he did begrudge any furtherance afforded to the iniquitous schemes of sir felix. he felt all but sure that the foolish mother had given her son money for his abortive attempt, and that therefore this appeal had been made to him. he alluded to no such fear in his letter. he simply enclosed the cheque, and expressed a hope that the amount might suffice for the present emergency. but he was disheartened and disgusted by all the circumstances of the carbury family. there was paul montague, bringing a woman such as mrs. hurtle down to lowestoft, declaring his purpose of continuing his visits to her, and, as roger thought, utterly unable to free himself from his toils,--and yet, on this man's account, hetta was cold and hard to him. he was conscious of the honesty of his own love, sure that he could make her happy,--confident, not in himself, but in the fashion and ways of his own life. what would be hetta's lot if her heart was really given to paul montague? when he got home, he found father barham sitting in his library. an accident had lately happened at father barham's own establishment. the wind had blown the roof off his cottage; and roger carbury, though his affection for the priest was waning, had offered him shelter while the damage was being repaired. shelter at carbury manor was very much more comfortable than the priest's own establishment, even with the roof on, and father barham was in clover. father barham was reading his own favourite newspaper, "the surplice," when roger entered the room. "have you seen this, mr. carbury?" he said. "what's this? i am not likely to have seen anything that belongs peculiarly to 'the surplice.'" "that's the prejudice of what you are pleased to call the anglican church. mr. melmotte is a convert to our faith. he is a great man, and will perhaps be one of the greatest known on the face of the globe." "melmotte a convert to romanism! i'll make you a present of him, and thank you to take him; but i don't believe that we've any such good riddance." then father barham read a paragraph out of "the surplice." "mr. augustus melmotte, the great financier and capitalist, has presented a hundred guineas towards the erection of an altar for the new church of st. fabricius, in tothill fields. the donation was accompanied by a letter from mr. melmotte's secretary, which leaves but little doubt that the new member for westminster will be a member, and no inconsiderable member, of the catholic party in the house, during the next session." "that's another dodge, is it?" said carbury. "what do you mean by a dodge, mr. carbury? because money is given for a pious object of which you do not happen to approve, must it be a dodge?" "but, my dear father barham, the day before the same great man gave £ to the protestant curates' aid society. i have just left the bishop exulting in this great act of charity." "i don't believe a word of it;--or it may be a parting gift to the church to which he belonged in his darkness." "and you would be really proud of mr. melmotte as a convert?" "i would be proud of the lowest human being that has a soul," said the priest; "but of course we are glad to welcome the wealthy and the great." "the great! oh dear!" "a man is great who has made for himself such a position as that of mr. melmotte. and when such a one leaves your church and joins our own, it is a great sign to us that the truth is prevailing." roger carbury, without another word, took his candle and went to bed. chapter lvi. father barham visits london. it was considered to be a great thing to catch the roman catholic vote in westminster. for many years it has been considered a great thing both in the house and out of the house to "catch" roman catholic votes. there are two modes of catching these votes. this or that individual roman catholic may be promoted to place, so that he personally may be made secure; or the right hand of fellowship may be extended to the people of the pope generally, so that the people of the pope may be taught to think that a general step is being made towards the reconversion of the nation. the first measure is the easier, but the effect is but slight and soon passes away. the promoted one, though as far as his prayers go he may remain as good a catholic as ever, soon ceases to be one of the party to be conciliated, and is apt after a while to be regarded by them as an enemy. but the other mode, if a step be well taken, may be very efficacious. it has now and then occurred that every roman catholic in ireland and england has been brought to believe that the nation is coming round to them;--and in this or that borough the same conviction has been made to grow. to catch the protestant,--that is the peculiarly protestant,--vote and the roman catholic vote at the same instant is a feat difficult of accomplishment; but it has been attempted before, and was attempted now by mr. melmotte and his friends. it was perhaps thought by his friends that the protestants would not notice the £ given for the altar to st. fabricius; but mr. alf was wide awake, and took care that mr. melmotte's religious opinions should be a matter of interest to the world at large. during all that period of newspaper excitement there was perhaps no article that created so much general interest as that which appeared in the "evening pulpit," with a special question asked at the head of it, "for priest or parson?" in this article, which was more than usually delightful as being pungent from the beginning to the end and as being unalloyed with any dry didactic wisdom, mr. alf's man, who did that business, declared that it was really important that the nation at large and especially the electors of westminster should know what was the nature of mr. melmotte's faith. that he was a man of a highly religious temperament was most certain by his munificent charities on behalf of religion. two noble donations, which by chance had been made just at this crisis, were doubtless no more than the regular continuation of his ordinary flow of christian benevolence. the "evening pulpit" by no means insinuated that the gifts were intended to have any reference to the approaching election. far be it from the "evening pulpit" to imagine that so great a man as mr. melmotte looked for any return in this world from his charitable generosity. but still, as protestants naturally desired to be represented in parliament by a protestant member, and as roman catholics as naturally desired to be represented by a roman catholic, perhaps mr. melmotte would not object to declare his creed. this was biting, and of course did mischief; but mr. melmotte and his manager were not foolish enough to allow it to actuate them in any way. he had thrown his bread upon the waters, assisting st. fabricius with one hand and the protestant curates with the other, and must leave the results to take care of themselves. if the protestants chose to believe that he was hyper-protestant, and the catholics that he was tending towards papacy, so much the better for him. any enthusiastic religionists wishing to enjoy such conviction's would not allow themselves to be enlightened by the manifestly interested malignity of mr. alf's newspaper. it may be doubted whether the donation to the curates' aid society did have much effect. it may perhaps have induced a resolution in some few to go to the poll whose minds were active in regard to religion and torpid as to politics. but the donation to st. fabricius certainly had results. it was taken up and made much of by the roman catholic party generally, till a report got itself spread abroad and almost believed that mr. melmotte was going to join the church of rome. these manoeuvres require most delicate handling, or evil may follow instead of good. on the second afternoon after the question had been asked in the "evening pulpit," an answer to it appeared, "for priest and not for parson." therein various assertions made by roman catholic organs and repeated in roman catholic speeches were brought together, so as to show that mr. melmotte really had at last made up his mind on this important question. all the world knew now, said mr. alf's writer, that with that keen sense of honesty which was the great financier's peculiar characteristic,--the great financier was the name which mr. alf had specially invented for mr. melmotte,--he had doubted, till the truth was absolutely borne in upon him, whether he could serve the nation best as a liberal or as a conservative. he had solved that doubt with wisdom. and now this other doubt had passed through the crucible, and by the aid of fire a golden certainty had been produced. the world of westminster at last knew that mr. melmotte was a roman catholic. now nothing was clearer than this,--that though catching the catholic vote would greatly help a candidate, no real roman catholic could hope to be returned. this last article vexed mr. melmotte, and he proposed to his friends to send a letter to the "breakfast table" asserting that he adhered to the protestant faith of his ancestors. but, as it was suspected by many, and was now being whispered to the world at large, that melmotte had been born a jew, this assurance would perhaps have been too strong. "do nothing of the kind," said mr. beauchamp beauclerk. "if any one asks you a question at any meeting, say that you are a protestant. but it isn't likely, as we have none but our own people. don't go writing letters." but unfortunately the gift of an altar to st. fabricius was such a godsend that sundry priests about the country were determined to cling to the good man who had bestowed his money so well. i think that many of them did believe that this was a great sign of a beauteous stirring of people's minds in favour of rome. the fervent romanists have always this point in their favour, that they are ready to believe. and they have a desire for the conversion of men which is honest in an exactly inverse ratio to the dishonesty of the means which they employ to produce it. father barham was ready to sacrifice anything personal to himself in the good cause,--his time, his health, his money when he had any, and his life. much as he liked the comfort of carbury hall, he would never for a moment condescend to ensure its continued enjoyment by reticence as to his religion. roger carbury was hard of heart. he could see that. but the dropping of water might hollow the stone. if the dropping should be put an end to by outward circumstances before the stone had been impressed that would not be his fault. he at any rate would do his duty. in that fixed resolution father barham was admirable. but he had no scruple whatsoever as to the nature of the arguments he would use,--or as to the facts which he would proclaim. with the mingled ignorance of his life and the positiveness of his faith he had at once made up his mind that melmotte was a great man, and that he might be made a great instrument on behalf of the pope. he believed in the enormous proportions of the man's wealth,--believed that he was powerful in all quarters of the globe,--and believed, because he was so told by "the surplice," that the man was at heart a catholic. that a man should be at heart a catholic, and live in the world professing the protestant religion, was not to father barham either improbable or distressing. kings who had done so were to him objects of veneration. by such subterfuges and falsehood of life had they been best able to keep alive the spark of heavenly fire. there was a mystery and religious intrigue in this which recommended itself to the young priest's mind. but it was clear to him that this was a peculiar time,--in which it behoved an earnest man to be doing something. he had for some weeks been preparing himself for a trip to london in order that he might spend a week in retreat with kindred souls who from time to time betook themselves to the cells of st. fabricius. and so, just at this season of the westminster election, father barham made a journey to london. he had conceived the great idea of having a word or two with mr. melmotte himself. he thought that he might be convinced by a word or two as to the man's faith. and he thought, also, that it might be a happiness to him hereafter to have had intercourse with a man who was perhaps destined to be the means of restoring the true faith to his country. on saturday night,--that saturday night on which mr. melmotte had so successfully exercised his greatness at the india office,--he took up his quarters in the cloisters of st. fabricius; he spent a goodly festive sunday among the various romanist church services of the metropolis; and on the monday morning he sallied forth in quest of mr. melmotte. having obtained that address from some circular, he went first to abchurch lane. but on this day, and on the next, which would be the day of the election, mr. melmotte was not expected in the city, and the priest was referred to his present private residence in bruton street. there he was told that the great man might probably be found in grosvenor square, and at the house in the square father barham was at last successful. mr. melmotte was there superintending the arrangements for the entertainment of the emperor. the servants, or more probably the workmen, must have been at fault in giving the priest admittance. but in truth the house was in great confusion. the wreaths of flowers and green boughs were being suspended, last daubs of heavy gilding were being given to the wooden capitals of mock pilasters, incense was being burned to kill the smell of the paint, tables were being fixed and chairs were being moved; and an enormous set of open presses were being nailed together for the accommodation of hats and cloaks. the hall was chaos, and poor father barham, who had heard a good deal of the westminster election, but not a word of the intended entertainment of the emperor, was at a loss to conceive for what purpose these operations were carried on. but through the chaos he made his way, and did soon find himself in the presence of mr. melmotte in the banqueting hall. mr. melmotte was attended both by lord alfred and his son. he was standing in front of the chair which had been arranged for the emperor, with his hat on one side of his head, and he was very angry indeed. he had been given to understand when the dinner was first planned, that he was to sit opposite to his august guest;--by which he had conceived that he was to have a seat immediately in face of the emperor of emperors, of the brother of the sun, of the celestial one himself. it was now explained to him that this could not be done. in face of the emperor there must be a wide space, so that his majesty might be able to look down the hall; and the royal princesses who sat next to the emperor, and the royal princes who sat next to the princesses, must also be so indulged. and in this way mr. melmotte's own seat became really quite obscure. lord alfred was having a very bad time of it. "it's that fellow from 'the herald' office did it, not me," he said, almost in a passion. "i don't know how people ought to sit. but that's the reason." "i'm d---- if i'm going to be treated in this way in my own house," were the first words which the priest heard. and as father barham walked up the room and came close to the scene of action, unperceived by either of the grendalls, mr. melmotte was trying, but trying in vain, to move his own seat nearer to imperial majesty. a bar had been put up of such a nature that melmotte, sitting in the seat prepared for him, would absolutely be barred out from the centre of his own hall. "who the d---- are you?" he asked, when the priest appeared close before his eyes on the inner or more imperial side of the bar. it was not the habit of father barham's life to appear in sleek apparel. he was ever clothed in the very rustiest brown black that age can produce. in beccles where he was known it signified little, but in the halls of the great one in grosvenor square, perhaps the stranger's welcome was cut to the measure of his outer man. a comely priest in glossy black might have been received with better grace. father barham stood humbly with his hat off. he was a man of infinite pluck; but outward humility--at any rate at the commencement of an enterprise,--was the rule of his life. "i am the rev. mr. barham," said the visitor. "i am the priest of beccles in suffolk. i believe i am speaking to mr. melmotte." [illustration: father barham.] "that's my name, sir. and what may you want? i don't know whether you are aware that you have found your way into my private dining-room without any introduction. where the mischief are the fellows, alfred, who ought to have seen about this? i wish you'd look to it, miles. can anybody who pleases walk into my hall?" "i came on a mission which i hope may be pleaded as my excuse," said the priest. although he was bold, he found it difficult to explain his mission. had not lord alfred been there he could have done it better, in spite of the very repulsive manner of the great man himself. "is it business?" asked lord alfred. "certainly it is business," said father barham with a smile. "then you had better call at the office in abchurch lane,--in the city," said his lordship. "my business is not of that nature. i am a poor servant of the cross, who is anxious to know from the lips of mr. melmotte himself that his heart is inclined to the true faith." "some lunatic," said melmotte. "see that there ain't any knives about, alfred." "no otherwise mad, sir, than they have ever been accounted mad who are enthusiastic in their desire for the souls of others." "just get a policeman, alfred. or send somebody; you'd better not go away." "you will hardly need a policeman, mr. melmotte," continued the priest. "if i might speak to you alone for a few minutes--" "certainly not;--certainly not. i am very busy, and if you will not go away you'll have to be taken away. i wonder whether anybody knows him." "mr. carbury, of carbury hall, is my friend." "carbury! d---- the carburys! did any of the carburys send you here? a set of beggars! why don't you do something, alfred, to get rid of him?" "you'd better go," said lord alfred. "don't make a rumpus, there's a good fellow;--but just go." "there shall be no rumpus," said the priest, waxing wrathful. "i asked for you at the door, and was told to come in by your own servants. have i been uncivil that you should treat me in this fashion?" "you're in the way," said lord alfred. "it's a piece of gross impertinence," said melmotte. "go away." "will you not tell me before i go whether i shall pray for you as one whose steps in the right path should be made sure and firm; or as one still in error and in darkness?" "what the mischief does he mean?" asked melmotte. "he wants to know whether you're a papist," said lord alfred. "what the deuce is it to him?" almost screamed melmotte;--whereupon father barham bowed and took his leave. "that's a remarkable thing," said melmotte,--"very remarkable." even this poor priest's mad visit added to his inflation. "i suppose he was in earnest." "mad as a hatter," said lord alfred. "but why did he come to me in his madness--to me especially? that's what i want to know. i'll tell you what it is. there isn't a man in all england at this moment thought of so much as--your humble servant. i wonder whether the 'morning pulpit' people sent him here now to find out really what is my religion." "mad as a hatter," said lord alfred again;--"just that and no more." "my dear fellow, i don't think you've the gift of seeing very far. the truth is they don't know what to make of me;--and i don't intend that they shall. i'm playing my game, and there isn't one of 'em understands it except myself. it's no good my sitting here, you know. i shan't be able to move. how am i to get at you if i want anything?" "what can you want? there'll be lots of servants about." "i'll have this bar down, at any rate." and he did succeed in having removed the bar which had been specially put up to prevent his intrusion on his own guests in his own house. "i look upon that fellow's coming here as a very singular sign of the times," he went on to say. "they'll want before long to know where i have my clothes made, and who measures me for my boots!" perhaps the most remarkable circumstance in the career of this remarkable man was the fact that he came almost to believe in himself. father barham went away certainly disgusted; and yet not altogether disheartened. the man had not declared that he was not a roman catholic. he had shown himself to be a brute. he had blasphemed and cursed. he had been outrageously uncivil to a man whom he must have known to be a minister of god. he had manifested himself to this priest, who had been born an english gentleman, as being no gentleman. but, not the less might he be a good catholic,--or good enough at any rate to be influential on the right side. to his eyes melmotte, with all his insolent vulgarity, was infinitely a more hopeful man than roger carbury. "he insulted me," said father barham to a brother religionist that evening within the cloisters of st. fabricius. "did he intend to insult you?" "certainly he did. but what of that? it is not by the hands of polished men, nor even of the courteous, that this work has to be done. he was preparing for some great festival, and his mind was intent upon that." "he entertains the emperor of china this very day," said the brother priest, who, as a resident in london, heard from time to time what was being done. "the emperor of china! ah, that accounts for it. i do think that he is on our side, even though he gave me but little encouragement for saying so. will they vote for him, here at westminster?" "our people will. they think that he is rich and can help them." "there is no doubt of his wealth, i suppose," said father barham. "some people do doubt;--but others say he is the richest man in the world." "he looked like it,--and spoke like it," said father barham. "think what such a man might do, if he be really the wealthiest man in the world! and if he had been against us would he not have said so? though he was uncivil, i am glad that i saw him." father barham, with a simplicity that was singularly mingled with his religious cunning, made himself believe before he returned to beccles that mr. melmotte was certainly a roman catholic. chapter lvii. lord nidderdale tries his hand again. lord nidderdale had half consented to renew his suit to marie melmotte. he had at any rate half promised to call at melmotte's house on the sunday with the object of so doing. as far as that promise had been given it was broken, for on the sunday he was not seen in bruton street. though not much given to severe thinking, he did feel that on this occasion there was need for thought. his father's property was not very large. his father and his grandfather had both been extravagant men, and he himself had done something towards adding to the family embarrassments. it had been an understood thing, since he had commenced life, that he was to marry an heiress. in such families as his, when such results have been achieved, it is generally understood that matters shall be put right by an heiress. it has become an institution, like primogeniture, and is almost as serviceable for maintaining the proper order of things. rank squanders money; trade makes it;--and then trade purchases rank by re-gilding its splendour. the arrangement, as it affects the aristocracy generally, is well understood, and was quite approved of by the old marquis--so that he had felt himself to be justified in eating up the property, which his son's future marriage would renew as a matter of course. nidderdale himself had never dissented, had entertained no fanciful theory opposed to this view, had never alarmed his father by any liaison tending towards matrimony with any undowered beauty;--but had claimed his right to "have his fling" before he devoted himself to the redintegration of the family property. his father had felt that it would be wrong and might probably be foolish to oppose so natural a desire. he had regarded all the circumstances of "the fling" with indulgent eyes. but there arose some little difference as to the duration of the fling, and the father had at last found himself compelled to inform his son that if the fling were carried on much longer it must be done with internecine war between himself and his heir. nidderdale, whose sense and temper were alike good, saw the thing quite in the proper light. he assured his father that he had no intention of "cutting up rough," declared that he was ready for the heiress as soon as the heiress should be put in his way, and set himself honestly about the task imposed on him. this had all been arranged at auld reekie castle during the last winter, and the reader knows the result. but the affair had assumed abnormal difficulties. perhaps the marquis had been wrong in flying at wealth which was reputed to be almost unlimited, but which was not absolutely fixed. a couple of hundred thousand pounds down might have been secured with greater ease. but here there had been a prospect of endless money,--of an inheritance which might not improbably make the auld reekie family conspicuous for its wealth even among the most wealthy of the nobility. the old man had fallen into the temptation, and abnormal difficulties had been the result. some of these the reader knows. latterly two difficulties had culminated above the others. the young lady preferred another gentleman, and disagreeable stories were afloat, not only as to the way in which the money had been made, but even as to its very existence. the marquis, however, was a man who hated to be beaten. as far as he could learn from inquiry, the money would be there,--or, at least, so much money as had been promised. a considerable sum, sufficient to secure the bridegroom from absolute shipwreck,--though by no means enough to make a brilliant marriage,--had in truth been already settled on marie, and was, indeed, in her possession. as to that, her father had armed himself with a power of attorney for drawing the income,--but had made over the property to his daughter, so that in the event of unforeseen accidents on 'change, he might retire to obscure comfort, and have the means perhaps of beginning again with whitewashed cleanliness. when doing this, he had doubtless not anticipated the grandeur to which he would soon rise, or the fact that he was about to embark on seas so dangerous that this little harbour of refuge would hardly offer security to his vessel. marie had been quite correct in her story to her favoured lover. and the marquis's lawyer had ascertained that if marie ever married before she herself had restored this money to her father, her husband would be so far safe,--with this as a certainty and the immense remainder in prospect. the marquis had determined to persevere. pickering was to be added. mr. melmotte had been asked to depone the title-deeds, and had promised to do so as soon as the day of the wedding should have been fixed with the consent of all the parties. the marquis's lawyer had ventured to express a doubt; but the marquis had determined to persevere. the reader will, i trust, remember that those dreadful misgivings, which are i trust agitating his own mind, have been borne in upon him by information which had not as yet reached the marquis in all its details. but nidderdale had his doubts. that absurd elopement, which melmotte declared really to mean nothing,--the romance of a girl who wanted to have one little fling of her own before she settled down for life,--was perhaps his strongest objection. sir felix, no doubt, had not gone with her; but then one doesn't wish to have one's intended wife even attempt to run off with any one but oneself. "she'll be sick of him by this time, i should say," his father said to him. "what does it matter, if the money's there?" the marquis seemed to think that the escapade had simply been the girl's revenge against his son for having made his arrangements so exclusively with melmotte, instead of devoting himself to her. nidderdale acknowledged to himself that he had been remiss. he told himself that she was possessed of more spirit than he had thought. by the sunday evening he had determined that he would try again. he had expected that the plum would fall into his mouth. he would now stretch out his hand to pick it. on the monday he went to the house in bruton street, at lunch time. melmotte and the two grendalls had just come over from their work in the square, and the financier was full of the priest's visit to him. madame melmotte was there, and miss longestaffe, who was to be sent for by her friend lady monogram that afternoon,--and, after they had sat down, marie came in. nidderdale got up and shook hands with her,--of course as though nothing had happened. marie, putting a brave face upon it, struggling hard in the midst of very real difficulties, succeeded in saying an ordinary word or two. her position was uncomfortable. a girl who has run away with her lover and has been brought back again by her friends, must for a time find it difficult to appear in society with ease. but when a girl has run away without her lover,--has run away expecting her lover to go with her, and has then been brought back, her lover not having stirred, her state of mind must be peculiarly harassing. but marie's courage was good, and she ate her lunch even though she sat next to lord nidderdale. melmotte was very gracious to the young lord. "did you ever hear anything like that, nidderdale?" he said, speaking of the priest's visit. "mad as a hatter," said lord alfred. "i don't know much about his madness. i shouldn't wonder if he had been sent by the archbishop of westminster. why don't we have an archbishop of westminster when they've got one? i shall have to see to that when i'm in the house. i suppose there is a bishop, isn't there, alfred?" alfred shook his head. "there's a dean, i know, for i called on him. he told me flat he wouldn't vote for me. i thought all those parsons were conservatives. it didn't occur to me that the fellow had come from the archbishop, or i would have been more civil to him." "mad as a hatter;--nothing else," said lord alfred. "you should have seen him, nidderdale. it would have been as good as a play to you." "i suppose you didn't ask him to the dinner, sir." "d---- the dinner, i'm sick of it," said melmotte, frowning. "we must go back again, alfred. those fellows will never get along if they are not looked after. come, miles. ladies, i shall expect you to be ready at exactly a quarter before eight. his imperial majesty is to arrive at eight precisely, and i must be there to receive him. you, madame, will have to receive your guests in the drawing-room." the ladies went up-stairs, and lord nidderdale followed them. miss longestaffe soon took her departure, alleging that she couldn't keep her dear friend lady monogram waiting for her. then there fell upon madame melmotte the duty of leaving the young people together, a duty which she found a great difficulty in performing. after all that had happened, she did not know how to get up and go out of the room. as regarded herself, the troubles of these troublous times were becoming almost too much for her. she had no pleasure from her grandeur,--and probably no belief in her husband's achievements. it was her present duty to assist in getting marie married to this young man, and that duty she could only do by going away. but she did not know how to get out of her chair. she expressed in fluent french her abhorrence of the emperor, and her wish that she might be allowed to remain in bed during the whole evening. she liked nidderdale better than any one else who came there, and wondered at marie's preference for sir felix. lord nidderdale assured her that nothing was so easy as kings and emperors, because no one was expected to say anything. she sighed and shook her head, and wished again that she might be allowed to go to bed. marie, who was by degrees plucking up her courage, declared that though kings and emperors were horrors as a rule, she thought an emperor of china would be good fun. then madame melmotte also plucked up her courage, rose from her chair, and made straight for the door. "mamma, where are you going?" said marie, also rising. madame melmotte, putting her handkerchief up to her face, declared that she was being absolutely destroyed by a toothache. "i must see if i can't do something for her," said marie, hurrying to the door. but lord nidderdale was too quick for her, and stood with his back to it. "that's a shame," said marie. "your mother has gone on purpose that i may speak to you," said his lordship. "why should you grudge me the opportunity?" marie returned to her chair and again seated herself. she also had thought much of her own position since her return from liverpool. why had sir felix not been there? why had he not come since her return, and, at any rate, endeavoured to see her? why had he made no attempt to write to her? had it been her part to do so, she would have found a hundred ways of getting at him. she absolutely had walked inside the garden of the square on sunday morning, and had contrived to leave a gate open on each side. but he had made no sign. her father had told her that he had not gone to liverpool--and had assured her that he had never intended to go. melmotte had been very savage with her about the money, and had loudly accused sir felix of stealing it. the repayment he never mentioned,--a piece of honesty, indeed, which had showed no virtue on the part of sir felix. but even if he had spent the money, why was he not man enough to come and say so? marie could have forgiven that fault,--could have forgiven even the gambling and the drunkenness which had caused the failure of the enterprise on his side, if he had had the courage to come and confess to her. what she could not forgive was continued indifference,--or the cowardice which forbade him to show himself. she had more than once almost doubted his love, though as a lover he had been better than nidderdale. but now, as far as she could see, he was ready to consent that the thing should be considered as over between them. no doubt she could write to him. she had more than once almost determined to do so. but then she had reflected that if he really loved her he would come to her. she was quite ready to run away with a lover, if her lover loved her; but she would not fling herself at a man's head. therefore she had done nothing,--beyond leaving the garden gates open on the sunday morning. but what was she to do with herself? she also felt, she knew not why, that the present turmoil of her father's life might be brought to an end by some dreadful convulsion. no girl could be more anxious to be married and taken away from her home. if sir felix did not appear again, what should she do? she had seen enough of life to be aware that suitors would come,--would come as long as that convulsion was staved off. she did not suppose that her journey to liverpool would frighten all the men away. but she had thought that it would put an end to lord nidderdale's courtship; and when her father had commanded her, shaking her by the shoulders, to accept lord nidderdale when he should come on sunday, she had replied by expressing her assurance that lord nidderdale would never be seen at that house any more. on the sunday he had not come; but here he was now, standing with his back to the drawing-room door, and cutting off her retreat with the evident intention of renewing his suit. she was determined at any rate that she would speak up. "i don't know what you should have to say to me, lord nidderdale." "why shouldn't i have something to say to you?" "because--. oh, you know why. besides, i've told you ever so often, my lord. i thought a gentleman would never go on with a lady when the lady has told him that she liked somebody else better." "perhaps i don't believe you when you tell me." "well; that is impudent! you may believe it then. i think i've given you reason to believe it, at any rate." "you can't be very fond of him now, i should think." "that's all you know about it, my lord. why shouldn't i be fond of him? accidents will happen, you know." "i don't want to make any allusion to anything that's unpleasant, miss melmotte." "you may say just what you please. all the world knows about it. of course i went to liverpool, and of course papa had me brought back again." "why did not sir felix go?" "i don't think, my lord, that that can be any business of yours." "but i think that it is, and i'll tell you why. you might as well let me say what i've got to say,--out at once." "you may say what you like, but it can't make any difference." "you knew me before you knew him, you know." "what does that matter? if it comes to that, i knew ever so many people before i knew you." "and you were engaged to me." "you broke it off." "listen to me for a moment or two. i know i did. or, rather, your father and my father broke it off for us." "if we had cared for each other they couldn't have broken it off. nobody in the world could break me off as long as i felt that he really loved me;--not if they were to cut me in pieces. but you didn't care, not a bit. you did it just because your father told you. and so did i. but i know better than that now. you never cared for me a bit more than for the old woman at the crossing. you thought i didn't understand;--but i did. and now you've come again;--because your father has told you again. and you'd better go away." "there's a great deal of truth in what you say." "it's all true, my lord. every word of it." "i wish you wouldn't call me my lord." "i suppose you are a lord, and therefore i shall call you so. i never called you anything else when they pretended that we were to be married, and you never asked me. i never even knew what your name was till i looked it out in the book after i had consented." "there is truth in what you say;--but it isn't true now. how was i to love you when i had seen so little of you? i do love you now." "then you needn't;--for it isn't any good." "i do love you now, and i think you'd find that i should be truer to you than that fellow who wouldn't take the trouble to go down to liverpool with you." "you don't know why he didn't go." "well;--perhaps i do. but i did not come here to say anything about that." "why didn't he go, lord nidderdale?" she asked the question with an altered tone and an altered face. "if you really know, you might as well tell me." "no, marie;--that's just what i ought not to do. but he ought to tell you. do you really in your heart believe that he means to come back to you?" "i don't know," she said, sobbing. "i do love him;--i do indeed. i know that you are good-natured. you are more good-natured than he is. but he did like me. you never did;--no; not a bit. it isn't true. i ain't a fool. i know. no;--go away. i won't let you now. i don't care what he is; i'll be true to him. go away, lord nidderdale. you oughtn't to go on like that because papa and mamma let you come here. i didn't let you come. i don't want you to come. no;--i won't say any kind word to you. i love sir felix carbury better--than any person--in all the world. there! i don't know whether you call that kind, but it's true." "say good-bye to me, marie." "oh, i don't mind saying good-bye. good-bye, my lord; and don't come any more." "yes, i shall. good-bye, marie. you'll find the difference between me and him yet." so he took his leave, and as he sauntered away he thought that upon the whole he had prospered, considering the extreme difficulties under which he had laboured in carrying on his suit. "she's quite a different sort of girl from what i took her to be," he said to himself. "upon my word, she's awfully jolly." marie, when the interview was over, walked about the room almost in dismay. it was borne in upon her by degrees that sir felix carbury was not at all points quite as nice as she had thought him. of his beauty there was no doubt; but then she could trust him for no other good quality. why did he not come to her? why did he not show some pluck? why did he not tell her the truth? she had quite believed lord nidderdale when he said that he knew the cause that had kept sir felix from going to liverpool. and she had believed him, too, when he said that it was not his business to tell her. but the reason, let it be what it might, must, if known, be prejudicial to her love. lord nidderdale was, she thought, not at all beautiful. he had a common-place, rough face, with a turn-up nose, high cheek bones, no especial complexion, sandy-coloured whiskers, and bright laughing eyes,--not at all an adonis such as her imagination had painted. but if he had only made love at first as he had attempted to do it now, she thought that she would have submitted herself to be cut in pieces for him. chapter lviii. mr. squercum is employed. while these things were being done in bruton street and grosvenor square horrid rumours were prevailing in the city and spreading from the city westwards to the house of commons, which was sitting this monday afternoon with a prospect of an adjournment at seven o'clock in consequence of the banquet to be given to the emperor. it is difficult to explain the exact nature of this rumour, as it was not thoroughly understood by those who propagated it. but it is certainly the case that the word forgery was whispered by more than one pair of lips. many of melmotte's staunchest supporters thought that he was very wrong not to show himself that day in the city. what good could he do pottering about among the chairs and benches in the banqueting room? there were people to manage that kind of thing. in such an affair it was his business to do simply as he was told, and to pay the bill. it was not as though he were giving a little dinner to a friend, and had to see himself that the wine was brought up in good order. his work was in the city; and at such a time as this and in such a crisis as this, he should have been in the city. men will whisper forgery behind a man's back who would not dare even to think it before his face. of this particular rumour our young friend dolly longestaffe was the parent. with unhesitating resolution, nothing awed by his father, dolly had gone to his attorney, mr. squercum, immediately after that friday on which mr. longestaffe first took his seat at the railway board. dolly was possessed of fine qualities, but it must be owned that veneration was not one of them. "i don't know why mr. melmotte is to be different from anybody else," he had said to his father. "when i buy a thing and don't pay for it, it is because i haven't got the tin, and i suppose it's about the same with him. it's all right, no doubt, but i don't see why he should have got hold of the place till the money was paid down." "of course it's all right," said the father. "you think you understand everything, when you really understand nothing at all." "of course i'm slow," said dolly. "i don't comprehend these things. but then squercum does. when a fellow is stupid himself, he ought to have a sharp fellow to look after his business." "you'll ruin me and yourself too, if you go to such a man as that. why can't you trust mr. bideawhile? slow and bideawhile have been the family lawyers for a century." dolly made some remark as to the old family advisers which was by no means pleasing to the father's ears, and went his way. the father knew his boy, and knew that his boy would go to squercum. all he could himself do was to press mr. melmotte for the money with what importunity he could assume. he wrote a timid letter to mr. melmotte, which had no result; and then, on the next friday, again went into the city and there encountered perturbation of spirit and sheer loss of time,--as the reader has already learned. squercum was a thorn in the side of all the bideawhiles. mr. slow had been gathered to his fathers, but of the bideawhiles there were three in the business, a father and two sons, to whom squercum was a pest and a musquito, a running sore and a skeleton in the cupboard. it was not only in reference to mr. longestaffe's affairs that they knew squercum. the bideawhiles piqued themselves on the decorous and orderly transaction of their business. it had grown to be a rule in the house that anything done quickly must be done badly. they never were in a hurry for money, and they expected their clients never to be in a hurry for work. squercum was the very opposite to this. he had established himself, without predecessors and without a partner, and we may add without capital, at a little office in fetter lane, and had there made a character for getting things done after a marvellous and new fashion. and it was said of him that he was fairly honest, though it must be owned that among the bideawhiles of the profession this was not the character which he bore. he did sharp things no doubt, and had no hesitation in supporting the interests of sons against those of their fathers. in more than one case he had computed for a young heir the exact value of his share in a property as compared to that of his father, and had come into hostile contact with many family bideawhiles. he had been closely watched. there were some who, no doubt, would have liked to crush a man who was at once so clever, and so pestilential. but he had not as yet been crushed, and had become quite in vogue with elder sons. some three years since his name had been mentioned to dolly by a friend who had for years been at war with his father, and squercum had been quite a comfort to dolly. he was a mean-looking little man, not yet above forty, who always wore a stiff light-coloured cotton cravat, an old dress coat, a coloured dingy waistcoat, and light trousers of some hue different from his waistcoat. he generally had on dirty shoes and gaiters. he was light haired, with light whiskers, with putty-formed features, a squat nose, a large mouth, and very bright blue eyes. he looked as unlike the normal bideawhile of the profession as a man could be; and it must be owned, though an attorney, would hardly have been taken for a gentleman from his personal appearance. he was very quick, and active in his motions, absolutely doing his law work himself, and trusting to his three or four juvenile clerks for little more than scrivener's labour. he seldom or never came to his office on a saturday, and many among his enemies said that he was a jew. what evil will not a rival say to stop the flow of grist to the mill of the hated one? but this report squercum rather liked, and assisted. they who knew the inner life of the little man declared that he kept a horse and hunted down in essex on saturday, doing a bit of gardening in the summer months;--and they said also that he made up for this by working hard all sunday. such was mr. squercum,--a sign, in his way, that the old things are being changed. squercum sat at a desk, covered with papers in chaotic confusion, on a chair which moved on a pivot. his desk was against the wall, and when clients came to him, he turned himself sharp round, sticking out his dirty shoes, throwing himself back till his body was an inclined plane, with his hands thrust into his pockets. in this attitude he would listen to his client's story, and would himself speak as little as possible. it was by his instructions that dolly had insisted on getting his share of the purchase money for pickering into his own hands, so that the incumbrance on his own property might be paid off. he now listened as dolly told him of the delay in the payment. "melmotte's at pickering?" asked the attorney. then dolly informed him how the tradesmen of the great financier had already half knocked down the house. squercum still listened, and promised to look to it. he did ask what authority dolly had given for the surrender of the title-deeds. dolly declared that he had given authority for the sale, but none for the surrender. his father, some time since, had put before him, for his signature, a letter, prepared in mr. bideawhile's office, which dolly said that he had refused even to read, and certainly had not signed. squercum again said that he'd look to it, and bowed dolly out of his room. "they've got him to sign something when he was tight," said squercum to himself, knowing something of the habits of his client. "i wonder whether his father did it, or old bideawhile, or melmotte himself?" mr. squercum was inclined to think that bideawhile would not have done it, that melmotte could have had no opportunity, and that the father must have been the practitioner. "it's not the trick of a pompous old fool either," said mr. squercum, in his soliloquy. he went to work, however, making himself detestably odious among the very respectable clerks in mr. bideawhile's office,--men who considered themselves to be altogether superior to squercum himself in professional standing. [illustration: mr. squercum in his office.] and now there came this rumour which was so far particular in its details that it inferred the forgery, of which it accused mr. melmotte, to his mode of acquiring the pickering property. the nature of the forgery was of course described in various ways,--as was also the signature said to have been forged. but there were many who believed, or almost believed, that something wrong had been done,--that some great fraud had been committed; and in connection with this it was ascertained,--by some as a matter of certainty,--that the pickering estate had been already mortgaged by melmotte to its full value at an assurance office. in such a transaction there would be nothing dishonest; but as this place had been bought for the great man's own family use, and not as a speculation, even this report of the mortgage tended to injure his credit. and then, as the day went on, other tidings were told as to other properties. houses in the east-end of london were said to have been bought and sold, without payment of the purchase money as to the buying, and with receipt of the purchase money as to the selling. it was certainly true that squercum himself had seen the letter in mr. bideawhile's office which conveyed to the father's lawyer the son's sanction for the surrender of the title-deeds, and that that letter, prepared in mr. bideawhile's office, purported to have dolly's signature. squercum said but little, remembering that his client was not always clear in the morning as to anything he had done on the preceding evening. but the signature, though it was scrawled as dolly always scrawled it, was not like the scrawl of a drunken man. the letter was said to have been sent to mr. bideawhile's office with other letters and papers, direct from old mr. longestaffe. such was the statement made at first to mr. squercum by the bideawhile party, who at that moment had no doubt of the genuineness of the letter or of the accuracy of their statement. then squercum saw his client again, and returned to the charge at bideawhile's office, with the positive assurance that the signature was a forgery. dolly, when questioned by squercum, quite admitted his propensity to be "tight." he had no reticence, no feeling of disgrace on such matters. but he had signed no letter when he was tight. "never did such a thing in my life, and nothing could make me," said dolly. "i'm never tight except at the club, and the letter couldn't have been there. i'll be drawn and quartered if i ever signed it. that's flat." dolly was intent on going to his father at once, on going to melmotte at once, on going to bideawhile's at once, and making there "no end of a row,"--but squercum stopped him. "we'll just ferret this thing out quietly," said squercum, who perhaps thought that there would be high honour in discovering the peccadillos of so great a man as mr. melmotte. mr. longestaffe, the father, had heard nothing of the matter till the saturday after his last interview with melmotte in the city. he had then called at bideawhile's office in lincoln's inn fields, and had been shown the letter. he declared at once that he had never sent the letter to mr. bideawhile. he had begged his son to sign the letter and his son had refused. he did not at that moment distinctly remember what he had done with the letter unsigned. he believed he had left it with the other papers; but it was possible that his son might have taken it away. he acknowledged that at the time he had been both angry and unhappy. he didn't think that he could have sent the letter back unsigned,--but he was not sure. he had more than once been in his own study in bruton street since mr. melmotte had occupied the house,--by that gentleman's leave,--having left various papers there under his own lock and key. indeed it had been matter of agreement that he should have access to his own study when he let the house. he thought it probable that he would have kept back the unsigned letter, and have kept it under lock and key, when he sent away the other papers. then reference was made to mr. longestaffe's own letter to the lawyer, and it was found that he had not even alluded to that which his son had been asked to sign; but that he had said, in his own usually pompous style, that mr. longestaffe, junior, was still prone to create unsubstantial difficulties. mr. bideawhile was obliged to confess that there had been a want of caution among his own people. this allusion to the creation of difficulties by dolly, accompanied, as it was supposed to have been, by dolly's letter doing away with all difficulties, should have attracted notice. dolly's letter must have come in a separate envelope; but such envelope could not be found, and the circumstance was not remembered by the clerk. the clerk who had prepared the letter for dolly's signature represented himself as having been quite satisfied when the letter came again beneath his notice with dolly's well-known signature. such were the facts as far as they were known at messrs. slow and bideawhile's office,--from whom no slightest rumour emanated; and as they had been in part collected by squercum, who was probably less prudent. the bideawhiles were still perfectly sure that dolly had signed the letter, believing the young man to be quite incapable of knowing on any day what he had done on the day before. squercum was quite sure that his client had not signed it. and it must be owned on dolly's behalf that his manner on this occasion was qualified to convince. "yes," he said to squercum; "it's easy saying that i'm lack-a-daisical. but i know when i'm lack-a-daisical and when i'm not. awake or asleep, drunk or sober, i never signed that letter." and mr. squercum believed him. it would be hard to say how the rumour first got into the city on this monday morning. though the elder longestaffe had first heard of the matter only on the previous saturday, mr. squercum had been at work for above a week. mr. squercum's little matter alone might hardly have attracted the attention which certainly was given on this day to mr. melmotte's private affairs;--but other facts coming to light assisted squercum's views. a great many shares of the south central pacific and mexican railway had been thrown upon the market, all of which had passed through the hands of mr. cohenlupe;--and mr. cohenlupe in the city had been all to mr. melmotte as lord alfred had been at the west end. then there was the mortgage of this pickering property, for which the money certainly had not been paid; and there was the traffic with half a street of houses near the commercial road, by which a large sum of money had come into mr. melmotte's hands. it might, no doubt, all be right. there were many who thought that it would all be right. there were not a few who expressed the most thorough contempt for these rumours. but it was felt to be a pity that mr. melmotte was not in the city. this was the day of the dinner. the lord mayor had even made up his mind that he would not go to the dinner. what one of his brother aldermen said to him about leaving others in the lurch might be quite true; but, as his lordship remarked, melmotte was a commercial man, and as these were commercial transactions it behoved the lord mayor of london to be more careful than other men. he had always had his doubts, and he would not go. others of the chosen few of the city who had been honoured with commands to meet the emperor resolved upon absenting themselves unless the lord mayor went. the affair was very much discussed, and there were no less than six declared city defaulters. at the last moment a seventh was taken ill and sent a note to miles grendall excusing himself, which was thrust into the secretary's hands just as the emperor arrived. but a reverse worse than this took place;--a defalcation more injurious to the melmotte interests generally even than that which was caused either by the prudence or by the cowardice of the city magnates. the house of commons, at its meeting, had heard the tidings in an exaggerated form. it was whispered about that melmotte had been detected in forging the deed of conveyance of a large property, and that he had already been visited by policemen. by some it was believed that the great financier would lie in the hands of the philistines while the emperor of china was being fed at his house. in the third edition of the "evening pulpit" came out a mysterious paragraph which nobody could understand but they who had known all about it before. "a rumour is prevalent that frauds to an enormous extent have been committed by a gentleman whose name we are particularly unwilling to mention. if it be so it is indeed remarkable that they should have come to light at the present moment. we cannot trust ourselves to say more than this." no one wishes to dine with a swindler. no one likes even to have dined with a swindler,--especially to have dined with him at a time when his swindling was known or suspected. the emperor of china no doubt was going to dine with this man. the motions of emperors are managed with such ponderous care that it was held to be impossible now to save the country from what would doubtless be felt to be a disgrace if it should hereafter turn out that a forger had been solicited to entertain the imperial guest of the country. nor was the thing as yet so far certain as to justify such a charge, were it possible. but many men were unhappy in their minds. how would the story be told hereafter if melmotte should be allowed to play out his game of host to the emperor, and be arrested for forgery as soon as the eastern monarch should have left his house? how would the brother of the sun like the remembrance of the banquet which he had been instructed to honour with his presence? how would it tell in all the foreign newspapers, in new york, in paris, and vienna, that this man who had been cast forth from the united states, from france, and from austria had been selected as the great and honourable type of british commerce? there were those in the house who thought that the absolute consummation of the disgrace might yet be avoided, and who were of opinion that the dinner should be "postponed." the leader of the opposition had a few words on the subject with the prime minister. "it is the merest rumour," said the prime minister. "i have inquired, and there is nothing to justify me in thinking that the charges can be substantiated." "they say that the story is believed in the city." "i should not feel myself justified in acting upon such a report. the prince might probably find it impossible not to go. where should we be if mr. melmotte to-morrow were able to prove the whole to be a calumny, and to show that the thing had been got up with a view of influencing the election at westminster? the dinner must certainly go on." "and you will go yourself?" "most assuredly," said the prime minister. "and i hope that you will keep me in countenance." his political antagonist declared with a smile that at such a crisis he would not desert his honourable friend;--but he could not answer for his followers. there was, he admitted, a strong feeling among the leaders of the conservative party of distrust in melmotte. he considered it probable that among his friends who had been invited there would be some who would be unwilling to meet even the emperor of china on the existing terms. "they should remember," said the prime minister, "that they are also to meet their own prince, and that empty seats on such an occasion will be a dishonour to him." "just at present i can only answer for myself," said the leader of the opposition.--at that moment even the prime minister was much disturbed in his mind; but in such emergencies a prime minister can only choose the least of two evils. to have taken the emperor to dine with a swindler would be very bad; but to desert him, and to stop the coming of the emperor and all the princes on a false rumour, would be worse. chapter lix. the dinner. it does sometimes occur in life that an unambitious man, who is in no degree given to enterprises, who would fain be safe, is driven by the cruelty of circumstances into a position in which he must choose a side, and in which, though he has no certain guide as to which side he should choose, he is aware that he will be disgraced if he should take the wrong side. this was felt as a hardship by many who were quite suddenly forced to make up their mind whether they would go to melmotte's dinner, or join themselves to the faction of those who had determined to stay away although they had accepted invitations. some there were not without a suspicion that the story against melmotte had been got up simply as an electioneering trick,--so that mr. alf might carry the borough on the next day. as a dodge for an election this might be very well, but any who might be deterred by such a manoeuvre from meeting the emperor and supporting the prince would surely be marked men. and none of the wives, when they were consulted, seemed to care a straw whether melmotte was a swindler or not. would the emperor and the princes and princesses be there? this was the only question which concerned them. they did not care whether melmotte was arrested at the dinner or after the dinner, so long as they, with others, could show their diamonds in the presence of eastern and western royalty. but yet,--what a fiasco would it be, if at this very instant of time the host should be apprehended for common forgery! the great thing was to ascertain whether others were going. if a hundred or more out of the two hundred were to be absent how dreadful would be the position of those who were present! and how would the thing go if at the last moment the emperor should be kept away? the prime minister had decided that the emperor and the prince should remain altogether in ignorance of the charges which were preferred against the man; but of that these doubters were unaware. there was but little time for a man to go about town and pick up the truth from those who were really informed; and questions were asked in an uncomfortable and restless manner. "is your grace going?" said lionel lupton to the duchess of stevenage,--having left the house and gone into the park between six and seven to pick up some hints among those who were known to have been invited. the duchess was lord alfred's sister, and of course she was going. "i usually keep engagements when i make them, mr. lupton," said the duchess. she had been assured by lord alfred not a quarter of an hour before that everything was as straight as a die. lord alfred had not then even heard of the rumour. but ultimately both lionel lupton and beauchamp beauclerk attended the dinner. they had received special tickets as supporters of mr. melmotte at the election,--out of the scanty number allotted to that gentleman himself,--and they thought themselves bound in honour to be there. but they, with their leader, and one other influential member of the party, were all who at last came as the political friends of the candidate for westminster. the existing ministers were bound to attend to the emperor and the prince. but members of the opposition, by their presence, would support the man and the politician, and both as a man and as a politician they were ashamed of him. when melmotte arrived at his own door with his wife and daughter he had heard nothing of the matter. that a man so vexed with affairs of money, so laden with cares, encompassed by such dangers, should be free from suspicion and fear it is impossible to imagine. that such burdens should be borne at all is a wonder to those whose shoulders have never been broadened for such work;--as is the strength of the blacksmith's arm to men who have never wielded a hammer. surely his whole life must have been a life of terrors! but of any special peril to which he was at that moment subject, or of any embarrassment which might affect the work of the evening, he knew nothing. he placed his wife in the drawing-room and himself in the hall, and arranged his immediate satellites around him,--among whom were included the two grendalls, young nidderdale, and mr. cohenlupe,--with a feeling of gratified glory. nidderdale down at the house had heard the rumour, but had determined that he would not as yet fly from his colours. cohenlupe had also come up from the house, where no one had spoken to him. though grievously frightened during the last fortnight, he had not dared to be on the wing as yet. and, indeed, to what clime could such a bird as he fly in safety? he had not only heard,--but also knew very much, and was not prepared to enjoy the feast. since they had been in the hall miles had spoken dreadful words to his father. "you've heard about it; haven't you?" whispered miles. lord alfred, remembering his sister's question, became almost pale, but declared that he had heard nothing. "they're saying all manner of things in the city;--forgery and heaven knows what. the lord mayor is not coming." lord alfred made no reply. it was the philosophy of his life that misfortunes when they came should be allowed to settle themselves. but he was unhappy. the grand arrivals were fairly punctual, and the very grand people all came. the unfortunate emperor,--we must consider a man to be unfortunate who is compelled to go through such work as this,--with impassible and awful dignity, was marshalled into the room on the ground floor, whence he and other royalties were to be marshalled back into the banqueting hall. melmotte, bowing to the ground, walked backwards before him, and was probably taken by the emperor for some court master of the ceremonies especially selected to walk backwards on this occasion. the princes had all shaken hands with their host, and the princesses had bowed graciously. nothing of the rumour had as yet been whispered in royal palaces. besides royalty the company allowed to enter the room downstairs was very select. the prime minister, one archbishop, two duchesses, and an ex-governor of india with whose features the emperor was supposed to be peculiarly familiar, were alone there. the remainder of the company, under the superintendence of lord alfred, were received in the drawing-room above. everything was going on well, and they who had come and had thought of not coming were proud of their wisdom. but when the company was seated at dinner the deficiencies were visible enough, and were unfortunate. who does not know the effect made by the absence of one or two from a table intended for ten or twelve,--how grievous are the empty places, how destructive of the outward harmony and grace which the hostess has endeavoured to preserve are these interstices, how the lady in her wrath declares to herself that those guilty ones shall never have another opportunity of filling a seat at her table? some twenty, most of whom had been asked to bring their wives, had slunk from their engagements, and the empty spaces were sufficient to declare a united purpose. a week since it had been understood that admission for the evening could not be had for love or money, and that a seat at the dinner-table was as a seat at some banquet of the gods! now it looked as though the room were but half-filled. there were six absences from the city. another six of mr. melmotte's own political party were away. the archbishops and the bishop were there, because bishops never hear worldly tidings till after other people;--but that very master of the buckhounds for whom so much pressure had been made did not come. two or three peers were absent, and so also was that editor who had been chosen to fill mr. alf's place. one poet, two painters, and a philosopher had received timely notice at their clubs, and had gone home. the three independent members of the house of commons for once agreed in their policy, and would not lend the encouragement of their presence to a man suspected of forgery. nearly forty places were vacant when the business of the dinner commenced. melmotte had insisted that lord alfred should sit next to himself at the big table, and having had the objectionable bar removed, and his own chair shoved one step nearer to the centre, had carried his. point. with the anxiety natural to such an occasion, he glanced repeatedly round the hall, and of course became aware that many were absent. "how is it that there are so many places empty?" he said to his faithful achates. "don't know," said achates, shaking his head, steadfastly refusing to look round upon the hall. melmotte waited awhile, then looked round again, and asked the question in another shape: "hasn't there been some mistake about the numbers? there's room for ever so many more." "don't know," said lord alfred, who was unhappy in his mind, and repenting himself that he had ever seen mr. melmotte. "what the deuce do you mean?" whispered melmotte. "you've been at it from the beginning and ought to know. when i wanted to ask brehgert, you swore that you couldn't squeeze a place." "can't say anything about it," said lord alfred, with his eyes fixed upon his plate. "i'll be d---- if i don't find out," said melmotte. "there's either some horrible blunder, or else there's been imposition. i don't see quite clearly. where's sir gregory gribe?" "hasn't come, i suppose." "and where's the lord mayor?" melmotte, in spite of royalty, was now sitting with his face turned round upon the hall. "i know all their places, and i know where they were put. have you seen the lord mayor?" "no; i haven't seen him at all." "but he was to come. what's the meaning of it, alfred?" "don't know anything about it." he shook his head but would not, for even a moment, look round upon the room. "and where's mr. killegrew,--and sir david boss?" mr. killegrew and sir david were gentlemen of high standing, and destined for important offices in the conservative party. "there are ever so many people not here. why, there's not above half of them down the room. what's up, alfred? i must know." "i tell you i know nothing. i could not make them come." lord alfred's answers were made not only with a surly voice, but also with a surly heart. he was keenly alive to the failure, and alive also to the feeling that the failure would partly be attached to himself. at the present moment he was anxious to avoid observation, and it seemed to him that melmotte, by the frequency and impetuosity of his questions, was drawing special attention to him. "if you go on making a row," he said, "i shall go away." melmotte looked at him with all his eyes. "just sit quiet and let the thing go on. you'll know all about it soon enough." this was hardly the way to give mr. melmotte peace of mind. for a few minutes he did sit quiet. then he got up and moved down the hall behind the guests. in the meantime, imperial majesty and royalties of various denominations ate their dinner, without probably observing those banquo's seats. as the emperor talked manchoo only, and as there was no one present who could even interpret manchoo into english,--the imperial interpreter condescending only to interpret manchoo into ordinary chinese which had to be reinterpreted,--it was not within his imperial majesty's power to have much conversation with his neighbours. and as his neighbours on each side of him were all cousins and husbands, and brothers and wives, who saw each constantly under, let us presume, more comfortable circumstances, they had not very much to say to each other. like most of us, they had their duties to do, and, like most of us, probably found their duties irksome. the brothers and sisters and cousins were used to it; but that awful emperor, solid, solemn, and silent, must, if the spirit of an eastern emperor be at all like that of a western man, have had a weary time of it. he sat there for more than two hours, awful, solid, solemn, and silent, not eating very much,--for this was not his manner of eating; nor drinking very much,--for this was not his manner of drinking; but wondering, no doubt, within his own awful bosom, at the changes which were coming when an emperor of china was forced, by outward circumstances, to sit and hear this buzz of voices and this clatter of knives and forks. "and this," he must have said to himself, "is what they call royalty in the west!" if a prince of our own was forced, for the good of the country, to go among some far distant outlandish people, and there to be poked in the ribs, and slapped on the back all round, the change to him could hardly be so great. "where's sir gregory?" said melmotte, in a hoarse whisper, bending over the chair of a city friend. it was old todd, the senior partner of todd, brehgert, and goldsheiner. mr. todd was a very wealthy man, and had a considerable following in the city. "ain't he here?" said todd,--knowing very well who had come from the city and who had declined. "no;--and the lord mayor's not come;--nor postlethwaite, nor bunter. what's the meaning of it?" todd looked first at one neighbour and then at another before he answered. "i'm here, that's all i can say, mr. melmotte; and i've had a very good dinner. they who haven't come, have lost a very good dinner." there was a weight upon melmotte's mind of which he could not rid himself. he knew from the old man's manner, and he knew also from lord alfred's manner, that there was something which each of them could tell him if he would. but he was unable to make the men open their mouths. and yet it might be so important to him that he should know! "it's very odd," he said, "that gentlemen should promise to come and then stay away. there were hundreds anxious to be present whom i should have been glad to welcome, if i had known that there would be room. i think it is very odd." "it is odd," said mr. todd, turning his attention to the plate before him. melmotte had lately seen much of beauchamp beauclerk, in reference to the coming election. passing back up the table, he found the gentleman with a vacant seat on one side of him. there were many vacant seats in this part of the room, as the places for the conservative gentlemen had been set apart together. there mr. melmotte seated himself for a minute, thinking that he might get the truth from his new ally. prudence should have kept him silent. let the cause of these desertions have been what it might, it ought to have been clear to him that he could apply no remedy to it now. but he was bewildered and dismayed, and his mind within him was changing at every moment. he was now striving to trust to his arrogance and declaring that nothing should cow him. and then again he was so cowed that he was ready to creep to any one for assistance. personally, mr. beauclerk had disliked the man greatly. among the vulgar, loud upstarts whom he had known, melmotte was the vulgarest, the loudest, and the most arrogant. but he had taken the business of melmotte's election in hand, and considered himself bound to stand by melmotte till that was over; and he was now the guest of the man in his own house, and was therefore constrained to courtesy. his wife was sitting by him, and he at once introduced her to mr. melmotte. "you have a wonderful assemblage here, mr. melmotte," said the lady, looking up at the royal table. "yes, ma'am, yes. his majesty the emperor has been pleased to intimate that he has been much gratified."--had the emperor in truth said so, no one who looked at him could have believed his imperial word.--"can you tell me, mr. beauclerk, why those other gentlemen are not here? it looks very odd; does it not?" "ah; you mean killegrew." "yes; mr. killegrew and sir david boss, and the whole lot. i made a particular point of their coming. i said i wouldn't have the dinner at all unless they were to be asked. they were going to make it a government thing; but i said no. i insisted on the leaders of our own party; and now they're not here. i know the cards were sent;--and, by george, i have their answers, saying they'd come." "i suppose some of them are engaged," said mr. beauclerk. "engaged! what business has a man to accept one engagement and then take another? and, if so, why shouldn't he write and make his excuses? no, mr. beauclerk, that won't go down." "i'm here, at any rate," said beauclerk, making the very answer that had occurred to mr. todd. "oh, yes, you're here. you're all right. but what is it, mr. beauclerk? there's something up, and you must have heard." and so it was clear to mr. beauclerk that the man knew nothing about it himself. if there was anything wrong, melmotte was not aware that the wrong had been discovered. "is it anything about the election to-morrow?" "one never can tell what is actuating people," said mr. beauclerk. "if you know anything about the matter i think you ought to tell me." "i know nothing except that the ballot will be taken to-morrow. you and i have got nothing more to do in the matter except to wait the result." "well; i suppose it's all right," said melmotte, rising and going back to his seat. but he knew that things were not all right. had his political friends only been absent, he might have attributed their absence to some political cause which would not have touched him deeply. but the treachery of the lord mayor and of sir gregory gribe was a blow. for another hour after he had returned to his place, the emperor sat solemn in his chair; and then, at some signal given by some one, he was withdrawn. the ladies had already left the room about half an hour. according to the programme arranged for the evening, the royal guests were to return to the smaller room for a cup of coffee, and were then to be paraded upstairs before the multitude who would by that time have arrived, and to remain there long enough to justify the invited ones in saying that they had spent the evening with the emperor and the princes and the princesses. the plan was carried out perfectly. at half-past ten the emperor was made to walk upstairs, and for half an hour sat awful and composed in an arm-chair that had been prepared for him. how one would wish to see the inside of the mind of the emperor as it worked on that occasion! melmotte, when his guests ascended his stairs, went back into the banqueting-room and through to the hall, and wandered about till he found miles grendall. "miles," he said, "tell me what the row is." "how row?" asked miles. "there's something wrong, and you know all about it. why didn't the people come?" miles, looking guilty, did not even attempt to deny his knowledge. "come; what is it? we might as well know all about it at once." miles looked down on the ground, and grunted something. "is it about the election?" "no, it's not that," said miles. "then what is it?" "they got hold of something to-day in the city--about pickering." "they did, did they? and what were they saying about pickering? come; you might as well out with it. you don't suppose that i care what lies they tell." "they say there's been something--forged. title-deeds, i think they say." "title-deeds! that i have forged title-deeds. well; that's beginning well. and his lordship has stayed away from my house after accepting my invitation because he has heard that story! all right, miles; that will do." and the great financier went upstairs into his own drawing-room. chapter lx. miss longestaffe's lover. a few days before that period in our story which we have now reached, miss longestaffe was seated in lady monogram's back drawing-room, discussing the terms on which the two tickets for madame melmotte's grand reception had been transferred to lady monogram,--the place on the cards for the names of the friends whom madame melmotte had the honour of inviting to meet the emperor and the princes, having been left blank; and the terms also on which miss longestaffe had been asked to spend two or three days with her dear friend lady monogram. each lady was disposed to get as much and to give as little as possible,--in which desire the ladies carried out the ordinary practice of all parties to a bargain. it had of course been settled that lady monogram was to have the two tickets,--for herself and her husband,--such tickets at that moment standing very high in the market. in payment for these valuable considerations, lady monogram was to undertake to chaperon miss longestaffe at the entertainment, to take miss longestaffe as a visitor for three days, and to have one party at her own house during the time, so that it might be seen that miss longestaffe had other friends in london besides the melmotte's on whom to depend for her london gaieties. at this moment miss longestaffe felt herself justified in treating the matter as though she were hardly receiving a fair equivalent. the melmotte tickets were certainly ruling very high. they had just culminated. they fell a little soon afterwards, and at ten p.m. on the night of the entertainment were hardly worth anything. at the moment which we have now in hand, there was a rush for them. lady monogram had already secured the tickets. they were in her desk. but, as will sometimes be the case in a bargain, the seller was complaining that as she had parted with her goods too cheap, some make-weight should be added to the stipulated price. "as for that, my dear," said miss longestaffe, who, since the rise in melmotte stock generally, had endeavoured to resume something of her old manners, "i don't see what you mean at all. you meet lady julia goldsheiner everywhere, and her father-in-law is mr. brehgert's junior partner." "lady julia is lady julia, my dear, and young mr. goldsheiner has, in some sort of way, got himself in. he hunts, and damask says that he is one of the best shots at hurlingham. i never met old mr. goldsheiner anywhere." "i have." "oh, yes, i dare say. mr. melmotte, of course, entertains all the city people. i don't think sir damask would like me to ask mr. brehgert to dine here." lady monogram managed everything herself with reference to her own parties; invited all her own guests, and never troubled sir damask,--who, again, on his side, had his own set of friends; but she was very clever in the use which she made of her husband. there were some aspirants who really were taught to think that sir damask was very particular as to the guests whom he welcomed to his own house. "may i speak to sir damask about it?" asked miss longestaffe, who was very urgent on the occasion. "well, my dear, i really don't think you ought to do that. there are little things which a man and his wife must manage together without interference." "nobody can ever say that i interfered in any family. but really, julia, when you tell me that sir damask cannot receive mr. brehgert, it does sound odd. as for city people, you know as well as i do, that that kind of thing is all over now. city people are just as good as west-end people." "a great deal better, i dare say. i'm not arguing about that. i don't make the lines; but there they are; and one gets to know in a sort of way what they are. i don't pretend to be a bit better than my neighbours. i like to see people come here whom other people who come here will like to meet. i'm big enough to hold my own, and so is sir damask. but we ain't big enough to introduce new-comers. i don't suppose there's anybody in london understands it better than you do, georgiana, and therefore it's absurd my pretending to teach you. i go pretty well everywhere, as you are aware; and i shouldn't know mr. brehgert if i were to see him." "you'll meet him at the melmottes', and, in spite of all you said once, you're glad enough to go there." "quite true, my dear. i don't think that you are just the person to throw that in my teeth; but never mind that. there's the butcher round the corner in bond street, or the man who comes to do my hair. i don't at all think of asking them to my house. but if they were suddenly to turn out wonderful men, and go everywhere, no doubt i should be glad to have them here. that's the way we live, and you are as well used to it as i am. mr. brehgert at present to me is like the butcher round the corner." lady monogram had the tickets safe under lock and key, or i think she would hardly have said this. "he is not a bit like a butcher," said miss longestaffe, blazing up in real wrath. "i did not say that he was." "yes, you did; and it was the unkindest thing you could possibly say. it was meant to be unkind. it was monstrous. how would you like it if i said that sir damask was like a hair-dresser?" "you can say so if you please. sir damask drives four in hand, rides as though he meant to break his neck every winter, is one of the best shots going, and is supposed to understand a yacht as well as any other gentleman out. and i'm rather afraid that before he was married he used to box with all the prize-fighters, and to be a little too free behind the scenes. if that makes a man like a hair-dresser, well, there he is." "how proud you are of his vices." "he's very good-natured, my dear, and as he does not interfere with me, i don't interfere with him. i hope you'll do as well. i dare say mr. brehgert is good-natured." "he's an excellent man of business, and is making a very large fortune." "and has five or six grown-up children, who, no doubt, will be a comfort." "if i don't mind them, why need you? you have none at all, and you find it lonely enough." "not at all lonely. i have everything that i desire. how hard you are trying to be ill-natured, georgiana." "why did you say that he was a--butcher?" "i said nothing of the kind. i didn't even say that he was like a butcher. what i did say was this,--that i don't feel inclined to risk my own reputation on the appearance of new people at my table. of course, i go in for what you call fashion. some people can dare to ask anybody they meet in the streets. i can't. i've my own line, and i mean to follow it. it's hard work, i can tell you; and it would be harder still if i wasn't particular. if you like mr. brehgert to come here on tuesday evening, when the rooms will be full, you can ask him; but as for having him to dinner, i--won't--do--it." so the matter was at last settled. miss longestaffe did ask mr. brehgert for the tuesday evening, and the two ladies were again friends. perhaps lady monogram, when she illustrated her position by an allusion to a butcher and a hair-dresser, had been unaware that mr. brehgert had some resemblance to the form which men in that trade are supposed to bear. let us at least hope that she was so. he was a fat, greasy man, good-looking in a certain degree, about fifty, with hair dyed black, and beard and moustache dyed a dark purple colour. the charm of his face consisted in a pair of very bright black eyes, which were, however, set too near together in his face for the general delight of christians. he was stout;--fat all over rather than corpulent,--and had that look of command in his face which has become common to master-butchers, probably by long intercourse with sheep and oxen. but mr. brehgert was considered to be a very good man of business, and was now regarded as being, in a commercial point of view, the leading member of the great financial firm of which he was the second partner. mr. todd's day was nearly done. he walked about constantly between lombard street, the exchange, and the bank, and talked much to merchants; he had an opinion too of his own on particular cases; but the business had almost got beyond him, and mr. brehgert was now supposed to be the moving spirit of the firm. he was a widower, living in a luxurious villa at fulham with a family, not indeed grown up, as lady monogram had ill-naturedly said, but which would be grown up before long, varying from an eldest son of eighteen, who had just been placed at a desk in the office, to the youngest girl of twelve, who was at school at brighton. he was a man who always asked for what he wanted; and having made up his mind that he wanted a second wife, had asked miss georgiana longestaffe to fill that situation. he had met her at the melmottes', had entertained her, with madame melmotte and marie, at beaudesert, as he called his villa, had then proposed in the square, and two days after had received an assenting answer in bruton street. poor miss longestaffe! although she had acknowledged the fact to lady monogram in her desire to pave the way for the reception of herself into society as a married woman, she had not as yet found courage to tell her family. the man was absolutely a jew;--not a jew that had been, as to whom there might possibly be a doubt whether he or his father or his grandfather had been the last jew of the family; but a jew that was. so was goldsheiner a jew, whom lady julia start had married,--or at any rate had been one a very short time before he ran away with that lady. she counted up ever so many instances on her fingers of "decent people" who had married jews or jewesses. lord frederic framlinghame had married a girl of the berrenhoffers; and mr. hart had married a miss chute. she did not know much of miss chute, but was certain that she was a christian. lord frederic's wife and lady julia goldsheiner were seen everywhere. though she hardly knew how to explain the matter even to herself, she was sure that there was at present a general heaving-up of society on this matter, and a change in progress which would soon make it a matter of indifference whether anybody was jew or christian. for herself she regarded the matter not at all, except as far as it might be regarded by the world in which she wished to live. she was herself above all personal prejudices of that kind. jew, turk, or infidel was nothing to her. she had seen enough of the world to be aware that her happiness did not lie in that direction, and could not depend in the least on the religion of her husband. of course she would go to church herself. she always went to church. it was the proper thing to do. as to her husband, though she did not suppose that she could ever get him to church,--nor perhaps would it be desirable,--she thought that she might induce him to go nowhere, so that she might be able to pass him off as a christian. she knew that such was the christianity of young goldsheiner, of which the starts were now boasting. had she been alone in the world she thought that she could have looked forward to her destiny with complacency; but she was afraid of her father and mother. lady pomona was distressingly old-fashioned, and had so often spoken with horror even of the approach of a jew,--and had been so loud in denouncing the iniquity of christians who allowed such people into their houses! unfortunately, too, georgiana in her earlier days had re-echoed all her mother's sentiments. and then her father,--if he had ever earned for himself the right to be called a conservative politician by holding a real opinion of his own,--it had been on that matter of admitting the jews into parliament. when that had been done he was certain that the glory of england was sunk for ever. and since that time, whenever creditors were more than ordinarily importunate, when slow and bideawhile could do nothing for him, he would refer to that fatal measure as though it was the cause of every embarrassment which had harassed him. how could she tell parents such as these that she was engaged to marry a man who at the present moment went to synagogue on a saturday and carried out every other filthy abomination common to the despised people? that mr. brehgert was a fat, greasy man of fifty, conspicuous for hair-dye, was in itself distressing:--but this minor distress was swallowed up in the greater. miss longestaffe was a girl possessing considerable discrimination, and was able to weigh her own possessions in just scales. she had begun life with very high aspirations, believing in her own beauty, in her mother's fashion, and her father's fortune. she had now been ten years at the work, and was aware that she had always flown a little too high for her mark at the time. at nineteen and twenty and twenty-one she had thought that all the world was before her. with her commanding figure, regular long features, and bright complexion, she had regarded herself as one of the beauties of the day, and had considered herself entitled to demand wealth and a coronet. at twenty-two, twenty-three, and twenty-four any young peer, or peer's eldest son, with a house in town and in the country, might have sufficed. twenty-five and six had been the years for baronets and squires; and even a leading fashionable lawyer or two had been marked by her as sufficient since that time. but now she was aware that hitherto she had always fixed her price a little too high. on three things she was still determined,--that she would not be poor, that she would not be banished from london, and that she would not be an old maid. "mamma," she had often said, "there's one thing certain. i shall never do to be poor." lady pomona had expressed full concurrence with her child. "and, mamma, to do as sophia is doing would kill me. fancy having to live at toodlam all one's life with george whitstable!" lady pomona had agreed to this also, though she thought that toodlam hall was a very nice home for her elder daughter. "and, mamma, i should drive you and papa mad if i were to stay at home always. and what would become of me when dolly was master of everything?" lady pomona, looking forward as well as she was able to the time at which she should herself have departed, when her dower and dower-house would have reverted to dolly, acknowledged that georgiana should provide herself with a home of her own before that time. and how was this to be done? lovers with all the glories and all the graces are supposed to be plentiful as blackberries by girls of nineteen, but have been proved to be rare hothouse fruits by girls of twenty-nine. brehgert was rich, would live in london, and would be a husband. people did such odd things now and "lived them down," that she could see no reason why she should not do this and live this down. courage was the one thing necessary,--that and perseverance. she must teach herself to talk about brehgert as lady monogram did of sir damask. she had plucked up so much courage as had enabled her to declare her fate to her old friend,--remembering as she did so how in days long past she and her friend julia triplex had scattered their scorn upon some poor girl who had married a man with a jewish name,--whose grandfather had possibly been a jew. "dear me," said lady monogram. "todd, brehgert, and goldsheiner! mr. todd is--one of us, i suppose." "yes," said georgiana boldly, "and mr. brehgert is a jew. his name is ezekiel brehgert, and he is a jew. you can say what you like about it." "i don't say anything about it, my dear." "and you can think anything you like. things are changed since you and i were younger." "very much changed, it appears," said lady monogram. sir damask's religion had never been doubted, though except on the occasion of his marriage no acquaintance of his had probably ever seen him in church. but to tell her father and mother required a higher spirit than she had shown even in her communication to lady monogram, and that spirit had not as yet come to her. on the morning before she left the melmottes in bruton street, her lover had been with her. the melmottes of course knew of the engagement and quite approved of it. madame melmotte rather aspired to credit for having had so happy an affair arranged under her auspices. it was some set-off against marie's unfortunate escapade. mr. brehgert, therefore, had been allowed to come and go as he pleased, and on that morning he had pleased to come. they were sitting alone in some back room, and brehgert was pressing for an early day. "i don't think we need talk of that yet, mr. brehgert," she said. "you might as well get over the difficulty and call me ezekiel at once," he remarked. georgiana frowned, and made no soft little attempt at the name as ladies in such circumstances are wont to do. "mrs. brehgert"--he alluded of course to the mother of his children--"used to call me ezzy." "perhaps i shall do so some day," said miss longestaffe, looking at her lover, and asking herself why she should not have been able to have the house and the money and the name of the wife without the troubles appertaining. she did not think it possible that she should ever call him ezzy. "and ven shall it be? i should say as early in august as possible." "in august!" she almost screamed. it was already july. "vy not, my dear? ve would have our little holiday in germany,--at vienna. i have business there, and know many friends." then he pressed her hard to fix some day in the next month. it would be expedient that they should be married from the melmottes' house, and the melmottes would leave town some time in august. there was truth in this. unless married from the melmottes' house, she must go down to caversham for the occasion,--which would be intolerable. no;--she must separate herself altogether from father and mother, and become one with the melmottes and the brehgerts,--till she could live it down and make a position for herself. if the spending of money could do it, it should be done. "i must at any rate ask mamma about it," said georgiana. mr. brehgert, with the customary good-humour of his people, was satisfied with the answer, and went away promising that he would meet his love at the great melmotte reception. then she sat silent, thinking how she should declare the matter to her family. would it not be better for her to say to them at once that there must be a division among them,--an absolute breaking off of all old ties, so that it should be tacitly acknowledged that she, georgiana, had gone out from among the longestaffes altogether, and had become one with the melmottes, brehgerts, and goldsheiners? chapter lxi. lady monogram prepares for the party. when the little conversation took place between lady monogram and miss longestaffe, as recorded in the last chapter, mr. melmotte was in all his glory, and tickets for the entertainment were very precious. gradually their value subsided. lady monogram had paid very dear for hers,--especially as the reception of mr. brehgert must be considered. but high prices were then being paid. a lady offered to take marie melmotte into the country with her for a week; but this was before the elopement. mr. cohenlupe was asked out to dinner to meet two peers and a countess. lord alfred received various presents. a young lady gave a lock of her hair to lord nidderdale, although it was known that he was to marry marie melmotte. and miles grendall got back an i. o. u. of considerable nominal value from lord grasslough, who was anxious to accommodate two country cousins who were in london. gradually the prices fell;--not at first from any doubt in melmotte, but through that customary reaction which may be expected on such occasions. but at eight or nine o'clock on the evening of the party the tickets were worth nothing. the rumour had then spread itself through the whole town from pimlico to marylebone. men coming home from clubs had told their wives. ladies who had been in the park had heard it. even the hairdressers had it, and ladies' maids had been instructed by the footmen and grooms who had been holding horses and seated on the coach-boxes. it had got into the air, and had floated round dining-rooms and over toilet-tables. i doubt whether sir damask would have said a word about it to his wife as he was dressing for dinner, had he calculated what might be the result to himself. but he came home open-mouthed, and made no calculation. "have you heard what's up, ju?" he said, rushing half-dressed into his wife's room. [illustration: "have you heard what's up, ju?"] "what is up?" "haven't you been out?" "i was shopping, and that kind of thing. i don't want to take that girl into the park. i've made a mistake in having her here, but i mean to be seen with her as little as i can." "be good-natured, ju, whatever you are." "oh, bother! i know what i'm about. what is it you mean?" "they say melmotte's been found out." "found out!" exclaimed lady monogram, stopping her maid in some arrangement which would not need to be continued in the event of her not going to the reception. "what do you mean by found out?" "i don't know exactly. there are a dozen stories told. it's something about that place he bought of old longestaffe." "are the longestaffes mixed up in it? i won't have her here a day longer if there is anything against them." "don't be an ass, ju. there's nothing against him except that the poor old fellow hasn't got a shilling of his money." "then he's ruined,--and there's an end of them." "perhaps he will get it now. some say that melmotte has forged a receipt, others a letter. some declare that he has manufactured a whole set of title-deeds. you remember dolly?" "of course i know dolly longestaffe," said lady monogram, who had thought at one time that an alliance with dolly might be convenient. "they say he has found it all out. there was always something about dolly more than fellows gave him credit for. at any rate, everybody says that melmotte will be in quod before long." "not to-night, damask!" "nobody seems to know. lupton was saying that the policemen would wait about in the room like servants till the emperor and the princes had gone away." "is mr. lupton going?" "he was to have been at the dinner, but hadn't made up his mind whether he'd go or not when i saw him. nobody seems to be quite certain whether the emperor will go. somebody said that a cabinet council was to be called to know what to do." "a cabinet council!" "why, you see it's rather an awkward thing, letting the prince go to dine with a man who perhaps may have been arrested and taken to gaol before dinner-time. that's the worst part of it. nobody knows." lady monogram waved her attendant away. she piqued herself upon having a french maid who could not speak a word of english, and was therefore quite careless what she said in the woman's presence. but, of course, everything she did say was repeated down-stairs in some language that had become intelligible to the servants generally. lady monogram sat motionless for some time, while her husband, retreating to his own domain, finished his operations. "damask," she said, when he reappeared, "one thing is certain;--we can't go." "after you've made such a fuss about it!" "it is a pity,--having that girl here in the house. you know, don't you, she's going to marry one of these people?" "i heard about her marriage yesterday. but brehgert isn't one of melmotte's set. they tell me that brehgert isn't a bad fellow. a vulgar cad, and all that, but nothing wrong about him." "he's a jew,--and he's seventy years old, and makes up horribly." "what does it matter to you if he's eighty? you are determined, then, you won't go?" but lady monogram had by no means determined that she wouldn't go. she had paid her price, and with that economy which sticks to a woman always in the midst of her extravagances, she could not bear to lose the thing that she had bought. she cared nothing for melmotte's villainy, as regarded herself. that he was enriching himself by the daily plunder of the innocent she had taken for granted since she had first heard of him. she had but a confused idea of any difference between commerce and fraud. but it would grieve her greatly to become known as one of an awkward squad of people who had driven to the door, and perhaps been admitted to some wretched gathering of wretched people,--and not, after all, to have met the emperor and the prince. but then, should she hear on the next morning that the emperor and the princes, that the princesses, and the duchesses, with the ambassadors, cabinet ministers, and proper sort of world generally, had all been there,--that the world, in short, had ignored melmotte's villainy,--then would her grief be still greater. she sat down to dinner with her husband and miss longestaffe, and could not talk freely on the matter. miss longestaffe was still a guest of the melmottes, although she had transferred herself to the monograms for a day or two. and a horrible idea crossed lady monogram's mind. what should she do with her friend georgiana if the whole melmotte establishment were suddenly broken up? of course, madame melmotte would refuse to take the girl back if her husband were sent to gaol. "i suppose you'll go," said sir damask as the ladies left the room. "of course we shall,--in about an hour," said lady monogram as she left the room, looking round at him and rebuking him for his imprudence. "because, you know--" and then he called her back. "if you want me i'll stay, of course; but if you don't, i'll go down to the club." "how can i say, yet? you needn't mind the club to-night." "all right;--only it's a bore being here alone." then miss longestaffe asked what "was up." "is there any doubt about our going to-night?" "i can't say. i'm so harassed that i don't know what i'm about. there seems to be a report that the emperor won't be there." "impossible!" "it's all very well to say impossible, my dear," said lady monogram; "but still that's what people are saying. you see mr. melmotte is a very great man, but perhaps--something else has turned up, so that he may be thrown over. things of that kind do happen. you had better finish dressing. i shall. but i shan't make sure of going till i hear that the emperor is there." then she descended to her husband, whom she found forlornly consoling himself with a cigar. "damask," she said, "you must find out." "find out what?" "whether the prince and the emperor are there." "send john to ask," suggested the husband. "he would be sure to make a blunder about it. if you'd go yourself you'd learn the truth in a minute. have a cab,--just go into the hall and you'll soon know how it all is;--i'd do it in a minute if i were you." sir damask was the most good-natured man in the world, but he did not like the job. "what can be the objection?" asked his wife. "go to a man's house and find out whether a man's guests are come before you go yourself! i don't just see it, ju." "guests! what nonsense! the emperor and all the royal family! as if it were like any other party. such a thing, probably, never happened before, and never will happen again. if you don't go, damask, i must; and i will." sir damask, after groaning and smoking for half a minute, said that he would go. he made many remonstrances. it was a confounded bore. he hated emperors and he hated princes. he hated the whole box and dice of that sort of thing! he "wished to goodness" that he had dined at his club and sent word up home that the affair was to be off. but at last he submitted, and allowed his wife to leave the room with the intention of sending for a cab. the cab was sent for and announced, but sir damask would not stir till he had finished his big cigar. it was past ten when he left his own house. on arriving in grosvenor square he could at once see that the party was going on. the house was illuminated. there was a concourse of servants round the door, and half the square was already blocked up with carriages. it was not without delay that he got to the door, and when there he saw the royal liveries. there was no doubt about the party. the emperor and the princes and the princesses were all there. as far as sir damask could then perceive, the dinner had been quite a success. but again there was a delay in getting away, and it was nearly eleven before he could reach home. "it's all right," said he to his wife. "they're there, safe enough." "you are sure that the emperor is there." "as sure as a man can be without having seen him." miss longestaffe was present at this moment, and could not but resent what appeared to be a most unseemly slur cast upon her friends. "i don't understand it at all," she said. "of course the emperor is there. everybody has known for the last month that he was coming. what is the meaning of it, julia?" "my dear, you must allow me to manage my own little affairs my own way. i dare say i am absurd. but i have my reason. now, damask, if the carriage is there we had better start." the carriage was there, and they did start, and with a delay which seemed unprecedented, even to lady monogram, who was accustomed to these things, they reached the door. there was a great crush in the hall, and people were coming down-stairs. but at last they made their way into the room above, and found that the emperor of china and all the royalties had been there,--but had taken their departure. sir damask put the ladies into the carriage and went at once to his club. chapter lxii. the party. lady monogram retired from mr. melmotte's house in disgust as soon as she was able to escape; but we must return to it for a short time. when the guests were once in the drawing-room the immediate sense of failure passed away. the crowd never became so thick as had been anticipated. they who were knowing in such matters had declared that the people would not be able to get themselves out of the room till three or four o'clock in the morning, and that the carriages would not get themselves out of the square till breakfast time. with a view to this kind of thing mr. melmotte had been told that he must provide a private means of escape for his illustrious guests, and with a considerable sacrifice of walls and general house arrangements this had been done. no such gathering as was expected took place; but still the rooms became fairly full, and mr. melmotte was able to console himself with the feeling that nothing certainly fatal had as yet occurred. there can be no doubt that the greater part of the people assembled did believe that their host had committed some great fraud which might probably bring him under the arm of the law. when such rumours are spread abroad, they are always believed. there is an excitement and a pleasure in believing them. reasonable hesitation at such a moment is dull and phlegmatic. if the accused one be near enough to ourselves to make the accusation a matter of personal pain, of course we disbelieve. but, if the distance be beyond this, we are almost ready to think that anything may be true of anybody. in this case nobody really loved melmotte and everybody did believe. it was so probable that such a man should have done something horrible! it was only hoped that the fraud might be great and horrible enough. melmotte himself during that part of the evening which was passed up-stairs kept himself in the close vicinity of royalty. he behaved certainly very much better than he would have done had he had no weight at his heart. he made few attempts at beginning any conversation, and answered, at any rate with brevity, when he was addressed. with scrupulous care he ticked off on his memory the names of those who had come and whom he knew, thinking that their presence indicated a verdict of acquittal from them on the evidence already before them. seeing the members of the government all there, he wished that he had come forward in westminster as a liberal. and he freely forgave those omissions of royalty as to which he had been so angry at the india office, seeing that not a prince or princess was lacking of those who were expected. he could turn his mind to all this, although he knew how great was his danger. many things occurred to him as he stood, striving to smile as a host should smile. it might be the case that half-a-dozen detectives were already stationed in his own hall,--perhaps one or two, well dressed, in the very presence of royalty,--ready to arrest him as soon as the guests were gone, watching him now lest he should escape. but he bore the burden,--and smiled. he had always lived with the consciousness that such a burden was on him and might crush him at any time. he had known that he had to run these risks. he had told himself a thousand times that when the dangers came, dangers alone should never cow him. he had always endeavoured to go as near the wind as he could, to avoid the heavy hand of the criminal law of whatever country he inhabited. he had studied the criminal laws, so that he might be sure in his reckonings; but he had always felt that he might be carried by circumstances into deeper waters than he intended to enter. as the soldier who leads a forlorn hope, or as the diver who goes down for pearls, or as the searcher for wealth on fever-breeding coasts, knows that as his gains may be great, so are his perils, melmotte had been aware that in his life, as it opened itself out to him, he might come to terrible destruction. he had not always thought, or even hoped, that he would be as he was now, so exalted as to be allowed to entertain the very biggest ones of the earth; but the greatness had grown upon him,--and so had the danger. he could not now be as exact as he had been. he was prepared himself to bear all mere ignominy with a tranquil mind,--to disregard any shouts of reprobation which might be uttered, and to console himself when the bad quarter of an hour should come with the remembrance that he had garnered up a store sufficient for future wants and placed it beyond the reach of his enemies. but as his intellect opened up to him new schemes, and as his ambition got the better of his prudence, he gradually fell from the security which he had preconceived, and became aware that he might have to bear worse than ignominy. perhaps never in his life had he studied his own character and his own conduct more accurately, or made sterner resolves, than he did as he stood there smiling, bowing, and acting without impropriety the part of host to an emperor. no;--he could not run away. he soon made himself sure of that. he had risen too high to be a successful fugitive, even should he succeed in getting off before hands were laid upon him. he must bide his ground, if only that he might not at once confess his own guilt by flight; and he would do so with courage. looking back at the hour or two that had just passed he was aware that he had allowed himself not only to be frightened in the dinner-room,--but also to seem to be frightened. the thing had come upon him unawares and he had been untrue to himself. he acknowledged that. he should not have asked those questions of mr. todd and mr. beauclerk, and should have been more good-humoured than usual with lord alfred in discussing those empty seats. but for spilt milk there is no remedy. the blow had come upon him too suddenly, and he had faltered. but he would not falter again. nothing should cow him,--no touch from a policeman, no warrant from a magistrate, no defalcation of friends, no scorn in the city, no solitude in the west end. he would go down among the electors to-morrow and would stand his ground, as though all with him were right. men should know at any rate that he had a heart within his bosom. and he confessed also to himself that he had sinned in that matter of arrogance. he could see it now,--as so many of us do see the faults which we have committed, which we strive, but in vain, to discontinue, and which we never confess except to our own bosoms. the task which he had imposed on himself, and to which circumstances had added weight, had been very hard to bear. he should have been good-humoured to these great ones whose society he had gained. he should have bound these people to him by a feeling of kindness as well as by his money. he could see it all now. and he could see too that there was no help for spilt milk. i think he took some pride in his own confidence as to his own courage, as he stood there turning it all over in his mind. very much might be suspected. something might be found out. but the task of unravelling it all would not be easy. it is the small vermin and the little birds that are trapped at once. but wolves and vultures can fight hard before they are caught. with the means which would still be at his command, let the worst come to the worst, he could make a strong fight. when a man's frauds have been enormous there is a certain safety in their very diversity and proportions. might it not be that the fact that these great ones of the earth had been his guests should speak in his favour? a man who had in very truth had the real brother of the sun dining at his table could hardly be sent into the dock and then sent out of it like a common felon. madame melmotte during the evening stood at the top of her own stairs with a chair behind her on which she could rest herself for a moment when any pause took place in the arrivals. she had of course dined at the table,--or rather sat there;--but had been so placed that no duty had devolved upon her. she had heard no word of the rumours, and would probably be the last person in that house to hear them. it never occurred to her to see whether the places down the table were full or empty. she sat with her large eyes fixed on the majesty of china and must have wondered at her own destiny at finding herself with an emperor and princes to look at. from the dining-room she had gone when she was told to go, up to the drawing-room, and had there performed her task, longing only for the comfort of her bedroom. she, i think, had but small sympathy with her husband in all his work, and but little understanding of the position in which she had been placed. money she liked, and comfort, and perhaps diamonds and fine dresses, but she can hardly have taken pleasure in duchesses or have enjoyed the company of the emperor. from the beginning of the melmotte era it had been an understood thing that no one spoke to madame melmotte. marie melmotte had declined a seat at the dinner-table. this at first had been cause of quarrel between her and her father, as he desired to have seen her next to young lord nidderdale as being acknowledged to be betrothed to him. but since the journey to liverpool he had said nothing on the subject. he still pressed the engagement, but thought now that less publicity might be expedient. she was, however, in the drawing-room standing at first by madame melmotte, and afterwards retreating among the crowd. to some ladies she was a person of interest as the young woman who had lately run away under such strange circumstances; but no one spoke to her till she saw a girl whom she herself knew, and whom she addressed, plucking up all her courage for the occasion. this was hetta carbury who had been brought hither by her mother. the tickets for lady carbury and hetta had of course been sent before the elopement;--and also, as a matter of course, no reference had been made to them by the melmotte family after the elopement. lady carbury herself was anxious that that affair should not be considered as having given cause for any personal quarrel between herself and mr. melmotte, and in her difficulty had consulted mr. broune. mr. broune was the staff on which she leant at present in all her difficulties. mr. broune was going to the dinner. all this of course took place while melmotte's name was as yet unsullied as snow. mr. broune saw no reason why lady carbury should not take advantage of her tickets. these invitations were simply tickets to see the emperor surrounded by the princes. the young lady's elopement is "no affair of yours," mr. broune had said. "i should go, if it were only for the sake of showing that you did not consider yourself to be implicated in the matter." lady carbury did as she was advised, and took her daughter with her. "nonsense," said the mother, when hetta objected; "mr. broune sees it quite in the right light. this is a grand demonstration in honour of the emperor, rather than a private party;--and we have done nothing to offend the melmottes. you know you wish to see the emperor." a few minutes before they started from welbeck street a note came from mr. broune, written in pencil and sent from melmotte's house by a commissioner. "don't mind what you hear; but come. i am here and as far as i can see it is all right. the e. is beautiful, and p.'s are as thick as blackberries." lady carbury, who had not been in the way of hearing the reports, understood nothing of this; but of course she went. and hetta went with her. hetta was standing alone in a corner, near to her mother, who was talking to mr. booker, with her eyes fixed on the awful tranquillity of the emperor's countenance, when marie melmotte timidly crept up to her and asked her how she was. hetta, probably, was not very cordial to the poor girl, being afraid of her, partly as the daughter of the great melmotte and partly as the girl with whom her brother had failed to run away; but marie was not rebuked by this. "i hope you won't be angry with me for speaking to you." hetta smiled more graciously. she could not be angry with the girl for speaking to her, feeling that she was there as the guest of the girl's mother. "i suppose you know about your brother," said marie, whispering with her eyes turned to the ground. "i have heard about it," said hetta. "he never told me himself." "oh, i do so wish that i knew the truth. i know nothing. of course, miss carbury, i love him. i do love him so dearly! i hope you don't think i would have done it if i hadn't loved him better than anybody in the world. don't you think that if a girl loves a man,--really loves him,--that ought to go before everything?" this was a question that hetta was hardly prepared to answer. she felt quite certain that under no circumstances would she run away with a man. "i don't quite know. it is so hard to say," she replied. "i do. what's the good of anything if you're to be broken-hearted? i don't care what they say of me, or what they do to me, if he would only be true to me. why doesn't he--let me know--something about it?" this also was a question difficult to be answered. since that horrid morning on which sir felix had stumbled home drunk,--which was now four days since,--he had not left the house in welbeck street till this evening. he had gone out a few minutes before lady carbury had started, but up to that time he had almost kept his bed. he would not get up till dinner-time, would come down after some half-dressed fashion, and then get back to his bedroom, where he would smoke and drink brandy-and-water and complain of headache. the theory was that he was ill;--but he was in fact utterly cowed and did not dare to show himself at his usual haunts. he was aware that he had quarrelled at the club, aware that all the world knew of his intended journey to liverpool, aware that he had tumbled about the streets intoxicated. he had not dared to show himself, and the feeling had grown upon him from day to day. now, fairly worn out by his confinement, he had crept out intending, if possible, to find consolation with ruby ruggles. "do tell me. where is he?" pleaded marie. "he has not been very well lately." "is he ill? oh, miss carbury, do tell me. you can understand what it is to love him as i do;--can't you?" "he has been ill. i think he is better now." "why does he not come to me, or send to me; or let me know something? it is cruel, is it not? tell me,--you must know,--does he really care for me?" hetta was exceedingly perplexed. the real feeling betrayed by the girl recommended her. hetta could not but sympathize with the affection manifested for her own brother, though she could hardly understand the want of reticence displayed by marie in thus speaking of her love to one who was almost a stranger. "felix hardly ever talks about himself to me," she said. "if he doesn't care for me, there shall be an end of it," marie said very gravely. "if i only knew! if i thought that he loved me, i'd go through,--oh,--all the world for him. nothing that papa could say should stop me. that's my feeling about it. i have never talked to any one but you about it. isn't that strange? i haven't a person to talk to. that's my feeling, and i'm not a bit ashamed of it. there's no disgrace in being in love. but it's very bad to get married without being in love. that's what i think." "it is bad," said hetta, thinking of roger carbury. "but if felix doesn't care for me!" continued marie, sinking her voice to a low whisper, but still making her words quite audible to her companion. now hetta was strongly of opinion that her brother did not in the least "care for" marie melmotte, and that it would be very much for the best that marie melmotte should know the truth. but she had not that sort of strength which would have enabled her to tell it. "tell me just what you think," said marie. hetta was still silent. "ah,--i see. then i must give him up? eh?" "what can i say, miss melmotte? felix never tells me. he is my brother,--and of course i love you for loving him." this was almost more than hetta meant; but she felt herself constrained to say some gracious word. "do you? oh! i wish you did. i should so like to be loved by you. nobody loves me, i think. that man there wants to marry me. do you know him? he is lord nidderdale. he is very nice; but he does not love me any more than he loves you. that's the way with men. it isn't the way with me. i would go with felix and slave for him if he were poor. is it all to be over then? you will give him a message from me?" hetta, doubting as to the propriety of the promise, promised that she would. "just tell him i want to know; that's all. i want to know. you'll understand. i want to know the real truth. i suppose i do know it now. then i shall not care what happens to me. it will be all the same. i suppose i shall marry that young man, though it will be very bad. i shall just be as if i hadn't any self of my own at all. but he ought to send me word after all that has passed. do not you think he ought to send me word?" "yes, indeed." "you tell him, then," said marie, nodding her head as she crept away. nidderdale had been observing her while she had been talking to miss carbury. he had heard the rumour, and of course felt that it behoved him to be on his guard more specially than any one else. but he had not believed what he had heard. that men should be thoroughly immoral, that they should gamble, get drunk, run into debt, and make love to other men's wives, was to him a matter of every-day life. nothing of that kind shocked him at all. but he was not as yet quite old enough to believe in swindling. it had been impossible to convince him that miles grendall had cheated at cards, and the idea that mr. melmotte had forged was as improbable and shocking to him as that an officer should run away in battle. common soldiers, he thought, might do that sort of thing. he had almost fallen in love with marie when he saw her last, and was inclined to feel the more kindly to her now because of the hard things that were being said about her father. and yet he knew that he must be careful. if "he came a cropper" in this matter, it would be such an awful cropper! "how do you like the party?" he said to marie. "i don't like it at all, my lord. how do you like it?" "very much, indeed. i think the emperor is the greatest fun i ever saw. prince frederic,"--one of the german princes who was staying at the time among his english cousins,--"prince frederic says that he's stuffed with hay, and that he's made up fresh every morning at a shop in the haymarket." "i've seen him talk." "he opens his mouth, of course. there is machinery as well as hay. i think he's the grandest old buffer out, and i'm awfully glad that i've dined with him. i couldn't make out whether he really put anything to eat into his jolly old mouth." "of course he did." "have you been thinking about what we were talking about the other day?" "no, my lord,--i haven't thought about it since. why should i?" "well;--it's a sort of thing that people do think about, you know." "you don't think about it." "don't i? i've been thinking about nothing else the last three months." "you've been thinking whether you'd get married or not." "that's what i mean," said lord nidderdale. "it isn't what i mean, then." "i'll be shot if i can understand you." "perhaps not. and you never will understand me. oh, goodness;--they're all going, and we must get out of the way. is that prince frederic, who told you about the hay? he is handsome; isn't he? and who is that in the violet dress;--with all the pearls?" "that's the princess dwarza." "dear me;--isn't it odd, having a lot of people in one's own house, and not being able to speak a word to them? i don't think it's at all nice. good night, my lord. i'm glad you like the emperor." and then the people went, and when they had all gone melmotte put his wife and daughter into his own carriage, telling them that he would follow them on foot to bruton street when he had given some last directions to the people who were putting out the lights, and extinguishing generally the embers of the entertainment. he had looked round for lord alfred, taking care to avoid the appearance of searching; but lord alfred had gone. lord alfred was one of those who knew when to leave a falling house. melmotte at the moment thought of all that he had done for lord alfred, and it was something of the real venom of ingratitude that stung him at the moment rather than this additional sign of coming evil. he was more than ordinarily gracious as he put his wife into the carriage, and remarked that, considering all things, the party had gone off very well. "i only wish it could have been done a little cheaper," he said laughing. then he went back into the house, and up into the drawing-rooms which were now utterly deserted. some of the lights had been put out, but the men were busy in the rooms below, and he threw himself into the chair in which the emperor had sat. it was wonderful that he should come to such a fate as this;--that he, the boy out of the gutter, should entertain at his own house, in london, a chinese emperor and english and german royalty,--and that he should do so almost with a rope round his neck. even if this were to be the end of it all, men would at any rate remember him. the grand dinner which he had given before he was put into prison would live in history. and it would be remembered, too, that he had been the conservative candidate for the great borough of westminster,--perhaps, even, the elected member. he, too, in his manner, assured himself that a great part of him would escape oblivion. "non omnis moriar," in some language of his own, was chanted by him within his own breast, as he sat there looking out on his own magnificent suite of rooms from the arm-chair which had been consecrated by the use of an emperor. no policemen had come to trouble him yet. no hint that he would be "wanted" had been made to him. there was no tangible sign that things were not to go on as they went before. things would be exactly as they were before, but for the absence of those guests from the dinner-table, and for the words which miles grendall had spoken. had he not allowed himself to be terrified by shadows? of course he had known that there must be such shadows. his life had been made dark by similar clouds before now, and he had lived through the storms which had followed them. he was thoroughly ashamed of the weakness which had overcome him at the dinner-table, and of that palsy of fear which he had allowed himself to exhibit. there should be no more shrinking such as that. when people talked of him they should say that he was at least a man. as this was passing through his mind a head was pushed in through one of the doors, and immediately withdrawn. it was his secretary. "is that you, miles?" he said. "come in. i'm just going home, and came up here to see how the empty rooms would look after they were all gone. what became of your father?" "i suppose he went away." "i suppose he did," said melmotte, unable to hinder himself from throwing a certain tone of scorn into his voice,--as though proclaiming the fate of his own house and the consequent running away of the rat. "it went off very well, i think." "very well," said miles, still standing at the door. there had been a few words of consultation between him and his father,--only a very few words. "you'd better see it out to-night, as you've had a regular salary, and all that. i shall hook it. i sha'n't go near him to-morrow till i find out how things are going. by g----, i've had about enough of him." but hardly enough of his money,--or it may be presumed that lord alfred would have "hooked it" sooner. "why don't you come in, and not stand there?" said melmotte. "there's no emperor here now for you to be afraid of." "i'm afraid of nobody," said miles, walking into the middle of the room. "nor am i. what's one man that another man should be afraid of him? we've got to die, and there'll be an end of it, i suppose." "that's about it," said miles, hardly following the working of his master's mind. "i shouldn't care how soon. when a man has worked as i have done, he gets about tired at my age. i suppose i'd better be down at the committee-room about ten to-morrow?" "that's the best, i should say." "you'll be there by that time?" miles grendall assented slowly, and with imperfect assent. "and tell your father he might as well be there as early as convenient." "all right," said miles as he took his departure. "curs!" said melmotte almost aloud. "they neither of them will be there. if any evil can be done to me by treachery and desertion, they will do it." then it occurred to him to think whether the grendall article had been worth all the money that he had paid for it. "curs!" he said again. he walked down into the hall, and through the banqueting-room, and stood at the place where he himself had sat. what a scene it had been, and how frightfully low his heart had sunk within him! it had been the defection of the lord mayor that had hit him hardest. "what cowards they are!" the men went on with their work, not noticing him, and probably not knowing him. the dinner had been done by contract, and the contractor's foreman was there. the care of the house and the alterations had been confided to another contractor, and his foreman was waiting to see the place locked up. a confidential clerk, who had been with melmotte for years, and who knew his ways, was there also to guard the property. "good night, croll," he said to the man in german. croll touched his hat and bade him good night. melmotte listened anxiously to the tone of the man's voice, trying to catch from it some indication of the mind within. did croll know of these rumours, and if so, what did he think of them? croll had known him in some perilous circumstances before, and had helped him through them. he paused a moment as though he would ask a question, but resolved at last that silence would be safest. "you'll see everything safe, eh, croll?" croll said that he would see everything safe, and melmotte passed out into the square. he had not far to go, round through berkeley square into bruton street, but he stood for a few moments looking up at the bright stars. if he could be there, in one of those unknown distant worlds, with all his present intellect and none of his present burdens, he would, he thought, do better than he had done here on earth. if he could even now put himself down nameless, fameless, and without possessions in some distant corner of the world, he could, he thought, do better. but he was augustus melmotte, and he must bear his burdens, whatever they were, to the end. he could reach no place so distant but that he would be known and traced. [illustration: mr. melmotte speculates.] chapter lxiii. mr. melmotte on the day of the election. no election of a member of parliament by ballot in a borough so large as that of westminster had as yet been achieved in england since the ballot had been established by law. men who heretofore had known, or thought that they knew, how elections would go, who counted up promises, told off professed enemies, and weighed the doubtful ones, now confessed themselves to be in the dark. three days since the odds had been considerably in melmotte's favour; but this had come from the reputation attached to his name, rather than from any calculation as to the politics of the voters. then sunday had intervened. on the monday melmotte's name had continued to go down in the betting from morning to evening. early in the day his supporters had thought little of this, attributing the fall to that vacillation which is customary in such matters; but towards the latter part of the afternoon the tidings from the city had been in everybody's mouth, and melmotte's committee-room had been almost deserted. at six o'clock there were some who suggested that his name should be withdrawn. no such suggestion, however, was made to him,--perhaps because no one dared to make it. on the monday evening all work and strategy for the election, as regarded melmotte and his party, died away; and the interest of the hour was turned to the dinner. but mr. alf's supporters were very busy. there had been a close consultation among a few of them as to what should be done by their committee as to these charges against the opposite candidate. in the "pulpit" of that evening an allusion had been made to the affair, which was of course sufficiently intelligible to those who were immediately concerned in the matter, but which had given no name and mentioned no details. mr. alf explained that this had been put in by the sub-editor, and that it only afforded such news as the paper was bound to give to the public. he himself pointed out the fact that no note of triumph had been sounded, and that the rumour had not been connected with the election. one old gentleman was of opinion that they were bound to make the most of it. "it's no more than we've all believed all along," said the old gentleman, "and why are we to let a fellow like that get the seat if we can keep him out?" he was of opinion that everything should be done to make the rumour with all its exaggerations as public as possible,--so that there should be no opening for an indictment for libel; and the clever old gentleman was full of devices by which this might be effected. but the committee generally was averse to fight in this manner. public opinion has its bar as well as the law courts. if, after all, melmotte had committed no fraud,--or, as was much more probable, should not be convicted of fraud,--then it would be said that the accusation had been forged for purely electioneering purposes, and there might be a rebound which would pretty well crush all those who had been concerned. individual gentlemen could, of course, say what they pleased to individual voters; but it was agreed at last that no overt use should be made of the rumours by mr. alf's committee. in regard to other matters, they who worked under the committee were busy enough. the dinner to the emperor was turned into ridicule, and the electors were asked whether they felt themselves bound to return a gentleman out of the city to parliament because he had offered to spend a fortune on entertaining all the royalties then assembled in london. there was very much said on placards and published in newspapers to the discredit of melmotte, but nothing was so printed which would not have appeared with equal venom had the recent rumours never been sent out from the city. at twelve o'clock at night, when mr. alf's committee-room was being closed, and when melmotte was walking home to bed, the general opinion at the clubs was very much in favour of mr. alf. on the next morning melmotte was up before eight. as yet no policeman had called for him, nor had any official intimation reached him that an accusation was to be brought against him. on coming down from his bedroom he at once went into the back-parlour on the ground floor, which mr. longestaffe called his study, and which mr. melmotte had used since he had been in mr. longestaffe's house for the work which he did at home. he would be there often early in the morning, and often late at night after lord alfred had left him. there were two heavy desk-tables in the room, furnished with drawers down to the ground. one of these the owner of the house had kept locked for his own purposes. when the bargain for the temporary letting of the house had been made, mr. melmotte and mr. longestaffe were close friends. terms for the purchase of pickering had just been made, and no cause for suspicion had as yet arisen. everything between the two gentlemen had been managed with the greatest ease. oh dear, yes! mr. longestaffe could come whenever he pleased. he, melmotte, always left the house at ten and never returned till six. the ladies would never enter that room. the servants were to regard mr. longestaffe quite as master of the house as far as that room was concerned. if mr. longestaffe could spare it, mr. melmotte would take the key of one of the tables. the matter was arranged very pleasantly. mr. melmotte, on entering the room bolted the door, and then, sitting at his own table, took certain papers out of the drawers,--a bundle of letters and another of small documents. from these, with very little examination, he took three or four,--two or three perhaps from each. these he tore into very small fragments and burned the bits,--holding them over a gas-burner and letting the ashes fall into a large china plate. then he blew the ashes into the yard through the open window. this he did to all these documents but one. this one he put bit by bit into his mouth, chewing the paper into a pulp till he swallowed it. when he had done this, and had re-locked his own drawers, he walked across to the other table, mr. longestaffe's table, and pulled the handle of one of the drawers. it opened;--and then, without touching the contents, he again closed it. he then knelt down and examined the lock, and the hole above into which the bolt of the lock ran. having done this he again closed the drawer, drew back the bolt of the door, and, seating himself at his own desk, rang the bell which was close to hand. the servant found him writing letters after his usual hurried fashion, and was told that he was ready for breakfast. he always breakfasted alone with a heap of newspapers around him, and so he did on this day. he soon found the paragraph alluding to himself in the "pulpit," and read it without a quiver in his face or the slightest change in his colour. there was no one to see him now,--but he was acting under a resolve that at no moment, either when alone, or in a crowd, or when suddenly called upon for words,--not even when the policemen with their first hints of arrest should come upon him,--would he betray himself by the working of a single muscle, or the loss of a drop of blood from his heart. he would go through it, always armed, without a sign of shrinking. it had to be done, and he would do it. at ten he walked down to the central committee-room at whitehall place. he thought that he would face the world better by walking than if he were taken in his own brougham. he gave orders that the carriage should be at the committee-room at eleven, and wait an hour for him if he was not there. he went along bond street and piccadilly, regent street and through pall mall to charing cross, with the blandly triumphant smile of a man who had successfully entertained the great guest of the day. as he got near the club he met two or three men whom he knew, and bowed to them. they returned his bow graciously enough, but not one of them stopped to speak to him. of one he knew that he would have stopped, had it not been for the rumour. even after the man had passed on he was careful to show no displeasure on his face. he would take it all as it would come and still be the blandly triumphant merchant prince,--as long as the police would allow him. he probably was not aware how very different was the part he was now playing from that which he had assumed at the india office. at the committee-room he only found a few understrappers, and was informed that everything was going on regularly. the electors were balloting; but with the ballot,--so said the leader of the understrappers,--there never was any excitement. the men looked half-frightened,--as though they did not quite know whether they ought to seize their candidate, and hold him till the constable came. they certainly had not expected to see him there. "has lord alfred been here?" melmotte asked, standing in the inner room with his back to the empty grate. no,--lord alfred had not been there. "nor mr. grendall?" the senior understrapper knew that melmotte would have asked for "his secretary," and not for mr. grendall, but for the rumours. it is so hard not to tumble into scylla when you are avoiding charybdis. mr. grendall had not been there. indeed, nobody had been there. "in fact, there is nothing more to be done, i suppose?" said mr. melmotte. the senior understrapper thought that there was nothing more to be done. he left word that his brougham should be sent away, and strolled out again on foot. he went up into covent garden, where there was a polling booth. the place seemed to him, as one of the chief centres for a contested election, to be wonderfully quiet. he was determined to face everybody and everything, and he went close up to the booth. here he was recognised by various men, mechanics chiefly, who came forward and shook hands with him. he remained there for an hour conversing with people, and at last made a speech to a little knot around him. he did not allude to the rumour of yesterday, nor to the paragraph in the "pulpit" to which his name had not been attached; but he spoke freely enough of the general accusations that had been brought against him previously. he wished the electors to understand that nothing which had been said against him made him ashamed to meet them here or elsewhere. he was proud of his position, and proud that the electors of westminster should recognise it. he did not, he was glad to say, know much of the law, but he was told that the law would protect him from such aspersions as had been unfairly thrown upon him. he flattered himself that he was too good an englishman to regard the ordinary political attacks to which candidates were, as a matter of course, subject at elections;--and he could stretch his back to bear perhaps a little more than these, particularly as he looked forward to a triumphant return. but things had been said, and published, which the excitement of an election could not justify, and as to these things he must have recourse to the law. then he made some allusion to the princes and the emperor, and concluded by observing that it was the proudest boast of his life to be an englishman and a londoner. it was asserted afterwards that this was the only good speech he had ever been known to make; and it was certainly successful, as he was applauded throughout covent garden. a reporter for the "breakfast table" who was on duty at the place, looking for paragraphs as to the conduct of electors, gave an account of the speech in that paper, and made more of it, perhaps, than it deserved. it was asserted afterwards, and given as a great proof of melmotte's cleverness, that he had planned the thing and gone to covent garden all alone having considered that in that way could he best regain a step in reputation; but in truth the affair had not been preconcerted. it was while in whitehall place that he had first thought of going to covent garden, and he had had no idea of making a speech till the people had gathered round him. it was then noon, and he had to determine what he should do next. he was half inclined to go round to all the booths and make speeches. his success at covent garden had been very pleasant to him. but he feared that he might not be so successful elsewhere. he had shown that he was not afraid of the electors. then an idea struck him that he would go boldly into the city,--to his own offices in abchurch lane. he had determined to be absent on this day, and would not be expected. but his appearance there could not on that account be taken amiss. whatever enmities there might be, or whatever perils, he would face them. he got a cab therefore and had himself driven to abchurch lane. the clerks were hanging about doing nothing, as though it were a holiday. the dinner, the election, and the rumour together had altogether demoralized them. but some of them at least were there, and they showed no signs of absolute insubordination. "mr. grendall has not been here?" he asked. no; mr. grendall had not been there; but mr. cohenlupe was in mr. grendall's room. at this moment he hardly desired to see mr. cohenlupe. that gentleman was privy to many of his transactions, but was by no means privy to them all. mr. cohenlupe knew that the estate at pickering had been purchased, and knew that it had been mortgaged. he knew also what had become of the money which had so been raised. but he knew nothing of the circumstances of the purchase, although he probably surmised that melmotte had succeeded in getting the title-deeds on credit, without paying the money. he was afraid that he could hardly see cohenlupe and hold his tongue, and that he could not speak to him without danger. he and cohenlupe might have to stand in a dock together; and cohenlupe had none of his spirit. but the clerks would think, and would talk, were he to leave the office without seeing his old friend. he went therefore into his own room, and called to cohenlupe as he did so. "ve didn't expect you here to-day," said the member for staines. "nor did i expect to come. but there isn't much to do at westminster while the ballot is going on; so i came up, just to look at the letters. the dinner went off pretty well yesterday, eh?" "uncommon;--nothing better. vy did the lord mayor stay away, melmotte?" "because he's an ass and a cur," said mr. melmotte with an assumed air of indignation. "alf and his people had got hold of him. there was ever so much fuss about it at first,--whether he would accept the invitation. i say it was an insult to the city to take it and not to come. i shall be even with him some of these days." "things will go on just the same as usual, melmotte?" "go on. of course they'll go. what's to hinder them?" "there's ever so much been said," whispered cohenlupe. "said;--yes," ejaculated melmotte very loudly. "you're not such a fool, i hope, as to believe every word you hear. you'll have enough to believe, if you do." "there's no knowing vat anybody does know, and vat anybody does not know," said cohenlupe. "look you here, cohenlupe,"--and now melmotte also sank his voice to a whisper,--"keep your tongue in your mouth; go about just as usual, and say nothing. it's all right. there has been some heavy pulls upon us." "oh dear, there has indeed!" "but any paper with my name to it will come right." "that's nothing;--nothing at all," said cohenlupe. "and there is nothing;--nothing at all! i've bought some property and have paid for it; and i have bought some, and have not yet paid for it. there's no fraud in that." "no, no,--nothing in that." "you hold your tongue, and go about your business. i'm going to the bank now." cohenlupe had been very low in spirits, and was still low in spirits; but he was somewhat better after the visit of the great man to the city. mr. melmotte was as good as his word and walked straight to the bank. he kept two accounts at different banks, one for his business, and one for his private affairs. the one he now entered was that which kept what we may call his domestic account. he walked straight through, after his old fashion, to the room behind the bank in which sat the manager and the manager's one clerk, and stood upon the rug before the fire-place just as though nothing had happened,--or as nearly as though nothing had happened as was within the compass of his powers. he could not quite do it. in keeping up an appearance intended to be natural he was obliged to be somewhat milder than his wont. the manager did not behave nearly as well as he did, and the clerks manifestly betrayed their emotion. melmotte saw that it was so;--but he had expected it, and had come there on purpose to "put it down." "we hardly expected to see you in the city to-day, mr. melmotte." "and i didn't expect to see myself here. but it always happens that when one expects that there's most to be done, there's nothing to be done at all. they're all at work down at westminster, balloting; but as i can't go on voting for myself, i'm of no use. i've been at covent garden this morning, making a stump speech, and if all that they say there is true, i haven't much to be afraid of." "and the dinner went off pretty well?" asked the manager. "very well, indeed. they say the emperor liked it better than anything that has been done for him yet." this was a brilliant flash of imagination. "for a friend to dine with me every day, you know, i should prefer somebody who had a little more to say for himself. but then, perhaps, you know, if you or i were in china we shouldn't have much to say for ourselves;--eh?" the manager acceded to this proposition. "we had one awful disappointment. his lordship from over the way didn't come." "the lord mayor, you mean." "the lord mayor didn't come! he was frightened at the last moment;--took it into his head that his authority in the city was somehow compromised. but the wonder was that the dinner went on without him." then melmotte referred to the purport of his call there that day. he would have to draw large cheques for his private wants. "you don't give a dinner to an emperor of china for nothing, you know." he had been in the habit of over-drawing on his private account,--making arrangements with the manager. but now, in the manager's presence, he drew a regular cheque on his business account for a large sum, and then, as a sort of afterthought, paid in the £ which he had received from mr. broune on account of the money which sir felix had taken from marie. "there don't seem much the matter with him," said the manager, when melmotte had left the room. "he brazens it out, don't he?" said the senior clerk. but the feeling of the room after full discussion inclined to the opinion that the rumours had been a political manoeuvre. nevertheless, mr. melmotte would not now have been allowed to overdraw at the present moment. chapter lxiv. the election. mr. alf's central committee-room was in great george street, and there the battle was kept alive all the day. it had been decided, as the reader has been told, that no direct advantage should be taken of that loud blast of accusation which had been heard throughout the town on the previous afternoon. there had not been sufficient time for inquiry as to the truth of that blast. if there were just ground for the things that had been said, mr. melmotte would no doubt soon be in gaol, or would be--wanted. many had thought that he would escape as soon as the dinner was over, and had been disappointed when they heard that he had been seen walking down towards his own committee-room on the following morning. others had been told that at the last moment his name would be withdrawn,--and a question arose as to whether he had the legal power to withdraw his name after a certain hour on the day before the ballot. an effort was made to convince a portion of the electors that he had withdrawn, or would have withdrawn, or should have withdrawn. when melmotte was at covent garden, a large throng of men went to whitehall place with the view of ascertaining the truth. he certainly had made no attempt at withdrawal. they who propagated this report certainly damaged mr. alf's cause. a second reaction set in, and there grew a feeling that mr. melmotte was being ill-used. those evil things had been said of him,--many at least so declared,--not from any true motive, but simply to secure mr. alf's return. tidings of the speech in covent garden were spread about at the various polling places, and did good service to the so-called conservative cause. mr. alf's friends, hearing all this, instigated him also to make a speech. something should be said, if only that it might be reported in the newspapers, to show that they had behaved with generosity, instead of having injured their enemy by false attacks. whatever mr. alf might say, he might at any rate be sure of a favourable reporter. about two o'clock in the day, mr. alf did make a speech,--and a very good speech it was, if correctly reported in the "evening pulpit." mr. alf was a clever man, ready at all points, with all his powers immediately at command, and, no doubt, he did make a good speech. but in this speech, in which we may presume that it would be his intention to convince the electors that they ought to return him to parliament, because, of the two candidates, he was the fittest to represent their views, he did not say a word as to his own political ideas, not, indeed, a word that could be accepted as manifesting his own fitness for the place which it was his ambition to fill. he contented himself with endeavouring to show that the other man was not fit;--and that he and his friends, though solicitous of proving to the electors that mr. melmotte was about the most unfit man in the world, had been guilty of nothing shabby in their manner of doing so. "mr. melmotte," he said, "comes before you as a conservative, and has told us, by the mouths of his friends,--for he has not favoured us with many words of his own,--that he is supported by the whole conservative party. that party is not my party, but i respect it. where, however, are these conservative supporters? we have heard, till we are sick of it, of the banquet which mr. melmotte gave yesterday. i am told that very few of those whom he calls his conservative friends could be induced to attend that banquet. it is equally notorious that the leading merchants of the city refused to grace the table of this great commercial prince. i say that the leaders of the conservative party have at last found their candidate out, have repudiated him;--and are seeking now to free themselves from the individual shame of having supported the candidature of such a man by remaining in their own houses instead of clustering round the polling booths. go to mr. melmotte's committee-room and inquire if those leading conservatives be there. look about, and see whether they are walking with him in the streets, or standing with him in public places, or taking the air with him in the parks. i respect the leaders of the conservative party; but they have made a mistake in this matter, and they know it." then he ended by alluding to the rumours of yesterday. "i scorn," said he, "to say anything against the personal character of a political opponent, which i am not in a position to prove. i make no allusion, and have made no allusion, to reports which were circulated yesterday about him, and which i believe were originated in the city. they may be false or they may be true. as i know nothing of the matter, i prefer to regard them as false, and i recommend you to do the same. but i declared to you long before these reports were in men's mouths, that mr. melmotte was not entitled by his character to represent you in parliament, and i repeat that assertion. a great british merchant, indeed! how long, do you think, should a man be known in this city before that title be accorded to him? who knew aught of this man two years since,--unless, indeed, it be some one who had burnt his wings in trafficking with him in some continental city? ask the character of this great british merchant in hamburg and vienna; ask it in paris;--ask those whose business here has connected them with the assurance companies of foreign countries, and you will be told whether this is a fit man to represent westminster in the british parliament!" there was much more yet; but such was the tone of the speech which mr. alf made with the object of inducing the electors to vote for himself. at two or three o'clock in the day, nobody knew how the matter was going. it was supposed that the working-classes were in favour of melmotte, partly from their love of a man who spends a great deal of money, partly from the belief that he was being ill-used,--partly, no doubt, from that occult sympathy which is felt for crime, when the crime committed is injurious to the upper classes. masses of men will almost feel that a certain amount of injustice ought to be inflicted on their betters, so as to make things even, and will persuade themselves that a criminal should be declared to be innocent, because the crime committed has had a tendency to oppress the rich and pull down the mighty from their seats. some few years since, the basest calumnies that were ever published in this country, uttered by one of the basest men that ever disgraced the country, levelled, for the most part, at men of whose characters and services the country was proud, were received with a certain amount of sympathy by men not themselves dishonest, because they who were thus slandered had received so many good things from fortune, that a few evil things were thought to be due to them. there had not as yet been time for the formation of such a feeling generally, in respect of mr. melmotte. but there was a commencement of it. it had been asserted that melmotte was a public robber. whom had he robbed? not the poor. there was not a man in london who caused the payment of a larger sum in weekly wages than mr. melmotte. about three o'clock, the editor of the "morning breakfast table" called on lady carbury. "what is it all about?" she asked, as soon as her friend was seated. there had been no time for him to explain anything at madame melmotte's reception, and lady carbury had as yet failed in learning any certain news of what was going on. "i don't know what to make of it," said mr. broune. "there is a story abroad that mr. melmotte has forged some document with reference to a purchase he made,--and hanging on to that story are other stories as to moneys that he has raised. i should say that it was simply an electioneering trick, and a very unfair trick, were it not that all his own side seem to believe it." "do you believe it?" "ah,--i could answer almost any question sooner than that." "then he can't be rich at all." "even that would not follow. he has such large concerns in hand that he might be very much pressed for funds, and yet be possessed of immense wealth. everybody says that he pays all his bills." "will he be returned?" she asked. "from what we hear, we think not. i shall know more about it in an hour or two. at present i should not like to have to publish an opinion; but were i forced to bet, i would bet against him. nobody is doing anything for him. there can be no doubt that his own party are ashamed of him. as things used to be, this would have been fatal to him at the day of election; but now, with the ballot, it won't matter so much. if i were a candidate, at present, i think i would go to bed on the last day, and beg all my committee to do the same as soon as they had put in their voting papers." "i am glad felix did not go to liverpool," said lady carbury. "it would not have made much difference. she would have been brought back all the same. they say lord nidderdale still means to marry her." "i saw him talking to her last night." "there must be an immense amount of property somewhere. no one doubts that he was rich when he came to england two years ago, and they say everything has prospered that he has put his hand to since. the mexican railway shares had fallen this morning, but they were at £ premium yesterday morning. he must have made an enormous deal out of that." but mr. broune's eloquence on this occasion was chiefly displayed in regard to the presumption of mr. alf. "i shouldn't think him such a fool if he had announced his resignation of the editorship when he came before the world as a candidate for parliament. but a man must be mad who imagines that he can sit for westminster and edit a london daily paper at the same time." "has it never been done?" "never, i think;--that is, by the editor of such a paper as the 'pulpit.' how is a man who sits in parliament himself ever to pretend to discuss the doings of parliament with impartiality? but alf believes that he can do more than anybody else ever did, and he'll come to the ground. where's felix now?" "do not ask me," said the poor mother. "is he doing anything?" "he lies in bed all day, and is out all night." "but that wants money." she only shook her head. "you do not give him any?" "i have none to give." "i should simply take the key of the house from him,--or bolt the door if he will not give it up." "and be in bed, and listen while he knocks,--knowing that he must wander in the streets if i refuse to let him in? a mother cannot do that, mr. broune. a child has such a hold upon his mother. when her reason has bade her to condemn him, her heart will not let her carry out the sentence." mr. broune never now thought of kissing lady carbury; but when she spoke thus, he got up and took her hand, and she, as she pressed his hand, had no fear that she would be kissed. the feeling between them was changed. melmotte dined at home that evening with no company but that of his wife and daughter. latterly one of the grendalls had almost always joined their party when they did not dine out. indeed, it was an understood thing, that miles grendall should dine there always, unless he explained his absence by some engagement,--so that his presence there had come to be considered as a part of his duty. not unfrequently "alfred" and miles would both come, as melmotte's dinners and wines were good, and occasionally the father would take the son's place,--but on this day they were both absent. madame melmotte had not as yet said a word to any one indicating her own apprehension of any evil. but not a person had called to-day,--the day after the great party,--and even she, though she was naturally callous in such matters, had begun to think that she was deserted. she had, too, become so used to the presence of the grendalls, that she now missed their company. she thought that on this day, of all days, when the world was balloting for her husband at westminster, they would both have been with him to discuss the work of the day. "is not mr. grendall coming?" she asked, as she took her seat at the table. "no, he is not," said melmotte. "nor lord alfred?" "nor lord alfred." melmotte had returned home much comforted by the day's proceedings. no one had dared to say a harsh word to his face. nothing further had reached his ears. after leaving the bank he had gone back to his office, and had written letters,--just as if nothing had happened; and, as far as he could judge, his clerks had plucked up courage. one of them, about five o'clock, came into him with news from the west, and with second editions of the evening papers. the clerk expressed his opinion that the election was going well. mr. melmotte, judging from the papers, one of which was supposed to be on his side and the other of course against him, thought that his affairs altogether were looking well. the westminster election had not the foremost place in his thoughts; but he took what was said on that subject as indicating the minds of men upon the other matter. he read alf's speech, and consoled himself with thinking that mr. alf had not dared to make new accusations against him. all that about hamburgh and vienna and paris was as old as the hills, and availed nothing. his whole candidature had been carried in the face of that. "i think we shall do pretty well," he said to the clerk. his very presence in abchurch lane of course gave confidence. and thus, when he came home, something of the old arrogance had come back upon him, and he could swagger at any rate before his wife and servants. "nor lord alfred," he said with scorn. then he added more. "the father and son are two d---- curs." this of course frightened madame melmotte, and she joined this desertion of the grendalls to her own solitude all the day. "is there anything wrong, melmotte?" she said afterwards, creeping up to him in the back parlour, and speaking in french. "what do you call wrong?" "i don't know;--but i seem to be afraid of something." "i should have thought you were used to that kind of feeling by this time." "then there is something." "don't be a fool. there is always something. there is always much. you don't suppose that this kind of thing can be carried on as smoothly as the life of an old maid with £ a year paid quarterly in advance." "shall we have to--move again?" she asked. "how am i to tell? you haven't much to do when we move, and may get plenty to eat and drink wherever you go. does that girl mean to marry lord nidderdale?" madame melmotte shook her head. "what a poor creature you must be when you can't talk her out of a fancy for such a reprobate as young carbury. if she throws me over, i'll throw her over. i'll flog her within an inch of her life if she disobeys me. you tell her that i say so." "then he may flog me," said marie, when so much of the conversation was repeated to her that evening. "papa does not know me if he thinks that i'm to be made to marry a man by flogging." no such attempt was at any rate made that night, for the father and husband did not again see his wife or daughter. early the next day a report was current that mr. alf had been returned. the numbers had not as yet been counted, or the books made up;--but that was the opinion expressed. all the morning newspapers, including the "breakfast table," repeated this report,--but each gave it as the general opinion on the matter. the truth would not be known till seven or eight o'clock in the evening. the conservative papers did not scruple to say that the presumed election of mr. alf was owing to a sudden declension in the confidence originally felt in mr. melmotte. the "breakfast table," which had supported mr. melmotte's candidature, gave no reason, and expressed more doubt on the result than the other papers. "we know not how such an opinion forms itself," the writer said;--"but it seems to have been formed. as nothing as yet is really known, or can be known, we express no opinion of our own upon the matter." mr. melmotte again went into the city, and found that things seemed to have returned very much into their usual grooves. the mexican railway shares were low, and mr. cohenlupe was depressed in spirits and unhappy;--but nothing dreadful had occurred or seemed to be threatened. if nothing dreadful did occur, the railway shares would probably recover, or nearly recover, their position. in the course of the day, melmotte received a letter from messrs. slow and bideawhile, which, of itself, certainly contained no comfort;--but there was comfort to be drawn even from that letter, by reason of what it did not contain. the letter was unfriendly in its tone and peremptory. it had come evidently from a hostile party. it had none of the feeling which had hitherto prevailed in the intercourse between these two well-known conservative gentlemen, mr. adolphus longestaffe and mr. augustus melmotte. but there was no allusion in it to forgery; no question of criminal proceedings; no hint at aught beyond the not unnatural desire of mr. longestaffe and mr. longestaffe's son to be paid for the property at pickering which mr. melmotte had purchased. "we have to remind you," said the letter, in continuation of paragraphs which had contained simply demands for the money, "that the title-deeds were delivered to you on receipt by us of authority to that effect from the messrs. longestaffe, father and son, on the understanding that the purchase-money was to be at once paid to us by you. we are informed that the property has been since mortgaged by you. we do not state this as a fact. but the information, whether true or untrue, forces upon us the necessity of demanding that you should at once pay to us the purchase-money,--£ , ,--or else return to us the title-deeds of the estate." this letter, which was signed slow and bideawhile, declared positively that the title-deeds had been given up on authority received by them from both the longestaffes,--father and son. now the accusation brought against melmotte, as far as he could as yet understand it, was that he had forged the signature to the young mr. longestaffe's letter. messrs. slow and bideawhile were therefore on his side. as to the simple debt, he cared little comparatively about that. many fine men were walking about london who owed large sums of money which they could not pay. as he was sitting at his solitary dinner this evening,--for both his wife and daughter had declined to join him, saying that they had dined early,--news was brought to him that he had been elected for westminster. he had beaten mr. alf by something not much less than a thousand votes. it was very much to be member for westminster. so much had at any rate been achieved by him who had begun the world without a shilling and without a friend,--almost without education! much as he loved money, and much as he loved the spending of money, and much as he had made and much as he had spent, no triumph of his life had been so great to him as this. brought into the world in a gutter, without father or mother, with no good thing ever done for him, he was now a member of the british parliament, and member for one of the first cities in the empire. ignorant as he was he understood the magnitude of the achievement, and dismayed as he was as to his present position, still at this moment he enjoyed keenly a certain amount of elation. of course he had committed forgery;--of course he had committed robbery. that, indeed, was nothing, for he had been cheating and forging and stealing all his life. of course he was in danger of almost immediate detection and punishment. he hardly hoped that the evil day would be very much longer protracted, and yet he enjoyed his triumph. whatever they might do, quick as they might be, they could hardly prevent his taking his seat in the house of commons. then if they sent him to penal servitude for life, they would have to say that they had so treated the member for westminster! he drank a bottle of claret, and then got some brandy-and-water. in such troubles as were coming upon him now, he would hardly get sufficient support from wine. he knew that he had better not drink;--that is, he had better not drink, supposing the world to be free to him for his own work and his own enjoyment. but if the world were no longer free to him, if he were really coming to penal servitude and annihilation,--then why should he not drink while the time lasted? an hour of triumphant joy might be an eternity to a man, if the man's imagination were strong enough to make him so regard his hour. he therefore took his brandy-and-water freely, and as he took it he was able to throw his fears behind him, and to assure himself that, after all, he might even yet escape from his bondages. no;--he would drink no more. this he said to himself as he filled another beaker. he would work instead. he would put his shoulder to the wheel, and would yet conquer his enemies. it would not be so easy to convict a member for westminster,--especially if money were spent freely. was he not the man who, at his own cost, had entertained the emperor of china? would not that be remembered in his favour? would not men be unwilling to punish the man who had received at his own table all the princes of the land, and the prime minister, and all the ministers? to convict him would be a national disgrace. he fully realised all this as he lifted the glass to his mouth, and puffed out the smoke in large volumes through his lips. but money must be spent! yes;--money must be had! cohenlupe certainly had money. though he squeezed it out of the coward's veins he would have it. at any rate, he would not despair. there was a fight to be fought yet, and he would fight it to the end. then he took a deep drink, and slowly, with careful and almost solemn steps, he made his way up to his bed. chapter lxv. miss longestaffe writes home. lady monogram, when she left madame melmotte's house after that entertainment of imperial majesty which had been to her of so very little avail, was not in a good humour. sir damask, who had himself affected to laugh at the whole thing, but who had been in truth as anxious as his wife to see the emperor in private society, put her ladyship and miss longestaffe into the carriage without a word, and rushed off to his club in disgust. the affair from beginning to end, including the final failure, had been his wife's doing. he had been made to work like a slave, and had been taken against his will to melmotte's house, and had seen no emperor and shaken hands with no prince! "they may fight it out between them now like the kilkenny cats." that was his idea as he closed the carriage-door on the two ladies,--thinking that if a larger remnant were left of one cat than of the other that larger remnant would belong to his wife. "what a horrid affair!" said lady monogram. "did anybody ever see anything so vulgar?" this was at any rate unreasonable, for whatever vulgarity there may have been, lady monogram had seen none of it. "i don't know why you were so late," said georgiana. "late! why it's not yet twelve. i don't suppose it was eleven when we got into the square. anywhere else it would have been early." "you knew they did not mean to stay long. it was particularly said so. i really think it was your own fault." "my own fault. yes;--i don't doubt that. i know it was my own fault, my dear, to have had anything to do with it. and now i have got to pay for it." "what do you mean by paying for it, julia?" "you know what i mean very well. is your friend going to do us the honour of coming to us to-morrow night?" she could not have declared in plainer language how very high she thought the price to be which she had consented to give for those ineffective tickets. "if you mean mr. brehgert, he is coming. you desired me to ask him, and i did so." "desired you! the truth is, georgiana, when people get into different sets, they'd better stay where they are. it's no good trying to mix things." lady monogram was so angry that she could not control her tongue. miss longestaffe was ready to tear herself with indignation. that she should have been brought to hear insolence such as this from julia triplex,--she, the daughter of adolphus longestaffe of caversham and lady pomona; she, who was considered to have lived in quite the first london circle! but she could hardly get hold of fit words for a reply. she was almost in tears, and was yet anxious to fight rather than weep. but she was in her friend's carriage, and was being taken to her friend's house, was to be entertained by her friend all the next day, and was to see her lover among her friend's guests. "i wonder what has made you so ill-natured," she said at last. "you didn't use to be like that." "it's no good abusing me," said lady monogram. "here we are, and i suppose we had better get out,--unless you want the carriage to take you anywhere else." then lady monogram got out and marched into the house, and taking a candle went direct to her own room. miss longestaffe followed slowly to her own chamber, and having half undressed herself, dismissed her maid and prepared to write to her mother. the letter to her mother must be written. mr. brehgert had twice proposed that he should, in the usual way, go to mr. longestaffe, who had been backwards and forwards in london, and was there at the present moment. of course it was proper that mr. brehgert should see her father,--but, as she had told him, she preferred that he should postpone his visit for a day or two. she was now agonized by many doubts. those few words about "various sets" and the "mixing of things" had stabbed her to the very heart,--as had been intended. mr. brehgert was rich. that was a certainty. but she already repented of what she had done. if it were necessary that she should really go down into another and a much lower world, a world composed altogether of brehgerts, melmottes, and cohenlupes, would it avail her much to be the mistress of a gorgeous house? she had known, and understood, and had revelled in the exclusiveness of county position. caversham had been dull, and there had always been there a dearth of young men of the proper sort; but it had been a place to talk of, and to feel satisfied with as a home to be acknowledged before the world. her mother was dull, and her father pompous and often cross; but they were in the right set,--miles removed from the brehgerts and melmottes,--until her father himself had suggested to her that she should go to the house in grosvenor square. she would write one letter to-night; but there was a question in her mind whether the letter should be written to her mother telling her the horrid truth,--or to mr. brehgert begging that the match should be broken off. i think she would have decided on the latter had it not been that so many people had already heard of the match. the monograms knew it, and had of course talked far and wide. the melmottes knew it, and she was aware that lord nidderdale had heard it. it was already so far known that it was sure to be public before the end of the season. each morning lately she had feared that a letter from home would call upon her to explain the meaning of some frightful rumours reaching caversham, or that her father would come to her and with horror on his face demand to know whether it was indeed true that she had given her sanction to so abominable a report. and there were other troubles. she had just spoken to madame melmotte this evening, having met her late hostess as she entered the drawing-room, and had felt from the manner of her reception that she was not wanted back again. she had told her father that she was going to transfer herself to the monograms for a time, not mentioning the proposed duration of her visit, and mr. longestaffe, in his ambiguous way, had expressed himself glad that she was leaving the melmottes. she did not think that she could go back to grosvenor square, although mr. brehgert desired it. since the expression of mr. brehgert's wishes she had perceived that ill-will had grown up between her father and mr. melmotte. she must return to caversham. they could not refuse to take her in, though she had betrothed herself to a jew! if she decided that the story should be told to her mother it would be easier to tell it by letter than by spoken words, face to face. but then if she wrote the letter there would be no retreat,--and how should she face her family after such a declaration? she had always given herself credit for courage, and now she wondered at her own cowardice. even lady monogram, her old friend julia triplex, had trampled upon her. was it not the business of her life, in these days, to do the best she could for herself, and would she allow paltry considerations as to the feelings of others to stand in her way and become bugbears to affright her? who sent her to melmotte's house? was it not her own father? then she sat herself square at the table, and wrote to her mother,--as follows,--dating her letter for the following morning:-- hill street, th july, --. my dear mamma, i am afraid you will be very much astonished by this letter, and perhaps disappointed. i have engaged myself to mr. brehgert, a member of a very wealthy firm in the city, called todd, brehgert, and goldsheiner. i may as well tell you the worst at once. mr. brehgert is a jew. this last word she wrote very rapidly, but largely, determined that there should be no lack of courage apparent in the letter. he is a very wealthy man, and his business is about banking and what he calls finance. i understand they are among the most leading people in the city. he lives at present at a very handsome house at fulham. i don't know that i ever saw a place more beautifully fitted up. i have said nothing to papa, nor has he; but he says he will be willing to satisfy papa perfectly as to settlements. he has offered to have a house in london if i like,--and also to keep the villa at fulham or else to have a place somewhere in the country. or i may have the villa at fulham and a house in the country. no man can be more generous than he is. he has been married before, and has a family, and now i think i have told you all. i suppose you and papa will be very much dissatisfied. i hope papa won't refuse his consent. it can do no good. i am not going to remain as i am now all my life, and there is no use waiting any longer. it was papa who made me go to the melmottes, who are not nearly so well placed as mr. brehgert. everybody knows that madame melmotte is a jewess, and nobody knows what mr. melmotte is. it is no good going on with the old thing when everything seems to be upset and at sixes and sevens. if papa has got to be so poor that he is obliged to let the house in town, one must of course expect to be different from what we were. i hope you won't mind having me back the day after to-morrow,--that is to-morrow, wednesday. there is a party here to-night, and mr. brehgert is coming. but i can't stay longer with julia, who doesn't make herself nice, and i do not at all want to go back to the melmottes. i fancy that there is something wrong between papa and mr. melmotte. send the carriage to meet me by the . train from london,--and pray, mamma, don't scold when you see me, or have hysterics, or anything of that sort. of course it isn't all nice, but things have got so that they never will be nice again. i shall tell mr. brehgert to go to papa on wednesday. your affectionate daughter, g. when the morning came she desired the servant to take the letter away and have it posted, so that the temptation to stop it might no longer be in her way. about one o'clock on that day mr. longestaffe called at lady monogram's. the two ladies had breakfasted up-stairs, and had only just met in the drawing-room when he came in. georgiana trembled at first, but soon perceived that her father had as yet heard nothing of mr. brehgert. she immediately told him that she proposed returning home on the following day. "i am sick of the melmottes," she said. "and so am i," said mr. longestaffe, with a serious countenance. "we should have been delighted to have had georgiana to stay with us a little longer," said lady monogram; "but we have but the one spare bedroom, and another friend is coming." georgiana, who knew both these statements to be false, declared that she wouldn't think of such a thing. "we have a few friends coming to-night, mr. longestaffe, and i hope you'll come in and see georgiana." mr. longestaffe hummed and hawed and muttered something, as old gentlemen always do when they are asked to go out to parties after dinner. "mr. brehgert will be here," continued lady monogram with a peculiar smile. "mr. who?" the name was not at first familiar to mr. longestaffe. "mr. brehgert." lady monogram looked at her friend. "i hope i'm not revealing any secret." "i don't understand anything about it," said mr. longestaffe. "georgiana, who is mr. brehgert?" he had understood very much. he had been quite certain from lady monogram's manner and words, and also from his daughter's face, that mr. brehgert was mentioned as an accepted lover. lady monogram had meant that it should be so, and any father would have understood her tone. as she said afterwards to sir damask, she was not going to have that jew there at her house as georgiana longestaffe's accepted lover without mr. longestaffe's knowledge. "my dear georgiana," she said, "i supposed your father knew all about it." "i know nothing. georgiana, i hate a mystery. i insist upon knowing. who is mr. brehgert, lady monogram?" "mr. brehgert is a--very wealthy gentleman. that is all i know of him. perhaps, georgiana, you will be glad to be alone with your father." and lady monogram left the room. was there ever cruelty equal to this! but now the poor girl was forced to speak,--though she could not speak as boldly as she had written. "papa, i wrote to mamma this morning, and mr. brehgert was to come to you to-morrow." "do you mean that you are engaged to marry him?" "yes, papa." "what mr. brehgert is he?" "he is a merchant." "you can't mean the fat jew whom i've met with mr. melmotte;--a man old enough to be your father!" the poor girl's condition now was certainly lamentable. the fat jew, old enough to be her father, was the very man she did mean. she thought that she would try to brazen it out with her father. but at the present moment she had been so cowed by the manner in which the subject had been introduced that she did not know how to begin to be bold. she only looked at him as though imploring him to spare her. "is the man a jew?" demanded mr. longestaffe, with as much thunder as he knew how to throw into his voice. "yes, papa," she said. "he is that fat man?" "yes, papa." "and nearly as old as i am?" "no, papa,--not nearly as old as you are. he is fifty." "and a jew?" he again asked the horrid question, and again threw in the thunder. on this occasion she condescended to make no further reply. "if you do, you shall do it as an alien from my house. i certainly will never see him. tell him not to come to me, for i certainly will not speak to him. you are degraded and disgraced; but you shall not degrade and disgrace me and your mother and sister." "it was you, papa, who told me to go to the melmottes." "that is not true. i wanted you to stay at caversham. a jew! an old fat jew! heavens and earth! that it should be possible that you should think of it! you;--my daughter,--that used to take such pride in yourself! have you written to your mother?" "i have." "it will kill her. it will simply kill her. and you are going home to-morrow?" "i wrote to say so." "and there you must remain. i suppose i had better see the man and explain to him that it is utterly impossible. heavens on earth;--a jew! an old fat jew! my daughter! i will take you down home myself to-morrow. what have i done that i should be punished by my children in this way?" the poor man had had rather a stormy interview with dolly that morning. "you had better leave this house to-day, and come to my hotel in jermyn street." "oh, papa, i can't do that." "why can't you do it? you can do it, and you shall do it. i will not have you see him again. i will see him. if you do not promise me to come, i will send for lady monogram and tell her that i will not permit you to meet mr. brehgert at her house. i do wonder at her. a jew! an old fat jew!" mr. longestaffe, putting up both his hands, walked about the room in despair. she did consent, knowing that her father and lady monogram between them would be too strong for her. she had her things packed up, and in the course of the afternoon allowed herself to be carried away. she said one word to lady monogram before she went. "tell him that i was called away suddenly." "i will, my dear. i thought your papa would not like it." the poor girl had not spirit sufficient to upbraid her friend; nor did it suit her now to acerbate an enemy. for the moment, at least, she must yield to everybody and everything. she spent a lonely evening with her father in a dull sitting-room in the hotel, hardly speaking or spoken to, and the following day she was taken down to caversham. she believed that her father had seen mr. brehgert on the morning of that day;--but he said no word to her, nor did she ask him any question. that was on the day after lady monogram's party. early in the evening, just as the gentlemen were coming up from the dining-room, mr. brehgert, apparelled with much elegance, made his appearance. lady monogram received him with a sweet smile. "miss longestaffe," she said, "has left me and gone to her father." "oh, indeed." "yes," said lady monogram, bowing her head, and then attending to other persons as they arrived. nor did she condescend to speak another word to mr. brehgert, or to introduce him even to her husband. he stood for about ten minutes inside the drawing-room, leaning against the wall, and then he departed. no one had spoken a word to him. but he was an even-tempered, good-humoured man. when miss longestaffe was his wife things would no doubt be different;--or else she would probably change her acquaintance. chapter lxvi. "so shall be my enmity." "you shall be troubled no more with winifrid hurtle." so mrs. hurtle had said, speaking in perfect good faith to the man whom she had come to england with the view of marrying. and then when he had said good-bye to her, putting out his hand to take hers for the last time, she declined that. "nay," she had said; "this parting will bear no farewell." having left her after that fashion paul montague could not return home with very high spirits. had she insisted on his taking that letter with the threat of the horsewhip as the letter which she intended to write to him,--that letter which she had shown him, owning it to be the ebullition of her uncontrolled passion, and had then destroyed,--he might at any rate have consoled himself with thinking that, however badly he might have behaved, her conduct had been worse than his. he could have made himself warm and comfortable with anger, and could have assured himself that under any circumstances he must be right to escape from the clutches of a wild cat such as that. but at the last moment she had shown that she was no wild cat to him. she had melted, and become soft and womanly. in her softness she had been exquisitely beautiful; and as he returned home he was sad and dissatisfied with himself. he had destroyed her life for her,--or, at least, had created a miserable episode in it which could hardly be obliterated. she had said that she was all alone, and had given up everything to follow him,--and he had believed her. was he to do nothing for her now? she had allowed him to go, and after her fashion had pardoned him the wrong he had done her. but was that to be sufficient for him,--so that he might now feel inwardly satisfied at leaving her, and make no further inquiry as to her fate? could he pass on and let her be as the wine that has been drunk,--as the hour that has been enjoyed,--as the day that is past? but what could he do? he had made good his own escape. he had resolved that, let her be woman or wild cat, he would not marry her, and in that he knew he had been right. her antecedents, as now declared by herself, unfitted her for such a marriage. were he to return to her he would be again thrusting his hand into the fire. but his own selfish coldness was hateful to him when he thought that there was nothing to be done but to leave her desolate and lonely in mrs. pipkin's lodgings. during the next three or four days, while the preparations for the dinner and the election were going on, he was busy in respect to the american railway. he again went down to liverpool, and at mr. ramsbottom's advice prepared a letter to the board of directors, in which he resigned his seat, and gave his reasons for resigning it; adding that he should reserve to himself the liberty of publishing his letter, should at any time the circumstances of the railway company seem to him to make such a course desirable. he also wrote a letter to mr. fisker, begging that gentleman to come to england, and expressing his own wish to retire altogether from the firm of fisker, montague, and montague upon receiving the balance of money due to him,--a payment which must, he said, be a matter of small moment to his two partners, if, as he had been informed, they had enriched themselves by the success of the railway company in san francisco. when he wrote these letters at liverpool the great rumour about melmotte had not yet sprung up. he returned to london on the day of the festival, and first heard of the report at the beargarden. there he found that the old set had for the moment broken itself up. sir felix carbury had not been heard of for the last four or five days,--and then the whole story of miss melmotte's journey, of which he had read something in the newspapers, was told to him. "we think that carbury has drowned himself," said lord grasslough, "and i haven't heard of anybody being heartbroken about it." lord nidderdale had hardly been seen at the club. "he's taken up the running with the girl," said lord grasslough. "what he'll do now, nobody knows. if i was at it, i'd have the money down in hard cash before i went into the church. he was there at the party yesterday, talking to the girl all the night;--a sort of thing he never did before. nidderdale is the best fellow going, but he was always an ass." nor had miles grendall been seen in the club for three days. "we've got into a way of play the poor fellow doesn't like," said lord grasslough; "and then melmotte won't let him out of his sight. he has taken to dine there every day." this was said during the election,--on the very day on which miles deserted his patron; and on that evening he did dine at the club. paul montague also dined there, and would fain have heard something from grendall as to melmotte's condition; but the secretary, if not faithful in all things, was faithful at any rate in his silence. though grasslough talked openly enough about melmotte in the smoking-room miles grendall said never a word. on the next day, early in the afternoon, almost without a fixed purpose, montague strolled up to welbeck street, and found hetta alone. "mamma has gone to her publisher's," she said. "she is writing so much now that she is always going there. who has been elected, mr. montague?" paul knew nothing about the election, and cared very little. at that time, however, the election had not been decided. "i suppose it will make no difference to you whether your chairman be in parliament or not?" paul said that melmotte was no longer a chairman of his. "are you out of it altogether, mr. montague?" yes;--as far as it lay within his power to be out of it, he was out of it. he did not like mr. melmotte, nor believe in him. then with considerable warmth he repudiated all connection with the melmotte party, expressing deep regret that circumstances had driven him for a time into that alliance. "then you think that mr. melmotte is--?" "just a scoundrel;--that's all." "you heard about felix?" "of course i heard that he was to marry the girl, and that he tried to run off with her. i don't know much about it. they say that lord nidderdale is to marry her now." "i think not, mr. montague." "i hope not, for his sake. at any rate, your brother is well out of it." "do you know that she loves felix? there is no pretence about that. i do think she is good. the other night at the party she spoke to me." "you went to the party, then?" "yes;--i could not refuse to go when mamma chose to take me. and when i was there she spoke to me about felix. i don't think she will marry lord nidderdale. poor girl;--i do pity her. think what a downfall it will be if anything happens." but paul montague had certainly not come there with the intention of discussing melmotte's affairs, nor could he afford to lose the opportunity which chance had given him. he was off with one love, and now he thought that he might be on with the other. "hetta," he said, "i am thinking more of myself than of her,--or even of felix." "i suppose we all do think more of ourselves than of other people," said hetta, who knew from his voice at once what it was in his mind to do. "yes;--but i am not thinking of myself only. i am thinking of myself, and you. in all my thoughts of myself i am thinking of you too." "i do not know why you should do that." "hetta, you must know that i love you." "do you?" she said. of course she knew it. and of course she thought that he was equally sure of her love. had he chosen to read signs that ought to have been plain enough to him, could he have doubted her love after the few words that had been spoken on that night when lady carbury had come in with roger and interrupted them? she could not remember exactly what had been said; but she did remember that he had spoken of leaving england for ever in a certain event, and that she had not rebuked him;--and she remembered also how she had confessed her own love to her mother. he, of course, had known nothing of that confession; but he must have known that he had her heart! so at least she thought. she had been working some morsel of lace, as ladies do when ladies wish to be not quite doing nothing. she had endeavoured to ply her needle, very idly, while he was speaking to her, but now she allowed her hands to fall into her lap. she would have continued to work at the lace had she been able, but there are times when the eyes will not see clearly, and when the hands will hardly act mechanically. "yes,--i do. hetta, say a word to me. can it be so? look at me for one moment so as to let me know." her eyes had turned downwards after her work. "if roger is dearer to you than i am, i will go at once." "roger is very dear to me." "do you love him as i would have you love me?" she paused for a time, knowing that his eyes were fixed upon her, and then she answered the question in a low voice, but very clearly. "no," she said;--"not like that." "can you love me like that?" he put out both his arms as though to take her to his breast should the answer be such as he longed to hear. she raised her hand towards him, as if to keep him back, and left it with him when he seized it. "is it mine?" he said. "if you want it." then he was at her feet in a moment, kissing her hands and her dress, looking up into her face with his eyes full of tears, ecstatic with joy as though he had really never ventured to hope for such success. "want it!" he said. "hetta, i have never wanted anything but that with real desire. oh, hetta, my own. since i first saw you this has been my only dream of happiness. and now it is my own." she was very quiet, but full of joy. now that she had told him the truth she did not coy her love. having once spoken the word she did not care how often she repeated it. she did not think that she could ever have loved anybody but him,--even if he had not been fond of her. as to roger,--dear roger, dearest roger,--no; it was not the same thing. "he is as good as gold," she said,--"ever so much better than you are, paul," stroking his hair with her hand and looking into his eyes. "better than anybody i have ever known," said montague with all his energy. "i think he is;--but, ah, that is not everything. i suppose we ought to love the best people best; but i don't, paul." "i do," said he. "no,--you don't. you must love me best, but i won't be called good. i do not know why it has been so. do you know, paul, i have sometimes thought i would do as he would have me, out of sheer gratitude. i did not know how to refuse such a trifling thing to one who ought to have everything that he wants." "where should i have been?" "oh, you! somebody else would have made you happy. but do you know, paul, i think he will never love any one else. i ought not to say so, because it seems to be making so much of myself. but i feel it. he is not so young a man, and yet i think that he never was in love before. he almost told me so once, and what he says is true. there is an unchanging way with him that is awful to think of. he said that he never could be happy unless i would do as he would have me,--and he made me almost believe even that. he speaks as though every word he says must come true in the end. oh, paul, i love you so dearly,--but i almost think that i ought to have obeyed him." paul montague of course had very much to say in answer to this. among the holy things which did exist to gild this every-day unholy world, love was the holiest. it should be soiled by no falsehood, should know nothing of compromises, should admit no excuses, should make itself subject to no external circumstances. if fortune had been so kind to him as to give him her heart, poor as his claim might be, she could have no right to refuse him the assurance of her love. and though his rival were an angel, he could have no shadow of a claim upon her,--seeing that he had failed to win her heart. it was very well said,--at least so hetta thought,--and she made no attempt at argument against him. but what was to be done in reference to poor roger? she had spoken the word now, and, whether for good or bad, she had given herself to paul montague. even though roger should have to walk disconsolate to the grave, it could not now be helped. but would it not be right that it should be told? "do you know i almost feel that he is like a father to me," said hetta, leaning on her lover's shoulder. paul thought it over for a few minutes, and then said that he would himself write to roger. "hetta, do you know, i doubt whether he will ever speak to me again." "i cannot believe that." "there is a sternness about him which it is very hard to understand. he has taught himself to think that as i met you in his house, and as he then wished you to be his wife, i should not have ventured to love you. how could i have known?" "that would be unreasonable." "he is unreasonable--about that. it is not reason with him. he always goes by his feelings. had you been engaged to him--" "oh, then, you never could have spoken to me like this." "but he will never look at it in that way;--and he will tell me that i have been untrue to him and ungrateful." "if you think, paul--" "nay; listen to me. if it be so i must bear it. it will be a great sorrow, but it will be as nothing to that other sorrow, had that come upon me. i will write to him, and his answer will be all scorn and wrath. then you must write to him afterwards. i think he will forgive you, but he will never forgive me." then they parted, she having promised that she would tell her mother directly lady carbury came home, and paul undertaking to write to roger that evening. and he did, with infinite difficulty, and much trembling of the spirit. here is his letter:-- my dear roger,-- i think it right to tell you at once what has occurred to-day. i have proposed to miss carbury and she has accepted me. you have long known what my feelings were, and i have also known yours. i have known, too, that miss carbury has more than once declined to take your offer. under these circumstances i cannot think that i have been untrue to friendship in what i have done, or that i have proved myself ungrateful for the affectionate kindness which you have always shown me. i am authorised by hetta to say that, had i never spoken to her, it must have been the same to you. this was hardly a fair representation of what had been said, but the writer, looking back upon his interview with the lady, thought that it had been implied. i should not say so much by way of excusing myself, but that you once said, that should such a thing occur there must be a division between us ever after. if i thought that you would adhere to that threat, i should be very unhappy and hetta would be miserable. surely, if a man loves he is bound to tell his love, and to take the chance. you would hardly have thought it manly in me if i had abstained. dear friend, take a day or two before you answer this, and do not banish us from your heart if you can help it. your affectionate friend, paul montague. roger carbury did not take a single day,--or a single hour to answer the letter. he received it at breakfast, and after rushing out on the terrace and walking there for a few minutes, he hurried to his desk and wrote his reply. as he did so, his whole face was red with wrath, and his eyes were glowing with indignation. there is an old french saying that he who makes excuses is his own accuser. you would not have written as you have done, had you not felt yourself to be false and ungrateful. you knew where my heart was, and there you went and undermined my treasure, and stole it away. you have destroyed my life, and i will never forgive you. you tell me not to banish you both from my heart. how dare you join yourself with her in speaking of my feelings! she will never be banished from my heart. she will be there morning, noon, and night, and as is and will be my love to her, so shall be my enmity to you. roger carbury. it was hardly a letter for a christian to write; and, yet, in those parts roger carbury had the reputation of being a good christian. henrietta told her mother that morning, immediately on her return. "mamma, mr. paul montague has been here." "he always comes here when i am away," said lady carbury. "that has been an accident. he could not have known that you were going to messrs. leadham and loiter's." "i'm not so sure of that, hetta." "then, mamma, you must have told him yourself, and i don't think you knew till just before you were going. but, mamma, what does it matter? he has been here, and i have told him--" "you have not accepted him?" "yes, mamma." "without even asking me?" "mamma, you knew. i will not marry him without asking you. how was i not to tell him when he asked me whether i--loved him?" "marry him! how is it possible you should marry him? whatever he had got was in that affair of melmotte's, and that has gone to the dogs. he is a ruined man, and for aught i know may be compromised in all melmotte's wickedness." "oh, mamma, do not say that!" "but i do say it. it is hard upon me. i did think that you would try to comfort me after all this trouble with felix. but you are as bad as he is;--or worse, for you have not been thrown into temptation like that poor boy! and you will break your cousin's heart. poor roger! i feel for him;--he that has been so true to us! but you think nothing of that." "i think very much of my cousin roger." "and how do you show it;--or your love for me? there would have been a home for us all. now we must starve, i suppose. hetta, you have been worse to me even than felix." then lady carbury, in her passion, burst out of the room, and took herself to her own chamber. chapter lxvii. sir felix protects his sister. up to this period of his life sir felix carbury had probably felt but little of the punishment due to his very numerous shortcomings. he had spent all his fortune; he had lost his commission in the army; he had incurred the contempt of everybody that had known him; he had forfeited the friendship of those who were his natural friends, and had attached to him none others in their place; he had pretty nearly ruined his mother and sister; but, to use his own language, he had always contrived "to carry on the game." he had eaten and drunk, had gambled, hunted, and diverted himself generally after the fashion considered to be appropriate to young men about town. he had kept up till now. but now there seemed to him to have come an end to all things. when he was lying in bed in his mother's house he counted up all his wealth. he had a few pounds in ready money, he still had a little roll of mr. miles grendall's notes of hand, amounting perhaps to a couple of hundred pounds,--and mr. melmotte owed him £ . but where was he to turn, and what was he to do with himself? gradually he learned the whole story of the journey to liverpool,--how marie had gone there and had been sent back by the police, how marie's money had been repaid to mr. melmotte by mr. broune, and how his failure to make the journey to liverpool had become known. he was ashamed to go to his club. he could not go to melmotte's house. he was ashamed even to show himself in the streets by day. he was becoming almost afraid even of his mother. now that the brilliant marriage had broken down, and seemed to be altogether beyond hope, now that he had to depend on her household for all his comforts, he was no longer able to treat her with absolute scorn,--nor was she willing to yield as she had yielded. one thing only was clear to him. he must realise his possessions. with this view he wrote both to miles grendall and to melmotte. to the former he said he was going out of town,--probably for some time, and he must really ask for a cheque for the amount due. he went on to remark that he could hardly suppose that a nephew of the duke of albury was unable to pay debts of honour to the amount of £ ;--but that if such was the case he would have no alternative but to apply to the duke himself. the reader need hardly be told that to this letter mr. grendall vouchsafed no answer whatever. in his letter to mr. melmotte he confined himself to one matter of business in hand. he made no allusion whatever to marie, or to the great man's anger, or to his seat at the board. he simply reminded mr. melmotte that there was a sum of £ still due to him, and requested that a cheque might be sent to him for that amount. melmotte's answer to this was not altogether unsatisfactory, though it was not exactly what sir felix had wished. a clerk from mr. melmotte's office called at the house in welbeck street, and handed to felix railway scrip in the south central pacific and mexican railway to the amount of the sum claimed,--insisting on a full receipt for the money before he parted with the scrip. the clerk went on to explain, on behalf of his employer, that the money had been left in mr. melmotte's hands for the purpose of buying these shares. sir felix, who was glad to get anything, signed the receipt and took the scrip. this took place on the day after the balloting at westminster, when the result was not yet known,--and when the shares in the railway were very low indeed. sir felix had asked as to the value of the shares at the time. the clerk professed himself unable to quote the price,--but there were the shares if sir felix liked to take them. of course he took them;--and hurrying off into the city found that they might perhaps be worth about half the money due to him. the broker to whom he showed them could not quite answer for anything. yes;--the scrip had been very high; but there was a panic. they might recover,--or, more probably, they might go to nothing. sir felix cursed the great financier aloud, and left the scrip for sale. that was the first time that he had been out of the house before dark since his little accident. but he was chiefly tormented in these days by the want of amusement. he had so spent his life hitherto that he did not know how to get through a day in which no excitement was provided for him. he never read. thinking was altogether beyond him. and he had never done a day's work in his life. he could lie in bed. he could eat and drink. he could smoke and sit idle. he could play cards; and could amuse himself with women,--the lower the culture of the women, the better the amusement. beyond these things the world had nothing for him. therefore he again took himself to the pursuit of ruby ruggles. poor ruby had endured a very painful incarceration at her aunt's house. she had been wrathful and had stormed, swearing that she would be free to come and go as she pleased. free to go, mrs. pipkin told her that she was;--but not free to return if she went out otherwise than as she, mrs. pipkin, chose. "am i to be a slave?" ruby asked, and almost upset the perambulator which she had just dragged in at the hall door. then mrs. hurtle had taken upon herself to talk to her, and poor ruby had been quelled by the superior strength of the american lady. but she was very unhappy, finding that it did not suit her to be nursemaid to her aunt. after all john crumb couldn't have cared for her a bit, or he would have come to look after her. while she was in this condition sir felix came to mrs. pipkin's house, and asked for her at the door. it happened that mrs. pipkin herself had opened the door,--and, in her fright and dismay at the presence of so pernicious a young man in her own passage, had denied that ruby was in the house. but ruby had heard her lover's voice, and had rushed up and thrown herself into his arms. then there had been a great scene. ruby had sworn that she didn't care for her aunt, didn't care for her grandfather, or for mrs. hurtle, or for john crumb,--or for any person or anything. she cared only for her lover. then mrs. hurtle had asked the young man his intentions. did he mean to marry ruby? sir felix had said that he "supposed he might as well some day." "there," said ruby, "there!"--shouting in triumph as though an offer had been made to her with the completest ceremony of which such an event admits. mrs. pipkin had been very weak. instead of calling in the assistance of her strong-minded lodger, she had allowed the lovers to remain together for half-an-hour in the dining-room. i do not know that sir felix in any way repeated his promise during that time, but ruby was probably too blessed with the word that had been spoken to ask for such renewal. "there must be an end of this," said mrs. pipkin, coming in when the half-hour was over. then sir felix had gone, promising to come again on the following evening. "you must not come here, sir felix," said mrs. pipkin, "unless you puts it in writing." to this, of course, sir felix made no answer. as he went home he congratulated himself on the success of his adventure. perhaps the best thing he could do when he had realised the money for the shares would be to take ruby for a tour abroad. the money would last for three or four months,--and three or four months ahead was almost an eternity. that afternoon before dinner he found his sister alone in the drawing-room. lady carbury had gone to her own room after hearing the distressing story of paul montague's love, and had not seen hetta since. hetta was melancholy, thinking of her mother's hard words,--thinking perhaps of paul's poverty as declared by her mother, and of the ages which might have to wear themselves out before she could become his wife; but still tinting all her thoughts with a rosy hue because of the love which had been declared to her. she could not but be happy if he really loved her. and she,--as she had told him that she loved him,--would be true to him through everything! in her present mood she could not speak of herself to her brother, but she took the opportunity of making good the promise which marie melmotte had extracted from her. she gave him some short account of the party, and told him that she had talked with marie. "i promised to give you a message," she said. "it's all of no use now," said felix. "but i must tell you what she said. i think, you know, that she really loves you." "but what's the good of it? a man can't marry a girl when all the policemen in the country are dodging her." "she wants you to let her know what,--what you intend to do. if you mean to give her up, i think you should tell her." "how can i tell her? i don't suppose they would let her receive a letter." "shall i write to her;--or shall i see her?" "just as you like. i don't care." "felix, you are very heartless." "i don't suppose i'm much worse than other men;--or for the matter of that, worse than a great many women either. you all of you here put me up to marry her." "i never put you up to it." "mother did. and now because it did not go off all serene, i am to hear nothing but reproaches. of course i never cared so very much about her." "oh, felix, that is so shocking!" "awfully shocking i dare say. you think i am as black as the very mischief, and that sugar wouldn't melt in other men's mouths. other men are just as bad as i am,--and a good deal worse too. you believe that there is nobody on earth like paul montague." hetta blushed, but said nothing. she was not yet in a condition to boast of her lover before her brother, but she did, in very truth, believe that but few young men were as true-hearted as paul montague. "i suppose you'd be surprised to hear that master paul is engaged to marry an american widow living at islington." "mr. montague--engaged--to marry--an american widow! i don't believe it." "you'd better believe it if it's any concern of yours, for it's true. and it's true too that he travelled about with her for ever so long in the united states, and that he had her down with him at the hotel at lowestoft about a fortnight ago. there's no mistake about it." "i don't believe it," repeated hetta, feeling that to say even as much as that was some relief to her. it could not be true. it was impossible that the man should have come to her with such a lie in his mouth as that. though the words astounded her, though she felt faint, almost as though she would fall in a swoon, yet in her heart of hearts she did not believe it. surely it was some horrid joke,--or perhaps some trick to divide her from the man she loved. "felix, how dare you say things so wicked as that to me?" "what is there wicked in it? if you have been fool enough to become fond of the man, it is only right you should be told. he is engaged to marry mrs. hurtle, and she is lodging with one mrs. pipkin in islington. i know the house, and could take you there to-morrow, and show you the woman. there," said he, "that's where she is;"--and he wrote mrs. hurtle's name down on a scrap of paper. "it is not true," said hetta, rising from her seat, and standing upright. "i am engaged to mr. montague, and i am sure he would not treat me in that way." "then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me," said felix, jumping up. "if he has done that, it is time that i should interfere. as true as i stand here, he is engaged to marry a woman called mrs. hurtle whom he constantly visits at that place in islington." "i do not believe it," said hetta, repeating the only defence for her lover which was applicable at the moment. "by george, this is beyond a joke. will you believe it if roger carbury says it's true? i know you'd believe anything fast enough against me, if he told you." "roger carbury will not say so?" "have you the courage to ask him? i say he will say so. he knows all about it,--and has seen the woman." "how can you know? has roger told you?" "i do know, and that's enough. i will make this square with master paul. by heaven, yes! he shall answer to me. but my mother must manage you. she will not scruple to ask roger, and she will believe what roger tells her." "i do not believe a word of it," said hetta, leaving the room. but when she was alone she was very wretched. there must be some foundation for such a tale. why should felix have referred to roger carbury? and she did feel that there was something in her brother's manner which forbade her to reject the whole story as being altogether baseless. so she sat upon her bed and cried, and thought of all the tales she had heard of faithless lovers. and yet why should the man have come to her, not only with soft words of love, but asking her hand in marriage, if it really were true that he was in daily communication with another woman whom he had promised to make his wife? nothing on the subject was said at dinner. hetta with difficulty to herself sat at the table, and did not speak. lady carbury and her son were nearly as silent. soon after dinner felix slunk away to some music hall or theatre in quest probably of some other ruby ruggles. then lady carbury, who had now been told as much as her son knew, again attacked her daughter. very much of the story felix had learned from ruby. ruby had of course learned that paul was engaged to mrs. hurtle. mrs. hurtle had at once declared the fact to mrs. pipkin, and mrs. pipkin had been proud of the position of her lodger. ruby had herself seen paul montague at the house, and had known that he had taken mrs. hurtle to lowestoft. and it had also become known to the two women, the aunt and her niece, that mrs. hurtle had seen roger carbury on the sands at lowestoft. thus the whole story with most of its details,--not quite with all,--had come round to lady carbury's ears. "what he has told you, my dear, is true. much as i disapprove of mr. montague, you do not suppose that i would deceive you." "how can he know, mamma?" "he does know. i cannot explain to you how. he has been at the same house." "has he seen her?" "i do not know that he has, but roger carbury has seen her. if i write to him you will believe what he says?" "don't do that, mamma. don't write to him." "but i shall. why should i not write if he can tell me? if this other man is a villain am i not bound to protect you? of course felix is not steady. if it came only from him you might not credit it. and he has not seen her. if your cousin roger tells you that it is true,--tells me that he knows the man is engaged to marry this woman, then i suppose you will be contented." "contented, mamma!" "satisfied that what we tell you is true." "i shall never be contented again. if that is true, i will never believe anything. it can't be true. i suppose there is something, but it can't be that." the story was not altogether displeasing to lady carbury, though it pained her to see the agony which her daughter suffered. but she had no wish that paul montague should be her son-in-law, and she still thought that if roger would persevere he might succeed. on that very night before she went to bed she wrote to roger, and told him the whole story. "if," she said, "you know that there is such a person as mrs. hurtle, and if you know also that mr. montague has promised to make her his wife, of course you will tell me." then she declared her own wishes, thinking that by doing so she could induce roger carbury to give such real assistance in this matter that paul montague would certainly be driven away. who could feel so much interest in doing this as roger, or who be so closely acquainted with all the circumstances of montague's life? "you know," she said, "what my wishes are about hetta, and how utterly opposed i am to mr. montague's interference. if it is true, as felix says, that he is at the present moment entangled with another woman, he is guilty of gross insolence; and if you know all the circumstances you can surely protect us,--and also yourself." chapter lxviii. miss melmotte declares her purpose. poor hetta passed a very bad night. the story she had heard seemed to be almost too awful to be true,--even about any one else. the man had come to her, and had asked her to be his wife,--and yet at that very moment was living in habits of daily intercourse with another woman whom he had promised to marry! and then, too, his courtship with her had been so graceful, so soft, so modest, and yet so long continued! though he had been slow in speech, she had known since their first meeting how he regarded her! the whole state of his mind had, she had thought, been visible to her,--had been intelligible, gentle, and affectionate. he had been aware of her friends' feeling, and had therefore hesitated. he had kept himself from her because he had owed so much to friendship. and yet his love had not been the less true, and had not been less dear to poor hetta. she had waited, sure that it would come,--having absolute confidence in his honour and love. and now she was told that this man had been playing a game so base, and at the same time so foolish, that she could find not only no excuse but no possible cause for it. it was not like any story she had heard before of man's faithlessness. though she was wretched and sore at heart she swore to herself that she would not believe it. she knew that her mother would write to roger carbury,--but she knew also that nothing more would be said about the letter till the answer should come. nor could she turn anywhere else for comfort. she did not dare to appeal to paul himself. as regarded him, for the present she could only rely on the assurance, which she continued to give herself, that she would not believe a word of the story that had been told her. but there was other wretchedness besides her own. she had undertaken to give marie melmotte's message to her brother. she had done so, and she must now let marie have her brother's reply. that might be told in a very few words--"everything is over!" but it had to be told. "i want to call upon miss melmotte, if you'll let me," she said to her mother at breakfast. "why should you want to see miss melmotte? i thought you hated the melmottes?" "i don't hate them, mamma. i certainly don't hate her. i have a message to take to her,--from felix." "a message--from felix." "it is an answer from him. she wanted to know if all that was over. of course it is over. whether he said so or not, it would be so. they could never be married now;--could they, mamma?" the marriage, in lady carbury's mind, was no longer even desirable. she, too, was beginning to disbelieve in the melmotte wealth, and did quite disbelieve that that wealth would come to her son, even should he succeed in marrying the daughter. it was impossible that melmotte should forgive such offence as had now been committed. "it is out of the question," she said. "that, like everything else with us, has been a wretched failure. you can go, if you please. felix is under no obligation to them, and has taken nothing from them. i should much doubt whether the girl will get anybody to take her now. you can't go alone, you know," lady carbury added. but hetta said that she did not at all object to going alone as far as that. it was only just over oxford street. so she went out and made her way into grosvenor square. she had heard, but at the time remembered nothing, of the temporary migration of the melmottes to bruton street. seeing, as she approached the house, that there was a confusion there of carts and workmen, she hesitated. but she went on, and rang the bell at the door, which was wide open. within the hall the pilasters and trophies, the wreaths and the banners, which three or four days since had been built up with so much trouble, were now being pulled down and hauled away. and amidst the ruins melmotte himself was standing. he was now a member of parliament, and was to take his place that night in the house. nothing, at any rate, should prevent that. it might be but for a short time;--but it should be written in the history of his life that he had sat in the british house of commons as member for westminster. at the present moment he was careful to show himself everywhere. it was now noon, and he had already been into the city. at this moment he was talking to the contractor for the work,--having just propitiated that man by a payment which would hardly have been made so soon but for the necessity which these wretched stories had entailed upon him of keeping up his credit for the possession of money. hetta timidly asked one of the workmen whether miss melmotte was there. "do you want my daughter?" said melmotte coming forward, and just touching his hat. "she is not living here at present." "oh,--i remember now," said hetta. "may i be allowed to tell her who was asking after her?" at the present moment melmotte was not unreasonably suspicious about his daughter. "i am miss carbury," said hetta in a very low voice. "oh, indeed;--miss carbury!--the sister of sir felix carbury?" there was something in the tone of the man's voice which grated painfully on hetta's ears,--but she answered the question. "oh;--sir felix's sister! may i be permitted to ask whether--you have any business with my daughter?" the story was a hard one to tell, with all the workmen around her, in the midst of the lumber, with the coarse face of the suspicious man looking down upon her; but she did tell it very simply. she had come with a message from her brother. there had been something between her brother and miss melmotte, and her brother had felt that it would be best that he should acknowledge that it must be all over. "i wonder whether that is true," said melmotte, looking at her out of his great coarse eyes, with his eyebrows knit, with his hat on his head and his hands in his pockets. hetta, not knowing how, at the moment, to repudiate the suspicion expressed, was silent. "because, you know, there has been a deal of falsehood and double dealing. sir felix has behaved infamously; yes,--by g----, infamously. a day or two before my daughter started, he gave me a written assurance that the whole thing was over, and now he sends you here. how am i to know what you are really after?" "i have come because i thought i could do some good," she said, trembling with anger and fear. "i was speaking to your daughter at your party." "oh, you were there;--were you? it may be as you say, but how is one to tell? when one has been deceived like that, one is apt to be suspicious, miss carbury." here was one who had spent his life in lying to the world, and who was in his very heart shocked at the atrocity of a man who had lied to him! "you are not plotting another journey to liverpool;--are you?" to this hetta could make no answer. the insult was too much, but alone, unsupported, she did not know how to give him back scorn for scorn. at last he proposed to take her across to bruton street himself, and at his bidding she walked by his side. "may i hear what you say to her?" he asked. "if you suspect me, mr. melmotte, i had better not see her at all. it is only that there may no longer be any doubt." "you can say it all before me." "no;--i could not do that. but i have told you, and you can say it for me. if you please, i think i will go home now." but melmotte knew that his daughter would not believe him on such a subject. this girl she probably would believe. and though melmotte himself found it difficult to trust anybody, he thought that there was more possible good than evil to be expected from the proposed interview. "oh, you shall see her," he said. "i don't suppose she's such a fool as to try that kind of thing again." then the door in bruton street was opened, and hetta, repenting her mission, found herself almost pushed into the hall. she was bidden to follow melmotte up-stairs, and was left alone in the drawing-room, as she thought, for a long time. then the door was slowly opened and marie crept into the room. "miss carbury," she said, "this is so good of you,--so good of you! i do so love you for coming to me! you said you would love me. you will; will you not?" and marie, sitting down by the stranger, took her hand and encircled her waist. "mr. melmotte has told you why i have come." "yes;--that is, i don't know. i never believe what papa says to me." to poor hetta such an announcement as this was horrible. "we are at daggers drawn. he thinks i ought to do just what he tells me, as though my very soul were not my own. i won't agree to that;--would you?" hetta had not come there to preach disobedience, but could not fail to remember at the moment that she was not disposed to obey her mother in an affair of the same kind. "what does he say, dear?" hetta's message was to be conveyed in three words, and when those were told, there was nothing more to be said. "it must all be over, miss melmotte." "is that his message, miss carbury?" hetta nodded her head. "is that all?" "what more can i say? the other night you told me to bid him send you word. and i thought he ought to do so. i gave him your message, and i have brought back the answer. my brother, you know, has no income of his own;--nothing at all." "but i have," said marie with eagerness. "but your father--" "it does not depend upon papa. if papa treats me badly, i can give it to my husband. i know i can. if i can venture, cannot he?" "i think it is impossible." "impossible! nothing should be impossible. all the people that one hears of that are really true to their loves never find anything impossible. does he love me, miss carbury? it all depends on that. that's what i want to know." she paused, but hetta could not answer the question. "you must know about your brother. don't you know whether he does love me? if you know i think you ought to tell me." hetta was still silent. "have you nothing to say?" "miss melmotte--" began poor hetta very slowly. "call me marie. you said you would love me;--did you not? i don't even know what your name is." "my name is--hetta." "hetta;--that's short for something. but it's very pretty. i have no brother, no sister. and i'll tell you, though you must not tell anybody again;--i have no real mother. madame melmotte is not my mamma, though papa chooses that it should be thought so." all this she whispered, with rapid words, almost into hetta's ear. "and papa is so cruel to me! he beats me sometimes." the new friend, round whom marie still had her arm, shuddered as she heard this. "but i never will yield a bit for that. when he boxes and thumps me i always turn and gnash my teeth at him. can you wonder that i want to have a friend? can you be surprised that i should be always thinking of my lover? but,--if he doesn't love me, what am i to do then?" "i don't know what i am to say," ejaculated hetta amidst her sobs. whether the girl was good or bad, to be sought or to be avoided, there was so much tragedy in her position that hetta's heart was melted with sympathy. "i wonder whether you love anybody, and whether he loves you," said marie. hetta certainly had not come there to talk of her own affairs, and made no reply to this. "i suppose you won't tell me about yourself." "i wish i could tell you something for your own comfort." "he will not try again, you think?" "i am sure he will not." "i wonder what he fears. i should fear nothing,--nothing. why should not we walk out of the house, and be married any way? nobody has a right to stop me. papa could only turn me out of his house. i will venture if he will." it seemed to hetta that even listening to such a proposition amounted to falsehood,--to that guilt of which mr. melmotte had dared to suppose that she could be capable. "i cannot listen to it. indeed i cannot listen to it. my brother is sure that he cannot--cannot--" "cannot love me, hetta! say it out, if it is true." "it is true," said hetta. there came over the face of the other girl a stern hard look, as though she had resolved at the moment to throw away from her all soft womanly things. and she relaxed her hold on hetta's waist. "oh, my dear, i do not mean to be cruel, but you ask me for the truth." "yes; i did." "men are not, i think, like girls." "i suppose not," said marie slowly. "what liars they are, what brutes;--what wretches! why should he tell me lies like that? why should he break my heart? that other man never said that he loved me. did he never love me,--once?" hetta could hardly say that her brother was incapable of such love as marie expected, but she knew that it was so. "it is better that you should think of him no more." "are you like that? if you had loved a man and told him of it, and agreed to be his wife and done as i have, could you bear to be told to think of him no more,--just as though you had got rid of a servant or a horse? i won't love him. no;--i'll hate him. but i must think of him. i'll marry that other man to spite him, and then, when he finds that we are rich, he'll be broken-hearted." "you should try to forgive him, marie." "never. do not tell him that i forgive him. i command you not to tell him that. tell him,--tell him, that i hate him, and that if i ever meet him, i will look at him so that he shall never forget it. i could,--oh!--you do not know what i could do. tell me;--did he tell you to say that he did not love me?" "i wish i had not come," said hetta. "i am glad you have come. it was very kind. i don't hate you. of course i ought to know. but did he say that i was to be told that he did not love me?" "no;--he did not say that." "then how do you know? what did he say?" "that it was all over." "because he is afraid of papa. are you sure he does not love me?" "i am sure." "then he is a brute. tell him that i say that he is a false-hearted liar, and that i trample him under my foot." marie as she said this thrust her foot upon the ground as though that false one were in truth beneath it,--and spoke aloud, as though regardless who might hear her. "i despise him;--despise him. they are all bad, but he is the worst of all. papa beats me, but i can bear that. mamma reviles me and i can bear that. he might have beaten me and reviled me, and i could have borne it. but to think that he was a liar all the time;--that i can't bear." then she burst into tears. hetta kissed her, tried to comfort her, and left her sobbing on the sofa. later in the day, two or three hours after miss carbury had gone, marie melmotte, who had not shown herself at luncheon, walked into madame melmotte's room, and thus declared her purpose. "you can tell papa that i will marry lord nidderdale whenever he pleases." she spoke in french and very rapidly. on hearing this madame melmotte expressed herself to be delighted. "your papa," said she, "will be very glad to hear that you have thought better of this at last. lord nidderdale is, i am sure, a very good young man." "yes," continued marie, boiling over with passion as she spoke. "i'll marry lord nidderdale, or that horrid mr. grendall who is worse than all the others, or his old fool of a father,--or the sweeper at the crossing,--or the black man that waits at table, or anybody else that he chooses to pick up. i don't care who it is the least in the world. but i'll lead him such a life afterwards! i'll make lord nidderdale repent the hour he saw me! you may tell papa." and then, having thus entrusted her message to madame melmotte, marie left the room. chapter lxix. melmotte in parliament. melmotte did not return home in time to hear the good news that day,--good news as he would regard it, even though, when told to him it should be accompanied by all the extraneous additions with which marie had communicated her purpose to madame melmotte. it was nothing to him what the girl thought of the marriage,--if the marriage could now be brought about. he, too, had cause for vexation, if not for anger. if marie had consented a fortnight since he might have so hurried affairs that lord nidderdale might by this time have been secured. now there might be,--must be, doubt, through the folly of his girl and the villany of sir felix carbury. were he once the father-in-law of the eldest son of a marquis, he thought he might almost be safe. even though something might be all but proved against him,--which might come to certain proof in less august circumstances,--matters would hardly be pressed against a member for westminster whose daughter was married to the heir of the marquis of auld reekie! so many persons would then be concerned! of course his vexation with marie had been great. of course his wrath against sir felix was unbounded. the seat for westminster was his. he was to be seen to occupy it before all the world on this very day. but he had not as yet heard that his daughter had yielded in reference to lord nidderdale. there was considerable uneasiness felt in some circles as to the manner in which melmotte should take his seat. when he was put forward as the conservative candidate for the borough a good deal of fuss had been made with him by certain leading politicians. it had been the manifest intention of the party that his return, if he were returned, should be hailed as a great conservative triumph, and be made much of through the length and the breadth of the land. he was returned,--but the trumpets had not as yet been sounded loudly. on a sudden, within the space of forty-eight hours, the party had become ashamed of their man. and, now, who was to introduce him to the house? but with this feeling of shame on one side, there was already springing up an idea among another class that melmotte might become as it were a conservative tribune of the people,--that he might be the realization of that hitherto hazy mixture of radicalism and old-fogyism, of which we have lately heard from a political master, whose eloquence has been employed in teaching us that progress can only be expected from those whose declared purpose is to stand still. the new farthing newspaper, "the mob," was already putting melmotte forward as a political hero, preaching with reference to his commercial transactions the grand doctrine that magnitude in affairs is a valid defence for certain irregularities. a napoleon, though he may exterminate tribes in carrying out his projects, cannot be judged by the same law as a young lieutenant who may be punished for cruelty to a few negroes. "the mob" thought that a good deal should be overlooked in a melmotte, and that the philanthropy of his great designs should be allowed to cover a multitude of sins. i do not know that the theory was ever so plainly put forward as it was done by the ingenious and courageous writer in "the mob;" but in practice it has commanded the assent of many intelligent minds. mr. melmotte, therefore, though he was not where he had been before that wretched squercum had set afloat the rumours as to the purchase of pickering, was able to hold his head much higher than on the unfortunate night of the great banquet. he had replied to the letter from messrs. slow and bideawhile, by a note written in the ordinary way in the office, and only signed by himself. in this he merely said that he would lose no time in settling matters as to the purchase of pickering. slow and bideawhile were of course anxious that things should be settled. they wanted no prosecution for forgery. to make themselves clear in the matter, and their client,--and if possible to take some wind out of the sails of the odious squercum;--this would suit them best. they were prone to hope that for his own sake melmotte would raise the money. if it were raised there would be no reason why that note purporting to have been signed by dolly longestaffe should ever leave their office. they still protested their belief that it did bear dolly's signature. they had various excuses for themselves. it would have been useless for them to summon dolly to their office, as they knew from long experience that dolly would not come. the very letter written by themselves,--as a suggestion,--and given to dolly's father, had come back to them with dolly's ordinary signature, sent to them,--as they believed,--with other papers by dolly's father. what justification could be clearer? but still the money had not been paid. that was the fault of longestaffe senior. but if the money could be paid, that would set everything right. squercum evidently thought that the money would not be paid, and was ceaseless in his intercourse with bideawhile's people. he charged slow and bideawhile with having delivered up the title-deeds on the authority of a mere note, and that a note with a forged signature. he demanded that the note should be impounded. on the receipt by mr. bideawhile of melmotte's rather curt reply mr. squercum was informed that mr. melmotte had promised to pay the money at once, but that a day or two must be allowed. mr. squercum replied that on his client's behalf he should open the matter before the lord mayor. but in this way two or three days had passed without any renewal of the accusation before the public, and melmotte had in a certain degree recovered his position. the beauclerks and the luptons disliked and feared him as much as ever, but they did not quite dare to be so loud and confident in condemnation as they had been. it was pretty well known that mr. longestaffe had not received his money,--and that was a condition of things tending greatly to shake the credit of a man living after melmotte's fashion. but there was no crime in that. no forgery was implied by the publication of any statement to that effect. the longestaffes, father and son, might probably have been very foolish. whoever expected anything but folly from either? and slow and bideawhile might have been very remiss in their duty. it was astonishing, some people said, what things attorneys would do in these days! but they who had expected to see melmotte behind the bars of a prison before this, and had regulated their conduct accordingly, now imagined that they had been deceived. had the westminster triumph been altogether a triumph it would have become the pleasant duty of some popular conservative to express to melmotte the pleasure he would have in introducing his new political ally to the house. in such case melmotte himself would have been walked up the chamber with a pleasurable ovation and the thing would have been done without trouble to him. but now this was not the position of affairs. though the matter was debated at the carlton, no such popular conservative offered his services. "i don't think we ought to throw him over," mr. beauclerk said. sir orlando drought, quite a leading conservative, suggested that as lord nidderdale was very intimate with mr. melmotte he might do it. but nidderdale was not the man for such a performance. he was a very good fellow and everybody liked him. he belonged to the house because his father had territorial influence in a scotch county;--but he never did anything there, and his selection for such a duty would be a declaration to the world that nobody else would do it. "it wouldn't hurt you, lupton," said mr. beauclerk. "not at all," said lupton; "but i also, like nidderdale, am a young man and of no use,--and a great deal too bashful." melmotte, who knew but little about it, went down to the house at four o'clock, somewhat cowed by want of companionship, but carrying out his resolution that he would be stopped by no phantom fears,--that he would lose nothing by want of personal pluck. he knew that he was a member, and concluded that if he presented himself he would be able to make his way in and assume his right. but here again fortune befriended him. the very leader of the party, the very founder of that new doctrine of which it was thought that melmotte might become an apostle and an expounder,--who, as the reader may remember, had undertaken to be present at the banquet when his colleagues were dismayed and untrue to him, and who kept his promise and sat there almost in solitude,--he happened to be entering the house, as his late host was claiming from the door-keeper the fruition of his privilege. "you had better let me accompany you," said the conservative leader, with something of chivalry in his heart. and so mr. melmotte was introduced to the house by the head of his party! when this was seen many men supposed that the rumours had been proved to be altogether false. was not this a guarantee sufficient to guarantee any man's respectability? lord nidderdale saw his father in the lobby of the house of lords that afternoon and told him what had occurred. the old man had been in a state of great doubt since the day of the dinner party. he was aware of the ruin that would be incurred by a marriage with melmotte's daughter, if the things which had been said of melmotte should be proved to be true. but he knew also that if his son should now recede, there must be an end of the match altogether;--and he did not believe the rumours. he was fully determined that the money should be paid down before the marriage was celebrated; but if his son were to secede now, of course no money would be forthcoming. he was prepared to recommend his son to go on with the affair still a little longer. "old cure tells me he doesn't believe a word of it," said the father. cure was the family lawyer of the marquises of auld reekie. "there's some hitch about dolly longestaffe's money, sir," said the son. "what's that to us if he has our money ready? i suppose it isn't always easy even for a man like that to get a couple of hundred thousand together. i know i've never found it easy to get a thousand. if he has borrowed a trifle from longestaffe to make up the girl's money, i shan't complain. you stand to your guns. there's no harm done till the parson has said the word." "you couldn't let me have a couple of hundred;--could you, sir?" suggested the son. "no, i couldn't," replied the father with a very determined aspect. "i'm awfully hard up." "so am i." then the old man toddled into his own chamber, and after sitting there ten minutes went away home. lord nidderdale also got quickly through his legislative duties and went to the beargarden. there he found grasslough and miles grendall dining together, and seated himself at the next table. they were full of news. "you've heard it, i suppose," said miles in an awful whisper. "heard what?" "i believe he doesn't know!" said lord grasslough. "by jove, nidderdale, you're in a mess like some others." "what's up now?" "only fancy that they shouldn't have known down at the house! vossner has bolted!" "bolted!" exclaimed nidderdale, dropping the spoon with which he was just going to eat his soup. "bolted," repeated grasslough. lord nidderdale looked round the room and became aware of the awful expression of dismay which hung upon the features of all the dining members. "bolted by george! he has sold all our acceptances to a fellow in great marlbro' that's called 'flatfleece.'" "i know him," said nidderdale shaking his head. "i should think so," said miles ruefully. "a bottle of champagne!" said nidderdale, appealing to the waiter in almost a humble voice, feeling that he wanted sustenance in this new trouble that had befallen him. the waiter, beaten almost to the ground by an awful sense of the condition of the club, whispered to him the terrible announcement that there was not a bottle of champagne in the house. "good g----," exclaimed the unfortunate nobleman. miles grendall shook his head. grasslough shook his head. [illustration: "not a bottle of champagne in the house."] "it's true," said another young lord from the table on the other side. then the waiter, still speaking with suppressed and melancholy voice, suggested that there was some port left. it was now the middle of july. "brandy?" suggested nidderdale. there had been a few bottles of brandy, but they had been already consumed. "send out and get some brandy," said nidderdale with rapid impetuosity. but the club was so reduced in circumstances that he was obliged to take silver out of his pocket before he could get even such humble comfort as he now demanded. then lord grasslough told the whole story as far as it was known. herr vossner had not been seen since nine o'clock on the preceding evening. the head waiter had known for some weeks that heavy bills were due. it was supposed that three or four thousand pounds were owing to tradesmen, who now professed that the credit had been given, not to herr vossner but to the club. and the numerous acceptances for large sums which the accommodating purveyor held from many of the members had all been sold to mr. flatfleece. mr. flatfleece had spent a considerable portion of the day at the club, and it was now suggested that he and herr vossner were in partnership. at this moment dolly longestaffe came in. dolly had been at the club before and had heard the story,--but had gone at once to another club for his dinner when he found that there was not even a bottle of wine to be had. "here's a go," said dolly. "one thing atop of another! there'll be nothing left for anybody soon. is that brandy you're drinking, nidderdale? there was none here when i left." "had to send round the corner for it, to the public." "we shall be sending round the corner for a good many things now. does anybody know anything of that fellow melmotte?" "he's down in the house, as big as life," said nidderdale. "he's all right i think." "i wish he'd pay me my money then. that fellow flatfleece was here, and he showed me notes of mine for about £ , ! i write such a beastly hand that i never know whether i've written it or not. but, by george, a fellow can't eat and drink £ , in less than six months!" "there's no knowing what you can do, dolly," said lord grasslough. "he's paid some of your card money, perhaps," said nidderdale. "i don't think he ever did. carbury had a lot of my i. o. u.'s while that was going on, but i got the money for that from old melmotte. how is a fellow to know? if any fellow writes d. longestaffe, am i obliged to pay it? everybody is writing my name! how is any fellow to stand that kind of thing? do you think melmotte's all right?" nidderdale said that he did think so. "i wish he wouldn't go and write my name then. that's a sort of thing that a man should be left to do for himself. i suppose vossner is a swindler; but, by jove, i know a worse than vossner." with that he turned on his heels and went into the smoking-room. and, after he was gone, there was silence at the table, for it was known that lord nidderdale was to marry melmotte's daughter. in the meantime a scene of a different kind was going on in the house of commons. melmotte had been seated on one of the back conservative benches, and there he remained for a considerable time unnoticed and forgotten. the little emotion that had attended his entrance had passed away, and melmotte was now no more than any one else. at first he had taken his hat off, but, as soon as he observed that the majority of members were covered, he put it on again. then he sat motionless for an hour, looking round him and wondering. he had never hitherto been even in the gallery of the house. the place was very much smaller than he had thought, and much less tremendous. the speaker did not strike him with the awe which he had expected, and it seemed to him that they who spoke were talking much like other people in other places. for the first hour he hardly caught the meaning of a sentence that was said, nor did he try to do so. one man got up very quickly after another, some of them barely rising on their legs to say the few words that they uttered. it seemed to him to be a very common-place affair,--not half so awful as those festive occasions on which he had occasionally been called upon to propose a toast or to return thanks. then suddenly the manner of the thing was changed, and one gentleman made a long speech. melmotte by this time, weary of observing, had begun to listen, and words which were familiar to him reached his ears. the gentleman was proposing some little addition to a commercial treaty and was expounding in very strong language the ruinous injustice to which england was exposed by being tempted to use gloves made in a country in which no income tax was levied. melmotte listened to his eloquence caring nothing about gloves, and very little about england's ruin. but in the course of the debate which followed, a question arose about the value of money, of exchange, and of the conversion of shillings into francs and dollars. about this melmotte really did know something and he pricked up his ears. it seemed to him that a gentleman whom he knew very well in the city,--and who had maliciously stayed away from his dinner,--one mr. brown, who sat just before him on the same side of the house, and who was plodding wearily and slowly along with some pet fiscal theory of his own, understood nothing at all of what he was saying. here was an opportunity for himself! here was at his hand the means of revenging himself for the injury done him, and of showing to the world at the same time that he was not afraid of his city enemies! it required some courage certainly,--this attempt that suggested itself to him of getting upon his legs a couple of hours after his first introduction to parliamentary life. but he was full of the lesson which he was now ever teaching himself. nothing should cow him. whatever was to be done by brazen-faced audacity he would do. it seemed to be very easy, and he saw no reason why he should not put that old fool right. he knew nothing of the forms of the house;--was more ignorant of them than an ordinary schoolboy;--but on that very account felt less trepidation than might another parliamentary novice. mr. brown was tedious and prolix; and melmotte, though he thought much of his project and had almost told himself that he would do the thing, was still doubting, when, suddenly, mr. brown sat down. there did not seem to be any particular end to the speech, nor had melmotte followed any general thread of argument. but a statement had been made and repeated, containing, as melmotte thought, a fundamental error in finance; and he longed to set the matter right. at any rate he desired to show the house that mr. brown did not know what he was talking about,--because mr. brown had not come to his dinner. when mr. brown was seated, nobody at once rose. the subject was not popular, and they who understood the business of the house were well aware that the occasion had simply been one on which two or three commercial gentlemen, having crazes of their own, should be allowed to ventilate them. the subject would have dropped;--but on a sudden the new member was on his legs. now it was probably not in the remembrance of any gentleman there that a member had got up to make a speech within two or three hours of his first entry into the house. and this gentleman was one whose recent election had been of a very peculiar kind. it had been considered by many of his supporters that his name should be withdrawn just before the ballot; by others that he would be deterred by shame from showing himself even if he were elected; and again by another party that his appearance in parliament would be prevented by his disappearance within the walls of newgate. but here he was, not only in his seat, but on his legs! the favourable grace, the air of courteous attention, which is always shown to a new member when he first speaks, was extended also to melmotte. there was an excitement in the thing which made gentlemen willing to listen, and a consequent hum, almost of approbation. as soon as melmotte was on his legs, and, looking round, found that everybody was silent with the intent of listening to him, a good deal of his courage oozed out of his fingers' ends. the house, which, to his thinking, had by no means been august while mr. brown had been toddling through his speech, now became awful. he caught the eyes of great men fixed upon him,--of men who had not seemed to him to be at all great as he had watched them a few minutes before, yawning beneath their hats. mr. brown, poor as his speech had been, had, no doubt, prepared it,--and had perhaps made three or four such speeches every year for the last fifteen years. melmotte had not dreamed of putting two words together. he had thought, as far as he had thought at all, that he could rattle off what he had to say just as he might do it when seated in his chair at the mexican railway board. but there was the speaker, and those three clerks in their wigs, and the mace,--and worse than all, the eyes of that long row of statesmen opposite to him! his position was felt by him to be dreadful. he had forgotten even the very point on which he had intended to crush mr. brown. but the courage of the man was too high to allow him to be altogether quelled at once. the hum was prolonged; and though he was red in the face, perspiring, and utterly confused, he was determined to make a dash at the matter with the first words which would occur to him. "mr. brown is all wrong," he said. he had not even taken off his hat as he rose. mr. brown turned slowly round and looked up at him. some one, whom he could not exactly hear, touching him behind, suggested that he should take off his hat. there was a cry of order, which of course he did not understand. "yes, you are," said melmotte, nodding his head, and frowning angrily at poor mr. brown. [illustration: melmotte in parliament.] "the honourable member," said the speaker, with the most good-natured voice which he could assume, "is not perhaps as yet aware that he should not call another member by his name. he should speak of the gentleman to whom he alluded as the honourable member for whitechapel. and in speaking he should address, not another honourable member, but the chair." "you should take your hat off," said the good-natured gentleman behind. in such a position how should any man understand so many and such complicated instructions at once, and at the same time remember the gist of the argument to be produced? he did take off his hat, and was of course made hotter and more confused by doing so. "what he said was all wrong," continued melmotte; "and i should have thought a man out of the city, like mr. brown, ought to have known better." then there were repeated calls of order, and a violent ebullition of laughter from both sides of the house. the man stood for a while glaring around him, summoning his own pluck for a renewal of his attack on mr. brown, determined that he would be appalled and put down neither by the ridicule of those around him, nor by his want of familiarity with the place; but still utterly unable to find words with which to carry on the combat. "i ought to know something about it," said melmotte sitting down and hiding his indignation and his shame under his hat. "we are sure that the honourable member for westminster does understand the subject," said the leader of the house, "and we shall be very glad to hear his remarks. the house i am sure will pardon ignorance of its rules in so young a member." but mr. melmotte would not rise again. he had made a great effort, and had at any rate exhibited his courage. though they might all say that he had not displayed much eloquence, they would be driven to admit that he had not been ashamed to show himself. he kept his seat till the regular stampede was made for dinner, and then walked out with as stately a demeanour as he could assume. "well, that was plucky!" said cohenlupe, taking his friend's arm in the lobby. "i don't see any pluck in it. that old fool brown didn't know what he was talking about, and i wanted to tell them so. they wouldn't let me do it, and there's an end of it. it seems to me to be a stupid sort of a place." "has longestaffe's money been paid?" said cohenlupe opening his black eyes while he looked up into his friend's face. "don't you trouble your head about longestaffe, or his money either," said melmotte, getting into his brougham; "do you leave mr. longestaffe and his money to me. i hope you are not such a fool as to be scared by what the other fools say. when men play such a game as you and i are concerned in, they ought to know better than to be afraid of every word that is spoken." "oh, dear; yes;" said cohenlupe apologetically. "you don't suppose that i am afraid of anything." but at that moment mr. cohenlupe was meditating his own escape from the dangerous shores of england, and was trying to remember what happy country still was left in which an order from the british police would have no power to interfere with the comfort of a retired gentleman such as himself. that evening madame melmotte told her husband that marie was now willing to marry lord nidderdale;--but she did not say anything as to the crossing-sweeper or the black footman, nor did she allude to marie's threat of the sort of life she would lead her husband. chapter lxx. sir felix meddles with many matters. there is no duty more certain or fixed in the world than that which calls upon a brother to defend his sister from ill-usage; but, at the same time, in the way we live now, no duty is more difficult, and we may say generally more indistinct. the ill-usage to which men's sisters are most generally exposed is one which hardly admits of either protection or vengeance,--although the duty of protecting and avenging is felt and acknowledged. we are not allowed to fight duels, and that banging about of another man with a stick is always disagreeable and seldom successful. a john crumb can do it, perhaps, and come out of the affair exulting; but not a sir felix carbury, even if the sir felix of the occasion have the requisite courage. there is a feeling, too, when a girl has been jilted,--thrown over, perhaps, is the proper term,--after the gentleman has had the fun of making love to her for an entire season, and has perhaps even been allowed privileges as her promised husband, that the less said the better. the girl does not mean to break her heart for love of the false one, and become the tragic heroine of a tale for three months. it is her purpose again to --trick her beams, and with new-spangled ore flame in the forehead of the morning sky. though this one has been false, as were perhaps two or three before, still the road to success is open. uno avulso non deficit alter. but if all the notoriety of cudgels and cutting whips be given to the late unfortunate affair, the difficulty of finding a substitute will be greatly increased. the brother recognises his duty, and prepares for vengeance. the injured one probably desires that she may be left to fight her own little battles alone. "then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me," sir felix had said very grandly, when his sister had told him that she was engaged to a man who was, as he thought he knew, engaged also to marry another woman. here, no doubt, was gross ill-usage, and opportunity at any rate for threats. no money was required and no immediate action,--and sir felix could act the fine gentleman and the dictatorial brother at very little present expense. but hetta, who ought perhaps to have known her brother more thoroughly, was fool enough to believe him. on the day but one following, no answer had as yet come from roger carbury,--nor could as yet have come. but hetta's mind was full of her trouble, and she remembered her brother's threat. felix had forgotten that he had made a threat,--and, indeed, had thought no more of the matter since his interview with his sister. "felix," she said, "you won't mention that to mr. montague!" "mention what? oh! about that woman, mrs. hurtle? indeed i shall. a man who does that kind of thing ought to be crushed;--and, by heavens, if he does it to you, he shall be crushed." "i want to tell you, felix. if it is so, i will see him no more." "if it is so! i tell you i know it." "mamma has written to roger. at least i feel sure she has." "what has she written to him for? what has roger carbury to do with our affairs?" "only you said he knew! if he says so, that is, if you and he both say that he is to marry that woman,--i will not see mr. montague again. pray do not go to him. if such a misfortune does come, it is better to bear it and to be silent. what good can be done?" "leave that to me," said sir felix, walking out of the room with much fraternal bluster. then he went forth, and at once had himself driven to paul montague's lodgings. had hetta not been foolish enough to remind him of his duty, he would not now have undertaken the task. he too, no doubt, remembered as he went that duels were things of the past, and that even fists and sticks are considered to be out of fashion. "montague," he said, assuming all the dignity of demeanour that his late sorrows had left to him, "i believe i am right in saying that you are engaged to marry that american lady, mrs. hurtle." "then let me tell you that you were never more wrong in your life. what business have you with mrs. hurtle?" "when a man proposes to my sister, i think i've a great deal of business," said sir felix. "well;--yes; i admit that fully. if i answered you roughly, i beg your pardon. now as to the facts. i am not going to marry mrs. hurtle. i suppose i know how you have heard her name;--but as you have heard it, i have no hesitation in telling you so much. as you know where she is to be found you can go and ask her if you please. on the other hand, it is the dearest wish of my heart to marry your sister. i trust that will be enough for you." "you were engaged to mrs. hurtle?" "my dear carbury, i don't think i'm bound to tell you all the details of my past life. at any rate, i don't feel inclined to do so in answer to hostile questions. i dare say you have heard enough of mrs. hurtle to justify you, as your sister's brother, in asking me whether i am in any way entangled by a connection with her. i tell you that i am not. if you still doubt, i refer you to the lady herself. beyond that, i do not think i am called on to go; and beyond that i won't go,--at any rate, at present." sir felix still blustered, and made what capital he could out of his position as a brother; but he took no steps towards positive revenge. "of course, carbury," said the other, "i wish to regard you as a brother; and if i am rough to you, it is only because you are rough to me." sir felix was now in that part of town which he had been accustomed to haunt,--for the first time since his misadventure,--and, plucking up his courage, resolved that he would turn into the beargarden. he would have a glass of sherry, and face the one or two men who would as yet be there, and in this way gradually creep back to his old habits. but when he arrived there, the club was shut up. "what the deuce is vossner about?" said he, pulling out his watch. it was nearly five o'clock. he rang the bell, and knocked at the door, feeling that this was an occasion for courage. one of the servants, in what we may call private clothes, after some delay, drew back the bolts, and told him the astounding news;--the club was shut up! "do you mean to say i can't come in?" said sir felix. the man certainly did mean to tell him so, for he opened the door no more than a foot, and stood in that narrow aperture. mr. vossner had gone away. there had been a meeting of the committee, and the club was shut up. whatever further information rested in the waiter's bosom he declined to communicate to sir felix carbury. "by george!" the wrong that was done him filled the young baronet's bosom with indignation. he had intended, he assured himself, to dine at his club, to spend the evening there sportively, to be pleasant among his chosen companions. and now the club was shut up, and vossner had gone away! what business had the club to be shut up? what right had vossner to go away? had he not paid his subscription in advance? throughout the world, the more wrong a man does, the more indignant is he at wrong done to him. sir felix almost thought that he could recover damages from the whole committee. he went direct to mrs. pipkin's house. when he made that half promise of marriage in mrs. pipkin's hearing, he had said that he would come again on the morrow. this he had not done; but of that he thought nothing. such breaches of faith, when committed by a young man in his position, require not even an apology. he was admitted by ruby herself, who was of course delighted to see him. "who do you think is in town?" she said. "john crumb; but though he came here ever so smart, i wouldn't so much as speak to him, except to tell him to go away." sir felix, when he heard the name, felt an uncomfortable sensation creep over him. "i don't know i'm sure what he should come after me for, and me telling him as plain as the nose on his face that i never want to see him again." "he's not of much account," said the baronet. "he would marry me out and out immediately, if i'd have him," continued ruby, who perhaps thought that her honest old lover should not be spoken of as being altogether of no account. "and he has everything comfortable in the way of furniture, and all that. and they do say he's ever so much money in the bank. but i detest him," said ruby, shaking her pretty head, and inclining herself towards her aristocratic lover's shoulder. this took place in the back parlour, before mrs. pipkin had ascended from the kitchen prepared to disturb so much romantic bliss with wretched references to the cold outer world. "well, now, sir felix," she began, "if things is square, of course you're welcome to see my niece." "and what if they're round, mrs. pipkin?" said the gallant, careless, sparkling lothario. "well, or round either, so long as they're honest." "ruby and i are both honest;--ain't we, ruby? i want to take her out to dinner, mrs. pipkin. she shall be back before late;--before ten; she shall indeed." ruby inclined herself still more closely towards his shoulder. "come, ruby, get your hat and change your dress, and we'll be off. i've ever so many things to tell you." ever so many things to tell her! they must be to fix a day for the marriage, and to let her know where they were to live, and to settle what dress she should wear,--and perhaps to give her the money to go and buy it! ever so many things to tell her! she looked up into mrs. pipkin's face with imploring eyes. surely on such an occasion as this an aunt would not expect that her niece should be a prisoner and a slave. "have it been put in writing, sir felix carbury?" demanded mrs. pipkin with cruel gravity. mrs. hurtle had given it as her decided opinion that sir felix would not really mean to marry ruby ruggles unless he showed himself willing to do so with all the formality of a written contract. "writing be bothered," said sir felix. "that's all very well, sir felix. writing do bother, very often. but when a gentleman has intentions, a bit of writing shows it plainer nor words. ruby don't go no where to dine unless you puts it into writing." "aunt pipkin!" exclaimed the wretched ruby. "what do you think i'm going to do with her?" asked sir felix. "if you want to make her your wife, put it in writing. and if it be as you don't, just say so, and walk away,--free." "i shall go," said ruby. "i'm not going to be kept here a prisoner for any one. i can go when i please. you wait, felix, and i'll be down in a minute." the girl, with a nimble spring, ran upstairs, and began to change her dress without giving herself a moment for thought. "she don't come back no more here, sir felix," said mrs. pipkin, in her most solemn tones. "she ain't nothing to me, no more than she was my poor dear husband's sister's child. there ain't no blood between us, and won't be no disgrace. but i'd be loth to see her on the streets." "then why won't you let me bring her back again?" "'cause that'd be the way to send her there. you don't mean to marry her." to this sir felix said nothing. "you're not thinking of that. it's just a bit of sport,--and then there she is, an old shoe to be chucked away, just a rag to be swept into the dust-bin. i've seen scores of 'em, and i'd sooner a child of mine should die in a workus', or be starved to death. but it's all nothing to the likes o' you." "i haven't done her any harm," said sir felix, almost frightened. "then go away, and don't do her any. that's mrs. hurtle's door open. you go and speak to her. she can talk a deal better nor me." "mrs. hurtle hasn't been able to manage her own affairs very well." "mrs. hurtle's a lady, sir felix, and a widow, and one as has seen the world." as she spoke, mrs. hurtle came downstairs, and an introduction, after some rude fashion, was effected between her and sir felix. mrs. hurtle had heard often of sir felix carbury, and was quite as certain as mrs. pipkin that he did not mean to marry ruby ruggles. in a few minutes felix found himself alone with mrs. hurtle in her own room. he had been anxious to see the woman since he had heard of her engagement with paul montague, and doubly anxious since he had also heard of paul's engagement with his sister. it was not an hour since paul himself had referred him to her for corroboration of his own statement. "sir felix carbury," she said, "i am afraid you are doing that poor girl no good, and are intending to do her none." it did occur to him very strongly that this could be no affair of mrs. hurtle's, and that he, as a man of position in society, was being interfered with in an unjustifiable manner. aunt pipkin wasn't even an aunt; but who was mrs. hurtle? "would it not be better that you should leave her to become the wife of a man who is really fond of her?" he could already see something in mrs. hurtle's eye which prevented his at once bursting into wrath;--but who was mrs. hurtle, that she should interfere with him? "upon my word, ma'am," he said, "i'm very much obliged to you, but i don't quite know to what i owe the honour of your--your--" "interference you mean." "i didn't say so, but perhaps that's about it." "i'd interfere to save any woman that god ever made," said mrs. hurtle with energy. "we're all apt to wait a little too long, because we're ashamed to do any little good that chance puts in our way. you must go and leave her, sir felix." "i suppose she may do as she pleases about that." "do you mean to make her your wife?" asked mrs. hurtle sternly. "does mr. paul montague mean to make you his wife?" rejoined sir felix with an impudent swagger. he had struck the blow certainly hard enough, and it had gone all the way home. she had not surmised that he would have heard aught of her own concerns. she only barely connected him with that roger carbury who, she knew, was paul's great friend, and she had as yet never heard that hetta carbury was the girl whom paul loved. had paul so talked about her that this young scamp should know all her story? she thought awhile,--she had to think for a moment,--before she could answer him. "i do not see," she said, with a faint attempt at a smile, "that there is any parallel between the two cases. i, at any rate, am old enough to take care of myself. should he not marry me, i am as i was before. will it be so with that poor girl if she allows herself to be taken about the town by you at night?" she had desired in what she said to protect ruby rather than herself. what could it matter whether this young man was left in a belief that she was, or that she was not, about to be married? "if you'll answer me, i'll answer you," said sir felix. "does mr. montague mean to make you his wife?" "it does not concern you to know," said she, flashing upon him. "the question is insolent." "it does concern me,--a great deal more than anything about ruby can concern you. and as you won't answer me, i won't answer you." "then, sir, that girl's fate will be upon your head." "i know all about that," said the baronet. "and the young man who has followed her up to town will probably know where to find you," added mrs. hurtle. to such a threat as this, no answer could be made, and sir felix left the room. at any rate, john crumb was not there at present. and were there not policemen in london? and what additional harm would be done to john crumb, or what increase of anger engendered in that true lover's breast, by one additional evening's amusement? ruby had danced with him so often at the music hall that john crumb could hardly be made more bellicose by the fact of her dining with him on this evening. when he descended, he found ruby in the hall, all arrayed. "you don't come in here again to-night," said mrs. pipkin, thumping the little table which stood in the passage, "if you goes out of that there door with that there young man." "then i shall," said ruby linking herself on to her lover's arm. "baggage! slut!" said mrs. pipkin; "after all i've done for you, just as one as though you were my own flesh and blood." "i've worked for it, i suppose;--haven't i?" rejoined ruby. "you send for your things to-morrow, for you don't come in here no more. you ain't nothing to me no more nor no other girl. but i'd 've saved you, if you'd but a' let me. as for you,"--and she looked at sir felix,--"only because i've lodgings to let, and because of the lady upstairs, i'd shake you that well, you'd never come here no more after poor girls." i do not think that she need have feared any remonstrance from mrs. hurtle, even had she put her threat into execution. sir felix, thinking that he had had enough of mrs. pipkin and her lodger, left the house with ruby on his arm. for the moment, ruby had been triumphant, and was happy. she did not stop to consider whether her aunt would or would not open her door when she should return tired, and perhaps repentant. she was on her lover's arm, in her best clothes, and going to have a dinner given to her. and her lover had told her that he had ever so many things,--ever so many things to say to her! but she would ask no impertinent questions in the first hour of her bliss. it was so pleasant to walk with him up to pentonville;--so joyous to turn into a gay enclosure, half public-house and half tea-garden; so pleasant to hear him order the good things, which in his company would be so nice! who cannot understand that even an urban rosherville must be an elysium to those who have lately been eating their meals in all the gloom of a small london underground kitchen? there we will leave ruby in her bliss. at about nine that evening john crumb called at mrs. pipkin's, and was told that ruby had gone out with sir felix carbury. he hit his leg a blow with his fist, and glared out of his eyes. "he'll have it hot some day," said john crumb. he was allowed to remain waiting for ruby till midnight, and then, with a sorrowful heart, he took his departure. chapter lxxi. john crumb falls into trouble. it was on a friday evening, an inauspicious friday, that poor ruby ruggles had insisted on leaving the security of her aunt pipkin's house with her aristocratic and vicious lover, in spite of the positive assurance made to her by mrs. pipkin that if she went forth in such company she should not be allowed to return. "of course you must let her in," mrs. hurtle had said soon after the girl's departure. whereupon mrs. pipkin had cried. she knew her own softness too well to suppose it to be possible that she could keep the girl out in the streets all night; but yet it was hard upon her, very hard, that she should be so troubled. "we usen't to have our ways like that when i was young," she said, sobbing. what was to be the end of it? was she to be forced by circumstances to keep the girl always there, let the girl's conduct be what it might? nevertheless she acknowledged that ruby must be let in when she came back. then, about nine o'clock, john crumb came; and the latter part of the evening was more melancholy even than the first. it was impossible to conceal the truth from john crumb. mrs. hurtle saw the poor man and told the story in mrs. pipkin's presence. "she's headstrong, mr. crumb," said mrs. hurtle. "she is that, ma'am. and it was along wi' the baro-nite she went?" "it was so, mr. crumb." "baro-nite! well;--perhaps i shall catch him some of these days;--went to dinner wi' him, did she? didn't she have no dinner here?" then mrs. pipkin spoke up with a keen sense of offence. ruby ruggles had had as wholesome a dinner as any young woman in london,--a bullock's heart and potatoes,--just as much as ever she had pleased to eat of it. mrs. pipkin could tell mr. crumb that there was "no starvation nor yet no stint in her house." john crumb immediately produced a very thick and admirably useful blue cloth cloak, which he had brought up with him to london from bungay, as a present to the woman who had been good to his ruby. he assured her that he did not doubt that her victuals were good and plentiful, and went on to say that he had made bold to bring her a trifle out of respect. it was some little time before mrs. pipkin would allow herself to be appeased;--but at last she permitted the garment to be placed on her shoulders. but it was done after a melancholy fashion. there was no smiling consciousness of the bestowal of joy on the countenance of the donor as he gave it, no exuberance of thanks from the recipient as she received it. mrs. hurtle, standing by, declared it to be perfect;--but the occasion was one which admitted of no delight. "it's very good of you, mr. crumb, to think of an old woman like me,--particularly when you've such a deal of trouble with a young 'un." "it's like the smut in the wheat, mrs. pipkin, or the d'sease in the 'tatoes;--it has to be put up with, i suppose. is she very partial, ma'am, to that young baro-nite?" this question was asked of mrs. hurtle. "just a fancy for the time, mr. crumb," said the lady. "they never thinks as how their fancies may well-nigh half kill a man!" then he was silent for awhile, sitting back in his chair, not moving a limb, with his eyes fastened on mrs. pipkin's ceiling. mrs. hurtle had some work in her hand, and sat watching him. the man was to her an extraordinary being,--so constant, so slow, so unexpressive, so unlike her own countrymen,--willing to endure so much, and at the same time so warm in his affections! "sir felix carbury!" he said. "i'll sir felix him some of these days. if it was only dinner, wouldn't she be back afore this, ma'am?" "i suppose they've gone to some place of amusement," said mrs. hurtle. "like enough," said john crumb in a low voice. "she's that mad after dancing as never was," said mrs. pipkin. "and where is it as 'em dances?" asked crumb, getting up from his chair, and stretching himself. it was evident to both the ladies that he was beginning to think that he would follow ruby to the music hall. neither of them answered him, however, and then he sat down again. "does 'em dance all night at them places, mrs. pipkin?" "they do pretty nearly all that they oughtn't to do," said mrs. pipkin. john crumb raised one of his fists, brought it down heavily on the palm of his other hand, and then again sat silent for awhile. "i never knowed as she was fond o' dancing," he said. "i'd a had dancing for her down at bungay,--just as ready as anything. d'ye think, ma'am, it's the dancing she's after, or the baro-nite?" this was another appeal to mrs. hurtle. "i suppose they go together," said the lady. then there was another long pause, at the end of which poor john crumb burst out with some violence. "domn him! domn him! what 'ad i ever dun to him? nothing! did i ever interfere wi' him? never! but i wull. i wull. i wouldn't wonder but i'll swing for this at bury!" "oh, mr. crumb, don't talk like that," said mrs. pipkin. "mr. crumb is a little disturbed, but he'll get over it presently," said mrs. hurtle. "she's a nasty slut to go and treat a young man as she's treating you," said mrs. pipkin. "no, ma'am;--she ain't nasty," said the lover. "but she's crou'll--horrid crou'll. it's no more use my going down about meal and pollard, nor business, and she up here with that baro-nite,--no, no more nor nothin'! when i handles it i don't know whether its middlings nor nothin' else. if i was to twist his neck, ma'am, would you take it on yourself to say as i was wrong?" "i'd sooner hear that you had taken the girl away from him," said mrs. hurtle. "i could pretty well eat him,--that's what i could. half past eleven; is it? she must come some time, mustn't she?" mrs. pipkin, who did not want to burn candles all night long, declared that she could give no assurance on that head. if ruby did come, she should, on that night, be admitted. but mrs. pipkin thought that it would be better to get up and let her in than to sit up for her. poor mr. crumb did not at once take the hint, and remained there for another half-hour, saying little, but waiting with the hope that ruby might come. but when the clock struck twelve he was told that he must go. then he slowly collected his limbs and dragged them out of the house. "that young man is a good fellow," said mrs. hurtle as soon as the door was closed. "a deal too good for ruby ruggles," said mrs. pipkin. "and he can maintain a wife. mr. carbury says as he's as well to do as any tradesman down in them parts." mrs. hurtle disliked the name of mr. carbury, and took this last statement as no evidence in john crumb's favour. "i don't know that i think better of the man for having mr. carbury's friendship," she said. "mr. carbury ain't any way like his cousin, mrs. hurtle." "i don't think much of any of the carburys, mrs. pipkin. it seems to me that everybody here is either too humble or too overbearing. nobody seems content to stand firm on his own footing and interfere with nobody else." this was all greek to poor mrs. pipkin. "i suppose we may as well go to bed now. when that girl comes and knocks, of course we must let her in. if i hear her, i'll go down and open the door for her." mrs. pipkin made very many apologies to her lodger for the condition of her household. she would remain up herself to answer the door at the first sound, so that mrs. hurtle should not be disturbed. she would do her best to prevent any further annoyance. she trusted mrs. hurtle would see that she was endeavouring to do her duty by the naughty wicked girl. and then she came round to the point of her discourse. she hoped that mrs. hurtle would not be induced to quit the rooms by these disagreeable occurrences. "i don't mind saying it now, mrs. hurtle, but your being here is ever so much to me. i ain't nothing to depend on,--only lodgers, and them as is any good is so hard to get!" the poor woman hardly understood mrs. hurtle, who, as a lodger, was certainly peculiar. she cared nothing for disturbances, and rather liked than otherwise the task of endeavouring to assist in the salvation of ruby. mrs. hurtle begged that mrs. pipkin would go to bed. she would not be in the least annoyed by the knocking. another half-hour had thus been passed by the two ladies in the parlour after crumb's departure. then mrs. hurtle took her candle and had ascended the stairs half way to her own sitting-room, when a loud double knock was heard. she immediately joined mrs. pipkin in the passage. the door was opened, and there stood ruby ruggles, john crumb, and two policemen! ruby rushed in, and casting herself on to one of the stairs began to throw her hands about, and to howl piteously. "laws a mercy; what is it?" asked mrs. pipkin. "he's been and murdered him!" screamed ruby. "he has! he's been and murdered him!" "this young woman is living here;--is she?" asked one of the policemen. "she is living here," said mrs. hurtle. but now we must go back to the adventures of john crumb after he had left the house. he had taken a bedroom at a small inn close to the eastern counties railway station which he was accustomed to frequent when business brought him up to london, and thither he proposed to himself to return. at one time there had come upon him an idea that he would endeavour to seek ruby and his enemy among the dancing saloons of the metropolis; and he had asked a question with that view. but no answer had been given which seemed to aid him in his project, and his purpose had been abandoned as being too complex and requiring more intelligence than he gave himself credit for possessing. so he had turned down a street with which he was so far acquainted as to know that it would take him to the islington angel,--where various roads meet, and whence he would know his way eastwards. he had just passed the angel, and the end of goswell road, and was standing with his mouth open, looking about, trying to make certain of himself that he would not go wrong, thinking that he would ask a policeman whom he saw, and hesitating because he feared that the man would want to know his business. then, of a sudden, he heard a woman scream, and knew that it was ruby's voice. the sound was very near him, but in the glimmer of the gaslight he could not quite see whence it came. he stood still, putting his hand up to scratch his head under his hat,--trying to think what, in such an emergency, it would be well that he should do. then he heard the voice distinctly, "i won't;--i won't," and after that a scream. then there were further words. "it's no good--i won't." at last he was able to make up his mind. he rushed after the sound, and turning down a passage to the right which led back into goswell road, saw ruby struggling in a man's arms. she had left the dancing establishment with her lover; and when they had come to the turn of the passage, there had arisen a question as to her further destiny for the night. ruby, though she well remembered mrs. pipkin's threats, was minded to try her chance at her aunt's door. sir felix was of opinion that he could make a preferable arrangement for her; and as ruby was not at once amenable to his arguments he had thought that a little gentle force might avail him. he had therefore dragged ruby into the passage. the unfortunate one! that so ill a chance should have come upon him in the midst of his diversion! he had swallowed several tumblers of brandy and water, and was therefore brave with reference to that interference of the police, the fear of which might otherwise have induced him to relinquish his hold of ruby's arm when she first raised her voice. but what amount of brandy and water would have enabled him to persevere, could he have dreamed that john crumb was near him? on a sudden he found a hand on his coat, and he was swung violently away, and brought with his back against the railings so forcibly as to have the breath almost knocked out of his body. but he could hear ruby's exclamation, "if it isn't john crumb!" then there came upon him a sense of coming destruction, as though the world for him were all over; and, collapsing throughout his limbs, he slunk down upon the ground. "get up, you wiper," said john crumb. but the baronet thought it better to cling to the ground. "you sholl get up," said john, taking him by the collar of his coat and lifting him. "now, ruby, he's a-going to have it," said john. whereupon ruby screamed at the top of her voice, with a shriek very much louder than that which had at first attracted john crumb's notice. [illustration: "get up, you wiper."] "don't hit a man when he's down," said the baronet, pleading as though for his life. "i wunt," said john;--"but i'll hit a fellow when 'un's up." sir felix was little more than a child in the man's arms. john crumb raised him, and catching him round the neck with his left arm,--getting his head into chancery as we used to say when we fought at school,--struck the poor wretch some half-dozen times violently in the face, not knowing or caring exactly where he hit him, but at every blow obliterating a feature. and he would have continued had not ruby flown at him and rescued sir felix from his arms. "he's about got enough of it," said john crumb as he gave over his work. then sir felix fell again to the ground, moaning fearfully. "i know'd he'd have to have it," said john crumb. ruby's screams of course brought the police, one arriving from each end of the passage on the scene of action at the same time. and now the cruellest thing of all was that ruby in the complaints which she made to the policemen said not a word against sir felix, but was as bitter as she knew how to be in her denunciations of john crumb. it was in vain that john endeavoured to make the man understand that the young woman had been crying out for protection when he had interfered. ruby was very quick of speech and john crumb was very slow. ruby swore that nothing so horrible, so cruel, so bloodthirsty had ever been done before. sir felix himself when appealed to could say nothing. he could only moan and make futile efforts to wipe away the stream of blood from his face when the men stood him up leaning against the railings. and john, though he endeavoured to make the policemen comprehend the extent of the wickedness of the young baronet, would not say a word against ruby. he was not even in the least angered by her denunciations of himself. as he himself said sometimes afterwards, he had "dropped into the baro-nite" just in time, and, having been successful in this, felt no wrath against ruby for having made such an operation necessary. there was soon a third policeman on the spot, and a dozen other persons,--cab-drivers, haunters of the street by night, and houseless wanderers, casuals who at this season of the year preferred the pavements to the poor-house wards. they all took part against john crumb. why had the big man interfered between the young woman and her young man? two or three of them wiped sir felix's face, and dabbed his eyes, and proposed this and the other remedy. some thought that he had better be taken straight to an hospital. one lady remarked that he was "so mashed and mauled" that she was sure he would never "come to" again. a precocious youth remarked that he was "all one as a dead 'un." a cabman observed that he had "'ad it awful 'eavy." to all these criticisms on his condition sir felix himself made no direct reply, but he intimated his desire to be carried away somewhere, though he did not much care whither. at last the policemen among them decided upon a course of action. they had learned by the united testimony of ruby and crumb that sir felix was sir felix. he was to be carried in a cab by one constable to bartholomew hospital, who would then take his address so that he might be produced and bound over to prosecute. ruby should be even conducted to the address she gave,--not half a mile from the spot on which they now stood,--and be left there or not according to the account which might be given of her. john crumb must be undoubtedly locked up in the station-house. he was the offender;--for aught that any of them yet knew, the murderer. no one said a good word for him. he hardly said a good word for himself, and certainly made no objection to the treatment that had been proposed for him. but, no doubt, he was buoyed up inwardly by the conviction that he had thoroughly thrashed his enemy. thus it came to pass that the two policemen with john crumb and ruby came together to mrs. pipkin's door. ruby was still loud with complaints against the ruffian who had beaten her lover,--who, perhaps, had killed her loved one. she threatened the gallows, and handcuffs, and perpetual imprisonment, and an action for damages amidst her lamentations. but from mrs. hurtle the policemen did manage to learn something of the truth. oh yes;--the girl lived there and was--respectable. this man whom they had arrested was respectable also, and was the girl's proper lover. the other man who had been beaten was undoubtedly the owner of a title; but he was not respectable, and was only the girl's improper lover. and john crumb's name was given. "i'm john crumb of bungay," said he, "and i ain't afeared of nothin' nor nobody. and i ain't a been a drinking; no, i ain't. mauled 'un! in course i've mauled 'un. and i meaned it. that ere young woman is engaged to be my wife." "no, i ain't," shouted ruby. "but she is," persisted john crumb. "well then, i never will," rejoined ruby. john crumb turned upon her a look of love, and put his hand on his heart. whereupon the senior policeman said that he saw at a glance how it all was, but that mr. crumb had better come along with him,--just for the present. to this arrangement the unfortunate hero from bungay made not the slightest objection. "miss ruggles," said mrs. hurtle, "if that young man doesn't conquer you at last you can't have a heart in your bosom." "indeed and i have then, and i don't mean to give it him if it's ever so. he's been and killed sir felix." mrs. hurtle in a whisper to mrs. pipkin expressed a wicked wish that it might be so. after that the three women all went to bed. chapter lxxii. "ask himself." roger carbury when he received the letter from hetta's mother desiring him to tell her all that he knew of paul montague's connection with mrs. hurtle found himself quite unable to write a reply. he endeavoured to ask himself what he would do in such a case if he himself were not personally concerned. what advice in this emergency would he give to the mother and what to the daughter, were he himself uninterested? he was sure that, as hetta's cousin and acting as though he were hetta's brother, he would tell her that paul montague's entanglement with that american woman should have forbidden him at any rate for the present to offer his hand to any other lady. he thought that he knew enough of all the circumstances to be sure that such would be his decision. he had seen mrs. hurtle with montague at lowestoft, and had known that they were staying together as friends at the same hotel. he knew that she had come to england with the express purpose of enforcing the fulfilment of an engagement which montague had often acknowledged. he knew that montague made frequent visits to her in london. he had, indeed, been told by montague himself that, let the cost be what it might, the engagement should be and in fact had been broken off. he thoroughly believed the man's word, but put no trust whatever in his firmness. and, hitherto, he had no reason whatever for supposing that mrs. hurtle had consented to be abandoned. what father, what elder brother would allow a daughter or a sister to become engaged to a man embarrassed by such difficulties? he certainly had counselled montague to rid himself of the trammels by which he had surrounded himself;--but not on that account could he think that the man in his present condition was fit to engage himself to another woman. all this was clear to roger carbury. but then it had been equally clear to him that he could not, as a man of honour, assist his own cause by telling a tale,--which tale had become known to him as the friend of the man against whom it would have to be told. he had resolved upon that as he left montague and mrs. hurtle together upon the sands at lowestoft. but what was he to do now? the girl whom he loved had confessed her love for the other man,--that man, who in seeking the girl's love, had been as he thought so foul a traitor to himself! that he would hold himself as divided from the man by a perpetual and undying hostility he had determined. that his love for the woman would be equally perpetual he was quite sure. already there were floating across his brain ideas of perpetuating his name in the person of some child of hetta's,--but with the distinct understanding that he and the child's father should never see each other. no more than twenty-four hours had intervened between the receipt of paul's letter and that from lady carbury,--but during those four-and-twenty hours he had almost forgotten mrs. hurtle. the girl was gone from him, and he thought only of his own loss and of paul's perfidy. then came the direct question as to which he was called upon for a direct answer. did he know anything of facts relating to the presence of a certain mrs. hurtle in london which were of a nature to make it inexpedient that hetta should accept paul montague as her betrothed lover? of course he did. the facts were all familiar to him. but how was he to tell the facts? in what words was he to answer such a letter? if he told the truth as he knew it how was he to secure himself against the suspicion of telling a story against his rival in order that he might assist himself, or at any rate, punish the rival? as he could not trust himself to write an answer to lady carbury's letter he determined that he would go to london. if he must tell the story he could tell it better face to face than by any written words. so he made the journey, arrived in town late in the evening, and knocked at the door in welbeck street between ten and eleven on the morning after the unfortunate meeting which took place between sir felix and john crumb. the page when he opened the door looked as a page should look when the family to which he is attached is suffering from some terrible calamity. "my lady" had been summoned to the hospital to see sir felix who was,--as the page reported,--in a very bad way indeed. the page did not exactly know what had happened, but supposed that sir felix had lost most of his limbs by this time. yes; miss carbury was up-stairs; and would no doubt see her cousin, though she, too, was in a very bad condition; and dreadfully put about. that poor hetta should be "put about" with her brother in the hospital and her lover in the toils of an abominable american woman was natural enough. "what's this about felix?" asked roger. the new trouble always has precedence over those which are of earlier date. "oh roger, i am so glad to see you. felix did not come home last night, and this morning there came a man from the hospital in the city to say that he is there." "what has happened to him?" "somebody,--somebody has,--beaten him," said hetta whimpering. then she told the story as far as she knew it. the messenger from the hospital had declared that the young man was in no danger and that none of his bones were broken, but that he was terribly bruised about the face, that his eyes were in a frightful condition, sundry of his teeth knocked out, and his lips cut open. but, the messenger had gone on to say, the house surgeon had seen no reason why the young gentleman should not be taken home. "and mamma has gone to fetch him," said hetta. "that's john crumb," said roger. hetta had never heard of john crumb, and simply stared into her cousin's face. "you have not been told about john crumb? no;--you would not hear of him." "why should john crumb beat felix like that?" "they say, hetta, that women are the cause of most troubles that occur in the world." the girl blushed up to her eyes, as though the whole story of felix's sin and folly had been told to her. "if it be as i suppose," continued roger, "john crumb has considered himself to be aggrieved and has thus avenged himself." "did you--know of him before?" "yes indeed;--very well. he is a neighbour of mine and was in love with a girl, with all his heart; and he would have made her his wife and have been good to her. he had a home to offer her, and is an honest man with whom she would have been safe and respected and happy. your brother saw her and, though he knew the story, though he had been told by myself that this honest fellow had placed his happiness on the girl's love, he thought,--well, i suppose he thought that such a pretty thing as this girl was too good for john crumb." "but felix has been going to marry miss melmotte!" "you're old-fashioned, hetta. it used to be the way,--to be off with the old love before you are on with the new; but that seems to be all changed now. such fine young fellows as there are now can be in love with two at once. that i fear is what felix has thought;--and now he has been punished." "you know all about it then?" "no;--i don't know. but i think it has been so. i do know that john crumb had threatened to do this thing, and i felt sure that sooner or later he would be as good as his word. if it has been so, who is to blame him?" hetta as she heard the story hardly knew whether her cousin, in his manner of telling the story, was speaking of that other man, of that stranger of whom she had never heard, or of himself. he would have made her his wife and have been good to her. he had a home to offer her. he was an honest man with whom she would have been safe and respected and happy! he had looked at her while speaking as though it were her own case of which he spoke. and then, when he talked of the old-fashioned way, of being off with the old love before you are on with the new, had he not alluded to paul montague and this story of the american woman? but, if so, it was not for hetta to notice it by words. he must speak more plainly than that before she could be supposed to know that he alluded to her own condition. "it is very shocking," she said. "shocking;--yes. one is shocked at it all. i pity your mother, and i pity you." "it seems to me that nothing ever will be happy for us," said hetta. she was longing to be told something of mrs. hurtle, but she did not as yet dare to ask the question. "i do not know whether to wait for your mother or not," said he after a short pause. "pray wait for her if you are not very busy." "i came up only to see her, but perhaps she would not wish me to be here when she brings felix back to the house." "indeed she will. she would like you always to be here when there are troubles. oh, roger, i wish you could tell me." "tell you what?" "she has written to you;--has she not?" "yes; she has written to me." "and about me?" "yes;--about you, hetta. and, hetta, mr. montague has written to me also." "he told me that he would," whispered hetta. "did he tell you of my answer?" "no;--he has told me of no answer. i have not seen him since." "you do not think that it can have been very kind, do you? i also have something of the feeling of john crumb, though i shall not attempt to show it after the same fashion." "did you not say the girl had promised to love that man?" "i did not say so;--but she had promised. yes, hetta; there is a difference. the girl then was fickle and went back from her word. you never have done that. i am not justified in thinking even a hard thought of you. i have never harboured a hard thought of you. it is not you that i reproach. but he,--he has been if possible more false than felix." "oh, roger, how has he been false?" still he was not wishful to tell her the story of mrs. hurtle. the treachery of which he was speaking was that which he had thought had been committed by his friend towards himself. "he should have left the place and never have come near you," said roger, "when he found how it was likely to be with him. he owed it to me not to take the cup of water from my lips." how was she to tell him that the cup of water never could have touched his lips? and yet if this were the only falsehood of which he had to tell, she was bound to let him know that it was so. that horrid story of mrs. hurtle;--she would listen to that if she could hear it. she would be all ears for that. but she could not admit that her lover had sinned in loving her. "but, roger," she said--"it would have been the same." "you may think so. you may feel it. you may know it. i at any rate will not contradict you when you say that it must have been so. but he didn't feel it. he didn't know it. he was to me as a younger brother,--and he has robbed me of everything. i understand, hetta, what you mean. i should never have succeeded! my happiness would have been impossible if paul had never come home from america. i have told myself so a hundred times, but i cannot therefore forgive him. and i won't forgive him, hetta. whether you are his wife, or another man's, or whether you are hetta carbury on to the end, my feeling to you will be the same. while we both live, you must be to me the dearest creature living. my hatred to him--" "oh, roger, do not say hatred." "my hostility to him can make no difference in my feeling to you. i tell you that should you become his wife you will still be my love. as to not coveting,--how is a man to cease to covet that which he has always coveted? but i shall be separated from you. should i be dying, then i should send for you. you are the very essence of my life. i have no dream of happiness otherwise than as connected with you. he might have my whole property and i would work for my bread, if i could only have a chance of winning you to share my toils with me." but still there was no word of mrs. hurtle. "roger," she said, "i have given it all away now. it cannot be given twice." "if he were unworthy would your heart never change?" "i think--never. roger, is he unworthy?" "how can you trust me to answer such a question? he is my enemy. he has been ungrateful to me as one man hardly ever is to another. he has turned all my sweetness to gall, all my flowers to bitter weeds; he has choked up all my paths. and now you ask me whether he is unworthy! i cannot tell you." "if you thought him worthy you would tell me," she said, getting up and taking him by the arm. "no;--i will tell you nothing. go to some one else, not to me;" and he tried with gentleness but tried ineffectually to disengage himself from her hold. "roger, if you knew him to be good you would tell me,--because you yourself are so good. even though you hated him you would say so. it would not be you to leave a false impression even against your enemies. i ask you because, however it may be with you, i know i can trust you. i can be nothing else to you, roger; but i love you as a sister loves, and i come to you as a sister comes to a brother. he has my heart. tell me;--is there any reason why he should not also have my hand?" "ask himself, hetta." "and you will tell me nothing? you will not try to save me though you know that i am in danger? who is--mrs. hurtle?" "have you asked him?" "i had not heard her name when he parted from me. i did not even know that such a woman lived. is it true that he has promised to marry her? felix told me of her, and told me also that you knew. but i cannot trust felix as i would trust you. and mamma says that it is so;--but mamma also bids me ask you. there is such a woman?" "there is such a woman certainly." "and she has been,--a friend of paul's?" "whatever be the story, hetta, you shall not hear it from me. i will say neither evil nor good of the man except in regard to his conduct to myself. send for him and ask him to tell you the story of mrs. hurtle as it concerns himself. i do not think he will lie, but if he lies you will know that he is lying." "and that is all?" "all that i can say, hetta. you ask me to be your brother; but i cannot put myself in the place of your brother. i tell you plainly that i am your lover, and shall remain so. your brother would welcome the man whom you would choose as your husband. i can never welcome any husband of yours. i think if twenty years were to pass over us, and you were still hetta carbury, i should still be your lover,--though an old one. what is now to be done about felix, hetta?" "ah,--what can be done? i think sometimes that it will break mamma's heart." "your mother makes me angry by her continual indulgence." "but what can she do? you would not have her turn him into the street?" "i do not know that i would not. for a time it might serve him perhaps. here is the cab. here they are. yes; you had better go down and let your mother know that i am here. they will perhaps take him up to bed, so that i need not see him." hetta did as she was bid, and met her mother and her brother in the hall. felix having the full use of his arms and legs was able to descend from the cab, and hurry across the pavement into the house, and then, without speaking a word to his sister, hid himself in the dining-room. his face was strapped up with plaister so that not a feature was visible; and both his eyes were swollen and blue; part of his beard had been cut away, and his physiognomy had altogether been so treated that even the page would hardly have known him. "roger is up-stairs, mamma," said hetta in the hall. "has he heard about felix;--has he come about that?" "he has heard only what i have told him. he has come because of your letter. he says that a man named crumb did it." "then he does know. who can have told him? he always knows everything. oh, hetta, what am i to do? where shall i go with this wretched boy?" "is he hurt, mamma?" "hurt;--of course he is hurt; horribly hurt. the brute tried to kill him. they say that he will be dreadfully scarred for ever. but oh, hetta;--what am i to do with him? what am i to do with myself and you?" on this occasion roger was saved from the annoyance of any personal intercourse with his cousin felix. the unfortunate one was made as comfortable as circumstances would permit in the parlour, and lady carbury then went up to her cousin in the drawing-room. she had learned the truth with some fair approach to accuracy, though sir felix himself had of course lied as to every detail. there are some circumstances so distressing in themselves as to make lying almost a necessity. when a young man has behaved badly about a woman, when a young man has been beaten without returning a blow, when a young man's pleasant vices are brought directly under a mother's eyes, what can he do but lie? how could sir felix tell the truth about that rash encounter? but the policeman who had brought him to the hospital had told all that he knew. the man who had thrashed the baronet had been called crumb, and the thrashing had been given on the score of a young woman called ruggles. so much was known at the hospital, and so much could not be hidden by any lies which sir felix might tell. and when sir felix swore that a policeman was holding him while crumb was beating him, no one believed him. in such cases the liar does not expect to be believed. he knows that his disgrace will be made public, and only hopes to be saved from the ignominy of declaring it with his own words. "what am i to do with him?" lady carbury said to her cousin. "it is no use telling me to leave him. i can't do that. i know he is bad. i know that i have done much to make him what he is." as she said this the tears were running down her poor worn cheeks. "but he is my child. what am i to do with him now?" this was a question which roger found it almost impossible to answer. if he had spoken his thoughts he would have declared that sir felix had reached an age at which, if a man will go headlong to destruction, he must go headlong to destruction. thinking as he did of his cousin he could see no possible salvation for him. "perhaps i should take him abroad," he said. "would he be better abroad than here?" "he would have less opportunity for vice, and fewer means of running you into debt." lady carbury, as she turned this counsel in her mind, thought of all the hopes which she had indulged,--her literary aspirations, her tuesday evenings, her desire for society, her brounes, her alfs, and her bookers, her pleasant drawing-room, and the determination which she had made that now in the afternoon of her days she would become somebody in the world. must she give it all up and retire to the dreariness of some french town because it was no longer possible that she should live in london with such a son as hers? there seemed to be a cruelty in this beyond all cruelties that she had hitherto endured. this was harder even than those lies which had been told of her when almost in fear of her life she had run from her husband's house. but yet she must do even this if in no other way she and her son could be together. "yes," she said, "i suppose it would be so. i only wish that i might die, so that were an end of it." "he might go out to one of the colonies," said roger. "yes;--be sent away that he might kill himself with drink in the bush, and so be got rid of. i have heard of that before. wherever he goes i shall go." as the reader knows, roger carbury had not latterly held this cousin of his in much esteem. he knew her to be worldly and he thought her to be unprincipled. but now, at this moment, her exceeding love for the son whom she could no longer pretend to defend, wiped out all her sins. he forgot the visit made to carbury under false pretences, and the melmottes, and all the little tricks which he had detected, in his appreciation of an affection which was pure and beautiful. "if you like to let your house for a period," he said, "mine is open to you." "but, felix?" "you shall take him there. i am all alone in the world. i can make a home for myself at the cottage. it is empty now. if you think that would save you you can try it for six months." "and turn you out of your own house? no, roger. i cannot do that. and, roger;--what is to be done about hetta?" hetta herself had retreated, leaving roger and her mother alone together, feeling sure that there would be questions asked and answered in her absence respecting mrs. hurtle, which her presence would prevent. she wished it could have been otherwise--that she might have been allowed to hear it all herself--as she was sure that the story coming through her mother would not savour so completely of unalloyed truth as if told to her by her cousin roger. "hetta can be trusted to judge for herself," he said. "how can you say that when she has just accepted this young man? is it not true that he is even now living with an american woman whom he has promised to marry?" "no;--that is not true." "what is true, then? is he not engaged to the woman?" roger hesitated a moment. "i do not know that even that is true. when last he spoke to me about it he declared that the engagement was at an end. i have told hetta to ask himself. let her tell him that she has heard of this woman from you, and that it behoves her to know the truth. i do not love him, lady carbury. he has no longer any place in my friendship. but i think that if hetta asks him simply what is the nature of his connexion with mrs. hurtle, he will tell her the truth." roger did not again see hetta before he left the house, nor did he see his cousin felix at all. he had now done all that he could do by his journey up to london, and he returned on that day back to carbury. would it not be better for him, in spite of the protestations which he had made, to dismiss the whole family from his mind? there could be no other love for him. he must be desolate and alone. but he might then save himself from a world of cares, and might gradually teach himself to live as though there were no such woman as hetta carbury in the world. but no! he would not allow himself to believe that this could be right. the very fact of his love made it a duty to him,--made it almost the first of his duties,--to watch over the interests of her he loved and of those who belonged to her. but among those so belonging he did not recognise paul montague. chapter lxxiii. marie's fortune. when marie melmotte assured sir felix carbury that her father had already endowed her with a large fortune which could not be taken from her without her own consent, she spoke no more than the truth. she knew of the matter almost as little as it was possible that she should know. as far as reticence on the subject was compatible with the object he had in view melmotte had kept from her all knowledge of the details of the arrangement. but it had been necessary when the thing was done to explain, or to pretend to explain, much; and marie's memory and also her intelligence had been strong beyond her father's anticipation. he was deriving a very considerable income from a large sum of money which he had invested in foreign funds in her name, and had got her to execute a power of attorney enabling him to draw this income on her behalf. this he had done fearing shipwreck in the course which he meant to run, and resolved that, let circumstances go as they might, there should still be left enough to him of the money which he had realised to enable him to live in comfort and luxury, should he be doomed to live in obscurity, or even in infamy. he had sworn to himself solemnly that under no circumstances would he allow this money to go back into the vortex of his speculations, and hitherto he had been true to his oath. though bankruptcy and apparent ruin might be imminent he would not bolster up his credit by the use of this money even though it might appear at the moment that the money would be sufficient for the purpose. if such a day should come, then, with that certain income, he would make himself happy, if possible, or at any rate luxurious, in whatever city of the world might know least of his antecedents, and give him the warmest welcome on behalf of his wealth. such had been his scheme of life. but he had failed to consider various circumstances. his daughter might be untrue to him, or in the event of her marriage might fail to release his property,--or it might be that the very money should be required to dower his daughter. or there might come troubles on him so great that even the certainty of a future income would not enable him to bear them. now, at this present moment, his mind was tortured by great anxiety. were he to resume this property it would more than enable him to pay all that was due to the longestaffes. it would do that and tide him for a time over some other difficulties. now in regard to the longestaffes themselves, he certainly had no desire to depart from the rule which he had made for himself, on their behalf. were it necessary that a crash should come they would be as good creditors as any other. but then he was painfully alive to the fact that something beyond simple indebtedness was involved in that transaction. he had with his own hand traced dolly longestaffe's signature on the letter which he had found in old mr. longestaffe's drawer. he had found it in an envelope, addressed by the elder mr. longestaffe to messrs. slow and bideawhile, and he had himself posted this letter in a pillar-box near to his own house. in the execution of this manoeuvre, circumstances had greatly befriended him. he had become the tenant of mr. longestaffe's house, and at the same time had only been the joint tenant of mr. longestaffe's study,--so that mr. longestaffe's papers were almost in his very hands. to pick a lock was with him an accomplishment long since learned. but his science in that line did not go so far as to enable him to replace the bolt in its receptacle. he had picked a lock, had found the letter prepared by mr. bideawhile with its accompanying envelope, and had then already learned enough of the domestic circumstances of the longestaffe family to feel assured that unless he could assist the expedition of this hitherto uncompleted letter by his own skill, the letter would never reach its intended destination. in all this fortune had in some degree befriended him. the circumstances being as they were it was hardly possible that the forgery should be discovered. even though the young man were to swear that the signature was not his, even though the old man were to swear that he had left that drawer properly locked with the unsigned letter in it, still there could be no evidence. people might think. people might speak. people might feel sure. and then a crash would come. but there would still be that ample fortune on which to retire and eat and drink and make merry for the rest of his days. then there came annoying complications in his affairs. what had been so easy in reference to that letter which dolly longestaffe never would have signed, was less easy but still feasible in another matter. under the joint pressure of immediate need, growing ambition, and increasing audacity it had been done. then the rumours that were spread abroad,--which to melmotte were serious indeed,--they named, at any rate in reference to dolly longestaffe, the very thing that had been done. now if that, or the like of that, were brought actually home to him, if twelve jurymen could be got to say that he had done that thing, of what use then would be all that money? when that fear arose, then there arose also the question whether it might not be well to use the money to save him from such ruin, if it might be so used. no doubt all danger in that longestaffe affair might be bought off by payment of the price stipulated for the pickering property. neither would dolly longestaffe nor squercum, of whom mr. melmotte had already heard, concern himself in this matter if the money claimed were paid. but then the money would be as good as wasted by such a payment, if, as he firmly believed, no sufficient evidence could be produced to prove the thing which he had done. but the complications were so many! perhaps in his admiration for the country of his adoption mr. melmotte had allowed himself to attach higher privileges to the british aristocracy than do in truth belong to them. he did in his heart believe that could he be known to all the world as the father-in-law of the eldest son of the marquis of auld reekie he would become, not really free of the law, but almost safe from its fangs in regard to such an affair as this. he thought he could so use the family with which he would be connected as to force from it that protection which he would need. and then again, if he could tide over this bad time, how glorious would it be to have a british marquis for his son-in-law! like many others he had failed altogether to enquire when the pleasure to himself would come, or what would be its nature. but he did believe that such a marriage would add a charm to his life. now he knew that lord nidderdale could not be got to marry his daughter without the positive assurance of absolute property, but he did think that the income which might thus be transferred with marie, though it fell short of that which had been promised, might suffice for the time; and he had already given proof to the marquis's lawyer that his daughter was possessed of the property in question. and indeed, there was another complication which had arisen within the last few days and which had startled mr. melmotte very much indeed. on a certain morning he had sent for marie to the study and had told her that he should require her signature in reference to a deed. she had asked him what deed. he had replied that it would be a document regarding money and reminded her that she had signed such a deed once before, telling her that it was all in the way of business. it was not necessary that she should ask any more questions as she would be wanted only to sign the paper. then marie astounded him, not merely by showing him that she understood a great deal more of the transaction than he had thought,--but also by a positive refusal to sign anything at all. the reader may understand that there had been many words between them. "i know, papa. it is that you may have the money to do what you like with. you have been so unkind to me about sir felix carbury that i won't do it. if i ever marry the money will belong to my husband!" his breath almost failed him as he listened to these words. he did not know whether to approach her with threats, with entreaties, or with blows. before the interview was over he had tried all three. he had told her that he could and would put her in prison for conduct so fraudulent. he besought her not to ruin her parent by such monstrous perversity. and at last he took her by both arms and shook her violently. but marie was quite firm. he might cut her to pieces; but she would sign nothing. "i suppose you thought sir felix would have had the entire sum," said the father with deriding scorn. "and he would;--if he had the spirit to take it," answered marie. this was another reason for sticking to the nidderdale plan. he would no doubt lose the immediate income, but in doing so he would secure the marquis. he was therefore induced, on weighing in his nicest-balanced scales the advantages and disadvantages, to leave the longestaffes unpaid and to let nidderdale have the money. not that he could make up his mind to such a course with any conviction that he was doing the best for himself. the dangers on all sides were very great! but at the present moment audacity recommended itself to him, and this was the boldest stroke. marie had now said that she would accept nidderdale,--or the sweep at the crossing. on monday morning,--it was on the preceding thursday that he had made his famous speech in parliament,--one of the bideawhiles had come to him in the city. he had told mr. bideawhile that all the world knew that just at the present moment money was very "tight" in the city. "we are not asking for payment of a commercial debt," said mr. bideawhile, "but for the price of a considerable property which you have purchased." mr. melmotte had suggested that the characteristics of the money were the same, let the sum in question have become due how it might. then he offered to make the payment in two bills at three and six months' date, with proper interest allowed. but this offer mr. bideawhile scouted with indignation, demanding that the title-deeds might be restored to them. "you have no right whatever to demand the title-deeds," said melmotte. "you can only claim the sum due, and i have already told you how i propose to pay it." mr. bideawhile was nearly beside himself with dismay. in the whole course of his business, in all the records of the very respectable firm to which he belonged, there had never been such a thing as this. of course mr. longestaffe had been the person to blame,--so at least all the bideawhiles declared among themselves. he had been so anxious to have dealings with the man of money that he had insisted that the title-deeds should be given up. but then the title-deeds had not been his to surrender. the pickering estate had been the joint property of him and his son. the house had been already pulled down, and now the purchaser offered bills in lieu of the purchase money! "do you mean to tell me, mr. melmotte, that you have not got the money to pay for what you have bought, and that nevertheless the title-deeds have already gone out of your hands?" "i have property to ten times the value, twenty times the value, thirty times the value," said melmotte proudly; "but you must know i should think by this time that a man engaged in large affairs cannot always realise such a sum as eighty thousand pounds at a day's notice." mr. bideawhile without using language that was absolutely vituperative gave mr. melmotte to understand that he thought that he and his client had been robbed, and that he should at once take whatever severest steps the law put in his power. as mr. melmotte shrugged his shoulders and made no further reply, mr. bideawhile could only take his departure. the attorney, although he was bound to be staunch to his own client, and to his own house in opposition to mr. squercum, nevertheless was becoming doubtful in his own mind as to the genuineness of the letter which dolly was so persistent in declaring that he had not signed. mr. longestaffe himself, who was at any rate an honest man, had given it as his opinion that dolly had not signed the letter. his son had certainly refused to sign it once, and as far as he knew could have had no opportunity of signing it since. he was all but sure that he had left the letter under lock and key in his own drawer in the room which had latterly become melmotte's study as well as his own. then, on entering the room in melmotte's presence,--their friendship at the time having already ceased,--he found that his drawer was open. this same mr. bideawhile was with him at the time. "do you mean to say that i have opened your drawer?" said mr. melmotte. mr. longestaffe had become very red in the face and had replied by saying that he certainly made no such accusation, but as certainly he had not left the drawer unlocked. he knew his own habits and was sure that he had never left that drawer open in his life. "then you must have changed the habits of your life on this occasion," said mr. melmotte with spirit. mr. longestaffe would trust himself to no other word within the house, but, when they were out in the street together, he assured the lawyer that certainly that drawer had been left locked, and that to the best of his belief the letter unsigned had been left within the drawer. mr. bideawhile could only remark that it was the most unfortunate circumstance with which he had ever been concerned. the marriage with nidderdale would upon the whole be the best thing, if it could only be accomplished. the reader must understand that though mr. melmotte had allowed himself considerable poetical licence in that statement as to property thirty times as great as the price which he ought to have paid for pickering, still there was property. the man's speculations had been so great and so wide that he did not really know what he owned, or what he owed. but he did know that at the present moment he was driven very hard for large sums. his chief trust for immediate money was in cohenlupe, in whose hands had really been the manipulation of the shares of the mexican railway. he had trusted much to cohenlupe,--more than it had been customary with him to trust to any man. cohenlupe assured him that nothing could be done with the railway shares at the present moment. they had fallen under the panic almost to nothing. now in the time of his trouble melmotte wanted money from the great railway, but just because he wanted money the great railway was worth nothing. cohenlupe told him that he must tide over the evil hour,--or rather over an evil month. it was at cohenlupe's instigation that he had offered the two bills to mr. bideawhile. "offer 'em again," said cohenlupe. "he must take the bills sooner or later." on the monday afternoon melmotte met lord nidderdale in the lobby of the house. "have you seen marie lately?" he said. nidderdale had been assured that morning, by his father's lawyer, in his father's presence, that if he married miss melmotte at present he would undoubtedly become possessed of an income amounting to something over £ , a year. he had intended to get more than that,--and was hardly prepared to accept marie at such a price; but then there probably would be more. no doubt there was a difficulty about pickering. melmotte certainly had been raising money. but this might probably be an affair of a few weeks. melmotte had declared that pickering should be made over to the young people at the marriage. his father had recommended him to get the girl to name a day. the marriage could be broken off at the last day if the property were not forthcoming. "i'm going up to your house almost immediately," said nidderdale. "you'll find the women at tea to a certainty between five and six," said melmotte. chapter lxxiv. melmotte makes a friend. "have you been thinking any more about it?" lord nidderdale said to the girl as soon as madame melmotte had succeeded in leaving them alone together. "i have thought ever so much more about it," said marie. "and what's the result?" "oh,--i'll have you." "that's right," said nidderdale, throwing himself on the sofa close to her, so that he might put his arm round her waist. "wait a moment, lord nidderdale," she said. "you might as well call me john." "then wait a moment,--john. you think you might as well marry me, though you don't love me a bit." "that's not true, marie." "yes it is;--it's quite true. and i think just the same,--that i might as well marry you, though i don't love you a bit." "but you will." "i don't know. i don't feel like it just at present. you had better know the exact truth, you know. i have told my father that i did not think you'd ever come again, but that if you did i would accept you. but i'm not going to tell any stories about it. you know who i've been in love with." "but you can't be in love with him now." "why not? i can't marry him. i know that. and if he were to come to me, i don't think that i would. he has behaved bad." "have i behaved bad?" "not like him. you never did care, and you never said you cared." "oh yes,--i have." "not at first. you say it now because you think that i shall like it. but it makes no difference now. i don't mind about your arm being there if we are to be married, only it's just as well for both of us to look on it as business." "how very hard you are, marie." "no, i ain't. i wasn't hard to sir felix carbury, and so i tell you. i did love him." "surely you have found him out now." "yes, i have," said marie. "he's a poor creature." "he has just been thrashed, you know, in the streets,--most horribly." marie had not been told of this, and started back from her lover's arms. "you hadn't heard it?" "who has thrashed him?" "i don't want to tell the story against him, but they say he has been cut about in a terrible manner." "why should anybody beat him? did he do anything?" "there was a young lady in the question, marie." "a young lady! what young lady? i don't believe it. but it's nothing to me. i don't care about anything, lord nidderdale;--not a bit. i suppose you've made up all that out of your own head." "indeed, no. i believe he was beaten, and i believe it was about a young woman. but it signifies nothing to me, and i don't suppose it signifies much to you. don't you think we might fix a day, marie?" "i don't care the least," said marie. "the longer it's put off the better i shall like it;--that's all." "because i'm so detestable?" "no,--you ain't detestable. i think you are a very good fellow; only you don't care for me. but it is detestable not being able to do what one wants. it's detestable having to quarrel with everybody and never to be good friends with anybody. and it's horribly detestable having nothing on earth to give one any interest." "you couldn't take any interest in me?" "not the least." "suppose you try. wouldn't you like to know anything about the place where we live?" "it's a castle, i know." "yes;--castle reekie; ever so many hundred years old." "i hate old places. i should like a new house, and a new dress, and a new horse every week,--and a new lover. your father lives at the castle. i don't suppose we are to go and live there too." "we shall be there sometimes. when shall it be?" "the year after next." "nonsense, marie." "to-morrow." "you wouldn't be ready." "you may manage it all just as you like with papa. oh, yes,--kiss me; of course you may. if i'm to belong to you what does it matter? no;--i won't say that i love you. but if ever i do say it, you may be sure it will be true. that's more than you can say of yourself,--john." so the interview was over and nidderdale walked back to the house thinking of his lady love, as far as he was able to bring his mind to any operation of thinking. he was fully determined to go on with it. as far as the girl herself was concerned, she had, in these latter days, become much more attractive to him than when he had first known her. she certainly was not a fool. and, though he could not tell himself that she was altogether like a lady, still she had a manner of her own which made him think that she would be able to live with ladies. and he did think that, in spite of all she said to the contrary, she was becoming fond of him,--as he certainly had become fond of her. "have you been up with the ladies?" melmotte asked him. "oh yes." "and what does marie say?" "that you must fix the day." "we'll have it very soon then;--some time next month. you'll want to get away in august. and to tell the truth so shall i. i never was worked so hard in my life as i've been this summer. the election and that horrid dinner had something to do with it. and i don't mind telling you that i've had a fearful weight on my mind in reference to money. i never had to find so many large sums in so short a time! and i'm not quite through it yet." "i wonder why you gave the dinner then." "my dear boy,"--it was very pleasant to him to call the son of a marquis his dear boy,--"as regards expenditure that was a flea-bite. nothing that i could spend myself would have the slightest effect upon my condition,--one way or the other." "i wish it could be the same way with me," said nidderdale. "if you chose to go into business with me instead of taking marie's money out, it very soon would be so with you. but the burden is very great. i never know whence these panics arise, or why they come, or whither they go. but when they do come, they are like a storm at sea. it is only the strong ships that can stand the fury of the winds and waves. and then the buffeting which a man gets leaves him only half the man he was. i've had it very hard this time." "i suppose you are getting right now." "yes;--i am getting right. i am not in any fear if you mean that. i don't mind telling you everything as it is settled now that you are to be marie's husband. i know that you are honest, and that if you could hurt me by repeating what i say you wouldn't do it." "certainly i would not." "you see i've no partner,--nobody that is bound to know my affairs. my wife is the best woman in the world, but is utterly unable to understand anything about it. of course i can't talk freely to marie. cohenlupe whom you see so much with me is all very well,--in his way, but i never talk over my affairs with him. he is concerned with me in one or two things,--our american railway for instance, but he has no interest generally in my house. it is all on my own shoulders, and i can tell you the weight is a little heavy. it will be the greatest comfort to me in the world if i can get you to have an interest in the matter." "i don't suppose i could ever really be any good at business," said the modest young lord. "you wouldn't come and work, i suppose. i shouldn't expect that. but i should be glad to think that i could tell you how things are going on. of course you heard all that was said just before the election. for forty-eight hours i had a very bad time of it then. the fact was that alf and they who were supporting him thought that they could carry the election by running me down. they were at it for a fortnight,--perfectly unscrupulous as to what they said or what harm they might do me and others. i thought that very cruel. they couldn't get their man in, but they could and did have the effect of depreciating my property suddenly by nearly half a million of money. think what that is!" "i don't understand how it could be done." "because you don't understand how delicate a thing is credit. they persuaded a lot of men to stay away from that infernal dinner, and consequently it was spread about the town that i was ruined. the effect upon shares which i held was instantaneous and tremendous. the mexican railway were at , and they fell from that in two days to something quite nominal,--so that selling was out of the question. cohenlupe and i between us had about , of these shares. think what that comes to!" nidderdale tried to calculate what it did come to, but failed altogether. "that's what i call a blow;--a terrible blow. when a man is concerned as i am with money interests, and concerned largely with them all, he is of course exchanging one property for another every day of his life,--according as the markets go. i don't keep such a sum as that in one concern as an investment. nobody does. then when a panic comes, don't you see how it hits?" "will they never go up again?" "oh yes;--perhaps higher than ever. but it will take time. and in the meantime i am driven to fall back upon property intended for other purposes. that's the meaning of what you hear about that place down in sussex which i bought for marie. i was so driven that i was obliged to raise forty or fifty thousand wherever i could. but that will be all right in a week or two. and as for marie's money,--that, you know, is settled." he quite succeeded in making nidderdale believe every word that he spoke, and he produced also a friendly feeling in the young man's bosom, with something approaching to a desire that he might be of service to his future father-in-law. hazily, as through a thick fog, lord nidderdale thought that he did see something of the troubles, as he had long seen something of the glories, of commerce on an extended scale, and an idea occurred to him that it might be almost more exciting than whist or unlimited loo. he resolved too that whatever the man might tell him should never be divulged. he was on this occasion somewhat captivated by melmotte, and went away from the interview with a conviction that the financier was a big man;--one with whom he could sympathise, and to whom in a certain way he could become attached. and melmotte himself had derived positive pleasure even from a simulated confidence in his son-in-law. it had been pleasant to him to talk as though he were talking to a young friend whom he trusted. it was impossible that he could really admit any one to a participation in his secrets. it was out of the question that he should ever allow himself to be betrayed into speaking the truth of his own affairs. of course every word he had said to nidderdale had been a lie, or intended to corroborate lies. but it had not been only on behalf of the lies that he had talked after this fashion. even though his friendship with the young man were but a mock friendship,--though it would too probably be turned into bitter enmity before three months had passed by,--still there was a pleasure in it. the grendalls had left him since the day of the dinner,--miles having sent him a letter up from the country complaining of severe illness. it was a comfort to him to have someone to whom he could speak, and he much preferred nidderdale to miles grendall. this conversation took place in the smoking-room. when it was over melmotte went into the house, and nidderdale strolled away to the beargarden. the beargarden had been opened again though with difficulty, and with diminished luxury. nor could even this be done without rigid laws as to the payment of ready money. herr vossner had never more been heard of, but the bills which vossner had left unpaid were held to be good against the club, whereas every note of hand which he had taken from the members was left in the possession of mr. flatfleece. of course there was sorrow and trouble at the beargarden; but still the institution had become so absolutely necessary to its members that it had been reopened under a new management. no one had felt this need more strongly during every hour of the day,--of the day as he counted his days, rising as he did about an hour after noon and going to bed three or four hours after midnight,--than did dolly longestaffe. the beargarden had become so much to him that he had begun to doubt whether life would be even possible without such a resort for his hours. but now the club was again open, and dolly could have his dinner and his bottle of wine with the luxury to which he was accustomed. but at this time he was almost mad with the sense of injury. circumstances had held out to him a prospect of almost unlimited ease and indulgence. the arrangement made as to the pickering estate would pay all his debts, would disembarrass his own property, and would still leave him a comfortable sum in hand. squercum had told him that if he would stick to his terms he would surely get them. he had stuck to his terms and he had got them. and now the property was sold, and the title-deeds gone,--and he had not received a penny! he did not know whom to be loudest in abusing,--his father, the bideawhiles, or mr. melmotte. and then it was said that he had signed that letter! he was very open in his manner of talking about his misfortune at the club. his father was the most obstinate old fool that ever lived. as for the bideawhiles,--he would bring an action against them. squercum had explained all that to him. but melmotte was the biggest rogue the world had ever produced. "by george! the world," he said, "must be coming to an end. there's that infernal scoundrel sitting in parliament just as if he had not robbed me of my property, and forged my name, and--and--by george! he ought to be hung. if any man ever deserved to be hung, that man deserves to be hung." this he spoke openly in the coffee-room of the club, and was still speaking as nidderdale was taking his seat at one of the tables. dolly had been dining, and had turned round upon his chair so as to face some half-dozen men whom he was addressing. nidderdale leaving his chair walked up to him very gently. "dolly," said he, "do not go on in that way about melmotte when i am in the room. i have no doubt you are mistaken, and so you'll find out in a day or two. you don't know melmotte." "mistaken!" dolly still continued to exclaim with a loud voice. "am i mistaken in supposing that i haven't been paid my money?" "i don't believe it has been owing very long." "am i mistaken in supposing that my name has been forged to a letter?" "i am sure you are mistaken if you think that melmotte had anything to do with it." "squercum says--" "never mind squercum. we all know what are the suspicions of a fellow of that kind." "i'd believe squercum a deuced sight sooner than melmotte." "look here, dolly. i know more probably of melmotte's affairs than you do or perhaps than anybody else. if it will induce you to remain quiet for a few days and to hold your tongue here,--i'll make myself responsible for the entire sum he owes you." "the devil you will." "i will indeed." nidderdale was endeavouring to speak so that only dolly should hear him, and probably nobody else did hear him; but dolly would not lower his voice. "that's out of the question, you know," he said. "how could i take your money? the truth is, nidderdale, the man is a thief, and so you'll find out, sooner or later. he has broken open a drawer in my father's room and forged my name to a letter. everybody knows it. even my governor knows it now,--and bideawhile. before many days are over you'll find that he will be in gaol for forgery." this was very unpleasant, as every one knew that nidderdale was either engaged or becoming engaged to melmotte's daughter. "since you will speak about it in this public way--" began nidderdale. "i think it ought to be spoken about in a public way," said dolly. "i deny it as publicly. i can't say anything about the letter except that i am sure mr. melmotte did not put your name to it. from what i understand there seems to have been some blunder between your father and his lawyer." "that's true enough," said dolly; "but it doesn't excuse melmotte." "as to the money, there can be no more doubt that it will be paid than that i stand here. what is it?--twenty-five thousand, isn't it?" "eighty thousand, the whole." "well,--eighty thousand. it's impossible to suppose that such a man as melmotte shouldn't be able to raise eighty thousand pounds." "why don't he do it then?" asked dolly. all this was very unpleasant and made the club less social than it used to be in old days. there was an attempt that night to get up a game of cards; but nidderdale would not play because he was offended with dolly longestaffe; and miles grendall was away in the country,--a fugitive from the face of melmotte, and carbury was in hiding at home with his countenance from top to bottom supported by plasters, and montague in these days never went to the club. at the present moment he was again in liverpool, having been summoned thither by mr. ramsbottom. "by george," said dolly, as he filled another pipe and ordered more brandy and water, "i think everything is going to come to an end. i do indeed. i never heard of such a thing before as a man being done in this way. and then vossner has gone off, and it seems everybody is to pay just what he says they owed him. and now one can't even get up a game of cards. i feel as though there were no good in hoping that things would ever come right again." the opinion of the club was a good deal divided as to the matter in dispute between lord nidderdale and dolly longestaffe. it was admitted by some to be "very fishy." if melmotte were so great a man why didn't he pay the money, and why should he have mortgaged the property before it was really his own? but the majority of the men thought that dolly was wrong. as to the signature of the letter, dolly was a man who would naturally be quite unable to say what he had and what he had not signed. and then, even into the beargarden there had filtered, through the outer world, a feeling that people were not now bound to be so punctilious in the paying of money as they were a few years since. no doubt it suited melmotte to make use of the money, and therefore,--as he had succeeded in getting the property into his hands,--he did make use of it. but it would be forthcoming sooner or later! in this way of looking at the matter the beargarden followed the world at large. the world at large, in spite of the terrible falling-off at the emperor of china's dinner, in spite of all the rumours, in spite of the ruinous depreciation of the mexican railway stock, and of the undoubted fact that dolly longestaffe had not received his money, was inclined to think that melmotte would "pull through." chapter lxxv. in bruton street. mr. squercum all this time was in a perfect fever of hard work and anxiety. it may be said of him that he had been quite sharp enough to perceive the whole truth. he did really know it all,--if he could prove that which he knew. he had extended his enquiries in the city till he had convinced himself that, whatever wealth melmotte might have had twelve months ago, there was not enough of it left at present to cover the liabilities. squercum was quite sure that melmotte was not a falling, but a fallen star,--perhaps not giving sufficient credence to the recuperative powers of modern commerce. squercum told a certain stockbroker in the city, who was his specially confidential friend, that melmotte was a "gone coon." the stockbroker made also some few enquiries, and on that evening agreed with squercum that melmotte was a "gone coon." if such were the case it would positively be the making of squercum if it could be so managed that he should appear as the destroying angel of this offensive dragon. so squercum raged among the bideawhiles, who were unable altogether to shut their doors against him. they could not dare to bid defiance to squercum,--feeling that they had themselves blundered, and feeling also that they must be careful not to seem to screen a fault by a falsehood. "i suppose you give it up about the letter having been signed by my client," said squercum to the elder of the two younger bideawhiles. "i give up nothing and i assert nothing," said the superior attorney. "whether the letter be genuine or not we had no reason to believe it to be otherwise. the young gentleman's signature is never very plain, and this one is about as like any other as that other would be like the last." "would you let me look at it again, mr. bideawhile?" then the letter which had been very often inspected during the last ten days was handed to mr. squercum. "it's a stiff resemblance;--such as he never could have written had he tried it ever so." "perhaps not, mr. squercum. we are not generally on the lookout for forgeries in letters from our clients or our clients' sons." "just so, mr. bideawhile. but then mr. longestaffe had already told you that his son would not sign the letter." "how is one to know when and how and why a young man like that will change his purpose?" "just so, mr. bideawhile. but you see after such a declaration as that on the part of my client's father, the letter,--which is in itself a little irregular perhaps--" "i don't know that it's irregular at all." "well;--it didn't reach you in a very confirmatory manner. we'll just say that. what mr. longestaffe can have been at to wish to give up his title-deeds without getting anything for them--" "excuse me, mr. squercum, but that's between mr. longestaffe and us." "just so;--but as mr. longestaffe and you have jeopardised my client's property it is natural that i should make a few remarks. i think you'd have made a few remarks yourself, mr. bideawhile, if the case had been reversed. i shall bring the matter before the lord mayor, you know." to this mr. bideawhile said not a word. "and i think i understand you now that you do not intend to insist on the signature as being genuine." "i say nothing about it, mr. squercum. i think you'll find it very hard to prove that it's not genuine." "my client's oath, mr. bideawhile." "i'm afraid your client is not always very clear as to what he does." "i don't know what you mean by that, mr. bideawhile. i fancy that if i were to speak in that way of your client you would be very angry with me. besides, what does it all amount to? will the old gentleman say that he gave the letter into his son's hands, so that, even if such a freak should have come into my client's head, he could have signed it and sent it off? if i understand, mr. longestaffe says that he locked the letter up in a drawer in the very room which melmotte occupied, and that he afterwards found the drawer open. it won't, i suppose, be alleged that my client knew so little what he was about that he broke open the drawer in order that he might get at the letter. look at it whichever way you will, he did not sign it, mr. bideawhile." "i have never said he did. all i say is that we had fair ground for supposing that it was his letter. i really don't know that i can say anything more." "only that we are to a certain degree in the same boat together in this matter." "i won't admit even that, mr. squercum." "the difference being that your client by his fault has jeopardised his own interests and those of my client, while my client has not been in fault at all. i shall bring the matter forward before the lord mayor to-morrow, and as at present advised shall ask for an investigation with reference to a charge of fraud. i presume you will be served with a subpoena to bring the letter into court." "if so you may be sure that we shall produce it." then mr. squercum took his leave and went straight away to mr. bumby, a barrister well known in the city. the game was too powerful to be hunted down by mr. squercum's unassisted hands. he had already seen mr. bumby on the matter more than once. mr. bumby was inclined to doubt whether it might not be better to get the money, or some guarantee for the money. mr. bumby thought that if a bill at three months could be had for dolly's share of the property it might be expedient to take it. mr. squercum suggested that the property itself might be recovered, no genuine sale having been made. mr. bumby shook his head. "title-deeds give possession, mr. squercum. you don't suppose that the company which has lent money to melmotte on the title-deeds would have to lose it. take the bill; and if it is dishonoured run your chance of what you'll get out of the property. there must be assets." "every rap will have been made over," said mr. squercum. this took place on the monday, the day on which melmotte had offered his full confidence to his proposed son-in-law. on the following wednesday three gentlemen met together in the study in the house in bruton street from which it was supposed that the letter had been abstracted. there were mr. longestaffe, the father, dolly longestaffe, and mr. bideawhile. the house was still in melmotte's possession, and melmotte and mr. longestaffe were no longer on friendly terms. direct application for permission to have this meeting in this place had been formally made to mr. melmotte, and he had complied. the meeting took place at eleven o'clock--a terribly early hour. dolly had at first hesitated as to placing himself as he thought between the fire of two enemies, and mr. squercum had told him that as the matter would probably soon be made public, he could not judiciously refuse to meet his father and the old family lawyer. therefore dolly had attended, at great personal inconvenience to himself. "by george, it's hardly worth having if one is to take all this trouble about it," dolly had said to lord grasslough, with whom he had fraternised since the quarrel with nidderdale. dolly entered the room last, and at that time neither mr. longestaffe nor mr. bideawhile had touched the drawer, or even the table, in which the letter had been deposited. "now, mr. longestaffe," said mr. bideawhile, "perhaps you will show us where you think you put the letter." "i don't think at all," said he. "since the matter has been discussed the whole thing has come back upon my memory." "i never signed it," said dolly, standing with his hands in his pockets and interrupting his father. "nobody says you did, sir," rejoined the father with an angry voice. "if you will condescend to listen we may perhaps arrive at the truth." "but somebody has said that i did. i've been told that mr. bideawhile says so." "no, mr. longestaffe; no. we have never said so. we have only said that we had no reason for supposing the letter to be other than genuine. we have never gone beyond that." "nothing on earth would have made me sign it," said dolly. "why should i have given my property up before i got my money? i never heard such a thing in my life." the father looked up at the lawyer and shook his head, testifying as to the hopelessness of his son's obstinacy. "now, mr. longestaffe," continued the lawyer, "let us see where you put the letter." then the father very slowly, and with much dignity of deportment, opened the drawer,--the second drawer from the top, and took from it a bundle of papers very carefully folded and docketed. "there," said he, "the letter was not placed in the envelope but on the top of it, and the two were the two first documents in the bundle." he went on to say that as far as he knew no other paper had been taken away. he was quite certain that he had left the drawer locked. he was very particular in regard to that particular drawer, and he remembered that about this time mr. melmotte had been in the room with him when he had opened it, and,--as he was certain,--had locked it again. at that special time there had been, he said, considerable intimacy between him and melmotte. it was then that mr. melmotte had offered him a seat at the board of the mexican railway. "of course he picked the lock, and stole the letter," said dolly. "it's as plain as a pike-staff. it's clear enough to hang any man." "i am afraid that it falls short of evidence, however strong and just may be the suspicion induced," said the lawyer. "your father for a time was not quite certain about the letter." "he thought that i had signed it," said dolly. "i am quite certain now," rejoined the father angrily. "a man has to collect his memory before he can be sure of anything." "i am thinking you know how it would go to a jury." "what i want to know is how we are to get the money," said dolly. "i should like to see him hung,--of course; but i'd sooner have the money. squercum says--" "adolphus, we don't want to know here what mr. squercum says." "i don't know why what mr. squercum says shouldn't be as good as what mr. bideawhile says. of course squercum doesn't sound very aristocratic." "quite as much so as bideawhile, no doubt," said the lawyer laughing. "no; squercum isn't aristocratic, and fetter lane is a good deal lower than lincoln's inn. nevertheless squercum may know what he's about. it was squercum who was first down upon melmotte in this matter, and if it wasn't for squercum we shouldn't know as much about it as we do at present." squercum's name was odious to the elder longestaffe. he believed, probably without much reason, that all his family troubles came to him from squercum, thinking that if his son would have left his affairs in the hands of the old slows and the old bideawhiles, money would never have been scarce with him, and that he would not have made this terrible blunder about the pickering property. and the sound of squercum, as his son knew, was horrid to his ears. he hummed and hawed, and fumed and fretted about the room, shaking his head and frowning. his son looked at him as though quite astonished at his displeasure. "there's nothing more to be done here, sir, i suppose," said dolly putting on his hat. "nothing more," said mr. bideawhile. "it may be that i shall have to instruct counsel, and i thought it well that i should see in the presence of both of you exactly how the thing stood. you speak so positively, mr. longestaffe, that there can be no doubt?" "there is no doubt." "and now perhaps you had better lock the drawer in our presence. stop a moment--i might as well see whether there is any sign of violence having been used." so saying mr. bideawhile knelt down in front of the table and began to examine the lock. this he did very carefully and satisfied himself that there was "no sign of violence." "whoever has done it, did it very well," said bideawhile. [illustration: "i might as well see whether there is any sign of violence having been used."] "of course melmotte did it," said dolly longestaffe standing immediately over bideawhile's shoulder. at that moment there was a knock at the door,--a very distinct, and, we may say, a formal knock. there are those who knock and immediately enter without waiting for the sanction asked. had he who knocked done so on this occasion mr. bideawhile would have been found still on his knees, with his nose down to the level of the keyhole. but the intruder did not intrude rapidly, and the lawyer jumped on to his feet, almost upsetting dolly with the effort. there was a pause, during which mr. bideawhile moved away from the table,--as he might have done had he been picking a lock;--and then mr. longestaffe bade the stranger come in with a sepulchral voice. the door was opened, and mr. melmotte appeared. now mr. melmotte's presence certainly had not been expected. it was known that it was his habit to be in the city at this hour. it was known also that he was well aware that this meeting was to be held in this room at this special hour,--and he might well have surmised with what view. there was now declared hostility between both the longestaffes and mr. melmotte, and it certainly was supposed by all the gentlemen concerned that he would not have put himself out of the way to meet them on this occasion. "gentlemen," he said, "perhaps you think that i am intruding at the present moment." no one said that he did not think so. the elder longestaffe simply bowed very coldly. mr. bideawhile stood upright and thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. dolly, who at first forgot to take his hat off, whistled a bar, and then turned a pirouette on his heel. that was his mode of expressing his thorough surprise at the appearance of his debtor. "i fear that you do think i am intruding," said melmotte, "but i trust that what i have to say will be held to excuse me. i see, sir," he said, turning to mr. longestaffe, and glancing at the still open drawer, "that you have been examining your desk. i hope that you will be more careful in locking it than you were when you left it before." "the drawer was locked when i left it," said mr. longestaffe. "i make no deductions and draw no conclusions, but the drawer was locked." "then i should say it must have been locked when you returned to it." "no, sir, i found it open. i make no deductions and draw no conclusions,--but i left it locked and i found it open." "i should make a deduction and draw a conclusion," said dolly; "and that would be that somebody else had opened it." "this can answer no purpose at all," said bideawhile. "it was but a chance remark," said melmotte. "i did not come here out of the city at very great personal inconvenience to myself to squabble about the lock of the drawer. as i was informed that you three gentlemen would be here together, i thought the opportunity a suitable one for meeting you and making you an offer about this unfortunate business." he paused a moment; but neither of the three spoke. it did occur to dolly to ask them to wait while he should fetch squercum; but on second thoughts he reflected that a great deal of trouble would have to be taken, and probably for no good. "mr. bideawhile, i believe," suggested melmotte; and the lawyer bowed his head. "if i remember rightly i wrote to you offering to pay the money due to your clients--" "squercum is my lawyer," said dolly. "that will make no difference." "it makes a deal of difference," said dolly. "i wrote," continued melmotte, "offering my bills at three and six months' date." "they couldn't be accepted, mr. melmotte." "i would have allowed interest. i never have had my bills refused before." "you must be aware, mr. melmotte," said the lawyer, "that the sale of a property is not like an ordinary mercantile transaction in which bills are customarily given and taken. the understanding was that money should be paid in the usual way. and when we learned, as we did learn, that the property had been at once mortgaged by you, of course we became,--well, i think i may be justified in saying more than suspicious. it was a most,--most--unusual proceeding. you say you have another offer to make, mr. melmotte." "of course i have been short of money. i have had enemies whose business it has been for some time past to run down my credit, and, with my credit, has fallen the value of stocks in which it has been known that i have been largely interested. i tell you the truth openly. when i purchased pickering i had no idea that the payment of such a sum of money could inconvenience me in the least. when the time came at which i should pay it, stocks were so depreciated that it was impossible to sell. very hostile proceedings are threatened against me now. accusations are made, false as hell,"--mr. melmotte as he spoke raised his voice and looked round the room,--"but which at the present crisis may do me most cruel damage. i have come to say that, if you will undertake to stop proceedings which have been commenced in the city, i will have fifty thousand pounds,--which is the amount due to these two gentlemen,--ready for payment on friday at noon." "i have taken no proceedings as yet," said bideawhile. "it's squercum," says dolly. "well, sir," continued melmotte addressing dolly, "let me assure you that if these proceedings are stayed the money will be forthcoming;--but if not, i cannot produce the money. i little thought two months ago that i should ever have to make such a statement in reference to such a sum as fifty thousand pounds. but so it is. to raise that money by friday, i shall have to cripple my resources frightfully. it will be done at a terrible cost. but what mr. bideawhile says is true. i have no right to suppose that the purchase of this property should be looked upon as an ordinary commercial transaction. the money should have been paid,--and, if you will now take my word, the money shall be paid. but this cannot be done if i am made to appear before the lord mayor to-morrow. the accusations brought against me are damnably false. i do not know with whom they have originated. whoever did originate them, they are damnably false. but unfortunately, false as they are, in the present crisis, they may be ruinous to me. now gentlemen, perhaps you will give me an answer." both the father and the lawyer looked at dolly. dolly was in truth the accuser through the mouthpiece of his attorney squercum. it was at dolly's instance that these proceedings were being taken. "i, on behalf of my client," said mr. bideawhile, "will consent to wait till friday at noon." "i presume, adolphus, that you will say as much," said the elder longestaffe. dolly longestaffe was certainly not an impressionable person, but melmotte's eloquence had moved even him. it was not that he was sorry for the man, but that at the present moment he believed him. though he had been absolutely sure that melmotte had forged his name or caused it to be forged,--and did not now go so far into the matter as to abandon that conviction,--he had been talked into crediting the reasons given for melmotte's temporary distress, and also into a belief that the money would be paid on friday. something of the effect which melmotte's false confessions had had upon lord nidderdale, they now also had on dolly longestaffe. "i'll ask squercum, you know," he said. "of course mr. squercum will act as you instruct him," said bideawhile. "i'll ask squercum. i'll go to him at once. i can't do any more than that. and upon my word, mr. melmotte, you've given me a great deal of trouble." melmotte with a smile apologized. then it was settled that they three should meet in that very room on friday at noon, and that the payment should then be made,--dolly stipulating that as his father would be attended by bideawhile, so would he be attended by squercum. to this mr. longestaffe senior yielded with a very bad grace. chapter lxxvi. hetta and her lover. lady carbury was at this time so miserable in regard to her son that she found herself unable to be active as she would otherwise have been in her endeavours to separate paul montague and her daughter. roger had come up to town and given his opinion, very freely at any rate with regard to sir felix. but roger had immediately returned to suffolk, and the poor mother in want of assistance and consolation turned naturally to mr. broune, who came to see her for a few minutes almost every evening. it had now become almost a part of mr. broune's life to see lady carbury once in the day. she told him of the two propositions which roger had made: first, that she should fix her residence in some second-rate french or german town, and that sir felix should be made to go with her; and, secondly, that she should take possession of carbury manor for six months. "and where would mr. carbury go?" asked mr. broune. "he's so good that he doesn't care what he does with himself. there's a cottage on the place, he says, that he would move to." mr. broune shook his head. mr. broune did not think that an offer so quixotically generous as this should be accepted. as to the german or french town, mr. broune said that the plan was no doubt feasible, but he doubted whether the thing to be achieved was worth the terrible sacrifice demanded. he was inclined to think that sir felix should go to the colonies. "that he might drink himself to death," said lady carbury, who now had no secrets from mr. broune. sir felix in the mean time was still in the doctor's hands up-stairs. he had no doubt been very severely thrashed, but there was not in truth very much ailing him beyond the cuts on his face. he was, however, at the present moment better satisfied to be an invalid than to have to come out of his room and to meet the world. "as to melmotte," said mr. broune, "they say now that he is in some terrible mess which will ruin him and all who have trusted him." "and the girl?" "it is impossible to understand it all. melmotte was to have been summoned before the lord mayor to-day on some charge of fraud;--but it was postponed. and i was told this morning that nidderdale still means to marry the girl. i don't think anybody knows the truth about it. we shall hold our tongue about him till we really do know something." the "we" of whom mr. broune spoke was, of course, the "morning breakfast table." but in all this there was nothing about hetta. hetta, however, thought very much of her own condition, and found herself driven to take some special step by the receipt of two letters from her lover, written to her from liverpool. they had never met since she had confessed her love to him. the first letter she did not at once answer, as she was at that moment waiting to hear what roger carbury would say about mrs. hurtle. roger carbury had spoken, leaving a conviction on her mind that mrs. hurtle was by no means a fiction,--but indeed a fact very injurious to her happiness. then paul's second love-letter had come, full of joy, and love, and contentment,--with not a word in it which seemed to have been in the slightest degree influenced by the existence of a mrs. hurtle. had there been no mrs. hurtle, the letter would have been all that hetta could have desired; and she could have answered it, unless forbidden by her mother, with all a girl's usual enthusiastic affection for her chosen lord. but it was impossible that she should now answer it in that strain;--and it was equally impossible that she should leave such letters unanswered. roger had told her to "ask himself;" and she now found herself constrained to bid him either come to her and answer the question, or, if he thought it better, to give her some written account of mrs. hurtle,--so that she might know who the lady was, and whether the lady's condition did in any way interfere with her own happiness. so she wrote to paul, as follows:-- welbeck street, th july, --. my dear paul. she found that after that which had passed between them she could not call him "my dear sir," or "my dear mr. montague," and that it must either be "sir" or "my dear paul." he was dear to her,--very dear; and she thought that he had not been as yet convicted of any conduct bad enough to force her to treat him as an outcast. had there been no mrs. hurtle he would have been her "dearest paul,"--but she made her choice, and so commenced. my dear paul, a strange report has come round to me about a lady called mrs. hurtle. i have been told that she is an american lady living in london, and that she is engaged to be your wife. i cannot believe this. it is too horrid to be true. but i fear,--i fear there is something true that will be very very sad for me to hear. it was from my brother i first heard it,--who was of course bound to tell me anything he knew. i have talked to mamma about it, and to my cousin roger. i am sure roger knows it all;--but he will not tell me. he said,--"ask himself." and so i ask you. of course i can write about nothing else till i have heard about this. i am sure i need not tell you that it has made me very unhappy. if you cannot come and see me at once, you had better write. i have told mamma about this letter. then came the difficulty of the signature, with the declaration which must naturally be attached to it. after some hesitation she subscribed herself, your affectionate friend, henrietta carbury. "most affectionately your own hetta" would have been the form in which she would have wished to finish the first letter she had ever written to him. paul received it at liverpool on the wednesday morning, and on the wednesday evening he was in welbeck street. he had been quite aware that it had been incumbent on him to tell her the whole history of mrs. hurtle. he had meant to keep back--almost nothing. but it had been impossible for him to do so on that one occasion on which he had pleaded his love to her successfully. let any reader who is intelligent in such matters say whether it would have been possible for him then to have commenced the story of mrs. hurtle and to have told it to the bitter end. such a story must be postponed for a second or a third interview. or it may, indeed, be communicated by letter. when paul was called away to liverpool he did consider whether he should write the story. but there are many reasons strong against such written communications. a man may desire that the woman he loves should hear the record of his folly,--so that, in after days, there may be nothing to be detected; so that, should the mrs. hurtle of his life at any time intrude upon his happiness, he may with a clear brow and undaunted heart say to his beloved one,--"ah, this is the trouble of which i spoke to you." and then he and his beloved one will be in one cause together. but he hardly wishes to supply his beloved one with a written record of his folly. and then who does not know how much tenderness a man may show to his own faults by the tone of his voice, by half-spoken sentences, and by an admixture of words of love for the lady who has filled up the vacant space once occupied by the mrs. hurtle of his romance? but the written record must go through from beginning to end, self-accusing, thoroughly perspicuous, with no sweet, soft falsehoods hidden under the half-expressed truth. the soft falsehoods which would be sweet as the scent of violets in a personal interview, would stand in danger of being denounced as deceit added to deceit, if sent in a letter. i think therefore that paul montague did quite right in hurrying up to london. he asked for miss carbury, and when told that miss henrietta was with her mother, he sent his name up and said that he would wait in the dining-room. he had thoroughly made up his mind to this course. they should know that he had come at once; but he would not, if it could be helped, make his statement in the presence of lady carbury. then, up-stairs, there was a little discussion. hetta pleaded her right to see him alone. she had done what roger had advised, and had done it with her mother's consent. her mother might be sure that she would not again accept her lover till this story of mrs. hurtle had been sifted to the very bottom. but she must herself hear what her lover had to say for himself. felix was at the time in the drawing-room and suggested that he should go down and see paul montague on his sister's behalf;--but his mother looked at him with scorn, and his sister quietly said that she would rather see mr. montague herself. felix had been so cowed by circumstances that he did not say another word, and hetta left the room alone. when she entered the parlour paul stept forward to take her in his arms. that was a matter of course. she knew it would be so, and she had prepared herself for it. "paul," she said, "let me hear about all this--first." she sat down at some distance from him,--and he found himself compelled to seat himself at some little distance from her. "and so you have heard of mrs. hurtle," he said, with a faint attempt at a smile. "yes;--felix told me, and roger evidently had heard about her." "oh yes; roger carbury has heard about her from the beginning;--knows the whole history almost as well as i know it myself. i don't think your brother is as well informed." "perhaps not. but--isn't it a story that--concerns me?" "certainly it so far concerns you, hetta, that you ought to know it. and i trust you will believe that it was my intention to tell it you." "i will believe anything that you will tell me." "if so, i don't think that you will quarrel with me when you know all. i was engaged to marry mrs. hurtle." "is she a widow?"--he did not answer this at once. "i suppose she must be a widow if you were going to marry her." "yes;--she is a widow. she was divorced." "oh, paul! and she is an american?" "yes." "and you loved her?" montague was desirous of telling his own story, and did not wish to be interrogated. "if you will allow me i will tell it you all from beginning to end." "oh, certainly. but i suppose you loved her. if you meant to marry her you must have loved her." there was a frown upon hetta's brow and a tone of anger in her voice which made paul uneasy. "yes;--i loved her once; but i will tell you all." then he did tell his story, with a repetition of which the reader need not be detained. hetta listened with fair attention,--not interrupting very often, though when she did interrupt, the little words which she spoke were bitter enough. but she heard the story of the long journey across the american continent, of the ocean journey before the end of which paul had promised to make this woman his wife. "had she been divorced then?" asked hetta,--"because i believe they get themselves divorced just when they like." simple as the question was he could not answer it. "i could only know what she told me," he said, as he went on with his story. then mrs. hurtle had gone on to paris, and he, as soon as he reached carbury, had revealed everything to roger. "did you give her up then?" demanded hetta with stern severity. no,--not then. he had gone back to san francisco, and,--he had not intended to say that the engagement had been renewed, but he was forced to acknowledge that it had not been broken off. then he had written to her on his second return to england,--and then she had appeared in london at mrs. pipkin's lodgings in islington. "i can hardly tell you how terrible that was to me," he said, "for i had by that time become quite aware that my happiness must depend upon you." he tried the gentle, soft falsehoods that should have been as sweet as violets. perhaps they were sweet. it is odd how stern a girl can be, while her heart is almost breaking with love. hetta was very stern. "but felix says you took her to lowestoft,--quite the other day." montague had intended to tell all,--almost all. there was a something about the journey to lowestoft which it would be impossible to make hetta understand, and he thought that that might be omitted. "it was on account of her health." "oh;--on account of her health. and did you go to the play with her?" "i did." "was that for her--health?" "oh, hetta, do not speak to me like that! cannot you understand that when she came here, following me, i could not desert her?" "i cannot understand why you deserted her at all," said hetta. "you say you loved her, and you promised to marry her. it seems horrid to me to marry a divorced woman,--a woman who just says that she was divorced. but that is because i don't understand american ways. and i am sure you must have loved her when you took her to the theatre, and down to lowestoft,--for her health. that was only a week ago." "it was nearly three weeks," said paul in despair. "oh;--nearly three weeks! that is not such a very long time for a gentleman to change his mind on such a matter. you were engaged to her, not three weeks ago." "no, hetta, i was not engaged to her then." "i suppose she thought you were when she went to lowestoft with you." "she wanted then to force me to--to--to--. oh, hetta, it is so hard to explain, but i am sure that you understand. i do know that you do not, cannot think that i have, even for one moment, been false to you." "but why should you be false to her? why should i step in and crush all her hopes? i can understand that roger should think badly of her because she was--divorced. of course he would. but an engagement is an engagement. you had better go back to mrs. hurtle and tell her that you are quite ready to keep your promise." [illustration: "you had better go back to mrs. hurtle."] "she knows now that it is all over." "i dare say you will be able to persuade her to reconsider it. when she came all the way here from san francisco after you, and when she asked you to take her to the theatre, and to lowestoft--because of her health, she must be very much attached to you. and she is waiting here,--no doubt on purpose for you. she is a very old friend,--very old,--and you ought not to treat her unkindly. good bye, mr. montague. i think you had better lose no time in going--back to mrs. hurtle." all this she said with sundry little impedimentary gurgles in her throat, but without a tear and without any sign of tenderness. "you don't mean to tell me, hetta, that you are going to quarrel with me!" "i don't know about quarrelling. i don't wish to quarrel with any one. but of course we can't be friends when you have married--mrs. hurtle." "nothing on earth would induce me to marry her." "of course i cannot say anything about that. when they told me this story i did not believe them. no; i hardly believed roger when,--he would not tell it for he was too kind,--but when he would not contradict it. it seemed to be almost impossible that you should have come to me just at the very same moment. for, after all, mr. montague, nearly three weeks is a very short time. that trip to lowestoft couldn't have been much above a week before you came to me." "what does it matter?" "oh no; of course not;--nothing to you. i think i will go away now, mr. montague. it was very good of you to come and tell me all. it makes it so much easier." "do you mean to say that--you are going to--throw me over?" "i don't want you to throw mrs. hurtle over. good bye." "hetta!" "no; i will not have you lay your hand upon me. good night, mr. montague." and so she left him. paul montague was beside himself with dismay as he left the house. he had never allowed himself for a moment to believe that this affair of mrs. hurtle would really separate him from hetta carbury. if she could only really know it all, there could be no such result. he had been true to her from the first moment in which he had seen her, never swerving from his love. it was to be supposed that he had loved some woman before; but, as the world goes, that would not, could not, affect her. but her anger was founded on the presence of mrs. hurtle in london,--which he would have given half his possessions to have prevented. but when she did come, was he to have refused to see her? would hetta have wished him to be cold and cruel like that? no doubt he had behaved badly to mrs. hurtle;--but that trouble he had overcome. and now hetta was quarrelling with him, though he certainly had never behaved badly to her. he was almost angry with hetta as he walked home. everything that he could do he had done for her. for her sake he had quarrelled with roger carbury. for her sake,--in order that he might be effectually free from mrs. hurtle,--he had determined to endure the spring of the wild cat. for her sake,--so he told himself,--he had been content to abide by that odious railway company, in order that he might if possible preserve an income on which to support her. and now she told him that they must part,--and that only because he had not been cruelly indifferent to the unfortunate woman who had followed him from america. there was no logic in it, no reason,--and, as he thought, very little heart. "i don't want you to throw mrs. hurtle over," she had said. why should mrs. hurtle be anything to her? surely she might have left mrs. hurtle to fight her own battles. but they were all against him. roger carbury, lady carbury, and sir felix; and the end of it would be that she would be forced into marriage with a man almost old enough to be her father! she could not ever really have loved him. that was the truth. she must be incapable of such love as was his own for her. true love always forgives. and here there was really so very little to forgive! such were his thoughts as he went to bed that night. but he probably omitted to ask himself whether he would have forgiven her very readily had he found that she had been living "nearly three weeks ago" in close intercourse with another lover of whom he had hitherto never even heard the name. but then,--as all the world knows,--there is a wide difference between young men and young women! hetta, as soon as she had dismissed her lover, went up at once to her own room. thither she was soon followed by her mother, whose anxious ear had heard the closing of the front door. "well; what has he said?" asked lady carbury. hetta was in tears,--or very nigh to tears,--struggling to repress them, and struggling almost successfully. "you have found that what we told you about that woman was all true." "enough of it was true," said hetta, who, angry as she was with her lover, was not on that account less angry with her mother for disturbing her bliss. "what do you mean by that, hetta? had you not better speak to me openly?" "i say, mamma, that enough was true. i do not know how to speak more openly. i need not go into all the miserable story of the woman. he is like other men, i suppose. he has entangled himself with some abominable creature and then when he is tired of her thinks that he has nothing to do but to say so,--and to begin with somebody else." "roger carbury is very different." "oh, mamma, you will make me ill if you go on like that. it seems to me that you do not understand in the least." "i say he is not like that." "not in the least. of course i know that he is not in the least like that." "i say that he can be trusted." "of course he can be trusted. who doubts it?" "and that if you would give yourself to him, there would be no cause for any alarm." "mamma," said hetta jumping up, "how can you talk to me in that way? as soon as one man doesn't suit, i am to give myself to another! oh, mamma, how can you propose it? nothing on earth will ever induce me to be more to roger carbury than i am now." "you have told mr. montague that he is not to come here again?" "i don't know what i told him, but he knows very well what i mean." "that it is all over?" hetta made no reply. "hetta, i have a right to ask that, and i have a right to expect a reply. i do not say that you have hitherto behaved badly about mr. montague." "i have not behaved badly. i have told you everything. i have done nothing that i am ashamed of." "but we have now found out that he has behaved very badly. he has come here to you,--with unexampled treachery to your cousin roger--" "i deny that," exclaimed hetta. "and at the very time was almost living with this woman who says that she is divorced from her husband in america! have you told him that you will see him no more?" "he understood that." "if you have not told him so plainly, i must tell him." "mamma, you need not trouble yourself. i have told him very plainly." then lady carbury expressed herself satisfied for the moment, and left her daughter to her solitude. chapter lxxvii. another scene in bruton street. when mr. melmotte made his promise to mr. longestaffe and to dolly, in the presence of mr. bideawhile, that he would, on the next day but one, pay to them a sum of fifty thousand pounds, thereby completing, satisfactorily as far as they were concerned, the purchase of the pickering property, he intended to be as good as his word. the reader knows that he had resolved to face the longestaffe difficulty,--that he had resolved that at any rate he would not get out of it by sacrificing the property to which he had looked forward as a safe haven when storms should come. but, day by day, every resolution that he made was forced to undergo some change. latterly he had been intent on purchasing a noble son-in-law with this money,--still trusting to the chapter of chances for his future escape from the longestaffe and other difficulties. but squercum had been very hard upon him; and in connexion with this accusation as to the pickering property, there was another, which he would be forced to face also, respecting certain property in the east of london, with which the reader need not much trouble himself specially, but in reference to which it was stated that he had induced a foolish old gentleman to consent to accept railway shares in lieu of money. the old gentleman had died during the transaction, and it was asserted that the old gentleman's letter was hardly genuine. melmotte had certainly raised between twenty and thirty thousand pounds on the property, and had made payments for it in stock which was now worth--almost nothing at all. melmotte thought that he might face this matter successfully if the matter came upon him single-handed;--but in regard to the longestaffes he considered that now, at this last moment, he had better pay for pickering. the property from which he intended to raise the necessary funds was really his own. there could be no doubt about that. it had never been his intention to make it over to his daughter. when he had placed it in her name, he had done so simply for security,--feeling that his control over his only daughter would be perfect and free from danger. no girl apparently less likely to take it into her head to defraud her father could have crept quietly about a father's house. nor did he now think that she would disobey him when the matter was explained to her. heavens and earth! that he should be robbed by his own child,--robbed openly, shamefully, with brazen audacity! it was impossible. but still he had felt the necessity of going about this business with some little care. it might be that she would disobey him if he simply sent for her and bade her to affix her signature here and there. he thought much about it and considered that it would be wise that his wife should be present on the occasion, and that a full explanation should be given to marie, by which she might be made to understand that the money had in no sense become her own. so he gave instructions to his wife when he started into the city that morning; and when he returned, for the sake of making his offer to the longestaffes, he brought with him the deeds which it would be necessary that marie should sign, and he brought also mr. croll, his clerk, that mr. croll might witness the signature. when he left the longestaffes and mr. bideawhile he went at once to his wife's room. "is she here?" he asked. "i will send for her. i have told her." "you haven't frightened her?" "why should i frighten her? it is not very easy to frighten her, melmotte. she is changed since these young men have been so much about her." "i shall frighten her if she does not do as i bid her. bid her come now." this was said in french. then madame melmotte left the room, and melmotte arranged a lot of papers in order upon a table. having done so, he called to croll, who was standing on the landing-place, and told him to seat himself in the back drawing-room till he should be called. melmotte then stood with his back to the fire-place in his wife's sitting-room, with his hands in his pockets, contemplating what might be the incidents of the coming interview. he would be very gracious,--affectionate if it were possible,--and, above all things, explanatory. but, by heavens, if there were continued opposition to his demand,--to his just demand,--if this girl should dare to insist upon exercising her power to rob him, he would not then be affectionate,--nor gracious! there was some little delay in the coming of the two women, and he was already beginning to lose his temper when marie followed madame melmotte into the room. he at once swallowed his rising anger--with an effort. he would put a constraint upon himself. the affection and the graciousness should be all there,--as long as they might secure the purpose in hand. "marie," he began, "i spoke to you the other day about some property which for certain purposes was placed in your name just as we were leaving paris." "yes, papa." "you were such a child then,--i mean when we left paris,--that i could hardly explain to you the purpose of what i did." "i understood it, papa." "you had better listen to me, my dear. i don't think you did quite understand it. it would have been very odd if you had, as i never explained it to you." "you wanted to keep it from going away if you got into trouble." this was so true that melmotte did not know how at the moment to contradict the assertion. and yet he had not intended to talk of the possibility of trouble. "i wanted to lay aside a large sum of money which should not be liable to the ordinary fluctuations of commercial enterprise." "so that nobody could get at it." "you are a little too quick, my dear." "marie, why can't you let your papa speak?" said madame melmotte. "but of course, my dear," continued melmotte, "i had no idea of putting the money beyond my own reach. such a transaction is very common; and in such cases a man naturally uses the name of some one who is very near and dear to him, and in whom he is sure that he can put full confidence. and it is customary to choose a young person, as there will then be less danger of the accident of death. it was for these reasons, which i am sure that you will understand, that i chose you. of course the property remained exclusively my own." "but it is really mine," said marie. "no, miss; it was never yours," said melmotte, almost bursting out into anger, but restraining himself. "how could it become yours, marie? did i ever make you a gift of it?" "but i know that it did become mine,--legally." "by a quibble of law,--yes; but not so as to give you any right to it. i always draw the income." "but i could stop that, papa,--and if i were married, of course it would be stopped." then, quick as a flash of lightning, another idea occurred to melmotte, who feared that he already began to see that this child of his might be stiff-necked. "as we are thinking of your marriage," he said, "it is necessary that a change should be made. settlements must be drawn for the satisfaction of lord nidderdale and his father. the old marquis is rather hard upon me, but the marriage is so splendid that i have consented. you must now sign these papers in four or five places. mr. croll is here, in the next room, to witness your signature, and i will call him." "wait a moment, papa." "why should we wait?" "i don't think i will sign them." "why not sign them? you can't really suppose that the property is your own. you could not even get it if you did think so." "i don't know how that may be; but i had rather not sign them. if i am to be married, i ought not to sign anything except what he tells me." "he has no authority over you yet. i have authority over you. marie, do not give more trouble. i am very much pressed for time. let me call in mr. croll." "no, papa," she said. then came across his brow that look which had probably first induced marie to declare that she would endure to be "cut to pieces," rather than to yield in this or that direction. the lower jaw squared itself, and the teeth became set, and the nostrils of his nose became extended,--and marie began to prepare herself to be "cut to pieces." but he reminded himself that there was another game which he had proposed to play before he resorted to anger and violence. he would tell her how much depended on her compliance. therefore he relaxed the frown,--as well as he knew how, and softened his face towards her, and turned again to his work. "i am sure, marie, that you will not refuse to do this when i explain to you its importance to me. i must have that property for use in the city to-morrow, or--i shall be ruined." the statement was very short, but the manner in which he made it was not without effect. "oh!" shrieked his wife. "it is true. these harpies have so beset me about the election that they have lowered the price of every stock in which i am concerned, and have brought the mexican railway so low that they cannot be sold at all. i don't like bringing my troubles home from the city; but on this occasion i cannot help it. the sum locked up here is very large, and i am compelled to use it. in point of fact it is necessary to save us from destruction." this he said, very slowly, and with the utmost solemnity. "but you told me just now you wanted it because i was going to be married," rejoined marie. a liar has many points in his favour,--but he has this against him, that unless he devote more time to the management of his lies than life will generally allow, he cannot make them tally. melmotte was thrown back for a moment, and almost felt that the time for violence had come. he longed to be at her that he might shake the wickedness and the folly, and the ingratitude out of her. but he once more condescended to argue and to explain. "i think you misunderstood me, marie. i meant you to understand that settlements must be made, and that of course i must get my own property back into my own hands before anything of that kind can be done. i tell you once more, my dear, that if you do not do as i bid you, so that i may use that property the first thing to-morrow, we are all ruined. everything will be gone." "this can't be gone," said marie, nodding her head at the papers. "marie,--do you wish to see me disgraced and ruined? i have done a great deal for you." "you turned away the only person i ever cared for," said marie. "marie, how can you be so wicked? do as your papa bids you," said madame melmotte. "no!" said melmotte. "she does not care who is ruined, because we saved her from that reprobate." "she will sign them now," said madame melmotte. "no;--i will not sign them," said marie. "if i am to be married to lord nidderdale as you all say, i am sure i ought to sign nothing without telling him. and if the property was once made to be mine, i don't think i ought to give it up again because papa says that he is going to be ruined. i think that's a reason for not giving it up again." "it isn't yours to give. it's mine," said melmotte gnashing his teeth. "then you can do what you like with it without my signing," said marie. he paused a moment, and then laying his hand gently upon her shoulder, he asked her yet once again. his voice was changed, and was very hoarse. but he still tried to be gentle with her. "marie," he said, "will you do this to save your father from destruction?" but she did not believe a word that he said to her. how could she believe him? he had taught her to regard him as her natural enemy, making her aware that it was his purpose to use her as a chattel for his own advantage, and never allowing her for a moment to suppose that aught that he did was to be done for her happiness. and now, almost in a breath, he had told her that this money was wanted that it might be settled on her and the man to whom she was to be married, and then that it might be used to save him from instant ruin. she believed neither one story nor the other. that she should have done as she was desired in this matter can hardly be disputed. the father had used her name because he thought that he could trust her. she was his daughter and should not have betrayed his trust. but she had steeled herself to obstinacy against him in all things. even yet, after all that had passed, although she had consented to marry lord nidderdale, though she had been forced by what she had learned to despise sir felix carbury, there was present to her an idea that she might escape with the man she really loved. but any such hope could depend only on the possession of the money which she now claimed as her own. melmotte had endeavoured to throw a certain supplicatory pathos into the question he had asked her; but, though he was in some degree successful with his voice, his eyes and his mouth and his forehead still threatened her. he was always threatening her. all her thoughts respecting him reverted to that inward assertion that he might "cut her to pieces" if he liked. he repeated his question in the pathetic strain. "will you do this now,--to save us all from ruin?" but his eyes still threatened her. "no;" she said, looking up into his face as though watching for the personal attack which would be made upon her; "no, i won't." "marie!" exclaimed madame melmotte. she glanced round for a moment at her pseudo-mother with contempt. "no;" she said. "i don't think i ought,--and i won't." "you won't!" shouted melmotte. she merely shook her head. "do you mean that you, my own child, will attempt to rob your father just at the moment you can destroy him by your wickedness?" she shook her head but said no other word. "nec pueros coram populo medea trucidet." "let not medea with unnatural rage slaughter her mangled infants on the stage." nor will i attempt to harrow my readers by a close description of the scene which followed. poor marie! that cutting her up into pieces was commenced after a most savage fashion. marie crouching down hardly uttered a sound. but madame melmotte frightened beyond endurance screamed at the top of her voice,--"ah, melmotte, tu la tueras!" and then she tried to drag him from his prey. "will you sign them now?" said melmotte, panting. at that moment croll, frightened by the screams, burst into the room. it was perhaps not the first time that he had interfered to save melmotte from the effects of his own wrath. "oh, mr. melmotte, vat is de matter?" asked the clerk. melmotte was out of breath and could hardly tell his story. marie gradually recovered herself, and crouched, cowering, in a corner of a sofa, by no means vanquished in spirit, but with a feeling that the very life had been crushed out of her body. madame melmotte was standing weeping copiously, with her handkerchief up to her eyes. "will you sign the papers?" melmotte demanded. marie, lying as she was, all in a heap, merely shook her head. "pig!" said melmotte,--"wicked, ungrateful pig." "ah, ma'am-moiselle," said croll, "you should oblige your fader." [illustration: "ah, ma'am-moiselle," said croll, "you should oblige your fader."] "wretched, wicked girl!" said melmotte, collecting the papers together. then he left the room, and followed by croll descended to the study, whence the longestaffes and mr. bideawhile had long since taken their departure. madame melmotte came and stood over the girl, but for some minutes spoke never a word. marie lay on the sofa, all in a heap, with her hair dishevelled and her dress disordered, breathing hard, but uttering no sobs and shedding no tears. the stepmother,--if she might so be called,--did not think of attempting to persuade where her husband had failed. she feared melmotte so thoroughly, and was so timid in regard to her own person, that she could not understand the girl's courage. melmotte was to her an awful being, powerful as satan,--whom she never openly disobeyed, though she daily deceived him, and was constantly detected in her deceptions. marie seemed to her to have all her father's stubborn, wicked courage, and very much of his power. at the present moment she did not dare to tell the girl that she had been wrong. but she had believed her husband when he had said that destruction was coming, and had partly believed him when he declared that the destruction might be averted by marie's obedience. her life had been passed in almost daily fear of destruction. to marie the last two years of splendour had been so long that they had produced a feeling of security. but to the elder woman the two years had not sufficed to eradicate the remembrance of former reverses, and never for a moment had she felt herself to be secure. at last she asked the girl what she would like to have done for her. "i wish he had killed me," marie said, slowly dragging herself up from the sofa, and retreating without another word to her own room. in the meantime another scene was being acted in the room below. melmotte after he reached the room hardly made a reference to his daughter,--merely saying that nothing would overcome her wicked obstinacy. he made no allusion to his own violence, nor had croll the courage to expostulate with him now that the immediate danger was over. the great financier again arranged the papers, just as they had been laid out before,--as though he thought that the girl might be brought down to sign them there. and then he went on to explain to croll what he had wanted to have done,--how necessary it was that the thing should be done, and how terribly cruel it was to him that in such a crisis of his life he should be hampered, impeded,--he did not venture to his clerk to say ruined,--by the ill-conditioned obstinacy of a girl! he explained very fully how absolutely the property was his own, how totally the girl was without any right to withhold it from him! how monstrous in its injustice was the present position of things! in all this croll fully agreed. then melmotte went on to declare that he would not feel the slightest scruple in writing marie's signature to the papers himself. he was the girl's father and was justified in acting for her. the property was his own property, and he was justified in doing with it as he pleased. of course he would have no scruple in writing his daughter's name. then he looked up at the clerk. the clerk again assented,--after a fashion, not by any means with the comfortable certainty with which he had signified his accordance with his employer's first propositions. but he did not, at any rate, hint any disapprobation of the step which melmotte proposed to take. then melmotte went a step farther, and explained that the only difficulty in reference to such a transaction would be that the signature of his daughter would be required to be corroborated by that of a witness before he could use it. then he again looked up at croll;--but on this occasion croll did not move a muscle of his face. there certainly was no assent. melmotte continued to look at him; but then came upon the old clerk's countenance a stern look which amounted to very strong dissent. and yet croll had been conversant with some irregular doings in his time, and melmotte knew well the extent of croll's experience. then melmotte made a little remark to himself. "he knows that the game is pretty well over." "you had better return to the city now," he said aloud. "i shall follow you in half an hour. it is quite possible that i may bring my daughter with me. if i can make her understand this thing i shall do so. in that case i shall want you to be ready." croll again smiled, and again assented, and went his way. but melmotte made no further attempt upon his daughter. as soon as croll was gone he searched among various papers in his desk and drawers, and having found two signatures, those of his daughter and of this german clerk, set to work tracing them with some thin tissue paper. he commenced his present operation by bolting his door and pulling down the blinds. he practised the two signatures for the best part of an hour. then he forged them on the various documents;--and, having completed the operation, refolded them, placed them in a little locked bag of which he had always kept the key in his purse, and then, with the bag in his hand, was taken in his brougham into the city. chapter lxxviii. miss longestaffe again at caversham. all this time mr. longestaffe was necessarily detained in london while the three ladies of his family were living forlornly at caversham. he had taken his younger daughter home on the day after his visit to lady monogram, and in all his intercourse with her had spoken of her suggested marriage with mr. brehgert as a thing utterly out of the question. georgiana had made one little fight for her independence at the jermyn street hotel. "indeed, papa, i think it's very hard," she said. "what's hard? i think a great many things are hard; but i have to bear them." "you can do nothing for me." "do nothing for you! haven't you got a home to live in, and clothes to wear, and a carriage to go about in,--and books to read if you choose to read them? what do you expect?" "you know, papa, that's nonsense." "how do you dare to tell me that what i say is nonsense?" "of course there's a house to live in and clothes to wear; but what's to be the end of it? sophia, i suppose, is going to be married." "i am happy to say she is,--to a most respectable young man and a thorough gentleman." "and dolly has his own way of going on." "you have nothing to do with adolphus." "nor will he have anything to do with me. if i don't marry what's to become of me? it isn't that mr. brehgert is the sort of man i should choose." "do not mention his name to me." "but what am i to do? you give up the house in town, and how am i to see people? it was you sent me to mr. melmotte." "i didn't send you to mr. melmotte." "it was at your suggestion i went there, papa. and of course i could only see the people he had there. i like nice people as well as anybody." "there's no use talking any more about it." "i don't see that. i must talk about it, and think about it too. if i can put up with mr. brehgert i don't see why you and mamma should complain." "a jew!" "people don't think about that as they used to, papa. he has a very fine income, and i should always have a house in--" then mr. longestaffe became so furious and loud, that he stopped her for that time. "look here," he said, "if you mean to tell me that you will marry that man without my consent, i can't prevent it. but you shall not marry him as my daughter. you shall be turned out of my house, and i will never have your name pronounced in my presence again. it is disgusting,--degrading,--disgraceful!" and then he left her. on the next morning before he started for caversham he did see mr. brehgert; but he told georgiana nothing of the interview, nor had she the courage to ask him. the objectionable name was not mentioned again in her father's hearing, but there was a sad scene between herself, lady pomona, and her sister. when mr. longestaffe and his younger daughter arrived, the poor mother did not go down into the hall to meet her child,--from whom she had that morning received the dreadful tidings about the jew. as to these tidings she had as yet heard no direct condemnation from her husband. the effect upon lady pomona had been more grievous even than that made upon the father. mr. longestaffe had been able to declare immediately that the proposed marriage was out of the question, that nothing of the kind should be allowed, and could take upon himself to see the jew with the object of breaking off the engagement. but poor lady pomona was helpless in her sorrow. if georgiana chose to marry a jew tradesman she could not help it. but such an occurrence in the family would, she felt, be to her as though the end of all things had come. she could never again hold up her head, never go into society, never take pleasure in her powdered footmen. when her daughter should have married a jew, she didn't think that she could pluck up the courage to look even her neighbours mrs. yeld and mrs. hepworth in the face. georgiana found no one in the hall to meet her, and dreaded to go to her mother. she first went with her maid to her own room, and waited there till sophia came to her. as she sat pretending to watch the process of unpacking, she strove to regain her courage. why need she be afraid of anybody? why, at any rate, should she be afraid of other females? had she not always been dominant over her mother and sister? "oh, georgey," said sophia, "this is wonderful news!" "i suppose it seems wonderful that anybody should be going to be married except yourself." "no;--but such a very odd match!" "look here, sophia. if you don't like it, you need not talk about it. we shall always have a house in town, and you will not. if you don't like to come to us, you needn't. that's about all." "george wouldn't let me go there at all," said sophia. "then--george--had better keep you at home at toodlam. where's mamma? i should have thought somebody might have come and met me to say a word to me, instead of allowing me to creep into the house like this." "mamma isn't at all well; but she's up and in her own room. you mustn't be surprised, georgey, if you find mamma very--very much cut up about this." then georgiana understood that she must be content to stand all alone in the world, unless she made up her mind to give up mr. brehgert. "so i've come back," said georgiana, stooping down and kissing her mother. "oh, georgiana; oh, georgiana!" said lady pomona, slowly raising herself and covering her face with one of her hands. "this is dreadful. it will kill me. it will indeed. i didn't expect it from you." "what is the good of all that, mamma?" "it seems to me that it can't be possible. it's unnatural. it's worse than your wife's sister. i'm sure there's something in the bible against it. you never would read your bible, or you wouldn't be going to do this." "lady julia start has done just the same thing,--and she goes everywhere." "what does your papa say? i'm sure your papa won't allow it. if he's fixed about anything, it's about the jews. an accursed race;--think of that, georgiana;--expelled from paradise." "mamma, that's nonsense." "scattered about all over the world, so that nobody knows who anybody is. and it's only since those nasty radicals came up that they have been able to sit in parliament." "one of the greatest judges in the land is a jew," said georgiana, who had already learned to fortify her own case. "nothing that the radicals can do can make them anything else but what they are. i'm sure that mr. whitstable, who is to be your brother-in-law, will never condescend to speak to him." now, if there was anybody whom georgiana longestaffe had despised from her youth upwards it was george whitstable. he had been a laughing-stock to her when they were children, had been regarded as a lout when he left school, and had been her common example of rural dullness since he had become a man. he certainly was neither beautiful nor bright;--but he was a conservative squire born of tory parents. nor was he rich,--having but a moderate income, sufficient to maintain a moderate country house and no more. when first there came indications that sophia intended to put up with george whitstable, the more ambitious sister did not spare the shafts of her scorn. and now she was told that george whitstable would not speak to her future husband! she was not to marry mr. brehgert lest she should bring disgrace, among others, upon george whitstable! this was not to be endured. "then mr. whitstable may keep himself at home at toodlam and not trouble his head at all about me or my husband. i'm sure i shan't trouble myself as to what a poor creature like that may think about me. george whitstable knows as much about london as i do about the moon." "he has always been in county society," said sophia, "and was staying only the other day at lord cantab's." "then there were two fools together," said georgiana, who at this moment was very unhappy. "mr. whitstable is an excellent young man, and i am sure he will make your sister happy; but as for mr. brehgert,--i can't bear to have his name mentioned in my hearing." "then, mamma, it had better not be mentioned. at any rate it shan't be mentioned again by me." having so spoken, georgiana bounced out of the room and did not meet her mother and sister again till she came down into the drawing-room before dinner. her position was one very trying both to her nerves and to her feelings. she presumed that her father had seen mr. brehgert, but did not in the least know what had passed between them. it might be that her father had been so decided in his objection as to induce mr. brehgert to abandon his intention,--and if this were so, there could be no reason why she should endure the misery of having the jew thrown in her face. among them all they had made her think that she would never become mrs. brehgert. she certainly was not prepared to nail her colours upon the mast and to live and die for brehgert. she was almost sick of the thing herself. but she could not back out of it so as to obliterate all traces of the disgrace. even if she should not ultimately marry the jew, it would be known that she had been engaged to a jew,--and then it would certainly be said afterwards that the jew had jilted her. she was thus vacillating in her mind, not knowing whether to go on with brehgert or to abandon him. that evening lady pomona retired immediately after dinner, being "far from well." it was of course known to them all that mr. brehgert was her ailment. she was accompanied by her elder daughter, and georgiana was left with her father. not a word was spoken between them. he sat behind his newspaper till he went to sleep, and she found herself alone and deserted in that big room. it seemed to her that even the servants treated her with disdain. her own maid had already given her notice. it was manifestly the intention of her family to ostracise her altogether. of what service would it be to her that lady julia goldsheiner should be received everywhere, if she herself were to be left without a single christian friend? would a life passed exclusively among the jews content even her lessened ambition? at ten o'clock she kissed her father's head and went to bed. her father grunted less audibly than usual under the operation. she had always given herself credit for high spirits, but she began to fear that her courage would not suffice to carry her through sufferings such as these. on the next day her father returned to town, and the three ladies were left alone. great preparations were going on for the whitstable wedding. dresses were being made and linen marked, and consultations held,--from all which things georgiana was kept quite apart. the accepted lover came over to lunch, and was made as much of as though the whitstables had always kept a town house. sophy loomed so large in her triumph and happiness, that it was not to be borne. all caversham treated her with a new respect. and yet if toodlam was a couple of thousand a year, it was all it was;--and there were two unmarried sisters! lady pomona went half into hysterics every time she saw her younger daughter, and became in her way a most oppressive parent. oh, heavens;--was mr. brehgert with his two houses worth all this? a feeling of intense regret for the things she was losing came over her. even caversham, the caversham of old days which she had hated, but in which she had made herself respected and partly feared by everybody about the place,--had charms for her which seemed to her delightful now that they were lost for ever. then she had always considered herself to be the first personage in the house,--superior even to her father;--but now she was decidedly the last. her second evening was worse even than the first. when mr. longestaffe was not at home the family sat in a small dingy room between the library and the dining-room, and on this occasion the family consisted only of georgiana. in the course of the evening she went up-stairs and calling her sister out into the passage demanded to be told why she was thus deserted. "poor mamma is very ill," said sophy. "i won't stand it if i'm to be treated like this," said georgiana. "i'll go away somewhere." "how can i help it, georgey? it's your own doing. of course you must have known that you were going to separate yourself from us." on the next morning there came a dispatch from mr. longestaffe,--of what nature georgey did not know as it was addressed to lady pomona. but one enclosure she was allowed to see. "mamma," said sophy, "thinks you ought to know how dolly feels about it." and then a letter from dolly to his father was put into georgey's hands. the letter was as follows:-- my dear father,-- can it be true that georgey is thinking of marrying that horrid vulgar jew, old brehgert? the fellows say so; but i can't believe it. i'm sure you wouldn't let her. you ought to lock her up. yours affectionately, a. longestaffe. dolly's letters made his father very angry, as, short as they were, they always contained advice or instruction, such as should come from a father to a son, rather than from a son to a father. this letter had not been received with a welcome. nevertheless the head of the family had thought it worth his while to make use of it, and had sent it to caversham in order that it might be shown to his rebellious daughter. and so dolly had said that she ought to be locked up! she'd like to see somebody do it! as soon as she had read her brother's epistle she tore it into fragments and threw it away in her sister's presence. "how can mamma be such a hypocrite as to pretend to care what dolly says? who doesn't know that he's an idiot? and papa has thought it worth his while to send that down here for me to see! well, after that i must say that i don't much care what papa does." "i don't see why dolly shouldn't have an opinion as well as anybody else," said sophy. "as well as george whitstable? as far as stupidness goes they are about the same. but dolly has a little more knowledge of the world." "of course we all know, georgiana," rejoined the elder sister, "that for cuteness and that kind of thing one must look among the commercial classes, and especially among a certain sort." "i've done with you all," said georgey rushing out of the room. "i'll have nothing more to do with any one of you." but it is very difficult for a young lady to have done with her family! a young man may go anywhere, and may be lost at sea; or come and claim his property after twenty years. a young man may demand an allowance, and has almost a right to live alone. the young male bird is supposed to fly away from the paternal nest. but the daughter of a house is compelled to adhere to her father till she shall get a husband. the only way in which georgey could "have done" with them all at caversham would be by trusting herself to mr. brehgert, and at the present moment she did not know whether mr. brehgert did or did not consider himself as engaged to her. that day also passed away with ineffable tedium. at one time she was so beaten down by ennui that she almost offered her assistance to her sister in reference to the wedding garments. in spite of the very bitter words which had been spoken in the morning she would have done so had sophy afforded her the slightest opportunity. but sophy was heartlessly cruel in her indifference. in her younger days she had had her bad things, and now,--with george whitstable by her side,--she meant to have good things, the goodness of which was infinitely enhanced by the badness of her sister's things. she had been so greatly despised that the charm of despising again was irresistible. and she was able to reconcile her cruelty to her conscience by telling herself that duty required her to show implacable resistance to such a marriage as this which her sister contemplated. therefore georgiana dragged out another day, not in the least knowing what was to be her fate. chapter lxxix. the brehgert correspondence. mr. longestaffe had brought his daughter down to caversham on a wednesday. during the thursday and friday she had passed a very sad time, not knowing whether she was or was not engaged to marry mr. brehgert. her father had declared to her that he would break off the match, and she believed that he had seen mr. brehgert with that purpose. she had certainly given no consent, and had never hinted to any one of the family an idea that she was disposed to yield. but she felt that, at any rate with her father, she had not adhered to her purpose with tenacity, and that she had allowed him to return to london with a feeling that she might still be controlled. she was beginning to be angry with mr. brehgert, thinking that he had taken his dismissal from her father without consulting her. it was necessary that something should be settled, something known. life such as that she was leading now would drive her mad. she had all the disadvantages of the brehgert connection and none of the advantages. she could not comfort herself with thinking of the brehgert wealth and the brehgert houses, and yet she was living under the general ban of caversham on account of her brehgert associations. she was beginning to think that she herself must write to mr. brehgert,--only she did not know what to say to him. but on the saturday morning she got a letter from mr. brehgert. it was handed to her as she was sitting at breakfast with her sister,--who at that moment was triumphant with a present of gooseberries which had been sent over from toodlam. the toodlam gooseberries were noted throughout suffolk, and when the letters were being brought in sophia was taking her lover's offering from the basket with her own fair hands. "well!" georgey had exclaimed, "to send a pottle of gooseberries to his lady love across the country! who but george whitstable would do that?" "i dare say you get nothing but gems and gold," sophy retorted. "i don't suppose that mr. brehgert knows what a gooseberry is." at that moment the letter was brought in, and georgiana knew the writing. "i suppose that's from mr. brehgert," said sophy. "i don't think it matters much to you who it's from." she tried to be composed and stately, but the letter was too important to allow of composure, and she retired to read it in privacy. the letter was as follows:-- my dear georgiana, your father came to me the day after i was to have met you at lady monogram's party. i told him then that i would not write to you till i had taken a day or two to consider what he said to me;--and also that i thought it better that you should have a day or two to consider what he might say to you. he has now repeated what he said at our first interview, almost with more violence; for i must say that i think he has allowed himself to be violent when it was surely unnecessary. the long and short of it is this. he altogether disapproves of your promise to marry me. he has given three reasons;--first that i am in trade; secondly that i am much older than you, and have a family; and thirdly that i am a jew. in regard to the first i can hardly think that he is earnest. i have explained to him that my business is that of a banker; and i can hardly conceive it to be possible that any gentleman in england should object to his daughter marrying a banker, simply because the man is a banker. there would be a blindness of arrogance in such a proposition of which i think your father to be incapable. this has merely been added in to strengthen his other objections. as to my age, it is just fifty-one. i do not at all think myself too old to be married again. whether i am too old for you is for you to judge,--as is also that question of my children who, of course, should you become my wife will be to some extent a care upon your shoulders. as this is all very serious you will not, i hope, think me wanting in gallantry if i say that i should hardly have ventured to address you if you had been quite a young girl. no doubt there are many years between us;--and so i think there should be. a man of my age hardly looks to marry a woman of the same standing as himself. but the question is one for the lady to decide,--and you must decide it now. as to my religion, i acknowledge the force of what your father says,--though i think that a gentleman brought up with fewer prejudices would have expressed himself in language less likely to give offence. however i am a man not easily offended; and on this occasion i am ready to take what he has said in good part. i can easily conceive that there should be those who think that the husband and wife should agree in religion. i am indifferent to it myself. i shall not interfere with you if you make me happy by becoming my wife, nor, i suppose, will you with me. should you have a daughter or daughters i am quite willing that they should be brought up subject to your influence. there was a plain-speaking in this which made georgiana look round the room as though to see whether any one was watching her as she read it. but no doubt your father objects to me specially because i am a jew. if i were an atheist he might, perhaps, say nothing on the subject of religion. on this matter as well as on others it seems to me that your father has hardly kept pace with the movements of the age. fifty years ago whatever claim a jew might have to be as well considered as a christian, he certainly was not so considered. society was closed against him, except under special circumstances, and so were all the privileges of high position. but that has been altered. your father does not admit the change; but i think he is blind to it, because he does not wish to see. i say all this more as defending myself than as combating his views with you. it must be for you and for you alone to decide how far his views shall govern you. he has told me, after a rather peremptory fashion, that i have behaved badly to him and to his family because i did not go to him in the first instance when i thought of obtaining the honour of an alliance with his daughter. i have been obliged to tell him that in this matter i disagree with him entirely, though in so telling him i endeavoured to restrain myself from any appearance of warmth. i had not the pleasure of meeting you in his house, nor had i any acquaintance with him. and again, at the risk of being thought uncourteous, i must say that you are to a certain degree emancipated by age from that positive subordination to which a few years ago you probably submitted without a question. if a gentleman meets a lady in society, as i met you in the home of our friend mr. melmotte, i do not think that the gentleman is to be debarred from expressing his feelings because the lady may possibly have a parent. your father, no doubt with propriety, had left you to be the guardian of yourself, and i cannot submit to be accused of improper conduct because, finding you in that condition, i availed myself of it. and now, having said so much, i must leave the question to be decided entirely by yourself. i beg you to understand that i do not at all wish to hold you to a promise merely because the promise has been given. i readily acknowledge that the opinion of your family should be considered by you, though i will not admit that i was bound to consult that opinion before i spoke to you. it may well be that your regard for me or your appreciation of the comforts with which i may be able to surround you, will not suffice to reconcile you to such a breach from your own family as your father, with much repetition, has assured me will be inevitable. take a day or two to think of this and turn it well over in your mind. when i last had the happiness of speaking to you, you seemed to think that your parents might raise objections, but that those objections would give way before an expression of your own wishes. i was flattered by your so thinking; but, if i may form any judgment from your father's manner, i must suppose that you were mistaken. you will understand that i do not say this as any reproach to you. quite the contrary. i think your father is irrational; and you may well have failed to anticipate that he should be so. as to my own feelings they remain exactly as they were when i endeavoured to explain them to you. though i do not find myself to be too old to marry, i do think myself too old to write love letters. i have no doubt you believe me when i say that i entertain a most sincere affection for you; and i beseech you to believe me in saying further that should you become my wife it shall be the study of my life to make you happy. it is essentially necessary that i should allude to one other matter, as to which i have already told your father what i will now tell you. i think it probable that within this week i shall find myself a loser of a very large sum of money through the failure of a gentleman whose bad treatment of me i will the more readily forgive because he was the means of making me known to you. this you must understand is private between you and me, though i have thought it proper to inform your father. such loss, if it fall upon me, will not interfere in the least with the income which i have proposed to settle upon you for your use after my death; and, as your father declares that in the event of your marrying me he will neither give to you nor bequeath to you a shilling, he might have abstained from telling me to my face that i was a bankrupt merchant when i myself told him of my loss. i am not a bankrupt merchant nor at all likely to become so. nor will this loss at all interfere with my present mode of living. but i have thought it right to inform you of it, because, if it occur,--as i think it will,--i shall not deem it right to keep a second establishment probably for the next two or three years. but my house at fulham and my stables there will be kept up just as they are at present. i have now told you everything which i think it is necessary you should know, in order that you may determine either to adhere to or to recede from your engagement. when you have resolved you will let me know,--but a day or two may probably be necessary for your decision. i hope i need not say that a decision in my favour will make me a happy man. i am, in the meantime, your affectionate friend, ezekiel brehgert. this very long letter puzzled georgey a good deal, and left her, at the time of reading it, very much in doubt as to what she would do. she could understand that it was a plain-spoken and truth-telling letter. not that she, to herself, gave it praise for those virtues; but that it imbued her unconsciously with a thorough belief. she was apt to suspect deceit in other people;--but it did not occur to her that mr. brehgert had written a single word with an attempt to deceive her. but the single-minded genuine honesty of the letter was altogether thrown away upon her. she never said to herself, as she read it, that she might safely trust herself to this man, though he were a jew, though greasy and like a butcher, though over fifty and with a family, because he was an honest man. she did not see that the letter was particularly sensible;--but she did allow herself to be pained by the total absence of romance. she was annoyed at the first allusion to her age, and angry at the second; and yet she had never supposed that brehgert had taken her to be younger than she was. she was well aware that the world in general attributes more years to unmarried women than they have lived, as a sort of equalising counter-weight against the pretences which young women make on the other side, or the lies which are told on their behalf. nor had she wished to appear peculiarly young in his eyes. but, nevertheless, she regarded the reference to be uncivil,--perhaps almost butcher-like,--and it had its effect upon her. and then the allusion to the "daughter or daughters" troubled her. she told herself that it was vulgar,--just what a butcher might have said. and although she was quite prepared to call her father the most irrational, the most prejudiced, and most ill-natured of men, yet she was displeased that mr. brehgert should take such a liberty with him. but the passage in mr. brehgert's letter which was most distasteful to her was that which told her of the loss which he might probably incur through his connection with melmotte. what right had he to incur a loss which would incapacitate him from keeping his engagements with her? the town-house had been the great persuasion, and now he absolutely had the face to tell her that there was to be no town-house for three years. when she read this she felt that she ought to be indignant, and for a few moments was minded to sit down without further consideration and tell the man with considerable scorn that she would have nothing more to say to him. but on that side too there would be terrible bitterness. how would she have fallen from her greatness when, barely forgiven by her father and mother for the vile sin which she had contemplated, she should consent to fill a common bridesmaid place at the nuptials of george whitstable! and what would then be left to her in life? this episode of the jew would make it quite impossible for her again to contest the question of the london house with her father. lady pomona and mrs. george whitstable would be united with him against her. there would be no "season" for her, and she would be nobody at caversham. as for london, she would hardly wish to go there! everybody would know the story of the jew. she thought that she could have plucked up courage to face the world as the jew's wife, but not as the young woman who had wanted to marry the jew and had failed. how would her future life go with her, should she now make up her mind to retire from the proposed alliance? if she could get her father to take her abroad at once, she would do it; but she was not now in a condition to make any terms with her father. as all this gradually passed through her mind, she determined that she would so far take mr. brehgert's advice as to postpone her answer till she had well considered the matter. she slept upon it, and the next day she asked her mother a few questions. "mamma, have you any idea what papa means to do?" "in what way, my dear?" lady pomona's voice was not gracious, as she was free from that fear of her daughter's ascendancy which had formerly affected her. "well;--i suppose he must have some plan." "you must explain yourself. i don't know why he should have any particular plan." "will he go to london next year?" "that will depend upon money, i suppose. what makes you ask?" "of course i have been very cruelly circumstanced. everybody must see that. i'm sure you do, mamma. the long and the short of it is this;--if i give up my engagement, will he take us abroad for a year?" "why should he?" "you can't suppose that i should be very comfortable in england. if we are to remain here at caversham, how am i to hope ever to get settled?" "sophy is doing very well." "oh, mamma, there are not two george whitstables;--thank god." she had meant to be humble and supplicating, but she could not restrain herself from the use of that one shaft. "i don't mean but what sophy may be very happy, and i am sure that i hope she will. but that won't do me any good. i should be very unhappy here." "i don't see how you are to find any one to marry you by going abroad," said lady pomona, "and i don't see why your papa is to be taken away from his own home. he likes caversham." "then i am to be sacrificed on every side," said georgey, stalking out of the room. but still she could not make up her mind what letter she would write to mr. brehgert, and she slept upon it another night. on the next day after breakfast she did write her letter, though when she sat down to her task she had not clearly made up her mind what she would say. but she did get it written, and here it is. caversham, monday. my dear mr. brehgert, as you told me not to hurry, i have taken a little time to think about your letter. of course it would be very disagreeable to quarrel with papa and mamma and everybody. and if i do do so, i'm sure somebody ought to be very grateful. but papa has been very unfair in what he has said. as to not asking him, it could have been of no good, for of course he would be against it. he thinks a great deal of the longestaffe family, and so, i suppose, ought i. but the world does change so quick that one doesn't think of anything now as one used to do. anyway, i don't feel that i'm bound to do what papa tells me just because he says it. though i'm not quite so old as you seem to think, i'm old enough to judge for myself,--and i mean to do so. you say very little about affection, but i suppose i am to take all that for granted. i don't wonder at papa being annoyed about the loss of the money. it must be a very great sum when it will prevent your having a house in london,--as you agreed. it does make a great difference, because, of course, as you have no regular place in the country, one could only see one's friends in london. fulham is all very well now and then, but i don't think i should like to live at fulham all the year through. you talk of three years, which would be dreadful. if as you say it will not have any lasting effect, could you not manage to have a house in town? if you can do it in three years, i should think you could do it now. i should like to have an answer to this question. i do think so much about being the season in town! as for the other parts of your letter, i knew very well beforehand that papa would be unhappy about it. but i don't know why i'm to let that stand in my way when so very little is done to make me happy. of course you will write to me again, and i hope you will say something satisfactory about the house in london. yours always sincerely, georgiana longestaffe. it probably never occurred to georgey that mr. brehgert would under any circumstances be anxious to go back from his engagement. she so fully recognised her own value as a christian lady of high birth and position giving herself to a commercial jew, that she thought that under any circumstances mr. brehgert would be only too anxious to stick to his bargain. nor had she any idea that there was anything in her letter which could probably offend him. she thought that she might at any rate make good her claim to the house in london; and that as there were other difficulties on his side, he would yield to her on this point. but as yet she hardly knew mr. brehgert. he did not lose a day in sending to her a second letter. he took her letter with him to his office in the city, and there answered it without a moment's delay. no. , st. cuthbert's court, london, tuesday, july , --. my dear miss longestaffe, you say it would be very disagreeable to you to quarrel with your papa and mamma; and as i agree with you, i will take your letter as concluding our intimacy. i should not, however, be dealing quite fairly with you or with myself if i gave you to understand that i felt myself to be coerced to this conclusion simply by your qualified assent to your parents' views. it is evident to me from your letter that you would not wish to be my wife unless i can supply you with a house in town as well as with one in the country. but this for the present is out of my power. i would not have allowed my losses to interfere with your settlement because i had stated a certain income; and must therefore to a certain extent have compromised my children. but i should not have been altogether happy till i had replaced them in their former position, and must therefore have abstained from increased expenditure till i had done so. but of course i have no right to ask you to share with me the discomfort of a single home. i may perhaps add that i had hoped that you would have looked to your happiness to another source, and that i will bear my disappointment as best i may. as you may perhaps under these circumstances be unwilling that i should wear the ring you gave me, i return it by post. i trust you will be good enough to keep the trifle you were pleased to accept from me, in remembrance of one who will always wish you well. yours sincerely, ezekiel brehgert. and so it was all over! georgey, when she read this letter, was very indignant at her lover's conduct. she did not believe that her own letter had at all been of a nature to warrant it. she had regarded herself as being quite sure of him, and only so far doubting herself, as to be able to make her own terms because of such doubts. and now the jew had rejected her! she read this last letter over and over again, and the more she read it the more she felt that in her heart of hearts she had intended to marry him. there would have been inconveniences no doubt, but they would have been less than the sorrow on the other side. now she saw nothing before her but a long vista of caversham dullness, in which she would be trampled upon by her father and mother, and scorned by mr. and mrs. george whitstable. she got up and walked about the room thinking of vengeance. but what vengeance was possible to her? everybody belonging to her would take the part of the jew in that which he had now done. she could not ask dolly to beat him; nor could she ask her father to visit him with the stern frown of paternal indignation. there could be no revenge. for a time,--only for a few seconds,--she thought that she would write to mr. brehgert and tell him that she had not intended to bring about this termination of their engagement. this, no doubt, would have been an appeal to the jew for mercy;--and she could not quite descend to that. but she would keep the watch and chain he had given her, and which somebody had told her had not cost less than a hundred and fifty guineas. she could not wear them, as people would know whence they had come; but she might exchange them for jewels which she could wear. at lunch she said nothing to her sister, but in the course of the afternoon she thought it best to inform her mother. "mamma," she said, "as you and papa take it so much to heart, i have broken off everything with mr. brehgert." "of course it must be broken off," said lady pomona. this was very ungracious,--so much so that georgey almost flounced out of the room. "have you heard from the man?" asked her ladyship. "i have written to him, and he has answered me; and it is all settled. i thought that you would have said something kind to me." and the unfortunate young woman burst out into tears. "it was so dreadful," said lady pomona;--"so very dreadful. i never heard of anything so bad. when young what's-his-name married the tallow-chandler's daughter i thought it would have killed me if it had been dolly; but this was worse than that. her father was a methodist." "they had neither of them a shilling of money," said georgey through her tears. "and your papa says this man was next door to a bankrupt. but it's all over?" "yes, mamma." "and now we must all remain here at caversham till people forget it. it has been very hard upon george whitstable, because of course everybody has known it through the county. i once thought he would have been off, and i really don't know that we could have said anything." at that moment sophy entered the room. "it's all over between georgiana and the--man," said lady pomona, who hardly saved herself from stigmatising him by a further reference to his religion. "i knew it would be," said sophia. "of course it could never have really taken place," said their mother. "and now i beg that nothing more may be said about it," said georgiana. "i suppose, mamma, you will write to papa?" "you must send him back his watch and chain, georgey," said sophia. "what business is that of yours?" "of course she must. her papa would not let her keep it." to such a miserable depth of humility had the younger miss longestaffe been brought by her ill-considered intimacy with the melmottes! georgiana, when she looked back on this miserable episode in her life, always attributed her grief to the scandalous breach of compact of which her father had been guilty. chapter lxxx. ruby prepares for service. our poor old honest friend john crumb was taken away to durance vile after his performance in the street with sir felix, and was locked up for the remainder of the night. this indignity did not sit so heavily on his spirits as it might have done on those of a quicker nature. he was aware that he had not killed the baronet, and that he had therefore enjoyed his revenge without the necessity of "swinging for it at bury." that in itself was a comfort to him. then it was a great satisfaction to think that he had "served the young man out" in the actual presence of his ruby. he was not prone to give himself undue credit for his capability and willingness to knock his enemies about; but he did think that ruby must have observed on this occasion that he was the better man of the two. and, to john, a night in the station-house was no great personal inconvenience. though he was very proud of his four-post bed at home, he did not care very much for such luxuries as far as he himself was concerned. nor did he feel any disgrace from being locked up for the night. he was very good-humoured with the policeman, who seemed perfectly to understand his nature, and was as meek as a child when the lock was turned upon him. as he lay down on the hard bench, he comforted himself with thinking that ruby would surely never care any more for the "baronite" since she had seen him go down like a cur without striking a blow. he thought a good deal about ruby, but never attributed any blame to her for her share in the evils that had befallen him. the next morning he was taken before the magistrates, but was told at an early hour of the day that he was again free. sir felix was not much the worse for what had happened to him, and had refused to make any complaint against the man who had beaten him. john crumb shook hands cordially with the policeman who had had him in charge, and suggested beer. the constable, with regrets, was forced to decline, and bade adieu to his late prisoner with the expression of a hope that they might meet again before long. "you come down to bungay," said john, "and i'll show you how we live there." from the police-office he went direct to mrs. pipkin's house, and at once asked for ruby. he was told that ruby was out with the children, and was advised both by mrs. pipkin and mrs. hurtle not to present himself before ruby quite yet. "you see," said mrs. pipkin, "she's a thinking how heavy you were upon that young gentleman." "but i wasn't;--not particular. lord love you, he ain't a hair the wuss." "you let her alone for a time," said mrs. hurtle. "a little neglect will do her good." "maybe," said john,--"only i wouldn't like her to have it bad. you'll let her have her wittles regular, mrs. pipkin." it was then explained to him that the neglect proposed should not extend to any deprivation of food, and he took his leave, receiving an assurance from mrs. hurtle that he should be summoned to town as soon as it was thought that his presence there would serve his purposes; and with loud promises repeated to each of the friendly women that as soon as ever a "line should be dropped" he would appear again upon the scene, he took mrs. pipkin aside, and suggested that if there were "any hextras," he was ready to pay for them. then he took his leave without seeing ruby, and went back to bungay. when ruby returned with the children she was told that john crumb had called. "i thought as he was in prison," said ruby. "what should they keep him in prison for?" said mrs. pipkin. "he hasn't done nothing as he oughtn't to have done. that young man was dragging you about as far as i can make out, and mr. crumb just did as anybody ought to have done to prevent it. of course they weren't going to keep him in prison for that. prison indeed! it isn't him as ought to be in prison." "and where is he now, aunt?" "gone down to bungay to mind his business, and won't be coming here any more of a fool's errand. he must have seen now pretty well what's worth having, and what ain't. beauty is but skin deep, ruby." "john crumb 'd be after me again to-morrow, if i'd give him encouragement," said ruby. "if i'd hold up my finger he'd come." "then john crumb's a fool for his pains, that's all; and now do you go about your work." ruby didn't like to be told to go about her work, and tossed her head, and slammed the kitchen door, and scolded the servant girl, and then sat down to cry. what was she to do with herself now? she had an idea that felix would not come back to her after the treatment he had received;--and a further idea that if he did come he was not, as she phrased it to herself, "of much account." she certainly did not like him the better for having been beaten, though, at the time, she had been disposed to take his part. she did not believe that she would ever dance with him again. that had been the charm of her life in london, and that was now all over. and as for marrying her,--she began to feel certain that he did not intend it. john crumb was a big, awkward, dull, uncouth lump of a man, with whom ruby thought it impossible that a girl should be in love. love and john crumb were poles asunder. but--! ruby did not like wheeling the perambulator about islington, and being told by her aunt pipkin to go about her work. what ruby did like was being in love and dancing; but if all that must come to an end, then there would be a question whether she could not do better for herself, than by staying with her aunt and wheeling the perambulator about islington. mrs. hurtle was still living in solitude in the lodgings, and having but little to do on her own behalf, had devoted herself to the interest of john crumb. a man more unlike one of her own countrymen she had never seen. "i wonder whether he has any ideas at all in his head," she had said to mrs. pipkin. mrs. pipkin had replied that mr. crumb had certainly a very strong idea of marrying ruby ruggles. mrs. hurtle had smiled, thinking that mrs. pipkin was also very unlike her own countrywomen. but she was very kind to mrs. pipkin, ordering rice-puddings on purpose that the children might eat them, and she was quite determined to give john crumb all the aid in her power. in order that she might give effectual aid she took mrs. pipkin into confidence, and prepared a plan of action in reference to ruby. mrs. pipkin was to appear as chief actor on the scene, but the plan was altogether mrs. hurtle's plan. on the day following john's return to bungay mrs. pipkin summoned ruby into the back parlour, and thus addressed her. "ruby, you know, this must come to an end now." "what must come to an end?" "you can't stay here always, you know." "i'm sure i work hard, aunt pipkin, and i don't get no wages." "i can't do with more than one girl,--and there's the keep if there isn't wages. besides, there's other reasons. your grandfather won't have you back there; that's certain." "i wouldn't go back to grandfather, if it was ever so." "but you must go somewheres. you didn't come to stay here always,--nor i couldn't have you. you must go into service." "i don't know anybody as 'd have me," said ruby. "you must put a 'vertisement into the paper. you'd better say as nursemaid, as you seems to take kindly to children. and i must give you a character;--only i shall say just the truth. you mustn't ask much wages just at first." ruby looked very sorrowful, and the tears were near her eyes. the change from the glories of the music hall was so startling and so oppressive! "it has got to be done sooner or later, so you may as well put the 'vertisement in this afternoon." "you're going to turn me out, aunt pipkin." "well;--if that's turning out, i am. you see you never would be said by me as though i was mistress. you would go out with that rapscallion when i bid you not. now when you're in a regular place like, you must mind when you're spoke to, and it will be best for you. you've had your swing, and now you see you've got to pay for it. you must earn your bread, ruby, as you've quarrelled both with your lover and with your grandfather." there was no possible answer to this, and therefore the necessary notice was put into the paper,--mrs. hurtle paying for its insertion. "because, you know," said mrs. hurtle, "she must stay here really, till mr. crumb comes and takes her away." mrs. pipkin expressed her opinion that ruby was a "baggage" and john crumb a "soft." mrs. pipkin was perhaps a little jealous at the interest which her lodger took in her niece, thinking perhaps that all mrs. hurtle's sympathies were due to herself. ruby went hither and thither for a day or two, calling upon the mothers of children who wanted nursemaids. the answers which she had received had not come from the highest members of the aristocracy, and the houses which she visited did not appal her by their splendour. many objections were made to her. a character from an aunt was objectionable. her ringlets were objectionable. she was a deal too flighty-looking. she spoke up much too free. at last one happy mother of five children offered to take her on approval for a month, at £ a year, ruby to find her own tea and wash for herself. this was slavery;--abject slavery. and she too, who had been the beloved of a baronet, and who might even now be the mistress of a better house than that into which she was to go as a servant,--if she would only hold up her finger! but the place was accepted, and with broken-hearted sobbings ruby prepared herself for her departure from aunt pipkin's roof. "i hope you like your place, ruby," mrs. hurtle said on the afternoon of her last day. "indeed then i don't like it at all. they're the ugliest children you ever see, mrs. hurtle." "ugly children must be minded as well as pretty ones." "and the mother of 'em is as cross as cross." "it's your own fault, ruby; isn't it?" "i don't know as i've done anything out of the way." "don't you think it's anything out of the way to be engaged to a young man and then to throw him over? all this has come because you wouldn't keep your word to mr. crumb. only for that your grandfather wouldn't have turned you out of his house." "he didn't turn me out. i ran away. and it wasn't along of john crumb, but because grandfather hauled me about by the hair of my head." "but he was angry with you about mr. crumb. when a young woman becomes engaged to a young man, she ought not to go back from her word." no doubt mrs. hurtle, when preaching this doctrine, thought that the same law might be laid down with propriety for the conduct of young men. "of course you have brought trouble on yourself. i am sorry that you don't like the place. i'm afraid you must go to it now." "i am agoing,--i suppose," said ruby, probably feeling that if she could but bring herself to condescend so far there might yet be open for her a way of escape. "i shall write and tell mr. crumb where you are placed." "oh, mrs. hurtle, don't. what should you write to him for? it ain't nothing to him." "i told him i'd let him know if any steps were taken." "you can forget that, mrs. hurtle. pray don't write. i don't want him to know as i'm in service." "i must keep my promise. why shouldn't he know? i don't suppose you care much now what he hears about you." "yes i do. i wasn't never in service before, and i don't want him to know." "what harm can it do you?" "well, i don't want him to know. it is such a come down, mrs. hurtle." "there is nothing to be ashamed of in that. what you have to be ashamed of is jilting him. it was a bad thing to do;--wasn't it, ruby?" "i didn't mean nothing bad, mrs. hurtle; only why couldn't he say what he had to say himself, instead of bringing another to say it for him? what would you feel, mrs. hurtle, if a man was to come and say it all out of another man's mouth?" "i don't think i should much care if the thing was well said at last. you know he meant it." "yes;--i did know that." "and you know he means it now?" "i'm not so sure about that. he's gone back to bungay, and he isn't no good at writing letters no more than at speaking. oh,--he'll go and get somebody else now." "of course he will if he hears nothing about you. i think i'd better tell him. i know what would happen." "what would happen, mrs. hurtle?" "he'd be up in town again in half a jiffey to see what sort of a place you'd got. now, ruby, i'll tell you what i'll do, if you'll say the word. i'll have him up here at once and you shan't go to mrs. buggins'." ruby dropped her hands and stood still, staring at mrs. hurtle. "i will. but if he comes you mustn't behave this time as you did before." "but i'm to go to mrs. buggins' to-morrow." "we'll send to mrs. buggins and tell her to get somebody else. you're breaking your heart about going there;--are you not?" "i don't like it, mrs. hurtle." "and this man will make you mistress of his house. you say he isn't good at speaking; but i tell you i never came across an honester man in the whole course of my life, or one who i think would treat a woman better. what's the use of a glib tongue if there isn't a heart with it? what's the use of a lot of tinsel and lacker, if the real metal isn't there? sir felix carbury could talk, i dare say, but you don't think now he was a very fine fellow." "he was so beautiful, mrs. hurtle!" "but he hadn't the spirit of a mouse in his bosom. well, ruby, you have one more choice left you. shall it be john crumb or mrs. buggins?" "he wouldn't come, mrs. hurtle." "leave that to me, ruby. may i bring him if i can?" then ruby in a very low whisper told mrs. hurtle, that if she thought proper she might bring john crumb back again. "and there shall be no more nonsense?" "no," whispered ruby. on that same night a letter was sent to mrs. buggins, which mrs. hurtle also composed, informing that lady that unforeseen circumstances prevented ruby ruggles from keeping the engagement she had made; to which a verbal answer was returned that ruby ruggles was an impudent hussey. and then mrs. hurtle in her own name wrote a short note to mr. john crumb. dear mr. crumb, if you will come back to london i think you will find miss ruby ruggles all that you desire. yours faithfully, winifrid hurtle. "she's had a deal more done for her than i ever knew to be done for young women in my time," said mrs. pipkin, "and i'm not at all so sure that she has deserved it." "john crumb will think she has." "john crumb's a fool;--and as to ruby; well, i haven't got no patience with girls like them. yes; it is for the best; and as for you, mrs. hurtle, there's no words to say how good you've been. i hope, mrs. hurtle, you ain't thinking of going away because this is all done." chapter lxxxi. mr. cohenlupe leaves london. dolly longestaffe had found himself compelled to go to fetter lane immediately after that meeting in bruton street at which he had consented to wait two days longer for the payment of his money. this was on a wednesday, the day appointed for the payment being friday. he had undertaken that, on his part, squercum should be made to desist from further immediate proceedings, and he could only carry out his word by visiting squercum. the trouble to him was very great, but he began to feel that he almost liked it. the excitement was nearly as good as that of loo. of course it was a "horrid bore,"--this having to go about in cabs under the sweltering sun of a london july day. of course it was a "horrid bore,"--this doubt about his money. and it went altogether against the grain with him that he should be engaged in any matter respecting the family property in agreement with his father and mr. bideawhile. but there was an importance in it that sustained him amidst his troubles. it is said that if you were to take a man of moderate parts and make him prime minister out of hand, he might probably do as well as other prime ministers, the greatness of the work elevating the man to its own level. in that way dolly was elevated to the level of a man of business, and felt and enjoyed his own capacity. "by george!" it depended chiefly upon him whether such a man as melmotte should or should not be charged before the lord mayor. "perhaps i oughtn't to have promised," he said to squercum, sitting in the lawyer's office on a high-legged stool with a cigar in his mouth. he preferred squercum to any other lawyer he had met because squercum's room was untidy and homely, because there was nothing awful about it, and because he could sit in what position he pleased, and smoke all the time. "well; i don't think you ought, if you ask me," said squercum. "you weren't there to be asked, old fellow." "bideawhile shouldn't have asked you to agree to anything in my absence," said squercum indignantly. "it was a very unprofessional thing on his part, and so i shall take an opportunity of telling him." "it was you told me to go." "well;--yes. i wanted you to see what they were at in that room; but i told you to look on and say nothing." "i didn't speak half-a-dozen words." "you shouldn't have spoken those words. your father then is quite clear that you did not sign the letter?" "oh, yes;--the governor is pig-headed, you know, but he's honest." "that's a matter of course," said the lawyer. "all men are honest; but they are generally specially honest to their own side. bideawhile's honest; but you've got to fight him deuced close to prevent his getting the better of you. melmotte has promised to pay the money on friday, has he?" "he's to bring it with him to bruton street." "i don't believe a word of it;--and i'm sure bideawhile doesn't. in what shape will he bring it? he'll give you a cheque dated on monday, and that'll give him two days more, and then on monday there'll be a note to say the money can't be lodged till wednesday. there should be no compromising with such a man. you only get from one mess into another. i told you neither to do anything or to say anything." "i suppose we can't help ourselves now. you're to be there on friday. i particularly bargained for that. if you're there, there won't be any more compromising." squercum made one or two further remarks to his client, not at all flattering to dolly's vanity,--which might have caused offence had not there been such perfectly good feeling between the attorney and the young man. as it was dolly replied to everything that was said with increased flattery. "if i was a sharp fellow like you, you know," said dolly, "of course i should get along better; but i ain't, you know." it was then settled that they should meet each other, and also meet mr. longestaffe senior, bideawhile, and melmotte, at twelve o'clock on friday morning in bruton street. squercum was by no means satisfied. he had busied himself in this matter, and had ferreted things out, till he had pretty nearly got to the bottom of that affair about the houses in the east, and had managed to induce the heirs of the old man who had died to employ him. as to the pickering property he had not a doubt on the subject. old longestaffe had been induced by promises of wonderful aid and by the bribe of a seat at the board of the south central pacific and mexican railway to give up the title-deeds of the property,--as far as it was in his power to give them up; and had endeavoured to induce dolly to do so also. as he had failed, melmotte had supplemented his work by ingenuity, with which the reader is acquainted. all this was perfectly clear to squercum, who thought that he saw before him a most attractive course of proceeding against the great financier. it was pure ambition rather than any hope of lucre that urged him on. he regarded melmotte as a grand swindler,--perhaps the grandest that the world had ever known,--and he could conceive no greater honour than the detection, successful prosecution, and ultimate destroying of so great a man. to have hunted down melmotte would make squercum as great almost as melmotte himself. but he felt himself to have been unfairly hampered by his own client. he did not believe that the money would be paid; but delay might rob him of his melmotte. he had heard a good many things in the city, and believed it to be quite out of the question that melmotte should raise the money,--but there were various ways in which a man might escape. it may be remembered that croll, the german clerk, preceded melmotte into the city on wednesday after marie's refusal to sign the deeds. he, too, had his eyes open, and had perceived that things were not looking as well as they used to look. croll had for many years been true to his patron, having been, upon the whole, very well paid for such truth. there had been times when things had gone badly with him, but he had believed in melmotte, and, when melmotte rose, had been rewarded for his faith. mr. croll at the present time had little investments of his own, not made under his employer's auspices, which would leave him not absolutely without bread for his family should the melmotte affairs at any time take an awkward turn. melmotte had never required from him service that was actually fraudulent,--had at any rate never required it by spoken words. mr. croll had not been over-scrupulous, and had occasionally been very useful to mr. melmotte. but there must be a limit to all things; and why should any man sacrifice himself beneath the ruins of a falling house,--when convinced that nothing he can do can prevent the fall? mr. croll would have been of course happy to witness miss melmotte's signature; but as for that other kind of witnessing,--this clearly to his thinking was not the time for such good-nature on his part. "you know what's up now;--don't you?" said one of the junior clerks to mr. croll when he entered the office in abchurch lane. "a good deal will be up soon," said the german. "cohenlupe has gone!" "and to vere has mr. cohenlupe gone?" "he hasn't been civil enough to leave his address. i fancy he don't want his friends to have to trouble themselves by writing to him. nobody seems to know what's become of him." "new york," suggested mr. croll. "they seem to think not. they're too hospitable in new york for mr. cohenlupe just at present. he's travelling private. he's on the continent somewhere,--half across france by this time; but nobody knows what route he has taken. that'll be a poke in the ribs for the old boy;--eh, croll?" croll merely shook his head. "i wonder what has become of miles grendall," continued the clerk. "ven de rats is going avay it is bad for de house. i like de rats to stay." "there seems to have been a regular manufactory of mexican railway scrip." "our governor knew noding about dat," said croll. "he has a hat full of them at any rate. if they could have been kept up another fortnight they say cohenlupe would have been worth nearly a million of money, and the governor would have been as good as the bank. is it true they are going to have him before the lord mayor about the pickering title-deeds?" croll declared that he knew nothing about the matter, and settled himself down to his work. in little more than two hours he was followed by melmotte, who thus reached the city late in the afternoon. it was he knew too late to raise the money on that day, but he hoped that he might pave the way for getting it on the next day, which would be thursday. of course the first news which he heard was of the defection of mr. cohenlupe. it was croll who told him. he turned back, and his jaw fell, but at first he said nothing. "it's a bad thing," said mr. croll. "yes;--it is bad. he had a vast amount of my property in his hands. where has he gone?" croll shook his head. "it never rains but it pours," said melmotte. "well; i'll weather it all yet. i've been worse than i am now, croll, as you know, and have had a hundred thousand pounds at my banker's,--loose cash,--before the month was out." "yes, indeed," said croll. "but the worst of it is that every one around me is so damnably jealous. it isn't what i've lost that will crush me, but what men will say that i've lost. ever since i began to stand for westminster there has been a dead set against me in the city. the whole of that affair of the dinner was planned,--planned by g----, that it might ruin me. it was all laid out just as you would lay the foundation of a building. it is hard for one man to stand against all that when he has dealings so large as mine." "very hard, mr. melmotte." "but they'll find they're mistaken yet. there's too much of the real stuff, croll, for them to crush me. property's a kind of thing that comes out right at last. it's cut and come again, you know, if the stuff is really there. but i mustn't stop talking here. i suppose i shall find brehgert in cuthbert's court." "i should say so, mr. melmotte. mr. brehgert never leaves much before six." then mr. melmotte took his hat and gloves, and the stick that he usually carried, and went out with his face carefully dressed in its usually jaunty air. but croll as he went heard him mutter the name of cohenlupe between his teeth. the part which he had to act is one very difficult to any actor. the carrying an external look of indifference when the heart is sinking within,--or has sunk almost to the very ground,--is more than difficult; it is an agonizing task. in all mental suffering the sufferer longs for solitude,--for permission to cast himself loose along the ground, so that every limb and every feature of his person may faint in sympathy with his heart. a grandly urbane deportment over a crushed spirit and ruined hopes is beyond the physical strength of most men;--but there have been men so strong. melmotte very nearly accomplished it. it was only to the eyes of such a one as herr croll that the failure was perceptible. melmotte did find mr. brehgert. at this time mr. brehgert had completed his correspondence with miss longestaffe, in which he had mentioned the probability of great losses from the anticipated commercial failure in mr. melmotte's affairs. he had now heard that mr. cohenlupe had gone upon his travels, and was therefore nearly sure that his anticipation would be correct. nevertheless, he received his old friend with a smile. when large sums of money are concerned there is seldom much of personal indignation between man and man. the loss of fifty pounds or of a few hundreds may create personal wrath;--but fifty thousand require equanimity. "so cohenlupe hasn't been seen in the city to-day," said brehgert. "he has gone," said melmotte hoarsely. "i think i once told you that cohenlupe was not the man for large dealings." "yes, you did," said melmotte. "well;--it can't be helped; can it? and what is it now?" then melmotte explained to mr. brehgert what it was that he wanted then, taking the various documents out of the bag which throughout the afternoon he had carried in his hand. mr. brehgert understood enough of his friend's affairs, and enough of affairs in general, to understand readily all that was required. he examined the documents, declaring as he did so that he did not know how the thing could be arranged by friday. melmotte replied that £ , was not a very large sum of money, that the security offered was worth twice as much as that. "you will leave them with me this evening," said brehgert. melmotte paused for a moment, and said that he would of course do so. he would have given much, very much, to have been sufficiently master of himself to have assented without hesitation;--but then the weight within was so very heavy! having left the papers and the bag with mr. brehgert, he walked westwards to the house of commons. he was accustomed to remain in the city later than this, often not leaving it till seven,--though during the last week or ten days he had occasionally gone down to the house in the afternoon. it was now wednesday, and there was no evening sitting;--but his mind was too full of other things to allow him to remember this. as he walked along the embankment, his thoughts were very heavy. how would things go with him?--what would be the end of it? ruin;--yes, but there were worse things than ruin. and a short time since he had been so fortunate;--had made himself so safe! as he looked back at it, he could hardly say how it had come to pass that he had been driven out of the track that he had laid down for himself. he had known that ruin would come, and had made himself so comfortably safe, so brilliantly safe, in spite of ruin. but insane ambition had driven him away from his anchorage. he told himself over and over again that the fault had been not in circumstances,--not in that which men call fortune,--but in his own incapacity to bear his position. he saw it now. he felt it now. if he could only begin again, how different would his conduct be! but of what avail were such regrets as these? he must take things as they were now, and see that, in dealing with them, he allowed himself to be carried away neither by pride nor cowardice. and if the worst should come to the worst, then let him face it like a man! there was a certain manliness about him which showed itself perhaps as strongly in his own self-condemnation as in any other part of his conduct at this time. judging of himself, as though he were standing outside himself and looking on to another man's work, he pointed out to himself his own shortcomings. if it were all to be done again he thought that he could avoid this bump against the rocks on one side, and that terribly shattering blow on the other. there was much that he was ashamed of,--many a little act which recurred to him vividly in this solitary hour as a thing to be repented of with inner sackcloth and ashes. but never once, not for a moment, did it occur to him that he should repent of the fraud in which his whole life had been passed. no idea ever crossed his mind of what might have been the result had he lived the life of an honest man. though he was inquiring into himself as closely as he could, he never even told himself that he had been dishonest. fraud and dishonesty had been the very principle of his life, and had so become a part of his blood and bones that even in this extremity of his misery he made no question within himself as to his right judgment in regard to them. not to cheat, not to be a scoundrel, not to live more luxuriously than others by cheating more brilliantly, was a condition of things to which his mind had never turned itself. in that respect he accused himself of no want of judgment. but why had he, so unrighteous himself, not made friends to himself of the mammon of unrighteousness? why had he not conciliated lord mayors? why had he trod upon all the corns of all his neighbours? why had he been insolent at the india office? why had he trusted any man as he had trusted cohenlupe? why had he not stuck to abchurch lane instead of going into parliament? why had he called down unnecessary notice on his head by entertaining the emperor of china? it was too late now, and he must bear it; but these were the things that had ruined him. he walked into palace yard and across it, to the door of westminster abbey, before he found out that parliament was not sitting. "oh, wednesday! of course it is," he said, turning round and directing his steps towards grosvenor square. then he remembered that in the morning he had declared his purpose of dining at home, and now he did not know what better use to make of the present evening. his house could hardly be very comfortable to him. marie no doubt would keep out of his way, and he did not habitually receive much pleasure from his wife's company. but in his own house he could at least be alone. then, as he walked slowly across the park, thinking so intently on matters as hardly to observe whether he himself were observed or no, he asked himself whether it still might not be best for him to keep the money which was settled on his daughter, to tell the longestaffes that he could make no payment, and to face the worst that mr. squercum could do to him,--for he knew already how busy mr. squercum was in the matter. though they should put him on his trial for forgery, what of that? he had heard of trials in which the accused criminals had been heroes to the multitude while their cases were in progress,--who had been fêted from the beginning to the end though no one had doubted their guilt,--and who had come out unscathed at the last. what evidence had they against him? it might be that the longestaffes and bideawhiles and squercums should know that he was a forger, but their knowledge would not produce a verdict. he, as member for westminster, as the man who had entertained the emperor, as the owner of one of the most gorgeous houses in london, as the great melmotte, could certainly command the best half of the bar. he already felt what popular support might do for him. surely there need be no despondency while so good a hope remained to him! he did tremble as he remembered dolly longestaffe's letter, and the letter of the old man who was dead. and he knew that it was possible that other things might be adduced; but would it not be better to face it all than surrender his money and become a pauper, seeing, as he did very clearly, that even by such surrender he could not cleanse his character? but he had given those forged documents into the hands of mr. brehgert! again he had acted in a hurry,--without giving sufficient thought to the matter in hand. he was angry with himself for that also. but how is a man to give sufficient thought to his affairs when no step that he takes can be other than ruinous? yes;--he had certainly put into brehgert's hands means of proving him to have been absolutely guilty of forgery. he did not think that marie would disclaim the signatures, even though she had refused to sign the deeds, when she should understand that her father had written her name; nor did he think that his clerk would be urgent against him, as the forgery of croll's name could not injure croll. but brehgert, should he discover what had been done, would certainly not permit him to escape. and now he had put these forgeries without any guard into brehgert's hands. he would tell brehgert in the morning that he had changed his mind. he would see brehgert before any action could have been taken on the documents, and brehgert would no doubt restore them to him. then he would instruct his daughter to hold the money fast, to sign no paper that should be put before her, and to draw the income herself. having done that, he would let his foes do their worst. they might drag him to gaol. they probably would do so. he had an idea that he could not be admitted to bail if accused of forgery. but he would bear all that. if convicted he would bear the punishment, still hoping that an end might come. but how great was the chance that they might fail to convict him! as to the dead man's letter, and as to dolly longestaffe's letter, he did not think that any sufficient evidence could be found. the evidence as to the deeds by which marie was to have released the property was indeed conclusive; but he believed that he might still recover those documents. for the present it must be his duty to do nothing,--when he should have recovered and destroyed those documents,--and to live before the eyes of men as though he feared nothing. he dined at home alone, in the study, and after dinner carefully went through various bundles of papers, preparing them for the eyes of those ministers of the law who would probably before long have the privilege of searching them. at dinner, and while he was thus employed, he drank a bottle of champagne,--feeling himself greatly comforted by the process. if he could only hold up his head and look men in the face, he thought that he might still live through it all. how much had he done by his own unassisted powers! he had once been imprisoned for fraud at hamburgh, and had come out of gaol a pauper; friendless, with all his wretched antecedents against him. now he was a member of the british house of parliament, the undoubted owner of perhaps the most gorgeously furnished house in london, a man with an established character for high finance,--a commercial giant whose name was a familiar word on all the exchanges of the two hemispheres. even though he should be condemned to penal servitude for life, he would not all die. he rang the bell and desired that madame melmotte might be sent to him, and bade the servant bring him brandy. in ten minutes his poor wife came crawling into the room. every one connected with melmotte regarded the man with a certain amount of awe,--every one except marie, to whom alone he had at times been himself almost gentle. the servants all feared him, and his wife obeyed him implicitly when she could not keep away from him. she came in now and stood opposite to him, while he spoke to her. she never sat in his presence in that room. he asked her where she and marie kept their jewelry;--for during the last twelvemonths rich trinkets had been supplied to both of them. of course she answered by another question. "is anything going to happen, melmotte?" "a good deal is going to happen. are they here in this house, or in grosvenor square?" "they are here." "then have them all packed up,--as small as you can; never mind about wool and cases and all that. have them close to your hand so that if you have to move you can take them with you. do you understand?" "yes; i understand." "why don't you speak, then?" "what is going to happen, melmotte?" "how can i tell? you ought to know by this time that when a man's work is such as mine, things will happen. you'll be safe enough. nothing can hurt you." "can they hurt you, melmotte?" "hurt me! i don't know what you call hurting. whatever there is to be borne, i suppose it is i must bear it. i have not had it very soft all my life hitherto, and i don't think it's going to be very soft now." "shall we have to move?" "very likely. move! what's the harm of moving? you talk of moving as though that were the worst thing that could happen. how would you like to be in some place where they wouldn't let you move?" "are they going to send you to prison?" "hold your tongue." "tell me, melmotte;--are they going to?" then the poor woman did sit down, overcome by her feelings. "i didn't ask you to come here for a scene," said melmotte. "do as i bid you about your own jewels, and marie's. the thing is to have them in small compass, and that you should not have it to do at the last moment, when you will be flurried and incapable. now you needn't stay any longer, and it's no good asking any questions because i shan't answer them." so dismissed, the poor woman crept out again, and immediately, after her own slow fashion, went to work with her ornaments. melmotte sat up during the greater part of the night, sometimes sipping brandy and water, and sometimes smoking. but he did no work, and hardly touched a paper after his wife left him. chapter lxxxii. marie's perseverance. very early the next morning, very early that is for london life, melmotte was told by a servant that mr. croll had called and wanted to see him. then it immediately became a question with him whether he wanted to see croll. "is it anything special?" he asked. the man thought that it was something special, as croll had declared his purpose of waiting when told that mr. melmotte was not as yet dressed. this happened at about nine o'clock in the morning. melmotte longed to know every detail of croll's manner,--to know even the servant's opinion of the clerk's manner,--but he did not dare to ask a question. melmotte thought that it might be well to be gracious. "ask him if he has breakfasted, and if not give him something in the study." but mr. croll had breakfasted and declined any further refreshment. nevertheless melmotte had not as yet made up his mind that he would meet his clerk. his clerk was his clerk. it might perhaps be well that he should first go into the city and send word to croll, bidding him wait for his return. over and over again, against his will, the question of flying would present itself to him; but, though he discussed it within his own bosom in every form, he knew that he could not fly. and if he stood his ground,--as most assuredly he would do,--then must he not be afraid to meet any man, let the man come with what thunderbolts in his hand he might. of course sooner or later some man must come with a thunderbolt,--and why not croll as well as another? he stood against a press in his chamber, with a razor in his hand, and steadied himself. how easily might he put an end to it all! then he rang his bell and desired that croll might be shown up into his room. the three or four minutes which intervened seemed to him to be very long. he had absolutely forgotten in his anxiety that the lather was still upon his face. but he could not smother his anxiety. he was fighting with it at every turn, but he could not conquer it. when the knock came at his door, he grasped at his own breast as though to support himself. with a hoarse voice he told the man to come in, and croll himself appeared, opening the door gently and very slowly. melmotte had left the bag which contained the papers in possession of mr. brehgert, and he now saw, at a glance, that croll had got the bag in his hand,--and could see also by the shape of the bag that the bag contained the papers. the man therefore had in his own hands, in his own keeping, the very documents to which his own name had been forged! there was no longer a hope, no longer a chance that croll should be ignorant of what had been done. "well, croll," he said with an attempt at a smile, "what brings you here so early?" he was pale as death, and let him struggle as he would, could not restrain himself from trembling. "herr brehgert vas vid me last night," said croll. "eh!" "and he thought i had better bring these back to you. that's all." croll spoke in a very low voice, with his eyes fixed on his master's face, but with nothing of a threat in his attitude or manner. [illustration: "he thought i had better bring these back to you."] "eh!" repeated melmotte. even though he might have saved himself from all coming evils by a bold demeanour at that moment, he could not assume it. but it all flashed upon him at a moment. brehgert had seen croll after he, melmotte, had left the city, had then discovered the forgery, and had taken this way of sending back all the forged documents. he had known brehgert to be of all men who ever lived the most good-natured, but he could hardly believe in pure good-nature such as this. it seemed that the thunderbolt was not yet to fall. "mr. brehgert came to me," continued croll, "because one signature was wanting. it was very late, so i took them home with me. i said i'd bring them to you in the morning." they both knew that he had forged the documents, brehgert and croll; but how would that concern him, melmotte, if these two friends had resolved together that they would not expose him? he had desired to get the documents back into his own hands, and here they were! melmotte's immediate trouble arose from the difficulty of speaking in a proper manner to his own servant who had just detected him in forgery. he couldn't speak. there were no words appropriate to such an occasion. "it vas a strong order, mr. melmotte," said croll. melmotte tried to smile but only grinned. "i vill not be back in the lane, mr. melmotte." "not back at the office, croll?" "i tink not;--no. de leetle money coming to me, you will send it. adieu." and so mr. croll took his final leave of his old master after an intercourse which had lasted twenty years. we may imagine that herr croll found his spirits to be oppressed and his capacity for business to be obliterated by his patron's misfortunes rather than by his patron's guilt. but he had not behaved unkindly. he had merely remarked that the forgery of his own name half-a-dozen times over was a "strong order." melmotte opened the bag, and examined the documents one by one. it had been necessary that marie should sign her name some half-dozen times, and marie's father had made all the necessary forgeries. it had been of course necessary that each name should be witnessed;--but here the forger had scamped his work. croll's name he had written five times; but one forged signature he had left unattested! again he had himself been at fault. again he had aided his own ruin by his own carelessness. one seems inclined to think sometimes that any fool might do an honest business. but fraud requires a man to be alive and wide awake at every turn! melmotte had desired to have the documents back in his own hands, and now he had them. did it matter much that brehgert and croll both knew the crime which he had committed? had they meant to take legal steps against him they would not have returned the forgeries to his own hands. brehgert, he thought, would never tell the tale,--unless there should arise some most improbable emergency in which he might make money by telling it; but he was by no means so sure of croll. croll had signified his intention of leaving melmotte's service, and would therefore probably enter some rival service, and thus become an enemy to his late master. there could be no reason why croll should keep the secret. even if he got no direct profit by telling it, he would curry favour by making it known. of course croll would tell it. but what harm could the telling of such a secret do him? the girl was his own daughter! the money had been his own money! the man had been his own servant! there had been no fraud; no robbery; no purpose of peculation. melmotte, as he thought of this, became almost proud of what he had done, thinking that if the evidence were suppressed the knowledge of the facts could do him no harm. but the evidence must be suppressed, and with the view of suppressing it he took the little bag and all the papers down with him to the study. then he ate his breakfast,--and suppressed the evidence by the aid of his gas lamp. when this was accomplished he hesitated as to the manner in which he would pass his day. he had now given up all idea of raising the money for longestaffe. he had even considered the language in which he would explain to the assembled gentlemen on the morrow the fact that a little difficulty still presented itself, and that as he could not exactly name a day, he must leave the matter in their hands. for he had resolved that he would not evade the meeting. cohenlupe had gone since he had made his promise, and he would throw all the blame on cohenlupe. everybody knows that when panics arise the breaking of one merchant causes the downfall of another. cohenlupe should bear the burden. but as that must be so, he could do no good by going into the city. his pecuniary downfall had now become too much a matter of certainty to be staved off by his presence; and his personal security could hardly be assisted by it. there would be nothing for him to do. cohenlupe had gone. miles grendall had gone. croll had gone. he could hardly go to cuthbert's court and face mr. brehgert! he would stay at home till it was time for him to go down to the house, and then he would face the world there. he would dine down at the house, and stand about in the smoking-room with his hat on, and be visible in the lobbies, and take his seat among his brother legislators,--and, if it were possible, rise on his legs and make a speech to them. he was about to have a crushing fall,--but the world should say that he had fallen like a man. about eleven his daughter came to him as he sat in the study. it can hardly be said that he had ever been kind to marie, but perhaps she was the only person who in the whole course of his career had received indulgence at his hands. he had often beaten her; but he had also often made her presents and smiled on her, and in the periods of his opulence, had allowed her pocket-money almost without limit. now she had not only disobeyed him, but by most perverse obstinacy on her part had driven him to acts of forgery which had already been detected. he had cause to be angry now with marie if he had ever had cause for anger. but he had almost forgotten the transaction. he had at any rate forgotten the violence of his own feelings at the time of its occurrence. he was no longer anxious that the release should be made, and therefore no longer angry with her for her refusal. "papa," she said, coming very gently into the room, "i think that perhaps i was wrong yesterday." "of course you were wrong;--but it doesn't matter now." "if you wish it i'll sign those papers. i don't suppose lord nidderdale means to come any more;--and i'm sure i don't care whether he does or not." "what makes you think that, marie?" "i was out last night at lady julia goldsheiner's, and he was there. i'm sure he doesn't mean to come here any more." "was he uncivil to you?" "o dear no. he's never uncivil. but i'm sure of it. never mind how. i never told him that i cared for him and i never did care for him. papa, is there something going to happen?" "what do you mean?" "some misfortune! oh, papa, why didn't you let me marry that other man?" "he is a penniless adventurer." "but he would have had this money that i call my money, and then there would have been enough for us all. papa, he would marry me still if you would let him." "have you seen him since you went to liverpool?" "never, papa." "or heard from him?" "not a line." "then what makes you think he would marry you?" "he would if i got hold of him and told him. and he is a baronet. and there would be plenty of money for us all. and we could go and live in germany." "we could do that just as well without your marrying." "but i suppose, papa, i am to be considered as somebody. i don't want after all to run away from london, just as if everybody had turned up their noses at me. i like him, and i don't like anybody else." "he wouldn't take the trouble to go to liverpool with you." "he got tipsy. i know all about that. i don't mean to say that he's anything particularly grand. i don't know that anybody is very grand. he's as good as anybody else." "it can't be done, marie." "why can't it be done?" "there are a dozen reasons. why should my money be given up to him? and it is too late. there are other things to be thought of now than marriage." "you don't want me to sign the papers?" "no;--i haven't got the papers. but i want you to remember that the money is mine and not yours. it may be that much may depend on you, and that i shall have to trust to you for nearly everything. do not let me find myself deceived by my daughter." "i won't,--if you'll let me see sir felix carbury once more." then the father's pride again reasserted itself and he became angry. "i tell you, you little fool, that it is out of the question. why cannot you believe me? has your mother spoken to you about your jewels? get them packed up, so that you can carry them away in your hand if we have to leave this suddenly. you are an idiot to think of that young man. as you say, i don't know that any of them are very good, but among them all he is about the worst. go away and do as i bid you." that afternoon the page in welbeck street came up to lady carbury and told her that there was a young lady down-stairs who wanted to see sir felix. at this time the dominion of sir felix in his mother's house had been much curtailed. his latch-key had been surreptitiously taken away from him, and all messages brought for him reached his hands through those of his mother. the plasters were not removed from his face, so that he was still subject to that loss of self-assertion with which we are told that hitherto dominant cocks become afflicted when they have been daubed with mud. lady carbury asked sundry questions about the lady, suspecting that ruby ruggles, of whom she had heard, had come to seek her lover. the page could give no special description, merely saying that the young lady wore a black veil. lady carbury directed that the young lady should be shown into her own presence,--and marie melmotte was ushered into the room. "i dare say you don't remember me, lady carbury," marie said. "i am marie melmotte." at first lady carbury had not recognised her visitor;--but she did so before she replied. "yes, miss melmotte, i remember you." "yes;--i am mr. melmotte's daughter. how is your son? i hope he is better. they told me he had been horribly used by a dreadful man in the street." "sit down, miss melmotte. he is getting better." now lady carbury had heard within the last two days from mr. broune that "it was all over" with melmotte. broune had declared his very strong belief, his thorough conviction, that melmotte had committed various forgeries, that his speculations had gone so much against him as to leave him a ruined man, and, in short, that the great melmotte bubble was on the very point of bursting. "everybody says that he'll be in gaol before a week is over." that was the information which had reached lady carbury about the melmottes only on the previous evening. "i want to see him," said marie. lady carbury, hardly knowing what answer to make, was silent for a while. "i suppose he told you everything;--didn't he? you know that we were to have been married? i loved him very much, and so i do still. i am not ashamed of coming and telling you." "i thought it was all off," said lady carbury. "i never said so. does he say so? your daughter came to me and was very good to me. i do so love her. she said that it was all over; but perhaps she was wrong. it shan't be all over if he will be true." lady carbury was taken greatly by surprise. it seemed to her at the moment that this young lady, knowing that her own father was ruined, was looking out for another home, and was doing so with a considerable amount of audacity. she gave marie little credit either for affection or for generosity; but yet she was unwilling to answer her roughly. "i am afraid," she said, "that it would not be suitable." "why should it not be suitable? they can't take my money away. there is enough for all of us even if papa wanted to live with us;--but it is mine. it is ever so much;--i don't know how much, but a great deal. we should be quite rich enough. i ain't a bit ashamed to come and tell you, because we were engaged. i know he isn't rich, and i should have thought it would be suitable." it then occurred to lady carbury that if this were true the marriage after all might be suitable. but how was she to find out whether it was true? "i understand that your papa is opposed to it," she said. "yes, he is;--but papa can't prevent me, and papa can't make me give up the money. it's ever so many thousands a year, i know. if i can dare to do it, why can't he?" lady carbury was so beside herself with doubts, that she found it impossible to form any decision. it would be necessary that she should see mr. broune. what to do with her son, how to bestow him, in what way to get rid of him so that in ridding herself of him she might not aid in destroying him,--this was the great trouble of her life, the burden that was breaking her back. now this girl was not only willing but persistently anxious to take her black sheep and to endow him,--as she declared,--with ever so many thousands a year. if the thousands were there,--or even an income of a single thousand a year,--then what a blessing would such a marriage be! sir felix had already fallen so low that his mother on his behalf would not be justified in declining a connection with the melmottes because the melmottes had fallen. to get any niche in the world for him in which he might live with comparative safety would now be to her a heaven-sent comfort. "my son is up-stairs," she said. "i will go up and speak to him." "tell him i am here and that i have said that i will forgive him everything, and that i love him still, and that if he will be true to me, i will be true to him." "i couldn't go down to her," said sir felix, "with my face all in this way." "i don't think she would mind that." "i couldn't do it. besides, i don't believe about her money. i never did believe it. that was the real reason why i didn't go to liverpool." "i think i would see her if i were you, felix. we could find out to a certainty about her fortune. it is evident at any rate that she is very fond of you." "what's the use of that, if he is ruined?" he would not go down to see the girl,--because he could not endure to expose his face, and was ashamed of the wounds which he had received in the street. as regarded the money he half-believed and half-disbelieved marie's story. but the fruition of the money, if it were within his reach, would be far off and to be attained with much trouble; whereas the nuisance of a scene with marie would be immediate. how could he kiss his future bride, with his nose bound up with a bandage? "what shall i say to her?" asked his mother. "she oughtn't to have come. i should tell her just that. you might send the maid to her to tell her that you couldn't see her again." but lady carbury could not treat the girl after that fashion. she returned to the drawing-room, descending the stairs very slowly, and thinking what answer she would make. "miss melmotte," she said, "my son feels that everything has been so changed since he and you last met, that nothing can be gained by a renewal of your acquaintance." "that is his message;--is it?" lady carbury remained silent. "then he is indeed all that they have told me; and i am ashamed that i should have loved him. i am ashamed;--not of coming here, although you will think that i have run after him. i don't see why a girl should not run after a man if they have been engaged together. but i'm ashamed of thinking so much of so mean a person. good-bye, lady carbury." "good-bye, miss melmotte. i don't think you should be angry with me." "no;--no. i am not angry with you. you can forget me now as soon as you please, and i will try to forget him." then with a rapid step she walked back to bruton street, going round by grosvenor square and in front of her old house on the way. what should she now do with herself? what sort of life should she endeavour to prepare for herself? the life that she had led for the last year had been thoroughly wretched. the poverty and hardship which she remembered in her early days had been more endurable. the servitude to which she had been subjected before she had learned by intercourse with the world to assert herself, had been preferable. in these days of her grandeur, in which she had danced with princes, and seen an emperor in her father's house, and been affianced to lords, she had encountered degradation which had been abominable to her. she had really loved;--but had found out that her golden idol was made of the basest clay. she had then declared to herself that bad as the clay was she would still love it;--but even the clay had turned away from her and had refused her love! she was well aware that some catastrophe was about to happen to her father. catastrophes had happened before, and she had been conscious of their coming. but now the blow would be a very heavy blow. they would again be driven to pack up and move and seek some other city,--probably in some very distant part. but go where she might, she would now be her own mistress. that was the one resolution she succeeded in forming before she re-entered the house in bruton street. chapter lxxxiii. melmotte again at the house. on that thursday afternoon it was known everywhere that there was to be a general ruin of all the melmotte affairs. as soon as cohenlupe had gone, no man doubted. the city men who had not gone to the dinner prided themselves on their foresight, as did also the politicians who had declined to meet the emperor of china at the table of the suspected financier. they who had got up the dinner and had been instrumental in taking the emperor to the house in grosvenor square, and they also who had brought him forward at westminster and had fought his battle for him, were aware that they would have to defend themselves against heavy attacks. no one now had a word to say in his favour, or a doubt as to his guilt. the grendalls had retired altogether out of town, and were no longer even heard of. lord alfred had not been seen since the day of the dinner. the duchess of albury, too, went into the country some weeks earlier than usual, quelled, as the world said, by the general melmotte failure. but this departure had not as yet taken place at the time at which we have now arrived. when the speaker took his seat in the house, soon after four o'clock, there were a great many members present, and a general feeling prevailed that the world was more than ordinarily alive because of melmotte and his failures. it had been confidently asserted throughout the morning that he would be put upon his trial for forgery in reference to the purchase of the pickering property from mr. longestaffe, and it was known that he had not as yet shown himself anywhere on this day. people had gone to look at the house in grosvenor square,--not knowing that he was still living in mr. longestaffe's house in bruton street, and had come away with the impression that the desolation of ruin and crime was already plainly to be seen upon it. "i wonder where he is," said mr. lupton to mr. beauchamp beauclerk in one of the lobbies of the house. "they say he hasn't been in the city all day. i suppose he's in longestaffe's house. that poor fellow has got it heavy all round. the man has got his place in the country and his house in town. there's nidderdale. i wonder what he thinks about it all." "this is awful;--ain't it?" said nidderdale. "it might have been worse, i should say, as far as you are concerned," replied mr. lupton. "well, yes. but i'll tell you what, lupton. i don't quite understand it all yet. our lawyer said three days ago that the money was certainly there." "and cohenlupe was certainly here three days ago," said lupton;--"but he isn't here now. it seems to me that it has just happened in time for you." lord nidderdale shook his head and tried to look very grave. "there's brown," said sir orlando drought, hurrying up to the commercial gentleman whose mistakes about finance mr. melmotte on a previous occasion had been anxious to correct. "he'll be able to tell us where he is. it was rumoured, you know, an hour ago, that he was off to the continent after cohenlupe." but mr. brown shook his head. mr. brown didn't know anything. but mr. brown was very strongly of opinion that the police would know all that there was to be known about mr. melmotte before this time on the following day. mr. brown had been very bitter against melmotte since that memorable attack made upon him in the house. even ministers as they sat to be badgered by the ordinary question-mongers of the day were more intent upon melmotte than upon their own defence. "do you know anything about it?" asked the chancellor of the exchequer of the secretary of state for the home department. "i understand that no order has been given for his arrest. there is a general opinion that he has committed forgery; but i doubt whether they've got their evidence together." "he's a ruined man, i suppose," said the chancellor. "i doubt whether he ever was a rich man. but i'll tell you what;--he has been about the grandest rogue we've seen yet. he must have spent over a hundred thousand pounds during the last twelve months on his personal expenses. i wonder how the emperor will like it when he learns the truth." another minister sitting close to the secretary of state was of opinion that the emperor of china would not care half so much about it as our own first lord of the treasury. at this moment there came a silence over the house which was almost audible. they who know the sensation which arises from the continued hum of many suppressed voices will know also how plain to the ear is the feeling caused by the discontinuance of the sound. everybody looked up, but everybody looked up in perfect silence. an under-secretary of state had just got upon his legs to answer a most indignant question as to an alteration of the colour of the facings of a certain regiment, his prepared answer to which, however, was so happy as to allow him to anticipate quite a little triumph. it is not often that such a godsend comes in the way of an under-secretary; and he was intent upon his performance. but even he was startled into momentary oblivion of his well-arranged point. augustus melmotte, the member for westminster, was walking up the centre of the house. he had succeeded by this time in learning so much of the forms of the house as to know what to do with his hat,--when to wear it, and when to take it off,--and how to sit down. as he entered by the door facing the speaker, he wore his hat on one side of his head, as was his custom. much of the arrogance of his appearance had come from this habit, which had been adopted probably from a conviction that it added something to his powers of self-assertion. at this moment he was more determined than ever that no one should trace in his outer gait or in any feature of his face any sign of that ruin which, as he well knew, all men were anticipating. therefore, perhaps, his hat was a little more cocked than usual, and the lapels of his coat were thrown back a little wider, displaying the large jewelled studs which he wore in his shirt; and the arrogance conveyed by his mouth and chin was specially conspicuous. he had come down in his brougham, and as he had walked up westminster hall and entered the house by the private door of the members, and then made his way in across the great lobby and between the doorkeepers,--no one had spoken a word to him. he had of course seen many whom he had known. he had indeed known nearly all whom he had seen;--but he had been aware, from the beginning of this enterprise of the day, that men would shun him, and that he must bear their cold looks and colder silence without seeming to notice them. he had schooled himself to the task, and he was now performing it. it was not only that he would have to move among men without being noticed, but that he must endure to pass the whole evening in the same plight. but he was resolved, and he was now doing it. he bowed to the speaker with more than usual courtesy, raising his hat with more than usual care, and seated himself, as usual, on the third opposition-bench, but with more than his usual fling. he was a big man, who always endeavoured to make an effect by deportment, and was therefore customarily conspicuous in his movements. he was desirous now of being as he was always, neither more nor less demonstrative;--but, as a matter of course, he exceeded; and it seemed to those who looked at him that there was a special impudence in the manner in which he walked up the house and took his seat. the under-secretary of state, who was on his legs, was struck almost dumb, and his morsel of wit about the facings was lost to parliament for ever. that unfortunate young man, lord nidderdale, occupied the seat next to that on which melmotte had placed himself. it had so happened three or four times since melmotte had been in the house, as the young lord, fully intending to marry the financier's daughter, had resolved that he would not be ashamed of his father-in-law. he had understood that countenance of the sort which he as a young aristocrat could give to the man of millions who had risen no one knew whence, was part of the bargain in reference to the marriage, and he was gifted with a mingled honesty and courage which together made him willing and able to carry out his idea. he had given melmotte little lessons as to ordinary forms of the house, and had done what in him lay to earn the money which was to be forthcoming. but it had become manifest both to him and to his father during the last two days,--very painfully manifest to his father,--that the thing must be abandoned. and if so,--then why should he be any longer gracious to melmotte? and, moreover, though he had been ready to be courteous to a very vulgar and a very disagreeable man, he was not anxious to extend his civilities to one who, as he was now assured, had been certainly guilty of forgery. but to get up at once and leave his seat because melmotte had placed himself by his side, did not suit the turn of his mind. he looked round to his neighbour on the right, with a half-comic look of misery, and then prepared himself to bear his punishment, whatever it might be. "have you been up with marie to-day?" said melmotte. "no;--i've not," replied the lord. "why don't you go? she's always asking about you now. i hope we shall be in our own house again next week, and then we shall be able to make you comfortable." could it be possible that the man did not know that all the world was united in accusing him of forgery? "i'll tell you what it is," said nidderdale. "i think you had better see my governor again, mr. melmotte." "there's nothing wrong, i hope." "well;--i don't know. you'd better see him. i'm going now. i only just came down to enter an appearance." he had to cross melmotte on his way out, and as he did so melmotte grasped him by the hand. "good night, my boy," said melmotte quite aloud,--in a voice much louder than that which members generally allow themselves for conversation. nidderdale was confused and unhappy; but there was probably not a man in the house who did not understand the whole thing. he rushed down through the gangway and out through the doors with a hurried step, and as he escaped into the lobby he met lionel lupton, who, since his little conversation with mr. beauclerk, had heard further news. "you know what has happened, nidderdale?" "about melmotte, you mean?" "yes, about melmotte," continued lupton. "he has been arrested in his own house within the last half-hour on a charge of forgery." "i wish he had," said nidderdale, "with all my heart. if you go in you'll find him sitting there as large as life. he has been talking to me as though everything were all right." "compton was here not a moment ago, and said that he had been taken under a warrant from the lord mayor." "the lord mayor is a member and had better come and fetch his prisoner himself. at any rate he's there. i shouldn't wonder if he wasn't on his legs before long." melmotte kept his seat steadily till seven, at which hour the house adjourned till nine. he was one of the last to leave, and then with a slow step,--with almost majestic steps,--he descended to the dining-room and ordered his dinner. there were many men there, and some little difficulty about a seat. no one was very willing to make room for him. but at last he secured a place, almost jostling some unfortunate who was there before him. it was impossible to expel him,--almost as impossible to sit next him. even the waiters were unwilling to serve him;--but with patience and endurance he did at last get his dinner. he was there in his right, as a member of the house of commons, and there was no ground on which such service as he required could be refused to him. it was not long before he had the table all to himself. but of this he took no apparent notice. he spoke loudly to the waiters and drank his bottle of champagne with much apparent enjoyment. since his friendly intercourse with nidderdale no one had spoken to him, nor had he spoken to any man. they who watched him declared among themselves that he was happy in his own audacity;--but in truth he was probably at that moment the most utterly wretched man in london. he would have better studied his personal comfort had he gone to his bed, and spent his evening in groans and wailings. but even he, with all the world now gone from him, with nothing before him but the extremest misery which the indignation of offended laws could inflict, was able to spend the last moments of his freedom in making a reputation at any rate for audacity. it was thus that augustus melmotte wrapped his toga around him before his death! he went from the dining-room to the smoking-room, and there, taking from his pocket a huge case which he always carried, proceeded to light a cigar about eight inches long. mr. brown, from the city, was in the room, and melmotte, with a smile and a bow, offered mr. brown one of the same. mr. brown was a short, fat, round little man, over sixty, who was always endeavouring to give to a somewhat commonplace set of features an air of importance by the contraction of his lips and the knitting of his brows. it was as good as a play to see mr. brown jumping back from any contact with the wicked one, and putting on a double frown as he looked at the impudent sinner. "you needn't think so much, you know, of what i said the other night. i didn't mean any offence." so spoke melmotte, and then laughed with a loud, hoarse laugh, looking round upon the assembled crowd as though he were enjoying his triumph. he sat after that and smoked in silence. once again he burst out into a laugh, as though peculiarly amused with his own thoughts;--as though he were declaring to himself with much inward humour that all these men around him were fools for believing the stories which they had heard; but he made no further attempt to speak to any one. soon after nine he went back again into the house, and again took his old place. at this time he had swallowed three glasses of brandy and water, as well as the champagne, and was brave enough almost for anything. there was some debate going on in reference to the game laws,--a subject on which melmotte was as ignorant as one of his own housemaids,--but, as some speaker sat down, he jumped up to his legs. another gentleman had also risen, and when the house called to that other gentleman melmotte gave way. the other gentleman had not much to say, and in a few minutes melmotte was again on his legs. who shall dare to describe the thoughts which would cross the august mind of a speaker of the house of commons at such a moment? of melmotte's villainy he had no official knowledge. and even could he have had such knowledge it was not for him to act upon it. the man was a member of the house, and as much entitled to speak as another. but it seemed on that occasion that the speaker was anxious to save the house from disgrace;--for twice and thrice he refused to have his "eye caught" by the member for westminster. as long as any other member would rise he would not have his eye caught. but melmotte was persistent, and determined not to be put down. at last no one else would speak, and the house was about to negative the motion without a division,--when melmotte was again on his legs, still persisting. the speaker scowled at him and leaned back in his chair. melmotte standing erect, turning his head round from one side of the house to another, as though determined that all should see his audacity, propping himself with his knees against the seat before him, remained for half a minute perfectly silent. he was drunk,--but better able than most drunken men to steady himself, and showing in his face none of those outward signs of intoxication by which drunkenness is generally made apparent. but he had forgotten in his audacity that words are needed for the making of a speech, and now he had not a word at his command. he stumbled forward, recovered himself, then looked once more round the house with a glance of anger, and after that toppled headlong forward over the shoulders of mr. beauchamp beauclerk, who was now sitting in front of him. he might have wrapped his toga around him better perhaps had he remained at home, but if to have himself talked about was his only object, he could hardly have taken a surer course. the scene, as it occurred, was one very likely to be remembered when the performer should have been carried away into enforced obscurity. there was much commotion in the house. mr. beauclerk, a man of natural good nature, though at the moment put to considerable personal inconvenience, hastened, when he recovered his own equilibrium, to assist the drunken man. but melmotte had by no means lost the power of helping himself. he quickly recovered his legs, and then reseating himself, put his hat on, and endeavoured to look as though nothing special had occurred. the house resumed its business, taking no further notice of melmotte, and having no special rule of its own as to the treatment to be adopted with drunken members. but the member for westminster caused no further inconvenience. he remained in his seat for perhaps ten minutes, and then, not with a very steady step, but still with capacity sufficient for his own guidance, he made his way down to the doors. his exit was watched in silence, and the moment was an anxious one for the speaker, the clerks, and all who were near him. had he fallen some one,--or rather some two or three,--must have picked him up and carried him out. but he did not fall either there or in the lobbies, or on his way down to palace yard. many were looking at him, but none touched him. when he had got through the gates, leaning against the wall he hallooed for his brougham, and the servant who was waiting for him soon took him home to bruton street. that was the last which the british parliament saw of its new member for westminster. melmotte as soon as he reached home got into his own sitting-room without difficulty, and called for more brandy and water. between eleven and twelve he was left there by his servant with a bottle of brandy, three or four bottles of soda-water, and his cigar-case. neither of the ladies of the family came to him, nor did he speak of them. nor was he so drunk then as to give rise to any suspicion in the mind of the servant. he was habitually left there at night, and the servant as usual went to his bed. but at nine o'clock on the following morning the maid-servant found him dead upon the floor. drunk as he had been,--more drunk as he probably became during the night,--still he was able to deliver himself from the indignities and penalties to which the law might have subjected him by a dose of prussic acid. chapter lxxxiv. paul montague's vindication. it is hoped that the reader need hardly be informed that hetta carbury was a very miserable young woman as soon as she decided that duty compelled her to divide herself altogether from paul montague. i think that she was irrational; but to her it seemed that the offence against herself,--the offence against her own dignity as a woman,--was too great to be forgiven. there can be no doubt that it would all have been forgiven with the greatest ease had paul told the story before it had reached her ears from any other source. had he said to her,--when her heart was softest towards him,--i once loved another woman, and that woman is here now in london, a trouble to me, persecuting me, and her history is so and so, and the history of my love for her was after this fashion, and the history of my declining love is after that fashion, and of this at any rate you may be sure, that this woman has never been near my heart from the first moment in which i saw you;--had he told it to her thus, there would not have been an opening for anger. and he doubtless would have so told it, had not hetta's brother interfered too quickly. he was then forced to exculpate himself, to confess rather than to tell his own story,--and to admit facts which wore the air of having been concealed, and which had already been conceived to be altogether damning if true. it was that journey to lowestoft, not yet a month old, which did the mischief,--a journey as to which hetta was not slow in understanding all that roger carbury had thought about it, though roger would say nothing of it to herself. paul had been staying at the seaside with this woman in amicable intimacy,--this horrid woman,--in intimacy worse than amicable, and had been visiting her daily at islington! hetta felt quite sure that he had never passed a day without going there since the arrival of the woman; and everybody would know what that meant. and during this very hour he had been,--well, perhaps not exactly making love to herself, but looking at her and talking to her, and behaving to her in a manner such as could not but make her understand that he intended to make love to her. of course they had really understood it, since they had met at madame melmotte's first ball, when she had made a plea that she could not allow herself to dance with him more than,--say half-a-dozen times. of course she had not intended him then to know that she would receive his love with favour; but equally of course she had known that he must so feel it. she had not only told herself, but had told her mother, that her heart was given away to this man; and yet the man during this very time was spending his hours with a--woman, with a strange american woman, to whom he acknowledged that he had been once engaged. how could she not quarrel with him? how could she refrain from telling him that everything must be over between them? everybody was against him,--her mother, her brother, and her cousin: and she felt that she had not a word to say in his defence. a horrid woman! a wretched, bad, bold american intriguing woman! it was terrible to her that a friend of hers should ever have attached himself to such a creature;--but that he should have come to her with a second tale of love long, long before he had cleared himself from the first;--perhaps with no intention of clearing himself from the first! of course she could not forgive him! no;--she would never forgive him. she would break her heart for him. that was a matter of course; but she would never forgive him. she knew well what it was that her mother wanted. her mother thought that by forcing her into a quarrel with montague she would force her also into a marriage with roger carbury. but her mother would find out that in that she was mistaken. she would never marry her cousin, though she would be always ready to acknowledge his worth. she was sure now that she would never marry any man. as she made this resolve she had a wicked satisfaction in feeling that it would be a trouble to her mother;--for though she was altogether in accord with lady carbury as to the iniquities of paul montague she was not the less angry with her mother for being so ready to expose those iniquities. oh, with what slow, cautious fingers, with what heartbroken tenderness did she take out from its guardian case the brooch which paul had given her! it had as yet been an only present, and in thanking him for it, which she had done with full, free-spoken words of love, she had begged him to send her no other, so that that might ever be to her,--to her dying day,--the one precious thing that had been given to her by her lover while she was yet a girl. now it must be sent back;--and, no doubt, it would go to that abominable woman! but her fingers lingered over it as she touched it, and she would fain have kissed it, had she not told herself that she would have been disgraced, even in her solitude, by such a demonstration of affection. she had given her answer to paul montague; and, as she would have no further personal correspondence with him, she took the brooch to her mother with a request that it might be returned. "of course, my dear, i will send it back to him. is there nothing else?" "no, mamma;--nothing else. i have no letters, and no other present. you always knew everything that took place. if you will just send that back to him,--without a word. you won't say anything,--will you, mamma?" "there is nothing for me to say if you have really made him understand you." "i think he understood me, mamma. you need not doubt about that." "he has behaved very, very badly,--from the beginning," said lady carbury. but hetta did not really think that the young man had behaved very badly from the beginning, and certainly did not wish to be told of his misbehaviour. no doubt she thought that the young man had behaved very well in falling in love with her directly he saw her;--only that he had behaved so badly in taking mrs. hurtle to lowestoft afterwards! "it's no good talking about that, mamma. i hope you will never talk of him any more." "he is quite unworthy," said lady carbury. "i can't bear to--have him--abused," said hetta sobbing. "my dear hetta, i have no doubt this has made you for the time unhappy. such little accidents do make people unhappy--for the time. but it will be much for the best that you should endeavour not to be so sensitive about it. the world is too rough and too hard for people to allow their feelings full play. you have to look out for the future, and you can best do so by resolving that paul montague shall be forgotten at once." "oh, mamma, don't. how is a person to resolve? oh, mamma, don't say any more." "but, my dear, there is more that i must say. your future life is before you, and i must think of it, and you must think of it. of course you must be married." "there is no of course at all." "of course you must be married," continued lady carbury, "and of course it is your duty to think of the way in which this may be best done. my income is becoming less and less every day. i already owe money to your cousin, and i owe money to mr. broune." "money to mr. broune!" "yes,--to mr. broune. i had to pay a sum for felix which mr. broune told me ought to be paid. and i owe money to tradesmen. i fear that i shall not be able to keep on this house. and they tell me,--your cousin and mr. broune,--that it is my duty to take felix out of london,--probably abroad." "of course i shall go with you." "it may be so at first; but, perhaps, even that may not be necessary. why should you? what pleasure could you have in it? think what my life must be with felix in some french or german town!" "mamma, why don't you let me be a comfort to you? why do you speak of me always as though i were a burden?" "everybody is a burden to other people. it is the way of life. but you,--if you will only yield in ever so little,--you may go where you will be no burden, where you will be accepted simply as a blessing. you have the opportunity of securing comfort for your whole life, and of making a friend, not only for yourself, but for me and your brother, of one whose friendship we cannot fail to want." "mamma, you cannot really mean to talk about that now?" "why should i not mean it? what is the use of indulging in high-flown nonsense? make up your mind to be the wife of your cousin roger." "this is horrid," said hetta, bursting out in her agony. "cannot you understand that i am broken-hearted about paul, that i love him from my very soul, that parting from him is like tearing my heart in pieces? i know that i must, because he has behaved so very badly,--and because of that wicked woman! and so i have. but i did not think that in the very next hour you would bid me give myself to somebody else! i will never marry roger carbury. you may be quite--quite sure that i shall never marry any one. if you won't take me with you when you go away with felix, i must stay behind and try and earn my bread. i suppose i could go out as a nurse." then, without waiting for a reply she left the room and betook herself to her own apartment. lady carbury did not even understand her daughter. she could not conceive that she had in any way acted unkindly in taking the opportunity of montague's rejection for pressing the suit of the other lover. she was simply anxious to get a husband for her daughter,--as she had been anxious to get a wife for her son,--in order that her child might live comfortably. but she felt that whenever she spoke common sense to hetta, her daughter took it as an offence, and flew into tantrums, being altogether unable to accommodate herself to the hard truths of the world. deep as was the sorrow which her son brought upon her, and great as was the disgrace, she could feel more sympathy for him than for the girl. if there was anything that she could not forgive in life it was romance. and yet she, at any rate, believed that she delighted in romantic poetry! at the present moment she was very wretched; and was certainly unselfish in her wish to see her daughter comfortably settled before she commenced those miserable roamings with her son which seemed to be her coming destiny. in these days she thought a good deal of mr. broune's offer, and of her own refusal. it was odd that since that refusal she had seen more of him, and had certainly known much more of him than she had ever seen or known before. previous to that little episode their intimacy had been very fictitious, as are many intimacies. they had played at being friends, knowing but very little of each other. but now, during the last five or six weeks,--since she had refused his offer,--they had really learned to know each other. in the exquisite misery of her troubles, she had told him the truth about herself and her son, and he had responded, not by compliments, but by real aid and true counsel. his whole tone was altered to her, as was hers to him. there was no longer any egregious flattery between them,--and he, in speaking to her, would be almost rough to her. once he had told her that she would be a fool if she did not do so and so. the consequence was that she almost regretted that she had allowed him to escape. but she certainly made no effort to recover the lost prize, for she told him all her troubles. it was on that afternoon, after her disagreement with her daughter, that marie melmotte came to her. and, on that same evening, closeted with mr. broune in her back room, she told him of both occurrences. "if the girl has got the money--," she began, regretting her son's obstinacy. "i don't believe a bit of it," said broune. "from all that i can hear, i don't think that there is any money. and if there is, you may be sure that melmotte would not let it slip through his fingers in that way. i would not have anything to do with it." "you think it is all over with the melmottes?" "a rumour reached me just now that he had been already arrested." it was now between nine and ten in the evening. "but as i came away from my room, i heard that he was down at the house. that he will have to stand a trial for forgery, i think there cannot be a doubt, and i imagine that it will be found that not a shilling will be saved out of the property." "what a wonderful career it has been!" "yes,--the strangest thing that has come up in our days. i am inclined to think that the utter ruin at this moment has been brought about by his reckless personal expenditure." "why did he spend such a lot of money?" "because he thought that he could conquer the world by it, and obtain universal credit. he very nearly succeeded too. only he had forgotten to calculate the force of the envy of his competitors." "you think he has committed forgery?" "certainly, i think so. of course we know nothing as yet." "then i suppose it is better that felix should not have married her." "certainly better. no redemption was to have been had on that side, and i don't think you should regret the loss of such money as his." lady carbury shook her head, meaning probably to imply that even melmotte's money would have had no bad odour to one so dreadfully in want of assistance as her son. "at any rate do not think of it any more." then she told him her grief about hetta. "ah, there," said he, "i feel myself less able to express an authoritative opinion." "he doesn't owe a shilling," said lady carbury, "and he is really a fine gentleman." "but if she doesn't like him?" "oh, but she does. she thinks him to be the finest person in the world. she would obey him a great deal sooner than she would me. but she has her mind stuffed with nonsense about love." "a great many people, lady carbury, have their minds stuffed with that nonsense." "yes;--and ruin themselves with it, as she will do. love is like any other luxury. you have no right to it unless you can afford it. and those who will have it when they can't afford it, will come to the ground like this mr. melmotte. how odd it seems! it isn't a fortnight since we all thought him the greatest man in london." mr. broune only smiled, not thinking it worth his while to declare that he had never held that opinion about the late idol of abchurch lane. on the following morning, very early, while melmotte was still lying, as yet undiscovered, on the floor of mr. longestaffe's room, a letter was brought up to hetta by the maid-servant, who told her that mr. montague had delivered it with his own hands. she took it greedily, and then repressing herself, put it with an assumed gesture of indifference beneath her pillow. but as soon as the girl had left the room she at once seized her treasure. it never occurred to her as yet to think whether she would or would not receive a letter from her dismissed lover. she had told him that he must go, and go for ever, and had taken it for granted that he would do so,--probably willingly. no doubt he would be delighted to return to the american woman. but now that she had the letter, she allowed no doubt to come between her and the reading of it. as soon as she was alone she opened it, and she ran through its contents without allowing herself a moment for thinking, as she went on, whether the excuses made by her lover were or were not such as she ought to accept. dearest hetta, i think you have been most unjust to me, and if you have ever loved me i cannot understand your injustice. i have never deceived you in anything, not by a word, or for a moment. unless you mean to throw me over because i did once love another woman, i do not know what cause of anger you have. i could not tell you about mrs. hurtle till you had accepted me, and, as you yourself must know, i had had no opportunity to tell you anything afterwards till the story had reached your ears. i hardly know what i said the other day, i was so miserable at your accusation. but i suppose i said then, and i again declare now, that i had made up my mind that circumstances would not admit of her becoming my wife before i had ever seen you, and that i have certainly never wavered in my determination since i saw you. i can with safety refer to roger as to this, because i was with him when i so determined, and made up my mind very much at his instance. this was before i had ever even met you. if i understand it all right you are angry because i have associated with mrs. hurtle since i so determined. i am not going back to my first acquaintance with her now. you may blame me for that if you please,--though it cannot have been a fault against you. but, after what had occurred, was i to refuse to see her when she came to england to see me? i think that would have been cowardly. of course i went to her. and when she was all alone here, without a single other friend, and telling me that she was unwell, and asking me to take her down to the seaside, was i to refuse? i think that that would have been unkind. it was a dreadful trouble to me. but of course i did it. she asked me to renew my engagement. i am bound to tell you that, but i know in telling you that it will go no farther. i declined, telling her that it was my purpose to ask another woman to be my wife. of course there has been anger and sorrow,--anger on her part and sorrow on mine. but there has been no doubt. and at last she yielded. as far as she was concerned my trouble was over,--except in so far that her unhappiness has been a great trouble to me,--when, on a sudden, i found that the story had reached you in such a form as to make you determined to quarrel with me! of course you do not know it all, for i cannot tell you all without telling her history. but you know everything that in the least concerns yourself, and i do say that you have no cause whatever for anger. i am writing at night. this evening your brooch was brought to me with three or four cutting words from your mother. but i cannot understand that if you really love me, you should wish to separate yourself from me,--or that, if you ever loved me, you should cease to love me now because of mrs. hurtle. i am so absolutely confused by the blow that i hardly know what i am writing, and take first one outrageous idea into my head and then another. my love for you is so thorough and so intense that i cannot bring myself to look forward to living without you, now that you have once owned that you have loved me. i cannot think it possible that love, such as i suppose yours must have been, could be made to cease all at a moment. mine can't. i don't think it is natural that we should be parted. if you want corroboration of my story go yourself to mrs. hurtle. anything is better than that we both should be broken-hearted. yours most affectionately, paul montague. chapter lxxxv. breakfast in berkeley square. lord nidderdale was greatly disgusted with his own part of the performance when he left the house of commons, and was, we may say, disgusted with his own position generally, when he considered all its circumstances. that had been at the commencement of the evening, and melmotte had not then been tipsy; but he had behaved with unsurpassable arrogance and vulgarity, and had made the young lord drink the cup of his own disgrace to the very dregs. everybody now knew it as a positive fact that the charges made against the man were to become matter of investigation before the chief magistrate for the city, everybody knew that he had committed forgery upon forgery, everybody knew that he could not pay for the property which he had pretended to buy, and that he was actually a ruined man;--and yet he had seized nidderdale by the hand, and called the young lord "his dear boy" before the whole house. and then he had made himself conspicuous as this man's advocate. if he had not himself spoken openly of his coming marriage with the girl, he had allowed other men to speak to him about it. he had quarrelled with one man for saying that melmotte was a rogue, and had confidentially told his most intimate friends that in spite of a little vulgarity of manner, melmotte at bottom was a very good fellow. how was he now to back out of his intimacy with the melmottes generally? he was engaged to marry the girl, and there was nothing of which he could accuse her. he acknowledged to himself that she deserved well at his hands. though at this moment he hated the father most bitterly, as those odious words, and the tone in which they had been pronounced, rang in his ears, nevertheless he had some kindly feeling for the girl. of course he could not marry her now. that was manifestly out of the question. she herself, as well as all others, had known that she was to be married for her money, and now that bubble had been burst. but he felt that he owed it to her, as to a comrade who had on the whole been loyal to him, to have some personal explanation with herself. he arranged in his own mind the sort of speech that he would make to her. "of course you know it can't be. it was all arranged because you were to have a lot of money, and now it turns out that you haven't got any. and i haven't got any, and we should have nothing to live upon. it's out of the question. but, upon my word, i'm very sorry, for i like you very much, and i really think we should have got on uncommon well together." that was the kind of speech that he suggested to himself, but he did not know how to find for himself the opportunity of making it. he thought that he must put it all into a letter. but then that would be tantamount to a written confession that he had made her an offer of marriage, and he feared that melmotte,--or madame melmotte on his behalf, if the great man himself were absent, in prison,--might make an ungenerous use of such an admission. between seven and eight he went into the beargarden, and there he saw dolly longestaffe and others. everybody was talking about melmotte, the prevailing belief being that he was at this moment in custody. dolly was full of his own griefs; but consoled amidst them by a sense of his own importance. "i wonder whether it's true," he was saying to lord grasslough. "he has an appointment to meet me and my governor at twelve o'clock to-morrow, and to pay us what he owes us. he swore yesterday that he would have the money to-morrow. but he can't keep his appointment, you know, if he's in prison." "you won't see the money, dolly, you may swear to that," said grasslough. "i don't suppose i shall. by george, what an ass my governor has been. he had no more right than you have to give up the property. here's nidderdale. he could tell us where he is; but i'm afraid to speak to him since he cut up so rough the other night." in a moment the conversation was stopped; but when lord grasslough asked nidderdale in a whisper whether he knew anything about melmotte, the latter answered out loud, "yes;--i left him in the house half an hour ago." "people are saying that he has been arrested." "i heard that also; but he certainly had not been arrested when i left the house." then he went up and put his hand on dolly longestaffe's shoulder, and spoke to him. "i suppose you were about right the other night and i was about wrong; but you could understand what it was that i meant. i'm afraid this is a bad look out for both of us." "yes;--i understand. it's deuced bad for me," said dolly. "i think you're very well out of it. but i'm glad there's not to be a quarrel. suppose we have a rubber of whist." later on in the night news was brought to the club that melmotte had tried to make a speech in the house, that he had been very drunk, and that he had tumbled over, upsetting beauchamp beauclerk in his fall. "by george, i should like to have seen that!" said dolly. "i am very glad i was not there," said nidderdale. it was three o'clock before they left the card table, at which time melmotte was lying dead upon the floor in mr. longestaffe's house. on the following morning, at ten o'clock, lord nidderdale sat at breakfast with his father in the old lord's house in berkeley square. from thence the house which melmotte had hired was not above a few hundred yards distant. at this time the young lord was living with his father, and the two had now met by appointment in order that something might be settled between them as to the proposed marriage. the marquis was not a very pleasant companion when the affairs in which he was interested did not go exactly as he would have them. he could be very cross and say most disagreeable words,--so that the ladies of the family, and others connected with him, for the most part, found it impossible to live with him. but his eldest son had endured him;--partly perhaps because, being the eldest, he had been treated with a nearer approach to courtesy, but chiefly by means of his own extreme good humour. what did a few hard words matter? if his father was ungracious to him, of course he knew what all that meant. as long as his father would make fair allowance for his own peccadilloes,--he also would make allowances for his father's roughness. all this was based on his grand theory of live and let live. he expected his father to be a little cross on this occasion, and he acknowledged to himself that there was cause for it. he was a little late himself, and he found his father already buttering his toast. "i don't believe you'd get out of bed a moment sooner than you liked if you could save the whole property by it." "you show me how i can make a guinea by it, sir, and see if i don't earn the money." then he sat down and poured himself out a cup of tea, and looked at the kidneys and looked at the fish. "i suppose you were drinking last night," said the old lord. "not particular." the old man turned round and gnashed his teeth at him. "the fact is, sir, i don't drink. everybody knows that." "i know when you're in the country you can't live without champagne. well;--what have you got to say about all this?" "what have you got to say?" "you've made a pretty kettle of fish of it." "i've been guided by you in everything. come, now; you ought to own that. i suppose the whole thing is over?" "i don't see why it should be over. i'm told she has got her own money." then nidderdale described to his father melmotte's behaviour in the house on the preceding evening. "what the devil does that matter?" said the old man. "you're not going to marry the man himself." "i shouldn't wonder if he's in gaol now." "and what does that matter? she's not in gaol. and if the money is hers, she can't lose it because he goes to prison. beggars mustn't be choosers. how do you mean to live if you don't marry this girl?" "i shall scrape on, i suppose. i must look for somebody else." the marquis showed very plainly by his demeanour that he did not give his son much credit either for diligence or for ingenuity in making such a search. "at any rate, sir, i can't marry the daughter of a man who is to be put upon his trial for forgery." "i can't see what that has to do with you." "i couldn't do it, sir. i'd do anything else to oblige you, but i couldn't do that. and, moreover, i don't believe in the money." "then you may just go to the devil," said the old marquis turning himself round in his chair, and lighting a cigar as he took up the newspaper. nidderdale went on with his breakfast with perfect equanimity, and when he had finished lighted his cigar. "they tell me," said the old man, "that one of those goldsheiner girls will have a lot of money." "a jewess," suggested nidderdale. "what difference does that make?" [illustration: "what difference does that make?"] "oh no;--not in the least;--if the money's really there. have you heard any sum named, sir?" the old man only grunted. "there are two sisters and two brothers. i don't suppose the girls would have a hundred thousand each." "they say the widow of that brewer who died the other day has about twenty thousand a year." "it's only for her life, sir." "she could insure her life. d----me, sir, we must do something. if you turn up your nose at one woman after another how do you mean to live?" "i don't think that a woman of forty with only a life interest would be a good speculation. of course i'll think of it if you press it." the old man growled again. "you see, sir, i've been so much in earnest about this girl that i haven't thought of inquiring about any one else. there always is some one up with a lot of money. it's a pity there shouldn't be a regular statement published with the amount of money, and what is expected in return. it 'd save a deal of trouble." "if you can't talk more seriously than that you'd better go away," said the old marquis. at that moment a footman came into the room and told lord nidderdale that a man particularly wished to see him in the hall. he was not always anxious to see those who called on him, and he asked the servant whether he knew who the man was. "i believe, my lord, he's one of the domestics from mr. melmotte's in bruton street," said the footman, who was no doubt fully acquainted with all the circumstances of lord nidderdale's engagement. the son, who was still smoking, looked at his father as though in doubt. "you'd better go and see," said the marquis. but nidderdale before he went asked a question as to what he had better do if melmotte had sent for him. "go and see melmotte. why should you be afraid to see him? tell him that you are ready to marry the girl if you can see the money down, but that you won't stir a step till it has been actually paid over." "he knows that already," said nidderdale as he left the room. in the hall he found a man whom he recognised as melmotte's butler, a ponderous, elderly, heavy man who now had a letter in his hand. but the lord could tell by the man's face and manner that he himself had some story to tell. "is there anything the matter?" "yes, my lord,--yes. oh, dear,--oh, dear! i think you'll be sorry to hear it. there was none who came there he seemed to take to so much as your lordship." "they've taken him to prison!" exclaimed nidderdale. but the man shook his head. "what is it then? he can't be dead." then the man nodded his head, and, putting his hand up to his face, burst into tears. "mr. melmotte dead! he was in the house of commons last night. i saw him myself. how did he die?" but the fat, ponderous man was so affected by the tragedy he had witnessed, that he could not as yet give any account of the scene of his master's death, but simply handed the note which he had in his hand to lord nidderdale. it was from marie, and had been written within half an hour of the time at which news had been brought to her of what had occurred. the note was as follows:-- dear lord nidderdale, the man will tell you what has happened. i feel as though i was mad. i do not know who to send to. will you come to me, only for a few minutes? marie. he read it standing up in the hall, and then again asked the man as to the manner of his master's death. and now the marquis, gathering from a word or two that he heard and from his son's delay that something special had occurred, hobbled out into the hall. "mr. melmotte is--dead," said his son. the old man dropped his stick, and fell back against the wall. "this man says that he is dead, and here is a letter from marie asking me to go there. how was it that he--died?" "it was--poison," said the butler solemnly. "there has been a doctor already, and there isn't no doubt of that. he took it all by himself last night. he came home, perhaps a little fresh, and he had in brandy and soda and cigars;--and sat himself down all to himself. then in the morning, when the young woman went in,--there he was,--poisoned! i see him lay on the ground, and i helped to lift him up, and there was that smell of prussic acid that i knew what he had been and done just the same as when the doctor came and told us." before the man could be allowed to go back, there was a consultation between the father and son as to a compliance with the request which marie had made in her first misery. the marquis thought that his son had better not go to bruton street. "what's the use? what good can you do? she'll only be falling into your arms, and that's what you've got to avoid,--at any rate, till you know how things are." but nidderdale's better feelings would not allow him to submit to this advice. he had been engaged to marry the girl, and she in her abject misery had turned to him as the friend she knew best. at any rate for the time the heartlessness of his usual life deserted him, and he felt willing to devote himself to the girl not for what he could get,--but because she had so nearly been so near to him. "i couldn't refuse her," he said over and over again. "i couldn't bring myself to do it. oh, no;--i shall certainly go." "you'll get into a mess if you do." "then i must get into a mess. i shall certainly go. i will go at once. it is very disagreeable, but i cannot possibly refuse. it would be abominable." then going back to the hall, he sent a message by the butler to marie, saying that he would be with her in less than half an hour. "don't you go and make a fool of yourself," his father said to him when he was alone. "this is just one of those times when a man may ruin himself by being soft-hearted." nidderdale simply shook his head as he took his hat and gloves to go across to bruton street. chapter lxxxvi. the meeting in bruton street. when the news of her husband's death was in some very rough way conveyed to madame melmotte, it crushed her for the time altogether. marie first heard that she no longer had a living parent as she stood by the poor woman's bedside, and she was enabled, as much perhaps by the necessity incumbent upon her of attending to the wretched woman as by her own superior strength of character, to save herself from that prostration and collapse of power which a great and sudden blow is apt to produce. she stared at the woman who first conveyed to her tidings of the tragedy, and then for a moment seated herself at the bedside. but the violent sobbings and hysterical screams of madame melmotte soon brought her again to her feet, and from that moment she was not only active but efficacious. no;--she would not go down to the room; she could do no good by going thither. but they must send for a doctor. they should send for a doctor immediately. she was then told that a doctor and an inspector of police were already in the rooms below. the necessity of throwing whatever responsibility there might be on to other shoulders had been at once apparent to the servants, and they had sent out right and left, so that the house might be filled with persons fit to give directions in such an emergency. the officers from the police station were already there when the woman who now filled didon's place in the house communicated to madame melmotte the fact that she was a widow. it was afterwards said by some of those who had seen her at the time, that marie melmotte had shown a hard heart on the occasion. but the condemnation was wrong. her feeling for her father was certainly not that which we are accustomed to see among our daughters and sisters. he had never been to her the petted divinity of the household, whose slightest wish had been law, whose little comforts had become matters of serious care, whose frowns were horrid clouds, whose smiles were glorious sunshine, whose kisses were daily looked for, and if missed would be missed with mourning. how should it have been so with her? in all the intercourses of her family, since the first rough usage which she remembered, there had never been anything sweet or gracious. though she had recognised a certain duty, as due from herself to her father, she had found herself bound to measure it, so that more should not be exacted from her than duty required. she had long known that her father would fain make her a slave for his own purposes, and that if she put no limits to her own obedience he certainly would put none. she had drawn no comparison between him and other fathers, or between herself and other daughters, because she had never become conversant with the ways of other families. after a fashion she had loved him, because nature creates love in a daughter's heart; but she had never respected him, and had spent the best energies of her character on a resolve that she would never fear him. "he may cut me into pieces, but he shall not make me do for his advantage that which i do not think he has a right to exact from me." that had been the state of her mind towards her father; and now that he had taken himself away with terrible suddenness, leaving her to face the difficulties of the world with no protector and no assistance, the feeling which dominated her was no doubt one of awe rather than of broken-hearted sorrow. those who depart must have earned such sorrow before it can be really felt. they who are left may be overwhelmed by the death--even of their most cruel tormentors. madame melmotte was altogether overwhelmed; but it could not probably be said of her with truth that she was crushed by pure grief. there was fear of all things, fear of solitude, fear of sudden change, fear of terrible revelations, fear of some necessary movement she knew not whither, fear that she might be discovered to be a poor wretched impostor who never could have been justified in standing in the same presence with emperors and princes, with duchesses and cabinet ministers. this and the fact that the dead body of the man who had so lately been her tyrant was lying near her, so that she might hardly dare to leave her room lest she should encounter him dead, and thus more dreadful even than when alive, utterly conquered her. feelings of the same kind, the same fears, and the same awe were powerful also with marie;--but they did not conquer her. she was strong and conquered them; and she did not care to affect a weakness to which she was in truth superior. in such a household the death of such a father after such a fashion will hardly produce that tender sorrow which comes from real love. she soon knew it all. her father had destroyed himself, and had doubtless done so because his troubles in regard to money had been greater than he could bear. when he had told her that she was to sign those deeds because ruin was impending, he must indeed have told her the truth. he had so often lied to her that she had had no means of knowing whether he was lying then or telling her a true story. but she had offered to sign the deeds since that, and he had told her that it would be of no avail,--and at that time had not been angry with her as he would have been had her refusal been the cause of his ruin. she took some comfort in thinking of that. but what was she to do? what was to be done generally by that over-cumbered household? she and her pseudo-mother had been instructed to pack up their jewellery, and they had both obeyed the order. but she herself at this moment cared but little for any property. how ought she to behave herself? where should she go? on whose arm could she lean for some support at this terrible time? as for love, and engagements, and marriage,--that was all over. in her difficulty she never for a moment thought of sir felix carbury. though she had been silly enough to love the man because he was pleasant to look at, she had never been so far gone in silliness as to suppose that he was a staff upon which any one might lean. had that marriage taken place, she would have been the staff. but it might be possible that lord nidderdale would help her. he was good-natured and manly, and would be efficacious,--if only he would come to her. he was near, and she thought that at any rate she would try. so she had written her note and sent it by the butler,--thinking as she did so of the words she would use to make the young man understand that all the nonsense they had talked as to marrying each other was, of course, to mean nothing now. it was past eleven when he reached the house, and he was shown up-stairs into one of the sitting-rooms on the first-floor. as he passed the door of the study, which was at the moment partly open, he saw the dress of a policeman within, and knew that the body of the dead man was still lying there. but he went by rapidly without a glance within, remembering the look of the man as he had last seen his burly figure, and that grasp of his hand, and those odious words. and now the man was dead,--having destroyed his own life. surely the man must have known when he uttered those words what it was that he intended to do! when he had made that last appeal about marie, conscious as he was that everyone was deserting him, he must even then have looked his fate in the face and have told himself that it was better that he should die! his misfortunes, whatever might be their nature, must have been heavy on him then with all their weight; and he himself and all the world had known that he was ruined. and yet he had pretended to be anxious about the girl's marriage, and had spoken of it as though he still believed that it would be accomplished! nidderdale had hardly put his hat down on the table before marie was with him. he walked up to her, took her by both hands, and looked into her face. there was no trace of a tear, but her whole countenance seemed to him to be altered. she was the first to speak. "i thought you would come when i sent for you." "of course i came." "i knew you would be a friend, and i knew no one else who would. you won't be afraid, lord nidderdale, that i shall ever think any more of all those things which he was planning?" she paused a moment, but he was not ready enough to have a word to say in answer to this. "you know what has happened?" "your servant told us." "what are we to do? oh, lord nidderdale, it is so dreadful! poor papa! poor papa! when i think of all that he must have suffered i wish that i could be dead too." "has your mother been told?" "oh yes. she knows. no one tried to conceal anything for a moment. it was better that it should be so;--better at last. but we have no friends who would be considerate enough to try to save us from sorrow. but i think it was better. mamma is very bad. she is always nervous and timid. of course this has nearly killed her. what ought we to do? it is mr. longestaffe's house, and we were to have left it to-morrow." "he will not mind that now." "where must we go? we can't go back to that big place in grosvenor square. who will manage for us? who will see the doctor and the policemen?" "i will do that." "but there will be things that i cannot ask you to do. why should i ask you to do anything?" "because we are friends." "no," she said, "no. you cannot really regard me as a friend. i have been an impostor. i know that. i had no business to know a person like you at all. oh, if the next six months could be over! poor papa;--poor papa!" and then for the first time she burst into tears. "i wish i knew what might comfort you," he said. "how can there be any comfort? there never can be comfort again! as for comfort, when were we ever comfortable? it has been one trouble after another,--one fear after another! and now we are friendless and homeless. i suppose they will take everything that we have." "your papa had a lawyer, i suppose?" "i think he had ever so many,--but i do not know who they were. his own clerk, who had lived with him for over twenty years, left him yesterday. i suppose they will know something in abchurch lane; but now that herr croll has gone i am not acquainted even with the name of one of them. mr. miles grendall used to be with him." "i do not think that he could be of much service." "nor lord alfred? lord alfred was always with him till very lately." nidderdale shook his head. "i suppose not. they only came because papa had a big house." the young lord could not but feel that he was included in the same rebuke. "oh, what a life it has been! and now,--now it's over." as she said this it seemed that for the moment her strength failed her, for she fell backwards on the corner of the sofa. he tried to raise her, but she shook him away, burying her face in her hands. he was standing close to her, still holding her arm, when he heard a knock at the front door, which was immediately opened, as the servants were hanging about in the hall. "who are they?" said marie, whose sharp ears caught the sound of various steps. lord nidderdale went out on to the head of the stairs, and immediately heard the voice of dolly longestaffe. dolly longestaffe had on that morning put himself early into the care of mr. squercum, and it had happened that he with his lawyer had met his father with mr. bideawhile at the corner of the square. they were all coming according to appointment to receive the money which mr. melmotte had promised to pay them at this very hour. of course they had none of them as yet heard of the way in which the financier had made his last grand payment, and as they walked together to the door had been intent only in reference to their own money. squercum, who had heard a good deal on the previous day, was very certain that the money would not be forthcoming, whereas bideawhile was sanguine of success. "don't we wish we may get it?" dolly had said, and by saying so had very much offended his father, who had resented the want of reverence implied in the use of that word "we." they had all been admitted together, and dolly had at once loudly claimed an old acquaintance with some of the articles around him. "i knew i'd got a coat just like that," said dolly, "and i never could make out what my fellow had done with it." this was the speech which nidderdale had heard, standing on the top of the stairs. the two lawyers had at once seen, from the face of the man who had opened the door and from the presence of three or four servants in the hall, that things were not going on in their usual course. before dolly had completed his buffoonery the butler had whispered to mr. bideawhile that mr. melmotte--"was no more." "dead!" exclaimed mr. bideawhile. squercum put his hands into his trowsers pockets and opened his mouth wide. "dead!" muttered mr. longestaffe senior. "dead!" said dolly. "who's dead?" the butler shook his head. then squercum whispered a word into the butler's ear, and the butler thereupon nodded his head. "it's about what i expected," said squercum. then the butler whispered the word to mr. longestaffe, and whispered it also to mr. bideawhile, and they all knew that the millionaire had swallowed poison during the night. it was known to the servants that mr. longestaffe was the owner of the house, and he was therefore, as having authority there, shown into the room where the body of melmotte was lying on a sofa. the two lawyers and dolly of course followed, as did also lord nidderdale, who had now joined them from the lobby above. there was a policeman in the room who seemed to be simply watching the body, and who rose from his seat when the gentlemen entered. two or three of the servants followed them, so that there was almost a crowd round the dead man's bier. there was no further tale to be told. that melmotte had been in the house on the previous night, and had there disgraced himself by intoxication, they had known already. that he had been found dead that morning had been already announced. they could only stand round and gaze on the square, sullen, livid features of the big-framed man, and each lament that he had ever heard the name of melmotte. "are you in the house here?" said dolly to lord nidderdale in a whisper. "she sent for me. we live quite close, you know. she wanted somebody to tell her something. i must go up to her again now." "had you seen him before?" "no indeed. i only came down when i heard your voices. i fear it will be rather bad for you;--won't it?" "he was regularly smashed, i suppose?" asked dolly. "i know nothing myself. he talked to me about his affairs once, but he was such a liar that not a word that he said was worth anything. i believed him then. how it will go, i can't say." "that other thing is all over of course," suggested dolly. nidderdale intimated by a gesture of his head that the other thing was all over, and then returned to marie. there was nothing further that the four gentlemen could do, and they soon departed from the house;--not, however, till mr. bideawhile had given certain short injunctions to the butler concerning the property contained in mr. longestaffe's town residence. "they had come to see him," said lord nidderdale in a whisper. "there was some appointment. he had told them to be all here at this hour." "they didn't know, then?" asked marie. "nothing,--till the man told them." "and did you go in?" "yes; we all went into the room." marie shuddered, and again hid her face. "i think the best thing i can do," said nidderdale, "is to go to abchurch lane, and find out from smith who is the lawyer whom he chiefly trusted. i know smith had to do with his own affairs, because he has told me so at the board; and if necessary i will find out croll. no doubt i can trace him. then we had better employ the lawyer to arrange everything for you." "and where had we better go to?" "where would madame melmotte wish to go?" "anywhere, so that we could hide ourselves. perhaps frankfort would be the best. but shouldn't we stay till something has been done here? and couldn't we have lodgings, so as to get away from mr. longestaffe's house?" nidderdale promised that he himself would look for lodgings, as soon as he had seen the lawyer. "and now, my lord, i suppose that i never shall see you again," said marie. "i don't know why you should say that." "because it will be best. why should you? all this will be trouble enough to you when people begin to say what we are. but i don't think it has been my fault." "nothing has ever been your fault." "good-bye, my lord. i shall always think of you as one of the kindest people i ever knew. i thought it best to send to you for different reasons, but i do not want you to come back." "good-bye, marie. i shall always remember you." and so they parted. after that he did go into the city, and succeeded in finding both mr. smith and herr croll. when he reached abchurch lane, the news of melmotte's death had already been spread abroad; and more was known, or said to be known, of his circumstances than nidderdale had as yet heard. the crushing blow to him, so said herr croll, had been the desertion of cohenlupe,--that and the sudden fall in the value of the south central pacific and mexican railway shares, consequent on the rumours spread about the city respecting the pickering property. it was asserted in abchurch lane that had he not at that moment touched the pickering property, or entertained the emperor, or stood for westminster, he must, by the end of the autumn, have been able to do any or all of those things without danger, simply as the result of the money which would then have been realised by the railway. but he had allowed himself to become hampered by the want of comparatively small sums of ready money, and in seeking relief had rushed from one danger to another, till at last the waters around him had become too deep even for him, and had overwhelmed him. as to his immediate death, herr croll expressed not the slightest astonishment. it was just the thing, herr croll said, that he had been sure that melmotte would do, should his difficulties ever become too great for him. "and dere vas a leetle ting he lay himself open by de oder day," said croll, "dat vas nasty,--very nasty." nidderdale shook his head, but asked no questions. croll had alluded to the use of his own name, but did not on this occasion make any further revelation. then croll made a further statement to lord nidderdale, which i think he must have done in pure good-nature. "my lor," he said, whispering very gravely, "de money of de yong lady is all her own." then he nodded his head three times. "nobody can toch it, not if he vas in debt millions." again he nodded his head. "i am very glad to hear it for her sake," said lord nidderdale as he took his leave. chapter lxxxvii. down at carbury. when roger carbury returned to suffolk, after seeing his cousins in welbeck street, he was by no means contented with himself. that he should be discontented generally with the circumstances of his life was a matter of course. he knew that he was farther removed than ever from the object on which his whole mind was set. had hetta carbury learned all the circumstances of paul's engagement with mrs. hurtle before she had confessed her love to paul,--so that her heart might have been turned against the man before she had made her confession,--then, he thought, she might at last have listened to him. even though she had loved the other man, she might have at last done so, as her love would have been buried in her own bosom. but the tale had been told after the fashion which was most antagonistic to his own interests. hetta had never heard mrs. hurtle's name till she had given herself away, and had declared to all her friends that she had given herself away to this man, who was so unworthy of her. the more roger thought of this, the more angry he was with paul montague, and the more convinced that that man had done him an injury which he could never forgive. but his grief extended even beyond that. though he was never tired of swearing to himself that he would not forgive paul montague, yet there was present to him a feeling that an injury was being done to the man, and that he was in some sort responsible for that injury. he had declined to tell hetta any part of the story about mrs. hurtle,--actuated by a feeling that he ought not to betray the trust put in him by a man who was at the time his friend; and he had told nothing. but no one knew so well as he did the fact that all the attention latterly given by paul to the american woman had by no means been the effect of love, but had come from a feeling on paul's part that he could not desert the woman he had once loved, when she asked him for his kindness. if hetta could know everything exactly,--if she could look back and read the state of paul's mind as he, roger, could read it,--then she would probably forgive the man, or perhaps tell herself that there was nothing for her to forgive. roger was anxious that hetta's anger should burn hot,--because of the injury done to himself. he thought that there were ample reasons why paul montague should be punished,--why paul should be utterly expelled from among them, and allowed to go his own course. but it was not right that the man should be punished on false grounds. it seemed to roger now that he was doing an injustice to his enemy by refraining from telling all that he knew. as to the girl's misery in losing her lover, much as he loved her, true as it was that he was willing to devote himself and all that he had to her happiness, i do not think that at the present moment he was disturbed in that direction. it is hardly natural, perhaps, that a man should love a woman with such devotion as to wish to make her happy by giving her to another man. roger told himself that paul would be an unsafe husband, a fickle husband,--one who might be carried hither and thither both in his circumstances and his feelings,--and that it would be better for hetta that she should not marry him; but at the same time he was unhappy as he reflected that he himself was a party to a certain amount of deceit. and yet he had said not a word. he had referred hetta to the man himself. he thought that he knew, and he did indeed accurately know, the state of hetta's mind. she was wretched because she thought that while her lover was winning her love, while she herself was willingly allowing him to win her love, he was dallying with another woman, and making to that other woman promises the same as those he made to her. this was not true. roger knew that it was not true. but when he tried to quiet his conscience by saying that they must fight it out among themselves, he felt himself to be uneasy under that assurance. his life at carbury, at this time, was very desolate. he had become tired of the priest, who, in spite of various repulses, had never for a moment relaxed his efforts to convert his friend. roger had told him once that he must beg that religion might not be made the subject of further conversation between them. in answer to this, father barham had declared that he would never consent to remain as an intimate associate with any man on those terms. roger had persisted in his stipulation, and the priest had then suggested that it was his host's intention to banish him from carbury hall. roger had made no reply, and the priest had of course been banished. but even this added to his misery. father barham was a gentleman, was a good man, and in great penury. to ill-treat such a one, to expel such a one from his house, seemed to roger to be an abominable cruelty. he was unhappy with himself about the priest, and yet he could not bid the man come back to him. it was already being said of him among his neighbours, at eardly, at caversham, and at the bishop's palace, that he either had become or was becoming a roman catholic, under the priest's influence. mrs. yeld had even taken upon herself to write to him a most affectionate letter, in which she said very little as to any evidence that had reached her as to roger's defection, but dilated at very great length on the abominations of a certain lady who is supposed to indulge in gorgeous colours. he was troubled, too, about old daniel ruggles, the farmer at sheep's acre, who had been so angry because his niece would not marry john crumb. old ruggles, when abandoned by ruby and accused by his neighbours of personal cruelty to the girl, had taken freely to that source of consolation which he found to be most easily within his reach. since ruby had gone he had been drunk every day, and was making himself generally a scandal and a nuisance. his landlord had interfered with his usual kindness, and the old man had always declared that his niece and john crumb were the cause of it all; for now, in his maudlin misery, he attributed as much blame to the lover as he did to the girl. john crumb wasn't in earnest. if he had been in earnest he would have gone after her to london at once. no;--he wouldn't invite ruby to come back. if ruby would come back, repentant, full of sorrow,--and hadn't been and made a fool of herself in the meantime,--then he'd think of taking her back. in the meantime, with circumstances in their present condition, he evidently thought that he could best face the difficulties of the world by an unfaltering adhesion to gin, early in the day and all day long. this, too, was a grievance to roger carbury. but he did not neglect his work, the chief of which at the present moment was the care of the farm which he kept in his own hands. he was making hay at this time in certain meadows down by the river side; and was standing by while the men were loading a cart, when he saw john crumb approaching across the field. he had not seen john since the eventful journey to london; nor had he seen him in london; but he knew well all that had occurred,--how the dealer in pollard had thrashed his cousin, sir felix, how he had been locked up by the police and then liberated,--and how he was now regarded in bungay as a hero, as far as arms were concerned, but as being very "soft" in the matter of love. the reader need hardly be told that roger was not at all disposed to quarrel with mr. crumb, because the victim of crumb's heroism had been his own cousin. crumb had acted well, and had never said a word about sir felix since his return to the country. no doubt he had now come to talk about his love,--and in order that his confessions might not be made before all the assembled haymakers, roger carbury hurried to meet him. there was soon evident on crumb's broad face a whole sunshine of delight. as roger approached him he began to laugh aloud, and to wave a bit of paper that he had in his hands. "she's a coomin; she's a coomin," were the first words he uttered. roger knew very well that in his friend's mind there was but one "she" in the world, and that the name of that she was ruby ruggles. [illustration: "she's a coomin; she's a coomin."] "i am delighted to hear it," said roger. "she has made it up with her grandfather?" "don't know now't about grandfeyther. she have made it up wi' me. know'd she would when i'd polish'd t'other un off a bit;--know'd she would." "has she written to you, then?" "well, squoire,--she ain't; not just herself. i do suppose that isn't the way they does it. but it's all as one." and then mr. crumb thrust mrs. hurtle's note into roger carbury's hand. roger certainly was not predisposed to think well or kindly of mrs. hurtle. since he had first known mrs. hurtle's name, when paul montague had told the story of his engagement on his return from america, roger had regarded her as a wicked, intriguing, bad woman. it may, perhaps, be confessed that he was prejudiced against all americans, looking upon washington much as he did upon jack cade or wat tyler; and he pictured to himself all american women as being loud, masculine, and atheistical. but it certainly did seem that in this instance mrs. hurtle was endeavouring to do a good turn from pure charity. "she is a lady," crumb began to explain, "who do be living with mrs. pipkin; and she is a lady as is a lady." roger could not fully admit the truth of this assertion; but he explained that he, too, knew something of mrs. hurtle, and that he thought it probable that what she said of ruby might be true. "true, squoire!" said crumb, laughing with his whole face. "i ha' nae a doubt it's true. what's again its being true? when i had dropped into t'other fellow, of course she made her choice. it was me as was to blame, because i didn't do it before. i ought to ha' dropped into him when i first heard as he was arter her. it's that as girls like. so, squoire, i'm just going again to lon'on right away." roger suggested that old ruggles would, of course, receive his niece; but as to this john expressed his supreme indifference. the old man was nothing to him. of course he would like to have the old man's money; but the old man couldn't live for ever, and he supposed that things would come right in time. but this he knew,--that he wasn't going to cringe to the old man about his money. when roger observed that it would be better that ruby should have some home to which she might at once return, john adverted with a renewed grin to all the substantial comforts of his own house. it seemed to be his idea, that on arriving in london he would at once take ruby away to church and be married to her out of hand. he had thrashed his rival, and what cause could there now be for delay? but before he left the field he made one other speech to the squire. "you ain't a'taken it amiss, squoire, 'cause he was coosin to yourself?" "not in the least, mr. crumb." "that's koind now. i ain't a done the yong man a ha'porth o' harm, and i don't feel no grudge again him, and when me and ruby's once spliced, i'm darned if i don't give 'un a bottle of wine the first day as he'll come to bungay." roger did not feel himself justified in accepting this invitation on the part of sir felix; but he renewed his assurance that he, on his own part, thought that crumb had behaved well in that matter of the street encounter, and he expressed a strong wish for the immediate and continued happiness of mr. and mrs. john crumb. "oh, ay, we'll be 'appy, squoire," said crumb as he went exulting out of the field. on the day after this roger carbury received a letter which disturbed him very much, and to which he hardly knew whether to return any answer, or what answer. it was from paul montague, and was written by him but a few hours after he had left his letter for hetta with his own hands, at the door of her mother's house. paul's letter to roger was as follows:-- my dear roger,-- though i know that you have cast me off from you i cannot write to you in any other way, as any other way would be untrue. you can answer me, of course, as you please, but i do think that you will owe me an answer, as i appeal to you in the name of justice. you know what has taken place between hetta and myself. she had accepted me, and therefore i am justified in feeling sure that she must have loved me. but she has now quarrelled with me altogether, and has told me that i am never to see her again. of course i don't mean to put up with this. who would? you will say that it is no business of yours. but i think that you would not wish that she should be left under a false impression, if you could put her right. somebody has told her the story of mrs. hurtle. i suppose it was felix, and that he had learned it from those people at islington. but she has been told that which is untrue. nobody knows and nobody can know the truth as you do. she supposes that i have willingly been passing my time with mrs. hurtle during the last two months, although during that very time i have asked for and have received the assurance of her love. now, whether or no i have been to blame about mrs. hurtle,--as to which nothing at present need be said,--it is certainly the truth that her coming to england was not only not desired by me, but was felt by me to be the greatest possible misfortune. but after all that had passed i certainly owed it to her not to neglect her;--and this duty was the more incumbent on me as she was a foreigner and unknown to any one. i went down to lowestoft with her at her request, having named the place to her as one known to myself, and because i could not refuse her so small a favour. you know that it was so, and you know also, as no one else does, that whatever courtesy i have shown to mrs. hurtle in england, i have been constrained to show her. i appeal to you to let hetta know that this is true. she had made me understand that not only her mother and brother, but you also, are well acquainted with the story of my acquaintance with mrs. hurtle. neither lady carbury nor sir felix has ever known anything about it. you, and you only, have known the truth. and now, though at the present you are angry with me, i call upon you to tell hetta the truth as you know it. you will understand me when i say that i feel that i am being destroyed by a false representation. i think that you, who abhor a falsehood, will see the justice of setting me right, at any rate as far as the truth can do so. i do not want you to say a word for me beyond that. yours always, paul montague. what business is all that of mine? this, of course, was the first feeling produced in roger's mind by montague's letter. if hetta had received any false impression, it had not come from him. he had told no stories against his rival, whether true or false. he had been so scrupulous that he had refused to say a word at all. and if any false impression had been made on hetta's mind, either by circumstances or by untrue words, had not montague deserved any evil that might fall upon him? though every word in montague's letter might be true, nevertheless, in the end, no more than justice would be done him, even should he be robbed at last of his mistress under erroneous impressions. the fact that he had once disgraced himself by offering to make mrs. hurtle his wife, rendered him unworthy of hetta carbury. such, at least, was roger carbury's verdict as he thought over all the circumstances. at any rate, it was no business of his to correct these wrong impressions. and yet he was ill at ease as he thought of it all. he did believe that every word in montague's letter was true. though he had been very indignant when he met paul and mrs. hurtle together on the sands at lowestoft, he was perfectly convinced that the cause of their coming there had been precisely that which montague had stated. it took him two days to think over all this, two days of great discomfort and unhappiness. after all, why should he be a dog in the manger? the girl did not care for him,--looked upon him as an old man to be regarded in a fashion altogether different from that in which she regarded paul montague. he had let his time for love-making go by, and now it behoved him, as a man, to take the world as he found it, and not to lose himself in regrets for a kind of happiness which he could never attain. in such an emergency as this he should do what was fair and honest, without reference to his own feelings. and yet the passion which dominated john crumb altogether, which made the mealman so intent on the attainment of his object as to render all other things indifferent to him for the time, was equally strong with roger carbury. unfortunately for roger, strong as his passion was, it was embarrassed by other feelings. it never occurred to crumb to think whether he was a fit husband for ruby, or whether ruby, having a decided preference for another man, could be a fit wife for him. but with roger there were a thousand surrounding difficulties to hamper him. john crumb never doubted for a moment what he should do. he had to get the girl, if possible, and he meant to get her whatever she might cost him. he was always confident though sometimes perplexed. but roger had no confidence. he knew that he should never win the game. in his sadder moments he felt that he ought not to win it. the people around him, from old fashion, still called him the young squire! why;--he felt himself at times to be eighty years old,--so old that he was unfitted for intercourse with such juvenile spirits as those of his neighbour the bishop, and of his friend hepworth. could he, by any training, bring himself to take her happiness in hand, altogether sacrificing his own? in such a mood as this he did at last answer his enemy's letter,--and he answered it as follows:-- i do not know that i am concerned to meddle in your affairs at all. i have told no tale against you, and i do not know that i have any that i wish to tell in your favour, or that i could so tell if i did wish. i think that you have behaved badly to me, cruelly to mrs. hurtle, and disrespectfully to my cousin. nevertheless, as you appeal to me on a certain point for evidence which i can give, and which you say no one else can give, i do acknowledge that, in my opinion, mrs. hurtle's presence in england has not been in accordance with your wishes, and that you accompanied her to lowestoft, not as her lover but as an old friend whom you could not neglect. roger carbury. paul montague, esq. you are at liberty to show this letter to miss carbury, if you please; but if she reads part she should read the whole! there was more perhaps of hostility in this letter than of that spirit of self-sacrifice to which roger intended to train himself; and so he himself felt after the letter had been dispatched. chapter lxxxviii. the inquest. melmotte had been found dead on friday morning, and late on the evening of the same day madame melmotte and marie were removed to lodgings far away from the scene of the tragedy, up at hampstead. herr croll had known of the place, and at lord nidderdale's instance had busied himself in the matter, and had seen that the rooms were made instantly ready for the widow of his late employer. nidderdale himself had assisted them in their departure; and the german, with the poor woman's maid, with the jewels also, which had been packed according to melmotte's last orders to his wife, followed the carriage which took the mother and the daughter. they did not start till nine o'clock in the evening, and madame melmotte at the moment would fain have been allowed to rest one other night in bruton street. but lord nidderdale, with one hardly uttered word, made marie understand that the inquest would be held early on the following morning, and marie was imperious with her mother and carried her point. so the poor woman was taken away from mr. longestaffe's residence, and never again saw the grandeur of her own house in grosvenor square, which she had not visited since the night on which she had helped to entertain the emperor of china. on saturday morning the inquest was held. there was not the slightest doubt as to any one of the incidents of the catastrophe. the servants, the doctor, and the inspector of police between them, learned that he had come home alone, that nobody had been near him during the night, that he had been found dead, and that he had undoubtedly been poisoned by prussic acid. it was also proved that he had been drunk in the house of commons, a fact to which one of the clerks of the house, very much against his will, was called upon to testify. that he had destroyed himself there was no doubt,--nor was there any doubt as to the cause. in such cases as this it is for the jury to say whether the unfortunate one who has found his life too hard for endurance, and has rushed away to see whether he could not find an improved condition of things elsewhere, has or has not been mad at the moment. surviving friends are of course anxious for a verdict of insanity, as in that case no further punishment is exacted. the body can be buried like any other body, and it can always be said afterwards that the poor man was mad. perhaps it would be well that all suicides should be said to have been mad, for certainly the jurymen are not generally guided in their verdicts by any accurately ascertained facts. if the poor wretch has, up to his last days, been apparently living a decent life; if he be not hated, or has not in his last moments made himself specially obnoxious to the world at large, then he is declared to have been mad. who would be heavy on a poor clergyman who has been at last driven by horrid doubts to rid himself of a difficulty from which he saw no escape in any other way? who would not give the benefit of the doubt to the poor woman whose lover and lord had deserted her? who would remit to unhallowed earth the body of the once beneficent philosopher who has simply thought that he might as well go now, finding himself powerless to do further good upon earth? such, and such like, have of course been temporarily insane, though no touch even of strangeness may have marked their conduct up to their last known dealings with their fellow-mortals. but let a melmotte be found dead, with a bottle of prussic acid by his side--a man who has become horrid to the world because of his late iniquities, a man who has so well pretended to be rich that he has been able to buy and to sell properties without paying for them, a wretch who has made himself odious by his ruin to friends who had taken him up as a pillar of strength in regard to wealth, a brute who had got into the house of commons by false pretences, and had disgraced the house by being drunk there,--and, of course, he will not be saved by a verdict of insanity from the cross roads, or whatever scornful grave may be allowed to those who have killed themselves, with their wits about them. just at this moment there was a very strong feeling against melmotte, owing perhaps as much to his having tumbled over poor mr. beauclerk in the house of commons as to the stories of the forgeries he had committed, and the virtue of the day vindicated itself by declaring him to have been responsible for his actions when he took the poison. he was _felo de se_, and therefore carried away to the cross roads--or elsewhere. but it may be imagined, i think, that during that night he may have become as mad as any other wretch, have been driven as far beyond his powers of endurance as any other poor creature who ever at any time felt himself constrained to go. he had not been so drunk but that he knew all that happened, and could foresee pretty well what would happen. the summons to attend upon the lord mayor had been served upon him. there were some, among them croll and mr. brehgert, who absolutely knew that he had committed forgery. he had no money for the longestaffes, and he was well aware what squercum would do at once. he had assured himself long ago,--he had assured himself indeed not very long ago,--that he would brave it all like a man. but we none of us know what load we can bear, and what would break our backs. melmotte's back had been so utterly crushed that i almost think that he was mad enough to have justified a verdict of temporary insanity. but he was carried away, no one knew whither, and for a week his name was hateful. but after that, a certain amount of whitewashing took place, and, in some degree, a restitution of fame was made to the manes of the departed. in westminster he was always odious. westminster, which had adopted him, never forgave him. but in other districts it came to be said of him that he had been more sinned against than sinning; and that, but for the jealousy of the old stagers in the mercantile world, he would have done very wonderful things. marylebone, which is always merciful, took him up quite with affection, and would have returned his ghost to parliament could his ghost have paid for committee rooms. finsbury delighted for a while to talk of the great financier, and even chelsea thought that he had been done to death by ungenerous tongues. it was, however, marylebone alone that spoke of a monument. mr. longestaffe came back to his house, taking formal possession of it a few days after the verdict. of course he was alone. there had been no further question of bringing the ladies of the family up to town; and dolly altogether declined to share with his father the honour of encountering the dead man's spirit. but there was very much for mr. longestaffe to do, and very much also for his son. it was becoming a question with both of them how far they had been ruined by their connection with the horrible man. it was clear that they could not get back the title-deeds of the pickering property without paying the amount which had been advanced upon them, and it was equally clear that they could not pay that sum unless they were enabled to do so by funds coming out of the melmotte estate. dolly, as he sat smoking upon the stool in mr. squercum's office, where he now passed a considerable portion of his time, looked upon himself as a miracle of ill-usage. "by george, you know, i shall have to go to law with the governor. there's nothing else for it; is there, squercum?" squercum suggested that they had better wait till they found what pickings there might be out of the melmotte estate. he had made inquiries too about that, and had been assured that there must be property, but property so involved and tied up as to make it impossible to lay hands upon it suddenly. "they say that the things in the square, and the plate, and the carriages and horses, and all that, ought to fetch between twenty and thirty thousand. there were a lot of jewels, but the women have taken them," said squercum. "by george, they ought to be made to give up everything. did you ever hear of such a thing;--the very house pulled down;--my house; and all done without a word from me in the matter? i don't suppose such a thing was ever known before, since properties were properties." then he uttered sundry threats against the bideawhiles, in reference to whom he declared his intention of "making it very hot for them." it was an annoyance added to the elder mr. longestaffe that the management of melmotte's affairs fell at last almost exclusively into the hands of mr. brehgert. now brehgert, in spite of his many dealings with melmotte, was an honest man, and, which was perhaps of as much immediate consequence, both an energetic and a patient man. but then he was the man who had wanted to marry georgiana longestaffe, and he was the man to whom mr. longestaffe had been particularly uncivil. then there arose necessities for the presence of mr. brehgert in the house in which melmotte had lately lived and had died. the dead man's papers were still there,--deeds, documents, and such letters as he had not chosen to destroy;--and these could not be removed quite at once. "mr. brehgert must of course have access to my private room, as long as it is necessary,--absolutely necessary," said mr. longestaffe in answer to a message which was brought to him; "but he will of course see the expediency of relieving me from such intrusion as soon as possible." but he soon found it preferable to come to terms with the rejected suitor, especially as the man was singularly good-natured and forbearing after the injuries he had received. all minor debts were to be paid at once; an arrangement to which mr. longestaffe cordially agreed, as it included a sum of £ due to him for the rent of his house in bruton street. then by degrees it became known that there would certainly be a dividend of not less than fifty per cent. payable on debts which could be proved to have been owing by melmotte, and perhaps of more;--an arrangement which was very comfortable to dolly, as it had been already agreed between all the parties interested that the debt due to him should be satisfied before the father took anything. mr. longestaffe resolved during these weeks that he remained in town that, as regarded himself and his own family, the house in london should not only not be kept up, but that it should be absolutely sold, with all its belongings, and that the servants at caversham should be reduced in number, and should cease to wear powder. all this was communicated to lady pomona in a very long letter, which she was instructed to read to her daughters. "i have suffered great wrongs," said mr. longestaffe, "but i must submit to them, and as i submit so must my wife and children. if our son were different from what he is the sacrifice might probably be made lighter. his nature i cannot alter, but from my daughters i expect cheerful obedience." from what incidents of his past life he was led to expect cheerfulness at caversham it might be difficult to say; but the obedience was there. georgey was for the time broken down; sophia was satisfied with her nuptial prospects, and lady pomona had certainly no spirits left for a combat. i think the loss of the hair-powder afflicted her most; but she said not a word even about that. but in all this the details necessary for the telling of our story are anticipated. mr. longestaffe had remained in london actually over the st of september, which in suffolk is the one great festival of the year, before the letter was written to which allusion has been made. in the meantime he saw much of mr. brehgert, and absolutely formed a kind of friendship for that gentleman, in spite of the abomination of his religion,--so that on one occasion he even condescended to ask mr. brehgert to dine alone with him in bruton street. this, too, was in the early days of the arrangement of the melmotte affairs, when mr. longestaffe's heart had been softened by that arrangement with reference to the rent. mr. brehgert came, and there arose a somewhat singular conversation between the two gentlemen as they sat together over a bottle of mr. longestaffe's old port wine. hitherto not a word had passed between them respecting the connection which had once been proposed, since the day on which the young lady's father had said so many bitter things to the expectant bridegroom. but in this evening mr. brehgert, who was by no means a coward in such matters and whose feelings were not perhaps painfully fine, spoke his mind in a way that at first startled mr. longestaffe. the subject was introduced by a reference which brehgert had made to his own affairs. his loss would be, at any rate, double that which mr. longestaffe would have to bear;--but he spoke of it in an easy way, as though it did not sit very near his heart. "of course there's a difference between me and you," he said. mr. longestaffe bowed his head graciously, as much as to say that there was of course a very wide difference. "in our affairs," continued brehgert, "we expect gains, and of course look for occasional losses. when a gentleman in your position sells a property he expects to get the purchase-money." "of course he does, mr. brehgert. that's what made it so hard." "i can't even yet quite understand how it was with him, or why he took upon himself to spend such an enormous deal of money here in london. his business was quite irregular, but there was very much of it, and some of it immensely profitable. he took us in completely." "i suppose so." "it was old mr. todd that first took to him;--but i was deceived as much as todd, and then i ventured on a speculation with him outside of our house. the long and the short of it is that i shall lose something about sixty thousand pounds." "that's a large sum of money." "very large;--so large as to affect my daily mode of life. in my correspondence with your daughter, i considered it to be my duty to point out to her that it would be so. i do not know whether she told you." this reference to his daughter for the moment altogether upset mr. longestaffe. the reference was certainly most indelicate, most deserving of censure; but mr. longestaffe did not know how to pronounce his censure on the spur of the moment, and was moreover at the present time so very anxious for brehgert's assistance in the arrangement of his affairs that, so to say, he could not afford to quarrel with the man. but he assumed something more than his normal dignity as he asserted that his daughter had never mentioned the fact. "it was so," said brehgert. "no doubt;"--and mr. longestaffe assumed a great deal of dignity. "yes; it was so. i had promised your daughter when she was good enough to listen to the proposition which i made to her, that i would maintain a second house when we should be married." "it was impossible," said mr. longestaffe,--meaning to assert that such hymeneals were altogether unnatural and out of the question. "it would have been quite possible as things were when that proposition was made. but looking forward to the loss which i afterwards anticipated from the affairs of our deceased friend, i found it to be prudent to relinquish my intention for the present, and i thought myself bound to inform miss longestaffe." "there were other reasons," muttered mr. longestaffe, in a suppressed voice, almost in a whisper,--in a whisper which was intended to convey a sense of present horror and a desire for future reticence. "there may have been; but in the last letter which miss longestaffe did me the honour to write to me,--a letter with which i have not the slightest right to find any fault,--she seemed to me to confine herself almost exclusively to that reason." "why mention this now, mr. brehgert; why mention this now? the subject is painful." "just because it is not painful to me, mr. longestaffe; and because i wish that all they who have heard of the matter should know that it is not painful. i think that throughout i behaved like a gentleman." mr. longestaffe, in an agony, first shook his head twice, and then bowed it three times, leaving the jew to take what answer he could from so dubious an oracle. "i am sure," continued brehgert, "that i behaved like an honest man; and i didn't quite like that the matter should be passed over as if i was in any way ashamed of myself." "perhaps on so delicate a subject the less said the soonest mended." "i've nothing more to say, and i've nothing at all to mend." finishing the conversation with this little speech brehgert arose to take his leave, making some promise at the time that he would use all the expedition in his power to complete the arrangement of the melmotte affairs. as soon as he was gone mr. longestaffe opened the door and walked about the room and blew out long puffs of breath, as though to cleanse himself from the impurities of his late contact. he told himself that he could not touch pitch and not be defiled! how vulgar had the man been, how indelicate, how regardless of all feeling, how little grateful for the honour which mr. longestaffe had conferred upon him by asking him to dinner! yes;--yes! a horrid jew! were not all jews necessarily an abomination? yet mr. longestaffe was aware that in the present crisis of his fortunes he could not afford to quarrel with mr. brehgert. chapter lxxxix. "the wheel of fortune." it was a long time now since lady carbury's great historical work on the criminal queens of the world had been completed and given to the world. any reader careful as to dates will remember that it was as far back as in february that she had solicited the assistance of certain of her literary friends who were connected with the daily and weekly press. these gentlemen had responded to her call with more or less zealous aid, so that the "criminal queens" had been regarded in the trade as one of the successful books of the season. messrs. leadham and loiter had published a second, and then, very quickly, a fourth and fifth edition; and had been able in their advertisements to give testimony from various criticisms showing that lady carbury's book was about the greatest historical work which had emanated from the press in the present century. with this object a passage was extracted even from the columns of the "evening pulpit,"--which showed very great ingenuity on the part of some young man connected with the establishment of messrs. leadham and loiter. lady carbury had suffered something in the struggle. what efforts can mortals make as to which there will not be some disappointment? paper and print cannot be had for nothing, and advertisements are very costly. an edition may be sold with startling rapidity, but it may have been but a scanty edition. when lady carbury received from messrs. leadham and loiter their second very moderate cheque, with the expression of a fear on their part that there would not probably be a third,--unless some unforeseen demand should arise,--she repeated to herself those well-known lines from the satirist,-- "oh, amos cottle, for a moment think what meagre profits spread from pen and ink." but not on that account did she for a moment hesitate as to further attempts. indeed she had hardly completed the last chapter of her "criminal queens" before she was busy on another work; and although the last six months had been to her a period of incessant trouble, and sometimes of torture, though the conduct of her son had more than once forced her to declare to herself that her mind would fail her, still she had persevered. from day to day, with all her cares heavy upon her, she had sat at her work, with a firm resolve that so many lines should be always forthcoming, let the difficulty of making them be what it might. messrs. leadham and loiter had thought that they might be justified in offering her certain terms for a novel,--terms not very high indeed, and those contingent on the approval of the manuscript by their reader. the smallness of the sum offered, and the want of certainty, and the pain of the work in her present circumstances, had all been felt by her to be very hard. but she had persevered, and the novel was now complete. it cannot with truth be said of her that she had had any special tale to tell. she had taken to the writing of a novel because mr. loiter had told her that upon the whole novels did better than anything else. she would have written a volume of sermons on the same encouragement, and have gone about the work exactly after the same fashion. the length of her novel had been her first question. it must be in three volumes, and each volume must have three hundred pages. but what fewest number of words might be supposed sufficient to fill a page? the money offered was too trifling to allow of very liberal measure on her part. she had to live, and if possible to write another novel,--and, as she hoped, upon better terms,--when this should be finished. then what should be the name of her novel; what the name of her hero; and above all what the name of her heroine? it must be a love story of course; but she thought that she would leave the complications of the plot to come by chance,--and they did come. "don't let it end unhappily, lady carbury," mr. loiter had said, "because though people like it in a play, they hate it in a book. and whatever you do, lady carbury, don't be historical. your historical novel, lady carbury, isn't worth a--" mr. loiter stopping himself suddenly, and remembering that he was addressing himself to a lady, satisfied his energy at last by the use of the word "straw." lady carbury had followed these instructions with accuracy. the name for the story had been the great thing. it did not occur to the authoress that, as the plot was to be allowed to develop itself and was, at this moment when she was perplexed as to the title, altogether uncreated, she might as well wait to see what appellation might best suit her work when its purpose should have declared itself. a novel, she knew well, was most unlike a rose, which by any other name will smell as sweet. "the faultless father," "the mysterious mother," "the lame lover,"--such names as that she was aware would be useless now. "mary jane walker," if she could be very simple, would do, or "blanche de veau," if she were able to maintain throughout a somewhat high-stilted style of feminine rapture. but as she considered that she could best deal with rapid action and strange coincidences, she thought that something more startling and descriptive would better suit her purpose. after an hour's thought a name did occur to her, and she wrote it down, and with considerable energy of purpose framed her work in accordance with her chosen title, "the wheel of fortune!" she had no particular fortune in her mind when she chose it, and no particular wheel;--but the very idea conveyed by the words gave her the plot which she wanted. a young lady was blessed with great wealth, and lost it all by an uncle, and got it all back by an honest lawyer, and gave it all up to a distressed lover, and found it all again in the third volume. and the lady's name was cordinga, selected by lady carbury as never having been heard before either in the world of fact or in that of fiction. and now with all her troubles thick about her,--while her son was still hanging about the house in a condition that would break any mother's heart, while her daughter was so wretched and sore that she regarded all those around her as her enemies, lady carbury finished her work, and having just written the last words in which the final glow of enduring happiness was given to the young married heroine whose wheel had now come full round, sat with the sheets piled at her right hand. she had allowed herself a certain number of weeks for the task, and had completed it exactly in the time fixed. as she sat with her hand near the pile, she did give herself credit for her diligence. whether the work might have been better done she never asked herself. i do not think that she prided herself much on the literary merit of the tale. but if she could bring the papers to praise it, if she could induce mudie to circulate it, if she could manage that the air for a month should be so loaded with "the wheel of fortune," as to make it necessary for the reading world to have read or to have said that it had read the book,--then she would pride herself very much upon her work. as she was so sitting on a sunday afternoon, in her own room, mr. alf was announced. according to her habit, she expressed warm delight at seeing him. nothing could be kinder than such a visit just at such a time,--when there was so very much to occupy such a one as mr. alf! mr. alf, in his usual mildly satirical way, declared that he was not peculiarly occupied just at present. "the emperor has left europe at last," he said. "poor melmotte poisoned himself on friday, and the inquest sat yesterday. i don't know that there is anything of interest to-day." of course lady carbury was intent upon her book, rather even than on the exciting death of a man whom she had herself known. oh, if she could only get mr. alf! she had tried it before, and had failed lamentably. she was well aware of that; and she had a deep-seated conviction that it would be almost impossible to get mr. alf. but then she had another deep-seated conviction, that that which is almost impossible may possibly be done. how great would be the glory, how infinite the service! and did it not seem as though providence had blessed her with this special opportunity, sending mr. alf to her just at the one moment at which she might introduce the subject of her novel without seeming premeditation? "i am so tired," she said, affecting to throw herself back as though stretching her arms out for ease. "i hope i am not adding to your fatigue," said mr. alf. "oh dear no. it is not the fatigue of the moment, but of the last six months. just as you knocked at the door, i had finished the novel at which i have been working, oh, with such diligence!" "oh,--a novel! when is it to appear, lady carbury?" "you must ask leadham and loiter that question. i have done my part of the work. i suppose you never wrote a novel, mr. alf?" "i? oh dear no; i never write anything." "i have sometimes wondered whether i have hated or loved it the most. one becomes so absorbed in one's plot and one's characters! one loves the loveable so intensely, and hates with such fixed aversion those who are intended to be hated. when the mind is attuned to it, one is tempted to think that it is all so good. one cries at one's own pathos, laughs at one's own humour, and is lost in admiration at one's own sagacity and knowledge." "how very nice!" "but then there comes the reversed picture, the other side of the coin. on a sudden everything becomes flat, tedious, and unnatural. the heroine who was yesterday alive with the celestial spark is found to-day to be a lump of motionless clay. the dialogue that was so cheery on the first perusal is utterly uninteresting at a second reading. yesterday i was sure that there was my monument," and she put her hand upon the manuscript; "to-day i feel it to be only too heavy for a gravestone!" "one's judgment about one's-self always does vacillate," said mr. alf in a tone as phlegmatic as were the words. "and yet it is so important that one should be able to judge correctly of one's own work! i can at any rate trust myself to be honest, which is more perhaps than can be said of all the critics." "dishonesty is not the general fault of the critics, lady carbury,--at least not as far as i have observed the business. it is incapacity. in what little i have done in the matter, that is the sin which i have striven to conquer. when we want shoes we go to a professed shoemaker; but for criticism we have certainly not gone to professed critics. i think that when i gave up the 'evening pulpit,' i left upon it a staff of writers who are entitled to be regarded as knowing their business." "you given up the 'pulpit'? asked lady carbury with astonishment, readjusting her mind at once, so that she might perceive whether any and if so what advantage might be taken of mr. alf's new position. he was no longer editor, and therefore his heavy sense of responsibility would no longer exist;--but he must still have influence. might he not be persuaded to do one act of real friendship? might she not succeed if she would come down from her high seat, sink on the ground before him, tell him the plain truth, and beg for a favour as a poor struggling woman? "yes, lady carbury, i have given it up. it was a matter of course that i should do so when i stood for parliament. now that the new member has so suddenly vacated his seat, i shall probably stand again." "and you are no longer an editor?" "i have given it up, and i suppose i have now satisfied the scruples of those gentlemen who seemed to think that i was committing a crime against the constitution in attempting to get into parliament while i was managing a newspaper. i never heard such nonsense. of course i know where it came from." "where did it come from?" "where should it come from but the 'breakfast table'? broune and i have been very good friends, but i do think that of all the men i know he is the most jealous." "that is so little," said lady carbury. she was really very fond of mr. broune, but at the present moment she was obliged to humour mr. alf. "it seems to me that no man can be better qualified to sit in parliament than an editor of a newspaper,--that is if he is capable as an editor." "no one, i think, has ever doubted that of you." "the only question is whether he be strong enough for the double work. i have doubted about myself, and have therefore given up the paper. i almost regret it." "i dare say you do," said lady carbury, feeling intensely anxious to talk about her own affairs instead of his. "i suppose you still retain an interest in the paper?" "some pecuniary interest;--nothing more." "oh, mr. alf,--you could do me such a favour!" "can i? if i can, you may be sure i will." false-hearted, false-tongued man! of course he knew at the moment what was the favour lady carbury intended to ask, and of course he had made up his mind that he would not do as he was asked. "will you?" and lady carbury clasped her hands together as she poured forth the words of her prayer. "i never asked you to do anything for me as long as you were editing the paper. did i? i did not think it right, and i would not do it. i took my chance like others, and i am sure you must own that i bore what was said of me with a good grace. i never complained. did i?" "certainly not." "but now that you have left it yourself,--if you would have the 'wheel of fortune' done for me,--really well done!" "the 'wheel of fortune'!" "that is the name of my novel," said lady carbury, putting her hand softly upon the manuscript. "just at this moment it would be the making of a fortune for me! and, oh, mr. alf, if you could but know how i want such assistance!" "i have nothing further to do with the editorial management, lady carbury." "of course you could get it done. a word from you would make it certain. a novel is different from an historical work, you know. i have taken so much pains with it." "then no doubt it will be praised on its own merits." "don't say that, mr. alf. the 'evening pulpit' is like,--oh, it is like,--like,--like the throne of heaven! who can be justified before it? don't talk about its own merits, but say that you will have it done. it couldn't do any man any harm, and it would sell five hundred copies at once,--that is if it were done really con amore." mr. alf looked at her almost piteously, and shook his head. "the paper stands so high, it can't hurt it to do that kind of thing once. a woman is asking you, mr. alf. it is for my children that i am struggling. the thing is done every day of the week, with much less noble motives." "i do not think that it has ever been done by the 'evening pulpit.'" "i have seen books praised." "of course you have." "i think i saw a novel spoken highly of." mr. alf laughed. "why not? you do not suppose that it is the object of the 'pulpit' to cry down novels?" "i thought it was; but i thought you might make an exception here. i would be so thankful;--so grateful." "my dear lady carbury, pray believe me when i say that i have nothing to do with it. i need not preach to you sermons about literary virtue." "oh, no," she said, not quite understanding what he meant. "the sceptre has passed from my hands, and i need not vindicate the justice of my successor." "i shall never know your successor." "but i must assure you that on no account should i think of meddling with the literary arrangement of the paper. i would not do it for my sister." lady carbury looked greatly pained. "send the book out, and let it take its chance. how much prouder you will be to have it praised because it deserves praise, than to know that it has been eulogised as a mark of friendship." "no, i shan't," said lady carbury. "i don't believe that anything like real selling praise is ever given to anybody, except to friends. i don't know how they manage it, but they do." mr. alf shook his head. "oh yes; that is all very well from you. of course you have been a dragon of virtue; but they tell me that the authoress of the 'new cleopatra' is a very handsome woman." lady carbury must have been worried much beyond her wont, when she allowed herself so far to lose her temper as to bring against mr. alf the double charge of being too fond of the authoress in question, and of having sacrificed the justice of his columns to that improper affection. [illustration: "of course you have been a dragon of virtue."] "at this moment i do not remember the name of the lady to whom you allude," said mr. alf, getting up to take his leave; "and i am quite sure that the gentleman who reviewed the book,--if there be any such lady and any such book,--had never seen her!" and so mr. alf departed. lady carbury was very angry with herself, and very angry also with mr. alf. she had not only meant to be piteous, but had made the attempt and then had allowed herself to be carried away into anger. she had degraded herself to humility, and had then wasted any possible good result by a foolish fit of chagrin. the world in which she had to live was almost too hard for her. when left alone she sat weeping over her sorrows; but when from time to time she thought of mr. alf and his conduct, she could hardly repress her scorn. what lies he had told her! of course he could have done it had he chosen. but the assumed honesty of the man was infinitely worse to her than his lies. no doubt the "pulpit" had two objects in its criticisms. other papers probably had but one. the object common to all papers, that of helping friends and destroying enemies, of course prevailed with the "pulpit." there was the second purpose of enticing readers by crushing authors,--as crowds used to be enticed to see men hanged when executions were done in public. but neither the one object nor the other was compatible with that aristidean justice which mr. alf arrogated to himself and to his paper. she hoped with all her heart that mr. alf would spend a great deal of money at westminster, and then lose his seat. on the following morning she herself took the manuscript to messrs. leadham and loiter, and was hurt again by the small amount of respect which seemed to be paid to the collected sheets. there was the work of six months; her very blood and brains,--the concentrated essence of her mind,--as she would say herself when talking with energy of her own performances; and mr. leadham pitched it across to a clerk, apparently perhaps sixteen years of age, and the lad chucked the parcel unceremoniously under a counter. an author feels that his work should be taken from him with fast-clutching but reverential hands, and held thoughtfully, out of harm's way, till it be deposited within the very sanctum of an absolutely fireproof safe. oh, heavens, if it should be lost!--or burned!--or stolen! those scraps of paper, so easily destroyed, apparently so little respected, may hereafter be acknowledged to have had a value greater, so far greater, than their weight in gold! if "robinson crusoe" had been lost! if "tom jones" had been consumed by flames! and who knows but that this may be another "robinson crusoe,"--a better than "tom jones"? "will it be safe there?" asked lady carbury. "quite safe,--quite safe," said mr. leadham, who was rather busy, and who perhaps saw lady carbury more frequently than the nature and amount of her authorship seemed to him to require. "it seemed to be,--put down there,--under the counter!" "that's quite right, lady carbury. they're left there till they're packed." "packed!" "there are two or three dozen going to our reader this week. he's down in skye, and we keep them till there's enough to fill the sack." "do they go by post, mr. leadham?" "not by post, lady carbury. there are not many of them would pay the expense. we send them by long sea to glasgow, because just at this time of the year there is not much hurry. we can't publish before the winter." oh, heavens! if that ship should be lost on its journey by long sea to glasgow! that evening, as was now almost his daily habit, mr. broune came to her. there was something in the absolute friendship which now existed between lady carbury and the editor of the "morning breakfast table," which almost made her scrupulous as to asking from him any further literary favour. she fully recognised,--no woman perhaps more fully,--the necessity of making use of all aid and furtherance which might come within reach. with such a son, with such need for struggling before her, would she not be wicked not to catch even at every straw? but this man had now become so true to her, that she hardly knew how to beg him to do that which she, with all her mistaken feelings, did in truth know that he ought not to do. he had asked her to marry him, for which,--though she had refused him,--she felt infinitely grateful. and though she had refused him, he had lent her money, and had supported her in her misery by his continued counsel. if he would offer to do this thing for her she would accept his kindness on her knees,--but even she could not bring herself to ask to have this added to his other favours. her first word to him was about mr. alf. "so he has given up the paper?" "well, yes;--nominally." "is that all?" "i don't suppose he'll really let it go out of his own hands. nobody likes to lose power. he'll share the work, and keep the authority. as for westminster, i don't believe he has a chance. if that poor wretch melmotte could beat him when everybody was already talking about the forgeries, how is it likely that he should stand against such a candidate as they'll get now?" "he was here yesterday." "and full of triumph, i suppose?" "he never talks to me much of himself. we were speaking of my new book,--my novel. he assured me most positively that he had nothing further to do with the paper." "he did not care to make you a promise, i dare say." "that was just it. of course i did not believe him." "neither will i make a promise, but we'll see what we can do. if we can't be good-natured, at any rate we will say nothing ill-natured. let me see,--what is the name?" "'the wheel of fortune.'" lady carbury as she told the title of her new book to her old friend seemed to be almost ashamed of it. "let them send it early,--a day or two before it's out, if they can. i can't answer, of course, for the opinion of the gentleman it will go to, but nothing shall go in that you would dislike. good-bye. god bless you." and as he took her hand, he looked at her almost as though the old susceptibility were returning to him. as she sat alone after he had gone, thinking over it all,--thinking of her own circumstances and of his kindness,--it did not occur to her to call him an old goose again. she felt now that she had mistaken her man when she had so regarded him. that first and only kiss which he had given her, which she had treated with so much derision, for which she had rebuked him so mildly and yet so haughtily, had now a somewhat sacred spot in her memory. through it all the man must have really loved her! was it not marvellous that such a thing should be? and how had it come to pass that she in all her tenderness had rejected him when he had given her the chance of becoming his wife? chapter xc. hetta's sorrow. when hetta carbury received that letter from her lover which was given to the reader some chapters back, it certainly did not tend in any way to alleviate her misery. even when she had read it over half-a-dozen times, she could not bring herself to think it possible that she could be reconciled to the man. it was not only that he had sinned against her by giving his society to another woman to whom he had at any rate been engaged not long since, at the very time at which he was becoming engaged to her,--but also that he had done this in such a manner as to make his offence known to all her friends. perhaps she had been too quick;--but there was the fact that with her own consent she had acceded to her mother's demand that the man should be rejected. the man had been rejected, and even roger carbury knew that it was so. after this it was, she thought, impossible that she should recall him. but they should all know that her heart was unchanged. roger carbury should certainly know that, if he ever asked her further question on the matter. she would never deny it; and though she knew that the man had behaved badly,--having entangled himself with a nasty american woman,--yet she would be true to him as far as her own heart was concerned. and now he told her that she had been most unjust to him. he said that he could not understand her injustice. he did not fill his letter with entreaties, but with reproaches. and certainly his reproaches moved her more than any prayer would have done. it was too late now to remedy the evil; but she was not quite sure within her own bosom that she had not been unjust to him. the more she thought of it the more puzzled her mind became. had she quarrelled with him because he had once been in love with mrs. hurtle, or because she had grounds for regarding mrs. hurtle as her present rival? she hated mrs. hurtle, and she was very angry with him in that he had ever been on affectionate terms with a woman she hated;--but that had not been the reason put forward by her for quarrelling with him. perhaps it was true that he, too, had of late loved mrs. hurtle hardly better than she did herself. it might be that he had been indeed constrained by hard circumstances to go with the woman to lowestoft. having so gone with her, it was no doubt right that he should be rejected;--for how can it be that a man who is engaged shall be allowed to travel about the country with another woman to whom also he was engaged a few months back? but still there might be hardship in it. to her, to hetta herself, the circumstances were very hard. she loved the man with all her heart. she could look forward to no happiness in life without him. but yet it must be so. at the end of his letter he had told her to go to mrs. hurtle herself if she wanted corroboration of the story as told by him. of course he had known when he wrote it that she could not and would not go to mrs. hurtle. but when the letter had been in her possession three or four days,--unanswered, for, as a matter of course, no answer to it from herself was possible,--and had been read and re-read till she knew every word of it by heart, she began to think that if she could hear the story as it might be told by mrs. hurtle, a good deal that was now dark might become light to her. as she continued to read the letter, and to brood over it all, by degrees her anger was turned from her lover to her mother, her brother, and to her cousin roger. paul had of course behaved badly, very badly,--but had it not been for them she might have had an opportunity of forgiving him. they had driven her on to the declaration of a purpose from which she could now see no escape. there had been a plot against her, and she was a victim. in the first dismay and agony occasioned by that awful story of the american woman,--which had, at the moment, struck her with a horror which was now becoming less and less every hour,--she had fallen head foremost into the trap laid for her. she acknowledged to herself that it was too late to recover her ground. she was, at any rate, almost sure that it must be too late. but yet she was disposed to do battle with her mother and her cousin in the matter--if only with the object of showing that she would not submit her own feelings to their control. she was savage to the point of rebellion against all authority. roger carbury would of course think that any communication between herself and mrs. hurtle must be most improper,--altogether indelicate. two or three days ago she thought so herself. but the world was going so hard with her, that she was beginning to feel herself capable of throwing propriety and delicacy to the winds. this man whom she had once accepted, whom she altogether loved, and who, in spite of all his faults, certainly still loved her,--of that she was beginning to have no further doubt,--accused her of dishonesty, and referred her to her rival for a corroboration of his story. she would appeal to mrs. hurtle. the woman was odious, abominable, a nasty intriguing american female. but her lover desired that she should hear the woman's story; and she would hear the story,--if the woman would tell it. so resolving, she wrote as follows to mrs. hurtle, finding great difficulty in the composition of a letter which should tell neither too little nor too much, and determined that she would be restrained by no mock modesty, by no girlish fear of declaring the truth about herself. the letter at last was stiff and hard, but it sufficed for its purpose. madam,-- mr. paul montague has referred me to you as to certain circumstances which have taken place between him and you. it is right that i should tell you that i was a short time since engaged to marry him, but that i have found myself obliged to break off that engagement in consequence of what i have been told as to his acquaintance with you. i make this proposition to you, not thinking that anything you will say to me can change my mind, but because he has asked me to do so, and has, at the same time, accused me of injustice towards him. i do not wish to rest under an accusation of injustice from one to whom i was once warmly attached. if you will receive me, i will make it my business to call any afternoon you may name. yours truly, henrietta carbury. when the letter was written she was not only ashamed of it, but very much afraid of it also. what if the american woman should put it in a newspaper! she had heard that everything was put into newspapers in america. what if this mrs. hurtle should send back to her some horribly insolent answer;--or should send such answer to her mother, instead of herself! and then, again, if the american woman consented to receive her, would not the american woman, as a matter of course, trample upon her with rough words? once or twice she put the letter aside, and almost determined that it should not be sent;--but at last, with desperate fortitude, she took it out with her and posted it herself. she told no word of it to any one. her mother, she thought, had been cruel to her, had disregarded her feelings, and made her wretched for ever. she could not ask her mother for sympathy in her present distress. there was no friend who would sympathise with her. she must do everything alone. mrs. hurtle, it will be remembered, had at last determined that she would retire from the contest and own herself to have been worsted. it is, i fear, impossible to describe adequately the various half resolutions which she formed, and the changing phases of her mind before she brought herself to this conclusion. and soon after she had assured herself that this should be the conclusion,--after she had told paul montague that it should be so,--there came back upon her at times other half resolutions to a contrary effect. she had written a letter to the man threatening desperate revenge, and had then abstained from sending it, and had then shown it to the man,--not intending to give it to him as a letter upon which he would have to act, but only that she might ask him whether, had he received it, he would have said that he had not deserved it. then she had parted with him, refusing either to hear or to say a word of farewell, and had told mrs. pipkin that she was no longer engaged to be married. at that moment everything was done that could be done. the game had been played and the stakes lost,--and she had schooled herself into such restraint as to have abandoned all idea of vengeance. but from time to time there arose in her heart a feeling that such softness was unworthy of her. who had ever been soft to her? who had spared her? had she not long since found out that she must fight with her very nails and teeth for every inch of ground, if she did not mean to be trodden into the dust? had she not held her own among rough people after a very rough fashion, and should she now simply retire that she might weep in a corner like a love-sick schoolgirl? and she had been so stoutly determined that she would at any rate avenge her own wrongs, if she could not turn those wrongs into triumph! there were moments in which she thought that she could still seize the man by the throat, where all the world might see her, and dare him to deny that he was false, perjured, and mean. then she received a long passionate letter from paul montague, written at the same time as those other letters to roger carbury and hetta, in which he told her all the circumstances of his engagement to hetta carbury, and implored her to substantiate the truth of his own story. it was certainly marvellous to her that the man who had so long been her own lover and who had parted with her after such a fashion should write such a letter to her. but it had no tendency to increase either her anger or her sorrow. of course she had known that it was so, and at certain times she had told herself that it was only natural,--had almost told herself that it was right. she and this young englishman were not fit to be mated. he was to her thinking a tame, sleek household animal, whereas she knew herself to be wild,--fitter for the woods than for polished cities. it had been one of the faults of her life that she had allowed herself to be bound by tenderness of feeling to this soft over-civilised man. the result had been disastrous, as might have been expected. she was angry with him,--almost to the extent of tearing him to pieces,--but she did not become more angry because he wrote to her of her rival. her only present friend was mrs. pipkin, who treated her with the greatest deference, but who was never tired of asking questions about the lost lover. "that letter was from mr. montague?" said mrs. pipkin on the morning after it had been received. "how can you know that?" "i'm sure it was. one does get to know handwritings when letters come frequent." "it was from him. and why not?" "oh dear no;--why not certainly? i wish he'd write every day of his life, so that things would come round again. nothing ever troubles me so much as broken love. why don't he come again himself, mrs. hurtle?" "it is not at all likely that he should come again. it is all over, and there is no good in talking of it. i shall return to new york on saturday week." "oh, mrs. hurtle!" "i can't remain here, you know, all my life doing nothing. i came over here for a certain purpose, and that has--gone by. now i may just go back again." "i know he has ill-treated you. i know he has." "i am not disposed to talk about it, mrs. pipkin." "i should have thought it would have done you good to speak your mind out free. i know it would me if i'd been served in that way." "if i had anything to say at all after that fashion it would be to the gentleman, and not to any other else. as it is i shall never speak of it again to any one. you have been very kind to me, mrs. pipkin, and i shall be sorry to leave you." "oh, mrs. hurtle, you can't understand what it is to me. it isn't only my feelings. the likes of me can't stand by their feelings only, as their betters do. i've never been above telling you what a godsend you've been to me this summer;--have i? i've paid everything, butcher, baker, rates and all, just like clockwork. and now you're going away!" then mrs. pipkin began to sob. "i suppose i shall see mr. crumb before i go," said mrs. hurtle. "she don't deserve it; do she? and even now she never says a word about him that i call respectful. she looks on him as just being better than mrs. buggins's children. that's all." "she'll be all right when he has once got her home." "and i shall be all alone by myself," said mrs. pipkin, with her apron up to her eyes. it was after this that mrs. hurtle received hetta's letter. she had as yet returned no answer to paul montague,--nor had she intended to send any written answer. were she to comply with his request she could do so best by writing to the girl who was concerned rather than to him. and though she wrote no such letter she thought of it,--of the words she would use were she to write it, and of the tale which she would have to tell. she sat for hours thinking of it, trying to resolve whether she would tell the tale,--if she told it at all,--in a manner to suit paul's purpose, or so as to bring that purpose utterly to shipwreck. she did not doubt that she could cause the shipwreck were she so minded. she could certainly have her revenge after that fashion. but it was a woman's fashion, and, as such, did not recommend itself to mrs. hurtle's feelings. a pistol or a horsewhip, a violent seizing by the neck, with sharp taunts and bitter-ringing words, would have made the fitting revenge. if she abandoned that she could do herself no good by telling a story of her wrongs to another woman. then came hetta's note, so stiff, so cold, so true,--so like the letter of an englishwoman, as mrs. hurtle said to herself. mrs. hurtle smiled as she read the letter. "i make this proposition not thinking that anything you can say to me can change my mind." of course the girl's mind would be changed. the girl's mind, indeed, required no change. mrs. hurtle could see well enough that the girl's heart was set upon the man. nevertheless she did not doubt but that she could tell the story after such a fashion as to make it impossible that the girl should marry him,--if she chose to do so. at first she thought that she would not answer the letter at all. what was it to her? let them fight their own lovers' battles out after their own childish fashion. if the man meant at last to be honest, there could be no doubt, mrs. hurtle thought, that the girl would go to him. it would require no interference of hers. but after a while she thought that she might as well see this english chit who had superseded herself in the affections of the englishman she had condescended to love. and if it were the case that all revenge was to be abandoned, that no punishment was to be exacted in return for all the injury that had been done, why should she not say a kind word so as to smooth away the existing difficulties? wild cat as she was, kindness was more congenial to her nature than cruelty. so she wrote to hetta making an appointment. dear miss carbury,-- if you could make it convenient to yourself to call here either thursday or friday at any hour between two and four, i shall be very happy to see you. yours sincerely, winifrid hurtle. chapter xci. the rivals. during these days the intercourse between lady carbury and her daughter was constrained and far from pleasant. hetta, thinking that she was ill-used, kept herself aloof, and would not speak to her mother of herself or of her troubles. lady carbury watching her, but not daring to say much, was at last almost frightened at her girl's silence. she had assured herself, when she found that hetta was disposed to quarrel with her lover and to send him back his brooch, that "things would come round," that paul would be forgotten quickly,--or laid aside as though he were forgotten,--and that hetta would soon perceive it to be her interest to marry her cousin. with such a prospect before her, lady carbury thought it to be her duty as a mother to show no tendency to sympathise with her girl's sorrow. such heart-breakings were occurring daily in the world around them. who were the happy people that were driven neither by ambition, nor poverty, nor greed, nor the cross purposes of unhappy love, to stifle and trample upon their feelings? she had known no one so blessed. she had never been happy after that fashion. she herself had within the last few weeks refused to join her lot with that of a man she really liked, because her wicked son was so grievous a burden on her shoulders. a woman, she thought, if she were unfortunate enough to be a lady without wealth of her own, must give up everything, her body, her heart,--her very soul if she were that way troubled,--to the procuring of a fitting maintenance for herself. why should hetta hope to be more fortunate than others? and then the position which chance now offered to her was fortunate. this cousin of hers, who was so devoted to her, was in all respects good. he would not torture her by harsh restraint and cruel temper. he would not drink. he would not spend his money foolishly. he would allow her all the belongings of a fair, free life. lady carbury reiterated to herself the assertion that she was manifestly doing a mother's duty by her endeavours to constrain her girl to marry such a man. with a settled purpose she was severe and hard. but when she found how harsh her daughter could be in response to this,--how gloomy, how silent, and how severe in retaliation,--she was almost frightened at what she herself was doing. she had not known how stern and how enduring her daughter could be. "hetta," she said, "why don't you speak to me?" on this very day it was hetta's purpose to visit mrs. hurtle at islington. she had said no word of her intention to any one. she had chosen the friday because on that day she knew her mother would go in the afternoon to her publisher. there should be no deceit. immediately on her return she would tell her mother what she had done. but she considered herself to be emancipated from control. among them they had robbed her of her lover. she had submitted to the robbery, but she would submit to nothing else. "hetta, why don't you speak to me?" said lady carbury. "because, mamma, there is nothing we can talk about without making each other unhappy." "what a dreadful thing to say! is there no subject in the world to interest you except that wretched young man?" "none other at all," said hetta obstinately. "what folly it is,--i will not say only to speak like that, but to allow yourself to entertain such thoughts!" "how am i to control my thoughts? do you think, mamma, that after i had owned to you that i loved a man,--after i had owned it to him and, worst of all, to myself,--i could have myself separated from him, and then not think about it? it is a cloud upon everything. it is as though i had lost my eyesight and my speech. it is as it would be to you if felix were to die. it crushes me." there was an accusation in this allusion to her brother which the mother felt,--as she was intended to feel it,--but to which she could make no reply. it accused her of being too much concerned for her son to feel any real affection for her daughter. "you are ignorant of the world, hetta," she said. "i am having a lesson in it now, at any rate." "do you think it is worse than others have suffered before you? in what little you see around you do you think that girls are generally able to marry the men upon whom they set their hearts?" she paused, but hetta made no answer to this. "marie melmotte was as warmly attached to your brother as you can be to mr. montague." "marie melmotte!" "she thinks as much of her feelings as you do of yours. the truth is you are indulging a dream. you must wake from it, and shake yourself, and find out that you, like others, have got to do the best you can for yourself in order that you may live. the world at large has to eat dry bread, and cannot get cakes and sweetmeats. a girl, when she thinks of giving herself to a husband, has to remember this. if she has a fortune of her own she can pick and choose, but if she have none she must allow herself to be chosen." "then a girl is to marry without stopping even to think whether she likes the man or not?" "she should teach herself to like the man, if the marriage be suitable. i would not have you take a vicious man because he was rich, or one known to be cruel and imperious. your cousin roger, you know--" "mamma," said hetta, getting up from her seat, "you may as well believe me. no earthly inducement shall ever make me marry my cousin roger. it is to me horrible that you should propose it to me when you know that i love that other man with my whole heart." "how can you speak so of one who has treated you with the utmost contumely?" "i know nothing of any contumely. what reason have i to be offended because he has liked a woman whom he knew before he ever saw me? it has been unfortunate, wretched, miserable; but i do not know that i have any right whatever to be angry with mr. paul montague." having so spoken she walked out of the room without waiting for a further reply. it was all very sad to lady carbury. she perceived now that she had driven her daughter to pronounce an absolution of paul montague's sins, and that in this way she had lessened and loosened the barrier which she had striven to construct between them. but that which pained her most was the unrealistic, romantic view of life which pervaded all hetta's thoughts. how was any girl to live in this world who could not be taught the folly of such idle dreams? that afternoon hetta trusted herself all alone to the mysteries of the marylebone underground railway, and emerged with accuracy at king's cross. she had studied her geography, and she walked from thence to islington. she knew well the name of the street and the number at which mrs. hurtle lived. but when she reached the door she did not at first dare to stand and raise the knocker. she passed on to the end of the silent, vacant street, endeavouring to collect her thoughts, striving to find and to arrange the words with which she would commence her strange petition. and she endeavoured to dictate to herself some defined conduct should the woman be insolent to her. personally she was not a coward, but she doubted her power of replying to a rough speech. she could at any rate escape. should the worst come to the worst, the woman would hardly venture to impede her departure. having gone to the end of the street, she returned with a very quick step and knocked at the door. it was opened almost immediately by ruby ruggles, to whom she gave her name. "oh laws,--miss carbury!" said ruby, looking up into the stranger's face. "yes;--sure enough she must be felix's sister." but ruby did not dare to ask any question. she had admitted to all around her that sir felix should not be her lover any more, and that john crumb should be allowed to return. but, nevertheless, her heart twittered as she showed miss carbury up to the lodger's sitting-room. though it was midsummer hetta entered the room with her veil down. she adjusted it as she followed ruby up the stairs, moved by a sudden fear of her rival's scrutiny. mrs. hurtle rose from her chair and came forward to greet her visitor, putting out both her hands to do so. she was dressed with the most scrupulous care,--simply, and in black, without an ornament of any kind, without a ribbon or a chain or a flower. but with some woman's purpose at her heart she had so attired herself as to look her very best. was it that she thought that she would vindicate to her rival their joint lover's first choice, or that she was minded to teach the english girl that an american woman might have graces of her own? as she came forward she was gentle and soft in her movements, and a pleasant smile played round her mouth. hetta at the first moment was almost dumbfounded by her beauty,--by that and by her ease and exquisite self-possession. "miss carbury," she said with that low, rich voice which in old days had charmed paul almost as much as her loveliness, "i need not tell you how interested i am in seeing you. may i not ask you to lay aside your veil, so that we may look at each other fairly?" hetta, dumbfounded, not knowing how to speak a word, stood gazing at the woman when she had removed her veil. she had had no personal description of mrs. hurtle, but had expected something very different from this! she had thought that the woman would be coarse and big, with fine eyes and a bright colour. as it was they were both of the same complexion, both dark, with hair nearly black, with eyes of the same colour. hetta thought of all that at the moment,--but acknowledged to herself that she had no pretension to beauty such as that which this woman owned. "and so you have come to see me," said mrs. hurtle. "sit down so that i may look at you. i am glad that you have come to see me, miss carbury." [illustration: "sit down so that i may look at you."] "i am glad at any rate that you are not angry." "why should i be angry? had the idea been distasteful to me i should have declined. i know not why, but it is a sort of pleasure to me to see you. it is a poor time we women have,--is it not,--in becoming playthings to men? so this lothario that was once mine, is behaving badly to you also. is it so? he is no longer mine, and you may ask me freely for aid, if there be any that i can give you. if he were an american i should say that he had behaved badly to me;--but as he is an englishman perhaps it is different. now tell me;--what can i do, or what can i say?" "he told me that you could tell me the truth." "what truth? i will certainly tell you nothing that is not true. you have quarrelled with him too. is it not so?" "certainly i have quarrelled with him." "i am not curious;--but perhaps you had better tell me of that. i know him so well that i can guess that he should give offence. he can be full of youthful ardour one day, and cautious as old age itself the next. but i do not suppose that there has been need for such caution with you. what is it, miss carbury?" hetta found the telling of her story to be very difficult. "mrs. hurtle," she said, "i had never heard your name when he first asked me to be his wife." "i dare say not. why should he have told you anything of me?" "because,--oh, because--. surely he ought, if it is true that he had once promised to marry you." "that certainly is true." "and you were here, and i knew nothing of it. of course i should have been very different to him had i known that,--that,--that--" "that there was such a woman as winifrid hurtle interfering with him. then you heard it by chance, and you were offended. was it not so?" "and now he tells me that i have been unjust to him and he bids me ask you. i have not been unjust." "i am not so sure of that. shall i tell you what i think? i think that he has been unjust to me, and that therefore your injustice to him is no more than his due. i cannot plead for him, miss carbury. to me he has been the last and worst of a long series of, i think, undeserved misfortune. but whether you will avenge my wrongs must be for you to decide." "why did he go with you to lowestoft?" "because i asked him,--and because, like many men, he cannot be ill-natured although he can be cruel. he would have given a hand not to have gone, but he could not say me nay. as you have come here, miss carbury, you may as well know the truth. he did love me, but he had been talked out of his love by my enemies and his own friends long before he had ever seen you. i am almost ashamed to tell you my own part of the story, and yet i know not why i should be ashamed. i followed him here to england--because i loved him. i came after him, as perhaps a woman should not do, because i was true of heart. he had told me that he did not want me;--but i wanted to be wanted, and i hoped that i might lure him back to his troth. i have utterly failed, and i must return to my own country,--i will not say a broken-hearted woman, for i will not admit of such a condition,--but a creature with a broken spirit. he has misused me foully, and i have simply forgiven him; not because i am a christian, but because i am not strong enough to punish one that i still love. i could not put a dagger into him,--or i would; or a bullet,--or i would. he has reduced me to a nothing by his falseness, and yet i cannot injure him! i, who have sworn to myself that no man should ever lay a finger on me in scorn without feeling my wrath in return, i cannot punish him. but if you choose to do so it is not for me to set you against such an act of justice." then she paused and looked up to hetta as though expecting a reply. but hetta had no reply to make. all had been said that she had come to hear. every word that the woman had spoken had in truth been a comfort to her. she had told herself that her visit was to be made in order that she might be justified in her condemnation of her lover. she had believed that it was her intention to arm herself with proof that she had done right in rejecting him. now she was told that however false her lover might have been to this other woman he had been absolutely true to her. the woman had not spoken kindly of paul,--had seemed to intend to speak of him with the utmost severity; but she had so spoken as to acquit him of all sin against hetta. what was it to hetta that her lover had been false to this american stranger? it did not seem to her to be at all necessary that she should be angry with her lover on that head. mrs. hurtle had told her that she herself must decide whether she would take upon herself to avenge her rival's wrongs. in saying that mrs. hurtle had taught her to feel that there were no other wrongs which she need avenge. it was all done now. if she could only thank the woman for the pleasantness of her demeanour, and then go, she could, when alone, make up her mind as to what she would do next. she had not yet told herself she would submit herself again to paul montague. she had only told herself that, within her own breast, she was bound to forgive him. "you have been very kind," she said at last,--speaking only because it was necessary that she should say something. "it is well that there should be some kindness where there has been so much that is unkind. forgive me, miss carbury, if i speak plainly to you. of course you will go back to him. of course you will be his wife. you have told me that you love him dearly, as plainly as i have told you the same story of myself. your coming here would of itself have declared it, even if i did not see your satisfaction at my account of his treachery to me." "oh, mrs. hurtle, do not say that of me!" "but it is true, and i do not in the least quarrel with you on that account. he has preferred you to me, and as far as i am concerned there is an end of it. you are a girl, whereas i am a woman,--and he likes your youth. i have undergone the cruel roughness of the world, which has not as yet touched you; and therefore you are softer to the touch. i do not know that you are very superior in other attractions; but that has sufficed, and you are the victor. i am strong enough to acknowledge that i have nothing to forgive in you;--and am weak enough to forgive all his treachery." hetta was now holding the woman by the hand, and was weeping, she knew not why. "i am so glad to have seen you," continued mrs. hurtle, "so that i may know what his wife was like. in a few days i shall return to the states, and then neither of you will ever be troubled further by winifrid hurtle. tell him that if he will come and see me once before i go, i will not be more unkind to him than i can help." when hetta did not decline to be the bearer of this message she must have at any rate resolved that she would see paul montague again,--and to see him would be to tell him that she was again his own. she now got herself quickly out of the room, absolutely kissing the woman whom she had both dreaded and despised. as soon as she was alone in the street she tried to think of it all. how full of beauty was the face of that american female,--how rich and glorious her voice in spite of a slight taint of the well-known nasal twang;--and above all how powerful and at the same time how easy and how gracious was her manner! that she would be an unfit wife for paul montague was certain to hetta, but that he or any man should have loved her and have been loved by her, and then have been willing to part from her, was wonderful. and yet paul montague had preferred herself, hetta carbury, to this woman! paul had certainly done well for his own cause when he had referred the younger lady to the elder. of her own quarrel of course there must be an end. she had been unjust to the man, and injustice must of course be remedied by repentance and confession. as she walked quickly back to the railway station she brought herself to love her lover more fondly than she had ever done. he had been true to her from the first hour of their acquaintance. what truth higher than that has any woman a right to desire? no doubt she gave to him a virgin heart. no other man had ever touched her lips, or been allowed to press her hand, or to look into her eyes with unrebuked admiration. it was her pride to give herself to the man she loved after this fashion, pure and white as snow on which no foot has trodden. but in taking him, all that she wanted was that he should be true to her now and henceforward. the future must be her own work. as to the "now," she felt that mrs. hurtle had given her sufficient assurance. she must at once let her mother know this change in her mind. when she re-entered the house she was no longer sullen, no longer anxious to be silent, very willing to be gracious if she might be received with favour,--but quite determined that nothing should shake her purpose. she went at once into her mother's room, having heard from the boy at the door that lady carbury had returned. "hetta, wherever have you been?" asked lady carbury. "mamma," she said, "i mean to write to mr. montague and tell him that i have been unjust to him." "hetta, you must do nothing of the kind," said lady carbury, rising from her seat. "yes, mamma. i have been unjust, and i must do so." "it will be asking him to come back to you." "yes, mamma:--that is what i mean. i shall tell him that if he will come, i will receive him. i know he will come. oh, mamma, let us be friends, and i will tell you everything. why should you grudge me my love?" "you have sent him back his brooch," said lady carbury hoarsely. "he shall give it me again. hear what i have done. i have seen that american lady." "mrs. hurtle!" "yes;--i have been to her. she is a wonderful woman." "and she has told you wonderful lies." "why should she lie to me? she has told me no lies. she said nothing in his favour." "i can well believe that. what can any one say in his favour?" "but she told me that which has assured me that mr. montague has never behaved badly to me. i shall write to him at once. if you like i will show you the letter." "any letter to him, i will tear," said lady carbury, full of anger. "mamma, i have told you everything, but in this i must judge for myself." then hetta, seeing that her mother would not relent, left the room without further speech, and immediately opened her desk that the letter might be written. chapter xcii. hamilton k. fisker again. ten days had passed since the meeting narrated in the last chapter,--ten days, during which hetta's letter had been sent to her lover, but in which she had received no reply,--when two gentlemen met each other in a certain room in liverpool, who were seen together in the same room in the early part of this chronicle. these were our young friend paul montague, and our not much older friend hamilton k. fisker. melmotte had died on the th of july, and tidings of the event had been at once sent by telegraph to san francisco. some weeks before this montague had written to his partner, giving his account of the south central pacific and mexican railway company,--describing its condition in england as he then believed it to be,--and urging fisker to come over to london. on receipt of a message from his american correspondent he had gone down to liverpool, and had there awaited fisker's arrival, taking counsel with his friend mr. ramsbottom. in the mean time hetta's letter was lying at the beargarden, paul having written from his club and having omitted to desire that the answer should be sent to his lodgings. just at this moment things at the beargarden were not well managed. they were indeed so ill managed that paul never received that letter,--which would have had for him charms greater than those of any letter ever before written. "this is a terrible business," said fisker, immediately on entering the room in which montague was waiting him. "he was the last man i'd have thought would be cut up in that way." "he was utterly ruined." "he wouldn't have been ruined,--and couldn't have thought so if he'd known all he ought to have known. the south central would have pulled him through a'most anything if he'd have understood how to play it." "we don't think much of the south central here now," said paul. "ah;--that's because you've never above half spirit enough for a big thing. you nibble at it instead of swallowing it whole,--and then, of course, folks see that you're only nibbling. i thought that melmotte would have had spirit." "there is, i fear, no doubt that he had committed forgery. it was the dread of detection as to that which drove him to destroy himself." "i call it dam clumsy from beginning to end;--dam clumsy. i took him to be a different man, and i feel more than half ashamed of myself because i trusted such a fellow. that chap cohenlupe has got off with a lot of swag. only think of melmotte allowing cohenlupe to get the better of him!" "i suppose the thing will be broken up now at san francisco," suggested paul. "bu'st up at frisco! not if i know it. why should it be bu'st up? d'you think we're all going to smash there because a fool like melmotte blows his brains out in london?" "he took poison." "or p'ison either. that's not just our way. i'll tell you what i'm going to do; and why i'm over here so uncommon sharp. these shares are at a'most nothing now in london. i'll buy every share in the market. i wired for as many as i dar'd, so as not to spoil our own game, and i'll make a clean sweep of every one of them. bu'st up! i'm sorry for him because i thought him a biggish man;--but what he's done 'll just be the making of us over there. will you get out of it, or will you come back to frisco with me?" in answer to this paul asserted most strenuously that he would not return to san francisco, and, perhaps too ingenuously, gave his partner to understand that he was altogether sick of the great railway, and would under no circumstances have anything more to do with it. fisker shrugged his shoulders, and was not displeased at the proposed rupture. he was prepared to deal fairly,--nay, generously,--by his partner, having recognised the wisdom of that great commercial rule which teaches us that honour should prevail among associates of a certain class; but he had fully convinced himself that paul montague was not a fit partner for hamilton k. fisker. fisker was not only unscrupulous himself, but he had a thorough contempt for scruples in others. according to his theory of life, nine hundred and ninety-nine men were obscure because of their scruples, whilst the thousandth man predominated and cropped up into the splendour of commercial wealth because he was free from such bondage. he had his own theories, too, as to commercial honesty. that which he had promised to do he would do, if it was within his power. he was anxious that his bond should be good, and his word equally so. but the work of robbing mankind in gross by magnificently false representations, was not only the duty, but also the delight and the ambition of his life. how could a man so great endure a partnership with one so small as paul montague? "and now what about winifrid hurtle?" asked fisker. "what makes you ask? she's in london." "oh yes, i know she's in london, and hurtle's at frisco, swearing that he'll come after her. he would, only he hasn't got the dollars." "he's not dead then?" muttered paul. "dead!--no, nor likely to die. she'll have a bad time of it with him yet." "but she divorced him." "she got a kansas lawyer to say so, and he's got a frisco lawyer to say that there's nothing of the kind. she hasn't played her game badly neither, for she's had the handling of her own money, and has put it so that he can't get hold of a dollar. even if it suited other ways, you know, i wouldn't marry her myself till i saw my way clearer out of the wood." "i'm not thinking of marrying her,--if you mean that." "there was a talk about it in frisco;--that's all. and i have heard hurtle say when he was a little farther gone than usual that she was here with you, and that he meant to drop in on you some of these days." to this paul made no answer, thinking that he had now both heard enough and said enough about mrs. hurtle. on the following day the two men, who were still partners, went together to london, and fisker immediately became immersed in the arrangement of melmotte's affairs. he put himself into communication with mr. brehgert, went in and out of the offices in abchurch lane and the rooms which had belonged to the railway company, cross-examined croll, mastered the books of the company as far as they were to be mastered, and actually summoned both the grendalls, father and son, up to london. lord alfred, and miles with him, had left london a day or two before melmotte's death,--having probably perceived that there was no further occasion for their services. to fisker's appeal lord alfred was proudly indifferent. who was this american that he should call upon a director of the london company to appear? does not every one know that a director of a company need not direct unless he pleases? lord alfred, therefore, did not even condescend to answer fisker's letter;--but he advised his son to run up to town. "i should just go, because i'd taken a salary from the d---- company," said the careful father, "but when there i wouldn't say a word." so miles grendall, obeying his parent, reappeared upon the scene. but fisker's attention was perhaps most usefully and most sedulously paid to madame melmotte and her daughter. till fisker arrived no one had visited them in their solitude at hampstead, except croll, the clerk. mr. brehgert had abstained, thinking that a widow, who had become a widow under such terrible circumstances, would prefer to be alone. lord nidderdale had made his adieux, and felt that he could do no more. it need hardly be said that lord alfred had too much good taste to interfere at such a time, although for some months he had been domestically intimate with the poor woman, or that sir felix would not be prompted by the father's death to renew his suit to the daughter. but fisker had not been two days in london before he went out to hampstead, and was admitted to madame melmotte's presence;--and he had not been there four days before he was aware that in spite of all misfortunes, marie melmotte was still the undoubted possessor of a large fortune. in regard to melmotte's effects generally the crown had been induced to abstain from interfering,--giving up the right to all the man's plate and chairs and tables which it had acquired by the finding of the coroner's verdict,--not from tenderness to madame melmotte, for whom no great commiseration was felt, but on behalf of such creditors as poor mr. longestaffe and his son. but marie's money was quite distinct from this. she had been right in her own belief as to this property, and had been right, too, in refusing to sign those papers,--unless it may be that that refusal led to her father's act. she herself was sure that it was not so, because she had withdrawn her refusal, and had offered to sign the papers before her father's death. what might have been the ultimate result had she done so when he first made the request, no one could now say. that the money would have gone there could be no doubt. the money was now hers,--a fact which fisker soon learned with that peculiar cleverness which belonged to him. poor madame melmotte felt the visits of the american to be a relief to her in her misery. the world makes great mistakes as to that which is and is not beneficial to those whom death has bereaved of a companion. it may be, no doubt sometimes it is the case, that grief shall be so heavy, so absolutely crushing, as to make any interference with it an additional trouble, and this is felt also in acute bodily pain, and in periods of terrible mental suffering. it may also be, and, no doubt, often is the case, that the bereaved one chooses to affect such overbearing sorrow, and that friends abstain, because even such affectation has its own rights and privileges. but madame melmotte was neither crushed by grief nor did she affect to be so crushed. she had been numbed by the suddenness and by the awe of the catastrophe. the man who had been her merciless tyrant for years, who had seemed to her to be a very incarnation of cruel power, had succumbed, and shown himself to be powerless against his own misfortunes. she was a woman of very few words, and had spoken almost none on this occasion even to her own daughter; but when fisker came to her, and told her more than she had ever known before of her husband's affairs, and spoke to her of her future life, and mixed for her a small glass of brandy-and-water warm, and told her that frisco would be the fittest place for her future residence, she certainly did not find him to be intrusive. and even marie liked fisker, though she had been wooed and almost won both by a lord and a baronet, and had understood, if not much, at least more than her mother, of the life to which she had been introduced. there was something of real sorrow in her heart for her father. she was prone to love,--though, perhaps, not prone to deep affection. melmotte had certainly been often cruel to her, but he had also been very indulgent. and as she had never been specially grateful for the one, so neither had she ever specially resented the other. tenderness, care, real solicitude for her well-being, she had never known, and had come to regard the unevenness of her life, vacillating between knocks and knick-knacks, with a blow one day and a jewel the next, as the condition of things which was natural to her. when her father was dead she remembered for a while the jewels and the knick-knacks, and forgot the knocks and blows. but she was not beyond consolation, and she also found consolation in mr. fisker's visits. "i used to sign a paper every quarter," she said to fisker, as they were walking together one evening in the lanes round hampstead. "you'll have to do the same now, only instead of giving the paper to any one you'll have to leave it in a banker's hands to draw the money for yourself." "and can that be done over in california?" "just the same as here. your bankers will manage it all for you without the slightest trouble. for the matter of that i'll do it, if you'll trust me. there's only one thing against it all, miss melmotte." "and what's that?" "after the sort of society you've been used to here, i don't know how you'll get on among us americans. we're a pretty rough lot, i guess. though, perhaps, what you lose in the look of the fruit, you'll make up in the flavour." this fisker said in a somewhat plaintive tone, as though fearing that the manifest substantial advantages of frisco would not suffice to atone for the loss of that fashion to which miss melmotte had been used. "i hate swells," said marie, flashing round upon him. "do you now?" "like poison. what's the use of 'em? they never mean a word that they say,--and they don't say so many words either. they're never more than half awake, and don't care the least about anybody. i hate london." "do you now?" "oh, don't i?" "i wonder whether you'd hate frisco?" "i rather think it would be a jolly sort of place." "very jolly i find it. and i wonder whether you'd hate--me?" "mr. fisker, that's nonsense. why should i hate anybody?" "but you do. i've found out one or two that you don't love. if you do come to frisco, i hope you won't just hate me, you know." then he took her gently by the arm;--but she, whisking herself away rapidly, bade him behave himself. then they returned to their lodgings, and mr. fisker, before he went back to london, mixed a little warm brandy-and-water for madame melmotte. i think that upon the whole madame melmotte was more comfortable at hampstead than she had been either in grosvenor square or bruton street, although she was certainly not a thing beautiful to look at in her widow's weeds. "i don't think much of you as a book-keeper, you know," fisker said to miles grendall in the now almost deserted board-room of the south central pacific and mexican railway. miles, remembering his father's advice, answered not a word, but merely looked with assumed amazement at the impertinent stranger who dared thus to censure his performances. fisker had made three or four remarks previous to this, and had appealed both to paul montague and to croll, who were present. he had invited also the attendance of sir felix carbury, lord nidderdale, and mr. longestaffe, who were all directors;--but none of them had come. sir felix had paid no attention to fisker's letter. lord nidderdale had written a short but characteristic reply. "dear mr. fisker,--i really don't know anything about it. yours, nidderdale." mr. longestaffe, with laborious zeal, had closely covered four pages with his reasons for non-attendance, with which the reader shall not be troubled, and which it may be doubted whether even fisker perused to the end. "upon my word," continued fisker, "it's astonishing to me that melmotte should have put up with this kind of thing. i suppose you understand something of business, mr. croll?" "it vas not my department, mr. fisker," said the german. "nor anybody else's either," said the domineering american. "of course it's on the cards, mr. grendall, that we shall have to put you into a witness-box, because there are certain things we must get at." miles was silent as the grave, but at once made up his mind that he would pass his autumn at some pleasant but economical german retreat, and that his autumnal retirement should be commenced within a very few days;--or perhaps hours might suffice. but fisker was not in earnest in his threat. in truth the greater the confusion in the london office, the better, he thought, were the prospects of the company at san francisco. miles underwent purgatory on this occasion for three or four hours, and when dismissed had certainly revealed none of melmotte's secrets. he did, however, go to germany, finding that a temporary absence from england would be comfortable to him in more respects than one,--and need not be heard of again in these pages. when melmotte's affairs were ultimately wound up there was found to be nearly enough of property to satisfy all his proved liabilities. very many men started up with huge claims, asserting that they had been robbed, and in the confusion it was hard to ascertain who had been robbed, or who had simply been unsuccessful in their attempts to rob others. some, no doubt, as was the case with poor mr. brehgert, had speculated in dependence on melmotte's sagacity, and had lost heavily without dishonesty. but of those who, like the longestaffes, were able to prove direct debts, the condition at last was not very sad. our excellent friend dolly got his money early in the day, and was able, under mr. squercum's guidance, to start himself on a new career. having paid his debts, and with still a large balance at his bankers', he assured his friend nidderdale that he meant to turn over an entirely new leaf. "i shall just make squercum allow me so much a month, and i shall have all the bills and that kind of thing sent to him, and he will do everything, and pull me up if i'm getting wrong. i like squercum." "won't he rob you, old fellow?" suggested nidderdale. "of course he will;--but he won't let any one else do it. one has to be plucked, but it's everything to have it done on a system. if he'll only let me have ten shillings out of every sovereign i think i can get along." let us hope that mr. squercum was merciful, and that dolly was enabled to live in accordance with his virtuous resolutions. but these things did not arrange themselves till late in the winter,--long after mr. fisker's departure for california. that, however, was protracted till a day much later than he had anticipated before he had become intimate with madame melmotte and marie. madame melmotte's affairs occupied him for a while almost exclusively. the furniture and plate were of course sold for the creditors, but madame melmotte was allowed to take whatever she declared to be specially her own property;--and, though much was said about the jewels, no attempt was made to recover them. marie advised madame melmotte to give them up, assuring the old woman that she should have whatever she wanted for her maintenance. but it was not likely that melmotte's widow would willingly abandon any property, and she did not abandon her jewels. it was agreed between her and fisker that they were to be taken to new york. "you'll get as much there as in london, if you like to part with them; and nobody 'll say anything about it there. you couldn't sell a locket or a chain here without all the world talking about it." in all these things madame melmotte put herself into fisker's hands with the most absolute confidence,--and, indeed, with a confidence that was justified by its results. it was not by robbing an old woman that fisker intended to make himself great. to madame melmotte's thinking, fisker was the finest gentleman she had ever met,--so infinitely pleasanter in his manner than lord alfred even when lord alfred had been most gracious, with so much more to say for himself than miles grendall, understanding her so much better than any man had ever done,--especially when he supplied her with those small warm beakers of sweet brandy-and-water. "i shall do whatever he tells me," she said to marie. "i'm sure i've nothing to keep me here in this country." "i'm willing to go," said marie. "i don't want to stay in london." "i suppose you'll take him if he asks you?" "i don't know anything about that," said marie. "a man may be very well without one's wanting to marry him. i don't think i'll marry anybody. what's the use? it's only money. nobody cares for anything else. fisker's all very well; but he only wants the money. do you think fisker'd ask me to marry him if i hadn't got anything? not he! he ain't slow enough for that." "i think he's a very nice young man," said madame melmotte. chapter xciii. a true lover. hetta carbury, out of the fulness of her heart, having made up her mind that she had been unjust to her lover, wrote to him a letter full of penitence, full of love, telling him at great length all the details of her meeting with mrs. hurtle, and bidding him come back to her, and bring the brooch with him. but this letter she had unfortunately addressed to the beargarden, as he had written to her from that club; and partly through his own fault, and partly through the demoralisation of that once perfect establishment, the letter never reached his hands. when, therefore, he returned to london he was justified in supposing that she had refused even to notice his appeal. he was, however, determined that he would still make further struggles. he had, he felt, to contend with many difficulties. mrs. hurtle, roger carbury, and hetta's mother were, he thought, all inimical to him. mrs. hurtle, though she had declared that she would not rage as a lioness, could hardly be his friend in the matter. roger had repeatedly declared his determination to regard him as a traitor. and lady carbury, as he well knew, had always been and always would be opposed to the match. but hetta had owned that she loved him, had submitted to his caresses, and had been proud of his admiration. and paul, though he did not probably analyze very carefully the character of his beloved, still felt instinctively that, having so far prevailed with such a girl, his prospects could not be altogether hopeless. and yet how should he continue the struggle? with what weapons should he carry on the fight? the writing of letters is but a one-sided, troublesome proceeding, when the person to whom they are written will not answer them; and the calling at a door at which the servant has been instructed to refuse a visitor admission, becomes, disagreeable,--if not degrading,--after a time. but hetta had written a second epistle,--not to her lover, but to one who received his letters with more regularity. when she rashly and with precipitate wrath quarrelled with paul montague, she at once communicated the fact to her mother, and through her mother to her cousin roger. though she would not recognise roger as a lover, she did acknowledge him to be the head of her family, and her own special friend, and entitled in some special way to know all that she herself did, and all that was done in regard to her. she therefore wrote to her cousin, telling him that she had made a mistake about paul, that she was convinced that paul had always behaved to her with absolute sincerity, and, in short, that paul was the best, and dearest, and most ill-used of human beings. in her enthusiasm she went on to declare that there could be no other chance of happiness for her in this world than that of becoming paul's wife, and to beseech her dearest friend and cousin roger not to turn against her, but to lend her an aiding hand. there are those whom strong words in letters never affect at all,--who, perhaps, hardly read them, and take what they do read as meaning no more than half what is said. but roger carbury was certainly not one of these. as he sat on the garden wall at carbury, with his cousin's letter in his hand, her words had their full weight with him. he did not try to convince himself that all this was the verbiage of an enthusiastic girl, who might soon be turned and trained to another mode of thinking by fitting admonitions. to him now, as he read and re-read hetta's letter sitting on the wall, there was not at any rate further hope for himself. though he was altogether unchanged himself, though he was altogether incapable of change,--though he could not rally himself sufficiently to look forward to even a passive enjoyment of life without the girl whom he had loved,--yet he told himself what he believed to be the truth. at last he owned directly and plainly that, whether happy or unhappy, he must do without her. he had let time slip by with him too fast and too far before he had ventured to love. he must now stomach his disappointment, and make the best he could of such a broken, ill-conditioned life as was left to him. but, if he acknowledged this,--and he did acknowledge it,--in what fashion should he in future treat the man and woman who had reduced him so low? at this moment his mind was tuned to high thoughts. if it were possible he would be unselfish. he could not, indeed, bring himself to think with kindness of paul montague. he could not say to himself that the man had not been treacherous to him, nor could he forgive the man's supposed treason. but he did tell himself very plainly that in comparison with hetta the man was nothing to him. it could hardly be worth his while to maintain a quarrel with the man if he were once able to assure hetta that she, as the wife of another man, should still be dear to him as a friend might be dear. he was well aware that such assurance, such forgiveness, must contain very much. if it were to be so, hetta's child must take the name of carbury, and must be to him as his heir,--as near as possible his own child. in her favour he must throw aside that law of primogeniture which to him was so sacred that he had been hitherto minded to make sir felix his heir in spite of the absolute unfitness of the wretched young man. all this must be changed, should he be able to persuade himself to give his consent to the marriage. in such case carbury must be the home of the married couple, as far as he could induce them to make it so. there must be born the future infant to whose existence he was already looking forward with some idea that in his old age he might there find comfort. in such case, though he should never again be able to love paul montague in his heart of hearts, he must live with him for her sake on affectionate terms. he must forgive hetta altogether,--as though there had been no fault; and he must strive to forgive the man's fault as best he might. struggling as he was to be generous, passionately fond as he was of justice, yet he did not know how to be just himself. he could not see that he in truth had been to no extent ill-used. and ever and again, as he thought of the great prayer as to the forgiveness of trespasses, he could not refrain from asking himself whether it could really be intended that he should forgive such trespass as that committed against him by paul montague! nevertheless, when he rose from the wall he had resolved that hetta should be pardoned entirely, and that paul montague should be treated as though he were pardoned. as for himself,--the chances of the world had been unkind to him, and he would submit to them! nevertheless he wrote no answer to hetta's letter. perhaps he felt, with some undefined but still existing hope, that the writing of such a letter would deprive him of his last chance. hetta's letter to himself hardly required an immediate answer,--did not, indeed, demand any answer. she had simply told him that, whereas she had for certain reasons quarrelled with the man she had loved, she had now come to the conclusion that she would quarrel with him no longer. she had asked for her cousin's assent to her own views, but that, as roger felt, was to be given rather by the discontinuance of opposition than by any positive action. roger's influence with her mother was the assistance which hetta really wanted from him, and that influence could hardly be given by the writing of any letter. thinking of all this, roger determined that he would again go up to london. he would have the vacant hours of the journey in which to think of it all again, and tell himself whether it was possible for him to bring his heart to agree to the marriage;--and then he would see the people, and perhaps learn something further from their manner and their words, before he finally committed himself to the abandonment of his own hopes and the completion of theirs. he went up to town, and i do not know that those vacant hours served him much. to a man not accustomed to thinking there is nothing in the world so difficult as to think. after some loose fashion we turn over things in our mind and ultimately reach some decision, guided probably by our feelings at the last moment rather than by any process of ratiocination;--and then we think that we have thought. but to follow out one argument to an end, and then to found on the base so reached the commencement of another, is not common to us. such a process was hardly within the compass of roger's mind,--who when he was made wretched by the dust, and by a female who had a basket of objectionable provisions opposite to him, almost forswore his charitable resolutions of the day before; but who again, as he walked lonely at night round the square which was near to his hotel, looking up at the bright moon with a full appreciation of the beauty of the heavens, asked himself what was he that he should wish to interfere with the happiness of two human beings much younger than himself, and much fitter to enjoy the world. but he had had a bath, and had got rid of the dust, and had eaten his dinner. the next morning he was in welbeck street at an early hour. when he knocked he had not made up his mind whether he would ask for lady carbury or her daughter, and did at last inquire whether "the ladies" were at home. the ladies were reported as being at home, and he was at once shown into the drawing-room, where hetta was sitting. she hurried up to him, and he at once took her in his arms and kissed her. he had never done such a thing before. he had never even kissed her hand. though they were cousins and dear friends, he had never treated her after that fashion. her instinct told her immediately that such a greeting from him was a sign of affectionate compliance with her wishes. that this man should kiss her as her best and dearest relation, as her most trusted friend, as almost her brother, was certainly to her no offence. she could cling to him in fondest love,--if he would only consent not to be her lover. "oh, roger, i am so glad to see you," she said, escaping gently from his arms. "i could not write an answer, and so i came." "you always do the kindest thing that can be done." "i don't know. i don't know that i can do anything now,--kind or unkind. it is all done without any aid from me. hetta, you have been all the world to me." "do not reproach me," she said. "no;--no. why should i reproach you? you have committed no fault. i should not have come had i intended to reproach any one." "i love you so much for saying that." "let it be as you wish it,--if it must. i have made up my mind to bear it, and there shall be an end of it." as he said this he took her by the hand, and she put her head upon his shoulder and began to weep. "and still you will be all the world to me," he continued, with his arm round her waist. "as you will not be my wife, you shall be my daughter." "i will be your sister, roger." "my daughter rather. you shall be all that i have in the world. i will hurry to grow old that i may feel for you as the old feel for the young. and if you have a child, hetta, he must be my child." as he thus spoke her tears were renewed. "i have planned it all out in my mind, dear. there! if there be anything that i can do to add to your happiness, i will do it. you must believe this of me,--that to make you happy shall be the only enjoyment of my life." it had been hardly possible for her to tell him as yet that the man to whom he was thus consenting to surrender her had not even condescended to answer the letter in which she had told him to come back to her. and now, sobbing as she was, overcome by the tenderness of her cousin's affection, anxious to express her intense gratitude, she did not know how first to mention the name of paul montague. "have you seen him?" she said in a whisper. "seen whom?" "mr. montague." "no;--why should i have seen him? it is not for his sake that i am here." "but you will be his friend?" "your husband shall certainly be my friend;--or, if not, the fault shall not be mine. it shall all be forgotten, hetta,--as nearly as such things may be forgotten. but i had nothing to say to him till i had seen you." at that moment the door was opened and lady carbury entered the room, and, after her greeting with her cousin, looked first at her daughter and then at roger. "i have come up," said he, "to signify my adhesion to this marriage." lady carbury's face fell very low. "i need not speak again of what were my own wishes. i have learned at last that it could not have been so." "why should you say so?" exclaimed lady carbury. "pray, pray, mamma--," hetta began, but was unable to find words with which to go on with her prayer. "i do not know that it need be so at all," continued lady carbury. "i think it is very much in your own hands. of course it is not for me to press such an arrangement, if it be not in accord with your own wishes." "i look upon her as engaged to marry paul montague," said roger. "not at all," said lady carbury. "yes; mamma,--yes," cried hetta boldly. "it is so. i am engaged to him." "i beg to let your cousin know that it is not so with my consent,--nor, as far as i can understand at present, with the consent of mr. montague himself." "mamma!" "paul montague!" ejaculated roger carbury. "the consent of paul montague! i think i may take upon myself to say that there can be no doubt as to that." "there has been a quarrel," said lady carbury. "surely he has not quarrelled with you, hetta?" "i wrote to him,--and he has not answered me," said hetta piteously. then lady carbury gave a full and somewhat coloured account of what had taken place, while roger listened with admirable patience. "the marriage is on every account objectionable," she said at last. "his means are precarious. his conduct with regard to that woman has been very bad. he has been sadly mixed up with that wretched man who destroyed himself. and now, when henrietta has written to him without my sanction,--in opposition to my express commands,--he takes no notice of her. she, very properly, sent him back a present that he made her, and no doubt he has resented her doing so. i trust that his resentment may be continued." hetta was now seated on a sofa hiding her face and weeping. roger stood perfectly still, listening with respectful silence till lady carbury had spoken her last word. and even then he was slow to answer, considering what he might best say. "i think i had better see him," he replied. "if, as i imagine, he has not received my cousin's letter, that matter will be set at rest. we must not take advantage of such an accident as that. as to his income,--that i think may be managed. his connection with mr. melmotte was unfortunate, but was due to no fault of his." at this moment he could not but remember lady carbury's great anxiety to be closely connected with melmotte, but he was too generous to say a word on that head. "i will see him, lady carbury, and then i will come to you again." lady carbury did not dare to tell him that she did not wish him to see paul montague. she knew that if he really threw himself into the scale against her, her opposition would weigh nothing. he was too powerful in his honesty and greatness of character,--and had been too often admitted by herself to be the guardian angel of the family,--for her to stand against him. but she still thought that had he persevered, hetta would have become his wife. it was late that evening before roger found paul montague, who had only then returned from liverpool with fisker,--whose subsequent doings have been recorded somewhat out of their turn. "i don't know what letter you mean," said paul. "you wrote to her?" "certainly i wrote to her. i wrote to her twice. my last letter was one which i think she ought to have answered. she had accepted me, and had given me a right to tell my own story when she unfortunately heard from other sources the story of my journey to lowestoft with mrs. hurtle." paul pleaded his own case with indignant heat, not understanding at first that roger had come to him on a friendly mission. "she did answer your letter." "i have not had a line from her;--not a word!" "she did answer your letter." "what did she say to me?" "nay,--you must ask her that." "but if she will not see me?" "she will see you. i can tell you that. and i will tell you this also;--that she wrote to you as a girl writes to the lover whom she does wish to see." "is that true?" exclaimed paul, jumping up. "i am here especially to tell you that it is true. i should hardly come on such a mission if there were a doubt. you may go to her, and need have nothing to fear,--unless, indeed, it be the opposition of her mother." "she is stronger than her mother," said paul. "i think she is. and now i wish you to hear what i have to say." "of course," said paul, sitting down suddenly. up to this moment roger carbury, though he had certainly brought glad tidings, had not communicated them as a joyous, sympathetic messenger. his face had been severe, and the tone of his voice almost harsh; and paul, remembering well the words of the last letter which his old friend had written him, did not expect personal kindness. roger would probably say very disagreeable things to him, which he must bear with all the patience which he could summon to his assistance. "you know what my feelings have been," roger began, "and how deeply i have resented what i thought to be an interference with my affections. but no quarrel between you and me, whatever the rights of it may be--" "i have never quarrelled with you," paul began. "if you will listen to me for a moment it will be better. no anger between you and me, let it arise as it might, should be allowed to interfere with the happiness of her whom i suppose we both love better than all the rest of the world put together." "i do," said paul. "and so do i;--and so i always shall. but she is to be your wife. she shall be my daughter. she shall have my property,--or her child shall be my heir. my house shall be her house,--if you and she will consent to make it so. you will not be afraid of me. you know me, i think, too well for that. you may now count on any assistance you could have from me were i a father giving you a daughter in marriage. i do this because i will make the happiness of her life the chief object of mine. now good night. don't say anything about it at present. by-and-by we shall be able to talk about these things with more equable temper." having so spoken he hurried out of the room, leaving paul montague bewildered by the tidings which had been announced to him. chapter xciv. john crumb's victory. in the meantime great preparations were going on down in suffolk for the marriage of that happiest of lovers, john crumb. john crumb had been up to london, had been formally reconciled to ruby,--who had submitted to his floury embraces, not with the best grace in the world, but still with a submission that had satisfied her future husband,--had been intensely grateful to mrs. hurtle, and almost munificent in liberality to mrs. pipkin, to whom he presented a purple silk dress, in addition to the cloak which he had given on a former occasion. during this visit he had expressed no anger against ruby, and no indignation in reference to the baronite. when informed by mrs. pipkin, who hoped thereby to please him, that sir felix was supposed to be still "all one mash of gore," he blandly smiled, remarking that no man could be much the worse for a "few sich taps as them." he only stayed a few hours in london, but during these few hours he settled everything. when mrs. pipkin suggested that ruby should be married from her house, he winked his eye as he declined the suggestion with thanks. daniel ruggles was old, and, under the influence of continued gin and water, was becoming feeble. john crumb was of opinion that the old man should not be neglected, and hinted that with a little care the five hundred pounds which had originally been promised as ruby's fortune, might at any rate be secured. he was of opinion that the marriage should be celebrated in suffolk,--the feast being spread at sheep's acre farm, if dan ruggles could be talked into giving it,--and if not, at his own house. when both the ladies explained to him that this last proposition was not in strict accordance with the habits of the fashionable world, john expressed an opinion that, under the peculiar circumstances of his marriage, the ordinary laws of the world might be suspended. "it ain't jist like other folks, after all as we've been through," said he,--meaning probably to imply that having had to fight for his wife, he was entitled to give a breakfast on the occasion if he pleased. but whether the banquet was to be given by the bride's grandfather or by himself,--he was determined that there should be a banquet, and that he would bid the guests. he invited both mrs. pipkin and mrs. hurtle, and at last succeeded in inducing mrs. hurtle to promise that she would bring mrs. pipkin down to bungay, for the occasion. then it was necessary to fix the day, and for this purpose it was of course essential that ruby should be consulted. during the discussion as to the feast and the bridegroom's entreaties that the two ladies would be present, she had taken no part in the matter in hand. she was brought up to be kissed, and having been duly kissed she retired again among the children, having only expressed one wish of her own,--namely, that joe mixet might not have anything to do with the affair. but the day could not be fixed without her, and she was summoned. crumb had been absurdly impatient, proposing next tuesday,--making his proposition on a friday. they could cook enough meat for all bungay to eat by tuesday, and he was aware of no other cause for delay. "that's out of the question," ruby had said decisively, and as the two elder ladies had supported her mr. crumb yielded with a good grace. he did not himself appreciate the reasons given because, as he remarked, gowns can be bought ready made at any shop. but mrs. pipkin told him with a laugh that he didn't know anything about it, and when the th of august was named he only scratched his head and, muttering something about thetford fair, agreed that he would, yet once again, allow love to take precedence of business. if tuesday would have suited the ladies as well he thought that he might have managed to combine the marriage and the fair, but when mrs. pipkin told him that he must not interfere any further, he yielded with a good grace. he merely remained in london long enough to pay a friendly visit to the policeman who had locked him up, and then returned to suffolk, revolving in his mind how glorious should be the matrimonial triumph which he had at last achieved. before the day arrived, old ruggles had been constrained to forgive his granddaughter, and to give a general assent to the marriage. when john crumb, with a sound of many trumpets, informed all bungay that he had returned victorious from london, and that after all the ups and downs of his courtship ruby was to become his wife on a fixed day, all bungay took his part, and joined in a general attack upon mr. daniel ruggles. the cross-grained old man held out for a long time, alleging that the girl was no better than she should be, and that she had run away with the baronite. but this assertion was met by so strong a torrent of contradiction, that the farmer was absolutely driven out of his own convictions. it is to be feared that many lies were told on ruby's behalf by lips which had been quite ready a fortnight since to take away her character. but it had become an acknowledged fact in bungay that john crumb was ready at any hour to punch the head of any man who should hint that ruby ruggles had, at any period of her life, done any act or spoken any word unbecoming a young lady; and so strong was the general belief in john crumb, that ruby became the subject of general eulogy from all male lips in the town. and though perhaps some slight suspicion of irregular behaviour up in london might be whispered by the bungay ladies among themselves, still the feeling in favour of mr. crumb was so general, and his constancy was so popular, that the grandfather could not stand against it. "i don't see why i ain't to do as i likes with my own," he said to joe mixet, the baker, who went out to sheep's acre farm as one of many deputations sent by the municipality of bungay. "she's your own flesh and blood, mr. ruggles," said the baker. "no; she ain't;--no more than she's a pipkin. she's taken up with mrs. pipkin jist because i hate the pipkinses. let mrs. pipkin give 'em a breakfast." "she is your own flesh and blood,--and your name, too, mr. ruggles. and she's going to be the respectable wife of a respectable man, mr. ruggles." "i won't give 'em no breakfast;--that's flat," said the farmer. but he had yielded in the main when he allowed himself to base his opposition on one immaterial detail. the breakfast was to be given at the king's head, and, though it was acknowledged on all sides that no authority could be found for such a practice, it was known that the bill was to be paid by the bridegroom. nor would mr. ruggles pay the five hundred pounds down as in early days he had promised to do. he was very clear in his mind that his undertaking on that head was altogether cancelled by ruby's departure from sheep's acre. when he was reminded that he had nearly pulled his granddaughter's hair out of her head, and had thus justified her act of rebellion, he did not contradict the assertion, but implied that if ruby did not choose to earn her fortune on such terms as those, that was her fault. it was not to be supposed that he was to give a girl, who was after all as much a pipkin as a ruggles, five hundred pounds for nothing. but, in return for that night's somewhat harsh treatment of ruby, he did at last consent to have the money settled upon john crumb at his death,--an arrangement which both the lawyer and joe mixet thought to be almost as good as a free gift, being both of them aware that the consumption of gin and water was on the increase. and he, moreover, was persuaded to receive mrs. pipkin and ruby at the farm for the night previous to the marriage. this very necessary arrangement was made by mr. mixet's mother, a most respectable old lady, who went out in a fly from the inn attired in her best black silk gown and an overpowering bonnet, an old lady from whom her son had inherited his eloquence, who absolutely shamed the old man into compliance,--not, however, till she had promised to send out the tea and white sugar and box of biscuits which were thought to be necessary for mrs. pipkin on the evening preceding the marriage. a private sitting-room at the inn was secured for the special accommodation of mrs. hurtle,--who was supposed to be a lady of too high standing to be properly entertained at sheep's acre farm. on the day preceding the wedding one trouble for a moment clouded the bridegroom's brow. ruby had demanded that joe mixet should not be among the performers, and john crumb, with the urbanity of a lover, had assented to her demand,--as far, at least, as silence can give consent. and yet he felt himself unable to answer such interrogatories as the parson might put to him without the assistance of his friend, although he devoted much study to the matter. "you could come in behind like, joe, just as if i knew nothin' about it," suggested crumb. "don't you say a word of me, and she won't say nothing, you may be sure. you ain't going to give in to all her cantraps that way, john?" john shook his head and rubbed the meal about on his forehead. "it was only just something for her to say. what have i done that she should object to me?" "you didn't ever go for to--kiss her,--did you, joe?" "what a one'er you are! that wouldn't 'a set her again me. it is just because i stood up and spoke for you like a man that night at sheep's acre, when her mind was turned the other way. don't you notice nothing about it. when we're all in the church she won't go back because joe mixet's there. i'll bet you a gallon, old fellow, she and i are the best friends in bungay before six months are gone." "nay, nay; she must have a better friend than thee, joe, or i must know the reason why." but john crumb's heart was too big for jealousy, and he agreed at last that joe mixet should be his best man, undertaking to "square it all" with ruby, after the ceremony. he met the ladies at the station and,--for him,--was quite eloquent in his welcome to mrs. hurtle and mrs. pipkin. to ruby he said but little. but he looked at her in her new hat, and generally bright in subsidiary wedding garments, with great delight. "ain't she bootiful now?" he said aloud to mrs. hurtle on the platform, to the great delight of half bungay, who had accompanied him on the occasion. ruby, hearing her praises thus sung, made a fearful grimace as she turned round to mrs. pipkin, and whispered to her aunt, so that those only who were within a yard or two could hear her; "he is such a fool!" then he conducted mrs. hurtle in an omnibus up to the inn, and afterwards himself drove mrs. pipkin and ruby out to sheep's acre; in the performance of all which duties he was dressed in the green cutaway coat with brass buttons which had been expressly made for his marriage. "thou'rt come back then, ruby," said the old man. "i ain't going to trouble you long, grandfather," said the girl. "so best;--so best. and this is mrs. pipkin?" "yes, mr. ruggles; that's my name." "i've heard your name. i've heard your name, and i don't know as i ever want to hear it again. but they say as you've been kind to that girl as 'd 'a been on the town only for that." "grandfather, that ain't true," said ruby with energy. the old man made no rejoinder, and ruby was allowed to take her aunt up into the bedroom which they were both to occupy. "now, mrs. pipkin, just you say," pleaded ruby, "how was it possible for any girl to live with an old man like that?" "but, ruby, you might always have gone to live with the young man instead when you pleased." "you mean john crumb." "of course i mean john crumb, ruby." "there ain't much to choose between 'em. what one says is all spite; and the other man says nothing at all." "oh ruby, ruby," said mrs. pipkin, with solemnly persuasive voice, "i hope you'll come to learn some day, that a loving heart is better nor a fickle tongue,--specially with vittels certain." on the following morning the bungay church bells rang merrily, and half its population was present to see john crumb made a happy man. he himself went out to the farm and drove the bride and mrs. pipkin into the town, expressing an opinion that no hired charioteer would bring them so safely as he would do himself; nor did he think it any disgrace to be seen performing this task before his marriage. he smiled and nodded at every one, now and then pointing back with his whip to ruby when he met any of his specially intimate friends, as though he would have said, "see, i've got her at last in spite of all difficulties." poor ruby, in her misery under this treatment, would have escaped out of the cart had it been possible. but now she was altogether in the man's hands and no escape was within her reach. "what's the odds?" said mrs. pipkin as they settled their bonnets in a room at the inn just before they entered the church. "drat it,--you make me that angry i'm half minded to cuff you. ain't he fond o' you? ain't he got a house of his own? ain't he well to do all round? manners! what's manners? i don't see nothing amiss in his manners. he means what he says, and i call that the best of good manners." ruby, when she reached the church, had been too completely quelled by outward circumstances to take any notice of joe mixet, who was standing there, quite unabashed, with a splendid nosegay in his button-hole. she certainly had no right on this occasion to complain of her husband's silence. whereas she could hardly bring herself to utter the responses in a voice loud enough for the clergyman to catch the familiar words, he made his assertions so vehemently that they were heard throughout the whole building. "i, john,--take thee ruby,--to my wedded wife,--to 'ave and to 'old,--from this day forrard,--for better nor worser,--for richer nor poorer--;" and so on to the end. and when he came to the "worldly goods" with which he endowed his ruby, he was very emphatic indeed. since the day had been fixed he had employed all his leisure-hours in learning the words by heart, and would now hardly allow the clergyman to say them before him. he thoroughly enjoyed the ceremony, and would have liked to be married over and over again, every day for a week, had it been possible. and then there came the breakfast, to which he marshalled the way up the broad stairs of the inn at bungay, with mrs. hurtle on one arm and mrs. pipkin on the other. he had been told that he ought to take his wife's arm on this occasion, but he remarked that he meant to see a good deal of her in future, and that his opportunities of being civil to mrs. hurtle and mrs. pipkin would be rare. thus it came to pass that, in spite of all that poor ruby had said, she was conducted to the marriage-feast by joe mixet himself. ruby, i think, had forgotten the order which she had given in reference to the baker. when desiring that she might see nothing more of joe mixet, she had been in her pride;--but now she was so tamed and quelled by the outward circumstances of her position, that she was glad to have some one near her who knew how to behave himself. "mrs. crumb, you have my best wishes for your continued 'ealth and 'appiness," said joe mixet in a whisper. "it's very good of you to say so, mr. mixet." "he's a good 'un; is he." "oh, i dare say." "you just be fond of him and stroke him down, and make much of him, and i'm blessed if you mayn't do a'most anything with him,--all's one as a babby." "a man shouldn't be all's one as a babby, mr. mixet." "and he don't drink hard, but he works hard, and go where he will he can hold his own." ruby said no more, and soon found herself seated by her husband's side. it certainly was wonderful to her that so many people should pay john crumb so much respect, and should seem to think so little of the meal and flour which pervaded his countenance. after the breakfast, or "bit of dinner," as john crumb would call it, mr. mixet of course made a speech. "he had had the pleasure of knowing john crumb for a great many years, and the honour of being acquainted with miss ruby ruggles,--he begged all their pardons, and should have said mrs. john crumb,--ever since she was a child." "that's a downright story," said ruby in a whisper to mrs. hurtle. "and he'd never known two young people more fitted by the gifts of nature to contribute to one another's 'appinesses. he had understood that mars and wenus always lived on the best of terms, and perhaps the present company would excuse him if he likened this 'appy young couple to them two 'eathen gods and goddesses. for miss ruby,--mrs. crumb he should say,--was certainly lovely as ere a wenus as ever was; and as for john crumb, he didn't believe that ever a mars among 'em could stand again him. he didn't remember just at present whether mars and wenus had any young family, but he hoped that before long there would be any number of young crumbs for the bungay birds to pick up. 'appy is the man as 'as his quiver full of 'em,--and the woman too, if you'll allow me to say so, mrs. crumb." the speech, of which only a small sample can be given here, was very much admired by the ladies and gentlemen present,--with the single exception of poor ruby, who would have run away and locked herself in an inner chamber had she not been certain that she would be brought back again. [illustration: the happy bridegroom.] in the afternoon john took his bride to lowestoft, and brought her back to all the glories of his own house on the following day. his honeymoon was short, but its influence on ruby was beneficent. when she was alone with the man, knowing that he was her husband, and thinking something of all that he had done to win her to be his wife, she did learn to respect him. "now, ruby, give a fellow a buss,--as though you meant it," he said, when the first fitting occasion presented itself. "oh, john,--what nonsense!" "it ain't nonsense to me, i can tell you. i'd sooner have a kiss from you than all the wine as ever was swallowed." then she did kiss him, "as though she meant it;" and when she returned with him to bungay the next day, she had made up her mind that she would endeavour to do her duty by him as his wife. chapter xcv. the longestaffe marriages. in another part of suffolk, not very far from bungay, there was a lady whose friends had not managed her affairs as well as ruby's friends had done for ruby. miss georgiana longestaffe in the early days of august was in a very miserable plight. her sister's marriage with mr. george whitstable was fixed for the first of september, a day which in suffolk is of all days the most sacred; and the combined energies of the houses of caversham and toodlam were being devoted to that happy event. poor georgey's position was in every respect wretched, but its misery was infinitely increased by the triumph of those hymeneals. it was but the other day that she had looked down from a very great height on her elder sister, and had utterly despised the squire of toodlam. and at that time, still so recent, this contempt from her had been accepted as being almost reasonable. sophia had hardly ventured to rebel against it, and mr. whitstable himself had been always afraid to encounter the shafts of irony with which his fashionable future sister-in-law attacked him. but all that was now changed. sophia in her pride of place had become a tyrant, and george whitstable, petted in the house with those sweetmeats which are always showered on embryo bridegrooms, absolutely gave himself airs. at this time mr. longestaffe was never at home. having assured himself that there was no longer any danger of the brehgert alliance he had remained in london, thinking his presence to be necessary for the winding up of melmotte's affairs, and leaving poor lady pomona to bear her daughter's ill-humour. the family at caversham consisted therefore of the three ladies, and was enlivened by daily visits from toodlam. it will be owned that in this state of things there was very little consolation for georgiana. it was not long before she quarrelled altogether with her sister,--to the point of absolutely refusing to act as bridesmaid. the reader may remember that there had been a watch and chain, and that two of the ladies of the family had expressed an opinion that these trinkets should be returned to mr. brehgert who had bestowed them. but georgiana had not sent them back when a week had elapsed since the receipt of mr. brehgert's last letter. the matter had perhaps escaped lady pomona's memory, but sophia was happily alive to the honour of her family. "georgey," she said one morning in their mother's presence, "don't you think mr. brehgert's watch ought to go back to him without any more delay?" "what have you got to do with anybody's watch? the watch wasn't given to you." "i think it ought to go back. when papa finds that it has been kept i'm sure he'll be very angry." "it's no business of yours whether he's angry or not." "if it isn't sent george will tell dolly. you know what would happen then." this was unbearable! that george whitstable should interfere in her affairs,--that he should talk about her watch and chain. "i never will speak to george whitstable again the longest day that ever i live," she said, getting up from her chair. "my dear, don't say anything so horrible as that," exclaimed the unhappy mother. "i do say it. what has george whitstable to do with me? a miserably stupid fellow! because you've landed him, you think he's to ride over the whole family." "i think mr. brehgert ought to have his watch and chain back," said sophia. "certainly he ought," said lady pomona. "georgiana, it must be sent back. it really must,--or i shall tell your papa." subsequently, on the same day, georgiana brought the watch and chain to her mother, protesting that she had never thought of keeping them, and explaining that she had intended to hand them over to her papa as soon as he should have returned to caversham. lady pomona was now empowered to return them, and they were absolutely confided to the hands of the odious george whitstable, who about this time made a journey to london in reference to certain garments which he required. but georgiana, though she was so far beaten, kept up her quarrel with her sister. she would not be bridesmaid. she would never speak to george whitstable. and she would shut herself up on the day of the marriage. she did think herself to be very hardly used. what was there left in the world that she could do in furtherance of her future cause? and what did her father and mother expect would become of her? marriage had ever been so clearly placed before her eyes as a condition of things to be achieved by her own efforts, that she could not endure the idea of remaining tranquil in her father's house and waiting till some fitting suitor might find her out. she had struggled and struggled,--struggling still in vain,--till every effort of her mind, every thought of her daily life, was pervaded by a conviction that as she grew older from year to year, the struggle should be more intense. the swimmer when first he finds himself in the water, conscious of his skill and confident in his strength, can make his way through the water with the full command of all his powers. but when he begins to feel that the shore is receding from him, that his strength is going, that the footing for which he pants is still far beneath his feet,--that there is peril where before he had contemplated no danger,--then he begins to beat the water with strokes rapid but impotent, and to waste in anxious gaspings the breath on which his very life must depend. so it was with poor georgey longestaffe. something must be done at once, or it would be of no avail. twelve years had been passed by her since first she plunged into the stream,--the twelve years of her youth,--and she was as far as ever from the bank; nay, farther, if she believed her eyes. she too must strike out with rapid efforts, unless, indeed, she would abandon herself and let the waters close over her head. but immersed as she was here at caversham, how could she strike at all? even now the waters were closing upon her. the sound of them was in her ears. the ripple of the wave was already round her lips; robbing her of breath. ah!--might not there be some last great convulsive effort which might dash her on shore, even if it were upon a rock! that ultimate failure in her matrimonial projects would be the same as drowning she never for a moment doubted. it had never occurred to her to consider with equanimity the prospect of living as an old maid. it was beyond the scope of her mind to contemplate the chances of a life in which marriage might be well if it came, but in which unmarried tranquillity might also be well should that be her lot. nor could she understand that others should contemplate it for her. no doubt the battle had been carried on for many years so much under the auspices of her father and mother as to justify her in thinking that their theory of life was the same as her own. lady pomona had been very open in her teaching, and mr. longestaffe had always given a silent adherence to the idea that the house in london was to be kept open in order that husbands might be caught. and now when they deserted her in her real difficulty,--when they first told her to live at caversham all the summer, and then sent her up to the melmottes, and after that forbade her marriage with mr. brehgert,--it seemed to her that they were unnatural parents who gave her a stone when she wanted bread, a serpent when she asked for a fish. she had no friend left. there was no one living who seemed to care whether she had a husband or not. she took to walking in solitude about the park, and thought of many things with a grim earnestness which had not hitherto belonged to her character. "mamma," she said one morning when all the care of the household was being devoted to the future comforts,--chiefly in regard to linen,--of mrs. george whitstable, "i wonder whether papa has any intention at all about me." "in what sort of way, my dear?" "in any way. does he mean me to live here for ever and ever?" "i don't think he intends to have a house in town again." "and what am i to do?" "i suppose we shall stay here at caversham." "and i'm to be buried just like a nun in a convent,--only that the nun does it by her own consent and i don't! mamma, i won't stand it. i won't indeed." "i think, my dear, that that is nonsense. you see company here, just as other people do in the country;--and as for not standing it, i don't know what you mean. as long as you are one of your papa's family of course you must live where he lives." "oh, mamma, to hear you talk like that!--it is horrible--horrible! as if you didn't know! as if you couldn't understand! sometimes i almost doubt whether papa does know, and then i think that if he did he would not be so cruel. but you understand it all as well as i do myself. what is to become of me? is it not enough to drive me mad to be going about here by myself, without any prospect of anything? should you have liked at my age to have felt that you had no chance of having a house of your own to live in? why didn't you, among you, let me marry mr. brehgert?" as she said this she was almost eloquent with passion. "you know, my dear," said lady pomona, "that your papa wouldn't hear of it." "i know that if you would have helped me i would have done it in spite of papa. what right has he to domineer over me in that way? why shouldn't i have married the man if i chose? i am old enough to know surely. you talk now of shutting up girls in convents as being a thing quite impossible. this is much worse. papa won't do anything to help me. why shouldn't he let me do something for myself?" "you can't regret mr. brehgert!" "why can't i regret him? i do regret him. i'd have him to-morrow if he came. bad as it might be, it couldn't be so bad as caversham." "you couldn't have loved him, georgiana." "loved him! who thinks about love nowadays? i don't know any one who loves any one else. you won't tell me that sophy is going to marry that idiot because she loves him! did julia triplex love that man with the large fortune? when you wanted dolly to marry marie melmotte you never thought of his loving her. i had got the better of all that kind of thing before i was twenty." "i think a young woman should love her husband." "it makes me sick, mamma, to hear you talk in that way. it does indeed. when one has been going on for a dozen years trying to do something,--and i have never had any secrets from you,--then that you should turn round upon me and talk about love! mamma, if you would help me i think i could still manage with mr. brehgert." lady pomona shuddered. "you have not got to marry him." "it is too horrid." "who would have to put up with it? not you, or papa, or dolly. i should have a house of my own at least, and i should know what i had to expect for the rest of my life. if i stay here i shall go mad,--or die." "it is impossible." "if you will stand to me, mamma, i am sure it may be done. i would write to him, and say that you would see him." "georgiana, i will never see him." "why not?" "he is a jew!" "what abominable prejudice;--what wicked prejudice! as if you didn't know that all that is changed now! what possible difference can it make about a man's religion? of course i know that he is vulgar, and old, and has a lot of children. but if i can put up with that, i don't think that you and papa have a right to interfere. as to his religion it cannot signify." "georgiana, you make me very unhappy. i am wretched to see you so discontented. if i could do anything for you, i would. but i will not meddle about mr. brehgert. i shouldn't dare to do so. i don't think you know how angry your papa can be." "i'm not going to let papa be a bugbear to frighten me. what can he do? i don't suppose he'll beat me. and i'd rather he would than shut me up here. as for you, mamma, i don't think you care for me a bit. because sophy is going to be married to that oaf, you are become so proud of her that you haven't half a thought for anybody else." "that's very unjust, georgiana." "i know what's unjust,--and i know who's ill-treated. i tell you fairly, mamma, that i shall write to mr. brehgert and tell him that i am quite ready to marry him. i don't know why he should be afraid of papa. i don't mean to be afraid of him any more, and you may tell him just what i say." all this made lady pomona very miserable. she did not communicate her daughter's threat to mr. longestaffe, but she did discuss it with sophia. sophia was of opinion that georgiana did not mean it, and gave two or three reasons for thinking so. in the first place had she intended it she would have written her letter without saying a word about it to lady pomona. and she certainly would not have declared her purpose of writing such letter after lady pomona had refused her assistance. and moreover,--lady pomona had received no former hint of the information which was now conveyed to her,--georgiana was in the habit of meeting the curate of the next parish almost every day in the park. "mr. batherbolt!" exclaimed lady pomona. "she is walking with mr. batherbolt almost every day." "but he is so very strict." "it is true, mamma." "and he's five years younger than she! and he's got nothing but his curacy! and he's a celibate! i heard the bishop laughing at him because he called himself a celibate." "it doesn't signify, mamma. i know she is with him constantly. wilson has seen them,--and i know it. perhaps papa could get him a living. dolly has a living of his own that came to him with his property." "dolly would be sure to sell the presentation," said lady pomona. "perhaps the bishop would do something," said the anxious sister, "when he found that the man wasn't a celibate. anything, mamma, would be better than the jew." to this latter proposition lady pomona gave a cordial assent. "of course it is a come-down to marry a curate,--but a clergyman is always considered to be decent." the preparations for the whitstable marriage went on without any apparent attention to the intimacy which was growing up between mr. batherbolt and georgiana. there was no room to apprehend anything wrong on that side. mr. batherbolt was so excellent a young man, and so exclusively given to religion, that, even should sophy's suspicion be correct, he might be trusted to walk about the park with georgiana. should he at any time come forward and ask to be allowed to make the lady his wife, there would be no disgrace in the matter. he was a clergyman and a gentleman,--and the poverty would be georgiana's own affair. mr. longestaffe returned home only on the eve of his eldest daughter's marriage, and with him came dolly. great trouble had been taken to teach him that duty absolutely required his presence at his sister's marriage, and he had at last consented to be there. it is not generally considered a hardship by a young man that he should have to go into a good partridge country on the st of september, and dolly was an acknowledged sportsman. nevertheless, he considered that he had made a great sacrifice to his family, and he was received by lady pomona as though he were a bright example to other sons. he found the house not in a very comfortable position, for georgiana still persisted in her refusal either to be a bridesmaid or to speak to mr. whitstable; but still his presence, which was very rare at caversham, gave some assistance: and, as at this moment his money affairs had been comfortably arranged, he was not called upon to squabble with his father. it was a great thing that one of the girls should be married, and dolly had brought down an enormous china dog, about five feet high, as a wedding present, which added materially to the happiness of the meeting. lady pomona had determined that she would tell her husband of those walks in the park, and of other signs of growing intimacy which had reached her ears;--but this she would postpone until after the whitstable marriage. but at nine o'clock on the morning set apart for that marriage, they were all astounded by the news that georgiana had run away with mr. batherbolt. she had been up before six. he had met her at the park gate, and had driven her over to catch the early train at stowmarket. then it appeared, too, that by degrees various articles of her property had been conveyed to mr. batherbolt's lodgings in the adjacent village, so that lady pomona's fear that georgiana would not have a thing to wear, was needless. when the fact was first known it was almost felt, in the consternation of the moment, that the whitstable marriage must be postponed. but sophia had a word to say to her mother on that head, and she said it. the marriage was not postponed. at first dolly talked of going after his younger sister, and the father did dispatch various telegrams. but the fugitives could not be brought back, and with some little delay,--which made the marriage perhaps uncanonical but not illegal,--mr. george whitstable was made a happy man. it need only be added that in about a month's time georgiana returned to caversham as mrs. batherbolt, and that she resided there with her husband in much connubial bliss for the next six months. at the end of that time they removed to a small living, for the purchase of which mr. longestaffe had managed to raise the necessary money. chapter xcvi. where "the wild asses quench their thirst." we must now go back a little in our story,--about three weeks,--in order that the reader may be told how affairs were progressing at the beargarden. that establishment had received a terrible blow in the defection of herr vossner. it was not only that he had robbed the club, and robbed every member of the club who had ventured to have personal dealings with him. although a bad feeling in regard to him was no doubt engendered in the minds of those who had suffered deeply, it was not that alone which cast an almost funereal gloom over the club. the sorrow was in this,--that with herr vossner all their comforts had gone. of course herr vossner had been a thief. that no doubt had been known to them from the beginning. a man does not consent to be called out of bed at all hours in the morning to arrange the gambling accounts of young gentlemen without being a thief. no one concerned with herr vossner had supposed him to be an honest man. but then as a thief he had been so comfortable that his absence was regretted with a tenderness almost amounting to love even by those who had suffered most severely from his rapacity. dolly longestaffe had been robbed more outrageously than any other member of the club, and yet dolly longestaffe had said since the departure of the purveyor that london was not worth living in now that herr vossner was gone. in a week the beargarden collapsed,--as germany would collapse for a period if herr vossner's great compatriot were suddenly to remove himself from the scene; but as germany would strive to live even without bismarck, so did the club make its new efforts. but here the parallel must cease. germany no doubt would at last succeed, but the beargarden had received a blow from which it seemed that there was no recovery. at first it was proposed that three men should be appointed as trustees,--trustees for paying vossner's debts, trustees for borrowing more money, trustees for the satisfaction of the landlord who was beginning to be anxious as to his future rent. at a certain very triumphant general meeting of the club it was determined that such a plan should be arranged, and the members assembled were unanimous. it was at first thought that there might be a little jealousy as to the trusteeship. the club was so popular and the authority conveyed by the position would be so great, that a, b, and c might feel aggrieved at seeing so much power conferred on d, e, and f. when at the meeting above mentioned one or two names were suggested, the final choice was postponed, as a matter of detail to be arranged privately, rather from this consideration than with any idea that there might be a difficulty in finding adequate persons. but even the leading members of the beargarden hesitated when the proposition was submitted to them with all its honours and all its responsibilities. lord nidderdale declared from the beginning that he would have nothing to do with it,--pleading his poverty openly. beauchamp beauclerk was of opinion that he himself did not frequent the club often enough. mr. lupton professed his inability as a man of business. lord grasslough pleaded his father. the club from the first had been sure of dolly longestaffe's services;--for were not dolly's pecuniary affairs now in process of satisfactory arrangement, and was it not known by all men that his courage never failed him in regard to money? but even he declined. "i have spoken to squercum," he said to the committee, "and squercum won't hear of it. squercum has made inquiries and he thinks the club very shaky." when one of the committee made a remark as to mr. squercum which was not complimentary,--insinuated indeed that squercum without injustice might be consigned to the infernal deities,--dolly took the matter up warmly. "that's all very well for you, grasslough; but if you knew the comfort of having a fellow who could keep you straight without preaching sermons at you you wouldn't despise squercum. i've tried to go alone and i find that does not answer. squercum's my coach, and i mean to stick pretty close to him." then it came to pass that the triumphant project as to the trustees fell to the ground, although squercum himself advised that the difficulty might be lessened if three gentlemen could be selected who lived well before the world and yet had nothing to lose. whereupon dolly suggested miles grendall. but the committee shook its heads, not thinking it possible that the club could be re-established on a basis of three miles grendalls. then dreadful rumours were heard. the beargarden must surely be abandoned. "it is such a pity," said nidderdale, "because there never has been anything like it." "smoke all over the house!" said dolly. "no horrid nonsense about closing," said grasslough, "and no infernal old fogies wearing out the carpets and paying for nothing." "not a vestige of propriety, or any beastly rules to be kept! that's what i liked," said nidderdale. "it's an old story," said mr. lupton, "that if you put a man into paradise he'll make it too hot to hold him. that's what you've done here." "what we ought to do," said dolly, who was pervaded by a sense of his own good fortune in regard to squercum, "is to get some fellow like vossner, and make him tell us how much he wants to steal above his regular pay. then we could subscribe that among us. i really think that might be done. squercum would find a fellow, no doubt." but mr. lupton was of opinion that the new vossner might perhaps not know, when thus consulted, the extent of his own cupidity. one day, before the whitstable marriage, when it was understood that the club would actually be closed on the th august unless some new heaven-inspired idea might be forthcoming for its salvation, nidderdale, grasslough, and dolly were hanging about the hall and the steps, and drinking sherry and bitters preparatory to dinner, when sir felix carbury came round the neighbouring corner and, in a creeping, hesitating fashion, entered the hall door. he had nearly recovered from his wounds, though he still wore a bit of court plaster on his upper lip, and had not yet learned to look or to speak as though he had not had two of his front teeth knocked out. he had heard little or nothing of what had been done at the beargarden since vossner's defection. it was now a month since he had been seen at the club. his thrashing had been the wonder of perhaps half nine days, but latterly his existence had been almost forgotten. now, with difficulty, he had summoned courage to go down to his old haunt, so completely had he been cowed by the latter circumstances of his life; but he had determined that he would pluck up his courage, and talk to his old associates as though no evil thing had befallen him. he had still money enough to pay for his dinner and to begin a small rubber of whist. if fortune should go against him he might glide into i. o. u.'s;--as others had done before, so much to his cost. "by george, here's carbury!" said dolly. lord grasslough whistled, turned his back, and walked up-stairs; but nidderdale and dolly consented to have their hands shaken by the stranger. "thought you were out of town," said nidderdale. "haven't seen you for the last ever so long." "i have been out of town," said felix,--lying; "down in suffolk. but i'm back now. how are things going on here?" "they're not going at all;--they're gone," said dolly. "everything is smashed," said nidderdale. "we shall all have to pay, i don't know how much." "wasn't vossner ever caught?" asked the baronet. "caught!" ejaculated dolly. "no;--but he has caught us. i don't know that there has ever been much idea of catching vossner. we close altogether next monday, and the furniture is to be gone to law for. flatfleece says it belongs to him under what he calls a deed of sale. indeed, everything that everybody has seems to belong to flatfleece. he's always in and out of the club, and has got the key of the cellar." "that don't matter," said nidderdale, "as vossner took care that there shouldn't be any wine." "he's got most of the forks and spoons, and only lets us use what we have as a favour." "i suppose one can get a dinner here?" "yes; to-day you can, and perhaps to-morrow." "isn't there any playing?" asked felix with dismay. "i haven't seen a card this fortnight," said dolly. "there hasn't been anybody to play. everything has gone to the dogs. there has been the affair of melmotte, you know;--though, i suppose, you do know all about that." "of course i know he poisoned himself." "of course that had effect," said dolly, continuing his history. "though why fellows shouldn't play cards because another fellow like that takes poison, i can't understand. last year the only day i managed to get down in february, the hounds didn't come because some old cove had died. what harm could our hunting have done him? i call that rot." "melmotte's death was rather awful," said nidderdale. "not half so awful as having nothing to amuse one. and now they say the girl is going to be married to fisker. i don't know how you and nidderdale like that. i never went in for her myself. squercum never seemed to see it." "poor dear!" said nidderdale. "she's welcome for me, and i dare say she couldn't do better with herself. i was very fond of her;--i'll be shot if i wasn't." "and carbury too, i suppose," said dolly. "no; i wasn't. if i'd really been fond of her i suppose it would have come off. i should have had her safe enough to america, if i'd cared about it." this was sir felix's view of the matter. "come into the smoking-room, dolly," said nidderdale. "i can stand most things, and i try to stand everything; but, by george, that fellow is such a cad that i cannot stand him. you and i are bad enough,--but i don't think we're so heartless as carbury." "i don't think i'm heartless at all," said dolly. "i'm good-natured to everybody that is good-natured to me,--and to a great many people who ain't. i'm going all the way down to caversham next week to see my sister married, though i hate the place and hate marriages, and if i was to be hung for it i couldn't say a word to the fellow who is going to be my brother-in-law. but i do agree about carbury. it's very hard to be good-natured to him." but, in the teeth of these adverse opinions sir felix managed to get his dinner-table close to theirs and to tell them at dinner something of his future prospects. he was going to travel and see the world. he had, according to his own account, completely run through london life and found that it was all barren. "in life i've rung all changes through, run every pleasure down, 'midst each excess of folly too, and lived with half the town." sir felix did not exactly quote the old song, probably having never heard the words. but that was the burden of his present story. it was his determination to seek new scenes, and in search of them to travel over the greater part of the known world. "how jolly for you!" said dolly. "it will be a change, you know." "no end of a change. is any one going with you?" "well;--yes. i've got a travelling companion;--a very pleasant fellow, who knows a lot, and will be able to coach me up in things. there's a deal to be learned by going abroad, you know." "a sort of a tutor," said nidderdale. "a parson, i suppose," said dolly. "well;--he is a clergyman. who told you?" "it's only my inventive genius. well;--yes; i should say that would be nice,--travelling about europe with a clergyman. i shouldn't get enough advantage out of it to make it pay, but i fancy it will just suit you." "it's an expensive sort of thing;--isn't it?" asked nidderdale. "well;--it does cost something. but i've got so sick of this kind of life;--and then that railway board coming to an end, and the club smashing up, and--" "marie melmotte marrying fisker," suggested dolly. "that too, if you will. but i want a change, and a change i mean to have. i've seen this side of things, and now i'll have a look at the other." "didn't you have a row in the street with some one the other day?" this question was asked very abruptly by lord grasslough, who, though he was sitting near them, had not yet joined in the conversation, and who had not before addressed a word to sir felix. "we heard something about it, but we never got the right story." nidderdale glanced across the table at dolly, and dolly whistled. grasslough looked at the man he addressed as one does look when one expects an answer. mr. lupton, with whom grasslough was dining, also sat expectant. dolly and nidderdale were both silent. it was the fear of this that had kept sir felix away from the club. grasslough, as he had told himself, was just the fellow to ask such a question,--ill-natured, insolent, and obtrusive. but the question demanded an answer of some kind. "yes," said he; "a fellow attacked me in the street, coming behind me when i had a girl with me. he didn't get much the best of it though." "oh;--didn't he?" said grasslough. "i think, upon the whole, you know, you're right about going abroad." "what business is it of yours?" asked the baronet. "well;--as the club is being broken up, i don't know that it is very much the business of any of us." "i was speaking to my friends, lord nidderdale and mr. longestaffe, and not to you." "i quite appreciate the advantage of the distinction," said lord grasslough, "and am sorry for lord nidderdale and mr. longestaffe." "what do you mean by that?" said sir felix, rising from his chair. his present opponent was not horrible to him as had been john crumb, as men in clubs do not now often knock each others' heads or draw swords one upon another. "don't let's have a quarrel here," said mr. lupton. "i shall leave the room if you do." "if we must break up, let us break up in peace and quietness," said nidderdale. "of course, if there is to be a fight, i'm good to go out with anybody," said dolly. "when there's any beastly thing to be done, i've always got to do it. but don't you think that kind of thing is a little slow?" "who began it?" said sir felix, sitting down again. whereupon lord grasslough, who had finished his dinner, walked out of the room. "that fellow is always wanting to quarrel." "there's one comfort, you know," said dolly. "it wants two men to make a quarrel." "yes; it does," said sir felix, taking this as a friendly observation; "and i'm not going to be fool enough to be one of them." "oh, yes, i meant it fast enough," said grasslough afterwards up in the card-room. the other men who had been together had quickly followed him, leaving sir felix alone, and they had collected themselves there not with the hope of play, but thinking that they would be less interrupted than in the smoking-room. "i don't suppose we shall ever any of us be here again, and as he did come in i thought i would tell him my mind." "what's the use of taking such a lot of trouble?" said dolly. "of course he's a bad fellow. most fellows are bad fellows in one way or another." "but he's bad all round," said the bitter enemy. "and so this is to be the end of the beargarden," said lord nidderdale with a peculiar melancholy. "dear old place! i always felt it was too good to last. i fancy it doesn't do to make things too easy;--one has to pay so uncommon dear for them! and then, you know, when you've got things easy, then they get rowdy;--and, by george, before you know where you are, you find yourself among a lot of blackguards. if one wants to keep one's self straight, one has to work hard at it, one way or the other. i suppose it all comes from the fall of adam." "if solomon, solon, and the archbishop of canterbury were rolled into one, they couldn't have spoken with more wisdom," said mr. lupton. "live and learn," continued the young lord. "i don't think anybody has liked the beargarden so much as i have, but i shall never try this kind of thing again. i shall begin reading blue books to-morrow, and shall dine at the carlton. next session i shan't miss a day in the house, and i'll bet anybody a fiver that i make a speech before easter. i shall take to claret at _s._ a dozen, and shall go about london on the top of an omnibus." "how about getting married?" asked dolly. "oh;--that must be as it comes. that's the governor's affair. none of you fellows will believe me, but, upon my word, i liked that girl; and i'd 've stuck to her at last,--only that there are some things a fellow can't do. he was such a thundering scoundrel!" after a while sir felix followed them up-stairs, and entered the room as though nothing unpleasant had happened below. "we can make up a rubber;--can't we?" said he. "i should say not," said nidderdale. "i shall not play," said mr. lupton. "there isn't a pack of cards in the house," said dolly. lord grasslough didn't condescend to say a word. sir felix sat down with his cigar in his mouth, and the others continued to smoke in silence. "i wonder what has become of miles grendall," asked sir felix. but no one made any answer, and they smoked on in silence. "he hasn't paid me a shilling yet of the money he owes me." still there was not a word. "and i don't suppose he ever will." there was another pause. "he is the biggest scoundrel i ever met," said sir felix. "i know one as big," said lord grasslough,--"or, at any rate, as little." there was another pause of a minute, and then sir felix left the room muttering something as to the stupidity of having no cards;--and so brought to an end his connection with his associates of the beargarden. from that time forth he was never more seen by them,--or, if seen, was never known. the other men remained there till well on into the night, although there was not the excitement of any special amusement to attract them. it was felt by them all that this was the end of the beargarden, and, with a melancholy seriousness befitting the occasion, they whispered sad things in low voices, consoling themselves simply with tobacco. "i never felt so much like crying in my life," said dolly, as he asked for a glass of brandy-and-water at about midnight. "good-night, old fellows; good-bye. i'm going down to caversham, and i shouldn't wonder if i didn't drown myself." how mr. flatfleece went to law, and tried to sell the furniture, and threatened everybody, and at last singled out poor dolly longestaffe as his special victim; and how dolly longestaffe, by the aid of mr. squercum, utterly confounded mr. flatfleece, and brought that ingenious but unfortunate man, with his wife and small family, to absolute ruin, the reader will hardly expect to have told to him in detail in this chronicle. chapter xcvii. mrs. hurtle's fate. mrs. hurtle had consented at the joint request of mrs. pipkin and john crumb to postpone her journey to new york and to go down to bungay and grace the marriage of ruby ruggles, not so much from any love for the persons concerned, not so much even from any desire to witness a phase of english life, as from an irresistible tenderness towards paul montague. she not only longed to see him once again, but she could with difficulty bring herself to leave the land in which he was living. there was no hope for her. she was sure of that. she had consented to relinquish him. she had condoned his treachery to her,--and for his sake had even been kind to the rival who had taken her place. but still she lingered near him. and then, though, in all her very restricted intercourse with such english people as she met, she never ceased to ridicule things english, yet she dreaded a return to her own country. in her heart of hearts she liked the somewhat stupid tranquillity of the life she saw, comparing it with the rough tempests of her past days. mrs. pipkin, she thought, was less intellectual than any american woman she had ever known; and she was quite sure that no human being so heavy, so slow, and so incapable of two concurrent ideas as john crumb had ever been produced in the united states;--but, nevertheless, she liked mrs. pipkin, and almost loved john crumb. how different would her life have been could she have met a man who would have been as true to her as john crumb was to his ruby! she loved paul montague with all her heart, and she despised herself for loving him. how weak he was;--how inefficient; how unable to seize glorious opportunities; how swathed and swaddled by scruples and prejudices;--how unlike her own countrymen in quickness of apprehension and readiness of action! but yet she loved him for his very faults, telling herself that there was something sweeter in his english manners than in all the smart intelligence of her own land. the man had been false to her,--false as hell; had sworn to her and had broken his oath; had ruined her whole life; had made everything blank before her by his treachery! but then she also had not been quite true with him. she had not at first meant to deceive;--nor had he. they had played a game against each other; and he, with all the inferiority of his intellect to weigh him down, had won,--because he was a man. she had much time for thinking, and she thought much about these things. he could change his love as often as he pleased, and be as good a lover at the end as ever;--whereas she was ruined by his defection. he could look about for a fresh flower and boldly seek his honey; whereas she could only sit and mourn for the sweets of which she had been rifled. she was not quite sure that such mourning would not be more bitter to her in california than in mrs. pipkin's solitary lodgings at islington. "so he was mr. montague's partner,--was he now?" asked mrs. pipkin a day or two after their return from the crumb marriage. for mr. fisker had called on mrs. hurtle, and mrs. hurtle had told mrs. pipkin so much. "to my thinking now he's a nicer man than mr. montague." mrs. pipkin perhaps thought that as her lodger had lost one partner she might be anxious to secure the other;--perhaps felt, too, that it might be well to praise an american at the expense of an englishman. "there's no accounting for tastes, mrs. pipkin." "and that's true, too, mrs. hurtle." "mr. montague is a gentleman." "i always did say that of him, mrs. hurtle." "and mr. fisker is--an american citizen." mrs. hurtle when she said this was very far gone in tenderness. "indeed now!" said mrs. pipkin, who did not in the least understand the meaning of her friend's last remark. "mr. fisker came to me with tidings from san francisco which i had not heard before, and has offered to take me back with him." mrs. pipkin's apron was immediately at her eyes. "i must go some day, you know." "i suppose you must. i couldn't hope as you'd stay here always. i wish i could. i never shall forget the comfort it's been. there hasn't been a week without everything settled; and most ladylike,--most ladylike! you seem to me, mrs. hurtle, just as though you had the bank in your pocket." all this the poor woman said, moved by her sorrow to speak the absolute truth. "mr. fisker isn't in any way a special friend of mine. but i hear that he will be taking other ladies with him, and i fancy i might as well join the party. it will be less dull for me, and i shall prefer company just at present for many reasons. we shall start on the first of september." as this was said about the middle of august there was still some remnant of comfort for poor mrs. pipkin. a fortnight gained was something; and as mr. fisker had come to england on business, and as business is always uncertain, there might possibly be further delay. then mrs. hurtle made a further communication to mrs. pipkin, which, though not spoken till the latter lady had her hand on the door, was, perhaps, the one thing which mrs. hurtle had desired to say. "by-the-bye, mrs. pipkin, i expect mr. montague to call to-morrow at eleven. just show him up when he comes." she had feared that unless some such instructions were given, there might be a little scene at the door when the gentleman came. "mr. montague;--oh! of course, mrs. hurtle,--of course. i'll see to it myself." then mrs. pipkin went away abashed,--feeling that she had made a great mistake in preferring any other man to mr. montague, if, after all, recent difficulties were to be adjusted. on the following morning mrs. hurtle dressed herself with almost more than her usual simplicity, but certainly with not less than her usual care, and immediately after breakfast seated herself at her desk, nursing an idea that she would work as steadily for the next hour as though she expected no special visitor. of course she did not write a word of the task which she had prescribed to herself. of course she was disturbed in her mind, though she had dictated to herself absolute quiescence. she almost knew that she had been wrong even to desire to see him. she had forgiven him, and what more was there to be said? she had seen the girl, and had in some fashion approved of her. her curiosity had been satisfied, and her love of revenge had been sacrificed. she had no plan arranged as to what she would now say to him, nor did she at this moment attempt to make a plan. she could tell him that she was about to return to san francisco with fisker, but she did not know that she had anything else to say. then came the knock at the door. her heart leaped within her, and she made a last great effort to be tranquil. she heard the steps on the stairs, and then the door was opened and mr. montague was announced by mrs. pipkin herself. mrs. pipkin, however, quite conquered by a feeling of gratitude to her lodger, did not once look in through the door, nor did she pause a moment to listen at the keyhole. "i thought you would come and see me once again before i went," said mrs. hurtle, not rising from her sofa, but putting out her hand to greet him. "sit there opposite, so that we can look at one another. i hope it has not been a trouble to you." "of course i came when you left word for me to do so." "i certainly should not have expected it from any wish of your own." "i should not have dared to come, had you not bade me. you know that." "i know nothing of the kind;--but as you are here we will not quarrel as to your motives. has miss carbury pardoned you as yet? has she forgiven your sins?" "we are friends,--if you mean that." "of course you are friends. she only wanted to have somebody to tell her that somebody had maligned you. it mattered not much who it was. she was ready to believe any one who would say a good word for you. perhaps i wasn't just the person to do it, but i believe even i was sufficient to serve the turn." "did you say a good word for me?" "well; no;" replied mrs. hurtle. "i will not boast that i did. i do not want to tell you fibs at our last meeting. i said nothing good of you. what could i say of good? but i told her what was quite as serviceable to you as though i had sung your virtues by the hour without ceasing. i explained to her how very badly you had behaved to me. i let her know that from the moment you had seen her, you had thrown me to the winds." "it was not so, my friend." "what did that matter? one does not scruple a lie for a friend, you know! i could not go into all the little details of your perfidies. i could not make her understand during one short and rather agonizing interview how you had allowed yourself to be talked out of your love for me by english propriety even before you had seen her beautiful eyes. there was no reason why i should tell her all my disgrace,--anxious as i was to be of service. besides, as i put it, she was sure to be better pleased. but i did tell her how unwillingly you had spared me an hour of your company;--what a trouble i had been to you;--how you would have shirked me if you could!" "winifrid, that is untrue." "that wretched journey to lowestoft was the great crime. mr. roger carbury, who i own is poison to me--" "you do not know him." "knowing him or not i choose to have my own opinion, sir. i say that he is poison to me, and i say that he had so stuffed her mind with the flagrant sin of that journey, with the peculiar wickedness of our having lived for two nights under the same roof, with the awful fact that we had travelled together in the same carriage, till that had become the one stumbling block on your path to happiness." "he never said a word to her of our being there." "who did then? but what matters? she knew it;--and, as the only means of whitewashing you in her eyes, i did tell her how cruel and how heartless you had been to me. i did explain how the return of friendship which you had begun to show me, had been frozen, harder than wenham ice, by the appearance of mr. carbury on the sands. perhaps i went a little farther and hinted that the meeting had been arranged as affording you the easiest means of escape from me." "you do not believe that." "you see i had your welfare to look after; and the baser your conduct had been to me, the truer you were in her eyes. do i not deserve some thanks for what i did? surely you would not have had me tell her that your conduct to me had been that of a loyal, loving gentleman. i confessed to her my utter despair;--i abased myself in the dust, as a woman is abased who has been treacherously ill-used, and has failed to avenge herself. i knew that when she was sure that i was prostrate and hopeless she would be triumphant and contented. i told her on your behalf how i had been ground to pieces under your chariot wheels. and now you have not a word of thanks to give me!" "every word you say is a dagger." "you know where to go for salve for such skin-deep scratches as i make. where am i to find a surgeon who can put together my crushed bones? daggers, indeed! do you not suppose that in thinking of you i have often thought of daggers? why have i not thrust one into your heart, so that i might rescue you from the arms of this puny, spiritless english girl?" all this time she was still seated, looking at him, leaning forward towards him with her hands upon her brow. "but, paul, i spit out my words to you, like any common woman, not because they will hurt you, but because i know i may take that comfort, such as it is, without hurting you. you are uneasy for a moment while you are here, and i have a cruel pleasure in thinking that you cannot answer me. but you will go from me to her, and then will you not be happy? when you are sitting with your arm round her waist, and when she is playing with your smiles, will the memory of my words interfere with your joy then? ask yourself whether the prick will last longer than the moment. but where am i to go for happiness and joy? can you understand what it is to have to live only on retrospects?" "i wish i could say a word to comfort you." "you cannot say a word to comfort me, unless you will unsay all that you have said since i have been in england. i never expect comfort again. but, paul, i will not be cruel to the end. i will tell you all that i know of my concerns, even though my doing so should justify your treatment of me. he is not dead." "you mean mr. hurtle." "whom else should i mean? and he himself says that the divorce which was declared between us was no divorce. mr. fisker came here to me with tidings. though he is not a man whom i specially love,--though i know that he has been my enemy with you,--i shall return with him to san francisco." "i am told that he is taking madame melmotte with him, and melmotte's daughter." "so i understand. they are adventurers,--as i am, and i do not see why we should not suit each other." "they say also that fisker will marry miss melmotte." "why should i object to that? i shall not be jealous of mr. fisker's attentions to the young lady. but it will suit me to have some one to whom i can speak on friendly terms when i am back in california. i may have a job of work to do there which will require the backing of some friends. i shall be hand-and-glove with these people before i have travelled half across the ocean with them." "i hope they will be kind to you," said paul. "no;--but i will be kind to them. i have conquered others by being kind, but i have never had much kindness myself. did i not conquer you, sir, by being gentle and gracious to you? ah, how kind i was to that poor wretch, till he lost himself in drink! and then, paul, i used to think of better people, perhaps of softer people, of things that should be clean and sweet and gentle,--of things that should smell of lavender instead of wild garlic. i would dream of fair, feminine women,--of women who would be scared by seeing what i saw, who would die rather than do what i did. and then i met you, paul, and i said that my dreams should come true. i ought to have known that it could not be so. i did not dare quite to tell you all the truth. i know i was wrong, and now the punishment has come upon me. well;--i suppose you had better say good-bye to me. what is the good of putting it off?" then she rose from her chair and stood before him with her arms hanging listlessly by her side. "god bless you, winifrid!" he said, putting out his hand to her. "but he won't. why should he,--if we are right in supposing that they who do good will be blessed for their good, and those who do evil cursed for their evil? i cannot do good. i cannot bring myself now not to wish that you would return to me. if you would come i should care nothing for the misery of that girl,--nothing, at least nothing now, for the misery i should certainly bring upon you. look here;--will you have this back?" as she asked this she took from out her bosom a small miniature portrait of himself which he had given her in new york, and held it towards him. "if you wish it i will,--of course," he said. "i would not part with it for all the gold in california. nothing on earth shall ever part me from it. should i ever marry another man,--as i may do,--he must take me and this together. while i live it shall be next my heart. as you know, i have but little respect for the proprieties of life. i do not see why i am to abandon the picture of the man i love because he becomes the husband of another woman. having once said that i love you i shall not contradict myself because you have deserted me. paul, i have loved you, and do love you,--oh, with my very heart of hearts." so speaking she threw herself into his arms and covered his face with kisses. "for one moment you shall not banish me. for one short minute i will be here. oh, paul, my love;--my love!" all this to him was simply agony,--though as she had truly said it was an agony he would soon forget. but to be told by a woman of her love,--without being able even to promise love in return,--to be so told while you are in the very act of acknowledging your love for another woman,--carries with it but little of the joy of triumph. he did not want to see her raging like a tigress, as he had once thought might be his fate; but he would have preferred the continuance of moderate resentment to this flood of tenderness. of course he stood with his arm round her waist, and of course he returned her caresses; but he did it with such stiff constraint that she at once felt how chill they were. "there," she said, smiling through her bitter tears,--"there; you are released now, and not even my fingers shall ever be laid upon you again. if i have annoyed you, at this our last meeting, you must forgive me." "no;--but you cut me to the heart." "that we can hardly help;--can we? when two persons have made fools of themselves as we have, there must i suppose be some punishment. yours will never be heavy after i am gone. i do not start till the first of next month because that is the day fixed by our friend, mr. fisker, and i shall remain here till then because my presence is convenient to mrs. pipkin; but i need not trouble you to come to me again. indeed it will be better that you should not. good-bye." he took her by the hand, and stood for a moment looking at her, while she smiled and gently nodded her head at him. then he essayed to pull her towards him as though he would again kiss her. but she repulsed him, still smiling the while. "no, sir; no; not again; never again, never,--never,--never again." by that time she had recovered her hand and stood apart from him. "good-bye, paul;--and now go." then he turned round and left the room without uttering a word. she stood still, without moving a limb, as she listened to his step down the stairs and to the opening and the closing of the door. then hiding herself at the window with the scanty drapery of the curtain she watched him as he went along the street. when he had turned the corner she came back to the centre of the room, stood for a moment with her arms stretched out towards the walls, and then fell prone upon the floor. she had spoken the very truth when she said that she had loved him with all her heart. [illlustration: mrs. hurtle at the window.] but that evening she bade mrs. pipkin drink tea with her and was more gracious to the poor woman than ever. when the obsequious but still curious landlady asked some question about mr. montague, mrs. hurtle seemed to speak very freely on the subject of her late lover,--and to speak without any great pain. they had put their heads together, she said, and had found that the marriage would not be suitable. each of them preferred their own country, and so they had agreed to part. on that evening mrs. hurtle made herself more than usually pleasant, having the children up into her room, and giving them jam and bread-and-butter. during the whole of the next fortnight she seemed to take a delight in doing all in her power for mrs. pipkin and her family. she gave toys to the children, and absolutely bestowed upon mrs. pipkin a new carpet for the drawing-room. then mr. fisker came and took her away with him to america; and mrs. pipkin was left,--a desolate but grateful woman. "they do tell bad things about them americans," she said to a friend in the street, "and i don't pretend to know. but for a lodger, i only wish providence would send me another just like the one i have lost. she had that good nature about her she liked to see the bairns eating pudding just as if they was her own." i think mrs. pipkin was right, and that mrs. hurtle, with all her faults, was a good-natured woman. chapter xcviii. marie melmotte's fate. in the meantime marie melmotte was living with madame melmotte in their lodgings up at hampstead, and was taking quite a new look out into the world. fisker had become her devoted servant,--not with that old-fashioned service which meant making love, but with perhaps a truer devotion to her material interests. he had ascertained on her behalf that she was the undoubted owner of the money which her father had made over to her on his first arrival in england,--and she also had made herself mistress of that fact with equal precision. it would have astonished those who had known her six months since could they now have seen how excellent a woman of business she had become, and how capable she was of making the fullest use of mr. fisker's services. in doing him justice it must be owned that he kept nothing back from her of that which he learned, probably feeling that he might best achieve success in his present project by such honesty,--feeling also, no doubt, the girl's own strength in discovering truth and falsehood. "she's her father's own daughter," he said one day to croll in abchurch lane;--for croll, though he had left melmotte's employment when he found that his name had been forged, had now returned to the service of the daughter in some undefined position, and had been engaged to go with her and madame melmotte to new york. "ah; yees," said croll, "but bigger. he vas passionate, and did lose his 'ead; and vas blow'd up vid bigness." whereupon croll made an action as though he were a frog swelling himself to the dimensions of an ox. "'e bursted himself, mr. fisker. 'e vas a great man; but the greater he grew he vas always less and less vise. 'e ate so much that he became too fat to see to eat his vittels." it was thus that herr croll analyzed the character of his late master. "but ma'me'selle,--ah, she is different. she vill never eat too moch, but vill see to eat alvays." thus too he analyzed the character of his young mistress. at first things did not arrange themselves pleasantly between madame melmotte and marie. the reader will perhaps remember that they were in no way connected by blood. madame melmotte was not marie's mother, nor, in the eye of the law, could marie claim melmotte as her father. she was alone in the world, absolutely without a relation, not knowing even what had been her mother's name,--not even knowing what was her father's true name, as in the various biographies of the great man which were, as a matter of course, published within a fortnight of his death, various accounts were given as to his birth, parentage, and early history. the general opinion seemed to be that his father had been a noted coiner in new york,--an irishman of the name of melmody,--and, in one memoir, the probability of the descent was argued from melmotte's skill in forgery. but marie, though she was thus isolated, and now altogether separated from the lords and duchesses who a few weeks since had been interested in her career, was the undoubted owner of the money,--a fact which was beyond the comprehension of madame melmotte. she could understand,--and was delighted to understand,--that a very large sum of money had been saved from the wreck, and that she might therefore look forward to prosperous tranquillity for the rest of her life. though she never acknowledged so much to herself, she soon learned to regard the removal of her husband as the end of her troubles. but she could not comprehend why marie should claim all the money as her own. she declared herself to be quite willing to divide the spoil,--and suggested such an arrangement both to marie and to croll. of fisker she was afraid, thinking that the iniquity of giving all the money to marie originated with him, in order that he might obtain it by marrying the girl. croll, who understood it all perfectly, told her the story a dozen times,--but quite in vain. she made a timid suggestion of employing a lawyer on her own behalf, and was only deterred from doing so by marie's ready assent to such an arrangement. marie's equally ready surrender of any right she might have to a portion of the jewels which had been saved had perhaps some effect in softening the elder lady's heart. she thus was in possession of a treasure of her own,--though a treasure small in comparison with that of the younger woman; and the younger woman had promised that in the event of her marriage she would be liberal. it was distinctly understood that they were both to go to new york under mr. fisker's guidance as soon as things should be sufficiently settled to allow of their departure; and madame melmotte was told, about the middle of august, that their places had been taken for the rd of september. but nothing more was told her. she did not as yet know whether marie was to go out free or as the affianced bride of hamilton fisker. and she felt herself injured by being left so much in the dark. she herself was inimical to fisker, regarding him as a dark, designing man, who would ultimately swallow up all that her husband had left behind him,--and trusted herself entirely to croll, who was personally attentive to her. fisker was, of course, going on to san francisco. marie also had talked of crossing the american continent. but madame melmotte was disposed to think that for her, with her jewels, and such share of the money as marie might be induced to give her, new york would be the most fitting residence. why should she drag herself across the continent to california? herr croll had declared his purpose of remaining in new york. then it occurred to the lady that as melmotte was a name which might be too well known in new york, and which it therefore might be wise to change, croll would do as well as any other. she and herr croll had known each other for a great many years, and were, she thought, of about the same age. croll had some money saved. she had, at any rate, her jewels,--and croll would probably be able to get some portion of all that money, which ought to be hers, if his affairs were made to be identical with her own. so she smiled upon croll, and whispered to him; and when she had given croll two glasses of curaçoa,--which comforter she kept in her own hands, as safe-guarded almost as the jewels,--then croll understood her. but it was essential that she should know what marie intended to do. marie was anything but communicative, and certainly was not in any way submissive. "my dear," she said one day, asking the question in french, without any preface or apology, "are you going to be married to mr. fisker?" "what makes you ask that?" "it is so important i should know. where am i to live? what am i to do? what money shall i have? who will be a friend to me? a woman ought to know. you will marry fisker if you like him. why cannot you tell me?" "because i do not know. when i know i will tell you. if you go on asking me till to-morrow morning i can say no more." and this was true. she did not know. it certainly was not fisker's fault that she should still be in the dark as to her own destiny, for he had asked her often enough, and had pressed his suit with all his eloquence. but marie had now been wooed so often that she felt the importance of the step which was suggested to her. the romance of the thing was with her a good deal worn, and the material view of matrimony had also been damaged in her sight. she had fallen in love with sir felix carbury, and had assured herself over and over again that she worshipped the very ground on which he stood. but she had taught herself this business of falling in love as a lesson, rather than felt it. after her father's first attempts to marry her to this and that suitor because of her wealth,--attempts which she had hardly opposed amidst the consternation and glitter of the world to which she was suddenly introduced,--she had learned from novels that it would be right that she should be in love, and she had chosen sir felix as her idol. the reader knows what had been the end of that episode in her life. she certainly was not now in love with sir felix carbury. then she had as it were relapsed into the hands of lord nidderdale,--one of her early suitors,--and had felt that as love was not to prevail, and as it would be well that she should marry some one, he might probably be as good as any other, and certainly better than many others. she had almost learned to like lord nidderdale and to believe that he liked her, when the tragedy came. lord nidderdale had been very good-natured,--but he had deserted her at last. she had never allowed herself to be angry with him for a moment. it had been a matter of course that he should do so. her fortune was still large, but not so large as the sum named in the bargain made. and it was moreover weighted with her father's blood. from the moment of her father's death she had never dreamed that he would marry her. why should he? her thoughts in reference to sir felix were bitter enough;--but as against nidderdale they were not at all bitter. should she ever meet him again she would shake hands with him and smile,--if not pleasantly as she thought of the things which were past,--at any rate with good humour. but all this had not made her much in love with matrimony generally. she had over a hundred thousand pounds of her own, and, feeling conscious of her own power in regard to her own money, knowing that she could do as she pleased with her wealth, she began to look out into life seriously. what could she do with her money, and in what way would she shape her life, should she determine to remain her own mistress? were she to refuse fisker how should she begin? he would then be banished, and her only remaining friends, the only persons whose names she would even know in her own country, would be her father's widow and herr croll. she already began to see madame melmotte's purport in reference to croll, and could not reconcile herself to the idea of opening an establishment with them on a scale commensurate with her fortune. nor could she settle in her own mind any pleasant position for herself as a single woman, living alone in perfect independence. she had opinions of women's rights,--especially in regard to money; and she entertained also a vague notion that in america a young woman would not need support so essentially as in england. nevertheless, the idea of a fine house for herself in boston, or philadelphia,--for in that case she would have to avoid new york as the chosen residence of madame melmotte,--did not recommend itself to her. as to fisker himself,--she certainly liked him. he was not beautiful like felix carbury, nor had he the easy good-humour of lord nidderdale. she had seen enough of english gentlemen to know that fisker was very unlike them. but she had not seen enough of english gentlemen to make fisker distasteful to her. he told her that he had a big house at san francisco, and she certainly desired to live in a big house. he represented himself to be a thriving man, and she calculated that he certainly would not be here, in london, arranging her father's affairs, were he not possessed of commercial importance. she had contrived to learn that, in the united states, a married woman has greater power over her own money than in england, and this information acted strongly in fisker's favour. on consideration of the whole subject she was inclined to think that she would do better in the world as mrs. fisker than as marie melmotte,--if she could see her way clearly in the matter of her own money. "i have got excellent berths," fisker said to her one morning at hampstead. at these interviews, which were devoted first to business and then to love, madame melmotte was never allowed to be present. "i am to be alone?" "oh, yes. there is a cabin for madame melmotte and the maid, and a cabin for you. everything will be comfortable. and there is another lady going,--mrs. hurtle,--whom i think you will like." "has she a husband?" "not going with us," said mr. fisker evasively. "but she has one?" "well, yes;--but you had better not mention him. he is not exactly all that a husband should be." "did she not come over here to marry some one else?"--for marie in the days of her sweet intimacy with sir felix carbury had heard something of mrs. hurtle's story. "there is a story, and i dare say i shall tell you all about it some day. but you may be sure i should not ask you to associate with any one you ought not to know." "oh,--i can take care of myself." "no doubt, miss melmotte,--no doubt. i feel that quite strongly. but what i meant to observe was this,--that i certainly should not introduce a lady whom i aspire to make my own lady to any lady whom a lady oughtn't to know. i hope i make myself understood, miss melmotte." "oh, quite." "and perhaps i may go on to say that if i could go on board that ship as your accepted lover, i could do a deal more to make you comfortable, particularly when you land, than just as a mere friend, miss melmotte. you can't doubt my heart." "i don't see why i shouldn't. gentlemen's hearts are things very much to be doubted as far as i've seen 'em. i don't think many of 'em have 'em at all." "miss melmotte, you do not know the glorious west. your past experiences have been drawn from this effete and stone-cold country in which passion is no longer allowed to sway. on those golden shores which the pacific washes man is still true,--and woman is still tender." "perhaps i'd better wait and see, mr. fisker." but this was not mr. fisker's view of the case. there might be other men desirous of being true on those golden shores. "and then," said he, pleading his cause not without skill, "the laws regulating woman's property there are just the reverse of those which the greediness of man has established here. the wife there can claim her share of her husband's property, but hers is exclusively her own. america is certainly the country for women,--and especially california." "ah;--i shall find out all about it, i suppose, when i've been there a few months." "but you would enter san francisco, miss melmotte, under such much better auspices,--if i may be allowed to say so,--as a married lady or as a lady just going to be married." "ain't single ladies much thought of in california?" "it isn't that. come, miss melmotte, you know what i mean." "yes, i do." "let us go in for life together. we've both done uncommon well. i'm spending , dollars a year,--at that rate,--in my own house. you'll see it all. if we put them both together,--what's yours and what's mine,--we can put our foot out as far as about any one there, i guess." "i don't know that i care about putting my foot out. i've seen something of that already, mr. fisker. you shouldn't put your foot out farther than you can draw it in again." "you needn't fear me as to that, miss melmotte. i shouldn't be able to touch a dollar of your money. it would be such a triumph to go into francisco as man and wife." "i shouldn't think of being married till i had been there a while and looked about me." "and seen the house! well;--there's something in that. the house is all there, i can tell you. i'm not a bit afraid but what you'll like the house. but if we were engaged, i could do every thing for you. where would you be, going into san francisco all alone? oh, miss melmotte, i do admire you so much!" i doubt whether this last assurance had much efficacy. but the arguments with which it was introduced did prevail to a certain extent. "i'll tell you how it must be then," she said. "how shall it be?" and as he asked the question he jumped up and put his arm round her waist. "not like that, mr. fisker," she said, withdrawing herself. "it shall be in this way. you may consider yourself engaged to me." "i'm the happiest man on this continent," he said, forgetting in his ecstasy that he was not in the united states. "but if i find when i get to francisco anything to induce me to change my mind, i shall change it. i like you very well, but i'm not going to take a leap in the dark, and i'm not going to marry a pig in a poke." "there you're quite right," he said,--"quite right." "you may give it out on board the ship that we're engaged, and i'll tell madame melmotte the same. she and croll don't mean going any farther than new york." "we needn't break our hearts about that;--need we?" "it don't much signify. well;--i'll go on with mrs. hurtle, if she'll have me." "too much delighted she'll be." "and she shall be told we're engaged." "my darling!" "but if i don't like it when i get to frisco, as you call it, all the ropes in california shan't make me do it. well;--yes; you may give me a kiss i suppose now if you care about it." and so,--or rather so far,--mr. fisker and marie melmotte became engaged to each other as man and wife. after that mr. fisker's remaining business in england went very smoothly with him. it was understood up at hampstead that he was engaged to marie melmotte,--and it soon came to be understood also that madame melmotte was to be married to herr croll. no doubt the father of the one lady and the husband of the other had died so recently as to make these arrangements subject to certain censorious objections. but there was a feeling that melmotte had been so unlike other men, both in his life and in his death, that they who had been concerned with him were not to be weighed by ordinary scales. nor did it much matter, for the persons concerned took their departure soon after the arrangement was made, and hampstead knew them no more. on the rd of september madame melmotte, marie, mrs. hurtle, hamilton k. fisker, and herr croll left liverpool for new york; and the three ladies were determined that they never would revisit a country of which their reminiscences certainly were not happy. the writer of the present chronicle may so far look forward,--carrying his reader with him,--as to declare that marie melmotte did become mrs. fisker very soon after her arrival at san francisco. chapter xcix. lady carbury and mr. broune. when sir felix carbury declared to his friends at the beargarden that he intended to devote the next few months of his life to foreign travel, and that it was his purpose to take with him a protestant divine,--as was much the habit with young men of rank and fortune some years since,--he was not altogether lying. there was indeed a sounder basis of truth than was usually to be found attached to his statements. that he should have intended to produce a false impression was a matter of course,--and nearly equally so that he should have made his attempt by asserting things which he must have known that no one would believe. he was going to germany, and he was going in company with a clergyman, and it had been decided that he should remain there for the next twelve months. a representation had lately been made to the bishop of london that the english protestants settled in a certain commercial town in the north-eastern district of prussia were without pastoral aid, and the bishop had stirred himself in the matter. a clergyman was found willing to expatriate himself, but the income suggested was very small. the protestant english population of the commercial town in question, though pious, was not liberal. it had come to pass that the "morning breakfast table" had interested itself in the matter, having appealed for subscriptions after a manner not unusual with that paper. the bishop and all those concerned in the matter had fully understood that if the "morning breakfast table" could be got to take the matter up heartily, the thing would be done. the heartiness had been so complete that it had at last devolved upon mr. broune to appoint the clergyman; and, as with all the aid that could be found, the income was still small, the rev. septimus blake,--a brand snatched from the burning of rome,--had been induced to undertake the maintenance and total charge of sir felix carbury for a consideration. mr. broune imparted to mr. blake all that there was to know about the baronet, giving much counsel as to the management of the young man, and specially enjoining on the clergyman that he should on no account give sir felix the means of returning home. it was evidently mr. broune's anxious wish that sir felix should see as much as possible of german life, at a comparatively moderate expenditure, and under circumstances that should be externally respectable if not absolutely those which a young gentleman might choose for his own comfort or profit;--but especially that those circumstances should not admit of the speedy return to england of the young gentleman himself. lady carbury had at first opposed the scheme. terribly difficult as was to her the burden of maintaining her son, she could not endure the idea of driving him into exile. but mr. broune was very obstinate, very reasonable, and, as she thought, somewhat hard of heart. "what is to be the end of it then?" he said to her, almost in anger. for in those days the great editor, when in presence of lady carbury, differed very much from that mr. broune who used to squeeze her hand and look into her eyes. his manner with her had become so different that she regarded him as quite another person. she hardly dared to contradict him, and found herself almost compelled to tell him what she really felt and thought. "do you mean to let him eat up everything you have to your last shilling, and then go to the workhouse with him?" "oh, my friend, you know how i am struggling! do not say such horrid things." "it is because i know how you are struggling that i find myself compelled to say anything on the subject. what hardship will there be in his living for twelve months with a clergyman in prussia? what can he do better? what better chance can he have of being weaned from the life he is leading?" "if he could only be married!" "married! who is to marry him? why should any girl with money throw herself away upon him?" "he is so handsome." "what has his beauty brought him to? lady carbury, you must let me tell you that all that is not only foolish but wrong. if you keep him here you will help to ruin him, and will certainly ruin yourself. he has agreed to go;--let him go." she was forced to yield. indeed, as sir felix had himself assented, it was almost impossible that she should not do so. perhaps mr. broune's greatest triumph was due to the talent and firmness with which he persuaded sir felix to start upon his travels. "your mother," said mr. broune, "has made up her mind that she will not absolutely beggar your sister and herself in order that your indulgence may be prolonged for a few months. she cannot make you go to germany of course. but she can turn you out of her house, and, unless you go, she will do so." "i don't think she ever said that, mr. broune." "no;--she has not said so. but i have said it for her in her presence; and she has acknowledged that it must necessarily be so. you may take my word as a gentleman that it will be so. if you take her advice £ a year will be paid for your maintenance;--but if you remain in england not a shilling further will be paid." he had no money. his last sovereign was all but gone. not a tradesman would give him credit for a coat or a pair of boots. the key of the door had been taken away from him. the very page treated him with contumely. his clothes were becoming rusty. there was no prospect of amusement for him during the coming autumn or winter. he did not anticipate much excitement in eastern prussia, but he thought that any change must be a change for the better. he assented, therefore, to the proposition made by mr. broune, was duly introduced to the rev. septimus blake, and, as he spent his last sovereign on a last dinner at the beargarden, explained his intentions for the immediate future to those friends at his club who would no doubt mourn his departure. mr. blake and mr. broune between them did not allow the grass to grow under their feet. before the end of august sir felix, with mr. and mrs. blake and the young blakes, had embarked from hull for hamburgh,--having extracted at the very hour of parting a last five-pound note from his foolish mother. "it will be just enough to bring him home," said mr. broune with angry energy when he was told of this. but lady carbury, who knew her son well, assured him that felix would be restrained in his expenditure by no such prudence as such a purpose would indicate. "it will be gone," she said, "long before they reach their destination." "then why the deuce should you give it him?" said mr. broune. mr. broune's anxiety had been so intense that he had paid half a year's allowance in advance to mr. blake out of his own pocket. indeed, he had paid various sums for lady carbury,--so that that unfortunate woman would often tell herself that she was becoming subject to the great editor, almost like a slave. he came to her, three or four times a week, at about nine o'clock in the evening, and gave her instructions as to all that she should do. "i wouldn't write another novel if i were you," he said. this was hard, as the writing of novels was her great ambition, and she had flattered herself that the one novel which she had written was good. mr. broune's own critic had declared it to be very good in glowing language. the "evening pulpit" had of course abused it,--because it is the nature of the "evening pulpit" to abuse. so she had argued with herself, telling herself that the praise was all true, whereas the censure had come from malice. after that article in the "breakfast table," it did seem hard that mr. broune should tell her to write no more novels. she looked up at him piteously but said nothing. "i don't think you'd find it answer. of course you can do it as well as a great many others. but then that is saying so little!" "i thought i could make some money." "i don't think mr. leadham would hold out to you very high hopes;--i don't, indeed. i think i would turn to something else." "it is so very hard to get paid for what one does." to this mr. broune made no immediate answer; but, after sitting for a while, almost in silence, he took his leave. on that very morning lady carbury had parted from her son. she was soon about to part from her daughter, and she was very sad. she felt that she could hardly keep up that house in welbeck street for herself, even if her means permitted it. what should she do with herself? whither should she take herself? perhaps the bitterest drop in her cup had come from those words of mr. broune forbidding her to write more novels. after all, then, she was not a clever woman,--not more clever than other women around her! that very morning she had prided herself on her coming success as a novelist, basing all her hopes on that review in the "breakfast table." now, with that reaction of spirits which is so common to all of us, she was more than equally despondent. he would not thus have crushed her without a reason. though he was hard to her now,--he who used to be so soft,--he was very good. it did not occur to her to rebel against him. after what he had said, of course there would be no more praise in the "breakfast table,"--and, equally of course, no novel of hers could succeed without that. the more she thought of him, the more omnipotent he seemed to be. the more she thought of herself, the more absolutely prostrate she seemed to have fallen from those high hopes with which she had begun her literary career not much more than twelve months ago. on the next day he did not come to her at all, and she sat idle, wretched, and alone. she could not interest herself in hetta's coming marriage, as that marriage was in direct opposition to one of her broken schemes. she had not ventured to confess so much to mr. broune, but she had in truth written the first pages of the first chapter of a second novel. it was impossible now that she should even look at what she had written. all this made her very sad. she spent the evening quite alone; for hetta was staying down in suffolk, with her cousin's friend, mrs. yeld, the bishop's wife; and as she thought of her life past and her life to come, she did, perhaps, with a broken light, see something of the error of her ways, and did, after a fashion, repent. it was all "leather or prunello," as she said to herself;--it was all vanity,--and vanity,--and vanity! what real enjoyment had she found in anything? she had only taught herself to believe that some day something would come which she would like;--but she had never as yet in truth found anything to like. it had all been in anticipation,--but now even her anticipations were at an end. mr. broune had sent her son away, had forbidden her to write any more novels,--and had been refused when he had asked her to marry him! the next day he came to her as usual, and found her still very wretched. "i shall give up this house," she said. "i can't afford to keep it; and in truth i shall not want it. i don't in the least know where to go, but i don't think that it much signifies. any place will be the same to me now." "i don't see why you should say that." "what does it matter?" "you wouldn't think of going out of london." "why not? i suppose i had better go wherever i can live cheapest." "i should be sorry that you should be settled where i could not see you," said mr. broune plaintively. "so shall i,--very. you have been more kind to me than anybody. but what am i to do? if i stay in london i can live only in some miserable lodgings. i know you will laugh at me, and tell me that i am wrong; but my idea is that i shall follow felix wherever he goes, so that i may be near him and help him when he needs help. hetta doesn't want me. there is nobody else that i can do any good to." "i want you," said mr. broune, very quietly. "ah,--that is so kind of you. there is nothing makes one so good as goodness;--nothing binds your friend to you so firmly as the acceptance from him of friendly actions. you say you want me, because i have so sadly wanted you. when i go you will simply miss an almost daily trouble, but where shall i find a friend?" "when i said i wanted you, i meant more than that, lady carbury. two or three months ago i asked you to be my wife. you declined, chiefly, if i understood you rightly, because of your son's position. that has been altered, and therefore i ask you again. i have quite convinced myself,--not without some doubts, for you shall know all; but, still, i have quite convinced myself,--that such a marriage will best contribute to my own happiness. i do not think, dearest, that it would mar yours." this was said with so quiet a voice and so placid a demeanour, that the words, though they were too plain to be misunderstood, hardly at first brought themselves home to her. of course he had renewed his offer of marriage, but he had done so in a tone which almost made her feel that the proposition could not be an earnest one. it was not that she believed that he was joking with her or paying her a poor insipid compliment. when she thought about it at all, she knew that it could not be so. but the thing was so improbable! her opinion of herself was so poor, she had become so sick of her own vanities and littlenesses and pretences, that she could not understand that such a man as this should in truth want to make her his wife. at this moment she thought less of herself and more of mr. broune than either perhaps deserved. she sat silent, quite unable to look him in the face, while he kept his place in his arm-chair, lounging back, with his eyes intent on her countenance. "well," he said; "what do you think of it? i never loved you better than i did for refusing me before, because i thought that you did so because it was not right that i should be embarrassed by your son." "that was the reason," she said, almost in a whisper. "but i shall love you better still for accepting me now,--if you will accept me." the long vista of her past life appeared before her eyes. the ambition of her youth which had been taught to look only to a handsome maintenance, the cruelty of her husband which had driven her to run from him, the further cruelty of his forgiveness when she returned to him; the calumny which had made her miserable, though she had never confessed her misery; then her attempts at life in london, her literary successes and failures, and the wretchedness of her son's career;--there had never been happiness, or even comfort, in any of it. even when her smiles had been sweetest her heart had been heaviest. could it be that now at last real peace should be within her reach, and that tranquillity which comes from an anchor holding to a firm bottom? then she remembered that first kiss,--or attempted kiss,--when, with a sort of pride in her own superiority, she had told herself that the man was a susceptible old goose. she certainly had not thought then that his susceptibility was of this nature. nor could she quite understand now whether she had been right then, and that the man's feelings, and almost his nature, had since changed,--or whether he had really loved her from first to last. as he remained silent it was necessary that she should answer him. "you can hardly have thought of it enough," she said. "i have thought of it a good deal too. i have been thinking of it for six months at least." "there is so much against me." "what is there against you?" "they say bad things of me in india." "i know all about that," replied mr. broune. "and felix!" "i think i may say that i know all about that also." "and then i have become so poor!" "i am not proposing to myself to marry you for your money. luckily for me,--i hope luckily for both of us,--it is not necessary that i should do so." "and then i seem so to have fallen through in everything. i don't know what i've got to give to a man in return for all that you offer to give to me." "yourself," he said, stretching out his right hand to her. and there he sat with it stretched out,--so that she found herself compelled to put her own into it, or to refuse to do so with very absolute words. very slowly she put out her own, and gave it to him without looking at him. then he drew her towards him, and in a moment she was kneeling at his feet, with her face buried on his knees. considering their ages perhaps we must say that their attitude was awkward. they would certainly have thought so themselves had they imagined that any one could have seen them. but how many absurdities of the kind are not only held to be pleasant, but almost holy,--as long as they remain mysteries inspected by no profane eyes! it is not that age is ashamed of feeling passion and acknowledging it,--but that the display of it is, without the graces of which youth is proud, and which age regrets. on that occasion there was very little more said between them. he had certainly been in earnest, and she had now accepted him. as he went down to his office he told himself now that he had done the best, not only for her but for himself also. and yet i think that she had won him more thoroughly by her former refusal than by any other virtue. she, as she sat alone, late into the night, became subject to a thorough reaction of spirit. that morning the world had been a perfect blank to her. there was no single object of interest before her. now everything was rose-coloured. this man who had thus bound her to him, who had given her such assured proofs of his affection and truth, was one of the considerable ones of the world; a man than whom few,--so she now told herself,--were greater or more powerful. was it not a career enough for any woman to be the wife of such a man, to receive his friends, and to shine with his reflected glory? whether her hopes were realised, or,--as human hopes never are realised,--how far her content was assured, these pages cannot tell; but they must tell that, before the coming winter was over, lady carbury became the wife of mr. broune, and, in furtherance of her own resolve, took her husband's name. the house in welbeck street was kept, and mrs. broune's tuesday evenings were much more regarded by the literary world than had been those of lady carbury. chapter c. down in suffolk. it need hardly be said that paul montague was not long in adjusting his affairs with hetta after the visit which he received from roger carbury. early on the following morning he was once more in welbeck street, taking the brooch with him; and though at first lady carbury kept up her opposition, she did it after so weak a fashion as to throw in fact very little difficulty in his way. hetta understood perfectly that she was in this matter stronger than her mother and that she need fear nothing, now that roger carbury was on her side. "i don't know what you mean to live on," lady carbury said, threatening future evils in a plaintive tone. hetta repeated, though in other language, the assurance which the young lady made who declared that if her future husband would consent to live on potatoes, she would be quite satisfied with the potato-peelings; while paul made some vague allusion to the satisfactory nature of his final arrangements with the house of fisker, montague, and montague. "i don't see anything like an income," said lady carbury; "but i suppose roger will make it right. he takes everything upon himself now it seems." but this was before the halcyon day of mr. broune's second offer. it was at any rate decided that they were to be married, and the time fixed for the marriage was to be the following spring. when this was finally arranged roger carbury, who had returned to his own home, conceived the idea that it would be well that hetta should pass the autumn and if possible the winter also down in suffolk, so that she might get used to him in the capacity which he now aspired to fill; and with that object he induced mrs. yeld, the bishop's wife, to invite her down to the palace. hetta accepted the invitation and left london before she could hear the tidings of her mother's engagement with mr. broune. roger carbury had not yielded in this matter,--had not brought himself to determine that he would recognise paul and hetta as acknowledged lovers,--without a fierce inward contest. two convictions had been strong in his mind, both of which were opposed to this recognition,--the first telling him that he would be a fitter husband for the girl than paul montague, and the second assuring him that paul had ill-treated him in such a fashion that forgiveness would be both foolish and unmanly. for roger, though he was a religious man, and one anxious to conform to the spirit of christianity, would not allow himself to think that an injury should be forgiven unless the man who did the injury repented of his own injustice. as to giving his coat to the thief who had taken his cloak,--he told himself that were he and others to be guided by that precept honest industry would go naked in order that vice and idleness might be comfortably clothed. if any one stole his cloak he would certainly put that man in prison as soon as possible and not commence his lenience till the thief should at any rate affect to be sorry for his fault. now, to his thinking, paul montague had stolen his cloak, and were he, roger, to give way in this matter of his love, he would be giving paul his coat also. no! he was bound after some fashion to have paul put into prison; to bring him before a jury, and to get a verdict against him, so that some sentence of punishment might be at least pronounced. how then could he yield? and paul montague had shown himself to be very weak in regard to women. it might be,--no doubt it was true,--that mrs. hurtle's appearance in england had been distressing to him. but still he had gone down with her to lowestoft as her lover, and, to roger's thinking, a man who could do that was quite unfit to be the husband of hetta carbury. he would himself tell no tales against montague on that head. even when pressed to do so he had told no tale. but not the less was his conviction strong that hetta ought to know the truth, and to be induced by that knowledge to reject her younger lover. but then over these convictions there came a third,--equally strong,--which told him that the girl loved the younger man and did not love him, and that if he loved the girl it was his duty as a man to prove his love by doing what he could to make her happy. as he walked up and down the walk by the moat, with his hands clasped behind his back, stopping every now and again to sit on the terrace wall,--walking there, mile after mile, with his mind intent on the one idea,--he schooled himself to feel that that, and that only, could be his duty. what did love mean if not that? what could be the devotion which men so often affect to feel if it did not tend to self-sacrifice on behalf of the beloved one? a man would incur any danger for a woman, would subject himself to any toil,--would even die for her! but if this were done simply with the object of winning her, where was that real love of which sacrifice of self on behalf of another is the truest proof? so, by degrees, he resolved that the thing must be done. the man, though he had been bad to his friend, was not all bad. he was one who might become good in good hands. he, roger, was too firm of purpose and too honest of heart to buoy himself up into new hopes by assurances of the man's unfitness. what right had he to think that he could judge of that better than the girl herself? and so, when many many miles had been walked, he succeeded in conquering his own heart,--though in conquering it he crushed it,--and in bringing himself to the resolve that the energies of his life should be devoted to the task of making mrs. paul montague a happy woman. we have seen how he acted up to this resolve when last in london, withdrawing at any rate all signs of anger from paul montague and behaving with the utmost tenderness to hetta. when he had accomplished that task of conquering his own heart and of assuring himself thoroughly that hetta was to become his rival's wife, he was, i think, more at ease and less troubled in his spirit than he had been during those months in which there had still been doubt. the sort of happiness which he had once pictured to himself could certainly never be his. that he would never marry he was quite sure. indeed he was prepared to settle carbury on hetta's eldest boy on condition that such boy should take the old name. he would never have a child whom he could in truth call his own. but if he could induce these people to live at carbury, or to live there for at least a part of the year, so that there should be some life in the place, he thought that he could awaken himself again, and again take an interest in the property. but as a first step to this he must learn to regard himself as an old man,--as one who had let life pass by too far for the purposes of his own home, and who must therefore devote himself to make happy the homes of others. so thinking of himself and so resolving, he had told much of his story to his friend the bishop, and as a consequence of those revelations mrs. yeld had invited hetta down to the palace. roger felt that he had still much to say to his cousin before her marriage which could be said in the country much better than in town, and he wished to teach her to regard suffolk as the county to which she should be attached and in which she was to find her home. the day before she came he was over at the palace with the pretence of asking permission to come and see his cousin soon after her arrival, but in truth with the idea of talking about hetta to the only friend to whom he had looked for sympathy in his trouble. "as to settling your property on her or her children," said the bishop, "it is quite out of the question. your lawyer would not allow you to do it. where would you be if after all you were to marry?" "i shall never marry." "very likely not,--but yet you may. how is a man of your age to speak with certainty of what he will do or what he will not do in that respect? you can make your will, doing as you please with your property;--and the will, when made, can be revoked." "i think you hardly understand just what i feel," said roger, "and i know very well that i am unable to explain it. but i wish to act exactly as i would do if she were my daughter, and as if her son, if she had a son, would be my natural heir." "but, if she were your daughter, her son wouldn't be your natural heir as long as there was a probability or even a chance that you might have a son of your own. a man should never put the power, which properly belongs to him, out of his own hands. if it does properly belong to you it must be better with you than elsewhere. i think very highly of your cousin, and i have no reason to think otherwise than well of the gentleman whom she intends to marry. but it is only human nature to suppose that the fact that your property is still at your own disposal should have some effect in producing a more complete observance of your wishes." "i do not believe it in the least, my lord," said roger somewhat angrily. "that is because you are so carried away by enthusiasm at the present moment as to ignore the ordinary rules of life. there are not, perhaps, many fathers who have regans and gonerils for their daughters;--but there are very many who may take a lesson from the folly of the old king. 'thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown,' the fool said to him, 'when thou gav'st thy golden one away.' the world, i take it, thinks that the fool was right." the bishop did so far succeed that roger abandoned the idea of settling his property on paul montague's children. but he was not on that account the less resolute in his determination to make himself and his own interests subordinate to those of his cousin. when he came over, two days afterwards, to see her he found her in the garden, and walked there with her for a couple of hours. "i hope all our troubles are over now," he said smiling. "you mean about felix," said hetta,--"and mamma?" "no, indeed. as to felix i think that lady carbury has done the best thing in her power. no doubt she has been advised by mr. broune, and mr. broune seems to be a prudent man. and about your mother herself, i hope that she may now be comfortable. but i was not alluding to felix and your mother. i was thinking of you--and of myself." "i hope that you will never have any troubles." "i have had troubles. i mean to speak very freely to you now, dear. i was nearly upset,--what i suppose people call broken-hearted,--when i was assured that you certainly would never become my wife. i ought not to have allowed myself to get into such a frame of mind. i should have known that i was too old to have a chance." "oh, roger,--it was not that." "well,--that and other things. i should have known it sooner, and have got over my misery quicker. i should have been more manly and stronger. after all, though love is a wonderful incident in a man's life, it is not that only that he is here for. i have duties plainly marked out for me; and as i should never allow myself to be withdrawn from them by pleasure, so neither should i by sorrow. but it is done now. i have conquered my regrets, and i can say with safety that i look forward to your presence and paul's presence at carbury as the source of all my future happiness. i will make him welcome as though he were my brother, and you as though you were my daughter. all i ask of you is that you will not be chary of your presence there." she only answered him by a close pressure on his arm. "that is what i wanted to say to you. you will teach yourself to regard me as your best and closest friend,--as he on whom you have the strongest right to depend, of all,--except your husband." "there is no teaching necessary for that," she said. "as a daughter leans on a father i would have you lean on me, hetta. you will soon come to find that i am very old. i grow old quickly, and already feel myself to be removed from everything that is young and foolish." "you never were foolish." "nor young either, i sometimes think. but now you must promise me this. you will do all that you can to induce him to make carbury his residence." "we have no plans as yet at all, roger." "then it will be certainly so much the easier for you to fall into my plan. of course you will be married at carbury?" "what will mamma say?" "she will come here, and i am sure will enjoy it. that i regard as settled. then, after that, let this be your home,--so that you should learn really to care about and to love the place. it will be your home really, you know, some of these days. you will have to be squire of carbury yourself when i am gone, till you have a son old enough to fill that exalted position." with all his love to her and his good-will to them both, he could not bring himself to say that paul montague should be squire of carbury. "oh, roger, please do not talk like that." "but it is necessary, my dear. i want you to know what my wishes are, and, if it be possible, i would learn what are yours. my mind is quite made up as to my future life. of course, i do not wish to dictate to you,--and if i did, i could not dictate to mr. montague." "pray,--pray do not call him mr. montague." "well, i will not;--to paul then. there goes the last of my anger." he threw his hands up as though he were scattering his indignation to the air. "i would not dictate either to you or to him, but it is right that you should know that i hold my property as steward for those who are to come after me, and that the satisfaction of my stewardship will be infinitely increased if i find that those for whom i act share the interest which i shall take in the matter. it is the only payment which you and he can make me for my trouble." [illustration: "there goes the last of my anger."] "but felix, roger!" his brow became a little black as he answered her. "to a sister," he said very solemnly, "i will not say a word against her brother; but on that subject i claim a right to come to a decision on my own judgment. it is a matter in which i have thought much, and, i may say, suffered much. i have ideas, old-fashioned ideas, on the matter, which i need not pause to explain to you now. if we are as much together as i hope we shall be, you will, no doubt, come to understand them. the disposition of a family property, even though it be one so small as mine, is, to my thinking, a matter which a man should not make in accordance with his own caprices,--or even with his own affections. he owes a duty to those who live on his land, and he owes a duty to his country. and, though it may seem fantastic to say so, i think he owes a duty to those who have been before him, and who have manifestly wished that the property should be continued in the hands of their descendants. these things are to me very holy. in what i am doing i am in some respects departing from the theory of my life,--but i do so under a perfect conviction that by the course i am taking i shall best perform the duties to which i have alluded. i do not think, hetta, that we need say any more about that." he had spoken so seriously, that, though she did not quite understand all that he had said, she did not venture to dispute his will any further. he did not endeavour to exact from her any promise, but having explained his purposes, kissed her as he would have kissed a daughter, and then left her and rode home without going into the house. soon after that, paul montague came down to carbury, and the same thing was said to him, though in a much less solemn manner. paul was received quite in the old way. having declared that he would throw all anger behind him, and that paul should be again paul, he rigidly kept his promise, whatever might be the cost to his own feelings. as to his love for hetta, and his old hopes, and the disappointment which had so nearly unmanned him, he said not another word to his fortunate rival. montague knew it all, but there was now no necessity that any allusion should be made to past misfortunes. roger indeed made a solemn resolution that to paul he would never again speak of hetta as the girl whom he himself had loved, though he looked forward to a time, probably many years hence, when he might perhaps remind her of his fidelity. but he spoke much of the land and of the tenants and the labourers, of his own farm, of the amount of the income, and of the necessity of so living that the income might always be more than sufficient for the wants of the household. when the spring came round, hetta and paul were married by the bishop at the parish church of carbury, and roger carbury gave away the bride. all those who saw the ceremony declared that the squire had not seemed to be so happy for many a long year. john crumb, who was there with his wife,--himself now one of roger's tenants, having occupied the land which had become vacant by the death of old daniel ruggles,--declared that the wedding was almost as good fun as his own. "john, what a fool you are!" ruby said to her spouse, when this opinion was expressed with rather a loud voice. "yes, i be," said john,--"but not such a fool as to a' missed a having o' you." "no, john; it was i was the fool then," said ruby. "we'll see about that when the bairn's born," said john,--equally aloud. then ruby held her tongue. mrs. broune, and mr. broune, were also at carbury,--thus doing great honour to mr. and mrs. paul montague, and showing by their presence that all family feuds were at an end. sir felix was not there. happily up to this time mr. septimus blake had continued to keep that gentleman as one of his protestant population in the german town,--no doubt not without considerable trouble to himself. [frontispiece: with eyes wide and staring she looked about her] the son of his father by ridgwell cullum author of "the men who wrought," "the way of the strong," "the night-riders," "the watchers of the plains," etc. illustrations by douglas duer philadelphia george w. jacobs & company publishers copyright, , by george w. jacobs & company _published march, _ all rights reserved _printed in u. s. a._ to g. ralph hall-caine whose sympathy with my work has never failed to cheer me throughout our long and valued friendship contents chap. i unrepentant ii in chastened mood iii gordon arrives iv gordon lands at snake's fall v a letter home vi gordon prospects snake's fall vii "miss hazel" viii at buffalo point ix the first check x gordon makes his bid for fortune xi hazel mallinsbee's campaign xii thinking hard xiii slosson snatches at opportunity xiv the reward of victory xv in council xvi something doing xvii the code book xviii ways that are dark xix james carbhoy arrives xx the boom in earnest xxi a trifle xxii on the trail xxiii in new york xxiv preparing for the finale xxv the rescue xxvi cashing in illustrations with eyes wide and staring she looked about her . . . _frontispiece_ hazel was waiting for that sign he drew her gently towards his father chapter i unrepentant "to wine, women and gambling, at the age of twenty-four--one hundred thousand dollars. that's your bill, my boy, and--i've got to pay it." james carbhoy leaned back smiling, his half-humorous eyes squarely challenging his son, who was lounging in a luxurious morocco chair at the other side of the desk. as the moments passed without producing any reply, he reached towards the cabinet at his elbow and helped himself to a large cigar. without any scruple he tore the end off it with his strong teeth and struck a match. "well?" gordon carbhoy cleared his throat and looked serious. in spite of his father's easy, smiling manner he knew that a crisis in his affairs had been reached. he understood the iron will lying behind the pleasant steel-gray eyes of his parent. it was a will that flinched at nothing, a will that had carved for its owner a great fortune in america's most strenuous financial arena, the railroad world. he also knew the only way in which to meet his father's challenge with any hope of success. above everything else the millionaire demanded courage and manhood--manhood as he understood it--from those whom he regarded well. "i'm waiting." gordon stirred. the millionaire carefully lit his cigar. "put that way it--sounds rotten, dad, doesn't it?" gordon's mobile lips twisted humorously, and he also reached towards the cigar cabinet. but the older man intercepted him. he held out a box of lesser cigars. "try one of these, gordon. one of the others would add two dollars to your bill. these are half the price." the two men smiled into each other's eyes. a great devotion lay between them. but their regard was not likely to interfere with the business in hand. gordon helped himself. then he rose from his chair. he moved across the handsome room, towering enormously. his six feet three inches were well matched by a great pair of athletic shoulders. his handsome face bore no traces of the fast living implied by the enormous total of his debts. the wholesome tan of outdoor sports left him a fine specimen of the more brilliant youth of america. then, too, in his humorous blue eyes lay an extra dash of recklessness, which was probably due to his superlative physical advantages. he came back to his chair and propped his vast body on the back of it. his father was watching him affectionately. "dad," he exclaimed, "i'm--sorry." the other shook his head. "don't say that. it's not true. i'd hate it to be true--anyway." gordon's face lit. "you're--going to pay it?" "sure. i'm not going to have our name stink in our home city. sure i'm going to pay it. but----" "but--what?" "so are you." the faint ticking of the bracket clock on the wall suddenly became like the blows of a hammer. "i--i don't think i----" young gordon broke off. his merry eyes had suddenly become troubled. the crisis was becoming acute. for some moments the millionaire smoked on luxuriously. then he removed his cigar and cleared his throat. "i'm not going to shout. that's not my way," he said in his easy, deliberate fashion. "guess folks have got to be young, and the younger they're young--why, the better. i was young, and--got over it. you're going to get over it. i figure to help you that way. this is not the first bill you've handed me, but--but it's going to be the last. guess your baby clothes can be packed right up. maybe they'll be all the better for it when you hand 'em on to--your kiddie." the trouble had passed out of the younger man's eyes. they were filled with the humor inspired by his father's manner of dealing with the affair in hand. "that's all right," he said. "i seem to get that clear enough." "i'm glad." the millionaire twisted the cigar into the corner of his mouth. "we can pass right on to--other things. you've been one of my secretaries for three years, and it don't seem to me the work's worried you a lot. still, i put you in early thinking you'd get interested in the source of the dollars you were handing out in bunches. maybe it wasn't the best way of doing it. still, i had to try it. you see, it's a great organization i control--though you may not know it. i control more millions than you could count on your fingers and toes, and they've cost me some mental sweat gathering 'em together. some day you've got to sit in this chair and talk over this 'phone, and when you do you'll be--a man. you see, i don't fancy my pile being invested in cut flowers and automobiles for lady friends. i don't seem to have heard that thousand-dollar parties to boys who can't smoke a five-cent cigar right, and girls who're just out for a good time anyway, are liable to bring you interest on the capital invested, except in the way of contempt. and five-thousand dollar apartments are calculated to rival the luxury of rome before its fall. big play at 'draw' and 'auction' are two diseases not provided for amongst the cures in patent med'cine advertisements, and as for the older vintages in wines, they're only permissible in folks who've quit worrying to scratch dollars together. none of these things seem to me good business, and in a man at the outset of his career some of 'em are--immoral. you've had your preliminary run, and i'll admit you've shown a fine turn of speed. but it smacks too much of the race-track, and seems to me quite unsuited to the hard highroad of big finance you're destined to travel. "just one moment," he went on, as, with flushing cheeks and half-angry eyes, his son was about to break in. "you haven't got the point of this talk yet. this bill you've handed me don't figure as largely in it as you might guess. i've thought about things these months. i don't blame you a thing. i'm not kicking. the fact you've got to grab and get your hind teeth into is that there comes a time when two can't spend one fortune with any degree of amicability. it's a sort of proposition like two dogs and a bone. now from a canine point of view that bone certainly belongs to one of those dogs. no two dogs ever stole a bone together. consequently, the situation ends in a scrap, and it isn't always a cert. that the right thief gets the bone. how it would work out between us i'm not prepared to guess, but, as 'scrap' don't belong to the vocabulary between us, we'll handle the matter in another way. seeing the fortune--at present--belongs to me, i'll do the spending in--my own way. my way is mighty simple, too, as far as you're concerned. i'm going to stake you all you need, so you can get out and find a bone you can worry on _your own_. that's how you're going to pay this bill. you're going to get busy quitting play. we are, and always have been, and always will be, just two great big friends, and i'd like you to remember that when i say that the life you're living is all right for a boy, but in a man it leads to dirty ditches that aren't easy climbing out of, and--you can't do clean work with dirty hands. when you've shown me you're capable of collecting a bone for your own worrying--why, you can come right back here, and i'll be pleased and proud to hand over the reins of this organization, and i'll be mighty content to sit around in one of the back seats and get busy with the applause. now you talk." gordon began without a moment's hesitation. something of his heat had passed, but it still remained near the surface. "quite time i did," he cried almost sharply. "look here, father, i don't think you meant all you said the way your talk conveyed it. to me the most important of your talk is the implied immorality of my mode of life. then the inconsistent fashion in which you point my way towards--big finance." his eyes lit again. they had suddenly become dangerously bright. "here, we're not going to quarrel, nor get angry," he went on, gathering heat of manner even in his denial. "we're too great friends for that, and you've always been too good a sportsman to me, but--but i'm not going to sit and listen to you or anybody else accusing me of immorality without kicking with all my strength!" he brought one great fist down on the desk with a bang that set the ink-wells and other objects dancing perilously. "i'm not angry with you. i couldn't get angry with you," he proceeded, with a suppressed excitement that added to his father's smile; "but i tell you right here i'll not stand for it from you or anybody. my only crime is spending your money, which you have always encouraged me to do. from my university days to now my whole leisure has been given up to athletics. a man can't live immorally and win the contests i have won. i don't need to name them. boxing, sculling, running, baseball, swimming. you know that. any sane man knows that. the money i've spent has been spent in the ordinary course of the life to which you have brought me up. you have always impressed on me the great position you occupy and the necessity for keeping my end up. that's all i have to say about my debts, but i have something to say on the subject of the inconsistency with which you censure immorality in the same breath as you demand my immediate plunge into the mire of big finance." he paused for a moment. then, as abruptly as it had arisen, his heat died down, and gave place to the ready humor of his real nature. "gee, i want to laugh!" he sprang from his seat and began to pace the floor, talking as he moved. his father watched him with twinkling, affectionate eyes. "immorality? psha! was there ever anything more immoral than modern finance? you imply i have learned nothing of your organization in the three years i've been one of your secretaries. dad," he warned, "i've learned enough to have a profound contempt for the methods of big corporations in this country, or anywhere else. it's all graft--graft of one sort or another. do you need me to tell _you_ of it? no, i don't think so. twenty-five millions wouldn't cover the fortune you've made. i know that well enough. how has it been made? here, i'll just give you one instance of the machinations of a big corporation. how did you gain control of the union grayling and ukataw railroad? psha! what's the use? you know. you hammered it, hammered it to nothing. you got your own people into it, and sat back while they ran it nearly into bankruptcy under your orders. then you bought. bought it right up, and--sent it ahead. immoral? it makes me sweat to think of the people who must have lost fortunes in that scoop. immoral? why, i tell you, dad, any man can make a pile if he sticks to the old saw: 'don't butt up against the law--just dodge it.' it's only difficult for the fellow who remembers his sunday-school days. so far, dad, i've avoided immorality. i'm waiting till i start on big finance to become its victim. that's my talk. now you do some." his father nodded. then he said dryly, "this carpet cost me five hundred dollars, that chair fifty. try the chair." gordon laughed at the imperturbable smile on his father's face, but he flung his great body into the chair. james carbhoy deliberately knocked the ash from his cigar. it was many years since he had received such a straight talk from any man. some of it had stung--stung sharply, but the justice or injustice of it he set aside. his whole mind and heart were upon other matters. he took no umbrage. he swept all personal feeling aside and regarded the boy whom he idolized. "we've both made some talk," he observed, "but i think the last word's with me. i don't seem to be sure which of us has put up the bluff. maybe we both have. anyway, right here and now i'm going to call your hand. i offered you a stake. you say it's easy to make a pile. can you make a pile?" gordon shrugged. "why, yes. if i follow your wish and embark on--big finance. and--forget my sunday school." the millionaire gathered up the sheaf of loose accounts on the desk and held them up. his smile was grim and challenging. "one hundred thousand dollars these bills represent. the cashier will hand you a check for that amount. say, you've shown your ability to spend that amount; can you show your ability to make it?" for a moment the boy's blue eyes avoided the half-ironical smile of his father's. then suddenly they returned the steady gaze, and a flush spread swiftly over his handsome face. something of his father's purpose was dawning upon him. he began to realize that the man who had made those many millions was far too clever for him when it came to debate. he squared his shoulders obstinately and took up the challenge. there was no other course for him. but even as he accepted it his heart sank at the prospect. "certainly," he cried. "certainly--with a stake to start me." his father nodded. "sure. that goes," he said. then he laid the papers on the desk, and his whole manner underwent a further change. his eyes seemed to harden with the light of battle. there was an ironical skepticism in them. even there was a shadow of contempt. for the moment it seemed as if he had forgotten that the man before him was his son, and regarded him merely as some rival financier seeking to beat him in a deal. "i'll hand you one hundred thousand dollars. that's your stake. this is the way you'll pay those bills. you'll leave this city in twenty-four hours. you can go where you choose, do what you choose. but you must return here in twelve months' time with exactly double that sum. i make no conditions as to how you make the money. that's right up to you. i shall ask no questions, and blame you for no process you adopt, however much i disapprove. then, to show you how certain i am you can't do it--why, if you make good, there's a half-share partnership in my organization waiting right here for you." "a half-share partnership?" gordon repeated incredulously. "you said--a half-share?" "that's precisely what i said." all of a sudden the younger man flung back his head and laughed aloud. "why, dad, i stand to win right along the line--anyway," he exclaimed. the older man's eyes softened. "maybe it's just how you look at it." the change in his father's manner was quite lost upon gordon. he only saw his enormous advantage in this one-sided bargain. "say, dad, was there ever such a father as i've got?" he cried exuberantly. "never, never! but you're not going to monopolize all the sportsmanship. i can play the game, too. i don't need one hundred thousand dollars on this game. i don't need twelve months to do it in. i'm not going to cut twelve months out of our lives together. six is all i need. six months, and five thousand dollars' stake. that's what i need. give me that, and i'll be back with one hundred and five thousand dollars in six months' time. i haven't a notion where i'm going or what i'm going to do. all i know is you've put it up to me to make good, and i'm going to. i'll get that money if--if i have to rob a bank." the boy's recklessness was too much for the gravity of the financier. he sat back and laughed. he flung his half-smoked cigar away, and in a moment father and son had joined in a duel of loud-voiced mirth. presently, however, their laughter died out. the millionaire sprang to his feet. his eyes were shining with delight. "i don't care a darn how you do it, boy," he cried. "as you say, it's up to you. you see, i've got over my sunday-school days, as you so delicately reminded me. that's by the way. but there's more in this than maybe you get right. you're going to learn that no graft can turn five thousand dollars into one hundred thousand in six months without a mighty fine commercial brain behind it. it's that brain i'm looking for in my son. now get along and see your mother and sister. you've only got twenty-four hours' grace. leave these bills to me. you're making a bid for the greatest fortune ever staked in a wager, and things like that don't stand for any delay. get out, gordon, boy; get out and--make good." he held one powerful hand out across the desk, and gordon promptly seized and wrung it. "good-by, dad, and--god bless you." chapter ii in chastened mood of course, the whole thing was ridiculous. gordon knew that. no one could know it better. the more he thought about it the more surely he was certain of it. he told himself that he, personally, had behaved like a first-class madman over the whole affair. how on earth was he to make one hundred thousand dollars in six months? it couldn't be done. that was all. it simply couldn't be done. what power of mischief had driven him to charge his highly respectable father with graft? it was a rotten thing to do anyway. and it served him right that it had come back on him by pointing the way to the present impossible situation. he was perfectly disgusted with himself. but after a while he began to chuckle. the thing was not without an atmosphere of humor--of a sort. no doubt his friends would have seen a tremendous humor in the idea of his making one hundred thousand dollars under any conditions. one hundred thousand dollars! what a tremendous sum it sounded viewed from the standpoint of his having to make it. he had never considered it a vast sum before. but now it seemed to grow and grow every time he thought of it. then he laughed. what stupid things "noughts" were. they meant so much just now, and, in reality, they mean nothing at all. oh, dear. the whole thing was a terrible trouble. it was worse. it was a tragedy. but--he mustn't give his friends the laugh on him. that would be the last straw. no. the whole thing should remain a secret between his father and himself. he almost broke into a sweat as he suddenly remembered the press. what wouldn't the press do with the story. the son and heir of james carbhoy, the well-known multi-millionaire, leaving home to show the world how to make one hundred thousand dollars in record time! a stupendous farce. then the swarm of reporters buzzing about him like a cloud of flies in summer time. the prospect was too depressing. think of the columns in the press, especially the cheaper press. they would haunt him from new york to--timbuctoo! it couldn't be done. he felt certain that in such circumstances suicide would be justifiable. thoughts such as these swept on through his disturbed brain as he sped up broadway on his way to say good-by to his mother and sister. he had been lucky in finding his father's high-powered automobile standing outside the palatial entrance of the towering carbhoy building. nor had he the least scruple in commandeering it. his visit to the east side of central park was in the nature of a whirlwind. he had no desire to be questioned, and he knew his young sister, gracie, too well to give her a chance in that direction. their friends were wont to say that, for one so young--she was only thirteen--she was all wit and intellect. he felt that that was because she was his father's daughter. for himself he was positive she was all precocity and impertinence. and he told himself he was quite unprejudiced. as for his mother, she was one of those gentle southern women who declare that no woman has the right to question the doings of the male members of her household, and, in spite of the luxury with which she was surrounded, and which she never failed to feel the burden of--she was originally a small farmer's daughter--still yearned for that homely meal of her youth, "supper"--a collation of coffee, cakes, preserves and cold meats. experience warned him that he must give her no inkling of the real facts. she would be too terribly shocked at the revelation. so, for an hour or more, in the little family circle, in his mother's splendid boudoir, he talked of everything but his own affairs. nor was it until he was in the act of taking his leave that he warned them both that he was leaving the city for six months. he felt it was a cowardly thing to do, but, having fired his bombshell in their midst, he fled precipitately before its stunning effect had time to pass away. off he sped, the automobile urged to a dangerous speed, and it was with a great sense of relief that he finally reached his own apartment on riverside drive. letting himself in, he found his man, harding, waiting for him. "mrs. carbhoy has been ringing you up, sir," he said in the level tones of a well-trained servant. "she wants to speak to you, sir--most important." gordon hardened his heart. "disconnect the 'phone then," he said sharply, and flung himself into a great settle which stood in the domed hall. "very good, sir." the man was moving away. "if my mother or sister should come here, i'm out. send word down to the office that there's no one in." the valet's face was quite expressionless. gordon carbhoy had his own way of dealing with his affairs. harding understood this. he was also devoted to his master. "yes, sir." he vanished out of the hall. left alone a great change came over gordon. the old buoyancy and humor seemed suddenly to fall from him. for once his eyes were perfectly, almost painfully serious. he stared about him, searching the remoteness of his surroundings, his eyes and thoughts dwelling on the luxury of the apartment he had occupied for the last three years. it was a two-floored masterpiece of builder's ingenuity. it was to be his home no longer. that splendid domed hall had been the scene of many innocent revels. yes, in spite of the accusation of immorality, his parties had been innocent enough. he had entertained the boys and girls of his acquaintance royally, but--innocently. well, that was all done with. it was just a memory. the future was his concern. the future. and that depended on his own exertions. for a moment the seriousness of his mood lifted. surely his own exertions as a business man was a broken reed to---- what about failure? what was to follow--failure? he hadn't thought of it, and his father hadn't spoken of it. suddenly the cloud settled again, and a sort of panic swept over him. did his father intend to--kick him out? it almost looked like it. and yet---- had he intended this stake as his last? what a perfect fool he had been to refuse the hundred thousand dollars. then, in a moment, his panic passed. he was glad he had done so--anyway. he selected a cigar from his case and sniffed at it. he remembered his father's. his handsome blue eyes were twinkling. his own cigars cost half a dollar more than his father's, and the fact amused him. he cut the end carefully and lit it. then he leaned back on the cushions and resigned himself to the reflection that these things, too, must go with the rest. they, too, must become a mere memory. "harding!" he called. the man appeared almost magically. "harding, have you ever smoked a--five-cent cigar?" he inquired thoughtfully. the valet cleared his throat. "i'm sorry to say, sir, i haven't." "sorry?" gordon's eyes were smiling. "a mere figure of speech, sir." "ah--i see. they must be--painful." "very, i should think, sir. but, beg pardon, sir, i believe in some--ahem--low places, they sell two for five cents!" "two? i--i wonder if the sanitary authorities know about it." gordon smiled into the serious face of his devoted henchman. then he went on rapidly-- "what baggage do you suggest for a six months' trip?" "europe, sir?" "no." "south, sir?" "i--haven't made up my mind." "general then, sir. that'll need more. there's the three large trunks. the steamer trunk. four suit cases. will you need your polo kit, sir, and your----?" gordon shook his head. "guess your focus needs adjusting. now, suppose you were getting a man ready for a six months' trip--a man who smoked those two-for-five cigars. what would you give him?" harding's eyelids flickered. he sighed. "it would be difficult, sir. i shouldn't give him clean under-garments, sir. i should suggest the oldest suit i could find. you see, sir, it would be waste to give him a good suit. the axles of those box cars are so greasy. i'm not sure about a toothbrush." "your focus is adjusting itself." "yes, sir, thank you, sir." "and the five-cent-cigar man?" harding's verdict came promptly. "a hand bag with one good suit and ablutionary utensils, sir. also strong, warm under-garments, and a thick overcoat. one spare pair of boots. you see, sir, he could carry that himself." "good," cried gordon delightedly. "you prepare for that five-cent-cigar man. now i want some food. better ring down to the restaurant." "yes, sir. an oyster cocktail? squab on toast, or a little pheasant? what about sweets, sir, and what wine will you take?" "great gods no, man! nothing like that. think of your five-cent-cigar man. what would he have? why, sandwiches. you know, nice thick ones, mostly bread. no. wait a bit. i know. a club sandwich. two club sandwiches, and a bottle of domestic lager. two things i hate--eternally. we must equip ourselves, harding. we must mortify the flesh. we must readjust our focus, and outrage all our more delicate susceptibilities. we must reduce ourselves to the requirements of the five-cent-cigar man, and turn a happy, smiling world into a dark and drear struggle for existence. see to it, good harding, see to it." the man withdrew, puzzled. used as he was to gordon's vagaries, the thought of his master dining off two hideous club sandwiches and a bottle of _domestic_ lager made his staunch stomach positively turn. his perfect training, however, permitted of no verbal protest. and he waited on the diner with as much care for punctilio as though a formal banquet were in progress. then came another violent shock to his feelings. gordon leaned back in his chair with a sigh of amused contentment. "do you think you could get me a--five-cent cigar, harding?" he demanded. "say, i enjoyed that food. that unique combination of chicken, hot bacon and--and something pickly--why, it's great. and as for _domestic_ lager--it's got wine beaten a mile. guess i'm mighty anxious to explore a--five-cent cigar." harding cleared his throat. "i'll do my best, sir. it may be difficult, but i'll do my best. i'll consult the clerk downstairs. he smokes very bad cigars, sir." "good. you get busy. i'll be around in my den." "yes, sir," harding hesitated. then with an unusual diffidence, "coffee, sir? a little of the ' brandy, sir?" gordon stared. "can i believe my ears? spoil a dinner like that with--' brandy? i'm astonished, harding. that focus, man; that five-cent-cigar focus!" gordon hurried off into his den with a laugh. harding gazed after him with puzzled, respectful eyes. once in the privacy of his den, half office, half library, and wholly a room of comfort, gordon forgot his laugh. his mind was quite made up, and he knew that a long evening's work lay before him. he picked up the receiver of his private 'phone to his father's office and sat down at the desk. "hello! hello! ah! that you, harker? splendid. guess i'm glad i caught you. working late, eh? sure. it's the way in er--big finance. yes. got to lie awake at nights to do the other feller. say. no. oh, no, that's not what i rang you up for. it's about--finance. ha, ha! it's a check for me. did the governor leave me one? good. five thousand dollars, isn't it? well, say, don't place it to my credit. get cash for it to-morrow, and send it along to---- let me see. yes, i know. you send along a bright clerk with it. he can meet me at the pennsylvania depot to-morrow, at noon--sharp. yes. in the waiting-room. get that? good. so long." "that's that," he muttered, as he replaced the receiver. "now for charlie spiers." he turned to the ordinary 'phone, picked up the receiver, gave the operator the number, and waited. "hello! hello, hello, hello! that you, charlie? bully. i wasn't sure getting you. guess my luck's right in. how are you? goo---- no, better not come around to-night. fact is, i'm up to my back teeth packing and things. i've got to be away awhile. business--important." he laughed. "don't get funny. it's not play. no. eh? what's that? a lady? quit it. if there's a thing i can't stand just about now it's a suggestion of immorality. i mean that. the word 'immoral' 's about enough to set me chasing broadway barking and foaming at the mouth. i said i'm going away on business, and it's so important that not even my mother knows where i'm going. yes. ah, i'm glad you feel that way. it's serious. now, listen to me; it's up to you to do me a kindness. i'm going to write the mater now and again. but i can't mail direct, or she'll know where i am, see? well, i can send her mail under cover to you, and you can mail it on to her. get me? now, that way, you'll know just where i am. that's so. well, you've got to swear right along over the wire you won't tell a soul. not the governor, or the mater, or gracie, or--or anybody. no, i don't need you to cuss like a railroader about it. just swear properly. that's it. that's fine. on your soul and honor. fine. i'm glad you added the 'honor' racket, it makes things plumb sure. oh, yes, your soul's all right in its way. but---- good-by, boy. i'll see you six months from to-day. no. too busy. so long." gordon hung up the receiver and turned back to his desk with a sigh. he opened a drawer and took out his check-book, and gave himself up to a few minutes of figures. there was not a great deal of money to his credit at the bank, but it was sufficient for his purposes. he wrote and signed three checks. then he tore the remaining blanks up and flung them into the waste-basket. after that he turned his attention to a systematic examination of his papers. it was a long, and not uninteresting process, but one that took a vast amount of patience. he tore up letter after letter, photographs, bills, every sort of document which a bachelor seems always to accumulate when troubled by the disease of youth. in the midst of his labors he came across his father's private code for cable and telegraph. it brought back to him the memory of his position as one of his father's secretaries. he smiled as he glanced through it. it must be sent back to the office. he would hand it to the clerk who brought him his money in the morning. so he placed it carefully in the inside pocket of his coat and continued his labors. half an hour later harding appeared. "beg pardon, sir," he said. "i had some difficulty, but"--he held up an oily-looking cigar with a flaming label about its middle, between his finger and thumb--"i succeeded in obtaining one. i had to take three surface cars, and finally had to go to fourth avenue. it was a lower place than i expected, sir, seeing that it was a five-cent cigar." "that means it cost me twenty cents, harding--unless you were able to transfer." gordon eyed the man's expressionless face quizzically. "i'm sorry, sir. but i forgot about the transfer tickets." gordon sighed with pretended regret. "i'm sure guessing it's--bad finance. we ought to do better." "i could have saved the fares if i'd taken your car, sir," said harding, with a flicker of the eyelids. "splendid, gasoline at thirteen cents, and the price of tires going up." gordon drummed on the desk with his fingers and became thoughtful. he had a painful duty yet to perform. "harding," he said at last, with a genuine sigh, his eyes painfully serious. "we've got to go different ways. you've--got to quit." the valet's face never moved a muscle. "yes, sir." "right away." "yes, sir." then the man cleared his throat, and laid the oily-looking cigar on the desk. "i trust, sir, i've given satisfaction?" "satisfaction?" gordon's tone expressed the most cordial appreciation. "satisfaction don't express it. i couldn't have kept up the farce of existence without you. you are the best fellow in the world. guess it's i who haven't given satisfaction." "yes, sir." "oh--you agree?" "yes, sir. that is, no, sir." harding passed one thin hand across his forehead, and the movement was one of perplexity. it was the only gesture he permitted himself as any expression of feeling. "i'm going away for six months--as a five-cent-cigar man," gordon went on, disguising his regret under a smile of humor. "i'm going away on--business." "yes, sir." the respectful agreement came in a monotonous tone. "so you'll--just have to quit. that's all." "yes, sir." "ye-es." "you will--need a man when you come back, sir?" the eagerness was unmistakable to gordon. "i--hope so." harding's face brightened. "i will accept temporary employment then, sir. thank you, sir." gordon wondered. then he cleared his throat, and held out two of the checks he had written. "here's two months' wages," he said. "one is your due. guess the other's the same, only--it's a present. now, get this. you'll need to see everything cleared right out of this shanty, and stored at the manhattan deposit. when that's done, get right along and report things to my father, and hand him your accounts for settlement. all my cigars and cigarettes and wine and things, why, i guess you can have for a present. it don't seem reasonable to me condemning you to five-cent cigars and domestic lager. now pack me one grip, as you said. i'll wear the suit i've got on. mind, i need a grip i can tote myself--full." "very good, sir. thank you, sir. anything else, sir?" "why, yes." gordon was smiling again. "hand this check in at the bank when it opens to-morrow, and get me cash for it, and bring it right along. that's all, except you'd better get me another disgusting sandwich, and another bottle of tragedy beer for my supper. there's nothing else." with a resolute air gordon turned back to his work, as, with an obvious sigh of regret, harding silently withdrew. chapter iii gordon arrives gordon carbhoy sat hunched up in his seat. his great shoulders, so square and broad, seemed to fill up far more space than he was entitled to. his cheerful face showed no signs of the impatience and irritability he was really enduring. a seraphic contentment alone shone in his clear blue eyes. he was a picture of the youthful conviction that life was in reality a very pleasant thing, and that there did not exist a single cloud upon the delicately tinted horizon of his own particular portion of it. in spite of this outward seeming, however, he was by no means easy. every now and again he would stand up and ease the tightness of his trousers about his knees. he felt dirty, too, dirty and untidy, notwithstanding the fact that he had washed himself, and brushed his hair, many times in the cramped compartment of the train devoted to that purpose. then he would fling himself into his corner again and give his attention to the monotonously level landscape beyond the window and strive to forget the stale odor so peculiar to all railroad cars, especially in summer time. these were movements and efforts he had made a hundred times since leaving the great terminal in new york. he had slept in his corner. he had eaten cheaply in the dining-car. he had smoked one of the delicious cigars, from the box which the faithful harding had secreted in his grip, in the smoker ahead. he had read every line in the magazines he had provided himself with, even to the advertisements. the time hung heavily, drearily. the train grumbled, and shook, and jolted its ponderous way on across the vast american continent. it was all very tedious. then the endless stream of thought, often fantastic, always unconvincing, always leading up to those ridiculous cyphers representing one hundred thousand dollars. if only they were numerals. nice, odd numerals. he was a firm believer in the luck of odd numbers. but no. it was always "noughts." most disgusting "noughts." he yawned for about the thousandth time on his two days' journey, and wondered hopelessly how many more times he would yawn before he reached the pacific. hello! the conductor was coming through again. going to tear off more ticket, gordon supposed. that tearing off was most interesting. he wondered if the ticket would last out till he reached seattle. he supposed so. seattle! the yukon! the yukon certainly suggested fortune, the making of a rapid fortune. but how? one hundred thousand dollars! there it was again. his eyes were following the movements of the rubicund conductor. the man looked enormously self-satisfied, and was certainly bursting with authority and adipose tissue. he wondered if he couldn't annoy him some way. it would be good to annoy some one. he closed his smiling eyes and feigned sleep. the vast bulk of blue uniform and brass buttons bore down upon him. it reached his "pew," dropped into the seat opposite, and tweaked him by the coat sleeve. gordon opened his eyes with a pretended start. "where are we?" he demanded irritably. "som'eres between the devil an' the deep sea, i guess," grinned the man. "your--ticket." gordon began to fumble slowly through his pockets. he knew precisely where his ticket was, but he searched carefully and deliberately in every other possible place. the man waited, breathing heavily. he displayed not the slightest sign of the annoyance desired. at last gordon turned out the inside pocket of his coat. the first thing he discovered amongst its contents was his father's private code book, and the annoyance was in his eyes rather than in those of the conductor. his resolve to return it had been entirely forgotten. he forthwith produced his ticket. "the devil's behind us, i s'pose," said gordon. "anyway, we're told it's the right place for him. i'll be glad when we reach the sea." the conductor examined the ticket, while gordon returned the code book to his pocket. "ah, seattle," the brassbound official murmured. then he looked into the now smiling face before him. "you ain't for snake's fall?" "guess i shouldn't have paid for a ticket to seattle if i were," gordon retorted with some sarcasm. "that's so," observed the official, quite undisturbed. "i knew one guy was for seattle. i was kind o' wondering 'bout him. se-attle," he murmured reflectively. "on the coast. a seaport. puget sound," said gordon objectionably. "a low down sailor town on the side of a hill, wher' if you ain't climbin' up you're mostly fallin' down. wher' it rains nigh six months o' the year, an' parboils you the rest. wher' every bum going to or coming from the yukon gets thoroughly soused and plays the fool gener'ly." the man's retort was as pointedly objectionable as gordon's had been, and the challenge of it stirred the latter's sense of humor. "guess i'm one of the bums 'going to,'" he said cheerfully. the man's fat-surrounded eyes ceased to grin. "startin' fer the yukon in--july? never heard of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "it's as ridiculous as startin' fer hell in summer time. you'll make alaska when she freezes up, and sit around till she opens next spring. say----" "you mean i'll get hung up for--ten months?" cried gordon aghast. "jest depends on your business." "yes, of course." gordon's heart sank as the man grunted up from his seat, and handed him back his mutilated ticket. he watched him pass on down the car and finally vanish through the doorway of the parlor-car beyond. then his eyes came back to his surroundings. he stared at the heads of his fellow travelers dotting the tops of the seats about him. then his eyes dropped to his grip on the opposite seat lying under his overcoat, and again, later, they turned reflectively towards the window. ten months. ten months, and he only had six before him in which to accomplish his purpose. was there ever a more perfect imbecile? was there ever such a fool trick? a smile of chagrin grew in his eyes as he remembered how he had arrived at the pennsylvania depot, and had studied the list of places to which he could go, seeking to find in the names an inspiration for the accomplishment of his purpose. there had been so many that his amazed head had been set whirling. there he had stood, wondering and gawking like some foolish country "rube," without one single idea beyond the fact that he must go somewhere and make one hundred thousand dollars in six months' time. then had come that one illuminating flash. he saw the name in great capital letters in an advertisement. "the yukon." of course. it was the one and only place in the world for quick fortunes, and forthwith he had booked his passage to seattle. nor was he likely to forget his immense satisfaction when he heard harding's respectful "yes, sir," in response to his information. now he certainly was convinced that he was own brother to the finest bred jackass in the whole wide world. however, there was nothing to be done but go on to seattle. he had paid for his ticket, and, providence willing, to seattle he would go. but providence had its own ideas upon the matter. furthermore, providence began at once to set its own machinery working in his behalf. it was the same providence that looks after drunken men and imbeciles. half an hour later it impelled him to gather up his traps and pass forward into the smoker, accompanied by one of his own big, expensive cigars. he pushed his way into the car through the narrow door of communication. a haze of tobacco smoke blurred his view, but at once he became aware of a single, melancholy, benevolent eye gazing steadily at him. it was an amiable eye and withal shrewd. also it was surrounded by a shaggy dark brow. this had a fellow, too, but the eye belonging to the fellow was concealed beneath what was intended to be a flesh-tinted cover, secured in place by elastic round its owner's head. the surrounding face was rugged and weather tanned. and it finished with a mop of iron-gray hair at one end, and an aggressively tufted chin beard at the other. but the thrusting whisker could not disguise the general strength of the face. below this was a spread of large body clad in a store suit of some pretensions, but of ill fit, and a heavy gold watchchain and a large diamond pin in the neckwear suggested opulence. furthermore, one eye suggested the prime of middle life, and robust health and satisfaction. there was only one other occupant of the car. he was two or three seats away, across the aisle. he promptly claimed gordon's attention. he was amusing himself by shooting "crap" on a baize-covered traveling-table. both men were smoking hard, and, by the density of the atmosphere, and the aroma, the newcomer estimated that they, unlike himself, were not five-cent-cigar men. he paused at the dice thrower's seat and watched the proceedings. the man appeared not to notice his approach at all, and continued to labor on with his pastime, carrying on a muttered address to the obdurate "bones." "come 'sev,'" he muttered again and again, as he flung the dice on the table with a flick of the fingers. but the "seven" would not come up, and at last he raised a pair of keen black eyes to gordon's face. "cussed things, them durned bones," he said briefly, and went on with his play. gordon smiled. "it's like most things. it's luck that tells." the player grinned down at the dice and nodded agreement, while he continued his muttered demands. gordon flung his traps into another seat, and sat himself down opposite the man. crap dice never failed to fascinate him. the melancholy benevolence of one eye remained fixed upon the pair. the seven refused to come up, and finally the player desisted. "sort of workin' calculations," he explained, with an amiable grin. "an' they don't calc worth a cent. as you say, the hull blamed thing is chance. sevens, or any other old things 'll just come up when they darned please, and neither me nor any other feller can make 'em come--playin' straight." the man bared his gold-filled teeth in another amiable grin. and gordon fell. his unsuspicious mind was quite unable to appreciate the obvious cut of the man. the rather flashy style of his clothes. the keen, quick, black eyes. the disarming ingenuousness of his manner and speech. these things meant nothing to him. the men he knew were as ready to win or lose a few hundred dollars on the turn of a card as they were to drink a cocktail. the thought of sharp practice in gambling was something which never entered their heads. he drew out a dollar bill and laid it on the table. the sight of it across the aisle made one eye blink. but the black-eyed stranger promptly covered it, and picked up the dice. he shook them in the palm of his hand and spun them on the baize, clipping his fingers sharply. "come 'sev,'" he muttered. the miracle of it. the seven came up and he swept in the two dollars. in a moment he had replaced them with a five-dollar bill. gordon responded. "i'll take two dollars of that," he said, and staked his money. the man spun the dice, and a five came up. then it was gordon's turn to talk to the dice, calling on them for a seven each time the man threw. the play became absorbing, and one eye, from across the aisle, craned forward. the seven came up before the five, and gordon won, and the dice passed. the game proceeded, and the luck alternated. then gordon began to win. he won consistently for awhile, and nearly twenty dollars had passed from the stranger's pocket to his. it was an interesting study in psychology. gordon was utterly without suspicion, and full of boyish enthusiasm. his blue eyes were full of excited interest. he followed each throw, and talked the jargon of the game like any gambler. all his boredom with the journey was gone. his quest was thrust into the background. nothing troubled him in the least. the joy of the rolling dice was on him, and he laughed and jested as the wayward "bones" defied or acquiesced to his requirements. the stranger was far more subtle. for a big powerful man he possessed absurdly delicate hands. he handled the dice with an expert touch, which gordon utterly lacked. he talked to the dice as they fell in a manner quite devoid of enthusiasm, and as though muttering a formula from mere habit. he grumbled at his losses, and remained silent in victory, and all the while he smoked, and smoked, and watched his opponent with furtive eyes. one eye watched the game from the corner without a sign. a stranger, on his way through the car, paused to watch the game. presently he passed on, and then returned with another man. after awhile gordon's luck began to wane. his twenty dollars dropped to fifteen. then to ten. then to five. the stranger threw a run of "sevens." then the dice passed. but gordon lost them again, and presently the five dollars he was still winning passed out of his hands. from that moment luck deserted him entirely. the stranger threw a succession of wins. gordon increased his stakes to five-dollar bills. now and again he pulled in a win, but always, it seemed, to lose two successive throws immediately afterwards. there were times when it seemed impossible to wrest the dice from his opponent. whenever he held them himself he lost them almost immediately. "seventy-five dollars, that makes," he said, after one such loss. "they're going your way, sure." "it's the luck of things," replied the stranger laconically. one eye across the aisle smiled to himself, and abandoned his craning. gordon plunged. he doubled his bets with the abandon of youth and inexperience. and the stranger never failed to tempt him that way when they were his dice. he always laid more stake than he believed his opponent would accept. the hundred dollars was reached and passed in gordon's losses. still the game went on. he passed the hundred and fifty--and then providence stepped in. by this time a number of onlookers had gathered in the car. the place was full of smoke. they were standing in the aisle. they were sitting on the arms of the seats of the two players. one or two were leaning over the backs of the seats. suddenly the speeding train jolted heavily over some rough points. it swayed for a moment with a sort of deep-sea roll. the onlooker seated on the arm of the stranger's seat was jerked from his balance and sprawled on the player. in his efforts to save himself he grabbed at the table, which promptly toppled. the gambler made a lunge to save it, and, in the confusion of the moment, a second pair of crap dice, identical with the pair gordon was about to shoot, rolled out of his hand. just for an instant there was a breathless pause as gordon pounced on them. then one word escaped him, and his face went deathly white as he glared furiously at the man across the table. "loaded!" one eye again craned forward. but now the patch was entirely removed from his second eye. the next part of providence's little game was played without a single word. one great fist shot out from gordon's direction, and its impact with its object sounded dull and sodden. the gambler's head jolted backwards, and he felt as though his neck had been broken. then the baize-covered table was projected across the car by gordon's other great hand, while the spectators fled in the direction of the doorways, and pushed and scrambled their ways through. then ensued a wild scene. the animal was stirred to offense with a sublime abandon. one eye remained in his corner, his eyes alight with an appreciation hardly to have been expected, contemplating humorously the tangle of humanity as it moved, with lightning rapidity, all over the car. once, as the battle swayed in his direction, he even moved his traps under the seat, lest their bulk should incommode the combatants. for a moment, at the outset, the two men appeared to be a fair match. but the impression swiftly passed. the youth, the superb training, the skill of gordon became like the sledge-hammer pounding of superior gunnery in warfare. he hit when and where he pleased, and warded the wilder blows of his opponent with almost unconcern. but the narrowness of the aisle and the presence of the seats saved the gambler, and both men staggered and bumped about in a way that deprived gordon of much of the result of his advantage. the train began to slow up. one eye glanced apprehensively out of the window. he gathered up his belongings, and picked up the litter of money scattered on the floor. then he sat watching the fight--and his opportunity. the men had closed. regardless of all, they fought with a fury and abandon as cordial as it now became unscientific. the gambler, clinging to his opponent, strove to ward off the blows which fell upon his features like a hailstorm. gordon, with superlative ferocity, was bent on leaving them unrecognizable. it was a bloody onslaught, but no more bloody than gordon intended it to be. he was stirred now, a young lion, fighting for the only finish that would satisfy him. one eye's opportunity came. he made a run for the door as the train pulled up with a jolt. but the fight went on. the stopping of the train conveyed nothing to the fighting men. neither saw nor cared that one of the doors was suddenly flung open. neither saw the rush of men in uniform. the invasion of their ring by the train crew meant nothing to them. then something happened. chapter iv gordon lands at snake's fall gordon sat up and rubbed his eyes. then one blood-stained hand went up to his head, and its fingers passed through his ruffled hair. it smoothed its way down one cheek, and finally dropped to the ground on which he was sitting. where was he? suddenly he became aware of the metal track in front of him, and--remembered. he glanced down the track. far in the distance he could see the speeding train. then his eyes came back to his immediate surroundings, and discovered that he was sitting on the boarded footway of a small country railroad depot. how did he get there? how on earth did he get there? as no answer to his mute inquiry was forthcoming he explored further. he discovered that his grip and overcoat were beside him, also his hat. and some distance away a number of loungers were idly watching him, with a smile of profound amusement on every face. the latter discovery filled him with a swiftly rising resentment, and, grabbing his hat and thrusting it on his head, he leaped to his feet. he had no intention of permitting amusement at his expense. "i guess you sure had some good time," said a deep, musical voice at his elbow. gordon swung about and stood confronting the man, one eye, whom he had seen in the train. for a moment he had it in mind to make some furiously resentful retort. but the man's appearance held his curiosity and diverted his purpose. the patch had been removed from his second eye, which now beamed upon him in company with its fellow. "guess these are yours," the man went on, thrusting a roll of bills out towards him. "that 'sharp' dropped his wad during the scrap. i hated to think a grafting train boss was goin' to collect it. you see, i guessed how that scrap would end." "are they mine?" gordon was not quite sure he wasn't dreaming. "mostly." the stranger's reply was full of dry humor. suddenly gordon's eyes lit. "where is that 'sharp'? i haven't done with----" the stranger pointed after the train. "you'll need to hustle some." the anger died out of gordon's eyes and he began to laugh. with some diffidence he accepted the money. "say, it's--mighty decent of you," he cried cordially. then, for want of better means of expression, "mighty decent." the two men stood steadily regarding each other. tall and broad as gordon was, the stranger was no less. but he added to his stature the massiveness of additional years. gordon's feelings were under perfect control now. his eyes began to brighten with their native humor. he was longing to solve the mystery of that eye-shade which had disappeared from his companion's face, but was constrained to check his curiosity. "you said you guessed how the scrap would end?" he said. "there's a sort of blank in my--memory. i mean about the finish." the big stranger began to rumble in his throat. to gordon the sound was comforting in its wholesome enjoyment. "it don't need a heap of guessing when a train 'sharp,' who's got the conductor grafted from his brassbound cap to the soles of his rotten feet, gets into a scrap how things are going to end. i'd sort of hoped you'd 'out' him before the crew come along. guess you'd have done it if there'd been more room. that's the worst of scrappin' in a railroad car," he added regretfully. "that train boss got along with his crew and threw you out--on your head. they kept the 'sharp' aboard, being well grafted, and figgered to hold up your baggage. i guessed diff'rently. that all your baggage?" he inquired anxiously. gordon gazed down at the grip and coat. "that's all," he said. then he impulsively threw out a hand, and the stranger took it. "it's decent--mighty decent of you." again his buoyant laugh rang out. "say, i surely do seem to have had some good time." the twinkling eyes of the stranger nearly closed up in a cordial grin. "seems to me you're fixed here till to-morrow, anyway. there ain't any sort of train west till then. you best come along over to the hotel. they call it 'hotel' hereabouts. i'm goin' that way." gordon agreed, gathered up his property, and fell in beside his companion. they moved across the track, and as they went he caught some impression of the ragged little prairie town at which he had so inadvertently arrived. there seemed to him to be but a single, unpaved street, consisting of virgin prairie beaten bare and hard by local traffic. this was lined on one side by a fringe of wooden houses of every size and condition, with gaps here and there for roads, yet to be made, turning out of it. these houses were mostly of a commercial nature. back of this he vaguely understood there to be a sparse dotting of other houses, but their purpose and arrangement remained a mystery to him. still farther afield he beheld the green eminence of foothills, and still farther on, away in the distance, the snowy ramparts of the rocky mountains. the town seemed to occupy only one side of the track--the south side. the depot was beyond it, on the other. they picked their way across the track and debouched upon the main street, the name of which gordon discovered painted in indifferent characters upon a disreputable signboard. then they turned westwards in the direction of an isolated building rather larger than anything else in the village. after awhile, as his companion made no further effort at conversation, gordon's interest and curiosity refused to permit the continued silence. "what state are we in?" he inquired. "montana." gordon glanced quickly at his companion. "what place is this?" "snake's fall." the announcement set gordon laughing. "what's amiss with snake's fall?" inquired the other sharply. "why, nothing. i was just thinking. you see, the conductor told me 'most everybody was making for snake's fall on the train. i'm sorry that 'sharp' wasn't. say----" "what?" gordon laughed again. "i remember you in the smoker, only--you seemed to have a--a patch over your left eye." "sure." "now you haven't got it?" "no." "i'm not curious, only----" the stranger's eyes lit ironically. "sure you ain't. that's the hotel. peter mcswain's. he's the boss. he's a friend of mine, an' i guess he'll fix you right for the night." the snub was decided but gentle. the man's deep, musical voice contained no suggestion of displeasure. however, he had made the other feel that he had been guilty of unpardonable rudeness. he was reduced to silence for the rest of the journey to the hotel, and gave himself up to consideration of this new position in which he now found himself. the one great fact that stood out in his mind was that he had gained another day on the wrong side of his ledger, and, however wrong he had been in his first attempt at fortune, his course had been hopelessly diverted into a still more impossible channel. the absurdity of the situation inclined him to amusement, but the knowledge of the real seriousness of it held him troubled. as they neared the hotel his curiosity further made itself felt. the place was an ordinary frame building with a veranda. it was square and squat, like a box. it was two-storied, with windows, five in all, and a center doorway. these were dotted on the face of it like raisins in a pudding. its original paint was undoubtedly white, but that seemed to have long since succumbed to the influence of the weather, and now suggested a hopeless hue which was anything but inspiriting. leaning against the door-casing, in his shirt-sleeves, was a smallish, florid man with ruddy hair. his waistcoat was almost as cheerful as his face, and, judging by the sound of his voice as he talked to a number of men lounging on the veranda, the latter quite matched the pattern of his violently checked trousers. "that's peter," remarked one eye, the name, failing a better, gordon still thought of his companion by. "he's a bright boy, is peter," he added, chuckling. "the proprietor of the--hotel?" said gordon, interested. "sure." then a hail reached them from the veranda. "got back, silas?" cried the loud-voiced hotel-keeper. "just what you say yourself," retorted silas amiably. "seems to me i bought a ticket and just got off the train. still, ther' ain't nothing certain in this world except--graft." "that's so," laughed the other. "still, ther' ain't much of a shadow 'bout you, so we'll take it as real. who's your friend?" the hotel-keeper eyed gordon with a view to trade. the man called silas laughed and turned to gordon. "guess i didn't get your name. mine's mallinsbee--silas mallinsbee. i'm a rancher, way out ther' in the foothills." gordon thought for a moment. then he decided to use two of his given names in preference to his father's. "mine's gordon van henslaer. glad to meet you." "van henslaer?" mallinsbee's eyes twinkled. "guess the first and last letters on your grip are spare. kind of belong back east. how-do?" then, without waiting for a reply, he turned to mcswain and the men on the veranda who were interestedly surveying gordon. "this is mister gordon van henslaer from new york. thought he'd like to break his journey west and get a look around snake's fall." gordon laughed. "i was persuaded at the last minute," he added. "can you let me have a room?" mcswain became active. "sure. guess we're pretty busy these times, with the town gettin' ready to boom. but i guess i ken fix any friend of silas mallinsbee. ther's a room they calculated makin' into a bathroom back of the house, but some slick alec figured the boys of snake's fall were prejudiced, so cut it out. it's small, but we got a bed fixed ther', an' you ken clean yourself at the trough out back. come right along in." gordon was half inclined to protest, but mallinsbee's voice came opportunely-- "i told you peter 'ud fix you right. i've slept in that room myself, and you'll find it elegant sleepin', if you don't get a nightmare and get jumping around. we'll go right in." gordon's protest died on his lips. mr. mallinsbee had a persuasion all his own. there was a humorous geniality about him that was quite irresistible to the younger man, nor could he forget the manner in which he had helped him after the debacle on the train. he felt that it would have been churlish to refuse his good offices. they passed into the building. the office was plainly furnished. a few windsor chairs, a table, an empty stove, a few nigger pictures on the walls, and a large register for guests' names. this was the whole scheme. gordon flung down his grip. "well, i'm thankful to be off that train, anyway," he said. "sign here, eh?" as peter threw the book towards him. "say," he added, glancing at the list of names above his, "you sure are busy." peter grinned complacently, while mallinsbee looked on. "you've hit this city at the psychological moment in its history, sir," he declared expansively. "you've hit it, sir, when, if i ken be allowed to use the expression, the snow's gone an' all the earth's jest bustin' with new life. you've hit it, sir, when fortunes are just going to start right into full growth with all the impetus of virgin soil. snake's fall, sir, is about to become the greatest proposition in the western states, as a sure thing for soaking dollars into it. and here, sir, standing right at your elbow, is the courage, enterprise and intellect that's made it that way. mr. silas mallinsbee is the father of this city, sir; he's more--he's the creator of it. and, sir, i congratulate you on the friendship of such a man, a friendship, sir, in which i have the honor to share." he grabbed a filthy piece of blotting-paper and dabbed it cheerfully over gordon's name in the book, while the latter smiled at the monument of enterprise himself. "i was quite unaware----" he began. but mallinsbee cut him short. "peter's a good feller," he declared, "but some seven sorts of a galoot once told him he ought to go into congress, and he's been talking ever since. ther's jest one thing 'll stop peter talking, and that's orderin' a drink. which i'm doin' right now. peter, you'll jest hand us two cocktails. your specials. and take what you like yourself." peter accepted the order with alacrity. his admiration of and friendship for mallinsbee could not be doubted for a moment. and somehow gordon felt it was a good sign. he returned in a few moments with the cocktails, and a glass of rye whiskey for himself. "i know a better play than my special cocktails," he said, a huge wink distorting most of his ginger-hued features. "they're all right for customers, but i ain't no use fer picklin' my liver. how?" "here's to the extermination of all 'sharps,'" said mallinsbee in his deep, rolling voice, and with a meaning glance in gordon's direction. gordon nodded. "and here's to the confusion of graft and grafters." all three drank and set their glasses down. "graft?" said mallinsbee thoughtfully. then he shrugged his massive shoulders and laughed. "it's not a heap of use blaming grafters for their graft. they can't help it, any more than you can help scrappin' when a feller hits your wad on the crook. graft--why, i just hate to think of the ways of graft. but you can't get through life without it; anyway, not life on this earth. i used to think graft a specialty of this country, but guess i was wrong. i'd localized. it don't belong to any one country more than another. it belongs to life; to our human civilization. it's the time limit of life causes the trouble. nature makes it a cinch we've all got to be rounded up in the get-rich-quick corral. we start life foolish. then for a while we get a sight more foolish. then for a few mousy years we take on quite a nice bunch of sense. after that we start getting foolish again, and then the time limit comes right down on the backs of our necks like an ax. well, i guess those years of sense are so mighty few we've got to get rich quick against the time we start on the foolish racket again, and graft, of one sort or another, is the short cut necessary. "you see, there's every sort of graft. all through life we're looking around for something we ain't got. did you ever see a kid around his parents? graft; it's all graft. no kiddy ever acted right because he fancied that way. he's lookin' ahead fer something he's needing, and his pop or his momma are the folks to pass it along to him. did you ever know a kid take his physic without the promise of candy, or the certainty it would come his way? that's graft. say, ain't the gal you fancy the biggest graft of all? you don't get nowhere with her without graft. she'll eat up everything you can hand her, from automobiles and jewels down to five-cent candy. then when you've started getting old and sick and foolish again, having grafted a pile out of life yourself, don't every grafter you ever knew come around an' hand you cures and listen to your senile wisdom just as though they thought you the greatest proposition ever and hated to see you sick? that's graft. you've got a pile and they're needin' it." the twinkle in the big man's eyes while he was talking found a joyous response in gordon's. the tongue in the cheek of this native of snake's fall pleased him mightily. but the wide-eyed sunset of peter mcswain's features was one of sober earnestness and admiration. "gee!" he cried, with prodigious appreciation. "he orter write a book!" chapter v a letter home the bathroom proved to be a veritable rabbit hutch, though clean. but gordon was astonished to find how far the old life had fallen away behind him. the bareness of the room did not disturb him in the least, and, after a wash in the trough at the back of the hotel, and having dried himself on a towel that may have seen cleaner days, and refused to be inveigled by the attraction of an unclean comb, securely tied to a defective mirror in the passage to the back door, he came back to his bedroom with an added appreciation for its questionable luxury. mallinsbee had ridden off on a great chestnut horse, nor, until gordon saw him in the saddle, was he definitely able to classify him in his mind. big as the amiable stranger was, he sat in the saddle as though he had been born in it, and he handled his horse as only a cattle man can. at supper-time he had an opportunity of studying something of his fellow guests in the house. they were a mixed gathering, but every table in the dining-room was full to overflowing. certainly mcswain was justified in his claim to a rush of business. it was quickly obvious to gordon that these people were by no means natives of the place. the majority were undoubtedly business men. shrewd, keen men of the speculative type, judging from the babel of talk going on about him. as far as he could make out the whole interest of the place was land. land--always land--and again land. in view of mallinsbee's friendship peter mcswain had requested him to sit beside him at his especial table. and he forthwith began to question his host. "seems to be a big talk of land going on," he said, as he ate his macaroni soup. peter gulped violently at a long tube of macaroni and nearly choked. "sure," he said, his eyes wide with an expression the meaning of which gordon was never quite certain about. it might have meant mere astonishment, but it also suggested resentment. "sure it's land. what else, unless it's coal, would they talk in snake's fall? every blamed feller you see settin' around in this room is what silas mallinsbee calls a ground shark. which means," he added, with a grin, "they're out to buy or steal land around snake's fall. we guess they prefer stealing. the place is bung full with 'em." gordon's interest deepened. "but why, if you'll forgive me, around--snake's fall?" "young man," said peter severely, "you're new to the place, and that's your excuse for such ignorance." he pushed his half-finished soup aside and adopted an impressive pose with both elbows on the table, his hands together, and one finger describing acrobatic gyrations to point his words. the manner of it fascinated his hearer. "let me tell you, sir, that snake's fall is the new coalfield of this great country. sir," he added, with great dramatic effect, "snake's fall is capable of supplying the coal of the _world_! there's hundreds of billions of tons of high-grade coal underlying these silly-lookin' hummocks they call the foothills. all this land around snake's fall was silas mallinsbee's ranch, and he found the coal. that's why i said silas mallinsbee was the father of snake's fall. he sold this land to a great coal corporation, and bought land away further up in the hills, where he still runs his ranch. he's a great man with a pile of dollars. and he's clever, too. he's kep' for himself all the land either side of the railroad, except this town. and that's why all these land pirates, or ground sharks, are around. the railroad ain't declared their land yet, and everybody's waiting to jump in. the coal's five miles west of here, and the railroad has got to say if they'll keep the depot where it is, or build a new one further along, right on the coal seams. that's the play we're all watching. we want to buy right. we want to buy for the boom. these guys here are out to get in on the ground floor, and see prices go sky high--when they've bought. there'll be some dandy piles made in this play--and lost." by the time he had finished gordon was agog with excitement. it had stirred as the man began to talk, without his fully understanding the meaning of it. then, as he proceeded, it grew, and with its growth came enlightenment. vaguely he saw the hand of providence in the affairs of the last few days. he had planned his own little matters, or rather he had drifted into them, and then the gods of fortune had taken a hand. and the way of it. he began to smile. a strangely impish mood must have stirred them. his journey. his discovery of the absurdity of his own plans in the nick of time. his visit to the smoker. his play with a "sharp." his fight, and his sudden and uncalculated arrival at snake's fall. here he was, quite without the least intention of his own, landed into the only sort of place in which it could be reasonably hoped he might pick up a fortune quickly. he wondered how he was likely to fare in competition with these ground sharks about him. and the thought made him begin to laugh. mcswain eyed him doubtfully. "amusin', ain't it?" he said, without appreciation. gordon shook his head. "if you only knew--it is." peter went on with his food for a few moments in silence. "i s'pose the boom will come big when it does start?" hazarded gordon presently. "big? say, you ain't got a grip on things yet. snake's fall could supply the whole--not half--world with high-grade stove coal. does that tell you anything? no? wal, it jest means that when the railroad says the word, hundred-dollar plots 'll fetch a thousand dollars in a week, and maybe ten thousand in a month or less. i tell you right here that in six months from the time the railroad talks there'll be fifty thousand speculators right here, and we'll most of us rake in our piles. we only got to jump in at the start, maybe a bit before, and the game's right in our hands. get me? i tell you, sir, this is bigger than the first kootenay rush and nigh as big as the cobalt boom in canada." gordon was impressed. "and to think i came here by accident." "accident?" "you see, i was persuaded--against my will." his eyes were twinkling. "ah, mallinsbee persuaded you--being a friend of his." "no. as a matter of fact i think it was the train conductor who persuaded me." "he's a wise guy, then." "ye-es. i don't guess i'll see him again. i surely owe him something for what he did." peter nodded seriously as he gazed at the humorous eyes of his companion. "he's given you the chance of--a lifetime, sir. and that's a thing ther' ain't many in this country yearning to do." after that the meal progressed in silence until the pie was handed round. gordon was thinking hard. he was wondering, in view of what he had heard, what he ought to do. land. what did he know about land? how could he measure his wits against the wits of such land speculators as he saw about him? he studied the faces of some of the clamorous crowd in the dining-room. they were a strangely mixed lot. there were undoubtedly men of substance among them, but equally surely the majority were adventurers looking to step into the arena of the coming boom and wrest a slice of fortune by hook, or, more probably, by crook. what did he know? what could he do? and his mind went back to the sharp on the train, and the way he had fallen to the man's snare. again he wanted to laugh. he had counted the bills which mallinsbee had handed him, in the privacy of his bathroom. he only remembered to have lost about two hundred dollars to the gambler. the dollars handed to him amounted to well over three hundred. the miracle of it all. he had nearly killed the gambler, and, instead of losing, he had made over a hundred dollars on the deal. the miracle of it! "do you believe in miracles?" he laughed abruptly. peter glanced up from his plate suspiciously. then he promptly joined in the other's amusement. he always remembered that this newcomer was a friend of silas mallinsbee. "meracles?" he said reflectively. "i can't say i always did. but one or two things have made some difference that way. takin' one extra drink saved my life once. the takin' of that drink wasn't jest a meracle," he added dryly. "it was more of a habit them days. still, it was a meracle in a way. me an' my brother wer' on a bust. we were feeling that good we was handin' out our pasts in lumps to each other, same as if we was strangers, and wasn't raised around the same cabbige patch. wal, he'd borrowed an automobile and left the saloon to wind it up, and get things fixed. while he was gone the boys handed me another cocktail. then the bartender slung one at me, an' i hadn't no more sense than to buy another one myself. then some damn fool thought rye was the best mix for drinkin' on top o' cocktails, an' so they put me to bed. guess i never see my brother get back from that joy ride." he sighed. "i allow they had to bury a lot of that automobile with him, he was so mussed up. sort o' meracle, you'd say? then there was another time. guess it was my wife. she was one o' them females who make you feel you want to associate with tame earthworms. sort o' female who never knew what a sick headache was, an' sang hymns of a sunday evening, and played a harmonium when she was feelin' in sperits. sort o' female who couldn't help smellin' out when you was lyin' to her, an' gener'ly told you of it. a good woman though, an' don't yer fergit it. wal, i got sick once an' when i got right again she guessed it was up to 'em to insure myself in her favor. guess i'd just paid my first premium when she goes an' takes colic an' dies. i did all i knew. i give her ginger, an' hot-water bags, an' poultices. it didn't make no sort o' difference. she died. i ain't paid no premiums since. sort o' meracle that," he added, with a satisfied smile. "then there's this coal. i hadn't started this hotel six months when mallinsbee gets busy an' makes his deal with the corporation. you ain't goin' to make a pile out of a bum country hotel without a--meracle." the man's gravity was impressive, and gordon strove for sympathy. "yes," he declared, with smiling emphasis. "there are such things as miracles. one has happened this day--and here. my arrival here was certainly a miracle. a peculiarly earthy miracle, but, nevertheless, a--miracle. say, i'll have to write some in the office. see you again." gordon pushed back his chair and hurried away through the crowded room towards the office. but here again was a crowd. here again was "land"--always "land." and in desperation he betook himself to his bathroom. he felt he must write to his mother. he felt that on this his arrival in snake's fall he could do no less than reassure her of his well-being. mrs. james carbhoy sighed contentedly as she raised her eyes from the last of a number of sheets of paper in her lap. her husband turned from his contemplation of the scorching streets, and the parched foliage of the wide expanse of trees beyond the window. "well?" he inquired. "where is the boy?" there was the faintest touch of anxiety in his inquiry, but his face was perfectly controlled, and the humor in his eyes was quite unchanged. mrs. carbhoy sighed again. "i don't know. he doesn't say. nor does he give the slightest clew." she examined the envelope of the letter. "it was mailed here in new york. it's a rambling sort of letter. i hope he is all right. this hot weather is---- do you think he----" her husband laughed. "i guess he's all right. you see i don't fancy he wants us to know where he is. that's come through some friend, i'd say. just read it out." gordon's mother leaned back in her chair again. she was more than ready to read her beloved boy's letter again, in spite of her misgivings. besides, there was a hope in her thoughts that she had missed some clew as to his whereabouts which her clear-sighted husband might detect. "dearest mum: "destinations are mighty curious things which have a way of making up their minds as to whom they are terminals for, regardless of the individual. most of us think the matter of destination is in our own hands. we make up our minds to go to the north pole; well, if we get there it's because no other terminal on the way has made up its mind to claim us. i've surely arrived at my destination, a place i wasn't going to, nor had heard of, nor dreamed of--even when i had nightmare. i guess this place must have said to itself, 'hello, here's gordon carbhoy on the train; he's every sort of fool, he don't know if it's palm sunday or candlemas, he hasn't got more sense than an old hen with kittens, let's divert him where we think he ought to go.' so i arrived here quite suddenly this afternoon and, in consequence, have wasted some fifty odd dollars of passage money. it's a good beginning, and one the old dad 'll surely appreciate. "talking of the old dad, i'd like you to tell him from me that i don't think graft is confined to--big finance. this is a discovery he's likely to be interested in. also, since he's largely interested in railroads, though not from a traveling point of view, i would point out that much might be done to improve accommodation. the aisles are too narrow and the corners of the seats are too sharp. furthermore, the best money-making scheme i can think of at the moment is a billet as a conductor of a transcontinental express. "however, these things are just first impressions. "there are other impressions i won't discuss here. they relate to arrival platforms of depots. when a fellow gets out on his own in the world, there are many things with which he comes into contact liable to strike him forcibly. those are the things in life calculated to teach him much that may be useful to him afterwards. i have already come into contact with such things, and though they are liable to leave an impression of soreness generally, their lessons are quite sound. "on the whole, in spite of having lost fifty odd dollars on my railroad ticket, my first two or three days' adventures have left me with a margin of profit such as i could not reasonably have expected. i mention this to show you, presuming that the dad has told you the object of my going, that my eye is definitely focused on the primary purpose of my ramblings. "i am keeping my eyes well open and one or two of my observations might be of interest to you. "i have discovered that the luxurious bath is not actually necessary to life, and, from a hygienic point of view, there's no real drawback to the kind of soap vulgarly known as 'hoss.' furthermore, the filtration of water for ablutionary purposes is quite unnecessary. all it needs is to be of a consistency that'll percolate through a fish net. moreover, judging from observations only, i have discovered that a comb and brush, if securely chained up, can be used on any number of heads without damaging results. "observation cannot be considered complete without its being turned upon one's fellow-creatures. i have already come into contact with some very interesting specimens of my kind. without worrying you with details i have found some of them really worth while. generalizing, i'd like to say right here that man seems to be a creature of curious habits--many of which are bad. i don't say this with malice. on the contrary, i say it with appreciation. and, too, i never realized what a general hobby amongst men the collecting of dollars was. it must be all the more interesting that, as a collection, it never seems completed. i'd like to remark that view points change quickly under given circumstances, and i am now bitten with the desire to become a collector. "furthermore, my focus had readjusted itself already. for instance, i feel no repulsion at the manners displayed in the dining-room of a small country 'hotel.' i feel sure that the man who eats with his mouth open and snores at the same time is quite justified, if he happens to be bigger and stronger than the man who hears and sees him. i also feel that a man is only within his rights in having two or even three helpings of every dish in a hotel run on the american plan, unless the limit to a man's capacity is definitely estimated on the printed tariff. another observation came my way. honesty seems to be a matter of variable quality. a nice ethical problem is suggested by the following incident. a man robs his victim; a righteously indignant onlooker sees the transaction, and his honesty-loving nature rebels. he forthwith robs the robber and hands the proceeds of his robbery to the original victim. this seems to me to open up a road to discussion which i'm sure the dad and i would enjoy--though not at this distance. "i have already learned that there are plenty of great men in the world whose existence i had never suspected. i have a feeling that local celebrities have a greater glory than national heroes. george washington never told a lie, it is true, and his birthday forms an adequate excuse for a certain stimulation in the enjoyments of a people. but he never discovered a paying field for speculation by the dollar chasers. until a man does that he can have no understanding of real glory. "i hope you and gracie are well. i think it would be advisable to check gracie's appetite for candy. i am already realizing that luxury can be overdone. she might turn her attention to peanuts, which i observe is a popular pastime amongst the people with whom i have come into contact. i would suggest to the old dad that five-cent cigars have merits in spite of rumor to the contrary. i feel, too, that the dollar ninety-five he would thus save on his smoke might, in time, become a valuable asset. "your loving son, "gordon." chapter vi gordon prospects snake's fall it was a blazing day. the dust of the prairie street smothered boots and trouser-legs with a fine gray powder which even rose high enough to get into the throats of pedestrians, and drive them headlong to the nearest place where they could hope to quench a raging thirst. there was no shelter from the sun, unless it were to be found upon the verandas with which many of the snake's fall houses were fronted. gordon's face was rapidly blistering as he idly wandered through the town. great streams of perspiration coursed from beneath his soft felt hat. his double collar felt sticky, and suggested imminent collapse. to all of which discomforts were now added a swarm of flies buzzing about his moist face with a distracting persistence which tried even his patience. gordon was abroad fairly early. he was abroad for several reasons. he possessed a haunting dread of the rapid passing of time. he had slept healthily, if not altogether comfortably. nor had he yet made up his mind whether the floor of his room would not be preferable to his bed for the passing of future nights. the floor was smooth, there were no hummocks on it. then, too, the sorely tried and thoroughly slack bed-springs would be avoided, and the horrible groans of a protesting frame would remain silent. it was a matter to be given consideration before the day ended, and, being really of a very thorough nature, he decided to consider it after supper. he had lain awake for a long time that first night under the shelter of peter mcswain's hospitable roof, and in the interim of dodging the flock hummocks he had closely considered his future movements. he argued, if things were as he had been told they were in snake's fall, he did not see how he could do better than throw his lot in with the crowd of "ground sharks" awaiting the boom. having convinced himself in this direction, he felt that at the very earliest opportunity he must reassure himself of peter mcswain's veracity. he felt that no member of the get-rich-quick brigade could dare to ignore the claims of a great coal discovery about to boom. besides, the whole thing had been pitched into his lap; or rather it was he who had been pitched. nor did the roughness of the method of his arrival detract from the chances spreading out before his astonished eyes. now he was searching the place for those signs which were to tell him of the accuracy of his information. nor was it long before he realized that such a search on his part was scarcely likely to prove productive. his knowledge of coal had never been more intimate than the payment of certain fuel bills presented to him at intervals in the past by the faithful harding. while as for indications of a boom--well, he had heard that a boom came along, everybody robbed everybody else, and in the end a number of widows and orphans found themselves deprived of their savings, and a considerable body of attorneys had increased their year's income out of all proportion to their just deserts. he felt his weakness keenly. however, he persisted. he felt the only thing was to attack the problem with an open mind. he did so, and it quickly became filled with a humorous interest that had nothing to do with his purpose. surveying his surroundings, he thought that never in his life had he even imagined such a quaint collection of habitations. the long, straight street, running parallel to the railroad track suggested a row of jagged, giant teeth. each building was set in its own section of jawbone, distinct from its nearest neighbor. then they reared their heads and terminated in a pointed fang or a flat, clean-cut edge of high boarding. sometimes they possessed a mere sloping roof, like a well-worn tooth, and, here and there, a half-wrecked building, with its roof fallen in, stood out like a severely decayed molar. most of the stores--and he counted a dozen or more--suggested a considerable trade. in this direction he noted a hardware store particularly. a drug store, too, with an ice-cream soda fountain, seemed to be in high favor, as also did several dry-goods stores, judging by the number of females in attendance. but the small candy stores were abandoned to the swarming flies. the people were interesting. there certainly was a considerable number about, in spite of the heat. they, anyway the men, all looked hot like himself, but seemed to be surcharged with an energy that appeared to him somewhat artificial. they hurried unnecessarily. they paused and spoke quickly, and passed on. here and there they fell into groups, and their boisterous laughter suggested the inevitable funny story or risque tale. there were a great number of vehicles rattling about--buggies, buckboards, democrat wagons--while several times he was passed by speeding saddle-horses which smothered him in the dust raised by their unshod hoofs. at last he came to the end of the street, and turned to retrace his steps. it was all too interesting to be readily abandoned on this his first day beyond the conventions of life as his father's son. just outside a large livery barn he came to an abrupt halt, and stood stupidly staring at the entrance of the largest dry-goods store in the street. the whole thing had caught and held him in a moment. he seemed to remember having seen something of the sort in a moving picture once; perhaps it was years ago. but in real life--never. a great chestnut saddle-horse had dashed up to the tying-post outside the store. it had reined up with a jerk, and its rider had flung out of the saddle with the careless abandon he had read about or seen in the pictures. hooking the reins over a peg, the rider hurried towards the store. it was then gordon obtained a full view. in a moment the flies were forgotten and the heat of the day meant nothing to him. what a vision was revealed! the coiled masses of auburn hair, the magnificent hazel eyes and the delightful sun-tanned oval of the face, the trim figure and perfect carriage, the costume! the long habit coat and loose riding-breeches terminated in the daintiest of tan riding-boots and silver spurs. splendid! what a picture for his admiring eyes! a picture of grace, and health, and beauty. but the vision was gone in a moment. the girl had passed into the store, and it was only left to the enthusiastic spectator to turn to the magnificent chestnut horse she had so unconcernedly left waiting for her. almost immediately, however, his attention was diverted into another direction. a dark, sallow-faced man had promptly taken up his position at the entrance of the store, and stood gazing in after the vanished figure of the girl. for some absurd reason gordon took an intense dislike to the man. he looked unhealthy, and he hated that look in a man. besides, the impertinence of standing there spying upon a lady who was doubtless simply bent on an ordinary shopping expedition. it was most exasperating. all unconsciously he straightened his great figure and squared his shoulders. it would not have required much to have made him go and ask the man what he meant by it. he was rapidly working himself up into a superlative rage, when the girl in the fawn riding-costume reappeared. a delightful smile broke over his good-looking face, but only to be promptly swallowed up in a scowl. the girl had paused, and was speaking to the anæmic creature whose presence he felt to be an outrage. he noted her smile. what a delightful smile! yes, he could distinctly make out two dimples beyond the corners of her pretty mouth. his dislike of the favored man merged into a regret for himself. hello! the smile had gone from the girl's face. her beautiful hazel eyes were sparkling with resentment. the man was looking angry, too. gordon rubbed his hands. then he began to grin like a revengeful and malicious schoolboy. the girl had moved on to her horse, and in doing so it almost looked as if she had deliberately pushed past the white-livered creature attempting to detain her. she leaped into the saddle and swung the horse about almost on its haunches. the next moment she was lost in a cloud of dust as she raced down the street. "mighty fine horsemanship that," said a voice, as gordon gazed open-mouthed after the girlish vision. "a smart gal, too, eh?" gordon turned. a small man was sitting at the open doors of the livery barn upon an upturned box. he was leaning forward lazily, with his elbows on his knees and his hands clutching his forearms. his towzled, straw-colored hair stuck out under the brim of his prairie hat, and a chew of tobacco bulged one thin, leathery cheek. his trousers were fastened about his waist with a strap, and his only upper garment was a dirty cotton shirt which disclosed an expanse of mahogany-colored chest below the neck. "smart gal?" retorted gordon enthusiastically. "that don't say a thing. she might have stepped right out of the pages of a book." then he added, as an afterthought, "and it would have to be a mighty good book, too." "sure," nodded the other in agreement. "who is she?" the man grinned and spat. "why, that's miss hazel. every feller in this city knows miss hazel. if you need eddication you want to see her astride of an unbroken colt. ther' never was a cowpuncher a circumstance aside o' her. she's the dandiest horseman out." "i'd say you're right, all right." "right? guess ther' ain't no argument. hosses is my trade. i was born an' raised with 'em. it don't take me guessin' twice 'bout a horseman. i got forty first-class hosses right here in this barn, an' i got a bunch runnin' on old mallinsbee's grazin'. y'see, a livery barn is a mighty busy place when a city starts to think o' booming. all them rigs an' buggies you see chasin' around are hired right here," he finished up proudly. gordon became interested. he felt the man was talking because he wanted to talk. he was talking out of the prevailing excitement which seemed to actuate everybody on the subject of the coming boom. he encouraged him. "i'd say a livery barn should be a mighty fine speculation under these conditions," he said, while the keen gray eyes of the barn proprietor quietly sized him up. "there ought to be a pile hanging to it." "ye-es." the man's demur roused the other's curiosity. "not?" he inquired. "'tain't that. ther's dollars to it, but--they don't come in bunches. y'see, i'm out after a wad--quick. we all are. when the railroad talks we'll know where we are. but it's best to be in before. see? oh, i guess the barn's all right. 'tain't that. say, i'd hand you this barn right here, every plug an' every rig i got, if you could jest answer me one question--right." "and the question?" gordon smiled. "wher' is the bloomin' depot to be? here, or yonder to the west at buffalo point? answer that right, an' you can have this caboose a present." the little man sighed, and gordon began to understand the strain of waiting for these people looking for a big pile quick. he shook his head. "i'm beginning to think i'd like to know myself. say, i s'pose you figure this is a great place to make money? i s'pose you fancy it's a sure thing?" the man unfolded his arms and waved one hand in a comprehensive gesture. "do you need to ask me that?" he inquired, almost scornfully. "what does them big coal seams tell you? can you doubt? hev' you got two eyes to your head which don't convey no meaning to your brain? them coal seams could stoke hell till kingdom come, an' shares 'ud still be at a premium. that's the backbone. wal, we ain't got shares in that corporation, but the quickest road to the pile o' dollars we're yearning for is in town plots. an'," he added regretfully, "every day brings in more sharps, an' every new sharp makes it harder. it's that blamed railroad we're waiting for, an' that railroad needs to graft its way in before it'll talk." "graft? graft again," laughed gordon. "why, cert'nly." the livery man opened his eyes in astonishment. "folks don't do nothin' for nix that i ever heard. specially railroads. that depot 'll be built where their interests lie, an' we'll have to go on guessin' till they get things fixed." "i see." "which says you ain't blind." "no, i don't think i'm blind exactly. it's just--lack of experience. i must get a peek at those seams. mallinsbee's the man who'll know about things as soon as anybody, i s'pose. he owns all the land along the railroad, doesn't he?" the man rubbed his hands and grinned. "sure. he'll know, an' through him us as he's let in on the ground floor. say, he's a heap of a good feller--an' bright. y'see, him an' us, some of us fellers who been here right along before the coal was found, are good friends. there's some of us got stakes down buffalo point way as well as up here. see? o' course, our pile lies buffalo point way, an' we're hopin' he'll fix the railroad corporation that way. if he does, gee! he's the feller we're gamblin' on." gordon's interest had become almost feverish as he listened. he was gathering the corroboration he needed with an ease he had never anticipated. "i suppose one hundred thousand dollars would be nothing to make if--things go right?" "if things go our way, i'd say a hundred thousand wouldn't be a circumstance," cried the man enthusiastically. "i'd make that out of a few hundred dollars without a worry--if things went right. but it ain't the way of things to go right when you figger up." "no, i s'pose it's a matter of chance. the chance comes, and you've just got to grab it right and hold it." "sure. chance! if chance hits you, why, don't go to hit back. jest hug it--same as you would your best gal." gordon laughed and peered into the shadowy interior of the barn. "guess that's good talk," he said, "and i'm going to listen. i've got right hold of that chance, and i'm hugging it. seems to me i'll need to get out and get a peek at silas mallinsbee's coal. can you hire me a rig?" "i got a dandy top buggy an' team," cried the man, now alert and ready for business. "ten dollars to supper-time. how?" gordon nodded, and the man vanished within the barn. left alone, he reflected on the rapidity of the movement of events. he had had a luck that he surely could not have anticipated. why, under the influence of the prevailing enthusiasm of the place, he seemed to feel that the whole thing was too utterly simple. he wondered what his father would have said had he been there. it would be a glorious coup to return home with that one hundred thousand dollars well before the expiry of his time limit. from the dark interior of the barn came the sounds of horses' hoofs clattering on the boarded floor. presently his thoughts drifted from the important matters in hand to a far less consequent matter. it was not in his nature to be long enamored of the hunt for fortune, no matter what the consequences attached to it. he began to think of the vision in fawn-colored riding-costume. so her name was hazel. hazel--what? he wondered. a pretty name, and well suited to her. hazel. those eyes, and the gorgeous masses of her hair! he sighed. for a moment he thought of inquiring of the livery man her other name. then he smilingly shook his head and decided to let that remain a secret for the present. it added to the romance of the thing. of one thing he was certain: he must contrive to see her again, and get to know her. fortune or no fortune, if his father were to cut him off with the proverbial shilling as a spendthrift and waster, if he never saw a partnership in the greatest financial corporation in the united states, that girl could not be allowed to flash into his life like a ray of spring sunshine, and pass out of it again because he hadn't the snap to get to know her. he had known so many women in his own set at home. he had admired, he had flirted harmlessly enough, he had shed presents and given parties, but somehow he felt that amongst all those society beauties there had not been one comparable to this wild rose of the foothills. "say, it's a bright team an' 'll need handlin'," said the doubtful voice of the livery man. "don't worry," returned gordon, shocked into the affairs of the moment by the anxious voice. "good." the man sounded relieved. "which is the best way?" "why, chase the trail straight away west. you can't miss it. i'll take that ten dollars." gordon paid and climbed into the buggy. the next moment the vehicle rolled out of the barn. chapter vii "miss hazel" gordon was in no mood to take things easily. something of the atmosphere of the place had already got into his blood. his was similar to the mood of those whom he had seen hurrying unnecessarily in the town. those whom he had seen exchanging hurried words and passing on. although he lived in the age of automobiles and aeroplanes, nothing of his education had been forgotten by his father. he was a perfect whip with a four-in-hand, and now, as he handled a "bright" team of livery horses, it was child's play to him. he bustled his horses until he had left the ragamuffin town behind him, then he settled down to a steady, round gait, and gave himself up to the prospect of the contemplation of those scenes of industry which he shortly hoped to discover. within ten minutes of leaving the town he discovered the first signs. men and horses appeared in the distance upon the hills. at one point he discerned a traction engine hauling a string of laden wagons. it was the first breaking up of the monotonous green of the low hills. and it promptly suggested that, in the hidden hollows, he would probably discover far more energetic signs of the work of the coal corporation, which doubtless must have already begun in real earnest. things were becoming interesting. he wondered how much work had been done. there was no sign of the coal itself yet. he remembered to have visited coal mines once, and then everything had been black and gloomy. vast heaps of slack had been piled everywhere, and the pit heads had been surmounted by hauling machinery. there had been great black wastes dotted by houses and streets, which seemed to have taken to themselves something of the hue of the deposits which had brought them into existence. even the men and women, and particularly the children, had been living advertisements for the great industry which supported them. here, as yet, there were no such signs. however, doubtless further on there would---- all in a moment his thoughts of coal were broken off, and all his interest vanished like a puff of that coal's smoke in a gale. coal no longer meant anything to him. he didn't care if the whole wide world starved for coal for all eternity. a chestnut horse was on the trail ahead, and a figure was stooping beside it examining its nearside forefoot. the figure was clad in a _fawn-colored riding-costume_. the electric current of his feelings communicated itself to his team through the whip as its conductor. the team reared and plunged, then, under his strong hands, they bowled merrily along the dusty trail at a great though well-controlled speed towards the distant figures. the girl dropped the horse's hoof and straightened herself abruptly. she turned with a quick movement, and gazed back over the trail, her eyes alert and questioning. her wide prairie hat was thrust slightly from her forehead, and a coil of abundant auburn hair was displayed beneath its brim. her finely penciled eyebrows were drawn together in an unmistakable question, and her pretty eyes were obviously speculative. she waited while the buggy drew nearer. she recognized the team as from mike callahan's barn, but the occupant of the vehicle was a stranger to her. the latter fact drew her attention more closely. for a moment she had hoped that it was someone she knew. she needed someone she knew just now. anyway, a stranger was always interesting, even though he could not afford her the assistance she just now happened to need. she descried a boyish, eager face on the top of a pair of wonderful shoulders. but that which made a strong appeal to her was the manner in which he was handling his horses. there was nothing here of the slovenly prairie teamster. the stranger, whoever he was, was a master behind a good team of horses. she delighted in a horseman, whether he were in the driving-seat or the saddle. but all of a sudden she became aware that her regard had been observed, and, with a little smile twinkling in the depths of her hazel eyes, she picked up her horse's forefoot again, and once more probed with her gauntleted finger for the cause of the desperate lameness with which he had been suddenly attacked. she heard the buggy come up. she was aware that the team had swung out to avoid collision. then a cheery voice greeted her ears with its pleasant and welcome inquiry-- "you seem to be in a fix. can i help any?" before the girl looked round she was aware that the teamster had alighted. then when she finally released her hold of the injured hoof, and stood up, she found herself confronted by gordon's smiling blue eyes, as he stood bare-headed before her. somehow or other a smiling response was unavoidable. "that's real kind of you," she said, "but i don't guess you can. you see, poor sunset's dead lame with a flint in his frog, and--and i just can't get the fool thing out." gordon endeavored to look serious. but the trouble was incomparable in his mind with the delightful charm of this girl, in her divided riding-suit. however, his effort to conceal his admiration was not without some success. "i don't guess we can stand for any old thing like an impertinent flint," he said impulsively. "sunset must be relieved. sunset must be put out of pain. i'm not just a veterinary surgeon, but i'm a specialist on the particular flint which happens to annoy you. just grab these lines while i have a look." the frank unconventionality of the man was wholly pleasing, and the girl found herself obeying him without question. "it's the nearside," she explained. then she remained silent, watching the assured manner in which the stranger set about his work. he picked up the hoof and examined it closely. then he drew out a folding button-hook from a trouser pocket. then, for a few moments, she watched his deft manipulation of it. presently he stood up holding a long, thin, sharp splinter of flint between finger and thumb. "say," he remarked, as he returned the buttonhook to his pocket, while his eyes shone merrily, "i believe if some bright geologist were to set out chasing these flints to their lair, i've a notion he'd pull up in--in--well, aspirate a certain measure in cloth and i'd guess you get the answer right away. it's paved with 'em. that's my secret belief. i could write a treatise on 'em. i've discovered every breed and every species. i tell you if you want to study these rocks right, you need to run an automobile, and find yourself in a hurry, having forgotten to carry spare tires. ugh!" he flung the stone away from him and turned again to the horse. still watching him, the girl saw him deliberately tear off a piece of his handkerchief, and, with the point of his pocket-knife, stuff it into the jagged gash in poor sunset's frog. "that'll keep out some of snake's fall," he observed, returning the rest of his handkerchief to his pocket. "we'll take it out when we get him home." then he deliberately turned to his team and tied sunset alongside. after that, in the most practical manner, he moved the wheels of the buggy apart. "jump right in. guess you know the way, so you can show it me. you see, i'm a stranger. say, it's an awful thing to be a stranger. life's rotten being a stranger." the girl was gazing at him with wide, wondering eyes that were half inclined to resentment. she was not accustomed to being ordered about in this cavalier fashion. she had no intention of being incontinently swept off her feet. "thanks," she said, with an assumption of hauteur. "if you'll untie sunset i'll ride home." "ride home? say, you're joking. why, you can't ride sunset with that gash in his frog. say, you couldn't be so cruel. think of the poor fellow silently suffering. think of the mute anguish he would endure at each step. it--it would be a crime, an outrage, a--a----" he broke off, his eyes twinkling merrily. the girl wanted to be annoyed. she told herself she was annoyed, but she nevertheless began to laugh, and gordon knew he was to have his way. "i really couldn't think of accepting your---- besides, you weren't going to buffalo point. you know you weren't." "do i?" gordon's eyes were blankly inquiring. "now how on earth do i know where i was going? say, i guess it's true i had in my mind a vision of the glinting summer sun, tinting the coal heaps with its wonderful, golden, ripening rays--though i guess it would be some work ripening stove coal--but as to my ever getting there--well, that just depended on the trail i happened to take. as i said, i'm a stranger. and i may as well admit right here that i've a hobby getting mussed up with wrong trails." the girl's laughter dispelled her last effort at dignity. "i knew you were a stranger. you see, i get to know everybody here--by sight." gordon made a gesture of annoyance. "there," he exclaimed in self-disgust, "i ought to have thought of that before. how on earth could i expect you to ride in a stranger's buggy, with said stranger on the business end of the lines? then the hills are so near. why, you might be spirited off goodness knows where, and your loving relatives never, never hear of you no more, and---- say, we can easily fix that though. my name's--van henslaer. gordon van henslaer from new york. now if you tell me--what's the matter?" a merry peal of laughter had greeted his announcement, and gordon looked on in pretended amazement, waiting for her mirth to subside. "oh dear, oh dear," the girl cried at last. "i might have known. say, of course i ought to have known. you came here yesterday on the train--by mistake. you----" "that's so. i'd booked through to seattle, but--some interfering pack of fools guessed i'd made a--mistake," the girl nodded. her pretty eyes were still dancing with merriment. "father came by the same train, and told me of someone who got mixed up in--in a fight, and they threw----" "don't say another word," gordon cried hurriedly. "i'm--i'm the man. and your father is----?" "mallinsbee--silas mallinsbee!" "then you are hazel mallinsbee." "how do you know my first name?" "why, i saw you in town, and the livery man told me you were 'miss hazel.' say, this is bully. now we aren't strangers, and you can ride in my buggy without any question. jump right in, and i'll drive you--where is it?" hazel mallinsbee obeyed without further demur. she sprang into the vehicle, and gordon promptly followed. the next moment they were moving on at a steady, sober pace. "it's buffalo point," the girl directed. "it's only four miles. then you can go on and enjoy your beautiful pathetic picture of the coal workings. but you won't have much time if we travel at this gait," she added slyly. gordon shook his head. "it's sunset," he said. "we must consider his poor foot." there was laughter in hazel's eyes as she sighed. "poor sunset. perhaps--you're right." "without a doubt," gordon laughed. "he might get blood poisoning, or cancer, or dyspepsia, or something if we bustled him." hazel pointed a branching trail to the north. "that's the trail," she said. "father's at home. he'll be real glad to see you. say, you know father ought to know better--at his age. he--he just loves a scrap. he was telling me about you, and saying how you 'hammered'--that's the word he used--the 'sharp.' he was most upset that the train crew spoiled the finish. you know father's a great scallywag. i don't believe he thinks he's a day over twenty. it's--it's dreadful--with a grown-up daughter. he's--just a great big boy for all his gray hair. you should just see him out on the range. he's got all the youngsters left standing. it must be grand to grow old like he does." gordon listened to the girl's rich tones, and the enthusiasm lying behind her words, and somehow the whole situation seemed unreal. here he was driving one of the most perfectly delightful girls he had ever met to her home, within twenty-four hours of his absurd arrival in a still more absurd town. nor was she any mere country girl. her whole style spoke of an education obtained at one of the great schools in the east. her costume might have been tailored on fifth avenue, new york. yet here she was living the life of the wonderful sunlit prairie, the daughter of an obscure rancher in the foothills of the rockies. "say, your father is just a bully feller," he agreed quickly. "he didn't know me from--a grasshopper, but he did me all sorts of a good service. it don't matter what it was. but it was one of those things which between men count a whole heap." the girl's enthusiasm waxed. "father's just as good as--as he's clever. but," she added tenderly, "he's a great scallywag. oh dear, he'll never grow up." a few minutes later she pointed quickly ahead with one gauntleted hand. "that's buffalo point," she said. "there where that house is. that's our house, and beyond it, half a mile, you can see the telegraph poles of the railroad track." gordon gazed ahead. they still had a good mile to go. the lonely house fixed his attention. "say, isn't there a village?" he inquired. "buffalo point?" the girl shook her head. "no. just that little frame house of ours. father had it built as--a sort of office. you see, we're both working hard on his land scheme. you see, it's--it's our hobby, the same as losing trails is yours." gordon laughed. "that's plumb spoiled my day. i'd forgotten the land business. now it's all come over me like a chill, like the drip of an ice wagon down the back of my neck. i s'pose there'll always be land around, and we've always got to have coal. it seems a pity, doesn't it. say, there hasn't been a soul i've met in twenty-four hours, but they've been crazy on--on town sites. they're most ridiculous things, town sites. four pegs and four imaginary lines, a deal of grass with a substrata of crawly things. and for that men would scrap, and cheat, and rob, and--and graft. it's--a wonder." hazel mallinsbee checked her inclination to laugh again. her eyes were gazing ahead at the little frame house, and they grew wistfully serious. "it isn't the land," she said simply. "the scrap, and cheat, and rob, and graft, are right. but it's the fight for fortune. fortune?" she smiled. "fortune means everything to a modern man. to some women, too, but not quite in the way it does to a man. you see, in olden days competition took a different form. i don't know if, in spite of what folks say about the savagery of old times, they weren't more honest and wholesome than they are now. however, nature's got to compete for something. human nature's got to beat someone. life is just one incessant rivalry. well, in old times it took the form of bloodshed and war, when men counted with pride the tally of their victories. now we point with pride to our civilization, and gaze back in pity upon our benighted forefathers. instead of bloodshed, killing, fighting, massacring and all the old bad habits of those who came before us, we point our civilization by lying, cheating, robbing and grafting." gordon smiled. "put that way it sounds as though the old folks were first-class saints compared with us. there's a deal of honesty when two fellers get right up on their hind legs and start in to mush each other's faces to a pulp. but it isn't just the same when you creep up while the other feller isn't wise and push the muzzle of a gun into his middle and riddle his stomach till it's like a piece of gruyère cheese." hazel shook her head. her eyes were still smiling, but gordon detected something of the serious thought behind them. he vainly endeavored to sober his mood in sympathy. "guess it's the refinement of competition due to the claims of our much proclaimed culture and civilization. i think civilization is a--a dreadful mockery. to call it a whitewash would be a libel on a perfectly innocent, wholesome, sanitary process. that's how i always feel when i stop to think. but--but," her eyes began to dance with a joyous enthusiasm, "i don't often think--not that way. say, i just love the battle, i mean the modern battle for fortune. it's--it's almost the champagne of life. i know only one thing to beat it." gordon had forgotten the team he was driving, and let them amble leisurely on towards the house, now so rapidly approaching. "what's--the real champagne?" he inquired. the girl turned and gazed at him with wide eyes. "why," she cried. "life--just life itself. what else? say, think of the moment your eyes open to the splendid sunlight of day. think of the moment you realize you are living--living--living, after a long, delicious night's sleep. think of all the perfect moments awaiting you before night falls, and you seek your bed again. it is just the very essence of perfect joy." "it's better after breakfast, and you've had time to get around some." the ardor of the girl's mood received a sudden douche. just for a moment a gleam of displeasure shadowed her eyes. then a twinkling smile grew, and the clouds dispersed. "isn't that just a man? where's your enthusiasm? where's your joy of life? where's your romance, and--and spirit of hope?" a great pretense of reproach lay in her rapid questions. "oh, they're all somewhere lying around, i guess," returned gordon simply. "those things are all right, sure. but--but it's a mighty tough proposition worrying that way on--on an empty stomach. it seems to me that's just one of life's mistakes. there ought to be a law in congress that a feller isn't allowed to--to think till he's had his morning coffee. the same law might provide for the fellow who fancies himself a sort of canary and starts right in to sing before he's had his bath. i'd have him sent to the electric chair. that sort of fellow never has a voice worth two cents, and he most generally has a repertoire of songs about as bright as solomon's, and a mighty deal older. sure, miss mallinsbee, i haven't a word to say against life in a general way, but it's about as wayward as a spoilt kid, and needs as much coaxing." hazel mallinsbee watched the play of the man's features while he talked. she knew he meant little or nothing of what he said. the fine, clear eyes, the smiling simplicity and atmosphere of virile youth about him, all denied the sentiments he was giving vent to. she nodded as he finished. "at first i thought you meant all--that," she said lightly. "but now i know you're just talking for talking's sake." then, before he could reply, she pointed excitedly at the house, now less than a hundred yards away. "why, there's father, standing right there on the veranda!" she exclaimed. gordon looked ahead. the old man was waving one great hand to his daughter. chapter viii at buffalo point to gordon's mind hazel mallinsbee attached far greater importance to her father's presence on the veranda than the incident warranted. it did not seem to him that there was the least necessity for his being there at all. truth to tell, the matter appeared to him to be a perfect nuisance. he had rather liked silas mallinsbee when he had met him under somewhat distressing circumstances in the town. now he felt a positive dislike for him. his strong, keen, benevolent face made no appeal to his sympathies now whatsoever. besides, it did not seem right that any man who claimed parentage of such a delightful daughter as the girl at his side should slouch about in a pair of old trousers tucked into top-boots and secured about his waist by a narrow strap. and it seemed positively indecent that he should display no other upper garment than a cotton shirt of such a doubtful hue that it was impossible to be sure of its sanitary condition. however, he allowed none of these feelings betrayal, and replied appropriately to hazel's excited announcement. he was glad, later, he had exercised such control, for their arrival at the house was the immediate precursor of an invitation to share their midday meal, which had already been placed on the table by the silent, inscrutable hip-lee, the chinese cook and general servitor in this temporary abode. the horses had been housed and fed in the temporary stable at the back of the house, and a committee of three had sat upon sunset's injury and prescribed for and treated it. now they were indoors, ready for the homely meal set out for them. hip-lee moved softly about setting an additional place at the table for the visitor. silas mallinsbee was lounging in the doorway, looking out across the veranda. hazel was superintending hip-lee's efforts. gordon was endeavoring to solve the problem of the rapid and unexpected happenings which had befallen him since his arrival, and at the same time carry on a conversation with the rumbling-voiced originator of snake's fall boom. "at one time i guessed i'd bumped right into the hands of the philistines," he said. "that's when i was--er arriving. since then a samaritan got busy my way and dumps me right down in the heart of the promised land, which just now seems to be flowing with milk and honey. i set out to view the dull black mountains of industry, and instead i arrive at the sparkling plains of delightful ease. mr. mallinsbee, you certainly have contrived to put me under enormous obligation." gordon's eyes were pleasantly following the movements of the girl's graceful figure about the plain but neat parlor. "i suppose all offices in the west are not like this, because----" mallinsbee rumbled a pleasant laugh. "office?" he said, without turning. "that's jest how hazel calls it. guess she's got notions since she finished off her education at boston. she's got around with a heap of 'em, includin' that suit she's wearin'. y'see, she's my foreman hoss-breaker, and reckons skirts and things are--played out. office? why, it's just a shack. some time you must get around out an' see the ranch house. it's some place," he added with simple pride. hazel went up to her father and pretended to threaten him by the neck. "see, daddy, you can just quit telling about my notions to--folks. anyway"--she turned her back to gordon--"i appeal to you, mr. van henslaer, isn't an office a place where folks transact big deals and make fortunes?" "that's how folks reckon when they rent them," said gordon. "of course, i've known folks to sleep in 'em. others use 'em as a sort of club smoking lounge. then they've been known to serve some men as a shelter from--home. i used to have an office." silas mallinsbee turned from his contemplation of the horizon. he was interested, and his shrewd eyes displayed the fact. hazel clapped her hands. "and what did you use it for?" she demanded quizzically. "i--oh, i--let's see. well, mostly an address from which to have word sent to folks i didn't want to see that--i was out. i used to find it useful that way." mallinsbee's chuckle amused gordon, but hazel assumed an air of judicial severity. "a spirit not to be encouraged." then, at the sound of her father's chuckle, "my daddy, you are as bad as he. now food's ready, so please sit in. we can talk easier around a table than when people are dreaming somewhere in the distance on the horizon, or walking about a room that isn't bigger than the bare size to sit in. anyway, mr. van henslaer, this office is for business. i won't have it disparaged by my daddy, or--or anyone else. it serves a great purpose so far as we're concerned." then she added slyly, "you see, we're in the throes of the great excitement of making a huge pile, for the sheer love of making it. aren't we, daddy, dear?" silas mallinsbee looked up from the food he was eating with the air of a man who only eats as a matter of sheer necessity. "say, mr. van henslaer," he said in his deep tones, "i've been a rancher all my life. cattle, to me, are just about the only things in the world worth while, 'cept horses. i've never had a care or thought outside 'em, till one day i got busy worrying what was under the ground instead of keeping to the things i understood above the ground. y'see, the trouble was two things," he went on, smiling tenderly in his daughter's direction. "one was i'd fed the ranch stoves with surface coal that you could find almost anywheres on my land, and the other was the fates just handed me the picture of a daughter who caught the dangerous disease of 'notions' way down east at school in boston. since she's come along back to us i've had coal, coal, coal all chasin' through my head, an' playing baseball with every blamed common-sense idea that ever was there before. wal, to tell things quick, i made a mighty big pile out of that coal just to please her. we didn't need it, but she guessed it was up to me to do this. but that didn't finish it. this gal here couldn't rest at that. she guessed that pile was made and done with. she needs to get busy in another direction. well, she gets to work, and has all my land on the railroads staked out into a township, and reckons it's a game worth playing. the other was too dead easy. this time she reckons to measure her brains and energy against a railroad! she reckons to show that we can match, and beat, any card they can play. that's the reason of this office." hazel laughed and raised an admonishing finger at the smiling face and twinkling eyes of her father. "what did i tell you, mr. van henslaer?" she cried. "didn't i say he was just a scallywag? oh, my great, big daddy, i'm dreadfully, dreadfully ashamed and disappointed in you. i'm going to give you away. i am, surely. there, there, mr. van henslaer, sits the wicked plotter and schemer. look at him. a big, burly ruffian that ought to know better. look at him," she went on, pointing a dramatic finger at him. "and he isn't even ashamed. he's laughing. now listen to me. i'm going to tell you my version. he's a rancher all right, all right. he's been satisfied with that all his life, and prosperity's never turned him down. then one day he found coal, and did nothing. we just used to talk of it, that was all. then another day along comes a friend, a very, very old friend and neighbor, whom he's often helped. he came along and got my daddy to sell him a certain patch of grazing--just to help him out, he said. he was a poor man, and my big-hearted daddy sold it him at a rock-bottom price to make it easy for him. three months later they were mining coal on it--anthracite coal. that fellow made a nice pile out of it. he'd bluffed my daddy, and my daddy takes a bluff from no man. well, say, he just nearly went crazy being bested that way, and he said to me--these were his words: 'come on, my gal, you and me are just goin' to show folks what we're made of. if there's money in my land we're going to make all we need before anyone gets home on us. i'm goin' to show 'em i'm a match for the best sharks our country can produce--and that's some goin'.' there sits the money-spinner. there! look at him; he's self-confessed. i'm just his clerk, or decoy, or--or any old thing he needs to help him in his wicked, wicked schemes!" mallinsbee sat chuckling at his daughter's charge, and gordon, watching him, laughed in chorus. "i'm kind of sorry, mr. mallinsbee, to have had to listen to such a tale," he said at last, with pretended seriousness, "but i guess you're charged, tried, convicted and sentenced. seeing there's just two of you, it's up to me to give the verdict guilty!" he declared. "have you any reason to show why sentence should not be passed upon you? no? very well, then. i sentence you to make that pile, without fail, in a given time. say six months. failing which you'll have the satisfaction of knowing that you have assisted in the ruin of an innocent life." in the midst of the lightness of the moment gordon had suddenly taken a resolve. it was one of those quick, impulsive resolves which were entirely characteristic of him. there was nothing quite clear in his mind as to any reason in his decision. he was caught in the enthusiasm of his admiration of the fair oval face of his hostess, whose unconventional camaraderie so appealed to his wholesome nature; he was caught by the radiance of her sunny smile, by the laughing depths of her perfect hazel eyes. nor was the manner of the man, her father, without effect upon his responsive, simple nature. but his sentence on silas mallinsbee had caught and held both father's and daughter's attention, and excited their curiosity. "why six months?" smiled hazel. "say, it's sure some time limit," growled mallinsbee. gordon assumed an air of judicial severity. "is the court to be questioned upon its powers?" he demanded. "there is a law of 'contempt,'" he added warningly. but his warning was without effect. "and the innocent's ruin?" demanded hazel. the answer came without a moment's hesitation. "mine," said gordon. and his audience, now with serious eyes, waited for him to go on. hip-lee had brought in the sweet, and vanished again in his silent fashion. then gordon raised his eyes from his plate and glanced at his host. they wandered across to and lingered for a moment on the strong young face of the girl. then they came back to his plate, and he sighed. "say, if there's one thing hurts me it's to hear everybody telling a yarn, and my not having one to throw back at 'em," he said, smiling down at the simple baked custard and fruit he was devouring. "just now i'm not hurt a thing, however, so that remark don't apply. you see, my yarn's just as simple and easy as both of yours, and i can tell it in a sentence. my father's sent me out in the world with a stake of my own naming to make one hundred thousand dollars in six months!" he was surprised to witness, the dramatic effect of his announcement. hazel's astonishment was serious and frankly without disguise. but her father's was less marked by outward expression. it was only obvious from the complete lack of the smile which had been in his shrewd eyes a moment before. "one hundred thousand dollars in six months!" hazel exclaimed. she had narrowly escaped scalding herself with the coffee hip-lee had just served. she set her cup down hastily. "guess your father's takin' a big chance," said mallinsbee thoughtfully. but their serious astonishment was too great a strain for gordon. he began to laugh. "it's my belief life's too serious to be taken seriously, so the chance he's taken don't worry me as, maybe, it ought," he said. "you see, my father's a good sportsman, and he sees most things the way every real sportsman sees 'em--where his son's concerned. morally i owe him one hundred thousand dollars. i say morally. well, i guess we talked together some. i--well, maybe i made a big talk, like fellows of my age and experience are liable to make to a fellow of my father's age and experience. then i sort of got a shock, as sometimes fellows of my age making a big talk do. in about half a minute i found a new meaning for the word 'bluff.' i thought i'd got its meaning right before that. i thought i could teach my father all there was to know about bluff. you see, i'd forgotten he'd lived thirty-three more years than i had. bluff? why, i'd never heard of it as he knew it. the result is i've got to make one hundred thousand dollars in six months or forfeit my legitimate future." then he added with the gayest, most buoyant laugh, "say, it's a terrible thing to think of. it's dead serious. it's as serious as an inter-university ball game." the lurking smile had returned to mallinsbee's eyes, and hazel frankly joined in gordon's laugh. "and you've come to snake's fall to--to make it?" she cried. "i can't just say that," returned gordon. "no." mallinsbee shook his head, and the two men exchanged meaning glances. then the old man went on with his food and spoke between the mouthfuls. "you had an office?" "sure. you see, i was my father's secretary." "secretary?" mallinsbee looked up quickly. gordon nodded. "that's what he called me. i drew the salary--and my allowance. it was an elegant office--what little i remember of it." the old man's regard was very nearly a broad laugh. "say, you made a talk about an 'innocent's' life gettin' all mussed up?" gordon nodded with profound seriousness. "sure," he replied. "mine. i don't guess you'll deny my innocence." mallinsbee shook his head. "good," gordon went on; "that makes it easy. if you don't make good i lose my chance. i'm going to put my stake in your town plots." the rancher regarded him steadily for some moments. then-- "say, what's your stake?" he inquired abruptly. gordon had nothing to hide. there was, it seemed to him, a fatal magnetism about these people. the girl's eyes were upon him, full of amused delight at the story he had told; while her father seemed to be driving towards some definite goal. "five thousand dollars. that and a few hundred dollars i had to my credit at the bank. it don't sound much," he added apologetically, "but perhaps it isn't quite impossible." "i don't guess there's a thing impossible in this world for the feller who's got to make good," said mallinsbee. "you see, you've got to make good, and it don't matter a heap if your stake's five hundred or five thousand. say, talk's just about the biggest thing in life, but it's made up of hot air, an' too much hot air's mighty oppressive. so i'll just get to the end of what i've to say as sudden as i can. i guess my gal's right, i'm just crazy to beat the 'sharps' on this land scoop, and i'm going to do it if i get brain fever. now it's quite a proposition. i've got to play the railroad and all these ground sharks, and see i get the juice while they only get the pie-crust. i'm needing a--we'll call him a secretary. hazel is all sorts of a bright help, but she ain't a man. i need a feller who can swear and scrap if need be, and one who can scratch around with a pen in odd moments. this thing is a big fight, and the man who's got the biggest heart and best wind's going to win through. my wind's sound, and i ain't heard of any heart trouble in my family. now you ken come in in town plots so that when the boom comes they'll net you that one hundred thousand dollars. you don't need to part with that stake--yet. the deal shall be on paper, and the cash settlement shall come at the finish. meanwhile, if need be, for six months you'll put in every moment you've got on the work of organizing this boom. maybe we'll need to scrap plenty. but i don't guess that'll come amiss your way. we'll hand this shanty over for quarters for you, and we'll share it as an office. this ain't philanthropy; it's business. the man who's got no more sense than to call a bluff to make one hundred thousand dollars in six months is the man for me. he'll make it or he won't. and, anyway, he's going to make things busy for six months. you ain't a 'sharp' now--or i wouldn't hand you this talk. but i'm guessin' you'll be mighty near one before we're through. we've got to graft, and graft plenty, which is a play that ain't without attractions to a real bright feller. you see, money's got a heap of evil lyin' around its root--well, the root of things is gener'ly the most attractive. guess i've used a deal of hot air in makin' this proposition, but you won't need to use as much in your answer--when you've slept over it. say, if food's through we'll get busy, hazel." mrs. james carbhoy was in bed when she received her morning's mail. perhaps she and her millionaire husband were unusually old-fashioned in their domestic life. anyway, james carbhoy's presence in the great bedstead beside her was made obvious by the heavy breathing which, in a less wealthy man, might have been called snoring, and the mountainous ridge of bedclothes which covered his monumental bulk. a querulous voice disturbed his dreams. he heard it from afar off, and it merged with the scenes he was dwelling upon. a panic followed. he had made a terrible discovery. it was his wife, and not the president of a rival railroad, who was stealing the metals of a new track he was constructing as fast as he could lay them. he awoke in a cold sweat. he thought he was lying in the cutting beside the track. his wife had vanished. he rubbed his eyes. no, she hadn't. there she was, sitting up in bed with a sheaf of papers in her hand. he felt relieved. now her plaint penetrated to his waking consciousness. "for goodness' sake, james," she cried, "quit snoring and wake up. i wish you'd pay attention when i'm speaking. i'm all worried to death." the multi-millionaire yawned distressingly. "most folks are worried in the morning. i'm worried, too. go to sleep. you'll feel better after a while." "it's nothing to do with the morning," complained his wife. "it's--it's a letter from gordon. the poor boy writes such queer letters. it's all through you being so hard on him. you never did have any feeling for--for anybody. i'm sure he's suffering. he never talked this way before. maybe he don't get enough to eat; he don't say where he is either. perhaps he's just nowhere in particular. you'd better ring up an inquiry bureau----" "for goodness' sake read the letter," growled the drowsy man. "you're making as much fuss as a hen with bald chicks." mrs. carbhoy withered her husband with a glance that fell only upon the back of his great head. but she had her way. she meant him to share in her anxiety through the text of the, to her, incomprehensible letter. she read slowly and deliberately, and in a voice calculated to rivet any wandering attention. "dearest mum: "there's folks who say that no man knows the real meaning of luck, good or bad, till he takes to himself a wife. this may be right. my argument is, it's only partially so. there may be considerable luck about matrimony. for instance, if any fool man came along and married our gracie he'd be taking quite a chance. her native indolence and peevishness suggest possibilities. her tongue is vitriolic in one so young, as i have frequently had reason to observe. this would certainly be a case where the man would learn the real meaning of luck. but there wouldn't be a question. his luck would be out--plumb out. jonah would have been a mascot beside him. "this is by the way. "i argue luck can be appreciated fully through channels less worrying. when luck gets busy around its coming is kind of subtle. it's sudden, too; kind of butts in unnoticed, sometimes painfully, and generally without shouting. maybe it happens with a bump or a jar. personally i'm betting on the 'bump' play. a bump of that nature got busy my way when i arrived here. i now have a full appreciation of luck. quite as full an appreciation as the man would who married our gracie. but in my case i guess it's good luck. this isn't going to tell you all that's in my mind, but, seeing i haven't fallen for fiction yet, i guess i won't try to be more explicit. luck, in my present position, means the coming responsibility of success. you might hand this on to the old dad. "talking of the old dad, it seems to me that, for a delicate digestion, baked custard and fruit have advantages over ice-cream as a sweet. this again is by the way. "in my last letter i gave you a few first impressions on arrival at my destination. now, if you'll permit, i'll add what i might call the maturer reflections of a mind wide awake to life as it really is, and to the inner meaning of those things which are so carefully hidden from one brought up in luxury, as i have been. one of the 'dead snips' this way is that cleverness and wisdom are often confused by the ignorant. cleverness don't mean wisdom, and--vice versa. for instance, loafing idly down a main street six inches deep in a dust that would shame a blizzard when the wind blows, with a blazing sun scorching the marrow of the spine till it's ready to be spread out on toast, escorted by an army of disgusting flies moving in massed formation, and not knowing better than to drive your soul to perdition through the channel of extreme bad language, don't suggest cleverness. yet there may surely be a deal of wisdom in it if it only keeps you from doing something a heap more foolish. maybe this don't sound altogether bright, but there's quite a deal in it. think it out. another thought is that learning's quite a sound proposition. for instance, a superficial knowledge of geology may come mighty handy at unexpected moments. a knowledge of this served me at a critical moment only to-day. so you see an intimate acquaintance with sharp flints, collected--the acquaintance, not the flints--during my time as the possessor of an automobile, which the dad provided me with and for the upkeep of which he so kindly paid, has likely had more influence upon my future life than the best talk ever handed out by a fifth avenue preacher ever would have done. i have no thought of being irreverent. i am merely handing you a fact. people say that missed opportunities always make you hate to think of them in after life. for my part, i've generally figured this to be the philosophic hot air of a man who's getting old and hates to see youth around him, or else the chin mush of some fool man who's never had any opportunities, talking through the roof of his head. i kind of see it different now. you gave me the opportunity of studying all the beauties of the world seen through an artist's life. i guessed at the time that would be waste of precious moments that might be spent chasing athletics. it's only to-day i've got wise to what a heap i've lost in twenty-four years. colors just seemed to me messy mixtures only fit to spoil paper and canvas with. well, to-day i've hit on something in the way of color that's just about set me crazy to see it all the time. it's a sort of yellowy, greeny brown. that don't sound as merry as it might, but to me it talks plenty. it's just the dandiest color ever. i discovered it out on a 'long, lone trail'--that's how folks talk in books--where the surroundings weren't any improvement on just plain grass. say, mum, i guess that color is great. it gets a grip on you so you don't seem to care if a local freight train comes along and dissects your vitals, and chews them up ready for making a delicatessen sausage. when i die i'll just have to have my shroud dyed that color, and my coffin fixed that way, too. "this isn't so much of a passing thought as the others. guess some folks might figure it to be a disease. maybe the old dad would. well, i shan't kick any if i die of it. "talking of art, i'm just beginning to get a notion that curves are wonderful, wonderful things. these days of mechanical appliances i've always regarded drawing such things by hand as positively ridiculous. i don't think that way now. if i could only draw the wonderful curves i have in mind now, why, i guess i'd go right on drawing them till the birds roosted in my beard and my bones were right for a tame ancestral skeleton. "the daylight of knowledge is sort of creeping in. "i've learned that frame houses have got fifth avenue mansions beat a mile, and the smell of a chinee can become a dollar-and-a-half scent sachet in given circumstances. i've learned that real sportsmanship isn't confined to athletics by any means, and a lame chestnut horse can be a most friendly creature. i've discovered that one man of purpose isn't more than fifty per cent. of two, when both are yearning one way. i'm learning that life's a mighty pleasant journey if you let it alone and don't worry things. it's no use kicking to put the world to rights. it's going to give you a whole heap of worry, and, anyway, the world's liable to retaliate. also i'd like to add that, though i guess i'm gathering wisdom, i don't reckon i've got it all by quite a piece. "having given you all the news i can think of i guess i'll close. "your affectionate son, "gordon. "p.s.--my remarks about gracie are merely the privileged reflections of a brother. when she grows up i dare say she'll be quite a bully girl. it takes time to get sense. "g." "i don't understand it, anyway," sighed gordon's mother, as she laid the letter aside. "you'll have to get him back to home, james. he's suffering. we'll send out an inquiry----" she broke off, glancing across at the mass of humanity so peacefully snoring at the far side of the bed, and, after a brief angry moment, resigned herself to the reflection that men, even millionaires, were perfectly ridiculous and selfish creatures who had no right whatever to burden a poor woman's life with the responsibility of children. chapter ix the first check it was characteristic of gordon to act unhesitatingly once a decision was arrived at. the consideration of silas mallinsbee's generous offer was the work of just as many seconds as it took the rancher to make it in. though, verbally, it was left for a decision the next day, gordon had no doubts in his mind whatever as to the nature of that decision. when he returned to mcswain's sheltering roof, when another meal had been devoured in the evening, when the soup-like contents of the wash-trough had been stirred in the doubtful effort of cleansing himself, when the busy flies had gone to join the birds in their evening roost, he betook himself to his private bathroom, and sat himself upon his questionable bed and gave himself up to reflection, endeavoring to apply some of the wisdom he believed himself to have already acquired. but the application was without useful effect. he began by an attempt to review the situation from a purely financial standpoint, and in this endeavor he stretched out his great muscular limbs along his bed, and propped his broad back against the wall with a dogged do-or-die look upon his honest face. at once a mental picture of hazel mallinsbee obscured the problem. he dwelt on it for some profoundly pleasant moments, and then resolutely thrust it aside. next he started by frankly admitting that mallinsbee's offer left him a certain winner all along the line--if things went right. good. if things went wrong--but they couldn't go wrong with those wonderful yellowy brown eyes of hazel's smiling encouragement upon him. the thought was absurd. again for some time his problem was obscured. but after a few minutes he set his teeth and attacked it afresh. of course, if things did go wrong he was done--absolutely finished. his six months would have expired, his stake would have melted into thin air. his whole future---- but he would have spent six months at hazel's side, working upon something that was obviously very dear to her brave and loyal heart. what more could a man desire? he felt his great muscles thrill with a mighty sense of restrained effort. was there any thought in the world so inspiring as that which had the support of the most wonderful creature he had ever met for its inspiration? he thought not. his pulses stirred at the bare idea of being hazel mallinsbee's companion all those weeks and months. of course it would mean nothing to her. she was far too clever, and--and altogether brainy to give him a second thought. but he felt he could help her. he felt that to go back home with the knowledge that he--he had been one of the prime factors in her achieving the hope of her life would not be without compensations. compensations? he wondered what form such compensations took. they certainly would need to be considerable for the loss of such a companionship. he thought of the vision he had seen upon the trail. the beautifully rounded figure. the graceful movements, so obviously natural. then those eyes, and---- he smiled and abandoned all further attempt to consider seriously the offer he had received. what was the use? his good fortune was certainly running in a strong tide. to attempt to steer a course was to fly in the face of his own luck. no, he would swim with it, let it take him whither it might. meanwhile, hazel had promised to meet him on the morrow, and show him the great coal seam, after which he was to interview her father, and have supper at the--office. forthwith he hastily retired to his nightly game of hide-and-seek amongst the hummocks of flock in his disreputable bed, that the long hours of night might the more speedily merge into a golden to-morrow. the next day gordon, at an early hour, spent something over fifty dollars on a pair of ready-made riding-breeches and boots. for once in his life he felt that the faithful harding had been found wanting. somehow, in arriving at this conclusion, he had forgotten the episode of the five-cent-cigar man. anyhow, the purchase had to be made, since it was necessary to ride out to the coal seams. it was during the time spent on these matters an incident occurred which caused him some irritation. he saw in the distance, as he was making his way to the principal store, the pale-faced, sickly-looking creature who had accosted hazel the day before. the sight of the man put him into a bad temper at once, and he forthwith gave the storekeeper all the unnecessary trouble he could put him to. then, on returning to his hotel, he discovered the man in the office talking to peter mcswain. his swift temper left him utterly without shame, and he stood and stared at the object of his dislike, taking him in from head to foot with profoundly contemptuous eyes. somehow his inspection made him feel glad he disliked the man. he was a broad-chested person with aggressively cut clothes. his black hair was obviously greased, and his general cast of features suggested his hebrew origin. gordon had no grudge against him on this latter score. it was not that. it was the narrow, shifty eyes, the hateful way in which he smoked his cigar, with its flaming band about its middle. it was the loud coarse laugh and general air of impertinent arrogance that set his back bristling. and this--this had spoken to hazel mallinsbee only the day before. he deposited his parcels in his bathroom, and returned to the office to find mcswain by himself. he had no hesitation in satisfying his curiosity. "say," he demanded, in a crisp tone. "who was that rotten-looking 'sharp' you were yarning to when i came in?" peter's amiable expression underwent the most trifling change. "guess i lost ten thousand dollars talkin' that way once," he said, smelling cautiously at one of his own cigars. gordon promptly snapped back. "maybe i've lost more than that. but it don't cut any ice. who was he?" peter smiled as he lit his cigar. "david slosson. guess he's chief robber for the railroad company. you've seen him. are you scared any? say, we've been waitin' to hear him talk two days now. i guess you could hand us a bunch of emperors, an' kings, an' princes, an' dust over 'em a sprinkling of presidents, but i don't reckon you'd stir a pulse among us like the coming of that man did to this city. that feller's right here to put the railroad in on this land scoop. when he's fixed 'em the way he wants we'll hear from the railroad." gordon's eyes were thoughtful. "chief grafter, eh? he surely looks it." "some of 'em do," agreed peter. "it's my belief the best of 'em don't, though," he added reflectively. "yet he surely ought to be right. railroads don't usual graft with anything but the best. he was talkin' pretty, too." "pretty? more than he looked," snorted gordon. then he began to laugh. "say, you and i are pretty well agreed about miracles. i sort of feel it'll have to be one of them miracles if the time don't come when i knock seventeen sorts of stuffing out of that man. i feel it coming on like a disease. you know, creeping through my bones, and getting to the tips of my fingers. i'd like to spoil his store suit in the mud, and beautify his features with your 'hoss' soap, and drown 'em in--well, what's in your washing-trough." peter's smile was cordial enough at the forcefulness of his young guest. he had not forgotten that gordon was a friend of mallinsbee. "i wouldn't play that way till we see how he's buying," he said cautiously. "play?" gordon laughed and shook his head. "well, perhaps you're right. it certainly will be some play." after midday dinner gordon set out on one of mike callahan's horses to keep his appointment with hazel mallinsbee. all his ill-humor of the morning was forgotten, and he looked forward with unalloyed pleasure to his afternoon, which was to culminate in his entering into his agreement with her father. hazel was waiting for him on the veranda of the office. her horse, a fine brown mare, was standing ready saddled. gordon noted the absence of sunset, and understood, but he noted also that her smile of welcome was lacking something of the joyous spirit she had displayed the night before. "sunset off duty?" he inquired, as he came up and leaped out of the saddle to assist her. hazel scorned his assistance. she was in the saddle almost before he was aware of her intention. "sunset's father's," she said. "the lady jane is my saddle horse. she's the most outrageous jade on the ranch. that's why i like her. every moment i'm in the saddle she's trying to get the bit between her teeth. if she succeeded she'd run till she dropped." then, with a deliberate effort, she seemed to thrust some shadow from her mind as they set off at a brisk canter. "you know, father's just dying to show you the ranch. he's quite quaint and boyish. he takes likes and dislikes in the twinkle of an eye, and before all things in his life comes his wonderful ranch. i'll tell you a secret, mr. van henslaer. the day you--arrived, after he'd told me just how you had arrived, he said, 'i'd like to get that boy working around this lay out. i like the look of him. he don't know a lot, but he can do things.' he's certainly taken one of his wonderful, impulsive fancies to you. he's very shrewd, too." gordon laughed. "now i wonder how i ought to take that. i'm all sorts of a fool, but i can hit hard. that's about his opinion of me, eh?" hazel's eyes were slyly watching him. she shook her head. "that's not it," she smiled back. "you don't know my daddy. he might say that, but there's a whole lot of other thoughts stumbling around in his funny old head. if he wants you he thinks you can do more than hit hard." the humor of it all got hold of gordon. "good," he cried, with one of his whole-hearted laughs. "now i'll let you into a secret. this is a great secret. one of those secrets a feller generally hangs on tight to because he's half ashamed of it. i can do more than hit hard!" then he became serious, and it was the girl's turn to find amusement. "you see, i've been raised in a bit of a hothouse. maybe it's more of a wind shelter, though. you know, where the rough winds of modern life can't get through the crevices and buffet you. that's why i fell for that sharp on the train. that's why i bumped head first into snake's fall. that's why your daddy thinks i don't know a lot. but i tell you right here i've got to make that hundred thousand dollars in six months, and i'm going to do it by hook or crook, if there's half a smell of a chance. i've no scruples whatsoever. i just _must_ make it, or--or i'll never face my father ever again. do you get me? whatever you have at stake in this land proposition, it's just nothing to what i have. and you'll know what i mean when i say it's just the youthful pride and foolish egoism of twenty-four years. say, do you know what it means to a kid when he's dared to do some fool trick that may cost his life? well, that's my position, but i've done the daring for myself. my mood about this thing is the sort of mood in which, if i couldn't get that money any other way, i'd willingly hold up a bullion train." the girl nodded. for a moment she made no attempt to answer him. she was gazing out ahead at a point where signs of busy life had made themselves apparent. something of the shadow that had been in her eyes at their meeting had returned. gordon was watching them, and a quick concern troubled him. "say," he observed anxiously. "you're--worried. i saw it when i came up." the girl endeavored to pass his inquiry off lightly. "worried?" she shook her head. "the anxieties of the business are on my poor daddy's shoulders, and will soon be on yours. they're not on mine." but gordon was not easily put off. he edged his horse closer to her side. "but you _are_ worried," he declared doggedly. then he added more lightly, "i'll take a chance on it. it's--a man. and he's got a sort of whitewash face, and black, shoe-shined hair. he's got a nose you'd hate to run up against with any vital part. as for his clothes, well--a blind man would hate to see 'em." the girl turned sharply. "what makes you think that way?" gordon smiled triumphantly. "guess i've been trying to impress you with the fact that foolishness--like beauty--is only skin deep. the former applies to me. the latter--well, i guess i must have just read about--that." "if you're not careful you'll convince me," hazel laughed. "that's one of the things i'm yearning to do." "you're talking of david slosson," she challenged him. gordon nodded. "the railroad's--chief grafter." "and a hateful creature." "who's started right away to--annoy you--from the time he got around snake's fall." a great surprise was looking back into gordon's eyes. "you're guessing. you can't know that," hazel said, with decision. "maybe. say,"--gordon's eyes were half serious, half smiling--"a girl don't push her way past a man when he's talking to her if--he isn't annoying her." "then you saw him stop me on main street yesterday?" "sure." then, after a pause, gordon went on, "say, tell me. we're to be fellow conspirators." just for one moment hazel mallinsbee looked him straight in the eyes. she was thinking, thinking swiftly. nor were her thoughts unpleasant. for one thing she had realized that which gordon had wished her to realize--that he was no fool. she was seeing that something in him which doubtless her father had been quick to discover. she was thinking, too, of his direct, almost dogged manner of driving home to the purpose he had in view, and she told herself she liked it. then, too, all unconsciously, she was thinking of the open, ingenuous, smiling face of his. the handsome blue eyes which were certainly his chief attraction in looks, although his other features were sound enough. she decided at once that for all these things she liked him and trusted him. therefore she admitted her worries. "yes," she said, "it's david slosson--and your description of him is too good. he's been here two days. he came here the day before you. he came out to see father directly he arrived, but, as you know, father was away. i had to see him. and it wasn't pleasant. maybe you can guess his attitude. i don't like to talk of it. he took me for some silly country girl, i s'pose. anyway i got rid of him. then he saw me yesterday." suddenly her face flushed, and an angry sparkle shone in her eyes. "his sort ought to be raw-hided," she declared vehemently. then, after a pause, in which she choked her anger back, "we got a note from him this morning to say he'd be along this afternoon. father's going to see him. and i was scared to death you wouldn't get along in time. that's why i was waiting ready for you, and hustled you off without seeing father. i was scared the man would get around before we were away. i haven't said a word to my daddy. you see he'd kill him," she finished up, with a whimsical little smile. gordon was gazing out ahead at the great coal workings they were now approaching. but though he beheld a small village of buildings, and an astonishing activity of human beings and machinery, for the time, at least, they had no interest for him. "i knew i was up against that man directly i saw him peeking into that store after you," he said deliberately. "miss mallinsbee, i'm going to ask you all sorts of a big favor. we three are going to work together for six months. well, any time you feel worried any by that feller, don't go to your daddy, just come right along to me. i guess it would puzzle more than your daddy to kill him after i've done with him. i don't guess it's the time to talk a lot about this thing now. i don't sort of fancy big talk that way, anyhow. all i ask you is to let me know, and to be allowed to keep my own eyes on him." hazel shook her head. "i don't think i can promise you anything like that," she said seriously. "but i--thank you all the same. you see, out here a girl's got to take her own chances, and i'm not altogether helpless that way." then she definitely changed the subject and pointed ahead. "there, what do you think of it?" "think of it? why, he's a low down skunk!" cried gordon fiercely, unable any longer to restrain his feelings. "i wasn't speaking of him. it!" the girl laughed. "the coalpits." "oh!" there was no responsive laugh from gordon. then he added with angry pretense of enjoyment, "fine!" for nearly two hours they wandered round the embryonic coal village, examining everything in detail, and not without a keen interest. the place, hidden away amongst the higher foothills, was a perfect hive of industry. great masses of machinery were lying about everywhere, waiting their turn for the attention of the engineers. wooden buildings were in the course of construction everywhere. a small army of miners and their wives and children had already taken up their abode, and the men were at work with the engineers in the preparatory borings already in full operation. even to gordon's unpracticed eye there was little doubt of the accuracy of the information he had received relating to snake's fall. here there was everything required to provoke the boom he had been warned of. here was an evidence that the boom would be a genuine one built on the solid basis of great and lasting commercial interest. long before they started on their return journey he congratulated himself heartily upon the accident which had brought him into the midst of such an enterprise, and thanked his stars for the further chance which had brought him into contact with the train "sharp," and so with silas mallinsbee. it was getting on towards the time for the mallinsbees' evening meal when the little frame house once more came within view. there was a decided charm in its isolation. on all sides were the undulations of grass which denoted the first steps towards the foothills. there was a wonderful radiance of summer sheen upon the green world about them, and the brightness of it all, and the pleasantness, set gordon thinking of the pity that all too soon it would be broken up almost entirely by those black and gloomy signs of man's industry when the resources of the old world have to be tapped. however, he was content enough with the moment. the sky was blue and radiant, the earth was all so green, and the wide, wide world opened out before him in whatever direction he chose to gaze. while beside him, sitting her mare with that confident seat of a perfect horsewoman, was the most beautiful girl in all the world, a girl in whose companionship he was to spend the next six months. the gods of fortune were very, very good to him, and he smiled as the vision of his sportsman father flashed through his mind. but his moments of pleasant reflection were abruptly cut short. hazel had suddenly raised one pointing arm, and a note of concern was in her voice. "look," she cried. "something's--upset my daddy." gordon looked in the direction of the house. silas mallinsbee was pacing the veranda at a gait that left no doubt in his mind. it was the agitated walk of a man disturbed. "what's the matter?" demanded gordon, with some concern. "it looks like--david slosson," said hazel, in a hard voice. they rode up in silence, and the girl was the first to reach the ground. "daddy----" she began eagerly. but her father cut her short. the flesh-tinted patch, which gordon had almost forgotten, which he used to cover his left eye with, was thrust up absurdly upon his forehead. his heavy brows were drawn together in an angry frown. his tufty chin beard was aggressively thrust, his two great hands were stuck in the waist of his trousers, which gave him further an air of truculence. "say," he cried, his deep, rolling voice now raised to a pitch of thunder, "it's taken me fifty-six years to come up with what i've been chasing all my life. say, i've spent years an' years huntin' around to find something meaner than a rattlesnake. guess i come up with him to-day." "david slosson," cried hazel, her eyes wide with her anger. her father waved her aside as she came towards him. "no, don't you butt in. i've got to let off hot air, or--or--i'll bust." he paced off down the little veranda, and came back again. then he stood still, and suddenly brought one great fist down with terrific force into his other palm. "gee, but it's tough. say, you ever tried to hold a slimy eel?" he cried, glaring fiercely into gordon's questioning eyes. "no? it's a heap of a dirty and unsatisfact'ry job, but it ain't as dirty as dealing with mr. david slosson, nor half as unsatisfact'ry. you can stamp your heel on it, and crush it into the ground. with david slosson you just got to talk pretty and fence while you know he's got you beat all along the line, an' all the time you're just needin' to kill him all to death. of all the white-livered bums. say, if only the good god would push him right into these two hands an' say squeeze him. say----" he held out his two clenched fists as though he were wringing out a sponge. gordon raked his hair with one hand. "do you need to worry that way, mr. mallinsbee? i owe him some myself." the old man glared for some moments. then a subtle smile crept into his eyes. hazel saw it, and seized the opportunity. "let's get right inside and have food. you can tell us then, daddy. you see, mr. van henslaer's one of our confederates now. he's come along to tell you so." it was with some difficulty that hazel contrived to pacify her father, but at last she succeeded in persuading him to partake of the pleasant meal provided by hip-lee. gordon was glad when at last they all sat down. the appetizing smell of coffee, the delicious plates of cold meats, the glass dishes of preserves, and steaming hot scones, all these things appealed to the accumulated appetite consequent upon his ride. "now tell us all about it," hazel demanded, when the meal was well under way. old mallinsbee, still with the absurd eye-shade upon his forehead, had recovered his humor, and he poured out his story in characteristic fashion. "wall," he said, "maybe i was hot when you come up. he'd been gone best part of an hour. during that time i'd been sort of bankin' the furnaces. gordon van henslaer, my boy, i hate meanness worse 'n any devil hated holy water. ther's all sorts of meanness in this world, and ther' ain't no other word to describe it. killing can be just every sort of thing from justifiable homicide down to stringin' up some black scallywag by the neck for doin' the same things white folks do an' get off with a caution. the feller that steals ain't always to blame. as often as not we need to blame the general community. lyin's mostly a disease, an' when it ain't i guess it's a sort of aggravated form of commercial enterprise, or the budding of a great newspaper faculty. you can find excuse, or other name, fer most every crime of human nature--'cept meanness. david slosson is just the chief ancestor of all meanness, an' when i say that, why--it's some talk. he's here to put the railroad in on the land scoop, and, in that respect, i guess he's all i could have expected. we were making elegant talk. or, i guess, he was mostly. he said his chiefs had sent him up to see how the general public could best be served by his road with regard to this coal boom, and i told him i was dead sure that railroads never failed in their service of the public. i pointed out i had always observed it. "that talk of mine seemed to open up the road for things, and i handed him a good cigar and pushed a highball his way. then he made a big music of railroads in general, and talked so pious that it set me yearnin' for my bed. then i got wide awake. say, i ain't done a heap in chapel goin' recently, but i've sort of got hazy recollections of sitting around dozing, while the preacher doped a lot of elegant hot air about things which kind of upset your notions of life generally. then i seem to recollect getting a sack pushed into my face, and i got visions of the terrible scare of its coming, and the kind of nervous chase for that quarter that i could have sworn i'd set ready in my pocket for such an emergency. that's how i felt--nervous. he was talkin' prices of plots. "wal, i got easy after awhile, and we fixed things elegant. the railroad was to get a dandy bunch of plots at bedrock prices, if they built the depot right here at buffalo point. and that feller was quick to see that i was out for the interests of the public, and to make things easy for the railroad. so he talked pretty. then--then he hooked me a 'right.' he asked me plumb out how he stood. i was ready for him. i said that nothing would suit me better than he should come in the same way with the railroad." he shook his head regretfully. "that man hadn't the conscience of a louse. he was yearning for twenty town plots, in best positions, five of 'em being corner plots, in the commercial area for--nix! i was feeling as amiable as a she wild-cat, and i told him there was nothing doing that way. he said he'd hoped better from my public-spirited remarks. i assured him my public spirit hadn't changed a cent. he said he was sure it hadn't, and was astonished what a strong public spirit was shown around the whole of snake's fall. he said that the old town was just the same as buffalo point. they were most anxious to help the railroad out, too. which, seeing the depot--the old depot--was already standing there, made it a cinch for the railroad. they were dead anxious to save the railroad trouble and expense. i pushed another highball at him, but he guessed he hadn't a thirst any more, and one cigar was all he ever smoked in an afternoon. then he oozed off, and i was glad. i guess homicide has its drawbacks." "high 'graft,'" said gordon. "maybe it's 'high,'" said mallinsbee, with a smile in which there was no mirth. "guess i wouldn't spell it that way myself. there's just one thing certain: if my side of the game has to go plumb to hell david slosson don't get his graft the way _he_ wants it. and that's what you and me are up against." "and we'll beat him." "we got to." "you and----" "you," cried mallinsbee, thrusting out a hand towards him across the table. the two men gripped. gordon had joined the conspirators. chapter x gordon makes his bid for fortune gordon's new address was buffalo point, and, entering upon his duties, he felt like some napoleon of finance about to embark upon a market-breaking scheme in which the brilliancy of his manipulations were to shine forth for the illumination of the pages of history, yet to be written. that was how he felt. those were the feelings of the moment. later the burden of his responsibilities obscured the napoleonic image, and raised up in his mind a thought as to the wisdom of butting one's head against a brick wall. however, for the time at least the joy of responsibility was considerable, and the greater joy of the companionship and trust of his new friends was something which inspired him to great efforts. he studied the affairs of buffalo point with a care for detail and an assiduity which quickly became the surprise and delight of silas mallinsbee. he went over every foot of the new township as laid out by a well-known firm of town planners from new york under mallinsbee's orders and under state supervision. he spent one entire day in studying the drawn plans, and, finally, having committed all the details to memory, he felt himself equipped to devote his whole attention to the cajoling of the railroad which was the sum and substance of their combined efforts. in the first week of his occupation he learned many things which had been obscure. he took the story of mallinsbee's operations and examined it closely, discovering in the process that he possessed a faculty for clear reasoning altogether surprising. furthermore, he discovered that mallinsbee, though possibly unpracticed in the work of a big financial undertaking, yet possessed all, and more, of the shrewdness he had vaguely suspected. one of the first efforts of the old man had been to secure the interest of many of the chief traders in the old township of snake's fall. also that of the bude and sideley coal company. this had been done very simply but effectively. after having marked off the town sites he required for himself he had then offered, and sold, to pretty well every landowner in snake's fall a certain allotment of sites at a merely nominal fee. this, as the man himself declared in the course of his story, left snake's fall pretty well "not carin' a whoop which way the old cat jumped." the "cat" in this instance being the railroad. in this way direct and active opposition from the landholders of snake's fall was minimized. as he explained, it was "graft," but he felt that it was justifiable. this left him with the good will of the citizens and free to act on broader lines. then he began to pull all the wires he could command with the coal people, who regarded him in the friendliest spirit. however, there was difficulty here, though the difficulty was not insurmountable. their engineers were at work already on the plans to be put into almost immediate operation for the construction of a private track to link up the coalfields with snake's fall. with them it was a question of time. they could not afford delay, and the exploitation of the new township would mean delay for them, although they admitted they would be relieved of a great expense from its proximity to their workings. mallinsbee, after stupendous efforts, and careful negotiations of the right kind, finally effected a compromise. he was given three months, of which already one week had elapsed, in which to obtain the definite assurance that the railroad would accept buffalo point as the new city. in the meantime the coal people's construction would be held up, and they would assist him with all the influence they could command in persuading the railroad. this concession was not unaided by considerable graft, and the graft took the form of an agreement that mallinsbee, out of his own pocket, would construct them a coal depot and yards in conjunction with the railroad, and hand them the titles of the land necessary for it. he had just returned from the east, where he had been in consultation with the bude and sideley people, and with whom he had ratified this agreement, and, at the same time, the railroad had been induced to move in the matter. all along he had triumphed through the agency of graft, and the crowning point of his triumph had been demonstrated in the arrival at snake's fall of mr. david slosson. gordon's first impressions of all these things was that silas mallinsbee had contrived with considerable skill, and that all was more or less plain sailing. all that remained was to go on, with the grafting hand thrust ready into the pocket for all eventualities, and he found himself smiling at the thought of his father, and how surely his own theories of financial undertakings were working out. that was his first impression. but it only lasted until he became aware of those subtleties of human nature lying behind human effort and intention. he had reckoned without david slosson, and, more than all, he had reckoned without silas mallinsbee himself. during that first week of his new work david slosson had called at the office twice. once he had encountered only gordon, and hazel had arrived during the visit. the second time he had had another interview with silas mallinsbee. it was immediately after that interview that gordon gained some appreciation of the point where human psychology stepped into the arena of commercial competition. the revelation came in silas mallinsbee's own statement of the result of that interview. "gordon, my boy," he said. he had quickly abandoned the use of gordon's formal address. "if that feller gets around here too frequent with his blackmail, i'm going to kill him." then he thrust the patch over his left eye high up on to his forehead, and gordon realized the angry light shining in the man's eyes. with one eye covered his face had almost been expressionless. his evident surprise at this realization did not fail to attract the rancher's attention. his angry eyes softened to a smile of amusement. "you're wonderin' 'bout that patch?" he went on. "wal, when i get up against a feller who's brighter than i am in a deal, i don't figure to take chances. ever played 'draw' with a one-eyed man? no? wal, i did--once. an' i ain't recovered from all he taught me yet. he taught me that two eyes can just about give away double as much as one. which, in financial dealings, is quite a piece. i guess that patch has saved me quite a few dollars in its time. an' it makes me kind of sore to think i didn't meet that one-eyed 'sharp' earlier in life." gordon nodded as he folded up the plan of the town lying on his desk. "you were using it on--mr. david slosson. say, is he smart, or is he just a--crook?" mallinsbee rose from his chair and moved cumbersomely over to the doorway, and stood with his back turned, gazing out. "i ain't fixed him that way--yet. he's sure a crook, anyway. that's a cinch. 'bout the other we'll know later. say, i'm open to graft anybody on this thing--reasonably. it's part of the game. it's more. it's the game itself. but i don't submit to blackmail." "there doesn't seem much difference," said gordon, drawing some letter-paper towards him, and preparing to write. the other remained where he was, moodily gazing out at the hills where his beloved ranch lay. "you'd think not--but there is," mallinsbee went on. "you graft an organization when you're needin' something from them which they ain't under obligation to themselves to do. that's buying and selling, and, as things go, there ain't much kick coming. but when you've done that, and their favor's fixed right, it's blackmail if their servants come along and refuse to carry out their work if you don't pay _their_ price. this feller slosson is a servant of the railroad. i'm ready to graft all they need. he's out for blackmail. that feller wants to be paid something for nothing. he don't do a thing for us. he's got to do the work i'm paying the railroad for. see? say, gordon, boy, happen what likes i won't do it. that feller don't make one cent out of me. i'm on the buck, an' i don't care a curse." mallinsbee had turned about to deliver his irrevocable decision, and, as gordon met the man's serious, obstinate expression, he realized something of the psychology lying behind a big financial transaction. if slosson had been a man of reasonable grafting disposition, if he had been a pleasant, amiable personality, if he had been a--man, if silas mallinsbee had been used to affairs such as his father dealt in--well--. but it was useless to speculate further. he only saw a troublous situation growing up for him to contend with. "we've got to get him playing our game," he hazarded. "that we'll never do. we're playing a straight bid for a win. he couldn't play a straight bid for anything." "no." there was a great cordiality in gordon's negative. "it's us who've got to play him--someways." "it's some proposition," mused gordon. "it surely is. there's ways." mallinsbee laughed shortly. "maybe i'll hand him over to hazel." then he gave another short laugh. "guess the ranch 'll interest him some--too." gordon's eyes lit apprehensively. "i wouldn't do that," he said almost sharply. mallinsbee faced about. "why not? hazel's a bright girl. she's as wise as any two men. a crook don't worry her a thing." "i guess all that's right enough. but--she's a girl, and--i don't seem to feel it's fair to her." mallinsbee remained silent for some moments. gordon watched the broad back of the great, lolling figure in the doorway with an alarm he would not have displayed had he been facing him. then the sound of clattering hoofs outside broke up the silence and the old man turned. "here she is," he cried, with a shadowy smile. "guess she can speak for herself." gordon could have cursed the luck that had brought the girl there at that moment. he understood the depth of her devotion to her father and his enterprise. nothing could have been less opportune. but, in a moment, his annoyance became lost in his delight at the sound of her cheery greeting. "hello, daddy," he heard her call out. gordon remained where he was, waiting to feast his eyes upon the fresh beauty of this girl, who occupied so large a portion of his thoughts. her father stood aside to allow her to pass in, and gordon had his reward in her radiant smile. "how's our junior partner?" she cried gayly. "feeling just about ready to turn the office into a twelve-foot ring and--hurt somebody," the junior partner retorted quickly. hazel pulled a long face. "is it that way?" she demanded, and turned back to her father. then she added playfully: "what's ruffled the atmosphere of our--dovecote?" the old man began to chuckle. "dovecote?" he said. "guess armed fortress comes nearer describing this lay out. anyway the temper of its occupants," he added, his twinkling eyes on the determined features of his protégé. "guess i'll get goin' out to the ranch while you two scrap things out. seems to me i need to get the cobwebs of david slosson out of my head." he took his departure without haste, but with the obvious intention of avoiding any further discussion of david slosson for the present. and gordon was not sorry for his going. he felt that at all costs his suggestion that hazel should take her place in the ring with this man slosson was not to be thought of. but he was reckoning without hazel herself. he was calculating with all a man's--a young man's--assurance that this girl would regard his opinions in the light he regarded them himself. hazel sat herself upon the edge of his desk, and flicked the rawhide quirt against the leg of her top boot. her prairie hat was thrust back from her forehead, and her pretty tanned face was turned in a smiling inquiry upon gordon. "what is it?" she asked, with that new alertness the man had come to regard as a part of her nature, second only to her delightful camaraderie. he smiled back into her merry eyes. "i'm wondering why two men bent on a joint purpose can't see the same thing in the same light." "which means you and my daddy have already started an argument which i'll have to settle." gordon laughed. "guess you'll settle it, though--there's no need." "why not? if you can't agree?" "we do agree." "then where's the argument?" "there isn't one." hazel began to laugh. "why did you say there was?" "i didn't. it was you who said that." hazel's smile had died away. "it's slosson, of course," she said decidedly. and gordon began to wish she were not so clearsighted, nor so direct in her challenges. "oh, he's a constant thorn," he said evasively. "has he been here to-day?" gordon nodded. "and the result?" "your father is--obdurate. says he won't submit to blackmail." "has slosson abated his terms?" "i don't think so." hazel rose quickly from her seat on the desk. she walked slowly across the room and propped herself in the doorway, in precisely the same position as her father had occupied. gordon's eyes watched her every movement. he knew she was considering deeply, and intuition warned him that the result of her consideration might easily conflict with that which he had in his mind. but he was not prepared for the announcement which came a moment later. she came back to the desk quickly, and took up her old place on it. her pretty lips were firmly set, and she gazed soberly and unflinchingly down into gordon's apprehensive blue eyes. "i shall have to deal with david slosson," she said quietly. then, with a light, expressive shrug: "it won't be pleasant--not by quite a lot. but--it's got to be done, and done quickly. father won't give way, so--he must." but, in a moment, gordon's protest came with all the enthusiasm of his impulsive nature. to think of this beautiful child having to defile herself by cajoling a creature like this slosson moved him to a pitch of distraction. whatever else he did not know, he knew the meaning of expression when men gaze at women. and he had not forgotten his first morning in snake's fall. "miss mallinsbee," he cried, his big body leaning forward in his earnestness, and all his feelings displayed in his ingenuous face, "i'd rather let this thing go plumb smash than that you should be brought into contact with that filthy scum again. say, you're too young, and good, to understand such creatures. i know----" hazel was smiling whimsically down into his anxious eyes. "and you're so old and wise you can see plumb through him," she cried. then with an exact reproduction of his manner, she leaned forward so that their faces were within a foot of each other. "you two solomons can't deal with him worth two cents. my daddy's too obstinate, and you--are too prejudiced. he's got to be dealt with, and i'm going to do it. in a case like this a girl's wiser than any two men." "that's--just how your father argued," cried gordon, in exasperation. and the next moment he could have bitten off his tongue. hazel clapped her hands. "so that was the argument," she cried delightedly. "my daddy in his wisdom thought of me, and you--you being just a big, big chivalrous boy with notions, couldn't see the same way." then she sat up, and her eyes grew very serious. that which lay behind them was completely hidden from her companion, as she intended it to be. had it been possible for him to have read her approval of himself in her attitude, he now made it beyond question by the sudden wave of heat which swept through his heart. "i tell you, you've no right to sacrifice yourself," he cried hotly. "nor has your father----" "no right? sacrifice?" hazel's eyes opened wide, and in their beautiful depths a sparkle of resentment shone. "who says that?" she demanded. then in a moment her merry thought banished the clouds of her displeasure. she began to tease. "why shouldn't i do this? say, you've roused my curiosity. what's the danger? i--i just love danger. what is the danger i'm running?" but gordon's sense of humor was unequal to her teasing on such a subject. he remained sulkily silent. "i'm waiting," hazel urged slyly. gordon cleared his throat. he glanced up at her a little helplessly. their eyes met, and somehow he caught the infection of her lurking smile. he was forced to laugh in spite of himself. "if--if you don't know, it's not for me to say," he cried at last, with a shrug. "but i tell you, right here, if you were my sister you wouldn't go near slosson, if i had to--to chain you up." "but i'm not your sister," retorted hazel, with her dazzling smile. "and, if i were, i shouldn't be a sister of yours if i didn't." then she laughed at herself. "say, isn't that real bright?" then with a great pretense at severity she flourished an admonitory finger at him. "gordon van henslaer," she said solemnly, "you're just as obstinate as my daddy, but you haven't got his wisdom." her pretense passed and she became suddenly very earnest. "this thing is just all the world to my daddy," she said, "and i can help him. wouldn't you help him if you had such a dear, quaint old daddy as i have? i'm sure you would. what does it matter to me what i may have to put up with if i can help him out? true, it doesn't matter a thing. insults? why, i'll just deal with them as they come along." then her mood lightened. "say, we're just two real good friends, mr. van henslaer, aren't we? friends. it's got a bully sound. that's just how my daddy and i've been ever since my poor momma died years and years ago. heigho!" she sighed. "and now i've got another friend, and that's you. say, we're always going to be friends, too, because you're going to understand that this--this thing is business, and business isn't play. my daddy wants to make good, and i'm going to do all i know. and," she added slyly, "that's quite a lot. do you know, in this thing i'm dead honest when i'm dealing with honest folk, and i'm a 'sharp' when i'm dealing with 'sharps'? by that i just mean i'm not scared of a thing. certainly of nothing mr. david slosson can do. my daddy can trust me, and he's known me all my life. you've only known me a week, but you can trust me too. i'm out to help things along, so just let's forget this--this talk." gordon's admiration for the girl was so obvious that no words of his were necessary to illuminate it, but he shook his head seriously as she finished speaking. "i just can't help it, miss mallinsbee," he said, a little desperately. "if anything happened to you i'd never forgive myself. what do you mean to do?" hazel smiled at his manner. her smile was confident, but it was also an expression of her regard for him. she had no intention of modifying her decision, but she liked him for his dogged protest. "you just leave that to me," she cried buoyantly. "i haven't an idea in my silly head--yet. all i can say is, david slosson is to be encouraged. he's to be flattered. i'm going to make him smile real prettily with that mealy face of his. guess i'll have to take him out rides--but i'll promise you it won't be my fault if he don't break his wicked neck." gordon was forced to join in the girl's infectious laugh, but it was without enjoyment. to think of this man riding at hazel's side, basking in her smiles, enjoying her company just when and where he pleased. the thought was maddening. and it set his fingers tingling and itching to possess themselves of his throat and squeeze the life out of him. "and how long's this to go on for?" he asked sulkily, in spite of his laugh. hazel's eyes opened wide. "why--until he weakens, and we get things fixed." "and if he beats your game?" "he'll hate himself first, and then we'll have to reorganize our plans." "then i guess i'll get busy on the other plans." "i shall be beaten?" gordon glanced away towards the window. his eyes had become reflective. "it's the only thing i can see," he said slowly. "he'll finish by insulting you. i know his kind. he'll insult you, sure. and i--well, i shall just as surely pretty near kill him. and then we'll need other--plans." chapter xi hazel mallinsbee's campaign the seductive mystery of the hills was beyond all words. a wonderful outlook of wide valleys, bounded in almost every direction by the vast incline of wood-clad hills, opened out a world that seemed to terminate abruptly everywhere, yet to go on and on in an endless series of great green valleys and mountain streams. darkling wood-belts crept up the great hillsides, deep in mysterious shadows, stirring imagination, and carrying it back to all those haunting dreams of early childhood. for the most part these were all untrodden by human foot, and so their mystery deepened. then above, often penetrating into the low-lying clouds, the crowning glory of alabaster peaks whose snowy sheen dazed the wondering eyes raised towards them. in the valleys below, the green, the wonderful green, bright and delicate, and quite unfaded by the scorching sun of the prairie away beyond. pastures beyond the dreams of all animal imagination in their humid richness. water, too, and low, broken scrubs and woodland bluffs--one vast panorama of verdant beauty, such as only the eye of an artist or the heart of a ranchman could appreciate. it was the setting of silas mallinsbee's ranch, that ranch which was more to him than all the world, except his motherless daughter. gordon had seen it all as he rode out to spend the week-end on a ranch horse, placed by mallinsbee at his disposal. he had marveled then at the delights spread out before his eyes. now, on the sunday morning, while he awaited breakfast, he wondered still more as he examined, even more closely, that wealth of natural splendor spread out for his delight. he was lounging on the deep sun-sheltered veranda which faced the south. the ranch house was perched high up on the southern slope of one of the lesser hills. above him the gentle morning breeze sighed in the rustling tree-tops of a great crowning woodland. below him, and all around him, were the widespreading buildings and corrals of a great ranching enterprise. it seemed incredible to him that within twenty miles of him, away to the east, there could exist so mundane and sordid an undertaking as the bude and sideley coal company, and the vicious chorus of ground sharks which haunted snake's fall. he felt as though he were gazing out upon some enchanted valley of dreamland, where the soft breezes and glinting sunlight possessed a magic to rest the teeming energy of modern highly tuned brain and nerves. its seductiveness lulled him to a profound meditation, and into his dreaming stole the figure of the mistress of these miles of perfect beauty. now he had some understanding of that fascinating buoyancy of spirit, the simple devotion with which she contemplated the life that claimed her. how could it be otherwise? here was nature in all its wonders of simplicity, shedding upon the life sheltering at its bosom an equal simplicity, an equal strength, an equal singleness of mind with which it was itself endowed. he felt that if he, too, had been brought up in such surroundings no city flesh-pots could ever have offered him any fascination. he, too, must have felt that this--this alone was the real life of man. the play of the dancing sunlight through the distant trees held his gaze. he forgot to smoke, he forgot everything except the beauty about him, the stirring ranch life below him, and the girl whose fascination was daily possessing a greater and greater hold upon him. then, quite gently, something else subtly merged itself with the pleasant tide of his meditations. it was the deep note of a voice which came from close beside him in a rolling bass that afforded no jar. "a picture that's mighty hard to beat," it said. gordon nodded without turning. "sure." "kind of holds you till you wonder why folks ever build cities and things." "sure." "there ain't a muck hole in miles and miles around that you could fall into, and not come out of with a clean conscience an' a wholesome mind. kind of different to a city." gordon stirred. he turned and looked into silas mallinsbee's smiling eyes. "it's--all yours?" he inquired. "for miles an' miles around. i got nigh a hundred miles of grazing in these hills--and nobody else don't seem to want it. makes you wonder." gordon laughed. "say, set a spade into the ground and find a marketable mineral and tell somebody. then see." mallinsbee chewed an unlit cigar, and his chin beard twisted absurdly. "that's it," he said slowly. "there's nothing to these hills as they are, except to a cattleman, i guess. cattle don't suit the modern man. your profitable crop's a three years' waiting, and that don't mean a thing to folk nowadays, except a dead loss of time on the round-up of dollars. they don't figure that once you're good and going that three years' crop comes around once every year. so they miss a deal." "yes, they'd reckon it slow, i guess," gordon agreed. "but," he went on with enthusiasm, "the life of it. the air." he took a deep breath of the sparkling mountain atmosphere. "it's champagne. the champagne of life. say, it's good to be alive in such a place. and you," he gazed inquiringly into the man's strong face, "you began it from--the beginning?" "i built the first ranch house with my own hands. my old wife an' i built up this ranch and ran it. and now it's rich and big--she's gone. she never saw it win out. hazel's took her place, and it's been for her to see it grow to what it is. she helped me ship my first single year's crop of twenty thousand beeves to the market ten years ago. she was a small kiddie then, and she cried her pretty eyes out when i told her they were going to the slaughter yards of chicago. you see, she'd known most of 'em as calves." "the work of it must be enormous," meditated gordon, after a pause in which he had pictured that small child weeping over her lost calves. "so," rumbled mallinsbee. "we're used to it. i run thirty boys all the year round, and more at round-up. guess if i was missing hazel wouldn't be at a loss to carry on. she's a great ranchman. she knows it all." "wonderful," gordon cried in admiration. "it's staggering to think of a girl like that handling this great concern." "there's two foremen, though. they've been with us years," said the other simply. but gordon's wonder remained no less, and mallinsbee went on-- "after breakfast we'll take a gun and get up into those woods yonder. maybe we'll put up a jack rabbit, or a blacktail deer. anyway, i guess there's always a bunch of prairie chicken around." "fine," cried gordon, all his sporting instincts banishing every other thought. "which----" but hazel's voice interrupted him, summoning them both to breakfast. "come along, folks," she cried, "or the coffee 'll be cold." the men hurried into the house. gordon felt that there was nothing and no power on earth that could keep him from his breakfast in that delicious mountain air, with hazel for his hostess. the meal was all he anticipated. simple, ample, wholesome country fare, with the accompaniment of perfect cooking. he ate with an appetite that set hazel's merry eyes dancing, and her tongue accompanying them with an equally merry banter. and all the time silas mallinsbee looked on, and smiled, and rumbled an occasional remark. after breakfast the two men set out with their guns. "we're sure making sunday service," said hazel's father, glancing into the breech of his favorite gun. gordon concurred. "up in the woods there," he laughed. "with a congregation of fur and feather," laughed hazel. "which is as wholesome as petticoats an' swallowtails," said her father, "an' a good deal more healthy fer our bodies." "but what about your souls?" inquired hazel slyly. "souls?" her father snapped the breech closed. "a soul's like a good sailin' ship. if she's driving on a lee shore it's through bad seamanship and the winds of heaven, and you can't save it anyway. if she ain't driving on a lee shore--well, i don't guess she needs saving." "it's a great big scallywag," came through the open doorway after them, as they departed. the tenderness and affection in the manner of the girl's parting words made gordon feel that his great host had some compensation for the absence of that mother who had blessed him with such a pledge of their love. the two men were returning with their bag. it was not extensive, but it was select. a small blacktail was lying across mallinsbee's broad shoulders. gordon was carrying a large jack-rabbit, and several brace of prairie chicken. the younger man was enthusiastic over their sport. "talk to me of a city! why, i could do this twice a day and every day, till i was blind and silly, and deaf and dumb. i sort of feel life don't begin to tell you things till you get out in the open, at the right end of a gun. makes you feel sorry for the fellows chasing dollars in a city." they were approaching the limits of a woodland bluff, from the edge of which the ranch would be in view. "guess that's how i've always felt--till little hazel got without a mother," replied mallinsbee. "after that--well, i just guess i needed other things to fill up spare thoughts." gordon's enthusiasm promptly lessened out of sympathy. something of the loneliness of the ranch life--when one of the partners was taken--now occurred to him. "yes," he said earnestly, "the right woman's just the whole of a man's world. i guess there are circumstances when--this sun don't shine so bright. when a man feels something of the vastness and solitude of these hills, when their mystery sort of gets hold of him. i can get that--sure." "yep. it's just about then when a bit of coal makes all the difference," mallinsbee smiled. "i wouldn't just call coal the gayest thing in life. but it's got its uses. when the summer's past, why, i guess the stoves of winter need banking." gordon nodded his understanding. "but your daughter is just crazy on this life," he suggested. the old man's smile had passed. "sure." then he sighed. "she's been my partner ever since, sort of junior partner. but sometime she 'll be--going." then his slow smile crept back into his eyes. "then it'll be winter all the time. then it'll have to be coal, an' again coal--right along." they emerged from the woods, and instinctively gordon gazed across at the distant ranch. in a moment he was standing stock still staring across the valley. and swiftly there leaped into his eyes a dangerous light. mallinsbee halted, too. he shaded his eyes, and an ominous cloud settled upon his heavy brows. "some one driven out," he muttered, examining narrowly a team and buggy standing at the veranda. gordon emitted a sound that was like a laugh, but had no mirth in it. "it's a man, and he's talking to miss mallinsbee on the veranda. it don't take me guessing his identity. that suit's fixed right on my mind." "david slosson," muttered mallinsbee, and he hurried on at an increased pace. it was after the midday dinner which david slosson had shared with them. when her father and gordon arrived, and before objection could be offered by anybody, hazel asked her uninvited guest to stay to dinner. david slosson, without the least hesitation, accepted the invitation. in this manner all opposition from her father was discounted, all display of either man's displeasure avoided. she contrived, with subtle feminine wit, to twist the situation to the ends she had in view. she disliked the visitor intensely. the part she had decided to play troubled her, but she meant to carry it through whatever it cost her, and she felt that an opportunity like the present was not to be missed. her father accepted the cue he was offered, but gordon was obsessed with murderous thoughts which certainly hazel read, even in the smile with which he greeted the man he had decided was to be his enemy. to gordon, david slosson was even more detestable socially than in business. here his obvious vulgarity and commonness had no opportunity of disguise. he displayed it in the very explanation of his visit. "say," he cried, "snake's fall is just the bummest location this side of the sahara on a sunday. i was lyin' around the hotel with a grouch on i couldn't have scotched with a dozen highballs. i was hatin' myself that bad i got right up an' hired a team and drove along out here on the off-chance of hitting up against some one interestin'." then he added, with a glance at hazel, which gordon would willingly have slain him for: "guess i hit." this was on the veranda. but later, throughout the meal, his offenses, in gordon's eyes, mounted up and up, till the tally nearly reached the breaking strain. the man put himself at his ease to his own satisfaction from the start. he addressed all his talk either to hazel or to her father, and, by ignoring gordon almost entirely, displayed the fact that antagonism was mutual. he criticised everything he saw about him, from the simple furnishing of the room in which they were dining, and the food they were partaking of, and its cooking, even to the riding-costume hazel was wearing. he lost no opportunity of comparing unfavorably the life on the ranch, the life, as he put it, to which her father condemned hazel, with the life of the cities he knew and had lived in. he passed from one rudeness to another under the firm conviction that he was making an impression upon this flower of the plains. the men mattered nothing to him. as far as mallinsbee was concerned, he felt he held him in the palm of his hand. never in his life had gordon undergone such an ordeal as that meal, which he had so looked forward to, in the pleasant company of father and daughter. never had he known before the real meaning of self-restraint. more than all it was made harder by the fact that he felt hazel was aware of something of his feelings. and the certainty that her father understood was made plain by the amused twinkle of his eyes when they were turned in his direction. then came the _dénouement_. it was at the finish of the meal that hazel launched her bombshell. slosson, in a long, coarse disquisition upon ranching, had been displaying his most perfect ignorance and conceit. he finished up with the definite statement that ranching was done, "busted." he knew. he had seen. there was nothing in it. only in grain or mixed farming. he had had wide experience on the prairie, and you couldn't teach him a thing. "you must let me show you how fallible is your opinion," said hazel, with more politeness of language than intent. there was a subtle sparkle in her eyes which gordon was rejoiced to detect. "let me see," she went on, "it's light till nearly nine o'clock. you see, i mustn't keep you driving on the prairie after dark for fear of losing yourself." she laughed. "now, i'll lend you a saddle horse--if you can ride," she went on demurely, "and we'll ride round the range till supper. that'll leave you ample time to get back to snake's fall without losing yourself in the dark." gordon wanted to laugh, but forced himself to refrain. mallinsbee audibly chuckled. david slosson looked sharply at hazel with his narrow black eyes, and his face went scarlet. then he forced a boisterous laugh. "say, that's a bet, miss hazel," he cried familiarly. "if you can lose me out on the prairie you're welcome, and when it comes to the saddle, why, i guess i can ride anything with hair on." "better let him have my plug, sunset," suggested mallinsbee gutturally. but hazel's eyes opened wide. she shook her head. "i wouldn't insult a man of mr. slosson's experience by offering him a cushy old thing like sunset," she expostulated. then she turned to slosson. "sunset's a rocking-horse," she explained. "now, there's a dandy three-year-old i've just finished breaking in the barn. he's a lifey boy. wouldn't you rather have him?" she inquired wickedly. slosson's inclination was obvious. he would have preferred sunset. but he couldn't take a bluff from a prairie girl, he told himself. forthwith he promptly demanded the three-year-old, and his demand elicited the first genuine smile gordon had been able to muster since he had become aware of slosson's presence on the ranch. within half an hour one of the ranch hands brought the two horses to the veranda. hazel's mare, keen-eyed, alert and full of life, was a picture for the eye of a horseman. the other horse, shy and wild-eyed, was a picture also, but a picture of quite a different type. hazel glanced keenly round the saddle of the youngster. then she approached slosson, who was stroking his black mustache pensively on the veranda, and looked up at him with her sweetest smile. "shall i get on him first?" she inquired. "maybe he'll cat jump some. he's pretty lifey. i'd hate him to pitch you." but to his credit it must be said that slosson possessed the courage of his bluff. with a half-angry gesture he left the veranda and took the horse from the grinning, bechapped ranchman. he knew now that he was being "jollied." "guess you can't scare me that way, miss hazel," he cried, but there was no mirth in the harsh laugh that accompanied his words. he was in the saddle in a trice, and, almost as quickly, he was very nearly out of it. that cat jump had come on the instant. "stick to him," hazel cried. and david slosson did his best. he caught hold of the horn of the saddle, his heels went into the horse's sides, and, in two seconds, his attitude was much that of a shipwrecked mariner trying to balance on a barrel in a stormy sea. but he stuck to the saddle, although so nearly wrecked, and though the terrified horse gave a pretty display of bucking, it could not shed its unwelcome burden. so, in a few moments, it abandoned its attempt. then david slosson sat up in triumph, and his vanity shone forth upon his pale face in a beaming smile. "he's some horseman," rumbled mallinsbee, loud enough for slosson to hear as the horses went off. "quite," returned gordon, in a still louder voice. "if there's one thing i like to see it's a fine exhibition of horsemanship." then as the horses started at a headlong gallop down towards the valley, the two men left behind turned to each other with a laugh. "he called hazel's bluff," said the girl's father, with a wry thrust of his chin beard. "which makes it all the more pleasant to think of the time when my turn comes," said gordon sharply. david slosson was more than pleased with himself. he was so delighted that, by a miraculous effort, he had stuck to his horse, that his vanity completely ran away with him. he would show this girl and her mossback father. they wanted to "jolly" him. well, let them keep trying. once the horses had started he gave his its head, and set it at a hard gallop. he turned in the saddle with a challenge to his companion. "let's have a run for it," he cried. the girl laughed back at him. "where you go i'll follow," she cried. her words were well calculated. the light of vainglory was in the man's eyes, and he hammered his heels into his horse's flanks till it was racing headlong. but hazel's mare was at his shoulder, striding along with perfect confidence and controlled under hands equally perfect. "we'll go along this valley and i'll show you our next year's crop of beeves," cried hazel, later. "they're away yonder, beyond that southern hill, guess we'll find half of them around there. you said ranching was played out, i think." "right ho," cried the man, with a sneering laugh. "guess you'll need to convince me. say, this is some hoss." "useful," admitted hazel, watching with distressed eyes the man's lumbering seat in the saddle. they rode on for some moments in silence. then hazel eased her hand upon the lady jane, and drew up on the youngster like a shot from a gun. "we'll have to get across this stream," she declared, indicating the six-foot stream along which they were riding. "there's a cattle bridge lower down which you'd better take. there it is, away on. guess you can see it from here." "what are you goin' to do?" asked the man sharply. he was expecting another bluff, and was in the right mood to call it, since his success with the first. but hazel had calculated things to a nicety. she owed this man a good deal already for herself. she owed him more for his impertinent ignoring of gordon, and also for his disparagement of the ranch life she loved. without a word she swung her mare sharply to the left. a dozen strides, a gazelle-like lifting of the round, brown body, and the lady jane was on the opposite bank of the stream. before david slosson was aware of her purpose, and its accomplishment, his racing horse, still uneducated of mouth, had carried him thirty or forty yards beyond the spot where hazel had jumped the stream. at length, however, he contrived to pull the youngster up. he smiled as he saw the girl on the other side of the stream. he remembered her suggestion of the bridge, and he shut his teeth with a snap. the stream was narrower here, so he had an advantage which, he believed, she had miscalculated. he took his horse back some distance and galloped at the stream. hazel sat watching him with a smile, just beyond where he should land. his horse shuffled its feet as it came up to the bank. then it lifted. slosson clung to the horn of the saddle. then the horse landed, stumbled, fell, hurling its rider headlong in a perfect quagmire of swamp. slosson gathered himself up, a mass of mud and pretty well wet through. hazel was out of the saddle in a moment and offering him assistance with every expression of concern. she came to the edge of the swamp and reached out her quirt. the man ignored it. he ignored her, and scrambled to dry ground without assistance. "i told you to take the bridge," hazel cried shamelessly. "you knew you were on a young horse. oh dear, dear! what a terrible muss you're in. my, but my daddy will be angry with me for--for letting this happen." her apparently genuine concern slightly mollified the man. "i thought you were putting up another bluff at me, miss hazel," he said, still angrily. "say, you best quit bluffing me. i don't take 'em from anybody." "bluff? why, mr. slosson, i couldn't bluff you. i--i warned you. same as i did about the cat-jumping your horse put up. say, this is just dreadful. we'll have to get right back, and get you dried out and cleaned. i guess that horse is too young for a--city man. i ought to have given you sunset. he'd have jumped that stream a mile--if you wanted him to. say--there, i'll have to round up your horse, he's making for home." in a moment hazel was in the saddle again, and the man alternately watched her and scraped the thick mud off his clothes. he was decidedly angry. his pride was outraged. but even these things began to pass as he noted the ease and skill with which she rounded up the runaway horse. she was doing all she could to help him out, and the fact helped to further mollify him. after all, she _had_ warned him to take the bridge. perhaps he had been too ready to see a bluff in what she had suggested. after all, why should she attempt to bluff him? he remembered how powerful he was to affect her father's interests, and took comfort from it. she came back with the horse and dismounted. "say," she cried, in dismay, "that dandy suit of yours. it's all mussed to death. i'm real sorry, mr. slosson. my word, won't my daddy be angry." the man began to smile under the girl's evident distress, and, his temper recovered, his peculiar nature promptly reasserted itself. "say, miss hazel--oh, hang the 'miss.' you owe me something for this, you do, an' i don't let folks owe me things long." "owe?" hazel's face was blankly astonished. "sure." the man eyed her in an unmistakable fashion. suddenly the girl began to laugh. she pointed at him. "guess we'll need to get you home and cleaned down some before we talk of anything else i owe. that surely is something i owe you. here, you get up into the saddle. i'll hold your horse, he's a bit scared. we'll talk of debts as we ride back." but slosson was in no mood to be denied just now. although his anger had abated, he felt that hazel was not to go free of penalty. he came to her as though about to take the reins from her hand, but, instead, he thrust out an arm to seize her by the waist. then it was that a curious thing happened. the young horse suddenly jumped backwards, dragging the girl with it out of the man's reach. it had responded to the swift flick of hazel's quirt, and left the man without understanding, and his amorous intentions quite unsatisfied. the next moment the girl was in her own saddle and laughing down at him. "i forgot," she cried, "you'd just hate to have your horse held by a--girl. you best hurry into the saddle, or you'll contract lung trouble in all that wet." slosson cursed softly. but he knew that she was beyond his reach in the saddle. a tacit admission that, at least here, on the ranch, she dominated the situation. "and i've never been able to show you those beeves, and convince you about ranching," hazel sighed regretfully later on, as they rode back towards the ranch. but her sigh was sham and her heart was full of laughter. she was thinking of the delight she would witness in gordon's eyes, when he beheld the much besmirched suit of this man, to whom he had taken such a dislike. chapter xii thinking hard the days slipped by with great rapidity. they passed far too rapidly for gordon. the expectation of silas mallinsbee that david slosson would eventually listen to reason, and accept terms for himself similar to those agreeable to him on behalf of the railroad, showed no sign of maturing. the firmness of his front in no way seemed to affect the grafting agent, and from day to day, although the rancher and his assistant waited patiently for a definite _dénouement_, nothing occurred to hold out promise one way or another. mallinsbee said very little, but he watched events with wide-open eyes, and not altogether without hope that the man would be brought to reason. his eyes were on hazel, smiling appreciation, for hazel was at work using every art of which she was capable to frustrate any opposition to her father's plans, and to help on, as she described it, the "good work." "i'm a 'sharper' in this, mr. van henslaer," she declared, in face of one of gordon's frequent protests. "i'm no better than david slosson. and i--i want you to understand that. i think your ideas of chivalry are just too sweet, but i want you to look with my eyes. we're a bunch of most ordinary folk who want to win out. if you and my daddy thought by burying him, dead or alive, you could beat his hand, why, i guess it would take an express locomotive to stop you. well, i'm out to try and put him out of harm's way in my own fashion. if i can't do it, why, he'll find i'm not the dandy prairie flower he's figuring i am just now. that's all. so meanwhile get on with any old plans you can find up your sleeve. by hook or _crook_ we've _got_ to make good." by this expression of the girl's extraordinary determination doubtless gordon should have been silenced. but he was not silenced, nor anything like it. the truth was he was in love--wildly, passionately, jealously in love. it nearly drove him to distraction to watch the way in which, almost daily, this man slosson drove out to see hazel and take her out for buggy rides or horse riding. not only that, he and her father were practically ignored by the man. they were just so much furniture in the office, and when by any chance the agent did deign to notice them there was generally something offensive in his manner of address. worst of all, as the outcome of hazel's campaign there were no signs that matters were one whit advanced towards the successful completion of their project, and the days had already grown into weeks. all gordon could do was to busy himself with formulating wild and impossible schemes for beating this creature. and a hundred and one strenuous possibilities occurred to him, all of which, however, offered no suggestion of bending the man, only of breaking him. the sum and substance of all his efforts was a deadly yearning to kill david slosson, kill him so dead as to spoil forever his chances of resurrection. this was much the position when, nearly three weeks later, in response to a peremptory note from slosson in the morning, silas mallinsbee decided that gordon should deal with him on a business visit in the afternoon. oh yes, gordon would interview him. gordon would deal with him. gordon would love it above all things. was he given a free hand? but mallinsbee smiled into the fiery eyes of the young giant and shook his head, while hazel looked on at the brewing storm with inscrutable eyes of amusement. "there's no free hand for anybody in this thing, gordon, boy," said mallinsbee slowly. "and i don't guess there's any crematoriums or undertakers' corporation around snake's fall. anyway, hip-lee wouldn't do a thing if you asked him to bury a white man." "white man?" snorted gordon furiously. "remember you're--fighting for my daddy as well as yourself, mr. van henslaer," said hazel earnestly. gordon sighed. "i'll remember," he said. and his two friends knew that the matter was safe in his hands. left alone in his office, gordon endured an unpleasant hour after his dinner. it was not the thoughts of his coming interview that disturbed him. it was hazel. it was of her he was always thinking, when not actually engaged upon any duty. every day made his thoughts harder to bear. for awhile he sat before his desk, leaning back in his chair, gazing blankly at the wooden wall opposite him. she was always the same to him; his worst fits of temper seemed to make no difference. she only smiled and humored or chided him as though he were some big, wayward child. then the next moment she would ride off with this vermin slosson, full of merry sallies and smiling graciousness, whom, he knew, if she had any right feeling at all, she must loathe and despise. well, if she did loathe him, she had a curious way of showing it. he thrust his chair back with an angry movement, and walked off into the bedroom opening out of the office. he looked in. the neatness of it, the scent of fresh air pouring in through its open window, meant nothing to him. he saw none of the work of the guiding hand which, in preparing it, had provided for his comfort. hip-lee kept it clean and made his bed, the same as he cooked his food. it did not occur to gordon to whom hip-lee was responsible. there were pictures on the walls, and it never occurred to gordon that these had been taken from hazel's own bedroom at the ranch--for his enjoyment. nor was he aware that the shaving-glass and table had been specially purchased by hazel for his comfort. there were a dozen and one little comforts, none of which he realized had been added to the room since it had been set aside for his use. he flung himself upon the bed, all regardless of the lace pillow-sham which had once had a place on hazel's own bed. he was in that frame of mind when he only wanted to get through the hours before hazel's sunny presence again returned to the office. he was angry with her. he was ready to think, did think, the hardest thoughts of her; but he longed, stupidly, foolishly longed for her return, although he knew that, with her return, fresh evidence of slosson's attentions to her and of her acceptance of them would be forthcoming. he was only allowed another ten minutes in which to enjoy his moody misery. at the end of that time he heard the rattle of wheels beyond the veranda, and sprang from his couch with the battle light shining in his eyes. but disappointment awaited him. it was not slosson who presented himself. it was the altogether cheerful face of peter mcswain which appeared at the doorway. "say," he cried. then he paused and glanced rapidly round the room. "ain't mallinsbee around?" he demanded eagerly. gordon shook his head. "business?" he inquired. "if it's business i'm right here to attend to it." peter hesitated. "i s'pose you'd call it business," he said, after a considering pause, during which he took careful stock of mallinsbee's representative. then he went on, with a suggestion of doubt in his tone, "you deal with his business--confidential?" gordon smiled in spite of his recent bitterness. he moved over to his desk and sat down, at the same time indicating the chair opposite him. as soon as mcswain had taken his seat gordon leaned forward, gazing straight into the man's always hot-looking face. "see here, mr. mcswain, we're at a deadlock for the moment, as maybe you know. later it'll straighten itself out. i can speak plainly to you, because you're a friend of mr. mallinsbee, and you're interested with us in this deal. i'm here to represent mr. mallinsbee in everything, even to dealing with the railroad people, so anything you've got to say, why, just go ahead. for practical purposes you are talking to mr. mallinsbee." the disturbed peter sighed his relief. "i'm glad, because what i've got to say won't keep. if you folks don't get a cinch on that dago-lookin' slosson feller the game's up. he's askin' options up at snake's. he's not buyin' the land yet, just lookin' for options. maybe you know i got two plots on main street, besides my hotel. well, he's made a bid for options on 'em for two months. he says other folks are goin' to accept his offer. there's mike callahan, the livery man. slosson's been gettin' at him, too. mike come along and told me, and asked what he should do. i guessed i'd run out and see mallinsbee. if ther' ain't anything doin' here at buffalo, why, it's up to us to accept." the man mopped his forehead with a gorgeous handkerchief. his eyes were troubled and anxious. he felt he would rather have dealt with mallinsbee. this youngster didn't look smart enough to deal with the situation. gordon was tapping the desk with a penholder. he was thinking very hard. he knew that the definite movement had come at last, and that it was adverse to their interests. this was the reply to mallinsbee's resolve. for the moment the matter seemed overwhelming. there seemed to be no counter-move for them to make. then quite suddenly he detected a sign of weakness in it. "say," he demanded at last, "why does the man want options? i take it options are to safeguard him _in case_ he wants to buy. this thing looks better than i thought. he's guessing he may quarrel with us. he's thinking maybe we won't come to terms. he's worrying that the news of that will get around, and that, in consequence, up will go prices in snake's. that'll mean the railroad 'll have to pay through the nose, and he'll get into trouble if they have to buy up there. you see, the bedrock of this layout is--this place has to boom anyway, and they've got to get in either here or at snake's." peter rubbed his hands. his opinion of gordon began to undergo revision. "then what are we to do?" the anxiety in his eyes was lessening. gordon sprang from his seat, and brought one hand down on his desk with a slam. "do? why, let him go to hell. refuse him any option," he cried fiercely. "here, i'll tell you what you do. and do it right away. how do you stand with the folks up there?" "good. they mostly listen when i talk," said peter, with some pride. "fine!" cried gordon. "we'll roast him some. see here, i know you're holding with us. i know mike is, and several others. your interests are far and away bigger here than in snake's. so you'll get busy right away. you'll get all the boys together who've got interests here. tell 'em we've fallen out over the railroad deal with slosson. tell 'em to get the town together, and then let 'em explain about this rupture. i'll guarantee the rupture's complete. make 'em refuse all options and boost their prices for definite sale, and threaten to raise 'em sky-high unless the railroad make a quick deal. put a fancy figure on your land at which he _daren't_ buy. you get that? now i'll show you how we'll stand. he's _got to come in on this place then_. he'll have to buy at our price, because--_the railroad must get in_. you must play the town folks who've got land there, but none here, to force the prices up on the strength of our quarrel with the railroad, and i'll guarantee that quarrel's complete this afternoon. well?" the last vestige of peter's worry had disappeared. his eyes shone admiringly as he gazed at the smiling face of the man who had conceived so unscrupulous a scheme. he nodded. "the railroad's got to get in," he agreed. "if they can't get in here they've got to there. offer him boom prices there, and if he closes--which he _daren't_--we make our bits, anyway. if he don't, then he's got to buy here _on your terms_, and--the depot comes here, and the boom with it. say, it's bright. an' you'll guarantee that scrap up?" "sure." peter sprang to his feet. "that's mallinsbee's--word?" "absolutely." the man's hot face became suddenly hotter, and his eyes shone. "i'll get right back and we'll hold a meetin' to-night. say, we've got to fool those who ain't got interests here--they ain't more than fifty per cent.--and then we'll send prices sky-high. you can bet on it, mr. van henslaer, sir. all it's up to you to do is to turn him down and drive him our way. we'll drive him back to you. it's elegant." gordon gave a final promise as they shook hands when peter had mounted his buggy. then the hotel proprietor drove off in high glee. gordon went back to his office without any sensation of satisfaction. he had committed mallinsbee to a definite policy that might easily fall foul of that individual's ideas. but he had committed him, and meant to carry the thing through against all opposition. the cue had been too obvious for him to neglect. it was slosson who had made a false move. he was temporizing, instead of acting on a fighting policy, and it was pretty obvious to him that his temporizing was due to his growing regard for hazel. the man was mad to ask for options. he was a fool--a perfect idiot. no, the opportunity had been too good to miss. if slosson had shown weakness, he did not intend to do so. then, as he sat down and further probed the situation, a real genuine sensation of satisfaction did occur. there would no longer be any necessity for hazel to attempt to play the man. all in a moment he saw the whole thing, and a wild delight and excitement surged through him. he was in the heart of a youngster's paradise once more. the sun streaming in through the window was one great blaze of heavenly light. the world was fair and joyous, and, for himself, he was living in a palace of delight. it was in such mood that he heard the approach of david slosson. the agent entered the office with all the arrogance of a detestable victor. his first words set gordon's spine bristling, although his welcoming smile was amiability itself. slosson glanced round the room, and, discovering only gordon, flung himself into mallinsbee's chair and delivered himself of his orders. "say, you best have your darned chinaman take my horse around back an' feed him hay. where's mallinsbee?" gordon assumed an almost deferential air, but ignored the order for the horse's care. "i'm sorry, but mr. mallinsbee won't be around this afternoon. he's going up in the hills on a shoot," he lied shamelessly. "maybe for a week or two. maybe only days." "what in thunder? say, was he here this morning? i sent word i was coming along." slosson's black eyes had narrowed angrily, and his pasty features were shaded with the pink of rising temper. gordon's eyes expressed simple surprise. "sure, he was here. your note got along 'bout eleven. he guessed he couldn't stop around for you. you see, a few caribou have been seen within twenty miles of the ranch. they don't wait around for business appointments." slosson brought one fist down on the arm of his chair, and in a burst of anger almost shouted at the deferential gordon. "caribou?" he exploded. "what in thunder is he chasin' caribou for when there's things to be settled once and for all that won't keep? caribou? the man's crazy. does he think i'm going to wait around while he gets chasin'--caribou?" gordon maintained a perfect equanimity, but he wanted to laugh badly. he felt he could afford to laugh. "there's no need to 'wait around,'" he deferred blandly. "i am here to act for mr. mallinsbee--absolutely. the entire affairs of the township are in my hands, and i have his definite instructions how to proceed. if you have any proposition to make i am prepared to deal with it." for all his apparent deference a note had crept into gordon's tone which caught the suspicious ears of the railroad agent. he peered sharply into the blue eyes of the man across the desk. "you have absolute power to deal in mallinsbee's interest?" he questioned harshly. "in _mr._ mallinsbee's interests," assented gordon. "wal, what's his proposition?" the man's mustached upper lip was slightly lifted and he showed his teeth. "precisely what it was when he first explained it to you." the deference had gone out of gordon's voice. then, after the briefest of smiling pauses, he added-- "that is in so far as the railroad is concerned. for your own personal consideration his offer of sites to you remains the same as regards price, but the selection of position will be made by--us." gordon was enjoying himself enormously. he had taken the law into his own hands, and intended to put things through in his own way. he expected an outburst, but none was forthcoming. david slosson was beginning to understand. he was taking the measure of this man. he was taking other measures--the measure of the whole situation. of a sudden he realized that he was being told, in his own pet phraseology, to--go to hell. he had consigned many people in that direction during his life, but somehow his own consignment was quite a different matter, especially through the present channel. he pulled himself up in his chair and squared his shoulders truculently. "i guess mallinsbee knows what this means--for him?" he inquired sharply, but coldly. "i fancy _mr._ mallinsbee does." "now, see here, mister--i ferget your name," slosson cried, with sudden heat. "i'm not the man to be played around with. if this is your _mister_ mallinsbee's final offer, it just means that the railroad can't do business with him. which means also that his whole wild-cat land scheme falls flat, and is so much waste ground, only fit for grazing his rotten cattle on. i'm not here to mince words----" "no," concurred gordon in a steady, cold tone. "i said i'm not here to mince words. if i can't get my original terms there's nothing doing, and i'll even promise, seeing we're alone, to get right out of my way to sew up this concern, lock, stock and barrel." "that seems to be the obvious thing to do from your point of view--if you can," said gordon calmly. "seeing that _mr._ mallinsbee is nearly as rich as a railroad corporation, there may be difficulties. anyway, threats aren't business talk, and generally display weakness. so, if you've no business to talk, if you don't feel like coming in on our terms--why, that's the door, and i guess your horse is still waiting for that hay you seemed to think just now he needed." gordon picked up a pen and proceeded deliberately to start writing a letter. he felt that david slosson had something to digest, and needed time. all he feared now was that mallinsbee or hazel might come in before he rid the place of this precious representative of the railroad. after a few moments he glanced up from his letter. "still here?" he remarked, with upraised brows. in a moment slosson started from the brown study into which he had fallen and leaped to his feet. his narrow black eyes were blazing. his pasty features were ghastly with fury, and gordon, gazing up at him, found himself wondering how it came that the hot summer sun of the prairie was powerless to change its hue. the agent thrust out one clenched fist threateningly, and fairly shouted at the man behind the desk-- "i'll make you all pay for this--mallinsbee as well as you. you think you can play me--me! you think you can play the railroad i represent! i'll show you just what your bluff is worth. you, a miserable crowd of land pirates! i tell you your land isn't worth grazing price without our depot. and i promise you i'll break the whole concern----" "meanwhile," said gordon, deliberately rising from his seat and moving round his desk, "try that doorway, before i--break you. there it is." he pointed. "hustle!" there comes a moment when the wildest temper reaches its limits. and even the most furious will pause at the brick wall of possible physical violence. david slosson had spat out all his venom, or as much of it as seemed politic. the threatening attitude of gordon, his monumental size and obvious strength, his cold determination, all convinced him that further debate was useless. so he drew back at the "brick wall" and negotiated the doorway as quickly as possible. two minutes later gordon sighed in a great relief, and passed a hand across his perspiring forehead. slosson had passed out of view as mallinsbee, on the back of the great sunset, appeared on the horizon. "that was a close call," he muttered. "two minutes more and the old man might have spoiled the whole scheme." silas mallinsbee's personality seemed to crowd the little office when, five minutes later, he entered to find gordon busy at his desk writing a letter home to his mother. gordon displayed no sign of his recent encounter when he looked up. his ingenuous face was smiling, and his blue eyes were full of an obvious satisfaction. mallinsbee read the signs and rumbled out an inquiry. "slosson been around?" gordon nodded. "sure." "fixed anything?" "quite a--lot." "you're lookin' kind of--happy?" "guess that's more than--slosson was." mallinsbee's eyes became quite serious. "i told hazel just now i'd get along back. you see, i kind of remembered you just weren't sweet on slosson, and guessed after all i'd best be around when he came. hazel thought it might be as well, too. specially as she didn't want to sit around and find no slosson turn up. so----" gordon was on his feet in an instant. all his smile had vanished. a look of real alarm had taken its place. "she was waiting for that skunk? where?" he demanded in a tone that suddenly filled the father with genuine alarm. "he was to go on to the coalpits after he was through here, and she was to meet him there an' ride over to the young horse corrals where they been breaking. she was to let him see the boys doin' a bit o' broncho bustin'. what's----" "the coalpits? that's the way he took. say, for god's sake stay right here--and let me use sunset. i----" but gordon did not wait to finish what he had to say. he was out of the house and had leaped into the saddle before mallinsbee could attempt to protest. the next moment he was galloping straight across country in the direction of the bude and sideley's coal company's workings. chapter xiii slosson snatches at opportunity gordon had taken david slosson's measure perfectly, notwithstanding his own comparative inexperience of the world. apart from the agent's business methods, he had seen through the man himself with regard to hazel. hence, now his most serious alarm. the memory of those lascivious eyes gazing after hazel in the main street of snake's fall, on his first day in the town, had never left him, and though he had listened to hazel's positive assurance of her own safety in dealing with the man a subtle fear had continually haunted him. this was quite apart from his own jealous feelings. it was utterly unprejudiced by them. he knew that sooner or later, unless a miracle happened, hazel would become the victim of insult. deep down in his heart, somewhere, far underneath his passionate jealousy, he knew that hazel was only encouraging slosson that she might help on their common ends, but he had always doubted her cleverness to carry such a matter through successfully. to his mind there could only be one end to it all, and that end--insult. now the thing was almost a certainty. with slosson in his present mood anything might happen. so he pressed sunset to a rattling gallop. if slosson insulted her----? but he was not in the mood to think--only to act. that his fears were well enough founded was pretty obvious. david slosson, as he hurried away from mallinsbee's office, knew that he had played the game of his own advantage and--lost. this sort of thing had not often happened, and on those rare occasions on which it had happened he had so contrived that those who had caused him a reverse paid fairly dearly in the end. he was one of those men who believed that if a man only squeezed hard enough blood could be contrived from a stone. against every successful offensive of the enemy there was nearly always a way of "getting back." that he could "get back" on the commercial side of the present affair he possessed not the smallest doubt. he would "recommend" to his company that the present depot at snake's fall, with certain enlargements, and the private line to be built by the bude and sideley coal people, were all that was sufficient to serve the public, and, through his judicious purchase of sites in the old township, a far more profitable enterprise for them than the new township could offer. personally, he would have to sacrifice his own interests. but since mallinsbee and his cub of an office boy would be badly "stung," the matter would not be without satisfaction to his revengeful nature. then there was that other matter--and he moistened his thin lips as he contemplated it. in spite of all gordon's lack of faith in hazel's efforts, they had not been without effect. slosson had been flattered. his vanity had seen conquest in hazel's readiness to accept his company. it had been obvious to him from the first that the manner in which he had displayed his "nerve" before her at the ranch pleased her more than a little. after all, she was a mere country girl--a "rube" girl. nor was it likely that she would be difficult now. she was pretty, pretty as a picture. her figure appealed to his sensual nature. she didn't know a thing--outside her ranch. well, he could teach her. especially now. oh, yes, it was all very opportune. he would teach her all he knew. he laughed. he would teach her for--her father's sake. and--yes, for the sake of that young cub of a man that had ordered him out of the office. what was his name--"van henslaer"? yes, that was it. a "square-head," he supposed. the country was full of these american-speaking german "square-heads." then quite suddenly he began to laugh. for the first time since he came to snake's fall the thought occurred to him that possibly this fellow was in love with hazel himself. he had been so busy prosecuting his own attentions to her himself that he had never considered the possibility of another man being in the running. the thought inspired an even more pleasant sensation. it threw a new light upon van henslaer's attitude. well, there was not much doubt as to who was the favored man. the fellow's very attitude suggested his failure. slosson felt he was going to reap better than had seemed at first. he would ruin mallinsbee's schemes and satisfy his company at a slight personal loss to himself. he would complete his triumph over the individual in mallinsbee's office. first of all, through mallinsbee's failure in the land scheme, by robbing him of a position, and secondly, through robbing him of all chance of success with the girl. it was not too bad a retort. he would have made it harsher if he could, but, for a start, it would have to do. later, of course, since he would see a great deal of snake's fall and his power in the place would increase, he would extend operations against his enemies. hazel must be his--his entirely. to that he had made up his mind. she was much too desirable to be "running loose," he told himself. marriage was out of the question, unless he wished to commit bigamy; a pleasantry at which he laughed silently. anyway, if it were possible, it would not have suited him. marriage would have robbed him of the right to break up her father's land scheme. no, marriage was---- well, he was married--to his lasting regret. hazel was very attractive; very. he could quite understand a man making a fool of himself over her. he had once made a fool of himself, and in consequence marriage was very cheap from his point of view. he regarded women now as lawful prey. and apart from hazel's attractiveness, which was very, very seductive, it would be a pretty piece of getting back on her father and that other. he laughed again. it was quaint. the prettier a woman the greater the fool she was. so he rode on towards the coalpits. his narrow eyes were alert, watching the horizon on every side. he was looking for that fawn-colored figure on its brown mare. his thoughts were full of it now. the rest was all thrust into the background, leaving full play to his desires, which were fast overwhelming all caution. it would have been impossible to overwhelm his sense of decency. suddenly it occurred to him that it was ridiculous that he should go on to the coalpits. his eagerness was swaying him. his mad longing for the girl swept everything before it. why should he not cut across to the westward and intercept her on the way from the ranch? she must come that way, and--he could not possibly miss her. he looked at his watch. it wanted half an hour to their appointment. why, he would be at the pits in ten minutes, which would leave him a full twenty minutes of waiting. in his mood of the moment it was a thought quite impossible. so he swung his horse westwards, with his eyes even more watchful for the approach of the figure he was seeking. perhaps hazel was late. perhaps slosson was traveling faster than he knew. anyway, he was already in the shadow of the bigger hills when he discovered the speeding brown mare with its dainty burden. hazel discovered him almost at the same instant, and reined in her horse to let him come up. in a moment or two his roughly familiar greeting jarred her ears. "hello!" he cried. "there never was a woman who could keep time worth a cent. i guessed you'd strayed some, so i got along quick." he had reined up facing her on the cattle track, and his sensual eyes covertly surveyed her from head to foot. "why, you haven't been near the pits," protested hazel, avoiding his gaze. "you've come across country. anyway, it's not time yet." she pulled off a gauntlet and held up her wrist for him to look at the watch upon it. he reached out, caught her hand, and drew it towards him on the pretense of looking at the watch. his eyes were shining dangerously as he did so. just for an instant hazel was taken unawares. then her pretty eyes suddenly lost their smile, and she drew her hand sharply away. slosson looked up. "your watch is wrong," he declared, with a grin intended to be facetious, but which scarcely disguised the feelings lying behind it. hazel was smiling again. she shook her head. "it isn't," she denied. "but come on, or we'll miss the fun. i've got a youngster there in the corrals, never been saddled or man-handled. i'm going to ride him for your edification when the boys are through with the others. it's a mark of my favor which you must duly appreciate." she led the way back towards the hills at a steady canter. "say, you've got nerve," cried slosson, in genuine admiration. "never been saddled?" "or man-handled," returned hazel, determined he should lose nothing of her contemplated adventure. "he was rounded up this morning at my orders out of a bunch of three-year-old prairie-bred colts. you'll surely see some real bucking--not cat-jumping," she added mischievously. "say, you can't forget that play," cried the man, with some pride. "i'd have got on that hoss if he'd bucked to kingdom-come. i don't take any bluff from a girl." "i s'pose girls aren't of much account with you? they're just silly things with no sense or--or anything. some men are like that." a warm glow swept through the man's veins. "i allow it just depends on the girl." "maybe you don't reckon i've got sense?" slosson gazed at her with a meaning smile. "i've seen signs," he observed playfully. "thanks. you've surely got keen eyes. black eyes are mostly keen. say, i wonder how much sense they reckon they've seen in me?" "well, i should say they've seen that you reckon david slosson makes a tolerable companion to ride around with. which is some sense." hazel turned, and her pretty eyes looked straight into his. a man of less vanity might have questioned the first glance of them. but slosson only saw the following smile. "just tolerable," she cried, in a fashion which could not give offense. then she abruptly changed the subject. "get through your business at--the office?" she inquired casually. slosson's eyes hardened. in a moment the memory of gordon swept through his brain in a tide of swift, hot anger. "there's nothing doing," he said harshly. hazel turned. a quick alarm was shining in her eyes, and the man interpreted it exactly. caution was abruptly cast to the winds. "say, hazel," he cried hotly, "i'm going to tell you something. your father's a--a fool. oh, i don't mean it just that way. i mean he's a fool to set that boy running things for him. he's plumb killed your golden goose. we've broken off negotiations. that's all. the railroad don't need buffalo point." "but what's gordon done?" the girl cried, for the moment off her guard. "father gave him instructions. you had an offer to make, and it was to be considered--duly." "what's gordon done?" the man's eyes were hot with fury. "so that's it--'gordon.' he's 'gordon,' eh?" all in a moment venom surged to the surface. the man's unwholesome features went ghastly in his rage. "he turned me--me out of the office. he told me to go to hell. say, that pup has flung your father's whole darned concern right on to the rocks. so it's 'gordon,' eh? to everybody else he's 'van henslaer,' but to you he's 'gordon.' that's why he's on to me, i guessed as much. well, say, you've about mussed up things between you. my back's right up, and i'm cursed if the railroad 'll move for the benefit of those interested in buffalo point." hazel had heard enough. more than enough. her temper had risen too. "look here, mr. slosson. i don't pretend to mistake your inference. gordon is just a good friend of mine," she declared hotly. "but i've no doubt that whatever he did was justified. if we're going on any farther together you're going to apologize right here and now for what you've said about gordon." she reined up her mare so sharply that the startled creature was flung upon her haunches, and the man's livery horse went on some yards farther before it was pulled up. but slosson came back at once and ranged alongside. they were already in the bigger hills, and one shaggy crag, overshadowing them, shut out the dazzling gleam of the westering sun. "there's going to be the need of a heap of apology around," cried slosson, but something of his anger was melting before the girl's flashing eyes. then, too, the moment was the opportunity he had been seeking. "see here, hazel----" "don't you dare to call me 'hazel,'" the girl flung out at him hotly. "you will apologize here and now." there was no mistaking her determination, and the man watched her with furtive eyes. he pretended to consider deeply before he replied. at a gesture of impatience from the girl he finally flung out one arm. "see here," he cried, "maybe i oughtn't to have said that, and i guess i apologize. but--you see, i was sort of mad when you talked that way about this--'gordon.'" his teeth clipped over the word. "you see, hazel," he insinuated again, "we've had a real good time together, and you made it so plain i'm not--indifferent to you that it just stung me bad to hear you speak of--'gordon.' i'm crazy about you, i am sure. i'm so crazy i can't sleep at nights. i'm so crazy that i'd let the railroad folk go hang just for you--if you just asked me. i'd even forget all that feller said, and would pool in on buffalo point the way your father needs--if you asked me." he waited. he had thrown every effort of persuasion he was capable of into his words and manner, and hazel was deceived. she did not observe the furtive eyes watching her. she was only aware of the almost genuine manner of his pleading. "if i asked you?" she said thoughtfully. then she looked up quickly, her eyes half smiling. "of course i ask you." in a moment the man pressed nearer. "and you'll play the game?" he asked almost breathlessly. all in a moment a subtle fear of him swept through the girl. instinctively her hand tightened its grip on the heavy quirt swinging from her wrist. "what do you mean?" she demanded in a low tone. the man's eyes were shining with the meaning lying behind his words. there should have been no necessity to ask that question. quite suddenly he reached farther out and seized her about the waist with one hand, while with the other he caught her reins to check her mare. the next moment he had crushed her to him and his flushed face was close to hers. "there's only one game," he cried hoarsely. "and----" but he got no further. like a flash of lightning hazel's quirt slashed furiously at him. the blow was wild and missed its object. it fell on his horse's head and neck. again it was raised, and again it fell on the horse and on her mare. the horse plunged aside and her own mare started forward. the next moment both riders were on the ground, struggling violently. sunset plowed along over the prairie. true enough, he was the rocking-horse hazel had declared him to be. but she might have added that he was the speediest horse ever foaled on her father's range. gordon was in no mood to spare him. but, press him as he might, he seemed incapable of sounding the full depths of his resources. had gordon only taken the course of the impatient slosson he would have arrived in time to have prevented the catastrophe. but as it was he made the coalpits, and, finding no trace of either hazel or the agent, with prompt decision he headed at once for the southern corrals. it was some time before he discovered the tracks he sought, and was beginning to think that in some extraordinary fashion he had missed them altogether. the thought stirred his jealousy, and--but he put all doubt from his mind, and further bustled the long-suffering sunset. then came the moment when he first saw the hoof-prints in the sand of the cattle track. in a moment his thoughts cleared and his old fears urged him on. he was right now, he knew. the hills about him were growing in height and ruggedness. the corrals were only a few miles on, and sunset was racing down the track as if he were aware of the threatening danger to the girl whom he had so often carried on his back. but even if he were he was utterly unprepared for the furious thrashing of his present rider's heels which came as they were approaching one great shaggy hill to the south of them, in answer to a thin, high-pitched shrill for "help!" gordon heard and understood. he had been right, after all, and a terrible panic and fury assailed him. sunset was racing now, with his barrel low to the ground. then as they came into the shadow of the hill the faithful creature felt the bit in his mouth jar suddenly and painfully, and he nearly sank on to his haunches. gordon was out of the saddle and rushing headlong like some rage-maddened bull. something had happened, and hazel, in a partial daze, scarcely understood quite what it was. all she knew was that she was no longer struggling desperately in the arms of a man, with his hideous face thrust towards hers with obvious intention. she had fought as she had never dreamed of having to fight in all her life, and in her extremity she had shrilled again and again for "help!" which, had she thought, she would have known was miles from the lonely spot where she was struggling. then had happened that something she could not understand. she only knew that she was no longer struggling, and that hideous, coarse, passion-lit face had vanished from before her terrified eyes. she had heard a voice, a familiar voice, hoarse with passion. the words it had uttered were the foulest blasphemy, such words as only a man uses when in the heat of battle and his desire is to kill. then had passed that nightmare face from before her eyes. after some moments her mental faculties became less uncertain, and with their clearing she became aware of a confusion of sounds. she heard the sound of blows and the incessant shuffling of feet through the tall prairie grass. she looked about her. all in a minute she was on her feet, her eyes wide and staring with an expression half of terror, half of the wildest excitement. a fight was going on--a fight in which six feet three of science was arrayed against lesser stature but equal strength and a blend of animal fury which yearned to kill. david slosson came at his hated adversary in lunging rushes and with all his weight and muscle, hoping to clinch and reduce the battle to the less scientific condition of a "rough-and-tumble" as it is known only in america. once he could achieve a definite clinch he knew that the advantage would lie with him. he knew the game of "chew and gouge" as few men knew it. he had learned it in his earlier days of lumber camps. but gordon had steadied himself from his first mad rush. it was the sight of hazel in this man's clutches that had roused the desire for murder in his hot blood. now it was different. now it was a fight, a fight such as he could enjoy; and such were his feelings that he was determined it should be a fight to a finish, even if that finish should mean a killing. he had no difficulty in punishing. his opponent's arms came at him wildly, while his own leads and counters struck home with smashes of a staggering nature. twice he got in an upper-cut which set his man reeling, and in each case he smashed home his left immediately with all the force of his great shoulders. but david slosson was tough. he seemed to thrive on punishment, and he came again and again. gordon was in his element. his physical condition had never been more perfect, and, provided that clinch was prevented, nothing on earth could save his man. the blood was already streaming from slosson's cheek, and an ugly split disfigured his lower lip. now he came in with his head down--a favorite bull rush of the "rough-and-tumble." gordon saw it coming and waited. he side-stepped, and smashed a terrific blow behind the left ear. the man stumbled, but saved himself. with an inarticulate attempt at an oath he was at the boxer again. another rush, but it checked half-way, and a violent kick was aimed at gordon's middle. it missed its mark, but caught him on the side of the knee. the pain of the blow for a moment robbed the younger man of his caution. he responded with a smashing left and right. they both landed, but in the rush his loose coat was caught and held as the agent fell. slosson clung to the coat as a terrier will cling to a stick. in spite of the rain of blows battering his head he held on. it was the first hold he needed. the second came a moment later. his other arm crooked about gordon's right knee. the next moment they were on the ground in the throes of a wild, demoniacal "rough-and-tumble." the science of the boxer could serve gordon no longer. he knew it. he knew also that the fight was more than leveled up. the struggle had degenerated into an inhuman aim for those vital parts which would leave the victim blind or maimed for life. by the luck of providence he fell uppermost. his hands being free and his strength at its greatest, also possessing nothing of the degraded mind of the rough-and-tumble fighter, he went for his opponent's throat, and got his grip just as he felt the other's teeth clip, in a savage snap, at his right ear. it was a happy miss, or he knew he would have spent the rest of his life with only one ear, and possibly part of the other. but there were other things to avoid. he crushed the man's head upon the ground, while his great hands tightened their grip upon his throat. but slosson's hands were not idle. they struggled up, and gordon felt that they were groping for his throat. his own pressure increased. "squeal, you swine!" he roared. "squeal, or i'll choke the life out of you!" the man was unable to squeal under the terrible throat-hold. his breath was coming in gasps. all of a sudden those groping hands made a lunge at gordon's eyes. one finger even struck his left eye with intent to gouge it out. gordon threw back his head, but dared not release his hold. his only other defense was an instinctive one. he opened his mouth and made a wolfish snap at the hand that had sought to blind him. he bit three of its fingers to the bone. there was a cry from the man under his hands, and the straining body beneath him ceased to struggle. gordon released his hold and stood up. he aimed one violent kick of disgust at the man's ribs and turned away. chapter xiv the reward of victory gordon breathed hard. he wiped the dust from his perspiring face, as a man almost unconsciously will do after a great exertion. his eyes, however, remained on his defeated adversary. presently he moved away a little uncertainly. a moment later, equally uncertainly, he picked up his soft felt hat. then, his gaze still steadily fixed on the object of his concern, he all unconsciously smoothed his ruffled hair and replaced his hat upon his head. hazel, too, was tensely regarding the deathly silent figure of david slosson. a subtle fear was clutching at her heart. so still. he was so very still. gordon's breathing became normal, but his eyes remained absurdly grave. he approached the prostrate man. but before he reached his side he paused abruptly and breathed a deep sigh of relief--and began to laugh. "right!" he cried. nor was he addressing any one in particular. hazel heard his exclamation, and the clutching fear at her heart relaxed its grip. she understood that gordon, too, had shared her dread. now she shifted her regard to the victor. her eyes were full of a deep, unspeakable feeling. gordon was looking in another direction, so, for the moment, she had nothing to conceal. the man's attention was upon the horses. a strange diffidence made him reluctant to follow his impulse and approach hazel. he had no pride in his victory. only regret for the exhibition he had made before her. sunset and slosson's horse were grazing amicably together within twenty yards of the trail. the fight had disturbed them not one whit. the lady jane had moved off farther, and, in proud isolation, ignored everybody and everything concerned with the indecent exhibition. gordon secured the livery horse to a bush, and rode off on sunset to collect the lady jane. when he returned the defeated man was stirring. one glance told gordon all he cared to know, and he passed over to where hazel was still standing, and in silence and quite unsmilingly he held the lady jane for her to mount. hazel avoided his eyes, but not from any coldness. she feared lest he should witness that which now, with all her might, she desired to conceal. her feelings were stirred almost beyond her control. this man had come to her rescue--he had rescued her--by that great chivalrous manhood that was his. and somehow she felt that she might have known that he would do so. gordon was looking at david slosson, who was already sitting up. once hazel was in the saddle he moved nearer to the disfigured agent. "if you're looking for any more," he said coldly, "you can find it. but don't you ever come near buffalo point again or mallinsbee's ranch. if you do--i'll kill you!" david slosson made no reply. but his eyes followed the two figures as they rode off, full of a bitter hatred that boded ill for their futures should chance come his way. for some time the speeding horses galloped on, their riders remaining silent. a strange awkwardness had arisen between them. there was so much to say, so much to explain. neither of them knew how to begin, or where. so they were nearing home when finally it was gordon whose sense of humor first came to the rescue. they had drawn their horses down to a walk to give them a breath. gordon turned in his saddle. his blue eyes were absurdly smiling. "well?" he observed interrogatively. the childlike blandness of his expression was all hazel needed to help her throw off the painful restraint that was fast overwhelming her. again he had saved her, but this time it was from tears. "well?" she smiled back at him through the watery signs of unshed tears. "i guess sunset 'll hate this trail worse than anything around buffalo point," gordon said, with a great effort at ease. "he got a flogging i'll swear he never merited." "dear old sunset," said the girl softly. "and--and he can go." "go? why, he's an express train. say, the twentieth century, limited, isn't a circumstance to him." gordon's laugh sounded good in hazel's ears, and the last sign of tears was banished. it had been touch and go. she had wanted to laugh and to scream during the fight. afterwards she had wanted only to weep. now she just felt glad she was riding beside a man whom she regarded as something in the nature of a hero. "i sort of feel i owe him an apology," gordon went on doubtfully. "same as i owe you one. i--i'm afraid i made a--a disgusting exhibition of myself. i--i wish i hadn't nearly bitten off that cur's fingers. it's--awful. it--was that or lose my eyesight." hazel had nothing to say. a shiver passed over her, but it was caused by the thought that the man beside her might have been left blinded. "you see, that was 'rough and tough,'" gordon went on, feeling that he must explain. "it's not human. it's worse than the beasts of the fields. i--i'm ashamed. but i had to save my eyes. i thought i'd killed him." "i'm glad you didn't," hazel said in a low voice. then she added quickly, "but not for his sake." gordon nodded. "he deserved anything." suddenly hazel turned a pair of shining eyes upon him. "oh, i wish i were a man!" she cried. "deserved? oh, he deserved everything; but so did i. i'll never do it again. never, never, never! you warned me. you knew. and it was only you who saved me from the result of my folly. i--i thought i was smart enough to deal with him. i--i thought i was clever." she laughed bitterly. "i thought, because i run our ranch and can do things that few girls can that way, i could beat a man like that. say, mr. van henslaer, i'm--just what he took me for--a silly country girl. oh, i feel so mad with myself, and if it hadn't been for you i don't know what would have happened. oh, if i could only have fought like you. it--it was wonderful. and--i brought it all on you by my folly." there was a strange mixture of emotion in the girl's swift flow of words. there was a bitter feeling of self-contempt, a vain and helpless regret; but in all she said, in her shining eyes and warmth of manner, there was a scarcely concealed delight in her rescuer's great manhood, courage and devotion. if gordon beheld it, it is doubtful if he read it aright. for himself, a great joy that he had been of service in her protection pervaded him. just now, for him, all life centered round hazel mallinsbee and her well-being. "you brought nothing on," he said, his eyes smiling tenderly round at her. "he's a disease that would overtake any girl." then he began to laugh, with the intention of dispelling all her regrets. "say, he's just one of life's experiences, and experience is generally unpleasant. see how much he's taught us both. you've learned that a feller who can wear a suit that sets all sense of good taste squirming most generally has a mind to match it. i've learned that no honesty of methods, whether in scrapping or anything else, is a match for the unscrupulous methods of a low-down mind. guess we'll both pigeon-hole those facts and try not to forget 'em. but say--there's worse worrying," he added, with an absurdly happy laugh. "worse?" "only worse because it hasn't happened yet--like the other things have. you see, the worst always lies in those things we don't know." "you're thinking of the buffalo point scheme?" "partly." "partly?" "did he tell you anything?" hazel nodded. "he said you'd--turned him out of the office." "that all?" gordon was chuckling. "he said you'd told him to go to----" hazel's eyes were smiling. "just so. i did," returned gordon. "that's the trouble now. i've got to face your father. i've hit on a plan to beat this feller. i've got the help of peter mcswain and some of the boys at snake's. i'd a notion we'd pull the thing off, so i just took it into my own hands--and your father don't know of it. i'm worrying how he'll feel. you see, if i fail, why, i've busted the whole contract. and now this thing. say, what's going to happen next?" as he put his final question his smiling face looked ludicrously serene. hazel had entirely recovered from her recent experiences. she laughed outright. more and more this man appealed to her. his calm, reckless courage was a wonderful thing in her eyes. their whole schemes might be jeopardized by that afternoon's work, but he had acted without thought of consequence, without thought of anybody or anything beyond the fact that he yearned to beat this man slosson, and would spare nothing to do so. what was this wild scheme he had suddenly conceived, almost the first moment he was left in sole control? she tried to look serious. "can you tell it me now?" she asked. "i could, of course, but----" "you'd rather wait to see father about it." "i don't know," said gordon, with a wry twist of the lips and a shrug. "say, did you ever feel a perfect, idiotic fool? no, of course you never have, because you couldn't be one. i feel that way. guess it's a sort of reaction. i just know i've busted everything. the whole of our scheme is on the rocks, through me, and, for the life of me, somehow i--i don't care. i've hit up that cur so he won't want his med'cine again for years, and it was good, because it was for you. so i don't just care two cents about anything. say, i'm learning i'm alive, same as you talked about the first day i met you, and it's you are teaching me. but the champagne of life isn't just life. guess life is just a cheap claret. you're the champagne of my life. that being so, i guess i'm a drunkard for champagne." hazel was held serious by some feeling that also kept her silent. somehow she could no longer face those shining, smiling, ingenuous blue eyes. she wanted to, because she felt they were the most beautiful in the whole world, and she longed to go on gazing into them forever and ever. but something forced her to deny herself, and she kept hers straight ahead. gordon went on. "say, i haven't said anything wrong, have i?" he cried, fearful of her displeasure. "you see, i can't put things as they run through my head. that's one of the queer things about a feller. you know, i've got a whole heap of beautiful language running around in my head, and when i try to turn it loose it comes out all mussed up and wrong. guess you've never been like that. that's where girls are so clever. d'you know, if you were to ask me just to pass the salt at supper it would sound to me like the taste of ice-cream?" hazel looked round at the earnest face with a swift sidelong glance. then her laughter would no longer be denied. "would it?" she cried. "say, don't laugh at a feller. i'm in great trouble," gordon went on quickly. "trouble?" "sure. wouldn't you be if you'd bust up a man's scheme the same as i have, and if the only person in the world whose opinion you cared for can't help but think you all sorts of a fool?" hazel's smile had become very, very tender. "who thinks you a--fool?" "anybody with sense." "then i'm afraid i've got no sense." gordon found himself looking into the girl's serious eyes. "you--don't think me--a--fool?" he cried incredulously. hazel had no longer any inclination to laugh. a great emotion suddenly surged through her heart, and her pretty oval face was set flushing. "when a woman owes a man what i owe you, if he were the greatest fool in the world to others, to that woman he becomes all that is great and fine, and--and--oh, just everything she can think good of him. but you--you are not a fool, or anything approaching it. i don't care what you have done in our affairs--for me, whatever it is, it is right. i'll tell you something more. i am certain that if my daddy wins through it will be your doing." gordon had nothing to say. he was dumbfounded. hazel, in her generosity, was the woman he had always dreamed of since that first day he had seen her, which seemed so far back and long ago. he had nothing to say, because there was just one thought in his mind, and that thought was, then and there to take her in his arms and release her for no man, not even her---- hazel was pointing along the trail. "why, there is my daddy coming along--on foot. i've never--known him to walk a prairie trail ever before, i wonder what's ailing him." and then gordon had to laugh. they were back in the office. by every conceivable process silas mallinsbee had sought to discover what had happened. but hazel would tell him nothing, and gordon followed her lead. the old man was disturbed. he was on the verge of anger with both of them. then hazel lifted the safety valve as she remounted her mare, preparatory to a hasty retreat homewards. "i'll get back to home, daddy," she said, in a tone lacking all her usual enthusiasm. "mr. van henslaer has a lot to tell you about things, and when i am not here he'll be able to tell you all that happened--out there." gordon again took his cue. "yes, i've a heap to tell you," he said, without any display of enjoyment. the men passed into the office as hazel took her departure. her farewell wave of the hand and its accompanying smile for once were not for her father. even in the midst of his mixed feelings that obvious farewell to gordon made the old rancher feel a breath of the winter he had once spoken of, nipping the rims of his ears. and his mind settled upon the thought of banking the furnaces with--coal. he took his seat in the big chair he always used and lit a cigar. gordon went at once to his desk and sat down. he leaned forward with hands clasped, and looked squarely into the strong face before him. "it's bad talk," he said briefly. "so i guessed." then, after a few moments of silence, gordon recounted the story of the events of the afternoon right up to mallinsbee's arrival at the office. the rancher listened without comment, but with obvious impatience. this was not what he wanted to hear first. but gordon had his own way of doing things. "you see, i took a big chance on the spur of the moment," he finished up. "i just didn't dare to think. the idea took right hold of me. and even now, when i tell it you in cold blood, i seem to feel it was one of those inspirations that don't need to be passed by. in the ordinary way i believe it would succeed. slosson would have been driven into our plans. but--but now there's worse to come." "so i guessed." mallinsbee's answer was sharp and dry. "and it's the most important of your talk," he added a moment later. "what happened--out there?" gordon's eyes took on a far-away expression as he gazed out of the window. "i nearly killed david slosson," he said simply. then he added, "i knew i'd have to do it before i'd finished." his gaze came back to mallinsbee's face. a fierce anger had made his blue eyes stern and cold. then he told the rancher of his finding hazel struggling furiously in the man's arms, and of her piteous cry for help, and all that followed. while he was still talking the girl's father had leaped from his seat and began pacing the little room like a caged wild beast. his cigar was forgotten, and every now and then he paused abruptly as gordon made some definite point. his eyes were darkly furious, his nostrils quivered, his great hands clenched at his sides, and in the end, when the story was told, he stood towering before the desk with a pair of murderous eyes shining down upon the younger man. "god in heaven!" he cried furiously; "and he's still alive?" then he turned away abruptly. a revolver-belt was hanging on the wall, and he moved towards it. but gordon was on his feet in a moment. "that gun's mine, and--you can't have it!" gordon was standing in front of the weapon, facing the furious eyes of the father. "stand aside! i'm--going to kill him--now." but gordon made no movement. "no," he said, with a stony calmness. it was a painful moment. it was a moment full of threat and intense crisis. one false move on gordon's part, and the maddened father's fury would be turned on him. the younger man forced a smile to his eyes. "you once said i could scrap, mr. mallinsbee. i promise you i scrapped as i never did before. that man hasn't one whole feature in his face, and if the hangman's rope had been drawn tight around his neck it couldn't have done very much more damage than my fingers did. i tell you he's has his med'cine good and plenty. there's no need for more--that way. but we're going to hurt him. we're going to hurt him more by outing him from this deal of ours than ever by killing him. we're going to stand at nothing now to--'out' him. let's get our minds fixed that way. if one plan don't succeed--another must." standing there eye to eye gordon won his way. he saw with satisfaction the fire in the old man's eyes slowly die down. then he watched him reluctantly return to his chair. it was not until the rancher had struck a match and relit his cigar that gordon ventured to return to his desk. "you're right, boy," mallinsbee said at last. "you're right--and you've done right. if the whole scheme busts we--can't help it. but--but we'll out that--cur." the hall porter at the carbhoy building was perturbed. he was more than perturbed. he was ruffled out of his blatant superiority and dignity, and reduced to a condition when he could not state, with any degree of accuracy, whether the statue of liberty was a symbol of freedom or a mere piece of cheap decoration for new york harbor. the precincts of the beautiful colored marble entrance hall over which he presided had been invaded, against all rules, by a woman who obviously had no business there. moreover, he had been powerless to stay the invasion. also he had been forced to submit out of a sheer sense of politeness to the sex, a politeness it was not his habit to display even towards his wife. furthermore, like the veriest underling, instead of the autocrat he really was, he had been ordered--_ordered_--to announce the lady's arrival to mr. james carbhoy, and forthwith conduct her to that holy of holies, which no other female, except the cleaner, had ever been permitted to enter. it was mrs. james carbhoy who had caused the deplorable upheaval. but mrs. james carbhoy was in no mood to parley with any hall porter, however gorgeous his livery. she was in no mood to parley even with her husband. she was disturbed out of her customary condition of passive acquiescence. she was heartbroken, too, and ready to weep against any manly chest with which her head came into contact. it is doubtful, even, if a fifth avenue policeman's chest would have been safe from her attentions in that direction. and surely distress must certainly be overwhelming that would not shrink from such support. james carbhoy detected the signs the moment his door was opened, and his wife tripped over the fringe of the splendid turkey carpet and precipitated herself into the great morocco arm-chair nearest to her, waving a bunch of letter-paper violently in his direction. "i've been to the inquiry bureau, and had a man detailed right away to go and find the boy," she burst out at once. then all her mother's anxiety merged into an attack upon the man who silently rose from his desk and closed the door she had left open. "i don't know what to say to you, james," she went on. "i can't just think why i'm sitting right here in the presence of such a monster. here you've driven our boy from the house. maybe you've driven him to his death, or even worse, and i can't even get you to make an attempt to discover if he's alive or--or dead. this letter came this morning," she went on, holding the pages aloft, lest he should escape their reproach. "and if he hasn't gone and married some hussy there, out in some uncivilized region, i don't know a thing. s'pose he's married a half-breed or--or a squaw," she cried, her eyes rolling in horror at the bare idea. "it--it'll be your fault--your doing. you're just a cruel monster, and if it wasn't for our gracie's sake i'd--i'd get a divorce. you--you ought to be ashamed, james carbhoy. you ought--ought to be in--in prison, instead of sitting there grinning like some fool image." the millionaire leaned back in his chair wearily. "oh, read the letter, mary. you make me tired." "tired? letter, you call it," cried the excited woman. "i tell you it's--it's a lot of gibberish that no sane son of ours ever wrote. oh! you're as bad as those men at the bureau. i made them read it, and--and they said he was a--bright boy. bright, indeed! you listen to this and you can judge for yourself--if you've any sense at all." "dearest mum: "i haven't written you in weeks, which should tell you that i am quite up to the average in my sense of filial duty. it should also tell you that i _hope_ i am prospering both in health and in worldly matters. i say 'hope' because nothing much seems certain in this world except the perfidy of human nature. it has been said that disappointment is responsible for all the hope in the world, but i'd like to say right here that that's just a sort of weak play on words which don't do justice to the meanest intelligence. i am full of hope and haven't yet been disappointed. not even in my conviction that human nature has some good points, but bad points predominate, which makes you feel you'd, generally speaking, like to kick it plenty. "while i'm on the subject of human nature it would be wrong not to discriminate between male and female human nature. male can be dismissed under one plain heading: 'self'--a heading which embraces every unpleasant feature in life, from extreme moral rectitude, with its various branches of self-complacency, down to chewing tobacco, to me a symbol of all that is criminally filthy in life. female human nature comes under a similar heading, only, in a woman's case, 'self' is a combination of the two personalities, male and female. you see, 'self,' in female human nature, is not a complete proposition in itself. before it becomes complete there must be a man in the case, even if he be a disgrace to his sex. i will explain. you couldn't entertain any feeling or purpose without the old dad coming into your focus. but with man it's different. the only reason a woman comes into his life at all is so that he can kick her out of it if she don't do just as he says and wants. i guess this sounds better to me writing from here than maybe it will to you in your parlor in new york. but it's easier to say things when you feel yourself shorn of the artificialities of life. "this is merely preliminary, leading up to two pieces of news i have to hand to you. the first is, i have discovered that woman is the greatest proposition inspired by a creative providence for the delight of man, but in business, unless specially trained, she's liable to fall even below the surface scum which includes the lesser grade of biped called 'man.' the second is that man, generally, is a pretty disgusting brute, and i allow he deserves all he gets in life, even to lynching. understand i am speaking generally, as a looker-on, whose eyes are no longer blinded by the glamour of wealth in a big city and the comforts of a luxurious home. "i feel i've got to say right here that to me, apart from the foregoing observations, woman is just the most wonderful thing in all this wonderful world. her perfections and graces are just sublime; her understanding of man is so sympathetic that it don't seem to me she'd need more than two guesses to locate how many dollars he'd got in his pocket or the quality of the brain oozing out under his hat. "i guess her eyes are just the dandiest things ever. furthermore, when they happen to be hazel, they got a knack of boring holes right through you, and chasing around and finding the smallest spark of decency that may happen to be lying hidden in the general muck of a man's moral makeup. they do more than that. i'd say there never was a man in this world who, under such circumstances, happens to become aware of some such spark, but wants to start right in and fan it into a big bonfire to burn up the refuse under which it's been so long secreted. that's how he's bound to feel--anyway, at first. "a woman's just every sort of thing a man needs around him. it don't seem a matter for worry if the sun-spots became a complete rash and its old light went out altogether. that feller would still see those wonderful eyes shining out of the darkness, giving him all the light he needed in which to play foolish and think himself all sorts of a man. "guess when he'd worked overtime that way and sleep set him dreaming he'd make pictures he couldn't paint in a year. there'd be every sort of peaceful delight in 'em. there'd be lambs, and children without clothes, and birds and flowers. and the lambs would bleat, and the children sing, and the birds flutter, and the flowers smell, and all the world would be full of joy. then he'd wake up. maybe it would be different then. you see, a man awake figures his woman needs to look like the statue of venus, be bursting with the virtues of a first-class saint, and possess the economical inspiration of a chinee cook. "in pursuance of these discoveries of mine i feel that maybe i've got a wrong focus of our gracie. maybe when she gets sense, and sort of finds herself floating around in the divine beauties of womanhood, some escaped crank may chase along and figure she possesses some of the wonderful charms i've been talking about. personally i wish our gracie well, and am hoping for the best. still, i feel whatever trouble she has getting a husband i don't guess it'll end there--the trouble, i mean. "to come to my second discovery, it has afforded me some pleasant moments, as well as considerable disgust and anger. it may seem difficult to associate these emotions without confusion. but were you to fully understand the situation you would realize that they could be associated in one harmonious whole. with anger coming first, you find yourself in a frenzied state of elation, capable of achieving anything, from murder down to robbing the dead. it is a splendid feeling, and saves one from the rust of good-natured ineptitude. then come the pleasant moments, which may find themselves in extreme exertion and the general exercise of muscles, and even, in some cases--brains. disgust is the necessary mental attitude under reaction. this is how my discovery affected me. but i fancy the object through which i made my second discovery was probably affected otherwise. i can't just say offhand. maybe i'll learn later, and be able to tell you. "there is not a day passes but what i make discoveries of a more or less interesting nature. for instance, i've learned that there's nothing like three people hating one person to make for a bond of friendship between them. i'd say it's far more binding than marriage vows at the altar. this comes under the heading of 'more' interesting. under the 'less' comes such things as--the only time that impulsive action justifies itself is when you're sure of winning out. i have given myself two examples of impulsive action only to-day. the one in which i have won out seems to have ruined the chances of the other. this is a confusion that doesn't seem to justify anything. still, a philosopher might be able to disentangle it. "i should be glad if you would give the old dad my best love, and tell him that the figures representing one hundred thousand dollars grow in size with the advancing weeks. nor can i tell how big they will appear by the end of six months. if they grow in my view at the present rate, by the end of six months it seems to me i'll need to walk around looking through the wrong end of a telescope so as to get a place for my feet anywhere on this continent. however, as 'disappointment' has not yet appeared to create 'hope,' it is obvious that 'conviction' remains. "i regret that time does not permit me to write more, so i will close. any further news i have to give you i will embody in another letter. "your loving son, "gordon. "p.s.--i have been thinking a great deal about gracie lately, she being of the female sex. of course, i could not compare her with a real woman, but i feel, with a little judicious broadening of her mind, say by travel or setting her out to earn her living, she might develop in the right direction. it is a thought worth pondering. such a process might even have good results. "g." mrs. james carbhoy's angry and disgusted eyes were raised from her reading to confront her husband's amused smile. "well?" she demanded. "is it sunstroke, or--or----?" "that inquiry agent was a smart feller," the millionaire interrupted. "gordon surely is a--bright boy." mrs. carbhoy's indignation leaped. and with its leap came another. she fairly bounced out of the chair she had occupied and hurled herself at the mahogany door of the office. "james carbhoy, i shall see to this matter myself. i always knew you were merely a money machine. now i know you have neither heart nor sense." she flung open the door. again she tripped over the fringe of the carpet, and, with a smothered ejaculation, flew headlong in the direction of the hall porter's stately presence. chapter xv in council there come days in a man's life which are not easily forgotten. some poignant incident indelibly fixes them upon memory, and they become landmarks in his career. the next day became one of such in gordon's life. it was just a little extraordinary, too, that memory should have selected this particular day in preference to the preceding one. the first of the two should undoubtedly have been the more significant, for it partook of a nature which appealed directly to those innermost hopes and yearnings of a youthful heart. surely, before all things in life, nature claims to itself the passionate yearning of the sexes as paramount. gordon had fought for the woman he loved, and basked in her smiles of approval at his victory. was not this sufficient to make it a day of days? the psychological fact remained, the indelible memory of the next day was planted on the mysterious photographic plates of his mental camera in preference. it was a day of wild excitement. it was a day of hopes raised to a fevered pitch, and then hurled headlong to a bottomless abyss of despair. it was a day of passionate feeling and bitter memories. a day of hopeless looking forward and of depression. then, as a last and final twist of the whirligig of emotion, it resolved itself into one great burst of enthusiasm and hope. it started in at the earliest hour. hip-lee was preparing breakfast, and gordon was still dressing. a note was brought from peter mcswain. gordon opened it, and the first emotions of an eventful day began to take definite shape. the note informed him that mcswain had been faithful to his promise. he, assisted by mike callahan of the livery barn, had worked strenuously. the results had been splendid amongst all the principal landholders in snake's fall and buffalo point. prices this morning were "skied" prohibitively. the holders saw their advantage. even if the railroad bought in snake's fall they would be "on velvet." they agreed that it was the first sound move made. they agreed that it was good to "jolly" a railroad. the men who did not hold in buffalo only held insignificant property in snake's fall, which would be useless to the railroad. but should the railroad buy there, even these would be benefited. gordon began to feel that palpitating excitement in the stomach indicative of a disturbed nervous system. things were stirring. he examined the situation from the view point of yesterday's encounter. with these people working in with him, the future certainty began to look brighter than when he had retired to bed over-night. mallinsbee came along after breakfast, and gordon showed him mcswain's message. the rancher read it over twice. then his opinion came in deep, rumbling notes. "that's sure what you needed," he said, with a shrewd, twinkling smile. "but i don't guess the shoutin's begun." "no?" gordon eyed him uneasily. he had felt rather pleased. "we can't shout till slosson talks," the rancher went on. "that talk of peter's is still only our side of the play." "yes." gordon was at his desk. then a diversion was created by the advent of a fat stranger with a large expanse of highly colored waistcoat, and a watchguard to match. he wanted to talk "sites," and spent half an hour doing so. when he had gone mallinsbee offered an explanation which had passed gordon's inexperience by. "that feller's worried," he observed. "he's got wind there's something doing, and is scared to death the speculators are to be shut out. he's going back to report to the boys. maybe we'll hear from peter again--later. i wonder what slosson's thinking?" gordon smiled. "i doubt if he can think yet," he said. "i allow he was upset yesterday. i'd give a dollar to see him when he starts to try and buy." "you're feeling sure." mallinsbee's doubt was pretty evident. "sure? i'm sure of nothing about slosson except his particular dislike of me, and, through me, of you." "just so. and when a man hates the way he hates you, if he's bright he'll try to make things hum." "he's bright all right," allowed gordon. a further diversion was created. two men arrived in a buckboard, and mallinsbee's explanation was verified. they were looking for information. it was said the railroad was to boycott buffalo point. it was said, even, that they had bought in snake's fall. was this so? and, anyway, what was the meaning of the rise in prices at that end? "why, say," finished up one of the men, "when i was talking to mason, the dry goods man, this morning, he told me there wasn't a speculator around who'd money enough to buy his spare holdings in snake's. and when i asked him the figger he said he needed ten thousand dollars for two side street plots and twenty thousand for two avenue fronts. he's crazy, sure." mallinsbee shook his head. "not crazy. just bright." when the man had departed, and mallinsbee had removed the patch from his eye, he smiled over at gordon. "peter's surely done his work," he said. gordon warmed with enthusiasm. if those were the prices ruling mr. slosson would have no option but to be squeezed between the two interests. whatever his personal feelings, he must make good with his company. no agent, unless he were quite crazy, would dare face such prices for his principals. "i don't see that slosson's a leg to stand on," he cried, his enthusiasm bubbling. "we've just got to sit around and wait." mallinsbee agreed. "sure. sit around and wait," he said, with that baffling smile of his. gordon shrugged, and bent over some figures he had been working on. presently he looked up. "how's miss hazel this morning?" he inquired casually. he had wanted to speak of her before, but the memory of her father's anger yesterday had restrained him. now he felt he was safe. "just sore over things," said the old man, with a sobering of the eyes. "i talked to her some last night. she guesses she owes you a heap, but it ain't nothing to what i owe you." gordon flushed. then he laughed and shook his head. "no man or woman owes me a thing who gives me the chance of a scrap," he said. the old man smiled. "no," he agreed. "with a name like 'van henslaer'--you ain't irish?" "descendant of the old early dutch." "ah. they were scrappers, too." gordon nodded and went on with his figures. so the morning passed. it was a waiting for developments which both men knew would not long be delayed. mallinsbee was unemotional, but gordon was all on wires drawn to great tension. the subtle warnings from mallinsbee not to be too optimistic had left him in a state of doubt. and an impatience took hold of him which he found hard to restrain. the two men shared their midday meal. mallinsbee wanted to get back to the ranch, but neither felt such a course to be policy yet. besides, now that the crisis had arrived, gordon was anxious to have his superior's approval for his next move. he had taken a chance yesterday. now he wanted to make no mistake. the _dénouement_ came within half an hour of hip-lee's clearing of the table. it came with the sound of galloping hoofs, with the rush of a horseman up to the veranda. the two men inside the office looked at each other, and gordon rose and dashed at the window. "it's mcswain," he said, and returned to the haven of his seat behind his desk. his announcement had been cool enough, but his heart was hammering against his ribs. "then i guess things are going queer," said the rancher pessimistically. gordon was about to reply when the door was abruptly thrust open, and the hot face and hotter eyes of peter appeared in the doorway. "well?" for the life of him gordon could not have withheld that sharp, nervous inquiry. mcswain came right into the room and drew the door closed after him. quite suddenly his eyes began to smile in that fashion which so expresses chagrin. he flung his hat on gordon's desk and sat himself on the corner of it. then he deliberately drew a long breath. "i'm as worried as a cat goin' to have kittens," he said. "that feller slosson's beat us. maybe he's stark, starin' crazy, maybe he ain't. anyways he came right along to me this morning with a face like chewed up dogs' meat, with a limp on him that 'ud ha' made the fortune of a tramp, and a mitt all doped up with a dry goods store o' cotton-batten, and asked me the price of my holdings in snake's. i guessed i wasn't selling my hotel lot, but i'd two main street frontages that were worth ten thousand dollars each, and a few other bits going at the waste ground price of five thousand each." "well?" this time it was mallinsbee's inquiry. "he closed the deal for his company, and planted the deposit." "he closed the deal?" cried gordon thickly, all his dreams of the future tumbling about his ears. "why, yes." mcswain regarded the younger man's hopelessly staring eyes for one brief moment. then he went on: "i was only the first. this was after dinner. say, in half an hour he's put his company in at snake's to the tune of nearly a quarter million dollars. he's mad. they'll fire him. they'll repudiate the whole outfit. i tell you he never squealed at any old price. he's beat our play here. but how do we stand up there? a crazy man comes along and makes deals which no corporation in the world would stand for. there ain't a site in snake's worth more'n a hundred dollars to a railroad who's got to boom a place. well, if his corporation turns him down, how do we stand? are they goin' to pay? no, sir; not on your life." "they'll have to stand it," said mallinsbee. "they'll try and fight it," retorted peter hotly. "and you can't graft the courts like a railroad can," put in gordon quickly. "they'll have to stand it," repeated mallinsbee doggedly. "an' i'll tell you how. maybe slosson's crazy. maybe he's crazy to beat us, an' i allow he's not without reason for doin' it--now. but it would cost the railroad a big pile to shift that depot here. it would have been better for them in the end. you see, they'd have got their holdings in the township here for pretty well nix, and so they wouldn't have felt the cost of the depot. the city would have paid that, as well as other old profits. anyway, the capital would have had to be laid out. in snake's they are laying out capital in their holdings only. they'll get it back all right, all right--and profits. slosson's relying on making up their leeway for them in the boom. he's takin' that chance, because he's crazy to beat--us." "and he's done it," said gordon sharply. "yep. he's done it," muttered mcswain regretfully. "he surely has," agreed mallinsbee, without emotion. gordon was the only one of the trio who appeared to be depressed. mcswain had the consolation of getting his profit in snake's fall. the only sense in which he was a loser was that his holdings in buffalo point were larger than in the other place. therefore he was able to regard the matter more calmly, in the light of the fortunes of war. mallinsbee, who had staked all his hopes on buffalo point, seemed utterly unaffected. a few minutes later mcswain hurried away for the purpose of watching further developments, promising to return in the evening and report. neither he nor gordon felt that there was the least hope whatever. mallinsbee offered no opinion. when peter had ridden off, and the two men were left alone, gordon, weighed down with his failure, began to give expression to his feelings. he looked over at the strong face of his benefactor, and took his courage in both hands. "mr. mallinsbee," he said diffidently, "i want to tell you something of what i feel at the way things have gone through--my failure. i----" mallinsbee had thrust his fingers into his waistcoat pocket, and now drew forth a cigar. "say, have a smoke, boy," he said, in his blunt, kindly fashion. "that's a dollar an' a half smoke," he went on, "an' i brought two of 'em over from the ranch to celebrate on. guess we best celebrate right now." it was a doleful smile which looked back at the rancher as gordon accepted the proffered cigar. "but i----" "say, don't bite the end off," interrupted mallinsbee. "here's a piercer." "thanks. but you must let----" "i'll be mighty glad to have a light," the other went on hastily. gordon was thus forced to silence, and mallinsbee continued. "say, boy," he said, as he settled himself comfortably to enjoy his expensive cigar, "a business life is just the only thing better than ranching, i'm beginning to guess. you got to figure on things this way: ranching you got so many hands around, so much grazin', so many cattle. your only enemy is disease. so many head of cows will produce so many calves, and nature does the rest. that's ranching in a kind of outline which sort of reduces it to a question of figures which it wouldn't need a trick reckoner to work out. now business is diff'rent. ther's always the other feller, and you 'most always feel he's brighter than you. but he ain't. he's just figurin' the same way at his end of the deal. so, you see, the real principles of commerce aren't dependent on the things you got and nature, same as ranching. your assets ain't worth the paper they're written on--till you've got your man where you want him. now, to do that you got to ferget you ever were born honest. you've just got one object in life, and that is to get the other feller where you want him. it don't matter how you do it, short of murder. if you succeed, folks'll shout an' say what a bright boy you are. if you fail they'll say you're a mutt. the whole thing's a play there ain't no rules to except those the p'lice handle, and even they don't count when your assets are plenty. you'll hear folks shouting at revival meetings, an' psalm-smitin' around their city churches. you'll hear them brag honesty an' righteousness till you feel you're a worse sinner than ever was found in the bible. you'll have 'em come an' look you in the eye and swear to truth, and every other old play invented to allay suspicions. and all the time it's a great big bluff for them to get you where _they_ want you. an' that's why the game's worth playing--even when you're beat. if business was dead straight; if you could stake your all on a man's word; if ther' weren't a man who would take graft; if you didn't know the other feller was yearning to handle your wad--why, the game wouldn't be a circumstance to ranching." "that sounds pretty cynical," protested gordon. he, too, was smoking, but the failure of his scheme left him unsmiling. "it's the truth. we were trying to get slosson where we wanted him. he's doing the same by us. so far he seems to monopolize most of the advantage. the question remaining to us now--and it's the only one of interest from our end of the line--is: will the president of the union grayling and ukataw railroad do as i think he will--back his agent's play? will he stand for his crazy buying? will he fall for slosson's game to get us where he wants us? i believe he will, but we can't be dead certain. our only chance is to try and make it so he won't--even if the snake's boys lose their stuff up there." gordon was sitting up. his cigar was removed from the corner of his mouth and held poised over an ash-tray. there was a sharp look of inquiry in his eyes. "what's the president of the union grayling and ukataw railroad got to do with it?" he demanded quickly. the rancher raised his heavy brows. "this is a branch of his road, i guess." "a--a branch?" gordon's breath was coming rapidly. "sure. you see, it's a branch linking up with the southern trunk route. it runs into the grayling line where it enters the rockies. that's how you make the coast this way." "and this--is part of the union grayling system?" gordon persisted, his blue eyes getting bigger and bigger with excitement. "sure," nodded mallinsbee, watching him closely. then the explosion came. gordon could contain himself no longer. he flung his newly lit dollar-and-a-half cigar on the floor with all the force of pent feelings and leaped to his feet. "great scott!" he cried. "the president of that road is my father!" "eh?" then, without another sign, mallinsbee pointed reproachfully at the fallen cigar. "it cost a dollar an' a ha'f, boy." but gordon was beside himself with excitement. a great flash of light and hope was shining through his recent mental darkness. it didn't matter to him at that moment if the cigar had cost a thousand dollars. "but--but don't you understand?" he almost yelled. "the president of the union grayling and ukataw is my--father." "james carbhoy." "yes, yes. my name's gordon van henslaer carbhoy." then quite suddenly gordon sat down and began to laugh. then he stooped and picked up his cigar. he was still laughing, while he carefully wiped the dust from the cigar's moistened end. "james carbhoy's your--father?" mallinsbee was no longer disturbed at the waste of the cigar. all his attention was fixed on that laughing face in front of him. gordon nodded delightedly, while he once more thrust his cigar into the corner of his mouth. "you're thinkin' something?" mallinsbee was becoming infected by the other's manner. "sure i am." gordon nodded. "i'm thinking a heap. say, the fight has shifted its battle-ground. it's only just going to begin. gee, if i'd only thought of it before! the union grayling and ukataw! it's fate. say, it isn't slosson any longer. it's son and father. i've got to scrap the old dad. gee! it's colossal. say, can you beat it? i've got to make my little pile out of my old dad. and--he sent me out to make it and show him what i could do." "but how? i don't just see----" "how? how?" gordon's laughing eyes sobered. he suddenly realized that he had only considered the humorous side of the position. his brain began to work at express speed. how was he to turn this thing to account? how? yes--how? mallinsbee watched him for many silent minutes. and during those minutes scheme after scheme, each one more wild than its predecessor, flashed through gordon's brain. none of them suggested any sane possibility. he knew he was up against one of the most brilliant financiers of the country, who, in a matter like this, would regard his own son simply as "the other feller." he must trick him. but how? how? for a long time, in spite of his excited delight, gordon saw no glamour of a hope of dealing successfully with his father. then all in a flash he remembered something. he remembered he still had his father's private code book with him. he remembered slosson. if slosson could only be--silenced. in a moment he was on his feet again. "i've got it!" he cried exultantly. "i've got it, mr. mallinsbee! you said that it didn't matter, short of murder, how we got the other feller where we needed him. will you come in on the wildest, most crazy scheme you ever heard of? we can beat the game, and we'll take money for nothing. we can make my dad build the depot right here and scrap snake's fall. we can make him--and without any murder. will you come in?" "in what?" demanded a girlish voice from the veranda doorway. gordon swung round, and mallinsbee turned his smiling, twinkling eyes upon his daughter, who had arrived all unnoticed. "it's a scheme he's got to beat his father, gal," laughed mallinsbee in a deep-throated chuckle. "his father?" hazel turned her smiling, inquiring eyes upon the man who had rescued her yesterday. "yes, james carbhoy," said her father, "the president of this railroad." hazel's eyes widened, and their smile died out. "your father--the--millionaire--james carbhoy?" she said. and her note of regret must have been plain to anybody less excited than gordon. but gordon was beyond all observation of such subtle inflections. he was obsessed with his wild scheme. he started forward. walking past hazel, he closed and locked the door. then with alert eyes he glanced at the window. it was open. he shut it and secured it. then he set a chair for hazel close beside her father, and finally brought his own chair round and sat himself down facing them. "listen to me, and i'll tell you," he grinned, his whole body throbbing with a joyous humor. "we're going to get the other feller where we need him, and that other feller is my--dear--old--dad!" chapter xvi something doing during the next two or three days the entire atmosphere of snake's fall underwent a significant change. all doubt had been set at rest. the whole problem of the future boom was solved, and david slosson received as much homage in the conversation of the general run of the citizens as though he were the victorious general in a military campaign. the lesser people, who would receive the most benefit from the coming boom, regarded him with wide-eyed wonder at the stupendous nature of the wildly exaggerated reports of his dealings in land. they saw in him a napoleon of finance, and remembered that their concerns were vastly more valuable through his operations. men of maturer business instincts withheld their judgment and contented themselves with a rather dazed wonder. others, those who had actually and already profited by his preliminary deals, chuckled softly to themselves, rubbed their hands gently, pocketed his paper and deposit money, and wrote him down "plumb crazy." but even so, there was a sober watchfulness as to the next movements in the approaching boom. those who were the farthest seeing kept an eye wide open on buffalo point. so far as they could see it was not possible for the buffalo point interests to go under without a "kick." when would that "kick" come, and where would it be delivered? as for david slosson, after his first effort, which had been the deciding factor in the future of snake's fall, he remained unapproachable. he was living at peter mcswain's hotel, and occupied a bedroom and parlor, which latter served him as an office. here he remained more or less invisible, possibly while his disfigured features underwent the process of mending, possibly nursing his wrath and plotting developments against the object of it. there was even another possible explanation. maybe the plunge into the land market he had taken needed a great concentration of effort to completely manipulate it. whatever it was, very little of the railroad company's agent was seen after his first setting defiant foot into the arena of affairs. mcswain was more than interested. the hotel-keeper seemed to have become obsessed with the idea that david slosson was the only creature worth regarding on the face of the earth. this was after he, peter, had spent the evening of that memorable first day of real movement, in the company of silas mallinsbee and gordon, out at the office at buffalo point. peter mcswain had always been an attentive landlord in his business, now he had suddenly become even more so, especially to david slosson. there was not a single requirement that the agent could conceive, but peter was on hand to supply it. he was more or less at his elbow the whole time. then, too, mike callahan became a frequenter of the hotel, and even boarded there. furthermore, a wonderful friendliness between him and peter sprang up, which was so marked that the townspeople saw in it a combination of forces possibly foreshadowing the inauguration of a great hotel enterprise under their joint control. this also was after that first evening, when mike callahan had also formed one of the party at the office at buffalo point. another point of interest, had it been noticeable by the more curious and interested of the frequenters of the hotel, was, that at any time that peter mcswain found it necessary to absent himself from the hotel, mike was always found in his place superintending the running of the establishment. however, these small details were merely an added puff of wind to the breath of general excitement prevailing. the one thought in the place seemed to be of those preparations necessary for the boom. already certain contracts, long since prepared for such a happening, were put into operation. a number of buildings were started, or prepared to start. the news had been sent broadcast by interested citizens, and a fresh influx of people began and heavy orders from the various traders were placed with the wholesalers in the east. david slosson in his quarters was made aware of these things, but somehow they raised small enough enthusiasm in him. truth to tell, he was far too deeply concerned with the subtleties of his own affairs. his course of action had not been the wild plunge which peter mcswain had suggested. on the contrary, such was his venomous nature that he had pitted his own abilities and fortune against the buffalo point interests in a carefully calculated scheme. for years he had been engaged in every corner of the united states and canada in such work as he was now doing. in the process of such work, by methods of unscrupulous grafting and blackmail he had contrived a fortune of no inconsiderable amount. so that now he was no ordinary agent. he was a "representative" of the interests he worked for. in his case the distinction was a nice one. as the result of his encounter with gordon he had resolved upon the crushing defeat of his adversaries by hurling the entire weight of his personal fortune into the scale. true enough he had bought without regard to price. he bought all he could in the best positions, and even in the quarters which would not meet with the railroad's approval. so his purchases had to be far greater, both in extent and price, than in the ordinary way he would have made at buffalo point. having thus bought, and thrown his own money into the affair, this was his plan of dealing with the matter. first, he knew this boom was based on sound foundations. the future was assured by the vast coal-fields just opening up. the bude and sideley coal company was only the first. there would be others, many of them. with the railroad depot at snake's fall, the whole of the outlying positions of the city would boom with the rest. _any land round it would be of enormous value_. so he purchased in every direction. he bought at "skied" prices from the big holders, so that the railroad should be satisfied as to positions, and he bought largely in the outlying parts of the city where no "skied" prices could rule. then he pooled the price which he knew the railroad would pay, with his own fortune to pay the whole bill, put the railroad in _on the best sites at their own price_, and held the balance of his purchases for himself. it was his only means of justifying to his principals his declining to accept buffalo point's terms, and though it meant locking up his available capital in snake's fall, he knew, in the end, he would recoup himself with added fortune, and have wrecked those who had rejected his blackmail, and added to their audacity by personal assault. it pleased him to think that hazel mallinsbee would also be made to suffer for what he considered her outrageous treatment of himself. his method was certainly napoleonic, and for its very audacity it should succeed. as he reviewed his position he could find no appreciable flaws. if the coal were there the place must boom, and--_he knew the coal was there_. so he was satisfied. five days after making his first deal, those deals which had inspired so much derision, his whole operations were completed. he was feeling contented. it had been a strenuous time, and had demanded every ounce of energy and commercial acumen he possessed to complete the work. he knew that his whole future was at stake, but he also knew that he held the four aces which would be the finally deciding factors in the game. he felt free at last to notify the president of the union grayling and ukataw railroad of his transactions, and was confident of that shrewd financier's approval and felicitations. nor were the latter the least desirable in his estimation. he had already dined in his parlor, as had been his custom since his encounter with gordon. but now he intended to move abroad. he felt himself to be the arbiter of the fate of these "rubes," as he characterized the citizens of snake's fall, and he did not see the necessity for denying himself the adulation such a position entitled him to. with a self-satisfied feeling he picked up a long code message he had written out and thrust it in his pocket. then, carefully putting away all other private papers into his dressing-case, and locking it, he sauntered leisurely out of his room. he intended to give himself his first breathing space for five days, and he lounged downstairs to the hotel office. sure enough, the first person he encountered was peter mcswain. the man looked hot, but then he always looked hot. his smile of welcome was almost servile, and david slosson felt pleased at the sign. the consequence was, his manner promptly became something more than autocratic. there was a domineering note in his voice, and a cool insolence in his regard of his host. peter remained quite undisturbed. his mind went back to the scene in the office at buffalo point on the eventful first evening, and an even greater servility beamed out of his hot eyes. "yes, sir," he cried, in answer to slosson's inquiry as to the movements in the town. "movements? why, i'd sure say you've set this place jumping as though you'd opened up an earthquake under it. i tell you frankly, mr. slosson, sir, we been waitin' days and days with our eyes on you for a lead. i don't guess it means a thing to a gentleman like you, but if you'd been a sort o' cock angel right down from the clouds on an aeroplane you couldn't ha' been blessed more'n the folks right here have been blessin' your name these last days, since you outed that bum outfit down at buffalo point." "they're a pretty rotten crowd," agreed slosson, well enough pleased. "though i say it, it takes a man of experience to handle a crowd like that. they're sheer blackmailers, but i don't stand for a thing like that. you see, our play is to serve the public right. well, seeing snake's fall is a straight proposition i guess i had to treat 'em right. i figure i put a heap of dollars in the way of snake's fall. you won't do so bad yourself?" peter smiled amiably. "i can't kick." "kick?" slosson's eyes widened. "guess you ought to get right on your knees, and thank--me." then he laughed. "say, maybe you'll start putting up a--real hotel." his contempt was marked as he let his glance wander over his simple and primitive surroundings. peter took no sort of umbrage. "well, that was how i was figurin'. y'see i got to be first in that line. since you downed mallinsbee's crowd of crooks, why, it's going to make things easy. say, you don't figure to sink dollars that way yourself? maybe you could get right in on the ground floor." his cordial tone pleased the agent, but he pretended to consider the matter too small for his participation. "i'd need a big holding," he laughed. "i ain't time for one-hossed shows. still, i thank you for the offer. guess the mallinsbee crowd are kicking 'emselves to death. what?" peter nodded impressively, and drew closer in his confidence. "kickin'? that don't describe it. they deserve it, too. they kep' us dancing around guessin' with their patch of grazin'. say, this town owes you a big heap, an' i'm glad. there's one thing owin' a real smart gent like you, mr. slosson, sir, an' quite another owin' a crowd of crooks like mallinsbee's. this town ain't likely to forget. there's things like testimonials around, sir," he added, winking significantly, "and when a city's making a big pile through a man, testimonials are like to take on a mighty handsome shape." slosson grinned. "i shouldn't discourage 'em," he said pleasantly. "the folks 'll see where they are in a few days. here." he pulled out his long cypher message from his pocket, and held it out towards peter triumphantly. "you can read it if you like. you won't be able to get its meaning, but i'll tell you what it is. it's to tell my company to go right ahead. they're in. that means that snake's fall is made, sir, completely and finally made, and the mallinsbee ground sharks are plumb down and out. and i'm glad to say i've been the means of fixing things that way for you." peter took the message. he took it rather quickly--almost too quickly. he read it. the words were so much gibberish to him, and it was far too long to remember. but with a quick effort he took in the one word of address, and the first six words of the message. then he handed it back. "do you need that sent off, sir?" he inquired easily, but his heart was beating quickly. slosson shook his head. "guess i'll send it myself. i'm going across to the depot right now." he folded up the paper. "that's the sentence on the buffalo point crooks, and its execution will follow--quick." "an' serve 'em darned right," cried peter sharply. "i ain't time for crooks like them. you're right, sir. don't take chances. see that sent off yourself, sir. i'm real glad you come along here. there'll be fortunes lying around in your track, an' then there's always them--testimonials. say, you'll just excuse me, sir, but there's some all-fired 'rubes' shoutin' for drinks in the bar. i----" slosson laughed. "yes, you get right on. the boys have money to burn in this city now. they'll have more later. i'll get going." he moved off and passed through the crowded office, and out of the hotel, while peter dashed swiftly into his private office. he went straight to his desk and wrote on paper all he could remember of the code message. then he stood up and swore softly to himself. for some moments he let himself go at the expense of the man he had just been talking to. then he became calmer, and his face grew thoughtful. then, after awhile, a smile grew in his hot eyes, and he murmured audibly-- "i wonder. steve mason's a good boy, an' he don't draw a big pile slamming the keys of his instruments over there. i wonder." after that he left the office and hurried out to the veranda, and stood watching, in the evening light, for the figure of david slosson leaving the telegraph operator's office. gordon and hazel mallinsbee were riding amongst the hills. gordon was on sunset, and hazel's brown mare was reveling in the joy of a fresh morning gallop through her native valleys and woodlands. ever since the memorable day when he discovered that slosson was his father's agent, gordon had lived in a state of almost feverish delight. at his instigation they had closed up the office at buffalo point, to give color to their defeat by the agent. at his instigation they had arranged many other more or less significant matters. but it had been mallinsbee's own suggestion that gordon should take up his abode at the ranch instead of sharing the hospitality of mike callahan's livery barn in snake's fall. it was a glorious summer day and the mountain breezes came down the hillsides with that refreshing cool belonging to the heights above. the joy of living was thrilling both of them as they rode, and their horses, too, seemed to have caught the infection. but there was something more than the mere joy of life and health actuating them now. there was an excitement such as neither could have experienced during those long, dull hours which, during the past weeks, had been spent in the now closed office at buffalo point. they raced along down a wide green valley lined upon either side by wood-clad slopes of hills, which mounted up towards the blue for several hundreds of feet. ahead of them shone the white ramparts of the mountain range. they scintillated in the sunlight, a shimmering wall of snow and ice many thousands of feet high. before them lay miles and miles of broken hills, rising higher and higher as they approached the ultimate barrier of the rockies themselves. the riders were in a perfect maze of valleys, and woods, and mountain streams, and hills; a maze from which it seemed well-nigh impossible to disentangle themselves. yet, with her trained eyes, and wonderful inborn knowledge of hill-craft, hazel piloted their course without hesitation, without question. the whole region was an open book to her in the summer time. for miles and miles through that broken land she knew every headland, every shadowy wood, every green valley and gurgling stream. as she often told gordon, it was her world--her home and her world, it belonged to her. "but i should lose myself in five minutes," gordon protested, as they swung out of the valley and into a narrow cutting between two sheer-faced cliffs, overgrown with scrub and small bush, which left hardly any room for their horses along the banks of a trickling brook which divided them. "surely you would," hazel, who was now in the lead, called back over her shoulder. "and i guess i should just as soon lose my way in your wonderful new york. you follow right along, and i'll promise to bring you home by supper." then, with laughing anxiety, "but for goodness' sake don't lose our lunch out of your saddle bags. we'll be starving after another hour of this." the warning startled gordon into an apprehensive survey of his saddle bags. they were quite secure, however, and he followed closely on the mare's heels. quickly it became apparent that they were traveling a well-worn cattle path overgrown by the low scrub. it was difficult, but hazel followed it unfalteringly. half a mile up this narrow, the great facets of the hills on either side began to close in on them, and still further ahead gordon discovered that they almost met overhead, the narrowest possible crack alone dividing them. he was wondering in which direction lay their way out of such a hopeless cul-de-sac when he saw hazel suddenly bend her body low over her mare's neck, and, at the same moment, she called back a warning to him. "'ware overhead rocks!" she cried. gordon instantly followed her example, and kept close behind her as she entered a passage which was practically a tunnel. now their difficulties were increased tenfold. the tunnel, in spite of the narrow split in its roof, was almost dark. the low bush completely hid the track and the little tumbling creek beside the path had deepened to a six-foot cut bank. gordon became troubled. but it was not for himself so much as for hazel. his horse, sunset, was steady as a rock, but the brown mare ahead was as timid as a kitten. he glanced anxiously at the figure of the girl. the journey seemed not to trouble her one bit. her mare, too, considering her timidity, was wonderfully steady. no doubt it was the result of perfect confidence in the clever little creature on her back, he thought. his gaze passed still further ahead. he was looking for the termination of this mysterious winding tunnel. but twenty yards was the limit of his vision and, so far, no end was in sight. suddenly hazel's merry laugh came echoing back to him. "say, isn't this a great place?" she cried. "it's like one of those enchanted lands you read of in fairy books." then she added a further warning. "keep low. we're nearly through." the horses scrambled on in the semi-darkness. but for gordon the enchantment of the place was passing, and he was glad to know they were nearly through. a few minutes later he saw hazel begin to straighten herself up in the saddle. he followed her example with some caution and considerable relief. the roof was becoming higher, so, too, was the light increasing. gordon breathed a sigh. "i don't know about the lunch," he said. "i've bumped the walls for some considerable time. is there much more of it?" but before hazel's reply could reach him his inquiry was answered by the cavern itself. all in an instant they rounded a bend and a dazzling beam of sunlight banished the darkness and nearly blinded him. two minutes later he pushed his way through a dense screen of willows, and emerged upon the bank of a beautiful, serene lake of absolutely transparent, sunlit water. "behold the spring which is the source of that little stream," cried hazel, indicating the lake spread out before them. "isn't it a fairy-book picture? look round you. oh, say, i just love it to death." gordon gazed about him in wonder. the lake was quite small, but its setting was as beautiful as any artist could have painted it. all around it, on two-thirds of its circumference, a hundred different shades of green illumined the wonderful tangled vegetation. he looked for the place from which they had emerged. it was completely hidden. gone, vanished as if by magic. all that remained were the great hills at the back and the wooded banks of the lake at their feet. he looked down at the water. clear, clear; it was clear as crystal. then he turned towards the sun, and something of the wonder of it all thrilled him. a sea, a calm, unruffled sea of the greenest grass he had ever beheld stretched out before him. or was it a broad river of grass? yes, it was a wide river, perhaps two miles wide, with great mountainous banks on either side. to him they seemed to be standing at its source, and its flow carried his gaze away on towards the west, where, above all, miles and miles away, shone the white peaks of the mountains. the banks of this superb valley were deeply wooded from the base to the soaring summits. only were the hues of the foliage varied. right at the foot the green was bright, but less bright than the tall sweet grass. while higher, the dark foliage of pine woods rose somberly on stately towering blackened trunks. at last gordon turned back to the girl, who had sat watching the intent expression of his face. "tell me," he said, and he made a comprehensive gesture with one hand. hazel was waiting only for that sign. [illustration: hazel was waiting for that sign] "where we stand now we are twenty miles from the ranch," she said. "the only other outlet to this valley is twenty miles further on to the west. if you could not find our secret passage again, you would have to travel sixty miles through the most amazing country to get back home." "sixty miles back?" gordon muttered. "sure," returned hazel. then she laughed. "even then, unless you'd been pretty well born in these hills you'd never find the way." gordon nodded, and glanced in the direction whence they had come. there was not a sign of the tunnel to be seen. the foliage screen looked impenetrable. he began to smile. "and your cattle station?" he questioned. "come on." hazel turned her mare away, and set off at a brisk canter. she followed the line of the hills at the edge of the wide plain of sweet grass. gordon followed her, marveling at the place, but more still at his guide. a quarter of an hour's gallop under the shade of the most amazingly beautiful woods he ever remembered to have seen, brought them to a clearing, in the midst of which stood a smallish frame house. it was more or less surrounded by a number of large, heavy-timbered corrals. the whole place was perfectly hidden by the screen of woods from view of the valley beyond. hazel leaped out of the saddle and passed hurriedly into the house. next minute she returned with two picket ropes. "we'll picket them both while we eat and get a peek around the place. we aren't yearning for a twenty-mile tramp back." gordon agreed. he remained silent while they off-saddled and secured their horses beyond the woods on the open grass. he was thinking hard. he was reviewing the purpose which had brought them to this wonderful outworld hiding-place. nor were his thoughts wholly free from doubts and qualms. at length the work was done. their saddle blankets were laid out to dry in the sun, and the saddle bags were emptied of the ample lunch hazel had carefully provided. the girl was entirely mistress of the situation. gordon felt his helplessness out here in the secret heart of nature. "shall we eat first or----?" hazel broke off questioningly. "can't we look around the house while the kettle boils?" inquired gordon, looking up from the fire he had kindled after some difficulty. he was kneeling on the bare, dusty ground which had been trodden by the hoofs of thousands of cattle in the past. the girl nodded. her delight in being this man's cicerone was superlative. this was different from the days she had spent with david slosson. "sure. come on," she cried. "and there's a well out back where we can fill the kettle." they hurried off to the well, and, between them, rather like two children, they filled the kettle. then they returned and placed it on the fire, and again approached the house. it was a squat, roomy structure of the ordinary frame type, but it was in perfect preservation even to its paint, and hazel pointed this out as they approached. "you see this was my daddy's first home," she said. "it's where i was born." she drew a deep, happy sigh. "i seem to remember every stick of it. and my daddy, why, he just loves it, too. that's why, though we don't use it now, he has it painted every year, and kept clean. you see, when my daddy built this for my momma he hadn't a pile of dollars. it was just all he could afford, and he didn't ever guess he'd have a great deal to spend on a home. we lived here years, and our cattle grazed out in the valley beyond. i used to spend my whole time on the back of a small broncho mare, chasing up and down the hills and woods. and that's how i found that tunnel we came through. my, but i do love this little place!" "it's great," agreed gordon warmly. "i'd call it a--a poet's home." the girl flung open the front door and led the way in. instantly gordon had the surprise of his life. it was furnished. completely and comfortably furnished. what was more, the furniture, though old, was in perfect repair, and the room looked as though it had been recently occupied. "when you said 'disused,'" gordon exclaimed, "i--i--thought it would be empty." the girl smiled a little sadly. "no," she said. "we couldn't forsake it. it would be like forgetting my poor momma. no. the furniture and things are just as we used them when she was with us." she passed from the parlor to the bedrooms, and the lean-to kitchen and washhouse. everything was in perfect order, except for a slight dust which had gathered. "you see, hip-lee and one of the choremen and i can fix it up in a day ready for occupation. that's how my daddy likes to have it. my daddy loved our lovely momma. i don't guess he'll ever get over losing her." then she looked up, and her shadow of sadness had gone. "come along," she cried. "you've seen it all. so we'll just shut it up again, and get back to our camp. i'm guessing that kettle'll be boiled dry." but the kettle was only just on the boil, and the girl made the tea while gordon set out the food and plates. then, when all was ready, they sat down to their _tête-à-tête_ picnic with all the enjoyment of two children, but with that between them which seemed to fill the whole air of the valley with an intoxicating sense of happiness and delight. "and what about that other place--that log and adobe shack you told me of?" demanded gordon, taking his tea-cup from the girl's hand. hazel laughed. "that's a dandy shack, full of ants and crawly things, and its roof leaks water. it's up on a hill where the wind just blows pneumonia through it. if i showed it you i sort of reckon you'd be scared to use it for--for anything." gordon joined in her laugh. "i guess it'll be the real thing for my job. say, don't you sort of feel like a criminal? i do." he laughed again as he passed the plate of cut meats to his companion. "criminals?" laughed hazel buoyantly. "why, i just feel as if you and my daddy and i were all hanging by the neck on the highest peak of the rockies. say, you're sure--sure of things?" "i guess there's nothing sure in this world, except that no saint was ever a financial genius. sure? say, how can we be sure till we've fixed things the way we want 'em? but i tell you we've got to make good. i won't believe we can fail. we mustn't fail. if only peter can get hold of slosson's messages. only one will do. if he can do that, and it's what i expect, why--the whole thing becomes just a practical joke, only not so harmful." gordon attacked his food with a healthy appetite, and the girl watched him happily. "it's the cleverest thing ever," she cried, "and--and i can't think how you thought of it, and, having thought of it--dared to attempt to carry it out." gordon smiled. "i'm not clever, but--i did think of it, didn't i? and as to carrying it out, why, i guess we're the same as the others. we're 'sharps.' we're land pirates. we're ground sharks." hazel set her cup down. "but you are clever. i didn't mean it that way." "you're the first person ever told me." "am i?" hazel blushed. nor did she know why. gordon, watching her, sat entranced. "sure. most everybody reckons i'm just a--a bit of an athlete--that's all. my sister gracie never gets tired of telling me what an all-sorts-of-fool i am." "how old is your--gracie?" "thirteen." "that makes a diff'rence." "oh, she doesn't get it all her own way," laughed gordon. "i hide her chocolates. that makes her mad. she's a passion for candy. but the old dad is a bully feller. he's all sorts of a sportsman, and he guesses that the best day in his life will be the one in which he finds i'm not a fool." hazel gurgled merrily. "that'll come along soon." gordon nodded. "gee! it makes me laugh to think of it. but say," he went on, a moment later, "i'm glad you don't think me a fool. i'm just longing for----" but he broke off and abruptly rose from the ground. their meal was finished. "do we wash things or do we just pack 'em up?" "oh, we'll pack 'em," said hazel, rising hastily. a sort of nervous hurry was in her movement. "we won't rob the choreman and hip-lee of their rights. say, you bring up the horses, and i'll pack. we can water them at the lake as we pass out--the horses, i mean." a few minutes later gordon returned with the horses. as he rounded the bend in the now overgrown track, which had once formed the main approach to the little ranch, and caught sight of the graceful fawn-clad figure moving about, he stood for a moment to feast his eyes upon the picture the girl made. she was all he had ever dreamed of in life. there was nothing of the delicate exotic here, none of the graceful gowning of a city, concealing an unhealthy body reduced almost to infirmity by the unwholesome night life of modern social demands. she was just a living example of the grace with which nature so readily endows those who obey her wonderful, helpful laws. the perfect contours, the elasticity of gait, the clear, keen, beautiful eyes, and the pretty tanning under the shade of her wide-brimmed hat. the beating of the man's heart quickened. all his feelings rose, and set him longing to tell her all that was in his heart. he wanted then and there to become her champion for all time. a great passionate wave set the warm blood of youth surging to his head. he felt that she belonged to him, and him alone. had he not fought for her as those warriors of old would have done? yes, somehow he felt that she was his, but, with a strange cowardice, he feared to put his fate to the test through words which could never express half of all he felt. he longed and feared, and he told himself---- but hazel was looking in his direction. she saw him standing there, and peremptorily summoned him to her presence. "for goodness' sake," she cried. "dreaming when there's work to be done. bring them right along, or we'll never get started. there's all twenty miles before supper." gordon hurried forward, and as he came up he made his excuses. "i had to look," he said apologetically. "you see it isn't every day a feller gets a chance to see a real picture--like i've seen. say, these hills, i guess, can hand all that nature can paint that way, but you need a human life in it to make a picture real to just an ordinary man's eyes. i--had to look." but hazel seemed to have become suddenly aware of something of that which lay behind his words, and she hastily, and with flushed cheeks, turned to the work of saddling her horse. gordon attempted to help, but she laughingly declined any aid. she pointed at the saddle bags on his saddle. "they're packed," she said. "say, i'll show you how to refold your blanket. this way." gordon spent some delicious moments struggling with his blanket under the girl's superintendence, and his regret was all too genuine when, at last, it was placed on sunset's back with the saddle on the top of it. as for the mare, she was saddled and bitted in the time it took him to cinch sunset up. by the time he had adjusted the bit hazel was in the saddle, gazing down at his efforts with merry, laughing eyes. "it does seem queer," she said. "here are you, big and strong, and capable of most anything. yet it puzzles you around a saddle--which is so simple." gordon climbed into his saddle at last, and smiled round at her. "i'm learning more than i ever guessed i'd learn when i left new york. i've learned a heap of things, and you've taught me most of them. sometime i'll have to tell you all you've taught me, and then--and then, why, i guess maybe you'll wonder." he laughed as they moved off. but somehow hazel kept her eyes averted. "now for the enchanted tunnel again," he cried, in a less serious mood. "more enchantment, more delight! and then--then to the serious criminal work we have on hand. criminal. it sounds splendid. it sounds exciting. we're conspirators of the deepest dye." chapter xvii the code book it seemed as though peter mcswain never did anything without perspiring. he perspired now with the simple effort of thought. but it was a considerable effort and a considerable thought. he crowded more of the latter into five minutes, he assured himself, than a bankrupt wall street man could have done on the eve of settling day. the object of his thought was the telegraph operator and the subject of it the interesting thesis of bribery. then, too, there were the side issues, which included david slosson, a telegraph message, and two men waiting at the other end of things for the result of his share in the proceedings. he made no attempt at pleasant conversation with the row of guests lounging with feet skywards on the shady veranda. for the time at least the affairs of his hotel were quite secondary. it seemed to him just now that these men were the misfortunes of a commercial interest. they were the things that kept him living concealed beneath an exterior of polite attention which he detested. he had never had a chance of being his real self until this moment. there was work of a delicate nature to be performed, work which was to prove his ability in those finer channels where individuality would count and genuine cleverness must be displayed. a lot was depending upon his capacity. this feeling inspired him, and the dew on his forehead became a moist and shallow lake that was already overflowing its banks. at the end of five minutes, after having seen david slosson leave the telegraph office and move off down the main street, this lake became a streaming torrent as he left the veranda and passed round to the back of the hotel. this retrograde movement was a part of his deeply laid plans. he had no object in visiting either his barn or his kitchens. the chinese cook possessed no interest for him at the moment, and as for the hens and the team of horses, and his lame choreman who tended them, they had never been farther from his thoughts. he appeared interested, however, and mopped his forehead several times as he surveyed the scene with attentive eye. then he passed on without a word. now his route became circuitous. he walked a hundred yards away from the town, and appeared to be contemplating the open country with weighty thoughts in his mind. then he turned away and moved in another direction, towards the railroad track. again he paused with measuring eye. then he crossed the track and strode off in a fresh direction. this time he was moving northwards away from the depot and telegraph office. those who now chanced to observe him lost all interest in his movements, and for the time his perspiring face was forgotten. by the time he came within view of the hotel veranda again his very existence had been forgotten in the midst of the busy talk of his guests. and so he was enabled to reach the telegraph office from the farther side without arousing comment. he casually opened the door and found himself standing before the barrier of the paper-littered office. the operator was at his instrument table ticking out a message in that alert, concentrated manner peculiar to all telegraphists. the man glanced round at his visitor and continued his work without a sign of recognition, and the hotel-keeper propped himself on the counter and drew a cigar from his vest pocket. by the time he had lit it satisfactorily the ticking of the instrument ceased, and a sigh of relief warned him that steve mason was free. he glanced across at the table with his hot eyes and a shadowy smile. "busy these times, steve," he said genially. "the old days when we had time to sit around in this office and yarn are as far back as the flood. say, you ain't got paralysis of the arm yet? maybe you work 'em both. hev a smoke?" steve smiled wearily. "don't you never take on operatin', peter," he said, accepting the proffered smoke. "thanks. what's this? one of those 'multiflavums' of yours you keep for drummers?" peter shook his head. "my own smokes. they match the times. we're all making fortunes." "are we?" "well--ain't we?" "none of it's come my way," said steve, lighting his cigar. "but that's always the way. we get shunted to a bum town like this on a branch, and they pay us salary according. if the city makes a break and gets busy and we're nearly crazy with overwork they don't boost us up. overwork don't mean overpay, nor overtime. they ain't raised me a dollar. i'm going to get right on the buck if things keep up. i tell you i've eaten three meals in this office to-day, with my hand on the key, and i--i'm just sick to death. i don't take or send again this night." "guess you'll be able to make a break when you sell your holdings," mcswain went on sympathetically. he raised the barrier and stepped into the office, and sat himself in a chair he had often occupied in the unruffled days before the coal. steve laughed and sat himself on the corner of his instrument table. "i ain't got no holding. you can't buy land on a hundred dollars a month. no, sir. what with the chinee laundry and my boarding-house, i guess i need to smoke your 'multiflavums' and drink your worst rye. why, i ain't got a balance over to buy an ice-cream-soda in winter." "you sure are badly staked," murmured peter. they smoked in silence for some moments. the atmosphere of the little office was opening the pores of peter's skin again. "say," he went on presently, mopping his brow carefully, "i made quite a stake out of that agent feller, slosson. somewheres around ten thousand dollars. quite a piece of money, eh? i ain't sure he's a fool or a pretty wise guy." "he's the railroad man," said steve significantly. "yes. that don't make him out a fool, does it?" "i'd smile." "so'd i--if i knew more. i'd give a hundred dollars to see what's to happen in the next week or so. i've got a big stake here, if the railroad don't shift the depot. slosson says they won't. says he's bought all he needs right here for his company. i take it he's helped himself, too. still, i'd like to know. the boys back at the hotel are fallin' right over 'emselves to get in. they reckon this place is a cinch--since slosson's bought. i'd like to be sure." steve laughed. he read through his friend's purpose now. the visit was not, as he told himself, for nothing. peter was looking for information which it would be a serious offense for him to give--if he possessed any, which he didn't. "guess there's nothing doing, peter," he said slyly. "what d'you mean?" the hotel-keeper's eyes were hotter than ever. but there was no resentment in them. "why, i just don't know a thing what slosson's doing. and if i did i couldn't tell you. it would be a criminal offense. slosson ain't sent a word over the line since he started to buy metal until to-night, and the message i've just sent for him is in code, so, as far as i'm concerned, it's so much greek. i don't know who it's to, even. that's why i guess there's nothing doing." "no--i s'pose not. i s'pose codes can be read, though? there's experts who worry out any old code. guess it's mighty interestin'. if slosson's sendin' in code i guess he's got something in it he don't need folks to know. that makes it more worrying." peter heaved a great sigh of longing. the other shook his head. "you've got to find the key to 'em," he said. "yep--a bible, or some queer old book. maybe the 'history of the united states.' say, i'd hate to chase up the 'history of the united states' looking for a key. maybe it would be interestin', though. say----" "you couldn't do it in a month of years," laughed steve, humoring his friend. "what would it be worth to you to be able to read his code?" "oh, maybe i'd make fifty thousand dollars." "whew! that's some money." "sure. i'd like to try. say, boy, i'll hand you five hundred dollars to let me take a copy of that message. all you need do is just leave it on your table there for five minutes and lock the outer door. then just pass right into the other room till the five minutes is up. i'll hand you the bills right here an' now. i'd like to figure on that message. is it a bet?" steve shook his head. he was scared. he knew the consequences of discovery to himself too well. it was penitentiary. it was the equivalent of tapping wires. but peter was unfolding a big roll of bills, and the temptation of handling that money was very great. "you just need to copy the message out? that all?" "just that. no more." "you won't need to disfigure my record?" "sure not." peter grinned. he was sweating, profusely. he felt he was on a hot scent and likely to make a kill. "only to make a _copy_. it's a big bunch of money for just a copy," steve demurred suspiciously. peter laughed. "say, boy, we're old friends. i ain't out to do you a hurt. all i need is to try and worry out that code and know things. if i was sure of being able to read it, why, this five hundred would be five thousand, and worth it all to me, every cent of it. if i can't read that code, then i'll just hand you back my copy, and no harm's done. see? i tell you i wouldn't hurt you for more than the money i hope to make. is it a bet?" steve passed out through the barrier and turned the key in the door. then he came back. "i'll take that money." "good." peter paid it over, and then watched the other as he took the original message which slosson had written off a file and laid it on the table beside a blank form. "say, be as sharp as you can over it," steve said urgently. then he passed into the inner room and closed the door. the interior of mike callahan's livery barn was typical of a small prairie town. rows of horse-stalls ran down either side of it, from one end to the other. at the far end sliding doors opened out upon an enclosure, round which were the sheds sheltering a widely varied collection of rigs and buggies. also here there was further accommodation for horses. just inside the main barn, to the left, the american irishman had two small rooms. the one at the front, with its window on main street, was his office. behind this, dependent for light upon a window at the side of the building, was a harness-room crowded with saddles and harness of every description, also a bunk on which mike usually slept when he kept the barn open at night. it was late at night now, about midnight on the day following peter mcswain's momentous effort with steve mason. four men were gathered together in profound council in mike's harness-room. the atmosphere of the place was poisonous. a horse blanket obscured the window, and the door was shut and locked, although the barn itself was closed for the night, and there was small enough chance of intrusion. still, every precaution had been taken to avoid any such contingency. a single guttering candle stuck in the neck of a black bottle illumined the intent faces of the men. gordon was sitting at a small table with a sheet of paper in front of him and a small morocco-bound book beside it. silas mallinsbee and peter mcswain were sitting upon mike callahan's emergency bunk, while the owner of it contented himself with an upturned bucket near the door. cigar-smoke clouded the room and left the atmosphere choking, but all of them seemed quite impervious to its inconvenience. for awhile there was no other sound than the rustle of the leaves of gordon's book and the scratching of the indifferent pen he had borrowed from mike. then, after what seemed interminable minutes, he looked up from his task with a transparent smile. "it's all right," he said in a low, thrilling tone. "i guess we've got the game in our hands. he's used the governor's code." "you can read it?" demanded peter quickly, leaning forward with a stiff, tense motion. "is it what we guessed?" inquired mike, with a sigh of relief. mallinsbee alone offered no comment. gordon nodded in answer to each inquiry. he was reading what he had written over to himself. then he turned sharply to peter. "for goodness' sake give me a cigar. i need something to keep me from shouting." his tone, and the expression of his eyes were full of excitement. "it's the greatest luck ever," he went on, while peter produced a cigar and passed it across to him. "this feller's in direct communication with the governor. you see, this code is the private one. i had it as the dad's secretary. the manager had it, and, of course, my father. no one else. so it's just about certain this thing was an important matter for slosson to be allowed to use it. now i'd never heard of this slosson before, so that it's also evident he's one of my father's secret agents. a matter which further proves the affair's importance." he lit his cigar and puffed at it leisurely as he contemplated his paper with even greater satisfaction. "this is addressed direct to the old man, which--makes our work doubly easy," he went on. "also the nature of the message helps us. if it had been to our manager it would have been more difficult to work out my plans." he raised the paper so that the candlelight fell full upon it. "this is the transcript. 'occipud, new york'--that's my father," he added in parenthesis. "'have bought in snake's fall, working on instructions. buffalo point crowd out for a heavy graft. utterly unscrupulous lot, offering impossible deal. have turned them down on grounds provided for in your instructions. snake's fall everything you require. would suggest you come up here incognito, if possibly convenient. there are other propositions in coal worth a deep consideration. coal deposits here the greatest in the country. must come an enormous boom. will send word later on this matter. am sending letter covering operations. i think it will be urgent that you visit this place shortly in interests of boom as well as the coal.--slosson.'" gordon looked round at the faces of his companions in silent triumph. and in each case he encountered a keen expectancy. as yet his fellow conspirators were rather in the dark. the significance of that transcript was not yet sufficiently clear. "what comes next?" inquired mallinsbee in his calm, direct fashion. the others simply waited for enlightenment. gordon chuckled softly. "now we know we can get at slosson's messages and my father's messages to him, and, having the code book, by a miracle of good luck, in my possession, the rest is easy. first, peter must get a copy of my father's reply to this. meanwhile i shall send an urgent message to my father in slosson's name to _come up here at once_. the answer to that must never reach slosson. get me, peter? you've got that boy steve where you need him. you must hold him there and pay his price. i'll promise him he'll come to no harm. when my father finds out things i'll guarantee to pacify him. this way we'll get my father here, i'll promise you. and when he does get here the fun 'll begin--as we have arranged. that clear? mike's got his work marked out. you yours, peter. mr. mallinsbee and i will do the rest. peter, you did a great act laying hands on this message. it was worth double the price. the whole game is now in our hands." gordon folded up the paper and placed it inside the code book, which he carefully returned to his pocket. mike rubbed his hands. "say, it's sure a great play," he said gleefully. "and seein' you're his son the risk don't amount to pea-shucks," nodded the perspiring hotel proprietor. "you can be quite easy on that score," laughed gordon. "i can promise you this: it won't be the old dad's fault, when this is over, if you don't find yourselves gathered around a mighty convivial board somewhere in new york--at his expense. you know my father as a pretty bright financier. i don't guess you know him as the sportsman i do." mallinsbee suddenly bestirred himself and removed his cigar. "i kind o' wish he weren't your father, gordon, boy," he said bluntly. "it sort of seems tough to me." gordon's eyes shot a whimsical smile across at hazel's father. "i'd hate to have any other, mr. mallinsbee," he said. "maybe i know how you're feeling about it. but i tell you right here, if my father knew i had this opportunity and didn't take it, he'd turn his face to the wall and never own me as his son again. you're reckoning that for a son to do his father down sort of puts that son on a level with david slosson or any other low down tough. maybe it does. but i just think my father the bulliest feller on earth, and i love him mighty hard. i love him so well that i'd hate to give him a moment's pain. i tell you frankly that it would pain him if i didn't take this opportunity. it would pain him far more than anything we intend to do to him--when we get him here." he rose from his seat and his good-natured smile swept over the faces of his companions. "how do you say, gentlemen? our work's done for to-night. are we for bed?" chapter xviii ways that are dark the people of snake's fall were in the throes of that artificial excitement which ever accompanies the prospect of immediate and flowing wealth in a community which has been feverishly striving with a negative result. nor was this excitement a healthy or agreeable wave of emotion. it was aggressive and vulgar. it was hectoring and full of a blatant self-advertisement. men who had never done better for themselves than a third-rate hotel, or who had never used anything more luxurious than a street car for locomotion in their ordinary daily life, now talked largely of plaza hotels and automobiles, of real estate corners and bank balances. they sought by every subterfuge to exercise the dominance of their own personalities in the affairs of the place, only that they might the further enhance their individual advantage. schemes for building and trading were in everybody's minds, and money, so long held tight under the pressure of doubt, now began to flow in one incessant stream towards the coffers of the already established traders. every boom city is more or less alike, and snake's fall was no variation to the rule. gambling commenced in deadly earnest, and the sharpers, with the eye of the vulture for carrion, descended upon the place. how word had reached them would have been impossible to tell. then came the accompaniment of loose houses, and every other evil which seems to settle upon such places like a pestilential cloud. to gordon, looking on and waiting, it was all a matter of the keenest interest, not untinged with a certain wholesome-minded disgust, and when he sometimes spoke of it in the little family circle at the ranch, or to the worldly-wise mike callahan in his barn, his talk was never without a hint of real regret. "it makes a feller feel kind of squeamish watching these folks," he observed to mike, as they sat smoking in the latter's harness-room one afternoon. "you see, if i didn't know the whole game was lying in the palm of my hand i'd just simply sicken at the sordidness of it. we can't feel that way, though. we're worse than them. they're just dead in earnest to beat the game by the accepted rules of it, which don't debar general crookedness. we're out to win by sheer piracy. makes you laugh, doesn't it? makes it a good play." mike was older, and had been brought up in a hard school. "feelin's don't count one way or the other, i guess," he replied contemptuously. "when it comes to takin' the dollars out of the other feller's pocket i'm allus ready and willin'. you can allus help him out after you beat him. private charity after the deal is a sort of liqueur after a good dinner." "charity?" gordon laughed. "well, maybe you got another name for it," retorted mike indifferently. "several," laughed gordon. "rob a man and give him something back needs another name." "they call it 'charity' in the newspapers when them philanthropists hand back part of the wad they've collected from a deluded public--anyway. it don't seem different to me." mike's tone was sharply argumentative. "it isn't different," agreed gordon. "they're both a salve to conscience. the only thing is that public charity of the latter nature has the advantage of personal advertisement. i'm learning things, mike. i'm learning that the moment you get groping for dollars, you've just tied up into a sack all the goodness and virtue handed out to you by the creator and--drowned it." though gordon was never able to carry any sort of conviction on these matters with mike, his occasional regrets found a cordial sympathy in hazel mallinsbee. she watched him very closely during the days of waiting for the maturity of his schemes. she knew the impulse which had inspired him. she understood it thoroughly. it was humor, and she liked him all the better for it. she realized to the full all the depth of love gordon possessed for his father, an affection which was not one whit the less for the fact that to all intents and purposes his object was the highway robbery of that parent. it was something of a paradox, but one which she perfectly understood. she felt that it was a case of two strong personalities opposed to each other in friendly rivalry. gordon had propounded his beliefs to a man of great capacity whose convictions were opposed. opportunity had served the younger man, who now intended to drive his point home ruthlessly, with a deep, kindly humor lying behind his every act. she could imagine, though she had never seen james carbhoy, these two men, big and strong and kindly, sitting opposite each other, smoking luxuriously when it was all over, discussing the whole situation in the friendliest possible spirit. her father offered little comment. curiously enough, this man, who had so much at stake, deep in his heart did not approve of the whole thing. it was not that he possessed ordinary scruples. had the conspiracy been opposed to anybody but gordon's father he would have been heart and soul in the affair. he would have reveled in the daring of the trick which gordon intended to carry out. as it was, he was old-fashioned enough to see some sort of heinous ingratitude and offense in the fact of a son pitted piratically against his father. however, he, like his daughter, watched closely for every sign this son of his father gave. but while hazel watched with sympathy and real understanding, he saw only with the searching eyes of the observer who is seeking the manner of man with whom he is dealing. once only, during the days of waiting and comparative inaction, he gave vent to his disapproval, and even then his manner was purely that of regret. they were sitting together in the evening sunlight on the veranda of the ranch. "gordon, boy," he said in his deep, rumbling voice, after a long, thoughtful pause; "if i had a son, which i guess i haven't, it would hurt like sin to think he'd act towards me same as you're doing to your father." his remark did not bring forth an immediate reply. when, however, it finally came, accompanied as it was by twinkling, mischievous blue eyes, and a smile of infinite amusement, hazel, who was standing in the doorway of the house, fully understood, although it left her father unconvinced. "if you were my father, i guess you wouldn't hate it a--little bit," gordon said cheerfully. then his eyes wandered in hazel's direction, and presently came back again to her father's face. "maybe i'll live many a long year yet, and if i do i can tell you right here that perhaps there'll only be one greater moment in my life, than the moment in which we win out on this scheme. i just want you to remember, all through, that i love my old dad with all that's in me. same as hazel loves you." from that moment gordon heard no further protest throughout all the preparations that had to be made. silas mallinsbee cheerfully acquiesced in all that was demanded of him. furthermore, he tacitly acknowledged gordon's absolute leadership. under that leadership much had to be done of a subtle, secret nature. the impression had to be created that the buffalo point interests had completely abandoned the game. it was an anxious time--anxious and watchful. david slosson was kept under close surveillance by the four conspirators, and, to this end, gordon and silas mallinsbee spent most of their time in snake's fall, which further added to the impression that their interests had been abandoned. having succeeded in bribing steve mason, the telegraph operator, in the first place, peter mcswain further bought him body and soul over to their interests. mallinsbee's purse was wide open for all such contingencies, and steve was left with the comfortable feeling that, whatever happened, he had made sufficient money to throw up his job before any crash came, and clear out to safety with a capital he could never have honestly made out of his work. thus gordon had been enabled at last to dispatch his urgent code message to his father, purporting as it did to come from david slosson. it was an irresistible demand for the union grayling and ukataw railroad president's immediate presence in snake's fall. it had been made as strong as david slosson would have dared to make it. nor, when the answer to it arrived, would it ever reach the agent. nothing was forgotten. every detail had been prepared for with a forethought almost incredible in a man of gordon's temperament and experience. it was late evening the second day after the dispatching of gordon's urgent message. he had not long returned home to the ranch with hazel's father from a day amidst the excitement reigning in snake's fall. hazel was in the house clearing away supper and generally superintending her domestic affairs. silas mallinsbee was round at the corrals in consultation with his ranch foreman. gordon was alone on the veranda smoking and gazing thoughtfully out at the wonderful ruddy sunset. for him there was none of the peace which prevailed over the scene that spread out before him. how could there be? every moment of the two days which had intervened since the dispatching of his message had been fraught with tense, nervous doubt. every plan he had made depended on the answer to that message, and he felt that the time-limit for the answer's arrival had been reached. it must come now within a few hours. he felt that he must get it to-morrow morning or never. and when it came what--what then? would it be the reply he desired, or an uncompromising negative? he felt that the whole thing depended upon the relations between his father and his agent. he was inclined to think, from the very nature of the work his father had intrusted to slosson, that those relations were of the greatest confidence. he hoped it was so, but he could not be absolutely sure. therefore the strain of waiting was hard to bear. while his busy thoughts teemed through his brain, and his unappreciative gaze roamed over the purpling of the distant hills, his ears, rendered unusually acute in the deep evening calm, suddenly caught the faint, distant rumble of a vehicle moving over the trail. his quick eyes turned alertly. there was only one trail, and that was the road to snake's fall. the alertness of his eyes communicated itself to his body. he moved off the veranda and gazed down the trail, of which he now obtained a clear view. a team and buggy were approaching at a rapid rate, and, even at that distance, he fancied he recognized it as the one of mike callahan's which he had himself driven. a wave of excitement swept over him. could it be that----? he went back to the veranda. the impulse to summon mallinsbee was hard to resist. but he forced himself to calmness. five minutes later mike callahan drove up, and his team stood drooping and sweating. "say," he cried, in aggrieved fashion, "it jest set me whoopin' mad when that wire-tappin' operator fell into my barn with his blamed message, twenty minutes after you an' mallinsbee had left. look at the time of it. it had buzzed over the wire ha'f an hour before you went." then he began to grin, and a keen light shone in his irish eyes. "but when i see who it was from i guessed i'd need to get busy. 'tain't in your fancy code. it's jest as plain as my face. read it. the game's up to us. guess it's our move next." but gordon was paying no attention to the irishman. he was reading the brief message which at last set all his doubts at rest. "arrive snake's fall noon seventeenth." it was addressed to slosson, but there was no signature. "that's to-morrow." gordon's eyes lit. then a shadow of doubt crossed his smiling face. "it's dead safe steve hasn't sent a copy to slosson?" mike grinned. "steve don't draw his wad till--we're sure." "no." at that moment mallinsbee appeared round the angle of the building. gordon's face was wreathed in smiles as he turned to him. "we get to work--to-night," he said. mallinsbee nodded, without a sign of the other's excitement. "so i guessed when i see mike's team. peter wise?" "yep." the irishman's spirits had risen to a great pitch. "i put him wise." "splendid. he's got everything ready?" gordon was thinking rapidly. "better send your team round to the barn," said mallinsbee, with that thoughtful care he had for all animals. "then come inside and get some supper." mike prepared to drive round to the barn. "i see the rack in his yard," he grinned. "good." then gordon laughed. the last care had been banished. now it was action. now? ah, now he was perfectly happy. the night was intensely still. the last revelers in snake's fall had betaken themselves to their drunken slumbers. the only lights remaining were the glow of a small cluster of red lamps just outside the town at the eastern end of it, and the peeping lights behind the curtained windows of the houses to which these belonged. there was no need to question the nature of these houses. in the west they are to be found on the fringe of every young town that offers the prospect of prosperity. there was a single light burning in the hall of mcswain's hotel. this was as usual, and would burn all night. for the rest, the house was in darkness. the last guest had retired to rest a full hour or more. the stillness was profound. the very profundity of it was only increased by the occasional long-drawn dole of the prairie coyote, foraging somewhere out in the distance for its benighted prey. the shadowed outbuildings behind the hotel remained for a long time as quiet as the rest of the world. the horses in the barn were sleeping peacefully. the fowls and turkeys and geese which populated the yard in daylight were as profoundly steeped with sleep as the rest of the feathered world. even the two aged husky dogs, set there on the presumption of keeping guard, were composed for the night. but after awhile sounds began to emanate from the dark barn. with the first sound a dog-chain rattled, and immediately a low voice spoke. after that the dog-chain remained still. next came the sound of hoofs on the hard sand floor of the barn. they were hasty, but swiftly passing. the last sound was heard as two horses emerged upon the open, each led by a shadowy figure quite unrecognizable in the velvety darkness of the starlit night. the horses moved across towards the vague outline of a large hayrack which stood mounted in the running gear of a dismantled wagon, and the figures leading them began at once to hook them up in place. while this was happening two other figures were loading the rack with hay from the corral near by, in which stood a half-cut haystack. their work seemed to be more intricate than the usual process of loading a hayrack. there seemed to be a sort of wide and long cage in the bottom of the rack, and the hay needed careful placing to leave the interior of this free, while yet surrounding it completely and rendering it absolutely obscured. in less than half an hour the work was completed, and the four men gathered together and conversed in low voices. after this a fresh movement took place. the group broke up, and each moved off as though to carry out affairs already agreed upon. one man mounted the rack and took up his position for driving the team. another stood near the rear of the wagon and remained waiting, whilst the other two moved towards the hotel. these latter parted as they neared the building. one of them entered it through the back door, and as he came within the radiance of the solitary oil-lamp it became apparent that his face was completely masked. he moved stealthily forward, listening for any unwelcome sound, mounted the staircase, and was immediately swallowed up by the darkness of the corridor above. meanwhile his companion had taken another route. he had moved along the building to the left of the back door. his objective was the iron fire-escape which went up to the gallery outside the upper windows. he found it almost at the end of the building, and began the ascent. in a few moments he was at the top, and, moving along the narrow iron gallery, he counted the windows as he passed them. at the fifth window he paused and examined it. the blind inside was withdrawn, and he ran over in his mind the various details which had been given him. he knew that the latch inside had been carefully removed. he tried the window cautiously. it moved easily to his pressure, and a smile stole over his masked features when he remembered that ample grease had been placed in its slipway. it was good to think that these contingencies had been so carefully provided for. the window was sufficiently open. the process had been entirely soundless, but he bent down and listened intently. far away, somewhere inside, he could hear the sound of deep breathing. he made his next move quickly and stealthily. one leg was raised and thrust through the opening, and, bending his great body nearly double, he made his way into the room beyond. pausing for a few moments to assure himself that the sleeper in the adjoining room had not been disturbed, he next made his way towards the door, aided by the light of a silent sulphur match. he quickly withdrew the bolt, and was immediately joined by the man who had entered the hotel through the back door. now he turned his attention to the room itself. yes, everything was as he had been told. it was a largish room, and a small archway, hung with heavy curtains, divided it from another. the portion he had entered was furnished as a parlor, and beyond the curtains was the bedroom. signing to his companion to remain where he was, he moved swiftly and silently to the heavy drawn curtains. for a second he listened to the breathing beyond; then he parted them and vanished within. david slosson awoke out of a heavy sleep with a sudden nightmarish start. he thought some one was calling him, shouting his name aloud in a terrified voice. but now he was wide awake in the pitch-dark room: no sound broke the silence. he was on his back, and he made to turn over on to his side. instantly something cold and hard encountered his cheek and a whispering voice broke the silence. "one word and you're a dead man!" said the voice. "just keep quite still and don't speak, and you won't come to any harm." david slosson was no fool, nor was he a coward, but, amongst his other many experiences on the fringe of civilization, he had learned the power of a gun held right. he knew that his cheek had encountered the cold muzzle of a gun. shocked and startled and helpless as he was, he remained perfectly still and silent, awaiting developments. they came swiftly. the curtains parted and a man, completely masked and clad in the ordinary prairie kit of the west, and bearing a lighted lamp in his hand, entered the room. his first assailant, holding the gun only inches from his head, slosson could not properly discern. out of the corners of his eyes he was aware that his face was masked like that of the other, but that was all. the newcomer set the lamp down on a table and advanced to the other side of the bed. instantly he produced a strap, enwrapped in the folds of a thick towel. slosson realized what was about to happen, and contemplated resistance. as though his thoughts had been read the man with the gun spoke again-- "only one sound an' i'll blow your brains to glory. ther' ain't no help around that you ken get in time. so don't worry any." the threat of the gun was irresistible, and slosson yielded. the second man forced the strap gag into his mouth and buckled it tightly behind his victim's head. this done, the agent's hands were lashed fast with a rope. then the gun was withdrawn and the wretched agent was assisted into his clothes, after the pockets had been searched for weapons. in a quarter of an hour the whole transaction was completed, and, with hands securely fastened behind his back and the gag in his mouth fixed cruelly firmly, david slosson stood ready to follow his captors. during all that time he had used his eyes and all his intelligence to discover the identity of his assailants, but without avail. even their great size afforded him no enlightenment, with their entire faces hidden under the enveloping masks. in silence the light was extinguished. in silence they left the room and proceeded down the stairs. in silence they came to the waiting hayrack outside. here slosson beheld the other two masked figures, one on the wagon, and the other waiting at the rear of it. but he was given no further chance of observation. his captors seized him bodily and lifted him into the cage beneath the hay, while one of the men got in with him and now secured his feet. after that more hay was thrown into the vehicle, till it looked like an ordinary farmer's rack, and then the horses started off, and the prisoner knew that, for some inexplicable reason, he had been kidnaped. mrs. carbhoy had been concerned all day. when she was concerned about anything her temper generally gave way to a condition which her youthful daughter was pleased to describe as "gritty." whether it really described her mother's mood or not mattered little. it certainly expressed gracie's understanding of it. to-day nothing the child did was right. she had called her physical culture instructress a "cat" that morning, only because she had been afraid to enter into a more drastic physical argument with her. for that her "gritty" mother had deprived her of candy for the day. she had refused to do anything right at her subsequent dancing lesson, in consequence, and for that she had had her week's pocket-money stopped. then at lunch she had willfully broken the peace by upsetting a glass of ice-water upon the glass-covered table, and incidentally had broken the glass. for this she was confined to her school-room for the rest of the day, and was only allowed to appear before her disturbed mother at her nine-o'clock bed hour. when a very indignant gracie appeared before her mother to fulfill her final duty of kissing her "good-night," that individual was more "gritty" than ever. she was in the act of opening a bulky letter addressed to her in a familiar handwriting. gracie knew at once from whom it came. instantly the imp of mischief stirred in her bosom. "what nursing home will you send gordon to when he gets back?" she inquired blandly. her mother eyed her coldly while she drew out the sheets of letter-paper. she pointed to a wall bell. "ring that bell," she ordered sharply. gracie obeyed, wondering what was to be the consequence of her fresh effort. she had not long to wait. her mother's maid entered. "tell huxton to pack miss gracie's trunks ready for tuxedo. she will leave for vernor court by the midday express. her governesses will accompany her." the maid retired. in an instant all hope had fled, and gracie was reduced to hasty penitence. "please, momma, don't send me out to the country. i'm sorry for what i've done to-day, real sorry--but i've just had the fidgets all day, what with pop going away and--and that silly gordon never coming near us, or--or anything. true, momma, i won't be naughty ever again. 'deed i won't. oh, say you won't send me off by myself," she urged, coming coaxingly to her mother's side. "there's jacky molyneux going to take me a run in his automobile to-morrow afternoon, and we're going to garden city, and he always gives me heaps of ice-cream. oh, momma, don't send me off to that dreadful tuxedo." at all times mrs. carbhoy was easily cajoled, and just now she was feeling so miserable and lonely since her husband had been called away on urgent business, she knew not where. then here was another of gordon's troublesome letters in her lap. so in her trouble she yielded to her only remaining belonging. but she forthwith sat her long-legged daughter on a footstool at her feet, and as penance made her listen to the reading of the letter which had just arrived. somehow, in view of the previous letters from her son, mrs. carbhoy felt it to be impossible to face this new one without support, even if that support were only that of her wholly inadequate thirteen-year-old daughter. "dearest mum: "since cain got busy shooting up his brother abel, since delilah became a slave to the tonsorial art and practiced on samson, since jael turned her carpentering stunts to considerable account by hammering tacks into poor sisera's head, right through the long ages down to the record-breaking achievements of the champion prevaricator ananias, i guess the crookedness of human nature has progressed until it has reached the pitch of a fine art, such as is practiced by legislators, diplomats and new york police officers. "this is a sweeping statement, but i contend it is none the less true. "i'd say that in examining the facts we need to study the real meaning of 'crookedness.' we must locate its cause as well as effect. now 'crookedness' is the divergence from a straight line, which some fool man spent a lifetime in discovering was the shortest route from one given point to another. no doubt that fellow thought he was making some discovery, but it kind of seems to me any chump outside the bug-house and not under the influence of drink would know it without having to spend even a summer vacation finding it out, and, anyway, i don't guess it's worth shouting about. "i guess it's up to us to track this straight line down in its application to ethics. that buzzy-headed discoverer also says a line is length without breadth. consequently, i argue that a straight line is just 'nothing,' anyway. then when a mush-headed dreamer starts right out to walk the straight line of life it's a million to one chance he'll break his fool neck, or do some other positively ridiculous stunt that's liable to terminate what ought to have been a promising career. i submit, from the foregoing arguments, the straight line of ethical virtue is just a vision, a dream, an hallucination, a nightmare. it's one of those things the whole world loves to sit around on sundays and yarn about, and just as many folks would hate to practice, anyway. and this is as sure as you'll find the only bit of glass on the road when you're automobiling if you don't just happen to be toting a spare tyre. "seeing that you can't everlastingly keep trying to walk on 'nothing' without disastrous consequences, and, further, seeing the days of miracles have died with many other privileges which our ancestors enjoyed, such as being burned at the stake and painting up our bodies in fancy colors, it is natural, even a necessity, that 'crookedness' should have come into its own. "let's start right in at the first chapter of a man's life. it'll point the whole argument without anything else. it's ingrained even in the youngest kid to resort to subterfuge. subterfuge is merely the most innocent form in a crook's thesis. maybe a kid, lying in its cradle, with only a few days of knowledge to work on, don't know the finer points he'll learn later. but he knows what he wants, and is going to get it. he's going to get the other feller where he wants him, and then force him to do his bidding. it's his first effort in 'crookedness' when he finds the straight line of virtue is just a most uncomfortable nightmare. how does he do it? "i guess it's this way. he needs his food. he guesses his gasoline tank needs filling. he don't guess he's going to lie around with a sort of mean draught blowing pneumonia through his vitals. he just waits around awhile to see if any one's yearning to pump up his infantile tyre, and when he finds there's nothing doing, why, he starts right in to make his first fall off the straight line of virtue. you see, the straight line says that kid's tank needs filling only at stated intervals. the said kid don't see it that way, so he turns himself into a human megaphone, scares the household cat into a dozen fits, starts up a canine chorus in the neighboring backyards, makes his father yearn to shoot up the feller that wrote the marriage service, sets the local police officer tracking down a murder that was never committed, and maybe, if he only keeps things humming long enough, sets all the state legal machinery working overtime to have his parents incarcerated for keeping an insanitary nuisance on the premises. "see the crookedness of that kid? the moment he finds himself duly inflated with milk he lies low. do you get the lesson of it? it's plumb simple. that kid wanted something. he didn't care a cuss for regulations. he just laid right there and said, 'away with 'em!' he was thirsty, or hungry, or greedy. maybe he was all three. anyway, he wanted, and set about getting what he wanted the only way he knew. all of which illustrates the fact that when human nature demands satisfaction no laws or regulations are going to stand in the way. and that's just life from the day we're born. "from the foregoing remarks you may incline to the belief that i have set out willfully to outrage every moral and human law. this is not quite the case. i am merely giving you the benefit of my observations, and also, since i am merely another human unit in the perfectly ridiculous collection of bipeds which go to make up the alleged superior races of this world, i must fall into line with the rest. "if abel gets in my way i must 'out' him. if i can manufacture a down cushion out of old samson's hair to make my lot more comfortable, i'm just going to get the best pair of shears and get busy. if i'm going to collect amusement from studding that chump sisera's head with tacks, why, it's up to me to avoid delay that way. and as for ananias, he seems to me to have been a long way ahead of his time. they'd have had his monument set up in every public office in the country to-day. he'd have been the emblem of every trading corporation i know, and his effigy would have served as the coat-of-arms for the whole of the present-day creation. "i trust you are keeping well, and the responsibility of guiding the development of our gracie is showing no sign of undermining your constitution. gracie is really a good girl, if a little impetuous. i notice, however, that impetuosity gives way before the responsibilities of life. so far she is quite young. i'm hoping good results when she gets responsibility. "give my best love to the old dad, and tell him that he must be careful of his health in such a desperate heat as new york provides in summer time. i think a month's vacation in the hills would be excellent for him at this time of year. i am looking forward to the time when i shall see him again. "you might tell him i hope to fulfill my mission under schedule time. if you do not hear from me again you will know i am working overtime on the interests in which i left new york. "your loving son, "gordon. "p.s.--it occurs to me i have not told you all the news i would have liked to tell you. but two pieces occur to me at the moment. first, that achievement in life demands not the fostering of the gentler human emotions, but their outraging. also, no man has the right to abandon honesty until dishonesty pays him better. "g." the mother's sigh was a deep expression of her hopeless feelings as she finished the last word of her son's postscript. gracie watched her out of the corners of her eyes. "what's the matter, momma?" she inquired. her mother broke down weakly. "they haven't found a trace of him yet. they can't locate how these letters are mailed. they can't just find a thing. and all the time these letters come along, and--and they get worse and worse. it's no good, gracie; the poor boy's just crazy. sure as sure. it's the heat, or--or drink, or strain, or--maybe he's starving. anyway, he's gone, and we'll never see our gordon again--not in his right mind. and now your poor father's gone, too. goodness knows where. i'll--yes, i'll have to set the inquiry people to find him, too, if--if i don't hear from him soon. to--to think i'd have lived to see the day when----" "i don't guess gordon's in any sort of trouble, momma," cried gracie, displaying an unexpected sympathy for her distracted parent. then she smiled that wise little superior smile of youth which made her strong features almost pretty. "and i'm sure he's not--crazy. say, mom, just don't think anything more about it. and i'd sort of keep all those letters--if they're like that. you never told me the others. may i read them? i never would have believed gordon could have written like that--never. you see, gordon's not very bright--is he?" chapter xix james carbhoy arrives snake's fall was in that sensitive state when the least jar or news of a startling nature was calculated to upset it, and start its tide of human emotions bubbling and surging like a shallow stream whose course has been obstructed by the sudden fall of a bowlder into its bed. early the following morning just such a metaphorical bowlder fell right into the middle of the snake's fall stream. the news flew through the little town, now so crowded with its overflowing population of speculators, with that celerity which vital news ever attains in small, and even large places. it was on everybody's lips before the breakfast tables were cleared. and, in a matter of seconds, from the moment of its penetration to the individual, minds were searching not only the meaning, but the effect it would have upon the general situation, and their own personal affairs in particular. david slosson, the agent of the union grayling and ukataw railroad, had defected in the night! he had gone--bolted--leaving his bill unpaid at mcswain's hotel! for a while a sort of paralysis seized upon the population. it was staggered. no trains had passed through in the night. not even a local freight train. how had he gone? but most of all--why? the next bit of news that came through was that peter's best team had been stolen from the barn, also an empty hay-rack. this was mystifying, until it became known that peter's buggy was laid up at mike callahan's barn, undergoing repairs. the hayrack was the only vehicle available. but what about saddle horses for a rapid bolt? curiously enough it was discovered that peter's saddle horses were out grazing. besides, the story added that the man had taken his baggage with him. not a thing had been left behind, and baggage like his could not have been carried on a saddle horse. the story grew as it traveled. it was the snowball over again. it was said that peter had been robbed of a large amount of money which he kept in his safe. also his cash register had been emptied. an added item was that peter himself had been knifed, and had been found in a dying condition. in fact every conceivable variation of the facts were flung abroad for the benefit of credulous ears. consequently the tide of curious, and startled, and interested news-seekers set in the direction of peter's hotel at an early hour. then it was that something of the real facts were discovered. and, in consequence, those who had participated in slosson's land deals, and had received deposit money, congratulated themselves. while those who had not so profited felt like "kicking" themselves for their want of enterprise. peter stormed through his house the whole morning. he was like a very hot and angry lion in a cage far too small for it. his story, as he told it in the office, was superlative in furious adjectives. "i tell you fellows," he cried, at a group of wondering-eyed boarders in his establishment, "i ha'f suspected he was a blamed crook from the first moment i got my eyeballs onto him. the feller that 'll bilk his board bill is come mighty low, sirs. so mighty low you wouldn't find a well deep enough for him. he had the best rooms in the house at four an' a ha'f dollars a day all in, an' i ain't see a fi' cent piece of his money, cep' you ken count the land deposit he paid me. i just been right through his rooms, an' he ain't left a thing, not a valise, nor a grip. not even a soot of pyjamas, or a soap tablet. he's sure cleared right out fer good, and we ain't goin' to see him round again," he finished up gloomily. then his fire broke out again. "but that ain't what i'm grievin' most, i guess. ther's allus skunks around till a place gets civilized up, an' their bokay ain't pleasant. but he's a hoss thief, too. there's my team. you know that team of mine, mr. davison," he went on, turning to the drug storekeeper who had dropped in to hear his friend's news. "you've drove behind 'em many a time. they got a three-minute gait between 'em which 'ud show dust to any team around these parts. that team was worth two thousand dollars, sirs, and was matched to an inch, and a shade of color. say, if i get across his tracks, an' sheriff richardson is out after him with a posse, i'm goin' to get a shot in before the united states authorities waste public money feeding him in penitentiary. i'm feelin' that mad i can't eat, an' i don't guess i'd know how to hand a decent answer to a methodist minister if he came along. if i don't get news of that team i'm just going to start and break something. i don't figure if he'd burned this shack right over my head i'd have felt as mad as i do losin' that dandy team." when questioned as to how the man had got away his answer came sharply. "how? why, what was there to stop him, sir? i tell you right here we ain't been accustomed to deal with his kind in snake's. the folk around this layout, till this coal boom started, has all been decent citizens." he glared with hot eyes upon the men about him, who were nearly all speculators attracted by that very coal boom. "there's that darned fire-escape out back, right down from his room, an' what man has ever locked his barn in these parts? psha!" he cried, in violent disgust. "i've had that team three years, and i've never so much as had a lock put to the barn." so it went on all the morning. peter's fury was one of the sights of the township for that day. he was never without an audience which flowed and ebbed like a tide, stimulated by curiosity, self-interest, and the natural satisfaction of witnessing another's troubles which is so much an instinct of human nature. and beneath every other emotion which the agent's sudden defection aroused was a wave of almost pitiful meanness. the dreams of the last week and more had received a set back. in many minds the boom city was tottering. the crowding hopes of avarice and self-interest had suddenly received a douche of cold water. what, these speculators asked themselves, and each other, did the incident portend, what had the future in store? so keen was the interest worked up about peter mcswain's house that every other consideration for the time being was forgotten. party after party visited slosson's late quarters with a feeling of conviction that some trifling clew had been overlooked, and, by some happy chance, the luck and glory of having discovered it might fall to their lot. but it was all of no avail. the room was absolutely empty of all trace of its recent occupant, as only an hotel room can become. with the excitement the daily west-bound passenger train was forgotten, and by the time it was signaled in, the little depot was almost deserted. there were one or two rigs backed up to it on the town side, and perhaps a dozen townspeople were present. but the usual gathering was nowhere about. amongst the few present were hazel mallinsbee and gordon. they had driven up in a democrat wagon with a particularly fine team, and having backed the vehicle up to the boarded platform, they stood talking earnestly and quite unnoticed. hazel was dressed in an ordinary suit that possessed nothing startling in its atmosphere of smartness. her skirt was of some rather hard material, evidently for hard wear, and the upper part of her costume was a white lawn shirtwaist under a short jacket which matched her skirt. her head was adorned by her customary prairie hat, which, in gordon's eyes, became her so admirably. gordon was holding up a picture for the girl's closest inspection. "say, it's sheer bull-headed luck i got this with me," he was saying. "i found it amongst my old papers and things when i left new york, and i sort of brought it along as a 'mascot.' the old dad's older than that now, but you can't mistake him. it's a bully likeness. get it into your mind anyway, and then keep it with you." hazel gazed admiringly at the portrait of the man who claimed gordon as his son. for the moment she forgot the purpose in hand. "isn't he just splendid?" she exclaimed. "you're--you're the image of him. why, say, it seems the unkindest thing ever to--to play him up." gordon laughed. "don't worry that way. we're going to give him the time of his life." then he glanced swiftly about him, and noted the emptiness of the depot. "i guess peter's keeping the folks busy. he's a bright feller. i surely guess he's working overtime. now you get things fixed right, hazel. the train's coming along." the girl nodded. "you can trust me." "right." gordon sighed. "i'll make tracks then. but i'll be around handy to see you don't make a mistake." he left the depot and disappeared. hazel stood studying the picture in her hand, and alternating her attention with the incoming train. she was in a happy mood. the excitement of her share in gordon's plot was thrilling through her veins, and the thought that she was going to meet his father, the great multi-millionaire, left her almost beside herself with delighted interest. she wondered how much she would find him like gordon. no, she thought softly, he could never be really like gordon. that was impossible. a multi-millionaire could never have his son's frank enthusiasm for life in all its turns and twistings of moral impulse. gordon faced life with a defiant "don't care." that glorious spirit of youth and moral health. his father, for all his physical resemblance, would be a hard, stern, keen-eyed man, with all experience behind him. then she remembered gordon's injunctions. "be just yourself," he had said. then he had added, with a laugh, "if you do that you'll have the dear old boy at your feet long before the day's had time to get cool." it was rather nice gordon talking that way, and the smile which accompanied her recollection was frankly delighted. anyway she would soon know all about it, for the train was already rumbling its way in. james carbhoy had done all that had been required of him by his agent's message. he had not welcomed the abandonment of his private car in favor of the ordinary parlor car and sleeper. then, too, the purchase of a ticket for his journey had seemed strange. but somehow, after the first break from his usual method of travel, he had found enjoyment in the situation. his fellow passengers, with whom he had got into conversation on the journey, had passed many pleasant hours, and it became quite absorbing to look on at the affairs of the world through eyes that, for the time being, were no longer those of one of the country's multi-millionaires. however, the journey was a long one, and he was pleased enough when he reached his destination all unheralded and unrecognized. it amused him to find how many travelers in the country knew nothing about james carbhoy and his vast financial exploits. as the train slowed down he gathered up his simple belongings, which consisted of a crocodile leather suitcase, a stout valise of the same material; and a light dust coat, which he slung over his arm. armed with these, he fell in with the queue making its way towards the exit of the car. he frankly and simply enjoyed the situation. he told himself he was merely one of the rest of the get-rich-quick brigade who were flocking to the eldorado at snake's fall. he was the last to alight, and he scanned the depot platform for the familiar figure of his confidential agent. as he did so the locomotive bell began to toll out its announcement of progress. the train slowly slid out of the station behind him. david slosson was nowhere to be seen, and he had just made up his mind to search out a hotel for himself when he became aware of the tailored figure of a young girl standing before him, and of the pleasant tones of her voice addressing him. "your agent, david slosson, mr. carbhoy, has been detained out beyond the coalfields on your most urgent business," she said. "so i was sent in with the rig to drive you out to your quarters." the millionaire was startled. then, as his steady eyes searched the delightful face smiling up at him, his start proved a pleasant one. there was something so very charming in the girl's tone and manner. then her extremely pretty eyes, and--gordon's father mechanically bared his head, and hazel could have laughed with joy as she beheld this strong, handsome edition of the gordon she knew. "well, come, that was thoughtful of slosson," he said kindly. "he certainly has shown remarkable judgment in substituting your company for his own. my dear young lady, slosson as a man of affairs is possible, but as a companion on a journey, however short--well, i---- and you are really going to drive me to my hotel. that's surely kind of you." hazel flushed. she felt the meanest thing in the world under the great man's kindly regard. however, she reminded herself of the great and ultimate object of the part she was playing and steeled her heart. "the team's right here, sir." she felt justified in adding the "sir." she felt that she must risk nothing in her manner. "i'll just take your baggage along." she was about to relieve the millionaire of his grips, but he drew back. "say, i just couldn't dream of it. you carry my grips? no, no, go right ahead, and i'll bring them along." in a perfect maze of excitement and confusion the girl hastily crossed over to her team. somehow she could no longer face the man's steady eyes without betraying herself like some weak, silly schoolgirl. this was gordon's father, she kept telling herself, and--and she was there to cheat him. it--it just seemed dreadful. however, no time was wasted. she sprang into the driving-seat of the democrat spring rig, and took up the reins. the millionaire deposited his grips in the body of the vehicle, and himself mounted to the seat beside her. in a moment the wagon was on the move. as they moved away, out of the corners of her eyes hazel saw the grinning face of gordon peering out at them from the window of steve mason's telegraph office, smiling approval and encouragement. curiously enough, the sight made her feel almost angry. they moved down main street at a rattling pace, and, in a few moments, turned off it into one of those streets which only the erection of dwelling-houses marked. there were no made roads of any sort. just beaten, heavy, sandy tracks on the virgin ground. hazel remained silent for some time. she was almost afraid to speak. yet she wanted to. she wanted to talk to gordon's father. she wanted to tell him of the mean trick she was playing upon him, for, under the influence of his steady eyes and the knowledge that he was gordon's father, a great surge of shame was stirring in her heart which made her hate herself. for some time the man gazed about him interestedly. then, as they lost themselves among the wooden frame dwelling-houses, he breathed a deep sigh of content and drew out one of those extravagant cigars which gordon had not tasted for so many weeks. "say, will smoke worry you any, young lady?" he inquired kindly. hazel was thankful for the opportunity of a cordial reply. "why, no," she cried. then on the impulse she went on, "i just love the smell of smoke where men are." she laughed merrily. "i guess men without smoke makes you feel they're sick in body or conscience." gordon's father laughed in his quiet fashion as he lit his cigar. "that way i guess folks of the anti-tobacco league need to start right in and build hospitals for themselves." the girl nodded. "anti-tobacco?" she said. "why, 'anti' anything wholesomely human must be a terrible sick crowd. i'd hate to trust them with my pocket-book, and, goodness knows, there's only about ten cents in it. even that would be a temptation to such folks." again came the millionaire's quiet laugh. "that's the result of the healthy life you folks live right out here in the open sunshine," he said, noting the pretty tanning of the girl's face. "i don't guess it's any real sign of health, mentally or physically, when folks have to start 'anti' societies, eh?" "no, sir," replied the girl. "did you ever know anybody that was really healthy who started in to worry how they were living? it's just what i used to notice way back at college in boston. the girls that came from cities were just full of cranks and notions. this wasn't right for them to eat, that wasn't right for them to do. and it seemed to me all their folks belonged to some 'anti' society of some sort. if the 'anti' wasn't for themselves it was for some other folks who weren't worried with the things they did or the way they lived. it just seems to me cities are full of cranks who can run everything for other folks and need other folks to run everything for them. it's just a sort of human drug store in which every med'cine has to be able to cure the effects of some other. out here it's different. we got green grass and sunshine, the same as god started us with, and so we haven't got any use for the 'anti' folks." "no." james carbhoy had forgotten the journey and its object. he was only aware of this fresh, bright young creature beside him. he stirred in his seat and glanced about him from a sheer sense of a new interest, and in looking about he became aware of a horseman riding on the same trail some distance behind them. "you said boston just now," he said curiously. "you were educated in boston?" hazel nodded. "yes, my poppa sent me to boston. he just didn't reckon anything but boston was good enough. but i was glad to be back here again." the millionaire would have liked to question her more closely as to how she came to be driving a team at slosson's command. he had no great regard for his agent outside of business, but somehow he felt it would be an impertinence, and so refrained. instead, he changed the subject. "how far out are the coalfields?" he inquired. "about five miles." the memory of her purpose swept over the girl again, and her reply came shortly, and she glanced back quickly over her shoulder. as she did so she became sickeningly aware that two horsemen were on the trail some distance behind them. how she wished she had never undertaken this work! "i suppose there's quite a town there now?" was the millionaire's next inquiry. "not a great deal, but there's comfortable quarters the other side of it. it's going to be a wonderful, wonderful place, sir, when the railroad starts booming it." hazel felt she must get away from anything approaching a cross-examination. "i don't just get that," said carbhoy evasively. "well, it's just a question of depot. you see, there's coal right here enough to heat the whole world. that's what folks say. and when the railroad fixes things so transport's right, why, everybody 'll just jump around and build up big commercial corporations, and--there'll be dollars for everybody." "i see--yes." "mr. slosson is working that way now," the girl went on. then she added, with a shadowy smile, "that's why he couldn't get in to meet you, i guess." "he must be very busy," said the millionaire dryly. "however, i'm glad." and hazel turned in time to discover his kindly smile. carbhoy gazed about him at the open plains with which they were surrounded. the air, though hot, was fresh, and the sunlight, though brilliant, seemed to lack something of that intensity to be found in the enclosed streets of a city. he threw away his cigar stump, and in doing so he glanced back over the trail again. he remained gazing intently in that direction for some moments. then he turned back. "i guess those fellers riding along behind are just prairie men," he said. hazel started and looked over her shoulder. there were four men now riding together on the trail. they were steadily keeping pace with her team some two hundred yards behind. it was some moments before the man received his answer. hazel was troubled. she was almost horrified. "yes," she said at last, with an effort. "they're just prairie men." then she smiled, but her smile was a further effort. "they're pretty tough boys to look at, but i'd say they're all right. maybe you're not used to the prairie?" the millionaire smiled. "i've seen it out of a train window," he said. "through glass," said hazel. "it makes a difference, doesn't it? it's the same with everything. you've got to get into contact to--to understand." "but there hasn't always been glass between me and--things." hazel's smile was spontaneous now as she nodded her appreciation. "i'm sure," she said. "you see, you're a millionaire." carbhoy smiled back at her. "just so." this girl was slowly filling him with amazement. "it's real plate-glass now," hazel went on. "and plate-glass sometimes gets broken." "yes, i s'pose it does. but you can fix it again--being a millionaire." "yes----" the millionaire broke off. there was a rush of hoofs from behind. the horsemen were close up to them, coming at a hard gallop. carbhoy turned quickly. so did hazel. the millionaire's eyes were calmly curious. he imagined the men were just going to pass on. hazel's eyes were full of a genuine alarm. she had known what to expect. but now that the moment had come she was really terrified. what would gordon's father do? had he a revolver? and would he use it? this was the source of her fear. it was a breathless moment for the girl. it was the crux of all gordon's plans. she was the center of it. she, and these men who were to execute the lawless work. she was given no time to speculate. she was given no time but for that dreadful wave of fear which swept over her, and left her pretty face ghastly beneath its tanning. a voice, harsh, commanding, bade her pull up her team, and the order was accompanied by a string of blasphemy and the swift play of the man's gun. "hold 'em up, blast you! hold 'em, or i'll blow the life right out o' you!" came the ruthless order. at the same time james carbhoy was confronted with a gun from another direction, and a sharp voice invited him to "push his hands right up to the sky." both orders were obeyed instantly, and as hazel saw her companion's hands thrown up over his head a great reaction of relief set in. she sat quite still and silent. her reins rested loosely in her lap. she no longer dared to look at her companion. now that all danger of his resistance was past she feared lest an almost uncontrollable inclination to laugh should betray her. she kept her eyes steadily fixed upon these men, every one of whom she had known since her childhood, and to whom she fully made up her mind she intended to read a lecture on the subject of the use of oaths to a woman, sometime in the future. as she watched them her inclination to laugh grew stronger and stronger. they had carried out their part with a nicety for detail that was quite laudable. each man was armed to the teeth, and was as grotesque a specimen of prairie ruffianism as clothes could make him--the leader particularly. and he, in everyday life, she knew to be the mildest and most quaintly humorous of men. but his work was carried out now without a shadow of humor. he looked murder, or robbery, or any other crime, as he ordered her out of the driving seat, and waited while she scrambled over the back of the seat to one of those behind with a movement well-nigh precipitate. then, at a sign, one of the other men took her place, and, at another short command to "look over" the millionaire, the same man proceeded to search gordon's father for weapons. the production of an automatic pistol from one of his coat pockets filled hazel with consternation at the thought of the possibilities of disaster which had lain therein. but the four assailants gave no sign. their work proceeded swiftly and silently. the millionaire's feet were secured, and he was left in his seat. then, under the hands of the man who had replaced hazel, the journey was continued with the escort beside and behind the vehicle. as they drove on hazel wondered. her eyes, very soft, very regretful, were fixed on the iron-gray head of the man in the front seat. she registered a vow that if he were hurt by the bonds that held his ankles fast some one was going to hear about it. now that the whole thing was over and done with she felt resentful and angry with anybody and everybody--except the victim of the outrage. she was even mad with herself that she had lent assistance to such a cruel trick. but the millionaire gave no sign. hazel longed to know something of his feelings, but he gave neither her nor his assailants the least inkling of them for a long time. at last, however, a great relief to the girl's feelings came at the sound of his voice, which had lost none of its even, kindly note. "say," he observed, addressing the ruffian beside him, who was busily chewing and spitting, "you don't mind if i smoke, do you?" then hazel made a fresh vow of retribution for some one as the answer came. "you can smoke all the weed you need," the man said, with a fierce oath, "only don't try no monkey tricks. you're right fer awhile, anyways, if you sit tight, i guess, but if you so much as wink an eye by way of kickin', why, i'll blow a whole hurricane o' lead into your rotten carcase." it was a long and weary journey that ended somewhere about midnight. nor was it until the teamster drew up at the door of a small, squat frame house that james carbhoy's bonds were finally released. he was thankful enough, in spite of his outward display of philosophic indifference. he knew that he was the victim of a simple "hold-up," and had little enough fear for his life. the matter was a question of ransom, he guessed. it was one of those things he had often enough heard of, but which, up to now, he had been lucky enough to escape. he only wondered how it came about that these "toughs" had learned of his coming. he felt that it must have been slosson's fault. he must have opened his mouth. well, for the time, at least, there was little to do but hope for the best and make the best of things generally. he was given no option now but to obey. his captors ordered him out of the wagon in the same rough manner in which they ordered hazel. and the leader conducted them both into the house. there was a light burning in the parlor, and the millionaire looked about him in surprise at the simple comfort and cleanliness of the place. he had expected a mere hovel, such as he had read about. he had expected filth and discomfort of every sort. but here--here was a parlor, neatly furnished and with a wonderful suggestion of homeness about it. he was pleasantly astonished. but the leader of the gang was intent upon the business in hand. he turned to hazel first and pointed at the door which led into the kitchen. "say, you!" he cried roughly. "you best get right out wher' you'll belong fer awhiles. we ain't used to female sassiety around this layout, an' i don't guess we need any settin' around now. say, you'll jest see to the vittles fer this gent an' us. ther's a chink out back ther' what ain't a circumstance when it comes to cookin' vittles. you'll see he fixes things right--seein' we've a millionaire fer company. get busy." hazel departed, but a wild longing to box the fellow's ears nearly ruined everything. there certainly was a reckoning mounting up for some one. the moment she had departed the man turned his scowling, repellent eyes upon his male prisoner. "now, see here, mister james carbhoy. i guess you're yearning for a few words from me. wal, i allow they're goin' to be mighty few. see?" he added brutally. "i ain't given to a heap of talk. there's jest three things you need to hear right here an' now. the first is, it's goin' to cost you jest a hundred thousand dollars 'fore you get into the bosom o' your family again. the second is, even if you got the notion to try and dodge us boys, you couldn't get out o' these mountains without starvin' to death or breakin' your rotten neck. you're jest a hundred miles from snake's fall, and ninety o' that is rocky mountains an' foothills. you ain't goin' to be locked in a prisoner here. there ain't no need. you can jest get around as you please--in daylight--and one of the boys 'll always be on your track. at night you're just goin' to stop right home--in case you lose yourself. the third is, if you kick any or try to get away--well, i don't guess you'll try much else on this earth. the room over this is your sleep-room, an' i guess you can tote your baggage right there now. so long." without waiting for a reply the man beat a retreat out through the front door, which he locked behind him with considerable display. once outside, the man hurried away round to the back of the house, where, to his surprise, he found hazel waiting for him. she addressed him by name in a sharp whisper. "bud!" she commanded. "come right here!" then, as the man obeyed her, she led him silently away from the house in the direction of the corrals. once well out of earshot of the house she turned on him. "now see here, bud," she cried. "i've had all i'm yearning for of you for the next twenty-four years. now you're going to light right out back to the ranch right away, and don't you ever dare to come near here again--ever. my! but your language has been a disgrace to any new york tough. i've never, never heard such a variety of curse words ever. if i'd thought you could have talked that way i'd have had you go to sunday school every sunday since you've been one of our foremen." "'tain't just nothin', miss hazel," the man deprecated. "i ken do better than that on a round-up when the boys get gay. say, it just did me good talkin' to a multi-millionaire that way. i don't guess i'll ever get such a chance again." "that you won't," cried hazel, smiling in the darkness, in spite of her outraged feelings. "but i acted right, miss," protested the man. "i don't guess he'd have located me fer anything but a 'hold-up.' say, we'd got it all fixed. we just acted it over. i was plumb scared he'd shoot, though. you never can tell with these millionaires. i was scared he wouldn't know enough to push his hands up. say, we'd have had to rush him if he hadn't, an' maybe there'd have been damage done." hazel sighed. "there's enough of that done already. say, you're sure you didn't hurt his poor ankles. you see," she explained, "he's mr. gordon's father." the man began to laugh. "say, don't it beat all, miss hazel, stealin' your own father? how 'ud you fancy stealin' mr. mallinsbee? gee! mr. gordon's a dandy. he sure is. he's a real bright feller, and i like him. what's the next play, miss?" "goodness only knows," cried hazel. then she began to laugh. "some harebrained, mad scheme, or it wouldn't be gordon's. anyway, you made it plain i'm to look after the--prisoner?" "sure. i also told him it would cost him a hundred thousand dollars before he gets out of here." hazel nodded and laughed. "it'll do that." then she sighed. "it'll take me all my wits keeping him from guessing i'm concerned in it. i don't know. well, good-night, bud. you're going back to the ranch now. you've only one of the boys here? that's right. which is it? sid blake?" "yes, miss. i left sid. you see, he's bright, and up to any play you need. i'll get around once each day. good-night, miss." chapter xx the boom in earnest it was late in the evening. the lonely house at buffalo point stood out in dim relief against the purpling shades of dusk. at that hour of the evening the distant outline of snake's fall was lost in the gray to the eastwards. south, there were only the low grass hillocks, now blended into one definite skyline. to the westward, the sharp outline of the mountains was still silhouetted against the momentarily dulling afterglow of sunset. the evening was still, with that wonderful silence which ever prevails at such an hour upon the open prairie. a light shone in the window of the hitherto closed office at buffalo point, and, furthermore, a rig stood at the door with a team of horses attached thereto, which latter did not belong to mike callahan. an atmosphere not, perhaps, so much of secrecy as of portent seemed to hang about the place. the solitary light in the surroundings of gathering night seemed significant. then the team, too, waiting ready to depart at a moment's notice. but above all, perhaps, this was the first time a sign of life had been visible in the house since the closing down at the moment when slosson's sudden plunge into the real estate world of snake's fall had apparently swept all rivalry from his triumphant path. of a truth, a portentous moment had arrived in the affairs of those interested in buffalo point. and the significance of it was displayed in the earnest faces of the four men gathered together in the office. silas mallinsbee sat smoking in his own armchair, and with a profound furrow of concentration upon his broad forehead. his usually thrusting chin-beard rested upon the front of his shirt by reason of the intent inclination of his great head. mike callahan was seated on a small chair his elbows resting upon his parted knees, and his chin supported upon the knuckles of his locked fingers. his eyes were intently fixed upon the desk, behind which gordon was frowning over a sheet of paper, upon which the scratching of his pen made itself distinctly audible in the silence. peter mcswain, the fourth conspirator, was still suffering from a fictitious heat, and was comfortably, but wakefully, snoring under its influence, with a sort of nasal ticking noise which harmoniously blended with the scratching of gordon's pen. it was fairly obvious that the work gordon was engaged upon was the central interest of all present, for every eye was steadily, almost anxiously, riveted upon the movement of his pen. after a long time gordon looked up, and a half smile shone in his blue eyes. "give us a light, some one," he demanded, as he turned his sheet of paper over on the blotting-pad, and drew his code book from an inner pocket and laid it beside it. mike callahan produced and struck the required match. he held it while gordon re-lit his half-burned cigar, which had gone out under the pressure of thought its owner had been putting forth. "good," the latter exclaimed, as the tobacco glowed under the draught of his powerful lungs. then he turned the paper over again. "guess i got it fixed. i haven't coded it yet, but i'll read it out. it's to spenser harker, my father's chief man." "cancel all previous arrangements made through slosson for snake's fall. take following instructions. have bought heavily at buffalo point, which is right on the coal-fields. depot to be built at once at buffalo point. make all arrangements for dispatch of engineers and surveyors at once. there must be no delay in starting a boom. my son, gordon, is here to represent our interests. put this to the general manager of the union grayling and ukataw, and yourself see no delay. am going on to coast on urgent affairs. gordon has the matter well in hand and will control at this end. this should be a big coup for us. "james carbhoy." as gordon finished reading he glanced round at his companions' faces through the smoke of his cigar. mike was audibly sniggering. mallinsbee's eyes were smiling in that twinkling fashion which deep-set eyes seem so capable of. as for peter mcswain, from sheer force of habit he drew forth a colored handkerchief and mopped his grinning eyes. "you ain't going to send that?" he said incredulously. "why not?" "but--that piece about yourself?" grinned mike. "you darsen't to do it." "i think i get his point," nodded mallinsbee, his broad face beaming admiration. "sort of local color, i guess." gordon twisted his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. his blue eyes were shining with a sort of earnest amusement. his sharp white teeth were gripping the mangled end of his cigar firmly. "say, fellows," he said, after a moment's thought, "i'm kind of wondering if you get just what this thing means to me. it just needs a sum in dollars to get its meaning to you. but for me it's different. i need to make dollars, too. but still it's different. you see, some day i've got to sit right in my father's chair, and run things with a capital of millions of dollars. but before i do that i've got to get right up and convince my father i can handle the work right. he doesn't figure i can act that way--yet. so it's up to me to show him i can. well, i've started in, and i'm going to see the game through to the end. i've backed my wits to push this boat right into harbor safe. and in doin' that i've got to squeeze the biggest financier in the country. when i've done it right, that financier will know he can hand over his particular craft to my steering without fear of my running it on the rocks. the dollars i need to make out of this are just a circumstance. they are the outward sign of my fitness for my father's edification. that piece about my representing my father isn't just local color either. i actually intend to assume that character, and, from now on, i intend to work direct with headquarters, ordering the whole transaction for the railroad myself in _my own name_. do you get me? from now on i _am_ my father's representative. if spenser harker chooses to come right along here, if the general manager of the union grayling chooses to come along, i shall meet them, and insist that the work goes through. you see, i am my father's son, i am still his secretary, and they have word in private code _from my father_ that i represent him. there can be no debate. all they know of me is that i left new york on confidential work for my father. well, this, i guess, is the confidential work. gentlemen, we've simply got to sit right back and help ourselves to our profits. and while we're doing that, why, i guess the dear old dad is taking his well-earned vacation in the hills, while david slosson is feeling a nasty draught through the chinks in an old adobe and log shack which i hope will blow the foul odors out of his fouler mind. you can leave the after part of this play safely in my hands. meanwhile, if you'll just give me five minutes i'll code this message. then we'll drive right into town and send it over the wire." sunday in an obscure country hotel on the western plains is usually the dullest thing on earth. the habit of years is a whitewash of respectability and a moderation of tone, both assumed through the medium of a complete change of attire from that worn during the week. there is nothing on earth but the loss by fire, or the definite destruction of them, which will stop the citizen, who possesses such things, from arraying himself in a "best suit." it is the outward sign of an attempted cleansing of the soul. there can be no doubt of it. that suit is not adjusted for the purpose of holiday enjoyment. that is quite plain. for each man is as careful not to do anything that can destroy the crease down his trousers, as he is not to sit on the tails of his well-brushed prince albert coat. the day is spent in just "sitting around." the citizen will talk. that is not calculated to spoil his suit. he will even write his mail after a careful adjustment of the knees of his trousers. he will sneak into the bar by a back door to obtain an "eye-opener." this, again, will involve no great risk to his suit. then he will dine liberally off roast turkey and pie of some sort. if the hotel is fairly well priced he will even get an ice-cream with his midday dinner. in the afternoon he will again sit around and talk. he may even venture a walk. then comes the evening supper. it is the worst function of a dreary day--a meal made up of cakes, preserves, tea or coffee, and any cold meats left over during the week. after that the "best suits" somehow seem to fade out of sight, and a generally looser tone prevails. such had been the sundays in snake's fall since ever the town had boasted an hotel with boarding accommodation. no guest had ever dared to break through the tradition. it would have required heroic courage to have done so. but now changes in the town were rapidly taking place. so rapidly, indeed, that the times might well have been characterized as "breathless." on this particular sunday a perfect revolution was in progress. amongst the older inhabitants who managed to drift to the vicinity of the hotel a feeling of unreality took possession of them, and they wondered if it were not some curious and not altogether pleasant dream. the hotel was thronged with a blending of strangers and townspeople, clad, regardless of the day, in a state of excitement such as might only have been expected at the declaration of a world war, or a presidential election. it was the culmination of the excitement inspired originally by the news of slosson's defection, and which, in the course of less than a week, had been augmented by happenings in swift and rapid succession, such as set sober business men wondering if they were living on a volcano instead of a coalmine, or if the days of miracles had indeed returned upon the world. well before the excitement over slosson had died down it became known that the buffalo point interests were at work again. mallinsbee's office was opened once more. furthermore, he had acquired two clerks, and was securing others from down east. this was more than significant. it attracted every eye in the new direction. men strove to solve the question with regard to its relationship to slosson's going. the thought which promptly came to each mind was that slosson's going was less a miracle than a natural disappearance. his wild buying had inspired doubt from the first. the man had gone crazy, and his employers had turned him down. so he had bolted. the opening of buffalo point warned them that the railroad had in consequence come to terms with mallinsbee. so there had been a fresh rush for information in that direction. but this rush received no encouragement and less information, and the sorely tried speculators were once more flung back into their own outer darkness. then came the next, the culminating excitement. the news drifted into the place from outside sources. it came from agents and friends in the east. surveyors and engineers and construction gangs were about to be sent to _buffalo point_! the news was quite definite, quite decided. it was more. it was accompanied by peremptory orders and urgent requests that those who were on the spot should get in on the buffalo point township without a moment's delay, and price was not to hinder them. had it been needed, there were no two people in the whole of snake's fall better placed for the dissemination and exaggeration of the news than peter mcswain at the hotel and mike callahan at the livery barn. nor were they idle. nor did they miss a single opportunity. in the office of the hotel, while service was on at the little church, and all the womenfolk and children were singing their tender hearts out in an effort to get an appetite for sunday's dinner, peter was the center of observation amidst a crowd of bitterly complaining commercial sinners, each with his own particular ax to grind and a desperate grievance against the crooks who were rigging the land markets in the neighborhood for their own sordid profit. he was holding forth, debating point for point, and, as he would have described it himself, "boosting the old boat over a heavy sea." some one had suggested that buffalo point had been in league with slosson to hold up the situation, while the former completed their own arrangements to the detriment of the community. peter promptly jumped in. "say, youse fellers are all sorts of 'smarts,' anyway," he said, with a pitying sort of contempt. "what you need is gilt-edged finance. you're scared to death pulling the chestnuts out o' the fire. you're mostly looking for a thousand per cent. result, with only a five per cent. courage. that's just about your play. what's the use in settin' around here talking murder when the plums are lyin' around? pick 'em up, i says. pick 'em right up an' get your back teeth into 'em so the juice jest trickles right over your sunday suits. they're there for you. just grab. i'm tired of talk. the truth is, some o' youse feelin' you've burnt your fingers over slosson. slosson was the railroad's agent. your five per cent. minds saw the gilding in following slosson. when he skipped out with my team you were stung bad. you've got stakes in snake's, while you're finding out now the railroad ain't moved that way. an' so you're just scared to death to show the color of your paper till you see the depot built and the locomotives passing this place ringing a chorus of welcome for buffalo. then where are you? you're going to pay sucker prices then, or get right back east with a big debit for wasted board and time. i'm takin' a chance myself, and it ain't with any five per cent. courage. i got a big stake in both places, and i don't care a continental where they build the depot." mike callahan was talking in much the same strain in the neighborhood of his barn, which somehow always became a sort of sunday meeting-place for loungers seeking information. but mike, acting on instructions, went much further. he spoke of the reports of the movements of the railroad's engineers and surveyors. he assured his hearers he had had definite word of it himself, and then added a hint that started something in the nature of a panic amongst his audience. "it ain't no use in guessing," he said from his seat on an upturned bucket at the open door of his barn. "i ain't got loose cash to fling around. mine is just locked right up in hossflesh and rigs, so i ain't got no ax needs sharpening. but i drive folks around and i hear them yarning. i drove a crowd out to mallinsbee's place--the office at buffalo point yesterday. they were guests of his. they were talkin' depots and things the whole way. say, ever heard the name of carbhoy? any of youse?" some one assured him that carbhoy was president of the union road, and mike winked. "jest so," he observed. "as sure as st. patrick drove the snakes out of ireland, one of that gang was called 'carbhoy.' i heard one of 'em use the name. and i heard the feller called 'carbhoy' tell him to close his map. not just in them words, but the sort of words a millionaire might use. that gang are guests of mallinsbee. wher' they are now i can't say. i didn't drive 'em back." it was small enough wonder that the conflagration of excitement fairly swallowed up the town of vultures. the buffalo point interests intended it to do so. nor could their agents have been better selected. they were established citizens who came into contact with the whole floating population of the place. they were above suspicion, and they just simply laughed and talked and pushed their pinpricks home, preparing the way for the _dénouement_. on the monday following, the effect of their work began to show itself. amongst other visitations mallinsbee was invaded by a deputation representing large real-estate interests. under gordon's management the office had been entirely converted. now the original parlor office had been turned over to the use of the clerical staff. the bedroom gordon had occupied had become mallinsbee's private office, and the other bedroom had been made into an office for gordon himself. there was no longer any appearance of a makeshift about the place. it was an organized commercial establishment ready for the transaction of any business, from battling with a royal eagle of commerce down to the plucking of the half-fledged pigeon. the deputation arrived in the morning, and consisted of mr. cyrus p. laker and mr. abe chester. these two men represented two chicago real-estate corporations who were prepared to shed dollars that ran into six figures in a "right" enterprise. the rancher had been notified of their coming, and had sat in consultation with gordon for half an hour before their arrival. when the clerk showed them into mallinsbee's private office they found him fully equipped, with his hideous patch over one eye, and gordon sitting near by at a small table under the window. abe chester overflowed the chair the clerk set for him, and laker possessed himself of another. they were in sharp contrast, these two. one was lean and tall, the other was squat and breathed asthmatically. but both were men of affairs, and equal to every move in a deal. the tall man opened the case, with his keen eyes searching the baffling face of the rancher. just for one moment he had doubtfully eyed gordon's figure, so intently bent over his work, but mallinsbee had reassured him with the words, "my confidential secretary." mr. laker assumed an air of simple frankness. "our errand is a simple one, mr. mallinsbee," he began in hollow tones which seemed to emanate from somewhere in the region of his highly shined shoes. then he smiled vaguely, a smile which gordon mentally registered as being "childlike," as he observed it out of the corners of his eyes. "we are looking for two little pieces of information which you, as a business man, will appreciate as being a justifiable search on our part. you see, we are open to negotiating a deal of several hundred thousand dollars, of course depending on the information being satisfactory." "there's several rumors afloat that maybe you can confirm or deny," broke in abe chester shortly. his _confrère's_ "high-brow" methods, as he termed them, irritated him. "just so," agreed laker suavely. "two rumors which affect the situation very nearly. the first is, is it a fact that the president of the union grayling and ukataw railroad is your guest at the present moment? the second is, there is a rumor afloat that the railroad company are actually preparing to build their depot here. is this so?" mallinsbee's expression was annoyingly obscure. mr. laker felt that he was smiling, but abe chester was convinced that a smile was not within a mile of his large features. both men were agreed, however, that they distrusted that eye-patch. gordon awaited the rancher's reply with amused patience. it came in the rumbling, heavy voice so like an organ note, after a duly thoughtful pause. "well, gentlemen," he said, with the air of a man who has bestowed a weight of consideration upon his answer, "you have put what a legal mind maybe 'ud consider 'leading' questions. not having a legal mind, but just the mind of an _honest_ trader, i'll say they certainly are _some_ questions. however, it don't seem to me they'll prejudice a thing answering 'em straight. you are yearning to deal--well, so am i; an' if my answer's going to help things that way, why, i thank you for asking. mr. carbhoy is my guest at this moment. how long he'll remain my guest i can't just say. you see, he's going along to the coast when we're through fixing things right for buffalo point. that answers your first question, i guess. the second's even easier. the railroad's engineers will be right here with plans and specifications and materials and workers for building the depot at buffalo point on _wednesday noon_." abe chester drew a short asthmatical breath. his leaner companion smiled cadaverously. "then it will give us both much pleasure to talk business," said the latter. "sure," agreed chester, sparing words which cost him so much breath, of which he possessed such a small supply. mallinsbee pushed cigars towards them. he felt the occasion needed their moral support. "help yourselves, gentlemen," he said. "guess it'll make us talk better. there's a whole heap of talk coming." the two men helped themselves, tenderly pressing the cigars and smelling them. the rancher took one himself, with the certainty of its quality, and lit it. "a lot to talk about?" inquired mr. laker, not without misgivings. "why, yes." the rancher pulled deeply at his cigar and examined the ash thoughtfully. "yes," he went on after a moment, "i guess i'll have to say quite a piece before you talk money. you see, i'd just like you to understand the position. it's perhaps a bit difficult. this scheme has been lying around quite a time, inviting folks to put money into it at a profitable price to themselves. a number of wise friends of mine have taken the opportunity and are in, good and snug. there's a number of others hadn't the grit. maybe i don't just blame them. you see, it was some gamble, and needed folks who could take a chance. wall, those days are past. there's no gamble now. it's as good as american double eagles. you see, snake's will just become a sort of flag station, while buffalo point will sit around in a halo of glory with a brand-new swell depot. it's been some work handling this proposition, and the folks interested, including the bude and sideley coal company, need a deal of compensation for their work. personally, i am not selling a single frontage now until the depot is well on the way. in short, i need a fancy price. in conclusion, gentlemen, let me say quite plainly that what i would have sold originally for three figures will now, or rather when the time comes, cost four--and maybe even five." "you mean to shut us out," snapped abe chester. "is it graft?" inquired laker, with something between a sneer and anger. "call it what you like," said mallinsbee coldly. "i've told you the plain facts, as i shall tell everybody else. those who want to get in on the buffalo point boom will have to pay money for it--good money. i think that is all i have to say, gentlemen." chapter xxi a trifle few men were less given to dreaming than james carbhoy. usually he had no spare time on his hands for such a pastime. dreams? well, perhaps he occasionally let imagination run riot amidst seas of amazing figures, but that was all. all other dreams left him cold. now it was different. he was reclining in an old-fashioned rocker chair outside the front door of his prison. the air of the valley was soft and balmy, the sun was setting, and a wealth of ever-changing colors tinted the distant mountain-tops; a wonderful sense of peace and security reigned everywhere. so, somehow, he found himself dreaming. he filled the chair almost to overflowing and reveled in its comfort, just as he reveled in the comfort even of his prison. his hands were clasped behind his iron-gray head, and he drank deeply of the pleasant, perfumed air. his captivity had already exceeded three weeks, and the first irritation of it had long since passed, leaving in its place a philosophic resignation characteristic of the man. he no longer strove seriously to solve the problem of his detention. during the first days of his captivity he had thought hard, and the contemplation of possible disaster to many enterprises resulting from this enforced absence had troubled him seriously, but as the days wore on and no word came from his captors his resignation quietly set in, and gradually a pleasant peace reigned in place of stormy feelings. james carbhoy possessed a considerable humor for a man who spent his life in multiplying, subtracting and adding numerals which represented the sum of his gains and losses in currency, and perhaps it was this which so largely helped him. his temperament should undoubtedly have been at once harsh, sternly unyielding and bitterly avaricious. in reality it was none of these things. it was his lot to cause money to make money, and the work of it was something in the nature of an amusement. he was warm-hearted and human; he loved battle and the spirit of competition. then, too, he possessed a deplorable love for the knavery of modern financial methods. this was the underlying temperament which governed all his actions, and a warm, human kindliness saved him from many of the pitfalls into which such a temperament might well have trapped him. as he sat there basking in the evening sunlight he felt that on the whole he rather owed his captors a debt of gratitude for introducing him to a side of life which otherwise he might never have come into contact with. he knew at the same time that such a feeling was just as absurd as that the spirit of fierce resentment had so easily died down within him. all his interests were dependent upon his own efforts for success, and here he was shut up, a prisoner, with these very affairs, for all he knew, going completely to the dogs. his conflicting feelings made him smile, and here it was that his humor served him. after all, what did it matter? he knew that some one had bested him. it was not the first time in his life that he had been bested. not by any means. but always in such cases he had ultimately made up the leeway and gained on the reach. well, he supposed he would do so again. so he rested content and submitted to the pleasant surroundings of his captivity. there was one feature of his position, however, which he seriously did resent. it was a feature which even his humor could not help him to endure with complacency. it was the simple presence of a chinaman near him. he cordially detested chinamen--so much so that, in all his great financial undertakings, he did not possess one cent of interest in any chinese enterprise. hip-lee was maddeningly ubiquitous. there was no escape from him. if the millionaire's fellow prisoner, the pretty teamstress, entered his room to wait on him--and their captors seemed to have forced such service upon her--hip-lee was her shadow. if he himself elected to go for a walk through the valley--a freedom accorded him from the first--there was not a moment but what a glance over his shoulder would have revealed the lurking, silent, furtive figure in its blue smock, watchful of his every movement, while apparently occupied in anything but that peculiar form of pastime. james carbhoy resented this surveillance bitterly. nor did he doubt that beneath that simple blue smock a long knife was concealed, and, probably, a desire for murder. however, nothing of this was concerning him now. the hour was the hour of peace. the perfection of the scene he was gazing upon had cast its spell about him, and he was dreaming--really dreaming of nothing. the joy of living was upon him, and, for the time being, nothing else mattered. in the midst of his dreaming the sound of a footstep coming round the angle of the building to his right roused him to full alertness. he glanced round quickly and withdrew his hands from behind his head. mechanically he drew his cigar-case from an inner pocket and selected a cigar. but he was expectant and curious, his feelings inspired by his knowledge that hip-lee always moved soundlessly. his eyes were upon the limits of the house when the intruder materialized. promptly a wave of pleasurable relief swept over him as he beheld the pretty figure of his fellow captive. but he gave no sign, for the reason that the girl was obviously unaware of his presence, and it yet remained to be seen if the yellow-faced reptile, hip-lee, was at hand as usual. he watched her silently. he was struck, too, by her expression of rapt appreciation of the scene before her, which added further to his reluctance to break the spell of her enjoyment. but as the hated blue smock did not make its appearance, the man could no longer resist temptation. the opportunity was too good to miss. "it's some scene," he said in a tone calculated not to startle her, his gray eyes twinkling genially. but hazel was startled. she was startled more than she cared about. her one object was always to avoid contact with gordon's father, except under the watchful eyes, of hip-lee. she feared that keen, incisive brain she knew to lie behind his steady gray eyes. she feared questions her wit was not ready enough to answer without disaster to the plans of her fellow conspirators. she hated the part she was forced to play, but she was also determined to play it with all her might. she must act now, and act well. so, with a resolute effort, she faced her victim. "i--i just didn't know you were here, sir," she said truthfully, while her eyes lied an added alarm. "but--but talk low, or the----" "you're worrying over that mongrel chink," said carbhoy quickly. "i expected to see his leather features following you around. i guess he's got ears as long as an ass, and just about twice as sharp. say, i'm going to kill that mouse-colored serpent one of these times if he don't quit his games. say----" he broke off, studying the girl's pretty face speculatively. there was no doubt her eyes wore a hunted expression--she intended them to. "they treating you--right?" he demanded. hazel's effort was better than she knew as she strove for pathos. "oh, yes, i s'pose so," she said hopelessly. "i'm let alone, and--i get good food. it--it isn't that." "what is it?" the man's question came sharply. hazel turned her face to the hills and sighed. the movement was well calculated. "it's my folks." then, with a dramatic touch, "say, mr. carbhoy, do you guess we'll ever--get out of this? do you think we'll get back to our folks? sometimes i--oh, it's awful!" her words carried conviction, and the man was taken in. "say," he said quickly, "i'm making a big guess we'll get out later--when things are fixed. this is not a ransom. but it means--dollars." he lit his cigar, and its aroma pleasantly scented the air. hazel sighed with intense feeling--to disguise her inclination to laugh. "yes, sir," she said hopelessly. "one hundred thousand dollars." gordon's father smiled back at her. "i'd hate to think i was held up for less," he said. "it would sort of wound my vanity." the girl could have hugged him for the serenity of his attitude. nothing seemed to disturb him. she felt that gordon had every reason for his devotion to his father, and ought to be well ashamed of himself for submitting him to the outrage which had been perpetrated. "who--who do you think has done this?" she hazarded hesitatingly. "slosson?" "maybe. though----" "slosson should have met you himself," the girl declared emphatically. "he certainly should," replied carbhoy, with cold emphasis. "he'll need to explain that--later. say, how did you come to be driving me?" hazel suddenly felt cold in the warm air. "i was just engaged to, because mr. slosson couldn't go himself. you see, father has a spare team, and i do a goodish bit of driving. you see, we need to do 'most anything to get money here." "yes, that's the way of things." the man's eyes were twinkling again, and hazel began to hope that she was once more on firm ground. nor was she disappointed when the man went on. "i guess we're all out after--dollars," he said reflectively. then he removed his cigar and luxuriously emitted a thin spiral smoke from between his pursed lips. "it don't seem the sort of work a girl like you should be at, though. still, why not? it's a great play--chasing dollars. it's the best thing in life--wholesome and human. i've always felt that way about it, and as i've piled up the years and got a peek into motives and things i've felt more sure that competition--that's fixing things right for ourselves out of the general scrum of life--is the life intended for us by the creator." hazel nodded. "life is competition," she observed, with a wise little smile. "sure. that's why human nature is dishonest--has to be." there was a question in the girl's eyes which the millionaire was prompt to detect. "sure it's dishonest. can you show me a detail of human nature which is truly honest? say, i've watched it all my life, i've built every sort of construction on it. wherever i have built in the belief that honesty is the foundation of human nature things have dropped with a smash. now i know, and my faith is none the less. human nature is dishonest. it's only a question of degree. i'm dishonest. you're dishonest. but in your case it's only in the higher ethical sense. you wouldn't steal a pocket-book. you wouldn't commit murder. but put yourself into competition with a girl friend baking a swell layer cake, calculated to disturb the digestion of an ostrich. say, you'd resort to any old trick you could think of to fix her where you wanted her." hazel laughed. "i wouldn't shoot her up, but--i'd do all i knew to beat her." "just so." "after what's happened to us here i guess human nature isn't going to find a champion in me," hazel went on. "still, it's pretty hard to lose your faith in human nature that way." "lose? who said 'lose'?" cried the man, with a cordial laugh. "not i. if i suddenly found it 'honest,' why, i'd hate to go on living. human nature's got to be just as it is. honesty lies in nature. that's the honesty that folks talk about and dream about. it isn't practicable in human life. dishonesty is the leavening that makes honesty, in the abstract, palatable. say, think of it--if we were all honest like idealists talk of. what would we have worth living for? do you know what would happen? why, we'd all be sitting around making hymns for everybody else to sing, till there was such an almighty hullabaloo we'd all get crazy and have to sign a petition to get it stopped. we'd all be fixed up in a sort of white suit that wouldn't ever need a laundry, and every blamed citizen would start right in to turn the world into a sort of hell by always telling the truth. just think what it would mean if you had to tell some friend of yours what you thought of her for sneaking your latest beau." "it certainly would be liable to cause a deal of trouble," laughed hazel. "trouble? i should say." the millionaire chuckled softly as he returned his cigar to his mouth. "say, i was reading the obituary of a preacher--my wife's favorite--the other day. he lost his grip on life and fell through. that reporter boy was bright, and i wondered when i was reading what he'd have said if he'd spoke the truth as he saw it. to read that obituary you'd think that preacher feller was the greatest saint ever lived. i felt i could have wept over that poor feller, the talk was so elegant and poetic. i just felt the worst worm ever lived beside that preacher. i felt i ought to spend the last five dollars i had to fix his grave up with pure white lilies, if i had to go without food to do it. it was fine. but the writer never said a word about that preacher living in a swell house in fifth avenue, and the $ , he took every year for his job, and the elegant automobile he chased around to the houses of his rich congregation in. if he'd died in the slums on the east side i guess that newspaper wouldn't ever have heard of him, and that writer wouldn't have got dollars for the pretty language it was his job to scratch together for such an occasion." "it doesn't sound nice put that way," sighed hazel. "i suppose it's all competition even trying to make folks live right. i suppose that preacher was successful in his calling--the same as you are in yours. i suppose his human nature was no different to other folks'." "that's it. life's splendidly dishonest and a perfect sham. come to think of it, ananias must have been all sorts of a great man to be singled out of a world of liars. on the other hand, he'd have had some rival in the feller who first accused george washington of never lying. psha! life's a great play, and i'd hate it to be different from what it is. we're all just as dishonest as we can be and still keep out of penitentiary: which makes me feel mighty sorry for them that don't. from the fisherman to the sunday-school teacher we're all liars, and if you charged us with it we'd deny it, or worse, and thereby add further proof to the charge. i've thought a deal over this hold-up, and it seems to me those guys bluffed us some." "you mean about the--ransom," said hazel, the last sign of amusement dying swiftly out of her eyes. "why, yes." the millionaire smoked in silence for some moments. then quite suddenly he removed the cigar from between his lips. "maybe you don't know i'm working on a big land scheme in these parts. it seems to me some bright gang intend to roll me for my wad. i don't guess slosson's in it." "then who is it, sir?" demanded the girl, with unconscious sharpness. the man's steady eyes surveyed her through their half-closed lids. he shook his head. "i can't just say--yet. we'll find out in good time." his smile was quietly confident. "anyway, for the moment some one's got the drop on me, and i'll just have to sit around. but--it's pretty tough on you, miss--miss----" "mallinsbee," said hazel, without thinking. "mallinsbee?" the man's gray eyes became suddenly alert, and hazel felt like killing herself. she believed, in that one unguarded moment, she had ruined everything. she held her breath and turned quickly towards the setting sun, lest her face should betray her. then her terror passed as she heard the quiet, kindly laugh of the man as he began speaking again. "well, miss mallinsbee, here we are, and here we've just got to stay. i came here to get the best of a deal. we're all out to do some one or something, somehow or somewhere. it don't much matter who. and when a man acts right he don't squeal when the other feller's on top. he just sits around till it's his move, and then he'll try and get things back. i'm not squealing. it's my turn to sit around--that's all. meanwhile, with the comforts at my disposal--good wines, good cigars and mountain air--i'm having some vacation. if it weren't for that darned chink with his detestable blue suit i'd----" "hush!" hazel had turned and held up a warning finger. in response the man glanced sharply about him. there, sure enough, standing silent and immovable at the corner of the building, was the hated vision of blue with its crowning features of dull yellow. james carbhoy flung himself back in his rocker. all the humor and pleasure had been banished from his strong face, and only disgust remained. "oh, hell!" he exclaimed, and flung his cigar with all his force in the direction of the intruder. chapter xxii on the trail it was a night to remember, if for nothing else for the exquisite atmospheric conditions prevailing. the moon was at its full, like some splendid jewel radiating a silvery peace upon a slumbering world. the jeweled sky suggested the untold wealth of an infinite universe. the perfumed air filled lungs and nostrils with a beatific joy in living, and the darkened splendor of the crowding hills inspired a reverence in the human heart so profound, that it left scarce a place for the smallness of mundane hopes and yearnings. the splendor, the breadth of beauty sank into the human soul and left the spirit straining at its earthly bonds, and gazing with longing towards the infinite power which ordered its existence. for ten miles of the journey from the old ranch-house hazel rode under the sublime influence of feelings so inspired. nothing of the conditions were new to her. the mountain nights in summer were as much a part of her existence as was the ranching life of her home. she knew them as she knew the work that filled her daylight hours. but their effect upon her never varied--never weakened. no familiarity with them could change that feeling of the infinite sublimity somewhere beyond the narrow confines of human life. she drank in the deep draughts of perfect life, she gazed abroad with shining eyes of simple happiness on the splendid world, and a superlative thankfulness to the creator of all things that life had been thus vouchsafed her uplifted her heart and all that was spiritual within her. the journey to her home was twenty miles, but her favorite mare possessed wings so far as its mistress was concerned. the distance was all too short for the splendid young body, and that youthful mood of delight. hazel reveled in the expenditure of the energy required, as the mare, beneath her, seemed to revel in the physical effort of the journey. for the greater part of the road the cobwebs of affairs she was engaged upon left hazel indifferent. the delight of life left no room for them. but after the half way had been passed there came to her flashes of thought which reduced her feelings to a more human mood. nor was that mood of the easiest. she experienced feelings of disquiet, even alarm. she felt vexed, and a great resentment, and even genuine anger, began to take possession of her. but these were interspersed with moments when a certain irresponsibility and humor would not be denied, and underlying all and every other emotion was a great passionate longing, which she scarcely admitted even to herself. her mind was fixed upon two men: father and son. for the time at least, they were the pivot of all things worldly for her. in her thoughts the son possessed attributes little short of a demi-god, while the father had become a being endowed with a deep, reflected regard. there was room in her woman's heart for both in their respective places. she knew she loved them, and her variations of mood were inspired by the cruelly farcical atmosphere of the position surrounding them both. she was angry with gordon, bitterly angry at one moment, at the next she reveled in the exquisite impudence of his daring. at one moment her woman's tender pity went out to the big-hearted man who had been submitted to such indignities by his own son and herself, and all those concerned in the conspiracy, and, at the next, she found herself smiling at the humor of his attitude towards his persecutors. then, too, over all these complications of feeling she was stirred with alarm at that painful memory of the unguarded moment, when, lulled by her interest in the millionaire's talk, she had admitted her name to him. visions of hideous possibilities rose before her eyes. if he should chance to know her father's name. why not? surely he knew. but after that one sharp interrogation he had given no sign. she sighed a sort of half-hearted relief, but remained unconvinced. it was this last contingency which had inspired her night journey home. she had ridden out the moment she had been certain that their captive had retired for the night. there were still some eight miles to go before the ranch would be reached when hazel experienced a fright, which left her ready to turn and flee back over the way she had come as swiftly as the legs of her mare could carry her. on clearing a bluff of spruce, around which her course lay, in the full radiance of the moon's high noon, she suddenly beheld a horseman riding towards her, a ghostly figure moving soundlessly over the high grass. such was the effect of this vision upon her, that, beyond being able to bring her mare to an abrupt halt, panic left her paralysed. in all her years she had never encountered a horseman riding late at night in the mountains. who was he? who could he be? and an eerie feeling set her flesh creeping at the ghostliness and noiselessness of his coming. she sat there stupidly, her pretty cheeks ashen in the moonlight. and all the time the man was coming nearer and nearer, traveling the same trail she would have done had she pursued her course. then an abject terror surged upon her. he must meet her! in an instant her paralysis left her, and she gathered her reins to turn her mare about. but the maneuver was never effected. she had suddenly recognized the horse the man was riding. it was sunset. the next moment she further recognized the broad shoulders of the man in the saddle, and a glad cry broke from her, and she urged her mare on to meet him. "gordon!" she cried, in a world of delight and relief as she came up with him. "you, hazel?" came the joyous response of her ghostly visitor. "you just scared me all to death," protested the girl, as the big chestnut ranged up beside her. "i did?" gordon was smiling tenderly down at the pretty figure, so fascinating in the moonlight as it sat astride the brown mare. "my, but i thought--i--oh, i don't know what i thought. but what are you doing around--now?" the girl was smiling happily enough. even in the silver of the moonlight it was obvious that the color had returned to her cheeks. "i was going to ask you that," returned gordon. "but i guess i best tell you things first." then he began to laugh. "i was coming out to see you, but--not you only. say, i'm just the weakest conspirator ever started out to trap a mouse. look at me. say, get a good look. it isn't the sort of thing you'll see every time you open your eyes. i was sick to death feeling the old dad was shut up a prisoner, and i felt i must get along, even if it was only just to get a peek, and be sure he wasn't suffering." hazel's eyes were tenderly regarding the great creature in the bright moonlight. she had been so recently angry at this son's heartless action, that his expression of contrition made her feel all the more tender towards him. "he's in bed, and--i'd guess he's snoring elegantly by now," she said, with a smile. "i--i waited to start out till he was in bed." then her eyes met his. "what were you coming to--see me for?" the direct challenge very nearly precipitated matters. gordon had excuses enough for seeing her, but only one real purpose. he hesitated before replying. "we've made good," he said at last, by way of subterfuge, and the girl drew a deep breath of joyous content. "you've--made--good?" she questioned, more in the way of reassuring herself than desiring a reply. gordon moved his horse so that she could turn about. "let's go back to the--prison," he said, his words charged with the excited delight stirring within him. "yes, we've made good." the girl turned her mare about and the two moved on the way she had already come, side by side. "listen, while i tell you. say, i could sort of shout it around the hill-tops--if they weren't so snowy and cold. snake's fall is just a surging land market for us at buffalo. there are real estate offices opening everywhere, and everybody you meet on the sidewalk is a broker of some sort. the bude and sideley folk turned their holdings loose directly we got the surveyors and engineers of the railroad up, and the folks all jumped. then the men at snake's, who held in ours, followed suit. but your father, bless him, held tight. the boom fairly rose to a shriek, and we've been fighting to sit tight, and let the prices go up skywards. then we had a meeting, and your father loosened up a bit. just to keep the spurt on. meanwhile i've handled things down east, and kept the wires singing. the railroad have started a great advertising campaign at my orders. the coal company, too, are talking snake's fall, and buffalo point. in a month there'll be such a rush as only america, and this continent generally knows how to make. even now sites are changing hands at ridiculous prices. meanwhile i've got the railroad busy. already ten construction trains have come through, and they've started on the new depot." he drew a deep sigh of satisfaction. then in a sort of shamefaced manner he went on. "but i've had to weaken in the old dad's direction. i can't make good and leave him out all together. you see, that play of slosson's in snake's will have to be made good, and my father will have to make it that way. so i've got your father to give me a six months' option on a stretch of land adjoining the coalpits which he hadn't ceded to the bude people. you see, if there's coal there it'll put my father right with the game, and we shan't have hurt him any. meanwhile things will go on, and we'll have to keep the old dad for another month. then i sell, and----" "you'll have won out," broke in hazel, her eyes shining in the moonlight. then a shadow crossed her face. "but when your father knows what you've done? what then?" gordon seemed to consider his reply carefully. "you can leave that to me, hazel," he said at last, with a whimsical smile. "there's surely got to be a grand finale to this, and when it comes i'll still need your help. say, why were you riding in to the ranch--at dead of night?" the abrupt question shocked the girl out of her delighted content. the memory of her trouble came overwhelmingly upon her. but gordon was waiting. "you're making good, but i've made pretty bad," she said, thrusting a desire to burst into tears resolutely from her. "i'm just every sort of fool and i--don't know how much damage i haven't done. everything's gone right until this evening. hip-lee has just been as near perfect as a chinaman can be. we've carried out all our plans right through, and i've never been near your father without hip-lee looking on. that is--until this evening." the girl sighed. the confession of her blundering was hard to make. "it was this way," she went on presently. "your father was out walking. i hadn't seen him return. i was in the kitchen fixing his supper, and it was sticky hot, and i just hated the flies, so i went out for a breath of air. hip-lee had been playing his spy game on your father. well, i just stood out front of the house taking a look at the hills, and wishing i was amongst their snows, when your father spoke. he had got back, and was sitting outside the house, and, maybe, like me he was yearning for that snow. well, i just couldn't run away--so we talked. i guess we'd talked quite awhile, and i'd kind of forgotten things, and in the middle of his talk he started to address me by my name, and got as far as 'miss.' then, without a thought, i spoke my name. he just seemed startled, but never said a word about it, and now i'm worried to death. was there ever such----" the girl broke off, and it seemed to gordon, in spite of her attempted smile, she was very near tears. instantly he smothered his own feelings of alarm at her story and endeavored to console her. he laughed, but in hazel's hyper-sensitive condition of anxiety, his laugh lacked its usual buoyancy. "that's nothing to worry over," he said. "i'd say if your name had meant anything to him he wouldn't have given you breathing time before you'd learned a heap of things that wouldn't have sounded pretty. dad's no end of a sport, but when he gets a punch, and the fellow who gives it him don't vanish quick, he's got a way of hitting back mighty hard. i don't guess that break's going to figure any in our play. he never said a word?" "not a word." hazel tried to take comfort, but still remained unconvinced. "anyway what could he do?" gordon remained serious for some moments. then his eyes lit again. "not a thing," he said emphatically, and hazel knew he meant it. for some time they rode on in silence, and thought was busy with them both. hazel was thinking of so many things, all of which somehow focussed round the man at her side, and her ardent desire to obey his lightest commands in the schemes of his fertile brain. gordon had dismissed every other thought from his mind but the delightful companionship of this ride, which had come all unexpectedly. the girl's mare led slightly, and the sober chestnut kept his nose on a level with her shoulder, and thus gordon was left free to regard the girl he loved without fear of embarrassment to her. but somehow hazel was not unaware of his regard. a curious subconsciousness left her with the feeling that her every movement was observed, and a pleasant, excited nervousness began to stir her. she hastily broke the silence. "you said you'd still need my help when--the grand finale came," she demanded. "sure," came the prompt reply. then very slowly the man added; "i can't do anything without your help--now." the girl glanced round quickly. "you mean--with your father a prisoner?" the man's smile deepened, and his blue eyes gazed thoughtfully, ardently, into the hazel eyes, which, in a moment, became hidden from him. "i don't think i meant--quite that," he said. the girl offered no reply, and the man went on. "you see, we have become sort of partners in most everything, haven't we? i don't seem to think of anything without you being in it." then he laughed, a little nervous laugh. "i don't try to either. say, i went out to the cattle station, and had a look at slosson the other day. the boys have got him pretty right, and--i felt sorry for him." "why?" hazel asked her question without thinking. she somehow felt incapable of thought just now. she felt like one drifting upon some tide which was beyond her control, and the only guiding hand that mattered was this man's. gordon gave one of his curious short laughs, which might have meant anything. "i don't know," he said. then: "yes, i do though. think of a fellow who's had his business queered, who's staked a big gamble and lost, not only that, but the girl he's crazy about, and meanwhile is rounded up in a shack that wouldn't keep a summer shower out, and seems as though it was set up on purpose by some crazy genius as a sort of playground for every sort of wind ever blew. say, if i lost my partner now, i'd---- guess our partnership ought to expire in a month. this play will be through then." "yes." with all her desire to talk on indifferently, hazel could find no word to add to the monosyllable. she was trembling with a delightful apprehension she could not check. and somehow she had no desire to check it. this man was all powerful to sway her emotions, and she knew it. the moments were growing almost painful in the tenseness of her emotions. "another month. it's--awful for me to think of." "is it?" the inanity of her remark would have made hazel laugh at any other time. now, it passed her by, its meaninglessness conveying nothing with the submerging of her humor in the sea of stronger emotions. gordon urged his horse to draw level with the mare. then he deliberately drew it down to a walk on the rustling grass, and hazel followed his example without protest. all about them was the delicate silver tracery of the moonlight through the trees. the warmth of the perfumed night air possessed a seductiveness only equaled by the night beauties of the scene about them. it was such a moment when the most timorous lover must become emboldened, and emulate the bravest. but gordon knew no timidity. his only fear was for failure. had he realized the tumult which his words had stirred within this girl's bosom he might well have flung all hesitation to the winds. as it was he threw the final cast with all the strength of his virile, impetuous nature. "another month. must it end then, hazel?" he reached out and seized, with gentle firmness, the girl's bridle hand. "must it? say, can't it be partners--for life?" his eyes were very tender, but their humor was still lurking in their depths. he leaned towards her and the girl's hand remained unresistingly in his. "d'you know, dear, i sort of feel to-night i'd like to have a dozen slossons standing around waiting, while i scrapped 'em all in turn for you. maybe that don't tell you much. it can't mean anything to you. it means this to me. it means i just want to be the fellow who's got to see to it that life runs as smooth as the wheels of a pullman for you. it means i don't care a thing for anything else in the world but you, not even this play we're at now. i guess i just loved you the day i first saw you, and have gone on loving you worse and worse ever since, till i don't guess there's any doctor, but having you always with me, can save me from an early grave." somehow the two horses had come to a standstill. nor were they urged on. "i just want you, hazel, all the time," gordon went on, more and more tenderly. "you'll never get to know how badly i want you. will you--shall it be--partners--always?" the girl was gazing out over the moonlight scene so that gordon could see nothing of the light of happiness shining in her pretty eyes. all he knew was the trembling of the hand he still held in his. then, suddenly, while he waited, he felt the girl's other hand, soft, warm, full of that quiet strength which he knew to be hers, close over his, and a wild thrill swept through his whole body. "is it 'yes'?" he demanded, with a passionate pressure of his hand, and a great light burning in his eyes. "mine! mine! for--as long as we live?" the girl still made no verbal reply, but she bowed her head and gently raised his hand, and tenderly pressed it to her soft bosom. in an instant she lay crushed in his arms while the two horses, with heads together, seemed lost in a friendly discussion of the extraordinary proceedings going on between their riders. what they thought about them was apparently on the whole favorable, for presently, with mute expressions of good will, their handsome heads drew apart and lowered significantly. the next moment they were enjoying a pleasant siesta, such as only a four-footed creature can accomplish standing without risk to life and limb. half an hour later they were wide awake and full of bustling activity. the closed heels on their saddle cinchas warned them that even lovers' madness has its limits of duration, and that the practical affairs of life must inevitably become paramount in the end. so they answered the call, and raced down the trail in the cool of the night. chapter xxiii in new york mrs. james carbhoy had endured anything but a happy time for several weeks. she had received no news from her beloved son; her husband had spirited himself away on business and left her without a word of definite information as to his whereabouts; while even the trying presence of her young daughter was denied her, since she had been forced to dispatch that personification of childish willfulness to their estate at tuxedo, that she might be put through a course of disciplining by her various governesses. she was alone, she reminded herself not less than three times a day, and to be alone in her great mansion at central park was the limit of earthly punishment as she understood it. she detested it. she hated the hot summer landscape of the park; she was worried to death by the chorus of automobile hooters as the cars sped up and down the great asphalt way; she felt that the red-and-white stone palaces with which she was surrounded were the ugliest things ever hidden from blind eyes, and an army of servants could be, and was, the most nerve-racking thing she had ever been called upon to endure. for two peas she would pack a bag--no, her maid would have to pack it; she was denied even that pleasure--and hie herself to europe. this was something of the condition of mind to which she was reduced, when one morning two events happened almost simultaneously which changed the whole aspect of things, and created in her something approaching a desire to continue the dreary monotony of life. the first was the advent of her mail, with a long letter from her son _dated at buffalo point_, and the second was an urgent request from her husband's manager, mr. harker, desiring permission to wait upon her, as he had the most encouraging news from the long-lost gordon and her husband's affairs generally. gordon's mother did not read her son's letter at once. she saw the heading and glanced at the opening paragraph. the satisfaction so inspired caused her to set it aside for careful perusal after her breakfast. mr. harker would be up to see her at about eleven o'clock. that would give her ample time to have digested its contents before he arrived. for the first time in weeks she ate an ample breakfast at her customary early hour. she further forgot to make her maid's life a burden during the process of dressing, and she even enjoyed glancing over the advertisements of the daily newspapers. then came the hour of seclusion in her boudoir when she yielded herself to the perusal of her boy's letter. "buffalo point, near snake's fall. "dearest mum: "it seems so long since i sent you any mail, and i seem to have so much news to tell you, and i've so completely forgotten what i have already told you, that i hardly know where to begin. however, you'll see by the heading of this letter i am at buffalo point, and am glad to say i have received a visit from the dear old dad, who is just as happy as any man of his devotion to work can be--on vacation. his visit to me here has placed me in a position of great trust in his affairs in the neighborhood, and i am very proud that, through my own efforts, i have been so placed. after this i feel that the dear old dad will never have cause to question my ability in dealing with big affairs. i feel he will acknowledge that the seed of his example has really fallen on fruitful soil, and that, after all, perhaps i shall yet prove a worthy son of a great father. "this, i guess, brings me to the discussion of a subject which has kind of interested me some these last days. it is the modern understanding of filial duty. i s'pose even such a duty changes in its aspect, as everything else seems to change, with the passage of time. chasing around in the dark days of pre-civilized times filial duty seemed pretty clearly marked. one of the first duties of a son was, when his mother wasn't around to claim the privilege, to get in the way when his father wanted to hit something with his club. he was also kind of handy as a sacrifice, either well broiled or minced into fancy chunks, to make his father's gods feel good and get benevolent. then he was mighty useful doing chores around the home, so his father didn't have to do more work than it took him filling his stomach with saurian steaks and pterodactyl cutlets, and getting drunk on a sort of beer, which his wife had contracted the habit of making for him in the intervals between being laid out cold with a stone club. "there don't seem to be much doubt about those days. a son's filial duty lasted just as long as his father could enforce it with physical discipline. when he couldn't do it that way any longer, then the son and father generally made a big talk together, and whatever odds and ends of the father could be collected at the finish of the pow-wow were handed over to some local soup kitchen to make stock. "then the son usually took a wife, and so the same old play went on. "with variations and moderations these things seem to have gone on, on some such general lines, right down to our present day. in some grades of present-day life i don't think there's such a heap of change as you'd guess. the conditions prevail, only the weapons and things are different. however, that's by the way. the thing that requires careful study is how far filial duty is justified. "filial duty is a pretty arbitrary thing when a man who can really think looks into it. i maintain that obligation is too much imposed upon offspring. i contend they don't owe a thing to their parents. it's the parents who owe to the offspring. this may shock you, but i hope you will put all personal feeling aside and regard it in the nature of an academic discussion. first of all, the fact of life is dependent upon the whim of parents to impose it. it is not a thing which a child owes gratitude for. say, take a feller who can't swim, tie half a ton of lead around his neck and boost him into a whirlpool full of rocks and things, and ask him for gratitude. i'm open to gamble when he gets his breath he won't say a thing--not a thing--about gratitude. maybe he'll remember every other emotion ever given to erring humanity, but i don't guess he'd be able to spell the word gratitude, let alone talk it. "we'll pass the subject of life for the moment. we've got it. we didn't want, but we got. and all the kicking won't alter it. now filial duty demands obedience, and parents start right in from the first to make a kid's life a burden that way. say, we'll take that whirlpool racket again. it's like two folks standing high and dry on a rock above it, and firing stones all around the poor darned fool struggling to win out. it don't matter which way he turns he's headed off with a rock dropped plumb ahead of him. those rocks are labeled 'obey.' say, after about twenty years of dodging those rocks parents 'll tell that feller of all they did for him in his youth, and say he's ungrateful just because he's learned enough sense to realize his parents are fools, anyway, and ought to be petrified mummies in a public museum. "one of the worst sins of parents toward children is the fact that as soon as they take to sitting around in rockers, and their hinges start to creak when they get up, they don't ever seem to remember the time when their joints didn't have to make queer noises. when folks get that way they reckon it's the duty of all offspring just to sit around and gape in fool credulity, while they tell 'em what wonderful folk their parents--used to be, and how they--the children--if they lived a century, could never hope to be half as wonderful. a really bright kid generally hopes that for once his parent is talking truth. i say it with all respect that the gentlest, most harmless, most inoffensive father would resort to any subterfuge to have his son think he could lick creation if he fancied that way; and there isn't a woman so almighty plain but what she'll contrive to get her daughters--while they're still children--crazy enough to believe she was the beauty of her family, and that all their good looks are due to her side of the matrimonial contract. "of course, it isn't a desirable thought to picture your mother playing at holding hands in dark corners with fellers who never had a hundred-to-one chance of being your father; also it isn't just pleasant to speculate on the tricks she had to play to get your father to the jumping-off mark; neither do you care to dwell on what she thought of the chorus girls your father was in the habit of buying wine for, and decorating up with fancy clothes and jewels in his spare moments. you don't feel it's a nice thing to think of the numbers of times some one else has had to take off your father's boots for him overnight, and bathe his aching head with ice-water to get him down town in the morning to his office. but it wouldn't hurt you a thing if parents made a point of remembering all these things for themselves, and would give up making you quit playing parlor games during sermon in church on sundays and inventing your own words to the hymn tunes. "now let's jump to what i call the breaking-point of filial duty. it's the point when a kid gets old enough to master the inner meaning of the expression 'damn fool,' which has probably been liberally applied to him for years. it's the moment when physical discipline can no longer obtain for--physical reasons. it's the point when two real live men, or two real live women, face each other with a contentious situation lying between them. where does obligation lie? does it remain--anyway? "in nature it does not. in human nature it remains--chiefly because of undue sentimentalism. now sentimentalism should be a luxury, and not a law. this is obvious to any mind not suffocated by the gases of decadence. i'd like to say nature's laws are sane and just, and, since they are inspired by a great and wise providence, it's not reasonable to guess they can be improved upon by a psalm-smiting set of folks, who spend their whole lives in wrapping 'emselves around with cotton batten to keep out the wholesome draughts of nature's lungs. "so i feel that when the breaking-point of filial duty is reached it is no longer mother and daughter, father and son, in the practicalities of life. take commerce. father and son are in competition. each is fighting for his own. how far is a son justified in emptying an automatic pistol into his father's food depot, when that mistaken parent guesses he's yearning to storm his son's stronghold of commercial enterprise? how far is that father justified in doping his son's liquor, so he won't lie awake at nights planning to roll him for his wad next morning? take a daughter and her momma. most mothers act as though they had to live all their lives with their daughters' husbands. and most daughters act as though they preferred their mommas should. i ask: how far has a mother right to butt in to run her daughter's home doings, and so muss up for some one else what she was never able to do right for herself? why shouldn't a daughter be allowed to make her own mess of things, and later on, when she collects sense, clean it up again the best she knows? "these are questions in my mind. these are questions i don't just seem able to answer right myself, and sort of feel they'd have given old sol some insomnia, in spite of all his glory over the baby episode he made such a song about. well, i put 'em down here, and maybe you can tell me about 'em, and, anyway, they make some problem. "maybe i haven't set out my news to the best advantage, but my mind is very busy with fixing things as they should go. you see, i'm working hard in the old dad's interest, and am hoping soon to get that little word of approval from him which means so much, coming from so great a man. i am looking forward to seeing you again soon, and hope to see your dear, smiling face and pretty eyes just as bright and happy as i always remember them. give my love to our gracie, and tell her that the only way to get rid of those peculiarly spindle lower legs, which have always been one of her worst physical defects, is to adopt ankle exercises. it's a defect, like many others in her character, which can be improved with conscientious effort and patience. "your loving son, "gordon. "p.s.--your future daughter-in-law is just crazy to be taken into your motherly fold. "g." mr. harker's face was wreathed in smiles at the thought of the pleasant news it was his good fortune to be conveying to the wife of his chief. his smile remained until he heard the trim maid's announcement at the door of mrs. carbhoy's boudoir. then the smile vanished, as though it had never been, and his well-nourished features became an assortment of troubled bewilderment. furthermore, within five minutes of his ushering into the lady's presence he had registered a solemn vow that celibacy should remain his lot, until the day that saw his ample remains become a subject for cooking operations by the crematorium experts. mr. harker was certainly unfortunate in his selection of the moment at which to pay his call. mrs. james carbhoy had had half an hour since reading her son's letter, in which to pursue that hateful hyphenated word "daughter-in-law" through every darkened channel of her somewhat limited mental machinery. daughter-in-law! it was everywhere. she could not lose sight of it. she could not escape its haunting meaning. it pursued her wherever she went. it was there, lurking amidst the folds of her gowns if she peered inside the great hanging wardrobes. it danced like a will-o'-the-wisp in every mirror which her troubled eyes chanced to encounter. it was interwoven with the patterns of the carpets; and the wall-paperings found a lurking-place for it amidst the unreal foliage which adorned them. it laughed at her when she angrily turned away to avoid it, and when she endeavored to defy it its mocking only increased. so it was that the unoffending harker encountered the full tide of her angry alarm and maternal despair. mr. harker had prepared a well-turned opening for his excellent news. but it was never used. even as his lips moved to speak they remained sealed, held silent by the bitter cry of outraged maternal pride. "he's married!" she cried. "married--and i--i have never been consulted!" mr. harker felt as though he had been caught up in the whirl of a physical encounter in which his opponent held all the advantage. mrs. carbhoy waited for no comment. she rushed headlong, following up her advantage, smashing in "lefts" and "rights" indiscriminately. "it's disgraceful--terrible! the ingratitude of it! after all his father and i have done for him! to think how we've always guided and taught him! the callous selfishness! the moment he's out of our sight--this--this is what happens. he's picked up with some wicked, designing female, whose father's certain to be a--a--gaolbird--or, anyway, ought to be. not a word to a soul. we--we don't know who she is--or--or what. he don't even say her name. daughter-in-law! it's--it's---- mr. harker, i'm just wondering when i'll come over all crazy." mr. harker welcomed the pause. "you say mr. gordon's married?" he demanded incredulously. "yes--no. that is, he--he says 'your future daughter-in-law'!" mr. harker breathed a deep relief and strove to smile confidence upon his chief's wife. "ah, yes. mr. gordon was always one for the girls. but he wouldn't make a fool of himself that way----" in a moment the second round of the battle was raging. "fool? fool? every man's a fool, if some woman chooses!" cried mrs. carbhoy, and promptly hurled herself into a bitter tirade against her sex, sparing no race of monsters from likeness to it. mr. harker was forced to submit from sheer inability to compete with the rapid flow of expression. but later on he had his opportunity at what he considered to be the termination of the "second round," while his opponent retired to her corner to be fanned by her seconds. "anyway, ma'am, if he's not yet married there's still hope. i guess mr. carbhoy's wise to what's doing with him. you see, he's been there with him." "james carbhoy!" the contemptuous emphasis on her husband's name opened the "third round," and mr. harker felt that the timekeeper had called "time" before he was ready. for three full minutes the scornful wife of the millionaire recited an amplified denunciation upon husbands in general and millionaires in particular. but even so the round had to come to its natural conclusion, and when they were both resting once more in their "corners," mr. harker achieved something almost approaching success. "you know, mrs. carbhoy, i was feeling pretty good coming along here in my automobile. mr. gordon's something more to me than just your son. we're real good friends, and i was feeling as anxious for his future as maybe you were. well, when i got word from your husband at snake's saying that he'd turned our affairs over to mr. gordon i was real glad, and i felt now here was the boy's chance. then, day after day, along come his instructions, and i saw by the grip he'd got on things he'd taken his chance, and was pushing it through with as much smartness as mr. carbhoy himself might have shown. i was more than gratified, ma'am. why, only to-day i've received word of a big coal option he's taken for us. as he's got it it's something for nothing. nobody could have done better, not even your husband, ma'am. i really can't think there's going to be any mistakes about--strange females." the man's tribute had a mollifying effect upon the mother. but she was still the "mother" rather than a creature of logic. she saw her boy being led to his undoing by some designing creature of her own sex, and her instinct warned her of the hideous dangers to millionaires' sons inherent in so guileful a race. "if i could only feel that he was experienced in the world," she said helplessly. "but what does our poor gordon know of women?" mr. harker smiled. he was thinking with the intimacy of one man who knows another. he knew, too, something of the way in which gordon's money had generally been spent. "we must hope the best, ma'am," he said, with a hypocritical sigh. "he's evidently not married, so--what do you intend to do about it while mr. carbhoy is on the coast?" "do? do? why, i shall just go up to snake's whatever-it-is, or buffalo what's-its-name, and--and----" "i should wait awhile, ma'am, if i were you," mr. harker interrupted her, fearing another outburst. "i'm expecting david slosson in the city soon. he's one of our confidential men who's been working up at snake's for us. i haven't heard from him for quite a while. he's sure to be along down soon, because he's got to make a report. maybe he can tell us just how things are. anyway, i wouldn't go up there. it's a queer, wild sort of place, and in no way fit for you." "will slosson be around soon?" "sure, ma'am." "then i'll wait," cried the troubled mother, without cordiality. then she appealed to the man who had always been something more than a mere commercial figure in her husband's life. "you know, if anything went wrong with my boy, mr. harker, it would just break my heart. i--i couldn't bear it. but i tell you right here there's no wretched female going to play her tricks on our gordon with me around, and while i've got james carbhoy's millions to my hand. and if your man slosson don't give us satisfactory news of the boy, then, if snake's what's-its-name were the worst place on earth--i should make it." "if it comes to that, ma'am, there are other folks feel that way, too," said the manager earnestly. "but meanwhile i'd say don't worry a thing." "i don't!" snapped the mother sharply. "the person who'll need to do all the worrying is that--female." chapter xxiv preparing for the finale "i'm getting scared, gordon. real truth, i am." hazel was in the saddle. gordon had just mounted sunset. it was the close of a long, arduous, triumphant day for gordon, and he was feeling very happy, though mentally weary. the horses moved off before he made any reply. he had just dismissed peter mcswain and mike callahan, with whom he had been in close consultation, and hazel's father was still within the office to see to its closing for the night and the departure of the clerical staff. the way lay towards the ranch, and the trail the horses were taking skirted the new township, now no longer a waste of untrodden grass, but a busy camp with a strongly flowing human tide. hazel had come to meet him at her lover's urgent request, and she was glad enough to get away from the old ranch house, where the charge of her captive there was seriously beginning to trouble her. now she had at last voiced something of those feelings which the rapid passing of the weeks had steadily inspired. she knew that her peace of mind demanded some change from this worrying situation. in her loyalty she had struggled to perform her share in the conspiracy. she knew, too, that she had succeeded fairly well, and that her efforts were all appreciated to their full. she had contrived that her lover's father should never know a moment's discomfort. that his life in captivity should be made as easy and pleasant as possible. there were no signs that it had been otherwise, but now, seven weeks had elapsed since his arrival, and what had just seemed a scandalous joke to her originally, had become a sort of painful nightmare which she was longing to throw off. the moment she and gordon were actually alone, she had been impelled to break the silence which was steadily undermining her nerve. gordon's horse was close abreast of the brown mare, and its rider smiled down from his great height upon the pretty tailored figure of the girl who had become all the world to him. "i know," he said sympathetically. "it's sort of that way with me, too. i don't just mean i'm scared. there's nothing for me to be scared about. it's--sort of conscience with me. as for your father--say"--his smile broadened--"he's taken to his eye-patch with everybody--me, too. i guess that means he's worried no end." "what--what are you going to do--then?" hazel eagerly watched that big, open, ingenuous face with its widely smiling blue eyes. and, watching it, she discerned added signs of a growing humor. finally he laughed outright. "say, we're just the limit for a bunch of conspirators. yes--the limit. you're the only one of us who's had the moral courage to put your feelings into words. we're all scared. we've all been scared these weeks. your father's scared, so he can't look at any man with two eyes. peter's all of a shiver every time he comes within hailing distance of the sheriff. as for mike--well, mike's sold all his holdings, and is bursting to sell his livery business, all but one team, so he'll have the means of skipping the border at a minute's notice. say, have you figured out how we stand? how i stand? well, from a point of law i guess i'm a good candidate for ten years' penitentiary. i've kidnapped two men; one's a dirty dog, anyway, and the other's one of the biggest millionaires in the country. i've fraudulently played up a railroad. i've started this boom on the biggest fraud ever practiced. i've--say, ten years! why, i guess the tally of this adventure looks to me like twenty in the worst penitentiary to be found in the country. it--makes me perspire to think of it." he was laughing in a perfectly reckless fashion, and, in spite of her very real fears, hazel perforce found herself joining in. "it's desperate, gordon," she cried. "and as for you, who worked it all out, and led it, you--you are the dearest blackguard ever breathed." then quite suddenly her eyes sobered, and her apprehension returned with a rush. "but how long is--it to last? i--i can't go on much longer, and your father's getting restive and suspicious." gordon reached down and patted sunset's crested neck. "it's finished now. that's why i asked you to come and meet me. i've sold." "you've sold?" in a moment the last shadow of fear had passed out of the girl's pretty eyes. now she was agog with excited admiration. "yes." the man nodded. "it had to be done carefully. i've been selling quietly for days and now it's finished. i didn't get the prices i hoped quite, but that was because i felt i dared not wait longer to clear up the general mess i'd made. your father helped me, and i now sit here with a roll of precisely one hundred and five thousand dollars, and a definite promise to your father to fix things with the great james carbhoy so no trouble is coming to any one--not even slosson. i don't know. now it's all over i'm sort of sorry. you know this sort of thing--the excitement of beating folks--is a great play. i want to be at it all the time." "you've got to meet your father yet," said the girl warningly. "the old dad? why, yes, i s'pose i have." gordon chuckled. "say, i don't wonder folks taking to crooked ways. they just set your blood tingling like--like a glass of champagne on an empty stomach. just look out there." he pointed at the new township. "say, isn't it wonderful? all in a few weeks. and all the result of one man's crookedness." "and your father has been a--prisoner--the whole time. over seven weeks," rebuked the girl. "but it's only three weeks since i met you that night on the trail, hazel. no other time concerns me. not even the dear old dad's captivity. that was the beginning of all things that matter for me." "you seem to date everything around that--ridiculous episode," said hazel slyly. "i----" "i do." "don't interrupt me, sir. i was going to assure you that your proper spirit should be one of contrition for what you have made your father endure." "it is." "you said you didn't care." "i don't." "then----" gordon burst out into a happy laugh. "don't you see, dear? i just don't care for, or think about anything else in the world. you--you--you are just mine, so what's the use of talking of the old dad." "really? true? true?" the girl's tender eyes were melting as they gazed up into her lover's. "more to you than all--this?" she indicated the busy life on the new township. the miracle, as she regarded it, which he had worked. the man smiled, his eyes full of a great, tender love. "i'm glad," the girl sighed. "it isn't always so with men--where the making of money is concerned, is it?" she breathed a great contentment and happiness. "yes, i'm--so glad. it's the same with me, but--i want all this to go on right--because of you. i want your success. i want your success as a man, and--with your father. i'm very jealous for those things now. you see, you belong to me, don't you?" she turned and gazed away across the plain. "oh, it's good to see it all--to see all the busy work going on. look there--and there," she pointed quickly in many directions. "buildings going up. temporary buildings. the substantial structures to come later. then the road gangs at work. the carpenters at the sidewalks. the surveyors. the teams and wagons. above all, that depot being built with all expedition by--your father." she laughed happily and clapped her hands. "it's all growing every day. a mushroom town. and you--you have made that money your great father dared you to make. dared you--you, and you have made it out of him! oh, dear! the humor of it is enough to make a cat laugh. here you, by sheer audacity and roguery, have held up a railroad and coolly played the highwayman on your own father!" gordon shook his head. "call it grabbing opportunity. it was an opportunity which came my way through the trifling oversight of forgetting to return the private code book which the old dad had entrusted to my care. say, i can never thank the dad enough for that half-hour talk in his office which sent me out into the wilderness. if he hadn't handed it to me, i should never have blundered into snake's; and if i hadn't blundered into snake's i shouldn't have found you. i guess my parent's just one of the few to whom a son owes anything. he gave me life, but didn't stop at that. he gave me you." hazel's eyes were smiling happily. "and in return you lay violent hands on him, and incarcerate him while you do your best to rob him." "it sounds pretty bad." "if i didn't know you i'd say that gratitude fell out of your cradle and killed herself when the fairies got around at your birth. but you didn't ask me to ride all these miles in to--to say just all these nice things to me, gordon? besides, now you've completed your--graft, what about your poor long-suffering prisoners? how are you going to save us all from the consequences of your evil ways? your father will hate me." the girl sighed in pretended despair. "he'll never consent to--to----" "our marriage? say, if i'm a judge of things i'll have to stand by so he don't embrace you too often, himself." they both laughed like the two happy children they were. there was no cloud that could mar the sun of their delight now. hazel, for all her fears, had perfect faith in this great reckless creature. she had never been able to obscure the memory of his battle with slosson on her behalf. her faith was unbounded. so they rode on, leaving the busy new world the man had created behind them, as they made their way on towards the ranch. they were leaving everything behind them, the shadows and sunlight of past strenuous days, which is the way of youth. they gazed ahead towards the future with every confidence, and lived in a perfect present which contained only their two selves. it was not until they had nearly reached the ranch, and the wide pasture stocked with grazing cattle came into view, that the girl was able to pin her lover down to the urgent matters which lay ahead of him. then she received from that simple creature the brief account of his intentions. for a moment she was staggered. then, after a brief digestion of the details, she began to laugh. the rank absurdity and impudence of them took her fancy, and she found herself caught in the humor of it all, and ready again to carry out his lightest wish. "it's still the same, you see," gordon finished up. "i still want you, and your precious help, the same as i always shall. i just can't do a thing without you, and as long as you are with me, why, i don't guess failure's got a chance of getting its nose in front. i've got it all fixed, if you'll play your part. all i ask is, for the lord's sake don't start in to laugh at the critical time. i want you scared to death till i appear, and then you'll just need to chase up an attack of hysterics or something, throw your heels around and yell blue murder, and finish up by grabbing me around the neck, and fainting dead away with happiness. the rest i'll see to. it's some situation for you, but don't worry when the limelight leaves you in the dark and finds its way to me. it's just the sort of thing you can find in any old dime novel. the heroines always act that way, and the hero, too. when you get back, start right in to think about every dime story you've ever read. remember all the things the heroines ever did, and then do 'em all yourself. see? guess that isn't as clear as it might be, but when you've filtered it through that bright little head of yours it'll be like spring water in a moss-grown mountain creek." "whatever will he say when he knows?" laughed the girl. "say? well, that's not an easy guess," retorted gordon, with a responsive laugh. "but, anyway, it's dead sure he'll think a heap more. say, there's just one thing more. when you come-to out of that joyous faint, you got to leave us together for half an hour. maybe you'll have some sort of preparation to make, or something. sort of stagger out of the room supported by me, and if hip-lee attempts to butt in during that half hour--kill him." "you really want me to do--all this?" hazel's laughing eyes were raised questioningly. "everything, but--the killing." "the fainting--really?" "sure." the man's eyes opened wide. "it's the picture. it's the reality. it's the local color." "oh, dear!" laughed hazel, as they rode up to the ranch house. "i suppose i've got to do it." "you will?" gordon flung himself out of the saddle. hazel laughingly held out her hand in assurance. "my hand on it, gordon, dear," she cried. the man seized it in both of his. then, regardless of what sharp eyes might be peeping in their direction, he reached up, and, catching her about the waist, drew her down towards him till her head was level with his, and kissed her rapturously. "say, you're the greatest little woman on earth, and--i love you to death." hazel hastily drew herself out of his strong arms, and, with flushed face, straightened herself up in the saddle. "and you are the greatest and most ridiculous creature ever let loose to roam this world--and i--love you for it." the man laughed. hazel's laugh joined in. "then--to-night?" hazel nodded. "good-by, dear--till to-night." chapter xxv the rescue it was nearly midnight. the house was quiet. it was so still as to suggest no life at all within its simple, hospitable walls. it was in darkness, too, at least from the outside, for all curtains had been drawn for the night, with as much care as though it were a dwelling facing upon some busy thoroughfare in a city. but, late as the hour was, the occupants of the old ranch house were not in bed. hazel was awake, and sitting expectantly waiting in her bedroom, while somewhere within the purlieus of the kitchen hip-lee sat before an open window in the darkness, doubtless dreaming wakefully of some flea-ridden village up country in his homeland. upstairs, too, there were no signs of those slumbers which were so long overdue. mr. james carbhoy was seated in a comfortable rocker-chair adjacent to his dressing bureau, making an effort to become interested in the "history of the conquest of mexico" by the light of a well-trimmed oil lamp. not one word, however, of the pages he had read had conveyed interest to his preoccupied mind. it is doubtful if their meaning had been conveyed with any degree of continuity. he was irritable--irritable and a shade despondent. he had been a captive in that valley for over seven weeks, and the imprisonment had begun to tell upon his stalwart hardihood. seven long weeks of his own company, under easy and even pleasant circumstances. even hazel's company, shadowed as she was by the hated hip-lee, had been denied him. had it been otherwise he might have felt less dispirited, for he liked and admired her; and, in spite of the fact that on that one memorable occasion when he had talked to her alone she had betrayed, what he now was firmly convinced was her own perfidious share in his kidnapping, he was human enough to disregard it, and only remember that she was an extremely pretty and wholly charming creature. yes, he knew now that he had been duped by this daughter of mallinsbee, whom he knew owned buffalo point, and the whole thing had been a financial coup engineered by the "smarts" who belonged to his faction. he had solved the whole problem of his captivity in one revealing flash, the moment he had learned that this girl was the daughter of mallinsbee. he had needed no other information. his keenly trained mind, with its wide understanding of the methods of financial interests, had driven straight to the heart of the matter. it was only the details which had been lacking. but even these had, in a measure, been filled in during his long hours of solitude and concentrated thought. it was some of the obscured riddles which beset him now, as they had beset him for days. he could not account for his own confidential agent slosson in the matter. had he been bought over? it seemed impossible, since slosson had advised the depot remaining at snake's fall, which was against mallinsbee's interests. had he been dealt with, too? it seemed more likely. but if this were so it made the daring or desperation of the whole coup suggest to his mind that he was dealing with men of unusual caliber, and consequently the situation possessed for him possibilities of a most unpleasant character. then, again, the fact that they were content to leave him unapproached in his captivity puzzled and disquieted him even more. what could they achieve with regard to the railroad without his authority? nothing, positively nothing, he assured himself. then what was the purpose to be served? he could not even guess, and the uncertainty of it all annoyed, irritated, worried him as the time went on. his mind was full of all these concerns as he sat reading the romantic story of a people with impossible names, and so he lost all the beauties of one of the most perfect romances in the world. finally, he set the book aside and prepared for bed and more hours of worried sleeplessness. james carbhoy was a typical new yorker of the best type. in an unexaggerated way he was fastidious of his appearance and gave a careful regard to his bodily welfare. he was a man who luxuriated in cleanly habits of living, and his linen was a sort of passion with him. in his captivity he had been well cared for in this respect, and the only cause he had for complaint was the absence of his daily bath, which he seriously deplored. now he went to the old-fashioned washstand, prepared for his nightly ablutions, and laid himself out a clean suit of pyjamas. then he divested himself of some of his upper garments. he had just started to remove his shirt, and one arm still remained in its sleeve as he proceeded to remove it coatwise, when all further action was quite suddenly suspended and he stood listening. a sound had reached his quick ears, a curious sound which, at that hour of the night, was quite incomprehensible to him. after some breathless moments he abandoned the divestment of his clothing and swiftly restored his coat and vest. then he extinguished his light and drew the curtains from before the window and opened it further. he sat down on his bedstead and, resting an elbow on the window-ledge, gazed out into the starlit, moonless night. the sound which had held his attention was still evident. it was the sound of galloping horses in the distance, the soft plod of many hoofs over the rich grass of the valley. it was faint but distinct, and, to this man's inexperienced ears, suggested a large party of horses, probably horsemen, approaching his prison. with what object? he wondered, and, wondering, a feeling of excitement took possession of him. five minutes later his attention was distracted to another direction. other sounds reached him, sounds which emanated from close about his prison itself. there was a movement going on just below him, and horses were moving about, apparently somewhere in front, where he knew the corrals to be. his excitement increased. in all his long weeks of imprisonment he had seen nothing of his captors and no signs of them. now, apparently, they were below him, possibly keeping guard, and he wondered if they had been there every night, silent warders, whose presence had been all undiscovered by himself. it was difficult, difficult to understand or to believe. yet there was no doubt that men were gathered below; he could faintly hear their voices talking in hushed tones, and, equally, he could plainly hear the sound of their horses. he wished there was a moon to give him light enough to see what was going on. but now the more distant sounds had grown louder, and as they grew the voices below spoke in less guarded tones. and from the manner of their speech the listening man knew that something serious was afoot. a sudden resolve now formulated in his mind, and he left his place at the window and stood up. then he moved swiftly to his door and opened it. the house seemed wrapped in silence, and he moved out to the head of the small flight of stairs leading to the floor below. he passed down and reached the door of the parlor. here he paused for a moment listening. all was still within, and he cautiously opened the door. the lamp was lit, and, standing beside the table, upon which the breakfast things were already set, he discovered the figure of the daughter of mallinsbee with her back turned towards him. there was another figure present, too, and, to his intense chagrin, the millionaire beheld the yellow features of hip-lee near the curtained window. however, he passed into the room, and hazel turned confronting him. he gazed intently into her face, so serious and apparently troubled. the yellow lamplight imparted a curious hue, and the man fancied she looked seriously frightened. "what's happening?" he demanded, and an unusual brusqueness was in his tone. the girl's eyes surveyed his expression swiftly. she looked for something she feared to discover there, and the faintest sigh of relief escaped her as she realized that her fears were unfounded. "that's what we--are trying to find out," she replied, her words accompanied by a glance of simple, half-fearful helplessness. the man checked the reply which promptly rose to his lips. he remembered in time that this girl was the daughter of mallinsbee and that she was exceedingly pretty. to the former he had no desire to give anything away, while to the latter he desired to display every courtesy. "our guards seem to be on the alert, and--somebody is approaching," said the millionaire, with a baffling smile. "if it weren't such a peaceful spot i'd say there was an atmosphere of--trouble." "i--i sort of feel that way, too," said hazel in a scared manner. she had gathered all her histrionic abilities together, and intended to use them. "i wonder what trouble it is?" "seems as if it was for the men who--took us," observed carbhoy, with a dryness he could not quite disguise. "you--mean our folks have located our whereabouts and--are going to rescue us?" the millionaire smiled into the innocent, questioning eyes, which, he knew, concealed a humorous guile. "i didn't just mean that," he said. "maybe the trouble won't come yet." he glanced at the chinaman standing sphinx-like at the curtains. "must he remain?" he said, appealing directly to the girl. hazel felt the necessity for a bold move. "don't let him worry you. we can't help ourselves. i dare not risk offending him." she conjured a well-feigned shudder. the millionaire laughed, and his laugh left the girl troubled and disconcerted. she would have liked to know what lay behind it. however, she kept to her attitude of fear. she must play her part to the end. "hark!" carbhoy turned his head, listening intently. the girl followed his example. "say----" the millionaire broke off, and his smile was replaced by a look of puzzled incredulity. a shot had been fired. it was answered by a shot from somewhere close to the house. a look of doubt sprang into his gray eyes, and he darted to the window and unceremoniously brushed the hated chinaman aside. he drew the curtain cautiously aside and peered out into the bight. hazel beheld the change of expression and his quick, alert movements with satisfaction. she knew that the sounds of the shots had disconcerted him. he was more than impressed. he was convinced. then followed a portentous few moments. the two single shots were converted into something like a rattle of musketry. and intermingled with it came the hoarse, blasphemous cries of men, and the pounding of horses' hoofs racing hither and thither. the man at the window remained silent, his eyes glued to the crack of the divided curtains. he saw flashes of gunfire and the dim outline of moving figures. but the details of the scene were hidden from him by the darkness. hazel, standing close behind him, rose to a great effort. one hand was laid abruptly upon his arm, and her nervous fingers clutched at his coat-sleeve as though she were seeking support. she caught a sharp breath. "my god!" she cried in a tense whisper, while somehow her whole body shook. carbhoy gave one glance in her direction. his eyes and features had become tense with excitement. with his disengaged hand he patted the girl's with a reassuring gentleness, and finally it remained resting upon her clutching fingers. "it's a scrap up all right," he said, with conviction that had no fear in it. "but it's their game, not----" but his words were cut short by the great shouting that went up outside the house. then came more firing, and the sharp plonk of bullets as they struck the building were plainly heard by the watchers. hazel urged the man at the curtains-- "come away. for goodness' sake come away. a stray shot! that window! you----" she strove to drag the man away in a wild assumption of panic. but the millionaire intended to miss nothing of what was going on. the danger of his position did not occur to him. he firmly released himself from her clutch. "you sit right down, my dear," he said kindly. "just get right out of line with this window. i want to see this out. say, hark! they're hitting it up good, eh?" his eyes were alight with the excitement of battle, and hazel, watching him, with fear carefully expressed in her eyes, could not help but admire the spirit of her lover's father, and more than ever regret the part she was forced to play. she withdrew obediently as the sounds of battle waxed and the cries of the combatants made the still night hideous. the firing had become almost incessant, and the bullets seemed to hail upon the building from every direction. then, too, the galloping horses added to the tumult, and it was pretty obvious the defenders were charging their opponents. "there seems to be about two to one attacking," said the millionaire over his shoulder presently. as he turned he surveyed with pity the strong look of terror the girl had contrived. he never once looked in the detested chinaman's direction. in his heart he would not have regretted a chance shot disturbing those yellow, immobile features. then, turning back again quickly-- "i wonder!" now that the battle seemed to be at its height, and whilst awaiting its issue, he had time for conjecture. what was the meaning of it? and who were the attacking party? was slosson at its head? had harker sent up and was this a sheriff's posse? both seemed possible. yet neither, somehow, convinced him. whoever were attacking, it was pretty certain in his mind that his release was the object. but the moment passed, and he became absorbed once more in the battle itself. it seemed miraculous to his twentieth-century ideas that such a condition of things could prevail. why, it was like the old romantic days of the hard drinking, hard swearing "bad men," and a sort of boyish delight in the excitement of it all swept through his veins. he had no time or thought for the part the now terror-stricken girl had played in his captivity. all he felt was a large-hearted, chivalrous regret for her present condition, of which no doubt remained in his mind. a rush of horsemen charged up to the building. the watching man saw their outline distinctly. there seemed to him at least eight or ten. he saw another crowd, smaller numerically, charge at them, and then the revolvers spat out their vicious flashes of ruddy fire. the crowd dispersed and gathered again. another fusillade. then something seemed to happen. the whole crowd swept away in the darkness, and the sounds of shooting and the cries of men died away into the distance. he waited awhile to assure himself that, so far as their position was concerned, the battle was at an end. then he turned away from the window. "they've cleaned 'em out," he said sharply. "i can't tell whose outed. they've ridden off at the gallop, firing and cursing as they went. maybe our captors have driven the others off. maybe it's the other way. we'll--hark!" he was back at the window again in a second. "they're coming back," he cried. "say----" hazel was at his side in a moment. "are they the----?" "can't say who," cried carbhoy, peering intently. "a big bunch of 'em." "our men were only four," said hazel quickly. the millionaire was too intent to look round, and so he missed the girl's smile over at hip-lee. but the tone of her voice was unmistakable in its anxiety. "there's eight or more here," he cried. "say, they're dismounting! they're----" "they're coming into the house!" cried hazel in an extravagant panic. "they----" at that instant a loud voice beyond the door of the room was heard shouting to the men outside-- "keep a keen eye while i go through the house! don't let a soul escape. if they've hurt one hair of her head somebody's going to pay, and pay dear." the millionaire was standing stock still in the middle of the room. a curious look was gleaming in his steady eyes. hazel, in the midst of her pretended panic, beheld it and interpreted it. she read in it a recognition of the speaker's voice, but she also read incredulity and amazement. but at that instant the door burst open and a great figure rushed headlong into the room. as the girl beheld it she flung wide her arms and, with a cry, ran towards the intruder. "gordon! gordon! at last, at last!" she cried. "oh, i thought you would never find me! never, never!" her final exclamations were lost in the bosom of his tweed coat, as she flung herself into his arms and burst into a flood of hysterical weeping and laughter. "hazel! my poor little hazel! say, i've been nearly crazy. i----" gordon broke off, the girl still lying in his arms. his eyes had lifted to the face of his father, and their keen, steady glance became instantly absorbed by the gray speculation behind the other's. "dad! you?" the astonishment, the incredulity were perfect. they might well have deceived anybody. "sure," said the millionaire dryly. then, "i don't guess they've hurt her any, though. maybe you best hand her over to her father," he went on, pointing at the burly figure of silas mallinsbee, who, with his patch well down over his eye, had appeared at that moment in the doorway. "guess he'll know how to soothe her some. meanwhile you'll maybe tell me how you lit on our trail." the man's smile was disarming, yet gordon fancied he detected a shadow of that lurking irony which he knew so well in his father. he turned about, however, and passed hazel over to the rancher, while he added tender injunctions-- "say, mr. mallinsbee, she's scared all to death. you best get her to bed. poor little girl! say, i'd like----" but he did not complete his sentence. instead he turned to his father, as hazel, with difficulty restraining her laughter, was led from the room by her solemn-faced, fierce-eyed parent. "say, dad, what in the name of all creation has brought you here?" the millionaire turned, and a cold eye of hatred settled upon the background which hip-lee formed to the picture. "do we need that yellow reptile present?" he said unemotionally. "i guess not," said gordon readily. then he pointed the door to the mongolian. "get!" he ejaculated. and the injunction was acted upon with silent alacrity. then the two men faced each other. "well?" demanded the father. the son smiled amiably. "well?" he retorted. and both men sat down. chapter xxvi cashing in gordon's eyes were alight with a wonder that somehow lacked reality as he dropped into the chair beside the table. "you? you?" he murmured. then aloud: "it--it's incredible!" then, with an impulsive gesture. "in the name of all that's crazy what's--what's the meaning of it? how in the world have you got into the hands of these ruffians?" his father selected one of the two remaining cigars in his case, and passed the other across. "try again," he said quietly, as he bit the end off his. but gordon did not "try again." he took the proffered cigar, and sat devouring the silent figure and sphinx-like face of the other, while he felt like one who had received a douche of ice-cold water from a pail. his acting had missed fire, and he knew it. he wondered how much else of his efforts had missed fire with this abnormally acute man. he had intended this to be the moment of his triumph. he had intended to lay before his father his talent of silver, doubled and redoubled an hundredfold. he had intended, with all the enthusiasm of youthful vanity, to display the triumph of his understanding of the modern methods of dealing with the affairs of finance. he was going to prove his theories up to the hilt. now, somehow, he felt that whatever victory he had achieved the clear, keen brain behind his father's steady gray eyes saw through him completely, right down into the deepest secrets which he had believed to be securely hidden. face to face with this man, who had spent all the long years of his life studying how best to beat his fellow man, his acting became but a paltry mask which obscured nothing. "try again." such simple words, but so significant. no, it was useless to "try again" with this dear, shrewd creature he was so futilely endeavoring to deceive. the cold of the gray eyes had changed. it was only a slight change, but to gordon, who understood his father so well, it was clearly perceptible and indicative of the mood behind. there was a suggestion of a smile in them, an ironical, half-humorous smile that scattered all his carefully made plans. the millionaire struck a match and held it out to light his son's cigar, and, as gordon leaned forward, their eyes met in a steady regard. "nothing doing?" inquired the father, as he carefully lit his own cigar from the same match. gordon shook his head, and his eyes smiled whimsically. "then i best do first talk." the millionaire leaned back in his chair and breathed out a thin spiral of smoke. then he sighed. "good smokes these. mallinsbee's a man of taste." "mallinsbee?" "sure." "go on." "he's kept me well supplied. also with good wine. i owe him quite a debt--that way. say----" the millionaire paused reflectively. then he went on in the manner of a man who has arrived at a complete and definite decision: "guess it would take hours asking questions and getting answers. it's not my way, and i don't guess i'm a lawyer anyway, and you aren't a shady witness. we know just how to talk out straight. i've had over seven weeks to think in--and thinking with me is--a disease. let's go back. i had a neat land scoop working up here. slosson was working it. he's been a secret agent of mine for years. i've no reason to distrust him. he fixes things right for us and sends word for me to come along. that's happened many times before. it's not new, or--unusual. when i get here i'm met by a very charming young girl with a rig and team. her excuse for meeting me is reasonable. the rest is easy. we are both held up, and brought here--captives. then i start in to think a lot. argument don't carry me more than a mile till that same charming girl, who's just done all she knew to make things right for me, makes her first break. when i found out she was the daughter of mallinsbee i did all the thinking needed in half an hour. i knew i was to be rolled on this land deal by mallinsbee's crowd, and, judging by the methods adopted, to be rolled good. you see we'd had negotiations with mallinsbee about his land at buffalo point before. see?" gordon silently nodded. his father breathed heavily, and, with a wry twist of his lips, rolled his cigar firmly into the corner of his mouth. "now, when i'd done thinking it just left me guessing in two directions. one of 'em i answered more or less satisfactorily. this was the one i answered. what had become of slosson? had he been handled by these folk, or had he doubled? the latter i counted out. i've always had him where i wanted him. he wouldn't dare. so i said he'd been 'handled.' the other was how could they hope to deal with the union grayling without my authority? that's still unanswered, though i see a gleam of daylight--since meeting you here. however, gordon boy, you've certainly given me the surprise of my life--finding you associated with mallinsbee--and taken to play-acting. that was a pretty piece outside with guns. i allow it got me fine. but you overdid it showing in here. that also told me another thing. it told me that a feller can spend a lifetime making a bright man of himself, while it only takes a pretty gal five seconds yanking out one of the key-stones to the edifice he's built. i guess i've been mighty sorry for your lady friend. i guessed she was pining to death for her folks, and was scared to death of that darnation chink. however, i'm relieved to find she's just a bunch of bright wits, and don't lack in natural female ability for play-acting. maybe you can hand me some about those directions i'm still guessing in. i'll smoke while you say some." father and son smiled into each other's faces as the elder finished speaking. but while gordon's smile was one of genuine admiration, his father's still savored of that irony which warned the younger that all was by no means plain sailing yet. "i'm glad you feel that way about hazel, dad," cried gordon, his face flushing with genuine pleasure. "she's some girl. i guess i'm the luckiest feller alive winning her for a wife, eh?" "you're going to--marry her?" "why, yes. she's the greatest, the best, the----" "just so. but we're not both going to marry her." gordon flung back in his chair with a great laugh. but his father's eyes still maintained their irony. "say, i'm sort of sorry talking that way now. there's other things." gordon fumbled in his pocket while he went on. "slosson? why slosson's trying to stave off pneumonia in a disused, perforated shack way up on mallinsbee's ranch. he's a skunk of a man anyway, and i had to let him know i thought that way. i haven't heard about the pneumonia yet, but if he got it i don't guess it would give me nightmare." then he handed across a small volume in morocco binding which he had taken from his pocket. "i don't seem to think you'll need much explanation about the other. that's your code book, which i forgot to return in the hurry of quitting new york." the millionaire turned the cover, closed it again, and quietly bestowed it in his pocket. "guess i'll keep this," he said without emotion. "yes, it tells me a lot. it tells me i've credited mallinsbee and his crowd with the work of my son. it tells me that my own son is solely responsible for the idea, and execution, of rolling his father on this land deal. it tells me that the principles of big finance must have a fertile resting place somewhere in my son. well, there's quite a lot of time before daylight." it had been an anxious moment for gordon when he handed back the private code book, and he had watched his father closely. he was seeking any sign of anger, or regret, or even pain, as his own actions became apparent to the other. there were no such signs. there was only that non-committal half smile, and it left him still uncertain. his father's patience seemed inexhaustible. had gordon only realized it this was the very sign he should have looked for in such a man. james carbhoy loved his son as few men regard their offspring, but he wanted his son to be something more than a mere object of his affection. he wanted him to be an object upon which he could bestow all the enormous pride of a self-made man. he wanted to feel that exquisite thrill of triumph resulting to his vanity, that gordon was his son--the son of his father. "yes, there's quite a while before daylight, dad, and i'm glad." gordon ran his fingers through his hair. "so i'd better hand it you from the beginning. i want you to get a right understanding of my motives. it was opportunity. that thing you've always taught me fools most always try to dodge, and most good men generally miss." his father nodded and gordon settled himself afresh in his chair. "yes, i'm in this thing, dad," he went on, after the briefest of pauses. "in it right up to my neck," he added, with a whimsical smile. "it was the opportunity i needed to make good. being neither a fool nor a good man i took it, and now i sit with a wad of one hundred and five thousand dollars in good united states currency. it's here in my pocket, and i'm ready to hand it over to you in payment for those old debts. you will observe i have still eight weeks of my six months to run. i want to say, as you'll no doubt agree when you've heard my story, that i've made, or acquired it, through graft and piracy, such as i talked about to you awhile back, and, as far as i can see, my method has been as completely dishonest as an honest man could adopt. dad, i've always regarded your sense of humor as one of your greatest attributes, but whether it'll stand for the way i've treated you, even with my intimate knowledge of you, i'm not prepared to guess. this is the yarn." gordon plunged into the story without further preamble while his father sat and smoked on with that half smile still fixed in his gray eyes. the younger man watched the still, inscrutable, sphinx-like figure with eyes of grave speculation. he missed no detail in the story of his irresponsibility and haphazard adventure. he started at the moment when he booked his passage for seattle, and carried it on right down to the melodramatic moment when he burst into that parlor to rescue the girl he loved from a peril which he knew had never threatened her. he told it all with a detail that spared neither himself, nor the confidential agent slosson, nor any one else concerned. he showed up the spirit of graft which actuated every step of his progress, and did not hesitate to apply the lash with merciless force upon the railroad organization his father controlled. and right through, from beginning to end, the millionaire listened without sign or comment. he wanted to hear all this boy--his boy--had to say. and as he went on that pride, parental pride, in him grew and grew. at the end of the story gordon added a final comment-- "i want to say, dad, i haven't done this all myself. i've had the help of two of the most cheerful, lovable rascals i've ever met. also the help of one honest man. but above all, through the whole thing, i've been supported by the smile of the sweetest and best woman in the world, the girl who's done her best to care for your comfort here. she's sacrificed all scruples to help me out, while her father, bless him, has never approved any of my dirty schemes. there you are, dad, that's the yarn. i don't guess it'll make you shout for joy, but, anyway, you started me out to make good--anyway i chose--and i've made good. furthermore, i've made good within the time limit, and, in making good, i'm bringing back a wife to our home city. i'm standing on my own legs now, as you always guessed you wanted me to, and if you don't just fancy the gait i travel--why, it's up to you. that's mine--now you say." the fixity of his father's attitude had driven gordon to say more than he had intended, but he meant it, every word, nor did he regard his parent with any less affection for it. but now, as he awaited a response, a certain unease was tugging at his heartstrings. at last the millionaire rose from his seat and crossed to the curtained window. he drew the curtains aside, and, raising the sash, flung out his cigar stump. then for a moment he gazed out at the moonless night. while he stood thus the smile in his thoughtful eyes deepened. at last, however, he turned back, and the face that confronted the son he loved wore the sharp, hawk-like look which his opponents in the business world of new york were so familiar with. "that's all right," he said sharply. "but--you've forgotten something." gordon became extremely alert. "have i?" then he laughed. "it 'ud be a miracle if i hadn't." "sure. most folks forget something. i forgot that code book." "yes." their eyes met. "you've forgotten that i can stop the work at buffalo point. you've forgotten that you've passed out of the realms of simple graft and plunged into criminal proceedings, which brings you within the shadow of the law. you've forgotten that i can smash your schemes, break you, and send you to penitentiary--you and your entire gang." the steady eyes were deadly as they coldly backed the sharp pronouncement of the words. gordon was caught by the painful emotion which the harshness of them inspired. he knew that his father had spoken the simple truth. he knew that in the eyes of the world he was a plain criminal. the unpleasant feeling was instantly thrust aside, however. he had not embarked upon this affair without intending to carry it through to the end he desired. "i haven't forgotten those things, dad," he said, with a sharpness equal to the other's. "i thought of 'em all--and prepared for 'em. i'm not playing. you put this thing up to me. i'm here to see it through." "and then?" there was a shade of sarcasm in the millionaire's tone. "then? why, i could tell you lots of reasons why you can't do any of these things. there's arguments that i don't guess you've missed already. but, anyway, just one little fact 'll be sufficient to go on with. you're here a captive, and you can't get away till i give the word." for one of the very few times in his life james carbhoy was seriously disconcerted. choler began to rise, and a hot flush tinged his cheeks and his eyes sparkled. "you--would keep me here a prisoner--indefinitely?" he exploded. "i'm not playing, dad," gordon warned. gordon had risen from his chair, and the two stood eye to eye. it was a tense moment, full of potent possibilities. one of them must give way, or a clash would inevitably follow, a clash which would probably destroy forever that perfect devotion which had always existed between them. for gordon it was a moment of extreme pain. but in him was no thought of yielding. from his father it was his invincible determination to force an acknowledgment of fitness in human affairs as he understood them. at that moment there was no humor in the situation for him. in the older man, however, humor was perhaps more matured. parental affection, too, is perhaps a bigger, wider, deeper thing than the filial emotions of youth. he had only intended to test this son of his. his challenge had been intended to try him, to confound. but the confounding had been with him in the shock of his son's irrevocable determination. that moment of natural resentment passed as swiftly as it had arisen. gordon was all, and even more, he told himself dryly, than he had hoped. and so the moment passed, and the hard, gray eyes melted to a kindly, whimsical smile which had not one vestige of irony in it. "you're a blamed young scamp," he said cordially; "but--i'm afraid i like you all the better for it. say, do you think that little girl of yours and her father have gone to bed yet?" gordon reached across, holding out his hand. "dear old dad," he cried, "i'm dead sure we'll find 'em both not a mile the other side of that door. the game's played out, and--we quit?" the father caught his son's hand and wrung it. "it's played out, boy; and god bless you!" they stood for a moment hand gripped in hand. then the millionaire pointed at the door. "i'd like to see 'em before--daylight." with a delighted laugh gordon turned away to the door and flung it open. "say," he called, "hazel! ho! mr. mallinsbee!" in a moment hazel had darted to her lover's side, and was followed more decorously by the burly rancher, with his patch well down over one eye. gordon pointed at it. "guess you can do without that, mr. mallinsbee. you're not going to face an opponent; you're going to meet a--friend." he slid his arm about the girl's waist and drew her gently forward towards his father standing waiting to receive her with humorously twinkling eyes. [illustration: he drew her gently towards his father] "so you're to be my little daughter," cried the millionaire kindly. "well, my dear, i'm glad. i like grit, and you've got it plenty. i like a pretty face, and--but i guess gordon's told you all about that. seeing you're to be my daughter--and gordon's left me no choice in the matter, the same as he left me no choice in other things--i feel i've the right to tell you you're a pair of--as impertinent young rascals as i've ever had the happiness to claim relationship with. let me see, just come here, and--gordon owes me for many nights of anxiety, and i guess i've a right to make him pay. i'll be satisfied with the payment of a kiss from you." he held out his arms, and hazel, with a joyous laugh and blushing cheeks, ran to them. "thank you, my dear," laughed the millionaire, as the girl frankly kissed him. "and that's the change." he closed his arms about her and returned her kiss. then, when he had released her, he turned to mallinsbee and held out his hand. "i can always make friends with the fellow who licks me, mr. mallinsbee. i'm glad to meet you--with that patch removed from your eye. the game's played and you've won, and i promise you all that's been done in my name by my son goes. you see, henceforth he's my partner now, so he's the right to act in my name. i'm trusting him with my dollars, but you are trusting him with something far more precious. i hope he'll prove as good a son to you as, i'm glad to say, i consider he's been to me." mallinsbee smiled a little sadly, and his eyes gazed tenderly in hazel's direction. "directly that boy of yours come around, mr. carbhoy, i felt the chill of winter beating up. i'm glad he come, though--i like him. but," he added, with a sigh, "i'll sure need to bank those furnaces some." hazel left the millionaire's side and crossed to her father, and passed her arm about his vast waist. "don't start yet, daddy," she said, smiling up at the rugged face. "i haven't left you yet, and when i do it's only going to be for a small piece at a time." silas mallinsbee shook his head. "don't you worry, little gal," he said gently. "i guess this winter's goin' to be a mild one. you see, i'm goin' to have a son as well as a daughter, and--who knows?--maybe grandsons----" but hazel had quickly pressed one hand over his lips and stifled the possibilities he was about to enumerate. gordon laughed, and his father smiled over at the other father. "see, mr. mallinsbee, we don't need to worry with the summer," gordon cried. "summer generally fixes things right for itself. meanwhile we'll just make the winter as easy as we can. you've given your little girl to me, and she's all you care for in the world. well, that's a trust that demands all the best i can give. i won't fail you. i won't fail her. and you, dad, i won't fail you." "good boy," said the millionaire, with a glow of pride. "i just know it, and--i know it for mr. mallinsbee and hazel, too, if they don't know it for themselves. say----" for a moment his eyes grew serious. then into them crept a gleam of twinkling humor which found reflection on the faces of both gordon and hazel, who waited for him to complete what he had to say. "you've told your mother, gordon?" he inquired. "seems to me you've told her 'most everything in those--chatty--letters of yours." gordon grinned and shook his head, while hazel waited--not without some apprehension. his father's smile gave way to a quaint expression of awe at such negligence. "i'd say she'd be pleased, of course," the millionaire said, without conviction. "it's a mercy not always bestowed on a boy to get a wife like--hazel. your mother's a mighty good woman, gordon, and i'll allow she's got her ways about things. but she's good, and i guess she'll just take to hazel right away." there was no confidence in his manner, in spite of the bravery of his words. but gordon quickly cleared the atmosphere with his cheery confidence. "you leave the dear old mater to me, dad," he cried. "you see, you only married her--she raised me. i'll write her to-night, and--say, that reminds me," he added, glancing at his watch. "daylight'll be around directly. hazel needs her rest. hadn't we----" hazel laughed. she had no real desire for bed, but she was tired, weary with the strain of all the swiftly moving events. she caught at his suggestion and demanded compliance. "yes," she cried. "there's another day to-morrow. oh, that wonderful to-morrow! a long, bright, happy day in which we have nothing to conceal, no wicked schemes to be worked out. a day of real happiness, when we can just be our real selves. let's all go to bed and dream our dreams with the full certainty that, however happy our to-day is, to-morrow has always the possibility of being happier." but gordon did not write the promised letter that night. he held long communion with himself, and decided to send a telegram. he realized that diplomacy must be brought to bear, for his mother, with all her exquisite qualities, possessed a slightly arbitrary side to her character where her home and belongings were concerned. therefore he decided on a bold stroke. he sacrificed his own rest that night, and in doing so sacrificed that of certain others. sunset was roused from his equine slumbers, as also was steve mason disturbed out of a portion of his night's rest. gordon rode hard into snake's fall. he wished to make the return journey before breakfast. on arrival at the township he ignored every protest from the operator. he overruled him on every point, and was prepared to back his overruling with physical force. steve mason was literally scrambled into his clothes and set to work at those hated keys, and the new york call was sent singing over the wires. meanwhile gordon was left at work upon a sheet of paper upon which, after considerable thought, his diplomatic effort resolved itself into a piece of superlative effrontery. and this was the message which startled his mother over her morning coffee and rolls, and incidentally sent a current of furious feminine excitement through the entire carbhoy establishment at central park, like a sharp electric storm. "_mrs. james carbhoy,_ "_new york._ "gordon's work here beyond praise. boy has done wonders. when you hear all you will be proud of him. i am with him here now. great events developing. am most anxious to form alliance with certain people for financial reasons. your influence required on social side. you will understand when i say rich, desirable heiress. gordon needs persuasion. come at once. special to snake's fall. will meet you at latter depot. "james carbhoy." when this message was handed to the impatient operator and he had carefully read it over, the man looked up with what gordon regarded as an impertinent grin. his resentment promptly leaped. "say," he cried in a threatening tone, "there's some faces made for grinning, and others that couldn't win prizes that way amongst a crowd of fool-faced mules. guess yours was spoiled for any sort of chance whatever, so cut out trying to make it worse than your parents made it for you. get me? just play about on those fool keys and set the tune of that message right, or mr. james carbhoy's going to hear things quick." the threat of the president of the railroad was sufficient to enforce compliance, but steve mason was no respector of persons outside that authority, and his retort came glibly. "you wrote this, mister, and--you ain't mr. james carbhoy," he said, with a sneer and a half-threat. but gordon was in no mood for trifling about anything. he was anxious to be off back to the ranch. "mr. james carbhoy is my father," he cried sharply, "and if that don't penetrate your perfectly ridiculous brain-box i'll add that i'm the son of my father--mr. james carbhoy. are you needing anything, or--will you get busy?" steve mason decided to "get busy," and so the message winged its way over the wires. the end by the same author the son of his father the men who wrought the golden woman the law-breakers the way of the strong the twins of suffering creek the night-riders the one-way trail the trail of the axe the sheriff of dyke hole the watchers of the plains [photo, from the play, of shirley appealing to mr. ryder] "go to washington and save my father's life."--act iii. _frontispiece._ the lion and the mouse by charles klein a story _of_ american life novelized from the play by arthur hornblow "judges and senators have been bought for gold; love and esteem have never been sold."--pope * * * * * illustrated by stuart travis and scenes from the play * * * * * grosset & dunlap publishers--new york g.w. dillingham company _entered at stationers' hall, london_ issued august, contents chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii chapter xiii chapter xiv chapter xv chapter xvi _the lion and the mouse_ chapter i there was unwonted bustle in the usually sleepy and dignified new york offices of the southern and transcontinental railroad company in lower broadway. the supercilious, well-groomed clerks who, on ordinary days, are far too preoccupied with their own personal affairs to betray the slightest interest in anything not immediately concerning them, now condescended to bestir themselves and, gathered in little groups, conversed in subdued, eager tones. the slim, nervous fingers of half a dozen haughty stenographers, representing as many different types of business femininity, were busily rattling the keys of clicking typewriters, each of their owners intent on reducing with all possible despatch the mass of letters which lay piled up in front of her. through the heavy plate-glass swinging doors, leading to the elevators and thence to the street, came and went an army of messengers and telegraph boys, noisy and insolent. through the open windows the hoarse shouting of news-venders, the rushing of elevated trains, the clanging of street cars, with the occasional feverish dash of an ambulance--all these familiar noises of a great city had the far-away sound peculiar to top floors of the modern sky-scraper. the day was warm and sticky, as is not uncommon in early may, and the overcast sky and a distant rumbling of thunder promised rain before night. the big express elevators, running smoothly and swiftly, unloaded every few moments a number of prosperous-looking men who, chatting volubly and affably, made their way immediately through the outer offices towards another and larger inner office on the glass door of which was the legend "directors room. private." each comer gave a patronizing nod in recognition of the deferential salutation of the clerks. earlier arrivals had preceded them, and as they opened the door there issued from the directors room a confused murmur of voices, each different in pitch and tone, some deep and deliberate, others shrill and nervous, but all talking earnestly and with animation as men do when the subject under discussion is of common interest. now and again a voice was heard high above the others, denoting anger in the speaker, followed by the pleading accents of the peace-maker, who was arguing his irate colleague into calmness. at intervals the door opened to admit other arrivals, and through the crack was caught a glimpse of a dozen directors, some seated, some standing near a long table covered with green baize. it was the regular quarterly meeting of the directors of the southern and transcontinental railroad company, but it was something more than mere routine that had called out a quorum of such strength and which made to-day's gathering one of extraordinary importance in the history of the road. that the business on hand was of the greatest significance was easily to be inferred from the concerned and anxious expression on the directors' faces and the eagerness of the employés as they plied each other with questions. "suppose the injunction is sustained?" asked a clerk in a whisper. "is not the road rich enough to bear the loss?" the man he addressed turned impatiently to the questioner: "that's all you know about railroading. don't you understand that this suit we have lost will be the entering wedge for hundreds of others. the very existence of the road may be at stake. and between you and me," he added in a lower key, "with judge rossmore on the bench we never stood much show. it's judge rossmore that scares 'em, not the injunction. they've found it easy to corrupt most of the supreme court judges, but judge rossmore is one too many for them. you could no more bribe him than you could have bribed abraham lincoln." "but the newspapers say that he, too, has been caught accepting $ , worth of stock for that decision he rendered in the great northwestern case." "lies! all those stories are lies," replied the other emphatically. then looking cautiously around to make sure no one overheard he added contemptuously, "the big interests fear him, and they're inventing these lies to try and injure him. they might as well try to blow up gibraltar. the fact is the public is seriously aroused this time and the railroads are in a panic." it was true. the railroad, which heretofore had considered itself superior to law, had found itself checked in its career of outlawry and oppression. the railroad, this modern octopus of steam and steel which stretches its greedy tentacles out over the land, had at last been brought to book. at first, when the country was in the earlier stages of its development, the railroad appeared in the guise of a public benefactor. it brought to the markets of the east the produce of the south and west. it opened up new and inaccessible territory and made oases of waste places. it brought to the city coal, lumber, food and other prime necessaries of life, taking back to the farmer and the woodsman in exchange, clothes and other manufactured goods. thus, little by little, the railroad wormed itself into the affections of the people and gradually became an indispensable part of the life it had itself created. tear up the railroad and life itself is extinguished. so when the railroad found it could not be dispensed with, it grew dissatisfied with the size of its earnings. legitimate profits were not enough. its directors cried out for bigger dividends, and from then on the railroad became a conscienceless tyrant, fawning on those it feared and crushing without mercy those who were defenceless. it raised its rates for hauling freight, discriminating against certain localities without reason or justice, and favouring other points where its own interests lay. by corrupting government officials and other unlawful methods it appropriated lands, and there was no escape from its exactions and brigandage. other roads were built, and for a brief period there was held out the hope of relief that invariably comes from honest competition. but the railroad either absorbed its rivals or pooled interests with them, and thereafter there were several masters instead of one. soon the railroads began to war among themselves, and in a mad scramble to secure business at any price they cut each other's rates and unlawfully entered into secret compacts with certain big shippers, permitting the latter to enjoy lower freight rates than their competitors. the smaller shippers were soon crushed out of existence in this way. competition was throttled and prices went up, making the railroad barons richer and the people poorer. that was the beginning of the giant trusts, the greatest evil american civilization has yet produced, and one which, unless checked, will inevitably drag this country into the throes of civil strife. from out this quagmire of corruption and rascality emerged the colossus, a man so stupendously rich and with such unlimited powers for evil that the world has never looked upon his like. the famous croesus, whose fortune was estimated at only eight millions in our money, was a pauper compared with john burkett ryder, whose holdings no man could count, but which were approximately estimated at a thousand millions of dollars. the railroads had created the trust, the ogre of corporate greed, of which ryder was the incarnation, and in time the trust became master of the railroads, which after all seemed but retributive justice. john burkett ryder, the richest man in the world--the man whose name had spread to the farthest corners of the earth because of his wealth, and whose money, instead of being a blessing, promised to become not only a curse to himself but a source of dire peril to all mankind--was a genius born of the railroad age. no other age could have brought him forth; his peculiar talents fitted exactly the conditions of his time. attracted early in life to the newly discovered oil fields of pennsylvania, he became a dealer in the raw product and later a refiner, acquiring with capital, laboriously saved, first one refinery, then another. the railroads were cutting each other's throats to secure the freight business of the oil men, and john burkett ryder saw his opportunity. he made secret overtures to the road, guaranteeing a vast amount of business if he could get exceptionally low rates, and the illegal compact was made. his competitors, undersold in the market, stood no chance, and one by one they were crushed out of existence. ryder called these manoeuvres "business"; the world called them brigandage. but the colossus prospered and slowly built up the foundations of the extraordinary fortune which is the talk and the wonder of the world to-day. master now of the oil situation, ryder succeeded in his ambition of organizing the empire trading company, the most powerful, the most secretive, and the most wealthy business institution the commercial world has yet known. yet with all this success john burkett ryder was still not content. he was now a rich man, richer by many millions that he had dreamed he could ever be, but still he was unsatisfied. he became money mad. he wanted to be richer still, to be the richest man in the world, the richest man the world had ever known. and the richer he got the stronger the idea grew upon him with all the force of a morbid obsession. he thought of money by day, he dreamt of it at night. no matter by what questionable device it was to be procured, more gold and more must flow into his already overflowing coffers. so each day, instead of spending the rest of his years in peace, in the enjoyment of the wealth he had accumulated, he went downtown like any twenty-dollar-a-week clerk to the tall building in lower broadway and, closeted with his associates, toiled and plotted to make more money. he acquired vast copper mines and secured control of this and that railroad. he had invested heavily in the southern and transcontinental road and was chairman of its board of directors. then he and his fellow-conspirators planned a great financial coup. the millions were not coming in fast enough. they must make a hundred millions at one stroke. they floated a great mining company to which the public was invited to subscribe. the scheme having the endorsement of the empire trading company no one suspected a snare, and such was the magic of john ryder's name that gold flowed in from every point of the compass. the stock sold away above par the day it was issued. men deemed themselves fortunate if they were even granted an allotment. what matter if, a few days later, the house of cards came tumbling down, and a dozen suicides were strewn along wall street, that sinister thoroughfare which, as a wit has said, has a graveyard at one end and the river at the other! had ryder any twinges of conscience? hardly. had he not made a cool twenty millions by the deal? yet this commercial pirate, this napoleon of finance, was not a wholly bad man. he had his redeeming qualities, like most bad men. his most pronounced weakness, and the one that had made him the most conspicuous man of his time, was an entire lack of moral principle. no honest or honourable man could have amassed such stupendous wealth. in other words, john ryder had not been equipped by nature with a conscience. he had no sense of right, or wrong, or justice where his own interests were concerned. he was the prince of egoists. on the other hand, he possessed qualities which, with some people, count as virtues. he was pious and regular in his attendance at church and, while he had done but little for charity, he was known to have encouraged the giving of alms by the members of his family, which consisted of a wife, whose timid voice was rarely heard, and a son jefferson, who was the destined successor to his gigantic estate. such was the man who was the real power behind the southern and transcontinental railroad. more than anyone else ryder had been aroused by the present legal action, not so much for the money interest at stake as that any one should dare to thwart his will. it had been a pet scheme of his, this purchase for a song, when the land was cheap, of some thousand acres along the line, and it is true that at the time of the purchase there had been some idea of laying the land out as a park. but real estate values had increased in astonishing fashion, the road could no longer afford to carry out the original scheme, and had attempted to dispose of the property for building purposes, including a right of way for a branch road. the news, made public in the newspapers, had raised a storm of protest. the people in the vicinity claimed that the railroad secured the land on the express condition of a park being laid out, and in order to make a legal test they had secured an injunction, which had been sustained by judge rossmore of the united states circuit court. these details were hastily told and re-told by one clerk to another as the babel of voices in the inner room grew louder, and more directors kept arriving from the ever-busy elevators. the meeting was called for three o'clock. another five minutes and the chairman would rap for order. a tall, strongly built man with white moustache and kindly smile emerged from the directors room and, addressing one of the clerks, asked: "has mr. ryder arrived yet?" the alacrity with which the employé hastened forward to reply would indicate that his interlocutor was a person of more than ordinary importance. "no, senator, not yet. we expect him any minute." then with a deferential smile he added: "mr. ryder usually arrives on the stroke, sir." the senator gave a nod of acquiescence and, turning on his heel, greeted with a grasp of the hand and affable smile his fellow-directors as they passed in by twos and threes. senator roberts was in the world of politics what his friend john burkett ryder was in the world of finance--a leader of men. he started life in wisconsin as an errand boy, was educated in the public schools, and later became clerk in a dry-goods store, finally going into business for his own account on a large scale. he was elected to the legislature, where his ability as an organizer soon gained the friendship of the men in power, and later was sent to congress, where he was quickly initiated in the game of corrupt politics. in he entered the united states senate. he soon became the acknowledged leader of a considerable majority of the republican senators, and from then on he was a figure to be reckoned with. a very ambitious man, with a great love of power and few scruples, it is little wonder that only the practical or dishonest side of politics appealed to him. he was in politics for all there was in it, and he saw in his lofty position only a splendid opportunity for easy graft. he did not hesitate to make such alliances with corporate interests seeking influence at washington as would enable him to accomplish this purpose, and in this way he had met and formed a strong friendship with john burkett ryder. each being a master in his own field was useful to the other. neither was troubled with qualms of conscience, so they never quarrelled. if the ryder interests needed anything in the senate, roberts and his followers were there to attend to it. just now the cohort was marshalled in defence of the railroads against the attacks of the new rebate bill. in fact, ryder managed to keep the senate busy all the time. when, on the other hand, the senators wanted anything--and they often did--ryder saw that they got it, lower rates for this one, a fat job for that one, not forgetting themselves. senator roberts was already a very rich man, and although the world often wondered where he got it, no one had the courage to ask him. but the republican leader was stirred with an ambition greater than that of controlling a majority in the senate. he had a daughter, a marriageable young woman who, at least in her father's opinion, would make a desirable wife for any man. his friend ryder had a son, and this son was the only heir to the greatest fortune ever amassed by one man, a fortune which, at its present rate of increase, by the time the father died and the young couple were ready to inherit, would probably amount to over _six billions of dollars_. could the human mind grasp the possibilities of such a colossal fortune? it staggered the imagination. its owner, or the man who controlled it, would be master of the world! was not this a prize any man might well set himself out to win? the senator was thinking of it now as he stood exchanging banal remarks with the men who accosted him. if he could only bring off that marriage he would be content. the ambition of his life would be attained. there was no difficulty as far as john ryder was concerned. he favoured the match and had often spoken of it. indeed, ryder desired it, for such an alliance would naturally further his business interests in every way. roberts knew that his daughter kate had more than a liking for ryder's handsome young son. moreover, kate was practical, like her father, and had sense enough to realize what it would mean to be the mistress of the ryder fortune. no, kate was all right, but there was young ryder to reckon with. it would take two in this case to make a bargain. jefferson ryder was, in truth, an entirely different man from his father. it was difficult to realize that both had sprung from the same stock. a college-bred boy with all the advantages his father's wealth could give him, he had inherited from the parent only those characteristics which would have made him successful even if born poor--activity, pluck, application, dogged obstinacy, alert mentality. to these qualities he added what his father sorely lacked--a high notion of honour, a keen sense of right and wrong. he had the honest man's contempt for meanness of any description, and he had little patience with the lax so-called business morals of the day. for him a dishonourable or dishonest action could have no apologist, and he could see no difference between the crime of the hungry wretch who stole a loaf of bread and the coal baron who systematically robbed both his employés and the public. in fact, had he been on the bench he would probably have acquitted the human derelict who, in despair, had appropriated the prime necessary of life, and sent the over-fed, conscienceless coal baron to jail. "do unto others as you would have others do unto you." this simple and fundamental axiom jefferson ryder had adopted early in life, and it had become his religion--the only one, in fact, that he had. he was never pious like his father, a fact much regretted by his mother, who could see nothing but eternal damnation in store for her son because he never went to church and professed no orthodox creed. she knew him to be a good lad, but to her simple mind a conduct of life based merely on a system of moral philosophy was the worst kind of paganism. there could, she argued, be no religion, and assuredly no salvation, outside the dogmatic teachings of the church. but otherwise jefferson was a model son and, with the exception of this bad habit of thinking for himself on religious matters, really gave her no anxiety. when jefferson left college, his father took him into the empire trading company with the idea of his eventually succeeding him as head of the concern, but the different views held by father and son on almost every subject soon led to stormy scenes that made the continuation of the arrangement impossible. senator roberts was well aware of these unfortunate independent tendencies in john ryder's son, and while he devoutly desired the consummation of jefferson's union with his daughter, he quite realized that the young man was a nut which was going to be exceedingly hard to crack. "hello, senator, you're always on time!" disturbed in his reflections, senator roberts looked up and saw the extended hand of a red-faced, corpulent man, one of the directors. he was no favourite with the senator, but the latter was too keen a man of the world to make enemies uselessly, so he condescended to place two fingers in the outstretched fat palm. "how are you, mr. grimsby? well, what are we going to do about this injunction? the case has gone against us. i knew judge rossmore's decision would be for the other side. public opinion is aroused. the press--" mr. grimsby's red face grew more apoplectic as he blurted out: "public opinion and the press be d----d. who cares for public opinion? what is public opinion, anyhow? this road can manage its own affairs or it can't. if it can't i for one quit railroading. the press! pshaw! it's all graft, i tell you. it's nothing but a strike! i never knew one of these virtuous outbursts that wasn't. first the newspapers bark ferociously to advertise themselves; then they crawl round and whine like a cur. and it usually costs something to fix matters." the senator smiled grimly. "no, no, grimsby--not this time. it's more serious than that. hitherto the road has been unusually lucky in its bench decisions--" the senator gave a covert glance round to see if any long ears were listening. then he added: "we can't expect always to get a favourable decision like that in the cartwright case, when franchise rights valued at nearly five millions were at stake. judge stollmann proved himself a true friend in that affair." grimsby made a wry grimace as he retorted: "yes, and it was worth it to him. a supreme court judge don't get a cheque for $ , every day. that represents two years' pay." "it might represent two years in jail if it were found out," said the senator with a forced laugh, grimsby saw an opportunity, and he could not resist the temptation. bluntly he said: "as far as jail's concerned, others might be getting their deserts there too." the senator looked keenly at grimsby from under his white eyebrows. then in a calm, decisive tone he replied: "it's no question of a cheque this time. the road could not buy judge rossmore with $ , . he is absolutely unapproachable in that way." the apoplectic face of mr. grimsby looked incredulous. it was hard for these men who plotted in the dark, and cheated the widow and the orphan for love of the dollar, to understand that there were in the world, breathing the same air as they, men who put honour, truth and justice above mere money-getting. with a slight tinge of sarcasm he asked: "is there any man in our public life who is unapproachable from some direction or other?" "yes, judge rossmore is such a man. he is one of the few men in american public life who takes his duties seriously. in the strictest sense of the term, he serves his country instead of serving himself. i am no friend of his, but i must do him that justice." he spoke sharply, in an irritated tone, as if resenting the insinuation of this vulgarian that every man in public life had his price. roberts knew that the charge was true as far as he and the men he consorted with were concerned, but sometimes the truth hurts. that was why he had for a moment seemed to champion judge rossmore, which, seeing that the judge himself was at that very moment under a cloud, was an absurd thing for him to do. he had known rossmore years before when the latter was a city magistrate in new york. that was before he, roberts, had become a political grafter and when the decent things in life still appealed to him. the two men, although having few interests in common, had seen a good deal of one another until roberts went to washington when their relations were completely severed. but he had always watched rossmore's career, and when he was made a judge of the supreme court at a comparatively early age he was sincerely glad. if anything could have convinced roberts that success can come in public life to a man who pursues it by honest methods it was the success of james rossmore. he could never help feeling that rossmore had been endowed by nature with certain qualities which had been denied to him, above all that ability to walk straight through life with skirts clean which he had found impossible himself. to-day judge rossmore was one of the most celebrated judges in the country. he was a brilliant jurist and a splendid after-dinner speaker. he was considered the most learned and able of all the members of the judiciary, and his decisions were noted as much for their fearlessness as for their wisdom. but what was far more, he enjoyed a reputation for absolute integrity. until now no breath of slander, no suspicion of corruption, had ever touched him. even his enemies acknowledged that. and that is why there was a panic to-day among the directors of the southern and transcontinental railroad. this honest, upright man had been called upon in the course of his duty to decide matters of vital importance to the road, and the directors were ready to stampede because, in their hearts, they knew the weakness of their case and the strength of the judge. grimsby, unconvinced, returned to the charge. "what about these newspaper charges? did judge rossmore take a bribe from the great northwestern or didn't he? you ought to know." "i do know," answered the senator cautiously and somewhat curtly, "but until mr. ryder arrives i can say nothing. i believe he has been inquiring into the matter. he will tell us when he comes." the hands of the large clock in the outer room pointed to three. an active, dapper little man with glasses and with books under his arm passed hurriedly from another office into the directors room. "there goes mr. lane with the minutes. the meeting is called. where's mr. ryder?" there was a general move of the scattered groups of directors toward the committee room. the clock overhead began to strike. the last stroke had not quite died away when the big swinging doors from the street were thrown open and there entered a tall, thin man, gray-headed, and with a slight stoop, but keen eyed and alert. he was carefully dressed in a well-fitting frock coat, white waistcoat, black tie and silk hat. it was john burkett ryder, the colossus. chapter ii at fifty-six, john burkett ryder was surprisingly well preserved. with the exception of the slight stoop, already noted, and the rapidly thinning snow-white hair, his step was as light and elastic, and his brain as vigorous and alert, as in a man of forty. of old english stock, his physical make-up presented all those strongly marked characteristics of our race which, sprung from anglo-saxon ancestry, but modified by nearly years of different climate and customs, has gradually produced the distinct and true american type, as easily recognizable among the family of nations as any other of the earth's children. tall and distinguished-looking, ryder would have attracted attention anywhere. men who have accomplished much in life usually bear plainly upon their persons the indefinable stamp of achievement, whether of good or evil, which renders them conspicuous among their fellows. we turn after a man in the street and ask, who is he? and nine times out of ten the object of our curiosity is a man who has made his mark--a successful soldier, a famous sailor, a celebrated author, a distinguished lawyer, or even a notorious crook. there was certainly nothing in john ryder's outward appearance to justify lombroso's sensational description of him: "a social and physiological freak, a degenerate and a prodigy of turpitude who, in the pursuit of money, crushes with the insensibility of a steel machine everyone who stands in his way." on the contrary, ryder, outwardly at least, was a prepossessing-looking man. his head was well-shaped, and he had an intellectual brow, while power was expressed in every gesture of his hands and body. every inch of him suggested strength and resourcefulness. his face, when in good humour, frequently expanded in a pleasant smile, and he had even been known to laugh boisterously, usually at his own stories, which he rightly considered very droll, and of which he possessed a goodly stock. but in repose his face grew stern and forbidding, and when his prognathous jaw, indicative of will-power and bull-dog tenacity, snapped to with a click-like sound, those who heard it knew that squalls were coming. but it was john ryder's eyes that were regarded as the most reliable barometer of his mental condition. wonderful eyes they were, strangely eloquent and expressive, and their most singular feature was that they possessed the uncanny power of changing colour like a cat's. when their owner was at peace with the world, and had temporarily shaken off the cares of business, his eyes were of the most restful, beautiful blue, like the sky after sunrise on a spring morning, and looking into their serene depths it seemed absurd to think that this man could ever harm a fly. his face, while under the spell of this kindly mood, was so benevolent and gentle, so frank and honest that you felt there was nothing in the world--purse, honour, wife, child--that, if needs be, you would not entrust to his keeping. when this period of truce was ended, when the plutocrat was once more absorbed in controlling the political as well as the commercial machinery of the nation, then his eyes took on a snakish, greenish hue, and one could plainly read in them the cunning, the avariciousness, the meanness, the insatiable thirst for gain that had made this man the most unscrupulous money-getter of his time. but his eyes had still another colour, and when this last transformation took place those dependent on him, and even his friends, quaked with fear. for they were his eyes of anger. on these dreaded occasions his eyes grew black as darkest night and flashed fire as lightning rends the thundercloud. almost ungovernable fury was, indeed, the weakest spot in john ryder's armour, for in these moments of appalling wrath he was reckless of what he said or did, friendship, self-interest, prudence--all were sacrificed. such was the colossus on whom all eyes were turned as he entered. instantly the conversations stopped as by magic. the directors nudged each other and whispered. instinctively, ryder singled out his crony, senator roberts, who advanced with effusive gesture: "hello, senator!" "you're punctual as usual, mr. ryder. i never knew you to be late!" the great man chuckled, and the little men standing around, listening breathlessly, chuckled in respectful sympathy, and they elbowed and pushed one another in their efforts to attract ryder's notice, like so many cowardly hyenas not daring to approach the lordly wolf. senator roberts made a remark in a low tone to ryder, whereupon the latter laughed. the bystanders congratulated each other silently. the great man was pleased to be in a good humour. and as ryder turned with the senator to enter the directors room the light from the big windows fell full on his face, and they noticed that his eyes were of the softest blue. "no squalls to-day," whispered one. "wait and see," retorted a more experienced colleague. "those eyes are more fickle than the weather." outside the sky was darkening, and drops of rain were already falling. a flash of lightning presaged the coming storm. ryder passed on and into the directors room followed by senator roberts and the other directors, the procession being brought up by the dapper little secretary bearing the minutes. the long room with its narrow centre table covered with green baize was filled with directors scattered in little groups and all talking at once with excited gesture. at the sight of ryder the chattering stopped as if by common consent, and the only sound audible was of the shuffling of feet and the moving of chairs as the directors took their places around the long table. with a nod here and there ryder took his place in the chairman's seat and rapped for order. then at a sign from the chair the dapper little secretary began in a monotonous voice to read the minutes of the previous meeting. no one listened, a few directors yawned. others had their eyes riveted on ryder's face, trying to read there if he had devised some plan to offset the crushing blow of this adverse decision, which meant a serious loss to them all. he, the master mind, had served them in many a like crisis in the past. could he do so again? but john ryder gave no sign. his eyes, still of the same restful blue, were fixed on the ceiling watching a spider marching with diabolical intent on a wretched fly that had become entangled in its web. and as the secretary ambled monotonously on, ryder watched and watched until he saw the spider seize its helpless prey and devour it. fascinated by the spectacle, which doubtless suggested to him some analogy to his own methods, ryder sat motionless, his eyes fastened on the ceiling, until the sudden stopping of the secretary's reading aroused him and told him that the minutes were finished. quickly they were approved, and the chairman proceeded as rapidly as possible with the regular business routine. that disposed of, the meeting was ready for the chief business of the day. ryder then calmly proceeded to present the facts in the case. some years back the road had acquired as an investment some thousands of acres of land located in the outskirts of auburndale, on the line of their road. the land was bought cheap, and there had been some talk of laying part of it out as a public park. this promise had been made at the time in good faith, but it was no condition of the sale. if, afterwards, owing to the rise in the value of real estate, the road found it impossible to carry out the original idea, surely they were masters of their own property! the people of auburndale thought differently and, goaded on by the local newspapers, had begun action in the courts to restrain the road from diverting the land from its alleged original purpose. they had succeeded in getting the injunction, but the road had fought it tooth and nail, and finally carried it to the supreme court, where judge rossmore, after reserving his opinion, had finally sustained the injunction and decided against the railroad. that was the situation, and he would now like to hear from the members of the board. mr. grimsby rose. self-confident and noisily loquacious, as most men of his class are in simple conversation, he was plainly intimidated at speaking before such a crowd. he did not know where to look nor what to do with his hands, and he shuffled uneasily on his feet, while streams of nervous perspiration ran down his fat face, which he mopped repeatedly with a big coloured handkerchief. at last, taking courage, he began: "mr. chairman, for the past ten years this road has made bigger earnings in proportion to its carrying capacity than any other railroad in the united states. we have had fewer accidents, less injury to rolling stock, less litigation and bigger dividends. the road has been well managed and"--here he looked significantly in ryder's direction--"there has been a big brain behind the manager. we owe you that credit, mr. ryder!" cries of "hear! hear!" came from all round the table. ryder bowed coldly, and mr. grimsby continued: "but during the last year or two things have gone wrong. there has been a lot of litigation, most of which has gone against us, and it has cost a heap of money. it reduced the last quarterly dividend very considerably, and the new complication--this auburndale suit, which also has gone against us--is going to make a still bigger hole in our exchequer. gentlemen, i don't want to be a prophet of misfortune, but i'll tell you this--unless something is done to stop this hostility in the courts you and i stand to lose every cent we have invested in the road. this suit which we have just lost means a number of others. what i would ask our chairman is what has become of his former good relations with the supreme court, what has become of his influence, which never failed us. what are these rumours regarding judge rossmore? he is charged in the newspapers with having accepted a present from a road in whose favour he handed down a very valuable decision. how is it that our road cannot reach judge rossmore and make him presents?" the speaker sat down, flushed and breathless. the expression on every face showed that the anxiety was general. the directors glanced at ryder, but his face was expressionless as marble. apparently he took not the slightest interest in this matter which so agitated his colleagues. another director rose. he was a better speaker than mr. grimsby, but his voice had a hard, rasping quality that smote the ears unpleasantly. he said: "mr. chairman, none of us can deny what mr. grimsby has just put before us so vividly. we are threatened not with one, but with a hundred such suits, unless something is done either to placate the public or to render its attacks harmless. rightly or wrongly, the railroad is hated by the people, yet we are only what railroad conditions compel us to be. with the present fierce competition, no fine question of ethics can enter into our dealings as a business organization. with an irritated public and press on one side, and a hostile judiciary on the other, the outlook certainly is far from bright. but is the judiciary hostile? is it not true that we have been singularly free from litigation until recently, and that most of the decisions were favourable to the road? judge rossmore is the real danger. while he is on the bench the road is not safe. yet all efforts to reach him have failed and will fail. i do not take any stock in the newspaper stories regarding judge rossmore. they are preposterous. judge rossmore is too strong a man to be got rid of so easily." the speaker sat down and another rose, his arguments being merely a reiteration of those already heard. ryder did not listen to what was being said. why should he? was he not familiar with every possible phase of the game? better than these men who merely talked, he was planning how the railroad and all his other interests could get rid of this troublesome judge. it was true. he who controlled legislatures and dictated to supreme court judges had found himself powerless when each turn of the legal machinery had brought him face to face with judge rossmore. suit after suit had been decided against him and the interests he represented, and each time it was judge rossmore who had handed down the decision. so for years these two men had fought a silent but bitter duel in which principle on the one side and attempted corruption on the other were the gauge of battle. judge rossmore fought with the weapons which his oath and the law directed him to use, ryder with the only weapons he understood--bribery and trickery. and each time it had been rossmore who had emerged triumphant. despite every manoeuvre ryder's experience could suggest, notwithstanding every card that could be played to undermine his credit and reputation, judge rossmore stood higher in the country's confidence than when he was first appointed. so when ryder found he could not corrupt this honest judge with gold, he decided to destroy him with calumny. he realized that the sordid methods which had succeeded with other judges would never prevail with rossmore, so he plotted to take away from this man the one thing he cherished most--his honour. he would ruin him by defaming his character, and so skilfully would he accomplish his work that the judge himself would realize the hopelessness of resistance. no scruples embarrassed ryder in arriving at this determination. from his point of view he was fully justified. "business is business. he hurts my interests; therefore i remove him." so he argued, and he considered it no more wrong to wreck the happiness of this honourable man than he would to have shot a burglar in self-defence. so having thus tranquillized his conscience he had gone to work in his usually thorough manner, and his success had surpassed the most sanguine expectations. this is what he had done. like many of our public servants whose labours are compensated only in niggardly fashion by an inconsiderate country, judge rossmore was a man of but moderate means. his income as justice of the supreme court was $ , a year, but for a man in his position, having a certain appearance to keep up, it little more than kept the wolf from the door. he lived quietly but comfortably in new york city with his wife and his daughter shirley, an attractive young woman who had graduated from vassar and had shown a marked taste for literature. the daughter's education had cost a good deal of money, and this, together with life insurance and other incidentals of keeping house in new york, had about taken all he had. yet he had managed to save a little, and those years when he could put by a fifth of his salary the judge considered himself lucky. secretly, he was proud of his comparative poverty. at least the world could never ask him "where he got it." ryder was well acquainted with judge rossmore's private means. the two men had met at a dinner, and although ryder had tried to cultivate the acquaintance, he never received much encouragement. ryder's son jefferson, too, had met miss shirley rossmore and been much attracted to her, but the father having more ambitious plans for his heir quickly discouraged all attentions in that direction. he himself, however, continued to meet the judge casually, and one evening he contrived to broach the subject of profitable investments. the judge admitted that by careful hoarding and much stinting he had managed to save a few thousand dollars which he was anxious to invest in something good. quick as the keen-eyed vulture swoops down on its prey the wily financier seized the opportunity thus presented. and he took so much trouble in answering the judge's inexperienced questions, and generally made himself so agreeable, that the judge found himself regretting that he and ryder had, by force of circumstances, been opposed to each other in public life so long. ryder strongly recommended the purchase of alaskan mining stock, a new and booming enterprise which had lately become very active in the market. ryder said he had reasons to believe that the stock would soon advance, and now there was an opportunity to get it cheap. a few days after he had made the investment the judge was surprised to receive certificates of stock for double the amount he had paid for. at the same time he received a letter from the secretary of the company explaining that the additional stock was pool stock and not to be marketed at the present time. it was in the nature of a bonus to which he was entitled as one of the early shareholders. the letter was full of verbiage and technical details of which the judge understood nothing, but he thought it very liberal of the company, and putting the stock away in his safe soon forgot all about it. had he been a business man he would have scented peril. he would have realized that he had now in his possession $ , worth of stock for which he had not paid a cent, and furthermore had deposited it when a reorganization came. but the judge was sincerely grateful for ryder's apparently disinterested advice and wrote two letters to him, one in which he thanked him for the trouble he had taken, and another in which he asked him if he was sure the company was financially sound, as the investment he contemplated making represented all his savings. he added in the second letter that he had received stock for double the amount of his investment, and that being a perfect child in business transactions he had been unable to account for the extra $ , worth until the secretary of the company had written him assuring him that everything was in order. these letters ryder kept. from that time on the alaskan mining company underwent mysterious changes. new capitalists gained control and the name was altered to the great northwestern mining company. then it became involved in litigation, and one suit, the outcome of which meant millions to the company, was carried to the supreme court, where judge rossmore was sitting. the judge had by this time forgotten all about the company in which he owned stock. he did not even recall its name. he only knew vaguely that it was a mine and that it was situated in alaska. could he dream that the great northwestern mining company and the company to which he had entrusted his few thousands were one and the same? in deciding on the merits of the case presented to him right seemed to him to be plainly with the northwestern, and he rendered a decision to that effect. it was an important decision, involving a large sum, and for a day or two it was talked about. but as it was the opinion of the most learned and honest judge on the bench no one dreamed of questioning it. but very soon ugly paragraphs began to appear in the newspapers. one paper asked if it were true that judge rossmore owned stock in the great northwestern mining company which had recently benefited so signally by his decision. interviewed by a reporter, judge rossmore indignantly denied being interested in any way in the company. thereupon the same paper returned to the attack, stating that the judge must surely be mistaken as the records showed a sale of stock to him at the time the company was known as the alaskan mining company. when he read this the judge was overwhelmed. it was true then! they had not slandered him. it was he who had lied, but how innocently--how innocently! his daughter shirley, who was his greatest friend and comfort, was then in europe. she had gone to the continent to rest, after working for months on a novel which she had just published. his wife, entirely without experience in business matters and somewhat of an invalid, was helpless to advise him. but to his old and tried friend, ex-judge stott, judge rossmore explained the facts as they were. stott shook his head. "it's a conspiracy!" he cried. "and john b. ryder is behind it." rossmore refused to believe that any man could so deliberately try to encompass another's destruction, but when more newspaper stories came out he began to realize that stott was right and that his enemies had indeed dealt him a deadly blow. one newspaper boldly stated that judge rossmore was down on the mining company's books for $ , more stock than he had paid for, and it went on to ask if this were payment for the favourable decision just rendered. rossmore, helpless, child-like as he was in business matters, now fully realized the seriousness of his position. "my god! my god!" he cried, as he bowed his head down on his desk. and for a whole day he remained closeted in his library, no one venturing near him. as john ryder sat there sphinx-like at the head of the directors' table he reviewed all this in his mind. his own part in the work was now done and well done, and he had come to this meeting to-day to tell them of his triumph. the speaker, to whom he had paid such scant attention, resumed his seat, and there followed a pause and an intense silence which was broken only by the pattering of the rain against the big windows. the directors turned expectantly to ryder, waiting for him to speak. what could the colossus do now to save the situation? cries of "the chair! the chair!" arose on every side. senator roberts leaned over to ryder and whispered something in his ear. [pencil illustration of the meeting] he had come to this meeting to-day to tell them of his triumph.--_page ._ with an acquiescent gesture, john ryder tapped the table with his gavel and rose to address his fellow directors. instantly the room was silent again as the tomb. one might have heard a pin drop, so intense was the attention. all eyes were fixed on the chairman. the air itself seemed charged with electricity, that needed but a spark to set it ablaze. speaking deliberately and dispassionately, the master dissembler began. they had all listened carefully, he said, to what had been stated by previous speakers. the situation no doubt was very critical, but they had weathered worse storms and he had every reason to hope they would outlive this storm. it was true that public opinion was greatly incensed against the railroads and, indeed, against all organized capital, and was seeking to injure them through the courts. for a time this agitation would hurt business and lessen the dividends, for it meant not only smaller annual earnings but that a lot of money must be spent in washington. the eyes of the listeners, who were hanging on every word, involuntarily turned in the direction of senator roberts, but the latter, at that moment busily engaged in rummaging among a lot of papers, seemed to have missed this significant allusion to the road's expenses in the district of columbia. ryder continued: in his experience such waves of reform were periodical and soon wear themselves out, when things go on just as they did before. much of the agitation, doubtless, was a strike for graft. they would have to go down in their pockets, he supposed, and then these yellow newspapers and these yellow magazines that were barking at their heels would let them go. but in regard to the particular case now at issue--this auburndale decision--there had been no way of preventing it. influence had been used, but to no effect. the thing to do now was to prevent any such disasters in future by removing the author of them. the directors bent eagerly forward. had ryder really got some plan up his sleeve after all? the faces around the table looked brighter, and the directors cleared their throats and settled themselves down in their chairs as audiences do in the theatre when the drama is reaching its climax. the board, continued ryder with icy calmness, had perhaps heard, and also seen in the newspapers, the stories regarding judge rossmore and his alleged connection with the great northwestern company. perhaps they had not believed these stories. it was only natural. he had not believed them himself. but he had taken the trouble to inquire into the matter very carefully, and he regretted to say that the stories were true. in fact, they were no longer denied by judge rossmore himself. the directors looked at each other in amazement. gasps of astonishment, incredulity, satisfaction were heard all over the room. the rumours were true, then? was it possible? incredible! investigation, ryder went on, had shown that judge rossmore was not only interested in the company in whose favour, as judge of the supreme court, he had rendered an important decision, but what was worse, he had accepted from that company a valuable gift--that is, $ , worth of stock--for which he had given absolutely nothing in return unless, as some claimed, the weight of his influence on the bench. these facts were very ugly and so unanswerable that judge rossmore did not attempt to answer them, and the important news which he, the chairman, had to announce to his fellow-directors that afternoon, was that judge rossmore's conduct would be made the subject of an inquiry by congress. this was the spark that was needed to ignite the electrically charged air. a wild cry of triumph went up from this band of jackals only too willing to fatten their bellies at the cost of another man's ruin, and one director, in his enthusiasm, rose excitedly from his chair and demanded a vote of thanks for john ryder. ryder coldly opposed the motion. no thanks were due to him, he said deprecatingly, nor did he think the occasion called for congratulations of any kind. it was surely a sad spectacle to see this honoured judge, this devoted father, this blameless citizen threatened with ruin and disgrace on account of one false step. let them rather sympathize with him and his family in their misfortune. he had little more to tell. the congressional inquiry would take place immediately, and in all probability a demand would be made upon the senate for judge rossmore's impeachment. it was, he added, almost unnecessary for him to remind the board that, in the event of impeachment, the adverse decision in the auburndale case would be annulled and the road would be entitled to a new trial. ryder sat down, and pandemonium broke loose, the delighted directors tumbling over each other in their eagerness to shake hands with the man who had saved them. ryder had given no hint that he had been a factor in the working up of this case against their common enemy, in fact he had appeared to sympathise with him, but the directors knew well that he and he alone had been the master mind which had brought about the happy result. on a motion to adjourn, the meeting broke up, and everyone began to troop towards the elevators. outside the rain was now coming down in torrents and the lights that everywhere dotted the great city only paled when every few moments a vivid flash of lightning rent the enveloping gloom. ryder and senator roberts went down in the elevator together. when they reached the street the senator inquired in a low tone: "do you think they really believed rossmore was influenced in his decision?" ryder glanced from the lowering clouds overhead to his electric brougham which awaited him at the curb and replied indifferently: "not they. they don't care. all they want to believe is that he is to be impeached. the man was dangerous and had to be removed--no matter by what means. he is our enemy--my enemy--and i never give quarter to my enemies!" as he spoke his prognathous jaw snapped to with a click-like sound, and in his eyes now coal-black were glints of fire. at the same instant there was a blinding flash, accompanied by a terrific crash, and the splinters of the flag-pole on the building opposite, which had been struck by a bolt, fell at their feet. "a good or a bad omen?" asked the senator with a nervous laugh. he was secretly afraid of lightning; but was ashamed to admit it. "a bad omen for judge rossmore!" rejoined ryder coolly, as he slammed to the door of the cab, and the two men drove rapidly off in the direction of fifth avenue. chapter iii of all the spots on this fair, broad earth where the jaded globe wanderer, surfeited with hackneyed sight-seeing, may sit in perfect peace and watch the world go by, there is none more fascinating nor one presenting a more brilliant panorama of cosmopolitan life than that famous corner on the paris boulevards, formed by the angle of the boulevard des capucines and the place de l'opéra. here, on the "terrace" of the café de la paix, with its white and gold façade and long french windows, and its innumerable little marble-topped tables and rattan chairs, one may sit for hours at the trifling expense of a few _sous_, undisturbed even by the tip-seeking _garçon_, and, if one happens to be a student of human nature, find keen enjoyment in observing the world-types, representing every race and nationality under the sun, that pass and re-pass in a steady, never ceasing, exhaustless stream. the crowd surges to and fro, past the little tables, occasionally toppling over a chair or two in the crush, moving up or down the great boulevards, one procession going to the right, in the direction of the church of the madeleine, the other to the left heading toward the historic bastille, both really going nowhere in particular, but ambling gently and good humouredly along enjoying the sights--and life! paris, queen of cities! light-hearted, joyous, radiant paris--the playground of the nations, the mecca of the pleasure-seekers, the city beautiful! paris--the siren, frankly immoral, always seductive, ever caressing! city of a thousand political convulsions, city of a million crimes--her streets have run with human blood, horrors unspeakable have stained her history, civil strife has scarred her monuments, the german conqueror insolently has bivouaced within her walls. yet, like a virgin undefiled, she shows no sign of storm and stress, she offers her dimpled cheek to the rising sun, and when fall the shadows of night and a billion electric bulbs flash in the siren's crown, her resplendent, matchless beauty dazzles the world! as the supreme reward of virtue, the good american is promised a visit to paris when he dies. those, however, of our sagacious fellow countrymen who can afford to make the trip, usually manage to see lutetia before crossing the river styx. most americans like paris--some like it so well that they have made it their permanent home--although it must be added that in their admiration they rarely include the frenchman. for that matter, we are not as a nation particularly fond of any foreigner, largely because we do not understand him, while the foreigner for his part is quite willing to return the compliment. he gives the yankee credit for commercial smartness, which has built up america's great material prosperity; but he has the utmost contempt for our acquaintance with art, and no profound respect for us as scientists. is it not indeed fortunate that every nation finds itself superior to its neighbour? if this were not so each would be jealous of the other, and would cry with envy like a spoiled child who cannot have the moon to play with. happily, therefore, for the harmony of the world, each nation cordially detests the other and the much exploited "brotherhood of man" is only a figure of speech. the englishman, confident that he is the last word of creation, despises the frenchman, who, in turn, laughs at the german, who shows open contempt for the italian, while the american, conscious of his superiority to the whole family of nations, secretly pities them all. the most serious fault which the american--whose one god is mammon and chief characteristic hustle--has to find with his french brother is that he enjoys life too much, is never in a hurry and, what to the yankee mind is hardly respectable, has a habit of playing dominoes during business hours. the frenchman retorts that his american brother, clever person though he be, has one or two things still to learn. he has, he declares, no philosophy of life. it is true that he has learned the trick of making money, but in the things which go to satisfy the soul he is still strangely lacking. he thinks he is enjoying life, when really he is ignorant of what life is. he admits it is not the american's fault, for he has never been taught how to enjoy life. one must be educated to that as everything else. all the american is taught is to be in a perpetual hurry and to make money no matter how. in this mad daily race for wealth, he bolts his food, not stopping to masticate it properly, and consequently suffers all his life from dyspepsia. so he rushes from the cradle to the grave, and what's the good, since he must one day die like all the rest? and what, asks the foreigner, has the american hustler accomplished that his slower-going continental brother has not done as well? are finer cities to be found in america than in europe, do americans paint more beautiful pictures, or write more learned or more entertaining books, has america made greater progress in science? is it not a fact that the greatest inventors and scientists of our time--marconi, who gave to the world wireless telegraphy, professor curie, who discovered radium, pasteur, who found a cure for rabies, santos-dumont, who has almost succeeded in navigating the air, professor röntgen who discovered the x-ray--are not all these immortals europeans? and those two greatest mechanical inventions of our day, the automobile and the submarine boat, were they not first introduced and perfected in france before we in america woke up to appreciate their use? is it, therefore, not possible to take life easily and still achieve? the logic of these arguments, set forth in _le soir_ in an article on the new world, appealed strongly to jefferson ryder as he sat in front of the café de la paix, sipping a sugared vermouth. it was five o'clock, the magic hour of the _apéritif_, when the glutton taxes his wits to deceive his stomach and work up an appetite for renewed gorging. the little tables were all occupied with the usual before-dinner crowd. there were a good many foreigners, mostly english and americans and a few frenchmen, obviously from the provinces, with only a sprinkling of real parisians. jefferson's acquaintance with the french language was none too profound, and he had to guess at half the words in the article, but he understood enough to follow the writer's arguments. yes, it was quite true, he thought, the american idea of life was all wrong. what was the sense of slaving all one's life, piling up a mass of money one cannot possibly spend, when there is only one life to live? how much saner the man who is content with enough and enjoys life while he is able to. these frenchmen, and indeed all the continental nations, had solved the problem. the gaiety of their cities, and this exuberant joy of life they communicated to all about them, were sufficient proofs of it. fascinated by the gay scene around him jefferson laid the newspaper aside. to the young american, fresh from prosaic money-mad new york, the city of pleasure presented indeed a novel and beautiful spectacle. how different, he mused, from his own city with its one fashionable thoroughfare--fifth avenue--monotonously lined for miles with hideous brownstone residences, and showing little real animation except during the saturday afternoon parade when the activities of the smart set, male and female, centred chiefly in such exciting diversions as going to huyler's for soda, taking tea at the waldorf, and trying to outdo each other in dress and show. new york certainly was a dull place with all its boasted cosmopolitanism. there was no denying that. destitute of any natural beauty, handicapped by its cramped geographical position between two rivers, made unsightly by gigantic sky-scrapers and that noisy monstrosity the elevated railroad, having no intellectual interests, no art interests, no interest in anything not immediately connected with dollars, it was a city to dwell in and make money in, but hardly a city to _live_ in. the millionaires were building white-marble palaces, taxing the ingenuity and the originality of the native architects, and thus to some extent relieving the general ugliness and drab commonplaceness, while the merchant princes had begun to invade the lower end of the avenue with handsome shops. but in spite of all this, in spite of its pretty girls--and jefferson insisted that in this one important particular new york had no peer--in spite of its comfortable theatres and its wicked tenderloin, and its rialto made so brilliant at night by thousands of elaborate electric signs, new york still had the subdued air of a provincial town, compared with the exuberant gaiety, the multiple attractions, the beauties, natural and artificial, of cosmopolitan paris. the boulevards were crowded, as usual at that hour, and the crush of both vehicles and pedestrians was so great as to permit of only a snail-like progress. the clumsy three-horse omnibuses--madeleine-bastille--crowded inside and out with passengers and with their neatly uniformed drivers and conductors, so different in appearance and manner from our own slovenly street-car rowdies, were endeavouring to breast a perfect sea of _fiacres_ which, like a swarm of mosquitoes, appeared to be trying to go in every direction at once, their drivers vociferating torrents of vituperous abuse on every man, woman or beast unfortunate enough to get in their way. as a dispenser of unspeakable profanity, the paris _cocher_ has no equal. he is unique, no one can approach him. he also enjoys the reputation of being the worst driver in the world. if there is any possible way in which he can run down a pedestrian or crash into another vehicle he will do it, probably for the only reason that it gives him another opportunity to display his choice stock of picturesque expletives. but it was a lively, good-natured crowd and the fashionably gowned women and the well-dressed men, the fakirs hoarsely crying their catch-penny devices, the noble boulevards lined as far as the eye could reach with trees in full foliage, the magnificent opera house with its gilded dome glistening in the warm sunshine of a june afternoon, the broad avenue directly opposite, leading in a splendid straight line to the famous palais royal, the almost dazzling whiteness of the houses and monuments, the remarkable cleanliness and excellent condition of the sidewalks and streets, the gaiety and richness of the shops and restaurants, the picturesque kiosks where they sold newspapers and flowers--all this made up a picture so utterly unlike anything he was familiar with at home that jefferson sat spellbound, delighted. yes, it was true, he thought, the foreigner had indeed learned the secret of enjoying life. there was assuredly something else in the world beyond mere money-getting. his father was a slave to it, but he would never be. he was resolved on that. yet, with all his ideas of emancipation and progress, jefferson was a thoroughly practical young man. he fully understood the value of money, and the possession of it was as sweet to him as to other men. only he would never soil his soul in acquiring it dishonourably. he was convinced that society as at present organized was all wrong and that the feudalism of the middle ages had simply given place to a worse form of slavery--capitalistic driven labour--which had resulted in the actual iniquitous conditions, the enriching of the rich and the impoverishment of the poor. he was familiar with the socialistic doctrines of the day and had taken a keen interest in this momentous question, this dream of a regenerated mankind. he had read karl marx and other socialistic writers, and while his essentially practical mind could hardly approve all their programme for reorganizing the state, some of which seemed to him utopian, extravagant and even undesirable, he realised that the socialistic movement was growing rapidly all over the world and the day was not far distant when in america, as to-day in germany and france, it would be a formidable factor to reckon with. but until the socialistic millennium arrived and society was reorganized, money, he admitted, would remain the lever of the world, the great stimulus to effort. money supplied not only the necessities of life but also its luxuries, everything the material desire craved for, and so long as money had this magic purchasing power, so long would men lie and cheat and rob and kill for its possession. was life worth living without money? could one travel and enjoy the glorious spectacles nature affords--the rolling ocean, the majestic mountains, the beautiful lakes, the noble rivers--without money? could the book-lover buy books, the art-lover purchase pictures? could one have fine houses to live in, or all sorts of modern conveniences to add to one's comfort, without money? the philosophers declared contentment to be happiness, arguing that the hod-carrier was likely to be happier in his hut than the millionaire in his palace; but was not that mere animal contentment, the happiness which knows no higher state, the ignorance of one whose eyes have never been raised to the heights? no, jefferson was no fool. he loved money for what pleasure, intellectual or physical, it could give him, but he would never allow money to dominate his life as his father had done. his father, he knew well, was not a happy man, neither happy himself nor respected by the world. he had toiled all his life to make his vast fortune and now he toiled to take care of it. the galley slave led a life of luxurious ease compared with john burkett ryder. baited by the yellow newspapers and magazines, investigated by state committees, dogged by process-servers, haunted by beggars, harassed by blackmailers, threatened by kidnappers, frustrated in his attempts to bestow charity by the cry "tainted money"--certainly the lot of the world's richest man was far from being an enviable one. that is why jefferson had resolved to strike out for himself. he had warded off the golden yoke which his father proposed to put on his shoulders, declining the lucrative position made for him in the empire trading company, and he had gone so far as to refuse also the private income his father offered to settle on him. he would earn his own living. a man who has his bread buttered for him seldom accomplishes anything he had said, and while his father had appeared to be angry at this open opposition to his will, he was secretly pleased at his son's grit. jefferson was thoroughly in earnest. if needs be, he would forego the great fortune that awaited him rather than be forced into questionable business methods against which his whole manhood revolted. jefferson ryder felt strongly about these matters, and gave them more thought than would be expected of most young men with his opportunities. in fact, he was unusually serious for his age. he was not yet thirty, but he had done a great deal of reading, and he took a keen interest in all the political and sociological questions of the hour. in personal appearance, he was the type of man that both men and women like--tall and athletic looking, with smooth face and clean-cut features. he had the steel-blue eyes and the fighting jaw of his father, and when he smiled he displayed two even rows of very white teeth. he was popular with men, being manly, frank and cordial in his relations with them, and women admired him greatly, although they were somewhat intimidated by his grave and serious manner. the truth was that he was rather diffident with women, largely owing to lack of experience with them. he had never felt the slightest inclination for business. he had the artistic temperament strongly developed, and his personal tastes had little in common with wall street and its feverish stock manipulating. when he was younger, he had dreamed of a literary or art career. at one time he had even thought of going on the stage. but it was to art that he turned finally. from an early age he had shown considerable skill as a draughtsman, and later a two years' course at the academy of design convinced him that this was his true vocation. he had begun by illustrating for the book publishers and for the magazines, meeting at first with the usual rebuffs and disappointments, but, refusing to be discouraged, he had kept on and soon the tide turned. his drawings began to be accepted. they appeared first in one magazine, then in another, until one day, to his great joy, he received an order from an important firm of publishers for six wash-drawings to be used in illustrating a famous novel. this was the beginning of his real success. his illustrations were talked about almost as much as the book, and from that time on everything was easy. he was in great demand by the publishers, and very soon the young artist, who had begun his career of independence on nothing a year so to speak, found himself in a handsomely appointed studio in bryant park, with more orders coming in than he could possibly fill, and enjoying an income of little less than $ , a year. the money was all the sweeter to jefferson in that he felt he had himself earned every cent of it. this summer he was giving himself a well-deserved vacation, and he had come to europe partly to see paris and the other art centres about which his fellow students at the academy raved, but principally--although this he did not acknowledge even to himself--to meet in paris a young woman in whom he was more than ordinarily interested--shirley rossmore, daughter of judge rossmore, of the united states supreme court, who had come abroad to recuperate after the labours on her new novel, "the american octopus," a book which was then the talk of two hemispheres. jefferson had read half a dozen reviews of it in as many american papers that afternoon at the _new york herald's_ reading room in the avenue de l'opéra, and he chuckled with glee as he thought how accurately this young woman had described his father. the book had been published under the pseudonym "shirley green," and he alone had been admitted into the secret of authorship. the critics all conceded that it was the book of the year, and that it portrayed with a pitiless pen the personality of the biggest figure in the commercial life of america. "although," wrote one reviewer, "the leading character in the book is given another name, there can be no doubt that the author intended to give to the world a vivid pen portrait of john burkett ryder. she has succeeded in presenting a remarkable character-study of the most remarkable man of his time." he was particularly pleased with the reviews, not only for miss rossmore's sake, but also because his own vanity was gratified. had he not collaborated on the book to the extent of acquainting the author with details of his father's life, and his characteristics, which no outsider could possibly have learned? there had been no disloyalty to his father in doing this. jefferson admired his father's smartness, if he could not approve his methods. he did not consider the book an attack on his father, but rather a powerfully written pen picture of an extraordinary man. jefferson had met shirley rossmore two years before at a meeting of the schiller society, a pseudo-literary organization gotten up by a lot of old fogies for no useful purpose, and at whose monthly meetings the poet who gave the society its name was probably the last person to be discussed. he had gone out of curiosity, anxious to take in all the freak shows new york had to offer, and he had been introduced to a tall girl with a pale, thoughtful face and firm mouth. she was a writer, miss rossmore told him, and this was her first visit also to the evening receptions of the schiller society. half apologetically she added that it was likely to be her last, for, frankly, she was bored to death. but she explained that she had to go to these affairs, as she found them useful in gathering material for literary use. she studied types and eccentric characters, and this seemed to her a capital hunting ground. jefferson, who, as a rule, was timid with girls and avoided them, found this girl quite unlike the others he had known. her quiet, forceful demeanour appealed to him strongly, and he lingered with her, chatting about his work, which had so many interests in common with her own, until refreshments were served, when the affair broke up. this first meeting had been followed by a call at the rossmore residence, and the acquaintance had kept up until jefferson, for the first time since he came to manhood, was surprised and somewhat alarmed at finding himself strangely and unduly interested in a person of the opposite sex. the young artist's courteous manner, his serious outlook on life, his high moral principles, so rarely met with nowadays in young men of his age and class, could hardly fail to appeal to shirley, whose ideals of men had been somewhat rudely shattered by those she had hitherto met. above all, she demanded in a man the refinement of the true gentleman, together with strength of character and personal courage. that jefferson ryder came up to this standard she was soon convinced. he was certainly a gentleman: his views on a hundred topics of the hour expressed in numerous conversations assured her as to his principles, while a glance at his powerful physique left no doubt possible as to his courage. she rightly guessed that this was no _poseur_ trying to make an impression and gain her confidence. there was an unmistakable ring of sincerity in all his words, and his struggle at home with his father, and his subsequent brave and successful fight for his own independence and self-respect, more than substantiated all her theories. and the more shirley let her mind dwell on jefferson ryder and his blue eyes and serious manner, the more conscious she became that the artist was encroaching more upon her thoughts and time than was good either for her work or for herself. so their casual acquaintance grew into a real friendship and comradeship. further than that shirley promised herself it should never go. not that jefferson had given her the slightest hint that he entertained the idea of making her his wife one day, only she was sophisticated enough to know the direction in which run the minds of men who are abnormally interested in one girl, and long before this shirley had made up her mind that she would never marry. firstly, she was devoted to her father and could not bear the thought of ever leaving him; secondly, she was fascinated by her literary work and she was practical enough to know that matrimony, with its visions of slippers and cradles, would be fatal to any ambition of that kind. she liked jefferson immensely--more, perhaps, than any man she had yet met--and she did not think any the less of him because of her resolve not to get entangled in the meshes of cupid. in any case he had not asked her to marry him--perhaps the idea was far from his thoughts. meantime, she could enjoy his friendship freely without fear of embarrassing entanglements. when, therefore, she first conceived the idea of portraying in the guise of fiction the personality of john burkett ryder, the colossus of finance whose vast and ever-increasing fortune was fast becoming a public nuisance, she naturally turned to jefferson for assistance. she wanted to write a book that would be talked about, and which at the same time would open the eyes of the public to this growing peril in their midst--this monster of insensate and unscrupulous greed who, by sheer weight of his ill-gotten gold, was corrupting legislators and judges and trying to enslave the nation. the book, she argued, would perform a public service in awakening all to the common danger. jefferson fully entered into her views and had furnished her with the information regarding his father that she deemed of value. the book had proven a success beyond their most sanguine expectations, and shirley had come to europe for a rest after the many weary months of work that it took to write it. the acquaintance of his son with the daughter of judge rossmore had not escaped the eagle eye of ryder, sr., and much to the financier's annoyance, and even consternation, he had ascertained that jefferson was a frequent caller at the rossmore home. he immediately jumped to the conclusion that this could mean only one thing, and fearing what he termed "the consequences of the insanity of immature minds," he had summoned jefferson peremptorily to his presence. he told his son that all idea of marriage in that quarter was out of the question for two reasons: one was that judge rossmore was his most bitter enemy, the other was that he had hoped to see his son, his destined successor, marry a woman of whom he, ryder, sr., could approve. he knew of such a woman, one who would make a far more desirable mate than miss rossmore. he alluded, of course, to kate roberts, the pretty daughter of his old friend, the senator. the family interests would benefit by this alliance, which was desirable from every point of view. jefferson had listened respectfully until his father had finished and then grimly remarked that only one point of view had been overlooked--his own. he did not care for miss roberts; he did not think she really cared for him. the marriage was out of the question. whereupon ryder, sr., had fumed and raged, declaring that jefferson was opposing his will as he always did, and ending with the threat that if his son married shirley rossmore without his consent he would disinherit him. jefferson was cogitating on these incidents of the last few months when suddenly a feminine voice which he quickly recognised called out in english: "hello! mr. ryder." he looked up and saw two ladies, one young, the other middle aged, smiling at him from an open _fiacre_ which had drawn up to the curb. jefferson jumped from his seat, upsetting his chair and startling two nervous frenchmen in his hurry, and hastened out, hat in hand. "why, miss rossmore, what are you doing out driving?" he asked. "you know you and mrs. blake promised to dine with me to-night. i was coming round to the hotel in a few moments." mrs. blake was a younger sister of shirley's mother. her husband had died a few years previously, leaving her a small income, and when she had heard of her niece's contemplated trip to europe she had decided to come to paris to meet her and incidentally to chaperone her. the two women were stopping at the grand hotel close by, while jefferson had found accommodations at the athénée. shirley explained. her aunt wanted to go to the dressmaker's, and she herself was most anxious to go to the luxembourg gardens to hear the music. would he take her? then they could meet mrs. blake at the hotel at seven o'clock and all go to dinner. was he willing? was he? jefferson's face fairly glowed. he ran back to his table on the _terrasse_ to settle for his vermouth, astonished the waiter by not stopping to notice the short change he gave him, and rushed back to the carriage. a dirty little italian girl, shrewd enough to note the young man's attention to the younger of the american women, wheedled up to the carriage and thrust a bunch of flowers in jefferson's face. "_achetez des fleurs, monsieur, pour la jolie dame?_" down went jefferson's hand in his pocket and, filling the child's hand with small silver, he flung the flowers in the carriage. then he turned inquiringly to shirley for instructions so he could direct the _cocher_. mrs. blake said she would get out here. her dressmaker was close by, in the rue auber, and she would walk back to the hotel to meet them at seven o'clock. jefferson assisted her to alight and escorted her as far as the _porte-cochère_ of the modiste's, a couple of doors away. when he returned to the carriage, shirley had already told the coachman where to go. he got in and the _fiacre_ started. "now," said shirley, "tell me what you have been doing with yourself all day." jefferson was busily arranging the faded carriage rug about shirley, spending more time in the task perhaps than was absolutely necessary, and she had to repeat the question. "doing?" he echoed with a smile, "i've been doing two things--waiting impatiently for seven o'clock and incidentally reading the notices of your book." chapter iv "tell me, what do the papers say?" settling herself comfortably back in the carriage, shirley questioned jefferson with eagerness, even anxiety. she had been impatiently awaiting the arrival of the newspapers from "home," for so much depended on this first effort. she knew her book had been praised in some quarters, and her publishers had written her that the sales were bigger every day, but she was curious to learn how it had been received by the reviewers. in truth, it had been no slight achievement for a young writer of her inexperience, a mere tyro in literature, to attract so much attention with her first book. the success almost threatened to turn her head, she had told her aunt laughingly, although she was sure it could never do that. she fully realized that it was the subject rather than the skill of the narrator that counted in the book's success, also the fact that it had come out at a timely moment, when the whole world was talking of the money peril. had not president roosevelt, in a recent sensational speech, declared that it might be necessary for the state to curb the colossal fortunes of america, and was not her hero, john burkett ryder, the richest of them all? any way they looked at it, the success of the book was most gratifying. while she was an attractive, aristocratic-looking girl, shirley rossmore had no serious claims to academic beauty. her features were irregular, and the firm and rather thin mouth lines disturbed the harmony indispensable to plastic beauty. yet there was in her face something far more appealing--soul and character. the face of the merely beautiful woman expresses nothing, promises nothing. it presents absolutely no key to the soul within, and often there is no soul within to have a key to. perfect in its outlines and coloring, it is a delight to gaze upon, just as is a flawless piece of sculpture, yet the delight is only fleeting. one soon grows satiated, no matter how beautiful the face may be, because it is always the same, expressionless and soulless. "beauty is only skin deep," said the philosopher, and no truer dictum was ever uttered. the merely beautiful woman, who possesses only beauty and nothing else, is kept so busy thinking of her looks, and is so anxious to observe the impression her beauty makes on others, that she has neither the time nor the inclination for matters of greater importance. sensible men, as a rule, do not lose their hearts to women whose only assets are their good looks. they enjoy a flirtation with them, but seldom care to make them their wives. the marrying man is shrewd enough to realize that domestic virtues will be more useful in his household economy than all the academic beauty ever chiselled out of block marble. shirley was not beautiful, but hers was a face that never failed to attract attention. it was a thoughtful and interesting face, with an intellectual brow and large, expressive eyes, the face of a woman who had both brain power and ideals, and yet who, at the same time, was in perfect sympathy with the world. she was fair in complexion, and her fine brown eyes, alternately reflective and alert, were shaded by long dark lashes. her eyebrows were delicately arched, and she had a good nose. she wore her hair well off the forehead, which was broader than in the average woman, suggesting good mentality. her mouth, however, was her strongest feature. it was well shaped, but there were firm lines about it that suggested unusual will power. yet it smiled readily, and when it did there was an agreeable vision of strong, healthy-looking teeth of dazzling whiteness. she was a little over medium height and slender in figure, and carried herself with that unmistakable air of well-bred independence that bespeaks birth and culture. she dressed stylishly, and while her gowns were of rich material, and of a cut suggesting expensive modistes, she was always so quietly attired and in such perfect taste, that after leaving her one could never recall what she had on. at the special request of shirley, who wanted to get a glimpse of the latin quarter, the driver took a course down the avenue de l'opéra, that magnificent thoroughfare which starts at the opéra and ends at the théâtre français, and which, like many others that go to the beautifying of the capital, the parisians owe to the much-despised napoleon iii. the cab, jefferson told her, would skirt the palais royal and follow the rue de rivoli until it came to the châtelet, when it would cross the seine and drive up the boulevard st. michel--the students' boulevard--until it reached the luxembourg gardens. like most of his kind, the _cocher_ knew less than nothing of the art of driving, and he ran a reckless, zig-zag flight, in and out, forcing his way through a confusing maze of vehicles of every description, pulling first to the right, then to the left, for no good purpose that was apparent, and averting only by the narrowest of margins half a dozen bad collisions. at times the _fiacre_ lurched in such alarming fashion that shirley was visibly perturbed, but when jefferson assured her that all paris cabs travelled in this crazy fashion and nothing ever happened, she was comforted. "tell me," he repeated, "what do the papers say about the book?" "say?" he echoed. "why, simply that you've written the biggest book of the year, that's all!" "really! oh, do tell me all they said!" she was fairly excited now, and in her enthusiasm she grasped jefferson's broad, sunburnt hand which was lying outside the carriage rug. he tried to appear unconscious of the contact, which made his every nerve tingle, as he proceeded to tell her the gist of the reviews he had read that afternoon. "isn't that splendid!" she exclaimed, when he had finished. then she added quickly: "i wonder if your father has seen it?" jefferson grinned. he had something on his conscience, and this was a good opportunity to get rid of it. he replied laconically: "he probably has read it by this time. i sent him a copy myself." the instant the words were out of his mouth he was sorry, for shirley's face had changed colour. "you sent him a copy of 'the american octopus'?" she cried. "then he'll guess who wrote the book." "oh, no, he won't," rejoined jefferson calmly. "he has no idea who sent it to him. i mailed it anonymously." shirley breathed a sigh of relief. it was so important that her identity should remain a secret. as daughter of a supreme court judge she had to be most careful. she would not embarrass her father for anything in the world. but it was smart of jefferson to have sent ryder, sr., the book, so she smiled graciously on his son as she asked: "how do you know he got it? so many letters and packages are sent to him that he never sees himself." "oh, he saw your book all right," laughed jefferson. "i was around the house a good deal before sailing, and one day i caught him in the library reading it." they both laughed, feeling like mischievous children who had played a successful trick on the hokey-pokey man. jefferson noted his companion's pretty dimples and fine teeth, and he thought how attractive she was, and stronger and stronger grew the idea within him that this was the woman who was intended by nature to share his life. her slender hand still covered his broad, sunburnt one, and he fancied he felt a slight pressure. but he was mistaken. not the slightest sentiment entered into shirley's thoughts of jefferson. she regarded him only as a good comrade with whom she had secrets she confided in no one else. to that extent and to that extent alone he was privileged above other men. suddenly he asked her: "have you heard from home recently?" a soft light stole into the girl's face. home! ah, that was all she needed to make her cup of happiness full. intoxicated with this new sensation of a first literary success, full of the keen pleasure this visit to the beautiful city was giving her, bubbling over with the joy of life, happy in the almost daily companionship of the man she liked most in the world after her father, there was only one thing lacking--home! she had left new york only a month before, and she was homesick already. her father she missed most. she was fond of her mother, too, but the latter, being somewhat of a nervous invalid, had never been to her quite what her father had been. the playmate of her childhood, companion of her girlhood, her friend and adviser in womanhood, judge rossmore was to his daughter the ideal man and father. answering jefferson's question she said: "i had a letter from father last week. everything was going on at home as when i left. father says he misses me sadly, and that mother is ailing as usual." she smiled, and jefferson smiled too. they both knew by experience that nothing really serious ailed mrs. rossmore, who was a good deal of a hypochondriac, and always so filled with aches and pains that, on the few occasions when she really felt well, she was genuinely alarmed. the _fiacre_ by this time had emerged from the rue de rivoli and was rolling smoothly along the fine wooden pavement in front of the historic conciergerie prison where marie antoinette was confined before her execution. presently they recrossed the seine, and the cab, dodging the tram car rails, proceeded at a smart pace up the "boul' mich'," which is the familiar diminutive bestowed by the students upon that broad avenue which traverses the very heart of their beloved _quartier latin_. on the left frowned the scholastic walls of the learned sorbonne, in the distance towered the majestic dome of the panthéon where rousseau, voltaire and hugo lay buried. like most of the principal arteries of the french capital, the boulevard was generously lined with trees, now in full bloom, and the sidewalks fairly seethed with a picturesque throng in which mingled promiscuously frivolous students, dapper shop clerks, sober citizens, and frisky, flirtatious little _ouvrières_, these last being all hatless, as is characteristic of the workgirl class, but singularly attractive in their neat black dresses and dainty low-cut shoes. there was also much in evidence another type of female whose extravagance of costume and boldness of manner loudly proclaimed her ancient profession. on either side of the boulevard were shops and cafés, mostly cafés, with every now and then a _brasserie_, or beer hall. seated in front of these establishments, taking their ease as if beer sampling constituted the only real interest in their lives, were hundreds of students, reckless and dare-devil, and suggesting almost anything except serious study. they all wore frock coats and tall silk hats, and some of the latter were wonderful specimens of the hatter's art. a few of the more eccentric students had long hair down to their shoulders, and wore baggy peg-top trousers of extravagant cut, which hung in loose folds over their sharp-pointed boots. on their heads were queer plug hats with flat brims. shirley laughed outright and regretted that she did not have her kodak to take back to america some idea of their grotesque appearance, and she listened with amused interest as jefferson explained that these men were notorious _poseurs_, aping the dress and manners of the old-time student as he flourished in the days of randolph and mimi and the other immortal characters of murger's bohemia. nobody took them seriously except themselves, and for the most part they were bad rhymesters of decadent verse. shirley was astonished to see so many of them busily engaged smoking cigarettes and imbibing glasses of a pale-green beverage, which jefferson told her was absinthe. "when do they read?" she asked. "when do they attend lectures?" "oh," laughed jefferson, "only the old-fashioned students take their studies seriously. most of the men you see there are from the provinces, seeing paris for the first time, and having their fling. incidentally they are studying life. when they have sown their wild oats and learned all about life--provided they are still alive and have any money left--they will begin to study books. you would be surprised to know how many of these young men, who have been sent to the university at a cost of goodness knows what sacrifices, return to their native towns in a few months wrecked in body and mind, without having once set foot in a lecture room, and, in fact, having done nothing except inscribe their names on the rolls." shirley was glad she knew no such men, and if she ever married and had a son she would pray god to spare her that grief and humiliation. she herself knew something about the sacrifices parents make to secure a college education for their children. her father had sent her to vassar. she was a product of the much-sneered-at higher education for women, and all her life she would be grateful for the advantages given her. her liberal education had broadened her outlook on life and enabled her to accomplish the little she had. when she graduated her father had left her free to follow her own inclinations. she had little taste for social distractions, and still she could not remain idle. for a time she thought of teaching to occupy her mind, but she knew she lacked the necessary patience, and she could not endure the drudgery of it, so, having won honors at college in english composition, she determined to try her hand at literature. she wrote a number of essays and articles on a hundred different subjects which she sent to the magazines, but they all came back with politely worded excuses for their rejection. but shirley kept right on. she knew she wrote well; it must be that her subjects were not suitable. so she adopted new tactics, and persevered until one day came a letter of acceptance from the editor of one of the minor magazines. they would take the article offered--a sketch of college life--and as many more in similar vein as miss rossmore could write. this success had been followed by other acceptances and other commissions, until at the present time she was a well-known writer for the leading publications. her great ambition had been to write a book, and "the american octopus," published under an assumed name, was the result. the cab stopped suddenly in front of beautiful gilded gates. it was the luxembourg, and through the tall railings they caught a glimpse of well-kept lawns, splashing fountains and richly dressed children playing. from the distance came the stirring strains of a brass band. the coachman drove up to the curb and jefferson jumped down, assisting shirley to alight. in spite of shirley's protest jefferson insisted on paying. "_combien?_" he asked the _cocher_. the jehu, a surly, thick-set man with a red face and small, cunning eyes like a ferret, had already sized up his fares for two _sacré_ foreigners whom it would be flying in the face of providence not to cheat, so with unblushing effrontery he answered: "_dix francs, monsieur!_" and he held up ten fingers by way of illustration. jefferson was about to hand up a ten-franc piece when shirley indignantly interfered. she would not submit to such an imposition. there was a regular tariff and she would pay that and nothing more. so, in better french than was at jefferson's command, she exclaimed: "ten francs? _pourquoi dix francs?_ i took your cab by the hour. it is exactly two hours. that makes four francs." then to jefferson she added: "give him a franc for a _pourboire_--that makes five francs altogether." jefferson, obedient to her superior wisdom, held out a five-franc piece, but the driver shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. he saw that the moment had come to bluster so he descended from his box fully prepared to carry out his bluff. he started in to abuse the two americans whom in his ignorance he took for english. "ah, you _sale anglais_! you come to france to cheat the poor frenchman. you make me work all afternoon and then pay me nothing. not with this coco! i know my rights and i'll get them, too." all this was hurled at them in a patois french, almost unintelligible to shirley, and wholly so to jefferson. all he knew was that the fellow's attitude was becoming unbearably insolent and he stepped forward with a gleam in his eye that might have startled the man had he not been so busy shaking his fist at shirley. but she saw jefferson's movement and laid her hand on his arm. "no, no, mr. ryder--no scandal, please. look, people are beginning to come up! leave him to me. i know how to manage him." with this the daughter of a united states supreme court judge proceeded to lay down the law to the representative of the most lazy and irresponsible class of men ever let loose in the streets of a civilised community. speaking with an air of authority, she said: "now look here, my man, we have no time to bandy words here with you. i took your cab at . . it is now . . that makes two hours. the rate is two francs an hour, or four francs in all. we offer you five francs, and this includes a franc _pourboire_. if this settlement does not suit you we will get into your cab and you will drive us to the nearest police-station where the argument can be continued." the man's jaw dropped. he was obviously outclassed. these foreigners knew the law as well as he did. he had no desire to accept shirley's suggestion of a trip to the police-station, where he knew he would get little sympathy, so, grumbling and giving vent under his breath to a volley of strange oaths, he grabbed viciously at the five-franc piece jefferson held out and, mounting his box, drove off. proud of their victory, they entered the gardens, following the sweet-scented paths until they came to where the music was. the band of an infantry regiment was playing, and a large crowd had gathered. many people were sitting on the chairs provided for visitors for the modest fee of two sous; others were promenading round and round a great circle having the musicians in its centre. the dense foliage of the trees overhead afforded a perfect shelter from the hot rays of the sun, and the place was so inviting and interesting, so cool and so full of sweet perfumes and sounds, appealing to and satisfying the senses, that shirley wished they had more time to spend there. she was very fond of a good brass band, especially when heard in the open air. they were playing strauss's _blue danube_, and the familiar strains of the delightful waltz were so infectious that both were seized by a desire to get up and dance. there was constant amusement, too, watching the crowd, with its many original and curious types. there were serious college professors, with gold-rimmed spectacles, buxom _nounous_ in their uniform cloaks and long ribbon streamers, nicely dressed children romping merrily but not noisily, more queer-looking students in shabby frock coats, tight at the waist, trousers too short, and comical hats, stylishly dressed women displaying the latest fashions, brilliantly uniformed army officers strutting proudly, dangling their swords--an attractive and interesting crowd, so different, thought the two americans, from the cheap, evil-smelling, ill-mannered mob of aliens that invades their own central park the days when there is music, making it a nuisance instead of a pleasure. here everyone belonged apparently to the better class; the women and children were richly and fashionably dressed, the officers looked smart in their multi-coloured uniforms, and, no matter how one might laugh at the students, there was an atmosphere of good-breeding and refinement everywhere which shirley was not accustomed to see in public places at home. a sprinkling of workmen and people of the poorer class were to be seen here and there, but they were in the decided minority. shirley, herself a daughter of the revolution, was a staunch supporter of the immortal principles of democracy and of the equality of man before the law. but all other talk of equality was the greatest sophistry and charlatanism. there could be no real equality so long as some people were cultured and refined and others were uneducated and vulgar. shirley believed in an aristocracy of brains and soap. she insisted that no clean person, no matter how good a democrat, should be expected to sit close in public places to persons who were not on speaking terms with the bath-tub. in america this foolish theory of a democracy, which insists on throwing all classes, the clean and the unclean, promiscuously together, was positively revolting, making travelling in the public vehicles almost impossible, and it was not much better in the public parks. in france--also a republic--where they likewise paraded conspicuously the clap-trap "egalité, fraternité," they managed these things far better. the french lower classes knew their place. they did not ape the dress, nor frequent the resorts of those above them in the social scale. the distinction between the classes was plainly and properly marked, yet this was not antagonistic to the ideal of true democracy; it had not prevented the son of a peasant from becoming president of the french republic. each district in paris had its own amusement, its own theatres, its own parks. it was not a question of capital refusing to fraternize with labour, but the very natural desire of persons of refinement to mingle with clean people rather than to rub elbows with the great unwashed. "isn't it delightful here?" said shirley. "i could stay here forever, couldn't you?" "with you--yes," answered jefferson, with a significant smile. shirley tried to look angry. she strictly discouraged these conventional, sentimental speeches which constantly flung her sex in her face. "now, you know i don't like you to talk that way, mr. ryder. it's most undignified. please be sensible." quite subdued, jefferson relapsed into a sulky silence. presently he said: "i wish you wouldn't call me mr. ryder. i meant to ask you this before. you know very well that you've no great love for the name, and if you persist you'll end by including me in your hatred of the hero of your book." shirley looked at him with amused curiosity. "what do you mean?" she asked. "what do you want me to call you?" "oh, i don't know," he stammered, rather intimidated by this self-possessed young woman who looked him calmly through and through. "why not call me jefferson? mr. ryder is so formal." shirley laughed outright, a merry, unrestrained peal of honest laughter, which made the passers-by turn their heads and smile, too, commenting the while on the stylish appearance of the two americans whom they took for sweethearts. after all, reasoned shirley, he was right. they had been together now nearly every hour in the day for over a month. it was absurd to call him mr. ryder. so, addressing him with mock gravity, she said: "you're right, mr. ryder--i mean jefferson. you're quite right. you are jefferson from this time on, only remember"--here she shook her gloved finger at him warningly--"mind you behave yourself! no more such sentimental speeches as you made just now." jefferson beamed. he felt at least two inches taller, and at that moment he would not have changed places with any one in the world. to hide the embarrassment his gratification caused him he pulled out his watch and exclaimed: "why, it's a quarter past six. we shall have all we can do to get back to the hotel and dress for dinner." shirley rose at once, although loath to leave. "i had no idea it was so late," she said. "how the time flies!" then mockingly she added: "come, jefferson--be a good boy and find a cab." they passed out of the gardens by the gate facing the théâtre de l'odéon, where there was a long string of _fiacres_ for hire. they got into one and in fifteen minutes they were back at the grand hotel. at the office they told shirley that her aunt had already come in and gone to her room, so she hurried upstairs to dress for dinner while jefferson proceeded to the hotel de l'athénée on the same mission. he had still twenty-five minutes before dinner time, and he needed only ten minutes for a wash and to jump into his dress suit, so, instead of going directly to his hotel, he sat down at the café de la paix. he was thirsty, and calling for a vermouth _frappé_ he told the _garçon_ to bring him also the american papers. the crowd on the boulevard was denser than ever. the business offices and some of the shops were closing, and a vast army of employés, homeward bound, helped to swell the sea of humanity that pushed this way and that. but jefferson had no eyes for the crowd. he was thinking of shirley. what singular, mysterious power had this girl acquired over him? he, who had scoffed at the very idea of marriage only a few months before, now desired it ardently, anxiously! yes, that was what his life lacked--such a woman to be his companion and helpmate! he loved her--there was no doubt of that. his every thought, waking and sleeping, was of her, all his plans for the future included her. he would win her if any man could. but did she care for him? ah, that was the cruel, torturing uncertainty! she appeared cold and indifferent, but perhaps she was only trying him. certainly she did not seem to dislike him. the waiter returned with the vermouth and the newspapers. all he could find were the london _times_, which he pronounced t-e-e-m-s, and some issues of the _new york herald_. the papers were nearly a month old, but he did not care for that. jefferson idly turned over the pages of the _herald_. his thoughts were still running on shirley, and he was paying little attention to what he was reading. suddenly, however, his eyes rested on a headline which made him sit up with a start. it read as follows: judge rossmore impeached justice of the supreme court to be tried on bribery charges the despatch, which was dated washington two weeks back, went on to say that serious charges affecting the integrity of judge rossmore had been made the subject of congressional inquiry, and that the result of the inquiry was so grave that a demand for impeachment would be at once sent to the senate. it added that the charges grew out of the recent decision in the great northwestern mining company case, it being alleged that judge rossmore had accepted a large sum of money on condition of his handing down a decision favourable to the company. jefferson was thunderstruck. he read the despatch over again to make sure there was no mistake. no, it was very plain--judge rossmore of madison avenue. but how preposterous, what a calumny! the one judge on the bench at whom one could point and say with absolute conviction: "there goes an honest man!" and this judge was to be tried on a charge of bribery! what could be the meaning of it? something terrible must have happened since shirley's departure from home, that was certain. it meant her immediate return to the states and, of course, his own. he would see what could be done. he would make his father use his great influence. but how could he tell shirley? impossible, he could not! she would not believe him if he did. she would probably hear from home in some other way. they might cable. in any case he would say nothing yet. he paid for his vermouth and hurried away to his hotel to dress. it was just striking seven when he re-entered the courtyard of the grand hotel. shirley and mrs. blake were waiting for him. jefferson suggested having dinner at the café de paris, but shirley objected that as the weather was warm it would be more pleasant to dine in the open air, so they finally decided on the pavilion d'armonville where there was music and where they could have a little table to themselves in the garden. they drove up the stately champs elysées, past the monumental arc de triomphe, and from there down to the bois. all were singularly quiet. mrs. blake was worrying about her new gown, shirley was tired, and jefferson could not banish from his mind the terrible news he had just read. he avoided looking at shirley until the latter noticed it and thought she must have offended him in some way. she was more sorry than she would have him know, for, with all her apparent coldness, jefferson was rapidly becoming very indispensable to her happiness. they dined sumptuously and delightfully with all the luxury of surroundings and all the delights of cooking that the french culinary art can perfect. a single glass of champagne had put shirley in high spirits and she had tried hard to communicate some of her good humour to jefferson who, despite all her efforts, remained quiet and preoccupied. finally losing patience she asked him bluntly: "jefferson, what's the matter with you to-night? you've been sulky as a bear all evening." pleased to see she had not forgotten their compact of the afternoon in regard to his name, jefferson relaxed somewhat and said apologetically: "excuse me, i've been feeling a bit seedy lately. i think i need another sea voyage. that's the only time when i feel really first-class--when i'm on the water." the mention of the sea started shirley to talk about her future plans. she wasn't going back to america until september. she had arranged to make a stay of three weeks in london and then she would be free. some friends of hers from home, a man and his wife who owned a steam yacht, were arranging a trip to the mediterranean, including a run over to cairo. they had asked her and mrs. blake to go and she was sure they would ask jefferson, too. would he go? there was no way out of it. jefferson tried to work up some enthusiasm for this yachting trip, which he knew very well could never come off, and it cut him to the heart to see this poor girl joyously making all these preparations and plans, little dreaming of the domestic calamity which at that very moment was hanging over her head. [photo, from the play, of the ryder household as jefferson is introduced to miss green.] "father, i've changed my mind, i'm not going away."--act ii. it was nearly ten o'clock when they had finished. they sat a little longer listening to the gipsy music, weird and barbaric. very pointedly, shirley remarked: "i for one preferred the music this afternoon." "why?" inquired jefferson, ignoring the petulant note in her voice. "because you were more amiable!" she retorted rather crossly. this was their first misunderstanding, but jefferson said nothing. he could not tell her the thoughts and fears that had been haunting him all night. soon afterward they re-entered their cab and returned to the boulevards which were ablaze with light and gaiety. jefferson suggested going somewhere else, but mrs. blake was tired and shirley, now quite irritated at what she considered jefferson's unaccountable unsociability, declined somewhat abruptly. but she could never remain angry long, and when they said good-night she whispered demurely: "are you cross with me, jeff?" he turned his head away and she saw that his face was singularly drawn and grave. "cross--no. good-night. god bless you!" he said, hoarsely gulping down a lump that rose in his throat. then grasping her hand he hurried away. completely mystified, shirley and her companion turned to the office to get the key of their room. as the man handed it to shirley he passed her also a cablegram which had just come. she changed colour. she did not like telegrams. she always had a dread of them, for with her sudden news was usually bad news. could this, she thought, explain jefferson's strange behaviour? trembling, she tore open the envelope and read: _come home at once,_ _mother._ chapter v rolling, tumbling, splashing, foaming water as far as the eye could reach in every direction. a desolate waste, full of life, movement and colour, extending to the bleak horizon and like a vast ploughed field cut up into long and high liquid ridges, all scurrying in one direction in serried ranks and with incredible speed as if pursued by a fearful and unseen enemy. serenely yet boisterously, gracefully yet resistlessly, the endless waves passed on--some small, others monstrous, with fleecy white combs rushing down their green sides like toy niagaras and with a seething, boiling sound as when flame touches water. they went by in a stately, never ending procession, going nowhere, coming from nowhere, but full of dignity and importance, their breasts heaving with suppressed rage because there was nothing in their path that they might destroy. the dancing, leaping water reflected every shade and tint--now a rich green, then a deep blue and again a dirty gray as the sun hid for a moment behind a cloud, and as a gust of wind caught the top of the combers decapitating them at one mad rush, the spray was dashed high in the air, flashing out all the prismatic colours. here and yonder, the white caps rose, disappeared and came again, and the waves grew and then diminished in size. then others rose, towering, became larger, majestic, terrible; the milk-like comb rose proudly, soared a brief moment, then fell ignominiously, and the wave diminished passed on humiliated. over head, a few scattered cirrus clouds flitted lazily across the blue dome of heaven, while a dozen mother carey chickens screamed hoarsely as they circled in the air. the strong and steady western breeze bore on its powerful pinions the sweet and eternal music of the wind and sea. shirley stood at the rail under the bridge of the ocean greyhound that was carrying her back to america with all the speed of which her mighty engines were capable. all day and all night, half naked stokers, so grimed with oil and coal dust as to lose the slightest semblance to human beings, feverishly shovelled coal, throwing it rapidly and evenly over roaring furnaces kept at a fierce white heat. the vast boilers, shaken by the titanic forces generating in their cavern-like depths, sent streams of scalding, hissing steam through a thousand valves, cylinders and pistons, turning wheels and cranks as it distributed the tremendous power which was driving the steel monster through the seas at the prodigious speed of four hundred miles in the twenty-four hours. like a pulsating heart in some living thing, the mammoth engines throbbed and panted, and the great vessel groaned and creaked as she rose and fell to the heavy swell, and again lurched forward in obedience to each fresh propulsion from her fast spinning screws. out on deck, volumes of dense black smoke were pouring from four gigantic smoke stacks and spread out in the sky like some endless cinder path leading back over the course the ship had taken. they were four days out from port. two days more and they would sight sandy hook, and shirley would know the worst. she had caught the north german lloyd boat at cherbourg two days after receiving the cablegram from new york. mrs. blake had insisted on coming along in spite of her niece's protests. shirley argued that she had crossed alone when coming; she could go back the same way. besides, was not mr. ryder returning home on the same ship? he would be company and protection both. but mrs. blake was bent on making the voyage. she had not seen her sister for many years and, moreover, this sudden return to america had upset her own plans. she was a poor sailor, yet she loved the ocean and this was a good excuse for a long trip. shirley was too exhausted with worry to offer further resistance and by great good luck the two women had been able to secure at the last moment a cabin to themselves amidships. jefferson, less fortunate, was compelled, to his disgust, to share a stateroom with another passenger, a fat german brewer who was returning to cincinnati, and who snored so loud at night that even the thumping of the engines was completely drowned by his eccentric nasal sounds. the alarming summons home and the terrible shock she had experienced the following morning when jefferson showed her the newspaper article with its astounding and heart rending news about her father had almost prostrated shirley. the blow was all the greater for being so entirely unlooked for. that the story was true she could not doubt. her mother would not have cabled except under the gravest circumstances. what alarmed shirley still more was that she had no direct news of her father. for a moment her heart stood still--suppose the shock of this shameful accusation had killed him? her blood froze in her veins, she clenched her fists and dug her nails into her flesh as she thought of the dread possibility that she had looked upon him in life for the last time. she remembered his last kind words when he came to the steamer to see her off, and his kiss when he said good-bye and she had noticed a tear of which he appeared to be ashamed. the hot tears welled up in her own eyes and coursed unhindered down her cheeks. what could these preposterous and abominable charges mean? what was this lie they had invented to ruin her father? that he had enemies she well knew. what strong man had not? indeed, his proverbial honesty had made him feared by all evil-doers and on one occasion they had gone so far as to threaten his life. this new attack was more deadly than all--to sap and destroy his character, to deliberately fabricate lies and calumnies which had no foundation whatever. of course, the accusation was absurd, the senate would refuse to convict him, the entire press would espouse the cause of so worthy a public servant. certainly, everything would be done to clear his character. but what was being done? she could do nothing but wait and wait. the suspense and anxiety were awful. suddenly she heard a familiar step behind her, and jefferson joined her at the rail. the wind was due west and blowing half a gale, so where they were standing--one of the most exposed parts of the ship--it was difficult to keep one's feet, to say nothing of hearing anyone speak. there was a heavy sea running, and each approaching wave looked big enough to engulf the vessel, but as the mass of moving water reached the bow, the ship rose on it, light and graceful as a bird, shook off the flying spray as a cat shakes her fur after an unwelcome bath, and again drove forward as steady and with as little perceptible motion as a railway train. shirley was a fairly good sailor and this kind of weather did not bother her in the least, but when it got very rough she could not bear the rolling and pitching and then all she was good for was to lie still in her steamer chair with her eyes closed until the water was calmer and the pitching ceased. "it's pretty windy here, shirley," shouted jefferson, steadying himself against a stanchion. "don't you want to walk a little?" he had begun to call her by her first name quite naturally, as if it were a matter of course. indeed, their relations had come to be more like those of brother and sister than anything else. shirley was too much troubled over the news from home to have a mind for other things, and in her distress she had turned to jefferson for advice and help as she would have looked to an elder brother. he had felt this impulse to confide in him and consult his opinion and it had pleased him more than he dared betray. he had shown her all the sympathy of which his warm, generous nature was capable, yet secretly he did not regret that events had necessitated this sudden return home together on the same ship. he was sorry for judge rossmore, of course, and there was nothing he would not do on his return to secure a withdrawal of the charges. that his father would use his influence he had no doubt. but meantime he was selfish enough to be glad for the opportunity it gave him to be a whole week alone with shirley. no matter how much one may be with people in city or country or even when stopping at the same hotel or house, there is no place in the world where two persons, especially when they are of the opposite sex, can become so intimate as on shipboard. the reason is obvious. the days are long and monotonous. there is nowhere to go, nothing to see but the ocean, nothing to do but read, talk or promenade. seclusion in one's stuffy cabin is out of the question, the public sitting rooms are noisy and impossible, only a steamer chair on deck is comfortable and once there snugly wrapped up in a rug it is surprising how quickly another chair makes its appearance alongside and how welcome one is apt to make the intruder. thus events combined with the weather conspired to bring shirley and jefferson more closely together. the sea had been rough ever since they sailed, keeping mrs. blake confined to her stateroom almost continuously. they were, therefore, constantly in one another's company, and slowly, unconsciously, there was taking root in their hearts the germ of the only real and lasting love--the love born of something higher than mere physical attraction, the nobler, more enduring affection that is born of mutual sympathy, association and companionship. "isn't it beautiful?" exclaimed shirley ecstatically. "look at those great waves out there! see how majestically they soar and how gracefully they fall!" "glorious!" assented jefferson sharing her enthusiasm. "there's nothing to compare with it. it's nature's grandest spectacle. the ocean is the only place on earth that man has not defiled and spoiled. those waves are the same now as they were on the day of creation." "not the day of creation. you mean during the aeons of time creation was evolving," corrected shirley. "i meant that of course," assented jefferson. "when one says 'day' that is only a form of speech." "why not be accurate?" persisted shirley. "it was the use of that little word 'day' which has given the theologians so many sleepless nights." there was a roguish twinkle in her eye. she well knew that he thought as she did on metaphysical questions, but she could not resist teasing him. like jefferson, she was not a member of any church, although her nature was deeply religious. hers was the religion the soul inculcates, not that which is learned by rote in the temple. she was a christian because she thought christ the greatest figure in world history, and also because her own conduct of life was modelled upon christian principles and virtues. she was religious for religion's sake and not for public ostentation. the mystery of life awed her and while her intelligence could not accept all the doctrines of dogmatic religion she did not go so far as jefferson, who was a frank agnostic. she would not admit that we do not know. the longings and aspirations of her own soul convinced her of the existence of a supreme being, first cause, divine intelligence--call it what you will--which had brought out of chaos the wonderful order of the universe. the human mind was, indeed, helpless to conceive such a first cause in any form and lay prostrate before the unknown, yet she herself was an enthusiastic delver into scientific hypothesis and the teachings of darwin, spencer, haeckel had satisfied her intellect if they had failed to content her soul. the theory of evolution as applied to life on her own little planet appealed strongly to her because it accounted plausibly for the presence of man on earth. the process through which we had passed could be understood by every intelligence. the blazing satellite, violently detached from the parent sun starting on its circumscribed orbit--that was the first stage, the gradual subsidence of the flames and the cooling of the crust--the second stage: the gases mingling and forming water which covered the earth--the third stage; the retreating of the waters and the appearance of the land--the fourth stage; the appearance of vegetation and animal life--the fifth stage; then, after a long interval and through constant evolution and change the appearance of man, which was the sixth stage. what stages still to come, who knows? this simple account given by science was, after all, practically identical with the biblical legend! it was when shirley was face to face with nature in her wildest and most primitive aspects that this deep rooted religious feeling moved her most strongly. at these times she felt herself another being, exalted, sublimated, lifted from this little world with its petty affairs and vanities up to dizzy heights. she had felt the same sensation when for the first time she had viewed the glories of the snow clad matterhorn, she had felt it when on a summer's night at sea she had sat on deck and watched with fascinated awe the resplendent radiance of the countless stars, she felt it now as she looked at the foaming, tumbling waves. "it is so beautiful," she murmured as she turned to walk. the ship was rolling a little and she took jefferson's arm to steady herself. shirley was an athletic girl and had all the ease and grace of carriage that comes of much tennis and golf playing. barely twenty-four years old, she was still in the first flush of youth and health, and there was nothing she loved so much as exercise and fresh air. after a few turns on deck, there was a ruddy glow in her cheeks that was good to see and many an admiring glance was cast at the young couple as they strode briskly up and down past the double rows of elongated steamer chairs. they had the deck pretty much to themselves. it was only four o'clock, too early for the appetite-stimulating walk before dinner, and their fellow passengers were basking in the sunshine, stretched out on their chairs in two even rows like so many mummies on exhibition. some were reading, some were dozing. two or three were under the weather, completely prostrated, their bilious complexion of a deathly greenish hue. at each new roll of the ship, they closed their eyes as if resigned to the worst that might happen and their immediate neighbours furtively eyed each of their movements as if apprehensive of what any moment might bring forth. a few couples were flirting to their heart's content under the friendly cover of the lifeboats which, as on most of the transatlantic liners, were more useful in saving reputations than in saving life. the deck steward was passing round tea and biscuits, much to the disgust of the ill ones, but to the keen satisfaction of the stronger stomached passengers who on shipboard never seem to be able to get enough to eat and drink. on the bridge, the second officer, a tall, handsome man with the points of his moustache trained upwards à la kaiser wilhelm, was striding back and forth, every now and then sweeping the horizon with his glass and relieving the monotony of his duties by ogling the better looking women passengers. "hello, shirley!" called out a voice from a heap of rugs as shirley and jefferson passed the rows of chairs. they stopped short and discovered mrs. blake ensconced in a cozy corner, sheltered from the wind. "why, aunt milly," exclaimed shirley surprised. "i thought you were downstairs. i didn't think you could stand this sea." "it is a little rougher than i care to have it," responded mrs. blake with a wry grimace and putting her hand to her breast as if to appease disturbing qualms. "it was so stuffy in the cabin i could not bear it. it's more pleasant here but it's getting a little cool and i think i'll go below. where have you children been all afternoon?" jefferson volunteered to explain. "the children have been rhapsodizing over the beauties of the ocean," he laughed. with a sly glance at shirley, he added, "your niece has been coaching me in metaphysics." shirley shook her finger at him. "now jefferson, if you make fun of me i'll never talk seriously with you again." "_wie geht es, meine damen?_" shirley turned on hearing the guttural salutation. it was captain hegermann, the commander of the ship, a big florid saxon with great bushy golden whiskers and a basso voice like edouard de reszké. he was imposing in his smart uniform and gold braid and his manner had the self-reliant, authoritative air usual in men who have great responsibilities and are accustomed to command. he was taking his afternoon stroll and had stopped to chat with his lady passengers. he had already passed mrs. blake a dozen times and not noticed her, but now her pretty niece was with her, which altered the situation. he talked to the aunt and looked at shirley, much to the annoyance of jefferson, who muttered things under his breath. "when shall we be in, captain?" asked mrs. blake anxiously, forgetting that this was one of the questions which according to ship etiquette must never be asked of the officers. but as long as he could ignore mrs. blake and gaze at shirley capt. hegermann did not mind. he answered amiably: "at the rate we are going, we ought to sight fire island sometime to-morrow evening. if we do, that will get us to our dock about o'clock friday morning, i fancy." then addressing shirley direct he said: "and you, fraulein, i hope you won't be glad the voyage is over?" shirley sighed and a worried, anxious look came into her face. "yes, captain, i shall be very glad. it is not pleasure that is bringing me back to america so soon." the captain elevated his eyebrows. he was sorry the young lady had anxieties to keep her so serious, and he hoped she would find everything all right on her arrival. then, politely saluting, he passed on, only to halt again a few paces on where his bewhiskered gallantry met with more encouragement. mrs. blake rose from her chair. the air was decidedly cooler, she would go downstairs and prepare for dinner. shirley said she would remain on deck a little longer. she was tired of walking, so when her aunt left them she took her chair and told jefferson to get another. he wanted nothing better, but before seating himself he took the rugs and wrapped shirley up with all the solicitude of a mother caring for her first born. arranging the pillow under her head, he asked: "is that comfortable?" she nodded, smiling at him. "you're a good boy, jeff. but you'll spoil me." "nonsense," he stammered as he took another chair and put himself by her side. "as if any fellow wouldn't give his boots to do a little job like that for you!" she seemed to take no notice of the covert compliment. in fact, she already took it as a matter of course that jefferson was very fond of her. did she love him? she hardly knew. certainly she thought more of him than of any other man she knew and she readily believed that she could be with him for the rest of her life and like him better every day. then, too, they had become more intimate during the last few days. this trouble, this unknown peril had drawn them together. yes, she would be sorry if she were to see jefferson paying attention to another woman. was this love? perhaps. these thoughts were running through her mind as they sat there side by side isolated from the main herd of passengers, each silent, watching through the open rail the foaming water as it rushed past. jefferson had been casting furtive glances at his companion and as he noted her serious, pensive face he thought how pretty she was. he wondered what she was thinking of and suddenly inspired no doubt by the mysterious power that enables some people to read the thoughts of others, he said abruptly: "shirley, i can read your thoughts. you were thinking of me." she was startled for a moment but immediately recovered her self possession. it never occurred to her to deny it. she pondered for a moment and then replied: "you are right, jeff, i was thinking of you. how did you guess?" he leaned over her chair and took her hand. she made no resistance. her delicate, slender hand lay passively in his big brown one and met his grasp frankly, cordially. he whispered: "what were you thinking of me--good or bad?" "good, of course. how could i think anything bad of you?" she turned her eyes on him in wonderment. then she went on: "i was wondering how a girl could distinguish between the feeling she has for a man she merely likes, and the feeling she has for a man she loves." jefferson bent eagerly forward so as to lose no word that might fall from those coveted lips. "in what category would i be placed?" he asked. "i don't quite know," she answered, laughingly. then seriously, she added: "jeff, why should we act like children? your actions, more than your words, have told me that you love me. i have known it all along. if i have appeared cold and indifferent it is because"--she hesitated. "because?" echoed jefferson anxiously, as if his whole future depended on that reason. "because i was not sure of myself. would it be womanly or honourable on my part to encourage you, unless i felt i reciprocated your feelings? you are young, one day you will be very rich, the whole world lies before you. there are plenty of women who would willingly give you their love." "no--no!" he burst out in vigorous protest, "it is you i want, shirley, you alone." grasping her hand more closely, he went on, passion vibrating in every note of his voice. "i love you, shirley. i've loved you from the very first evening i met you. i want you to be my wife." shirley looked straight up into the blue eyes so eagerly bent down on hers, so entreating in their expression, and in a gentle voice full of emotion she answered: "jefferson, you have done me the greatest honour a man can do a woman. don't ask me to answer you now. i like you very much--i more than like you. whether it is love i feel for you--that i have not yet determined. give me time. my present trouble and then my literary work--" "i know," agreed jefferson, "that this is hardly the time to speak of such matters. your father has first call on your attention. but as to your literary work. i do not understand." "simply this. i am ambitious. i have had a little success--just enough to crave for more. i realize that marriage would put an extinguisher on all aspirations in that direction." "is marriage so very commonplace?" grumbled jefferson. "not commonplace, but there is no room in marriage for a woman having personal ambitions of her own. once married her duty is to her husband and her children--not to herself." "that is right," he replied; "but which is likely to give you greater joy--a literary success or a happy wifehood? when you have spent your best years and given the public your best work they will throw you over for some new favorite. you'll find yourself an old woman with nothing more substantial to show as your life work than that questionable asset, a literary reputation. how many literary reputations to-day conceal an aching heart and find it difficult to make both ends meet? how different with the woman who married young and obeys nature's behest by contributing her share to the process of evolution. her life is spent basking in the affection of her husband and the chubby smiles of her dimpled babes, and when in the course of time she finds herself in the twilight of her life, she has at her feet a new generation of her own flesh and blood. isn't that better than a literary reputation?" he spoke so earnestly that shirley looked at him in surprise. she knew he was serious but she had not suspected that he thought so deeply on these matters. her heart told her that he was uttering the true philosophy of the ages. she said: "why, jefferson, you talk like a book. perhaps you are right, i have no wish to be a blue stocking and deserted in my old age, far from it. but give me time to think. let us first ascertain the extent of this disaster which has overtaken my father. then if you still care for me and if i have not changed my mind," here she glanced slyly at him, "we will resume our discussion." again she held out her hand which he had released. "is it a bargain?" she asked. "it's a bargain," he murmured, raising the white hand to his lips. a fierce longing rose within him to take her in his arms and kiss passionately the mouth that lay temptingly near his own, but his courage failed him. after all, he reasoned, he had not yet the right. a few minutes later they left the deck and went downstairs to dress for dinner. that same evening they stood again at the rail watching the mysterious phosphorescence as it sparkled in the moonlight. her thoughts travelling faster than the ship, shirley suddenly asked: "do you really think mr. ryder will use his influence to help my father?" jefferson set his jaw fast and the familiar ryder gleam came into his eyes as he responded: "why not? my father is all powerful. he has made and unmade judges and legislators and even presidents. why should he not be able to put a stop to these preposterous proceedings? i will go to him directly we land and we'll see what can be done." so the time on shipboard had passed, shirley alternately buoyed up with hope and again depressed by the gloomiest forebodings. the following night they passed fire island and the next day the huge steamer dropped anchor at quarantine. chapter vi a month had passed since the memorable meeting of the directors of the southern and transcontinental railroad in new york and during that time neither john burkett ryder nor judge rossmore had been idle. the former had immediately set in motion the machinery he controlled in the legislature at washington, while the judge neglected no step to vindicate himself before the public. ryder, for reasons of his own--probably because he wished to make the blow the more crushing when it did fall--had insisted on the proceedings at the board meeting being kept a profound secret and some time elapsed before the newspapers got wind of the coming congressional inquiry. no one had believed the stories about judge rossmore but now that a quasi-official seal had been set on the current gossip, there was a howl of virtuous indignation from the journalistic muck rakers. what was the country coming to? they cried in double leaded type. after the embezzling by life insurance officers, the rascality of the railroads, the looting of city treasuries, the greed of the trusts, the grafting of the legislators, had arisen a new and more serious scandal--the corruption of the judiciary. the last bulwark of the nation had fallen, the country lay helpless at the mercy of legalized sandbaggers. even the judges were no longer to be trusted, the most respected one among them all had been unable to resist the tempter. the supreme court, the living voice of the constitution, was honeycombed with graft. public life was rotten to the core! neither the newspapers nor the public stopped to ascertain the truth or the falsity of the charges against judge rossmore. it was sufficient that the bribery story furnished the daily sensation which newspaper editors and newspaper readers must have. the world is ever more prompt to believe ill rather than good of a man, and no one, except in rossmore's immediate circle of friends, entertained the slightest doubt of his guilt. it was common knowledge that the "big interests" were behind the proceedings, and that judge rossmore was a scapegoat, sacrificed by the system because he had been blocking their game. if rossmore had really accepted the bribe, and few now believed him spotless, he deserved all that was coming to him. senator roberts was very active in washington preparing the case against judge rossmore. the latter being a democrat and "the interests" controlling a republican majority in the house, it was a foregone conclusion that the inquiry would be against him, and that a demand would at once be made upon the senate for his impeachment. almost prostrated by the misfortune which had so suddenly and unexpectedly come upon him, judge rossmore was like a man demented. his reason seemed to be tottering, he spoke and acted like a man in a dream. naturally he was entirely incapacitated for work and he had applied to washington to be temporarily relieved from his judicial duties. he was instantly granted a leave of absence and went at once to his home in madison avenue, where he shut himself up in his library, sitting for hours at his desk wrestling with documents and legal tomes in a pathetic endeavour to find some way out, trying to elude this net in which unseen hands had entangled him. what an end to his career! to have struggled and achieved for half a century, to have built up a reputation year by year, as a man builds a house brick by brick, only to see the whole crumble to his feet like dust! to have gained the respect of the country, to have made a name as the most incorruptible of public servants and now to be branded as a common bribe taker! could he be dreaming? it was too incredible! what would his daughter say--his shirley? ah, the thought of the expression of incredulity and wonder on her face when she heard the news cut him to the heart like a knife thrust. yet, he mused, her very unwillingness to believe it should really be his consolation. ah, his wife and his child--they knew he had been innocent of wrong doing. the very idea was ridiculous. at most he had been careless. yes, he was certainly to blame. he ought to have seen the trap so carefully prepared and into which he had walked as if blindfolded. that extra $ , worth of stock, on which he had never received a cent interest, had been the decoy in a carefully thought out plot. they, the plotters, well knew how ignorant he was of financial matters and he had been an easy victim. who would believe his story that the stock had been sent to him with a plausibly-worded letter to the effect that it represented a bonus on his own investment? now he came to think of it, calmly and reasonably, he would not believe it himself. as usual, he had mislaid or destroyed the secretary's letter and there was only his word against the company's books to substantiate what would appear a most improbable if not impossible occurrence. it was his conviction of his own good faith that made his present dilemma all the more cruel. had he really been a grafter, had he really taken the stock as a bribe he would not care so much, for then he would have foreseen and discounted the chances of exposure. yes, there was no doubt possible. he was the victim of a conspiracy, there was an organized plot to ruin him, to get him out of the way. the "interests" feared him, resented his judicial decisions and they had halted at nothing to accomplish their purpose. how could he fight them back, what could he do to protect himself? he had no proofs of a conspiracy, his enemies worked in the dark, there was no way in which he could reach them or know who they were. he thought of john burkett ryder. ah, he remembered now. ryder was the man who had recommended the investment in alaskan stock. of course, why did he not think of it before? he recollected that at the time he had been puzzled at receiving so much stock and he had mentioned it to ryder, adding that the secretary had told him it was customary. oh, why had he not kept the secretary's letter? but ryder would certainly remember it. he probably still had his two letters in which he spoke of making the investment. if those letters could be produced at the congressional inquiry they would clear him at once. so losing no time, and filled with renewed hope he wrote to the colossus a strong, manly letter which would have melted an iceberg, urging mr. ryder to come forward now at this critical time and clear him of this abominable charge, or in any case to kindly return the two letters he must have in his possession, as they would go far to help him at the trial. three days passed and no reply from ryder. on the fourth came a polite but frigid note from mr. ryder's private secretary. mr. ryder had received judge rossmore's letter and in reply begged to state that he had a vague recollection of some conversation with the judge in regard to investments, but he did not think he had advised the purchase of any particular stock, as that was something he never did on principle, even with his most intimate friends. he had no wish to be held accountable in case of loss, etc. as to the letter which judge rossmore mentioned as having written to mr. ryder in regard to having received more stock than he had bought, of that mr. ryder had no recollection whatsoever. judge rossmore was probably mistaken as to the identity of his correspondent. he regretted he could not be of more service to judge rossmore, and remained his very obedient servant. it was very evident that no help was to be looked for in that quarter. there was even decided hostility in ryder's reply. could it be true that the financier was really behind these attacks upon his character, was it possible that one man merely to make more money would deliberately ruin his fellow man whose hand he had grasped in friendship? he had been unwilling to believe it when his friend ex-judge stott had pointed to ryder as the author of all his misfortunes, but this unsympathetic letter with its falsehoods, its lies plainly written all over its face, was proof enough. yes, there was now no doubt possible. john burkett ryder was his enemy and what an enemy! many a man had committed suicide when he had incurred the enmity of the colossus. judge rossmore, completely discouraged, bowed his head to the inevitable. his wife, a nervous, sickly woman, was helpless to comfort or aid him. she had taken their misfortune as a visitation of an inscrutable deity. she knew, of course, that her husband was wholly innocent of the accusations brought against him and if his character could be cleared and himself rehabilitated before the world, she would be the first to rejoice. but if it pleased the almighty in his wisdom to sorely try her husband and herself and inflict this punishment upon them it was not for the finite mind to criticise the ways of providence. there was probably some good reason for the apparent cruelty and injustice of it which their earthly understanding failed to grasp. mrs. rossmore found much comfort in this philosophy, which gave a satisfactory ending to both ends of the problem, and she was upheld in her view by the rector of the church which she had attended regularly each sunday for the past five and twenty years. christian resignation in the hour of trial, submission to the will of heaven were, declared her spiritual adviser, the fundamental principles of religion. he could only hope that mrs. rossmore would succeed in imbuing her husband with her christian spirit. but when the judge's wife returned home and saw the keen mental distress of the man who had been her companion for twenty-five long years, the comforter in her sorrows, the joy and pride of her young wifehood, she forgot all about her smug churchly consoler, and her heart went out to her husband in a spontaneous burst of genuine human sympathy. yes, they must do something at once. where men had failed perhaps a woman could do something. she wanted to cable at once for shirley, who was everything in their household--organizer, manager, adviser--but the judge would not hear of it. no, his daughter was enjoying her holiday in blissful ignorance of what had occurred. he would not spoil it for her. they would see; perhaps things would improve. but he sent for his old friend ex-judge stott. they were life-long friends, having become acquainted nearly thirty years ago at the law school, at the time when both were young men about to enter on a public career. stott, who was rossmore's junior, had begun as a lawyer in new york and soon acquired a reputation in criminal practice. he afterwards became assistant district attorney and later, when a vacancy occurred in the city magistrature, he was successful in securing the appointment. on the bench he again met his old friend rossmore and the two men once more became closely intimate. the regular court hours, however, soon palled on a man of judge stott's nervous temperament and it was not long before he retired to take up once more his criminal practice. he was still a young man, not yet fifty, and full of vigor and fight. he had a blunt manner but his heart was in the right place, and he had a record as clean as his close shaven face. he was a hard worker, a brilliant speaker and one of the cleverest cross-examiners at the bar. this was the man to whom judge rossmore naturally turned for legal assistance. stott was out west when he first heard of the proceedings against his old friend, and this indignity put upon the only really honest man in public life whom he knew, so incensed him that he was already hurrying back to his aid when the summons reached him. meantime, a fresh and more serious calamity had overwhelmed judge rossmore. everything seemed to combine to break the spirit of this man who had dared defy the power of organized capital. hardly had the news of the congressional inquiry been made public, than the financial world was startled by an extraordinary slump in wall street. there was nothing in the news of the day to justify a decline, but prices fell and fell. the bears had it all their own way, the big interests hammered stocks all along the line, "coppers" especially being the object of attack. the market closed feverishly and the next day the same tactics were pursued. from the opening, on selling orders coming from no one knew where, prices fell to nothing, a stampede followed and before long it became a panic. pandemonium reigned on the floor of the stock exchange. white faced, dishevelled brokers shouted and struggled like men possessed to execute the orders of their clients. big financial houses, which stood to lose millions on a falling market, rallied and by rush orders to buy, attempted to stem the tide, but all to no purpose. one firm after another went by the board unable to weather the tempest, until just before closing time, the stock ticker announced the failure of the great northwestern mining co. the drive in the market had been principally directed against its securities, and after vainly endeavoring to check the bear raid, it had been compelled to declare itself bankrupt. it was heavily involved, assets nil, stock almost worthless. it was probable that the creditors would not see ten cents on the dollar. thousands were ruined and judge rossmore among them. all the savings of a lifetime--nearly $ , were gone. he was practically penniless, at a time when he needed money most. he still owned his house in madison avenue, but that would have to go to settle with his creditors. by the time everything was paid there would only remain enough for a modest competence. as to his salary, of course he could not touch that so long as this accusation was hanging over his head. and if he were impeached it would stop altogether. the salary, therefore, was not to be counted on. they must manage as best they could and live more cheaply, taking a small house somewhere in the outskirts of the city where he could prepare his case quietly without attracting attention. stott thought this was the best thing they could do and he volunteered to relieve his friend by taking on his own hands all the arrangements of the sale of the house and furniture, which offer the judge accepted only too gladly. meantime, mrs. rossmore went to long island to see what could be had, and she found at the little village of massapequa just what they were looking for--a commodious, neatly-furnished two-story cottage at a modest rental. of course, it was nothing like what they had been accustomed to, but it was clean and comfortable, and as mrs. rossmore said, rather tactlessly, beggars cannot be choosers. perhaps it would not be for long. instant possession was to be had, so deposit was paid on the spot and a few days later the rossmores left their mansion on madison avenue and took up their residence in massapequa, where their advent created quite a fluster in local social circles. massapequa is one of the thousand and one flourishing communities scattered over long island, all of which are apparently modelled after the same pattern. each is an exact duplicate of its neighbour in everything except the name--the same untidy railroad station, the same sleepy stores, the same attractive little frame residences, built for the most part on the "why pay rent? own your own home" plan. a healthy boom in real estate imparts plenty of life to them all and massapequa is particularly famed as being the place where the cat jumped to when manhattan had to seek an outlet for its congested population and ever-increasing army of home seekers. formerly large tracts of flat farm lands, only sparsely shaded by trees, massapequa, in common with other villages of its kind, was utterly destitute of any natural attractions. there was the one principal street leading to the station, with a few scattered stores on either side, a church and a bank. happily, too, for those who were unable to survive the monotony of the place, it boasted of a pretty cemetery. there were also a number of attractive cottages with spacious porches hung with honeysuckle and of these the rossmores occupied one of the less pretentious kind. but although massapequa, theoretically speaking, was situated only a stone's throw from the metropolis, it might have been situated in the great sahara so far as its inhabitants took any active interest in the doings of gay gotham. local happenings naturally had first claim upon massapequa's attention--the prowess of the local baseball team, mrs. robinson's tea party and the highly exciting sessions of the local pinochle club furnishing food for unlimited gossip and scandal. the newspapers reached the village, of course, but only the local news items aroused any real interest, while the women folk usually restricted their readings to those pages devoted to daily hints for the home, mrs. sayre's learned articles on health and beauty and fay stanton's daily fashions. it was not surprising, therefore, that the fame of judge rossmore and the scandal in which he was at present involved had not penetrated as far as massapequa and that the natives were considerably mystified as to who the new arrivals in their midst might be. stott had been given a room in the cottage so that he might be near at hand to work with the judge in the preparation of the defence, and he came out from the city every evening. it was now june. the senate would not take action until it convened in december, but there was a lot of work to be done and no time to be lost. the evening following the day of their arrival they were sitting on the porch enjoying the cool evening air after dinner. the judge was smoking. he was not a slave to the weed, but he enjoyed a quiet pipe after meals, claiming that it quieted his nerves and enabled him to think more clearly. besides, it was necessary to keep at bay the ubiquitous long island mosquito. mrs. rossmore had remained for a moment in the dining-room to admonish eudoxia, their new and only maid-of-all-work, not to wreck too much of the crockery when she removed the dinner dishes. suddenly stott, who was perusing an evening paper, asked: "by the way, where's your daughter? does she know of this radical change in your affairs?" judge rossmore started. by what mysterious agency had this man penetrated his own most intimate thoughts? he was himself thinking of shirley that very moment, and by some inexplicable means--telepathy modern psychologists called it--the thought current had crossed to stott, whose mind, being in full sympathy, was exactly attuned to receive it. removing the pipe from his mouth the judge replied: "shirley's in paris. poor girl, i hadn't the heart to tell her. she has no idea of what's happened. i didn't want to spoil her holiday." he was silent for a moment. then, after a few more puffs he added confidentially in a low tone, as if he did not care for his wife to hear: "the truth is, stott, i couldn't bear to have her return now. i couldn't look my own daughter in the face." a sound as of a great sob which he had been unable to control cut short his speech. his eyes filled with tears and he began to smoke furiously as if ashamed of this display of emotion. stott, blowing his nose with suspicious vigor, replied soothingly: "you mustn't talk like that. everything will come out all right, of course. but i think you are wrong not to have told your daughter. her place is here at your side. she ought to be told even if only in justice to her. if you don't tell her someone else will, or, what's worse, she'll hear of it through the newspapers." "ah, i never thought of that!" exclaimed the judge, visibly perturbed at the suggestion about the newspapers. "don't you agree with me?" demanded stott, appealing to mrs. rossmore, who emerged from the house at that instant. "don't you think your daughter should be informed of what has happened?" "most assuredly i do," answered mrs. rossmore determinedly. "the judge wouldn't hear of it, but i took the law into my own hands. i've cabled for her." "you cabled for shirley?" cried the judge incredulously. he was so unaccustomed to seeing his ailing, vacillating wife do anything on her own initiative and responsibility that it seemed impossible. "you cabled for shirley?" he repeated. "yes," replied mrs. rossmore triumphantly and secretly pleased that for once in her life she had asserted herself. "i cabled yesterday. i simply couldn't bear it alone any longer." "what did you say?" inquired the judge apprehensively. "i just told her to come home at once. to-morrow; we ought to get an answer." stott meantime had been figuring on the time of shirley's probable arrival. if the cablegram had been received in paris the previous evening it would be too late to catch the french boat. the north german lloyd steamer was the next to leave and it touched at cherbourg. she would undoubtedly come on that. in a week at most she would be here. then it became a question as to who should go to meet her at the dock. the judge could not go, that was certain. it would be too much of an ordeal. mrs. rossmore did not know the lower part of the city well, and had no experience in meeting ocean steamships. there was only one way out--would stott go? of course he would and he would bring shirley back with him to massapequa. so during the next few days while stott and the judge toiled preparing their case, which often necessitated brief trips to the city, mrs. rossmore, seconded with sulky indifference by eudoxia, was kept busy getting a room ready for her daughter's arrival. eudoxia, who came originally from county cork, was an irish lady with a thick brogue and a husky temper. she was amiable enough so long as things went to her satisfaction, but when they did not suit her she was a termagant. she was neither beautiful nor graceful, she was not young nor was she very clean. her usual condition was dishevelled, her face was all askew, and when she dressed up she looked like a valentine. her greatest weakness was a propensity for smashing dishes, and when reprimanded she would threaten to take her traps and skidoo. this news of the arrival of a daughter failed to fill her with enthusiasm. firstly, it meant more work; secondly she had not bargained for it. when she took the place it was on the understanding that the family consisted only of an elderly gentleman and his wife, that there was practically no work, good wages, plenty to eat, with the privilege of an evening out when she pleased. instead of this millennium she soon found stott installed as a permanent guest and now a daughter was to be foisted on her. no wonder hard working girls were getting sick and tired of housework! as already hinted there was no unhealthy curiosity among massapequans regarding their new neighbors from the city but some of the more prominent people of the place considered it their duty to seek at least a bowing acquaintance with the rossmores by paying them a formal visit. so the day following the conversation on the porch when the judge and stott had gone to the city on one of their periodical excursions, mrs. rossmore was startled to see a gentleman of clerical appearance accompanied by a tall, angular woman enter their gate and ring the bell. the rev. percival pontifex deetle and his sister miss jane deetle prided themselves on being leaders in the best social circle in massapequa. the incumbent of the local presbyterian church, the rev. deetle, was a thin, sallow man of about thirty-five. he had a diminutive face with a rather long and very pointed nose which gave a comical effect to his physiognomy. theology was written all over his person and he wore the conventional clerical hat which, owing to his absurdly small face, had the unfortunate appearance of being several sizes too large for him. miss deetle was a gaunt and angular spinster who had an unhappy trick of talking with a jerk. she looked as if she were constantly under self-restraint and was liable at any moment to explode into a fit of rage and only repressed herself with considerable effort. as they came up the stoop, eudoxia, already instructed by mrs. rossmore, was ready for them. with her instinctive respect for the priestly garb she was rather taken back on seeing a clergyman, but she brazened it out: "mr. rossmore's not home." then shaking her head, she added: "they don't see no visitors." unabashed, the rev. deetle drew a card from a case and handing it to the girl said pompously: "then we will see mrs. rossmore. i saw her at the window as we came along. here, my girl, take her this card. tell her that the reverend pontifex deetle and miss deetle have called to present their compliments." brushing past eudoxia, who vainly tried to close the door, the rev. deetle coolly entered the house, followed by his sister, and took a seat in the parlour. "she'll blame me for this," wailed the girl, who had not budged and who stood there fingering the rev. deetle's card. "blame you? for what?" demanded the clerical visitor in surprise. "she told me to say she was out--but i can't lie to a minister of the gospel--leastways not to his face. i'll give her your card, sir." the reverend caller waited until eudoxia had disappeared, then he rose and looked around curiously at the books and pictures. "hum--not a bible or a prayer book or a hymn book, not a picture or anything that would indicate the slightest reverence for holy things." he picked up a few papers that were lying on the table and after glancing at them threw them down in disgust. "law reports--wall street reports--the god of this world. evidently very ordinary people, jane." he looked at his sister, but she sat stiffly and primly in her chair and made no reply. he repeated: "didn't you hear me? i said they are ordinary people." "i've no doubt," retorted miss deetle, "and as such they will not thank us for prying into their affairs." "prying, did you say?" said the parson, resenting this implied criticism of his actions. "just plain prying," persisted his sister angrily. "i don't see what else it is." the rev. pontifex straightened up and threw out his chest as he replied: "it is protecting my flock. as leader of the unified all souls baptismal presbytery, it is my duty to visit the widows and orphans of this community." "these people are neither widows or orphans," objected miss deetle. "they are strangers," insisted the rev. pontifex, "and it is my duty to minister to them--if they need it. furthermore it is my duty to my congregation to find out who is in their midst. no less than three of the lady trustees of my church have asked me who and what these people are and whence they came." "the lady trustees are a pack of old busybodies," growled his sister. her brother raised his finger warningly. "jane, do you know you are uttering a blasphemy? these rossmore people have been here two weeks. they have visited no one, no one visits them. they have avoided a temple of worship, they have acted most mysteriously. who are they? what are they hiding? is it fair to my church, is it fair to my flock? it is not a bereavement, for they don't wear mourning. i'm afraid it may be some hidden scandal--" further speculations on his part were interrupted by the entrance of mrs. rossmore, who thought rightly that the quickest way to get rid of her unwelcome visitors was to hurry downstairs as quickly as possible. "miss deetle--mr. deetle. i am much honoured," was her not too effusive greeting. the reverend pontifex, anxious to make a favourable impression, was all smiles and bows. the idea of a possible scandal had for the moment ceased to worry him. "the honour is ours," he stammered. "i--er--we--er--my sister jane and i called to--" "won't you sit down?" said mrs. rossmore, waving him to a chair. he danced around her in a manner that made her nervous. "thank you so much," he said with a smile that was meant to be amiable. he took a seat at the further end of the room and an awkward pause followed. finally his sister prompted him: "you wanted to see mrs. rossmore about the festival," she said. "oh, of course, i had quite forgotten. how stupid of me. the fact is, mrs. rossmore," he went on, "we are thinking of giving a festival next week--a festival with strawberries--and our trustees thought, in fact it occurred to me also that if you and mr. rossmore would grace the occasion with your presence it would give us an opportunity--so to speak--get better acquainted, and er--" another awkward pause followed during which he sought inspiration by gazing fixedly in the fireplace. then turning on mrs. rossmore so suddenly that the poor woman nearly jumped out of her chair he asked: "do you like strawberries?" "it's very kind of you," interrupted mrs. rossmore, glad of the opportunity to get a word in edgeways. "indeed, i appreciate your kindness most keenly but my husband and i go nowhere, nowhere at all. you see we have met with reverses and--" "reverses," echoed the clerical visitor, with difficulty keeping his seat. this was the very thing he had come to find out and here it was actually thrown at him. he congratulated himself on his cleverness in having inspired so much confidence and thought with glee of his triumph when he returned with the full story to the lady trustees. simulating, therefore, the deepest sympathy he tried to draw his hostess out: "dear me, how sad! you met with reverses." turning to his sister, who was sitting in her corner like a petrified mummy, he added: "jane, do you hear? how inexpressibly sad! they have met with reverses!" he paused, hoping that mrs. rossmore would go on to explain just what their reverses had been, but she was silent. as a gentle hint he said softly: "did i interrupt you, madam?" "not at all, i did not speak," she answered. thus baffled, he turned the whites of his eyes up to the ceiling and said: "when reverses come we naturally look for spiritual consolation. my dear mrs. rossmore, in the name of the unified all souls baptismal presbytery i offer you that consolation." mrs. rossmore looked helplessly from one to the other embarrassed as to what to say. who were these strangers that intruded on her privacy offering a consolation she did not want? miss deetle, as if glad of the opportunity to joke at her brother's expense, said explosively: "my dear pontifex, you have already offered a strawberry festival which mrs. rossmore has been unable to accept." "well, what of it?" demanded mr. deetle, glaring at his sister for the irrelevant interruption. "you are both most kind," murmured mrs. rossmore; "but we could not accept in any case. my daughter is returning home from paris next week." "ah, your daughter--you have a daughter?" exclaimed mr. deetle, grasping at the slightest straw to add to his stock of information. "coming from paris, too! such a wicked city!" he had never been to paris, he went on to explain, but he had read enough about it and he was grateful that the lord had chosen massapequa as the field of his labours. here at least, life was sweet and wholesome and one's hopes of future salvation fairly reasonable. he was not a brilliant talker when the conversation extended beyond massapequa but he rambled on airing his views on the viciousness of the foreigner in general, until mrs. rossmore, utterly wearied, began to wonder when they would go. finally he fell back upon the weather. "we are very fortunate in having such pleasant weather, don't you think so, madam? oh, massapequa is a lovely spot, isn't it? we think it's the one place to live in. we are all one happy family. that's why my sister and i called to make your acquaintance." "you are very good, i'm sure. i shall tell my husband you came and he'll be very pleased." having exhausted his conversational powers and seeing that further efforts to pump mrs. rossmore were useless, the clerical visitor rose to depart: "it looks like rain. come, jane, we had better go. good-bye, madam, i am delighted to have made this little visit and i trust you will assure mr. rossmore that all souls unified baptismal presbytery always has a warm welcome for him." they bowed and mrs. rossmore bowed. the agony was over and as the door closed on them mrs. rossmore gave a sigh of relief. that evening stott and the judge came home earlier than usual and from their dejected appearance mrs. rossmore divined bad news. the judge was painfully silent throughout the meal and stott was unusually grave. finally the latter took her aside and broke it to her gently. in spite of their efforts and the efforts of their friends the congressional inquiry had resulted in a finding against the judge and a demand had already been made upon the senate for his impeachment. they could do nothing now but fight it in the senate with all the influence they could muster. it was going to be hard but stott was confident that right would prevail. after dinner as they were sitting in silence on the porch, each measuring the force of this blow which they had expected yet had always hoped to ward off, the crunching sound of a bicycle was heard on the quiet country road. the rider stopped at their gate and came up the porch holding out an envelope to the judge, who, guessing the contents, had started forward. he tore it open. it was a cablegram from paris and read as follows: _am sailing on the kaiser wilhelm to-day._ _shirley._ chapter vii the pier of the north german lloyd steamship company, at hoboken, fairly sizzled with bustle and excitement. the kaiser wilhelm had arrived at sandy hook the previous evening and was now lying out in midstream. she would tie up at her dock within half an hour. employés of the line, baggage masters, newspaper reporters, custom house officers, policemen, detectives, truck drivers, expressmen, longshoremen, telegraph messengers and anxious friends of incoming passengers surged back and forth in seemingly hopeless confusion. the shouting of orders, the rattling of cab wheels, the shrieking of whistles was deafening. from out in the river came the deep toned blasts of the steamer's siren, in grotesque contrast with the strident tooting of a dozen diminutive tugs which, puffing and snorting, were slowly but surely coaxing the leviathan into her berth alongside the dock. the great vessel, spick and span after a coat of fresh paint hurriedly put on during the last day of the voyage, bore no traces of gale, fog and stormy seas through which she had passed on her , mile run across the ocean. conspicuous on the bridge, directing the docking operations, stood capt. hegermann, self satisfied and smiling, relieved that the responsibilities of another trip were over, and at his side, sharing the honours, was the grizzled pilot who had brought the ship safely through the dangers of gedney's channel, his shabby pea jacket, old slouch hat, top boots and unkempt beard standing out in sharp contrast with the immaculate white duck trousers, the white and gold caps and smart full dress uniforms of the ship's officers. the rails on the upper decks were seen to be lined with passengers, all dressed in their shore going clothes, some waving handkerchiefs at friends they already recognized, all impatiently awaiting the shipping of the gangplank. stott had come early. they had received word at massapequa the day before that the steamer had been sighted off fire island and that she would be at her pier the next morning at o'clock. stott arrived at . and so found no difficulty in securing a front position among the small army of people, who, like himself, had come down to meet friends. as the huge vessel swung round and drew closer, stott easily picked out shirley. she was scanning eagerly through a binocular the rows of upturned faces on the dock, and he noted that a look of disappointment crossed her face at not finding the object of her search. she turned and said something to a lady in black and to a man who stood at her side. who they might be stott had no idea. fellow passengers, no doubt. one becomes so intimate on shipboard; it seems a friendship that must surely last a lifetime, whereas--the custom officers have not finished rummaging through your trunks when these easily-made steamer friends are already forgotten. presently shirley took another look and her glass soon lighted on him. instantly she recognized her father's old friend. she waved a handkerchief and stott raised his hat. then she turned quickly and spoke again to her friends, whereupon they all moved in the direction of the gangplank, which was already being lowered. shirley was one of the first to come ashore. stott was waiting for her at the foot of the gangplank and she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. he had known her ever since she was a little tot in arms, and bystanders who noticed them meet had no doubt that they were father and daughter. shirley was deeply moved; a great lump in her throat seemed to choke her utterance. so far she had been able to bear up, but now that home was so near her heart failed her. she had hoped to find her father on the dock. why had he not come? were things so bad then? she questioned judge stott anxiously, fearfully. he reassured her. both her mother and father were well. it was too long a trip for them to make, so he had volunteered. "too long a trip," echoed shirley puzzled. "this is not far from our house. madison avenue is no distance. that could not have kept father away." "you don't live on madison avenue any longer. the house and its contents have been sold," replied stott gravely, and in a few words he outlined the situation as it was. shirley listened quietly to the end and only the increasing pallor of her face and an occasional nervous twitching at the corner of her mouth betrayed the shock that this recital of her father's misfortunes was to her. ah, this she had little dreamed of! yet why not? it was but logic. when wrecked in reputation, one might as well be wrecked in fortune, too. what would their future be, how could that proud, sensitive man her father bear this humiliation, this disgrace? to be condemned to a life of obscurity, social ostracism, and genteel poverty! oh, the thought was unendurable! she herself could earn money, of course. if her literary work did not bring in enough, she could teach and what she earned would help out. certainly her parents should never want for anything so long as she could supply it. she thought bitterly how futile now were plans of marriage, even if she had ever entertained such an idea seriously. henceforward, she did not belong to herself. her life must be devoted to clearing her father's name. these reflections were suddenly interrupted by the voice of mrs. blake calling out: "shirley, where have you been? we lost sight of you as we left the ship, and we have been hunting for you ever since." her aunt, escorted by jefferson ryder, had gone direct to the customs desk and in the crush they had lost trace of her. shirley introduced stott. "aunt milly, this is judge stott, a very old friend of father's. mrs. blake, my mother's sister. mother will be surprised to see her. they haven't met for ten years." "this visit is going to be only a brief one," said mrs. blake. "i really came over to chaperone shirley more than anything else." "as if i needed chaperoning with mr. ryder for an escort!" retorted shirley. then presenting jefferson to stott she said: "this is mr. jefferson ryder--judge stott. mr. ryder has been very kind to me abroad." the two men bowed and shook hands. "any relation to j.b.?" asked stott good humouredly. "his son--that's all," answered jefferson laconically. stott now looked at the young man with more interest. yes, there was a resemblance, the same blue eyes, the righting jaw. but how on earth did judge rossmore's daughter come to be travelling in the company of john burkett ryder's son? the more he thought of it the more it puzzled him, and while he cogitated shirley and her companions wrestled with the united states customs, and were undergoing all the tortures invented by uncle sam to punish americans for going abroad. shirley and mrs. blake were fortunate in securing an inspector who was fairly reasonable. of course, he did not for a moment believe their solemn statement, already made on the ship, that they had nothing dutiable, and he rummaged among the most intimate garments of their wardrobe in a wholly indecent and unjustifiable manner, but he was polite and they fared no worse than all the other women victims of this, the most brutal custom house inspection system in the world. jefferson had the misfortune to be allotted an inspector who was half seas over with liquor and the man was so insolent and threatening in manner that it was only by great self-restraint that jefferson controlled himself. he had no wish to create a scandal on the dock, nor to furnish good "copy" for the keen-eyed, long-eared newspaper reporters who would be only too glad of such an opportunity for a "scare head," but when the fellow compelled him to open every trunk and valise and then put his grimy hands to the bottom and by a quick upward movement jerked the entire contents out on the dock he interfered: "you are exceeding your authority," he exclaimed hotly. "how dare you treat my things in this manner?" the drunken uniformed brute raised his bloodshot, bleary eyes and took jefferson in from tip to toe. he clenched his fist as if about to resort to violence, but he was not so intoxicated as to be quite blind to the fact that this passenger had massive square shoulders, a determined jaw and probably a heavy arm. so contenting himself with a sneer, he said: "this ain't no country for blooming english dooks. you're not in england now you know. this is a free country. see?" "i see this," replied jefferson, furious "that you are a drunken ruffian and a disgrace to the uniform you wear. i shall report your conduct immediately," with which he proceeded to the customs desk to lodge a complaint. he might have spared himself the trouble. the silver haired, distinguished looking old officer in charge knew that jefferson's complaint was well founded, he knew that this particular inspector was a drunkard and a discredit to the government which employed him, but at the same time he also knew that political influence had been behind his appointment and that it was unsafe to do more than mildly reprimand him. when, therefore, he accompanied jefferson to the spot where the contents of the trunks lay scattered in confusion all over the dock, he merely expostulated with the officer, who made some insolent reply. seeing that it was useless to lose further time, jefferson repacked his trunks as best he could and got them on a cab. then he hurried over to shirley's party and found them already about to leave the pier. "come and see us, jeff," whispered shirley as their cab drove through the gates. "where," he asked, "madison avenue?" she hesitated for a moment and then replied quickly: "no, we are stopping down on long island for the summer--at a cute little place called massapequa. run down and see us." he raised his hat and the cab drove on. there was greater activity in the rossmore cottage at massapequa than there had been any day since the judge and his wife went to live there. since daybreak eudoxia had been scouring and polishing in honour of the expected arrival and a hundred times mrs. rossmore had climbed the stairs to see that everything was as it should be in the room which had been prepared for shirley. it was not, however, without a passage at arms that eudoxia consented to consider the idea of an addition to the family. mrs. rossmore had said to her the day before: "my daughter will be here to-morrow, eudoxia." a look expressive of both displeasure and astonishment marred the classic features of the hireling. putting her broom aside and placing her arms akimbo she exclaimed in an injured tone: "and it's a dayther you've got now? so it's three in family you are! when i took the place it's two you tould me there was!" "well, with your kind permission," replied mrs. rossmore, "there will be three in future. there is nothing in the constitution of the united states that says we can't have a daughter without consulting our help, is there?" the sarcasm of this reply did not escape even the dull-edged wits of the irish drudge. she relapsed into a dignified silence and a few minutes later was discovered working with some show of enthusiasm. the judge was nervous and fidgety. he made a pretence to read, but it was plain to see that his mind was not on his book. he kept leaving his chair to go and look at the clock; then he would lay the volume aside and wander from room to room like a lost soul. his thoughts were on the dock at hoboken. by noon every little detail had been attended to and there was nothing further to do but sit and wait for the arrival of stott and shirley. they were to be expected any moment now. the passengers had probably got off the steamer by eleven o'clock. it would take at least two hours to get through the customs and out to massapequa. the judge and his wife sat on the porch counting the minutes and straining their ears to catch the first sound of the train from new york. "i hope stott broke the news to her gently," said the judge. "i wish we had gone to meet her ourselves," sighed his wife. the judge was silent and for a moment or two he puffed vigorously at his pipe, as was his habit when disturbed mentally. then he said: "i ought to have gone, martha, but i was afraid. i'm afraid to look my own daughter in the face and tell her that i am a disgraced man, that i am to be tried by the senate for corruption, perhaps impeached and turned off the bench as if i were a criminal. shirley won't believe it, sometimes i can't believe it myself. i often wake up in the night and think of it as part of a dream, but when the morning comes it's still true--it's still true!" he smoked on in silence. then happening to look up he noticed that his wife was weeping. he laid his hand gently on hers. "don't cry, dear, don't make it harder for me to bear. shirley must see no trace of tears." "i was thinking of the injustice of it all," replied mrs. rossmore, wiping her eyes. "fancy shirley in this place, living from hand to mouth," went on the judge. "that's the least," answered his wife. "she's a fine, handsome girl, well educated and all the rest of it. she ought to make a good marriage." no matter what state of mind mrs. rossmore might be in, she never lost sight of the practical side of things. "hardly with her father's disgrace hanging over her head," replied the judge wearily. "who," he added, "would have the courage to marry a girl whose father was publicly disgraced?" both relapsed into another long silence, each mentally reviewing the past and speculating on the future. suddenly mrs. rossmore started. surely she could not be mistaken! no, the clanging of a locomotive bell was plainly audible. the train was in. from the direction of the station came people with parcels and hand bags and presently there was heard the welcome sound of carriage wheels crunching over the stones. a moment later they saw coming round the bend in the road a cab piled up with small baggage. "here they are! here they are!" cried mrs. rossmore. "come, eudoxia!" she called to the servant, while she herself hurried down to the gate. the judge, fully as agitated as herself, only showing his emotion in a different way, remained on the porch pale and anxious. the cab stopped at the curb and stott alighted, first helping out mrs. blake. mrs. rossmore's astonishment on seeing her sister was almost comical. "milly!" she exclaimed. they embraced first and explained afterwards. then shirley got out and was in her mother's arms. "where's father?" was shirley's first question. "there--he's coming!" the judge, unable to restrain his impatience longer, ran down from the porch towards the gate. shirley, with a cry of mingled grief and joy, precipitated herself on his breast. "father! father!" she cried between her sobs. "what have they done to you?" "there--there, my child. everything will be well--everything will be well." her head lay on his shoulder and he stroked her hair with his hand, unable to speak from pent up emotion. mrs. rossmore could not recover from her stupefaction on seeing her sister. mrs. blake explained that she had come chiefly for the benefit of the voyage and announced her intention of returning on the same steamer. "so you see i shall bother you only a few days," she said. "you'll stay just as long as you wish," rejoined mrs. rossmore. "happily we have just one bedroom left." then turning to eudoxia, who was wrestling with the baggage, which formed a miniature matterhorn on the sidewalk, she gave instructions: "eudoxia, you'll take this lady's baggage to the small bedroom adjoining miss shirley's. she is going to stop with us for a few days." taken completely aback at the news of this new addition, eudoxia looked at first defiance. she seemed on the point of handing in her resignation there and then. but evidently she thought better of it, for, taking a cue from mrs. rossmore, she asked in the sarcastic manner of her mistress: "four is it now, m'm? i suppose the constitootion of the united states allows a family to be as big as one likes to make it. it's hard on us girls, but if it's the law, it's all right, m'm. the more the merrier!" with which broadside, she hung the bags all over herself and staggered off to the house. stott explained that the larger pieces and the trunks would come later by express. mrs. rossmore took him aside while mrs. blake joined shirley and the judge. "did you tell shirley?" asked mrs. rossmore. "how did she take it?" "she knows everything," answered stott, "and takes it very sensibly. we shall find her of great moral assistance in our coming fight in the senate," he added confidently. [pencil illustration of shirley embracing her father at the gate of the cottage at massapequa.] "father! father! what have they done to you?"--_page _. realizing that the judge would like to be left alone with shirley, mrs. rossmore invited mrs. blake to go upstairs and see the room she would have, while stott said he would be glad of a washup. when they had gone shirley sidled up to her father in her old familiar way. "i've just been longing to see you, father," she said. she turned to get a good look at him and noticing the lines of care which had deepened during her absence she cried: "why, how you've changed! i can scarcely believe it's you. say something. let me hear the sound of your voice, father." the judge tried to smile. "why, my dear girl, i--" shirley threw her arms round his neck. "ah, yes, now i know it's you," she cried. "of course it is, shirley, my dear girl. of course it is. who else should it be?" "yes, but it isn't the same," insisted shirley. "there is no ring to your voice. it sounds hollow and empty, like an echo. and this place," she added dolefully, "this awful place--" she glanced around at the cracked ceilings, the cheaply papered walls, the shabby furniture, and her heart sank as she realized the extent of their misfortune. she had come back prepared for the worst, to help win the fight for her father's honour, but to have to struggle against sordid poverty as well, to endure that humiliation in addition to disgrace--ah, that was something she had not anticipated! she changed colour and her voice faltered. her father had been closely watching for just such signs and he read her thoughts. "it's the best we can afford, shirley," he said quietly. "the blow has been complete. i will tell you everything. you shall judge for yourself. my enemies have done for me at last." "your enemies?" cried shirley eagerly. "tell me who they are so i may go to them." "yes, dear, you shall know everything. but not now. you are tired after your journey. to-morrow sometime stott and i will explain everything." "very well, father, as you wish," said shirley gently. "after all," she added in an effort to appear cheerful, "what matter where we live so long as we have each other?" she drew away to hide her tears and left the room on pretence of inspecting the house. she looked into the dining-room and kitchen and opened the cupboards, and when she returned there were no visible signs of trouble in her face. "it's a cute little house, isn't it?" she said. "i've always wanted a little place like this--all to ourselves. oh, if you only knew how tired i am of new york and its great ugly houses, its retinue of servants and its domestic and social responsibilities! we shall be able to live for ourselves now, eh, father?" she spoke with a forced gaiety that might have deceived anyone but the judge. he understood the motive of her sudden change in manner and silently he blessed her for making his burden lighter. "yes, dear, it's not bad," he said. "there's not much room, though." "there's quite enough," she insisted. "let me see." she began to count on her fingers. "upstairs--three rooms, eh? and above that three more--" "no," smiled the judge, "then comes the roof?" "of course," she laughed, "how stupid of me--a nice gable roof, a sloping roof that the rain runs off beautifully. oh, i can see that this is going to be awfully jolly--just like camping out. you know how i love camping out. and you have a piano, too." she went over to the corner where stood one of those homely instruments which hardly deserve to be dignified by the name piano, with a cheap, gaudily painted case outside and a tin pan effect inside, and which are usually to be found in the poorer class of country boarding houses. shirley sat down and ran her fingers over the keys, determined to like everything. "it's a little old," was her comment, "but i like these zither effects. it's just like the sixteenth century spinet. i can see you and mother dancing a stately minuet," she smiled. "what's that about mother dancing?" demanded mrs. rossmore, who at that instant entered the room. shirley arose and appealed to her: "isn't it absurd, mother, when you come to think of it, that anybody should accuse father of being corrupt and of having forfeited the right to be judge? isn't it still more absurd that we should be helpless and dejected and unhappy because we are on long island instead of madison avenue? why should manhattan island be a happier spot than long island? why shouldn't we be happy anywhere; we have each other. and we do need each other. we never knew how much till to-day, did we? we must stand by each other now. father is going to clear his name of this preposterous charge and we're going to help him, aren't we, mother? we're not helpless just because we are women. we're going to work, mother and i." "work?" echoed mrs. rossmore, somewhat scandalized. "work," repeated shirley very decisively. the judge interfered. he would not hear of it. "you work, shirley? impossible!" "why not? my book has been selling well while i was abroad. i shall probably write others. then i shall write, too, for the newspapers and magazines. it will add to our income." "your book--'the american octopus,' is selling well?" inquired the judge, interested. "so well," replied shirley, "that the publishers wrote me in paris that the fourth edition was now on the press. that means good royalties. i shall soon be a fashionable author. the publishers will be after me for more books and we'll have all the money we want. oh, it is so delightful, this novel sensation of a literary success!" she exclaimed with glee. "aren't you proud of me, dad?" the judge smiled indulgently. of course he was glad and proud. he always knew his shirley was a clever girl. but by what strange fatality, he thought to himself, had his daughter in this book of hers assailed the very man who had encompassed his own ruin? it seemed like the retribution of heaven. neither his daughter nor the financier was conscious of the fact that each was indirectly connected with the impeachment proceedings. ryder could not dream that "shirley green," the author of the book which flayed him so mercilessly, was the daughter of the man he was trying to crush. shirley, on the other hand, was still unaware of the fact that it was ryder who had lured her father to his ruin. mrs. rossmore now insisted on shirley going to her room to rest. she must be tired and dusty. after changing her travelling dress she would feel refreshed and more comfortable. when she was ready to come down again luncheon would be served. so leaving the judge to his papers, mother and daughter went upstairs together, and with due maternal pride mrs. rossmore pointed out to shirley all the little arrangements she had made for her comfort. then she left her daughter to herself while she hurried downstairs to look after eudoxia and luncheon. when, at last, she could lock herself in her room where no eye could see her, shirley threw herself down on the bed and burst into a torrent of tears. she had kept up appearances as long as it was possible, but now the reaction had set in. she gave way freely to her pent up feelings, she felt that unless she could relieve herself in this way her heart would break. she had been brave until now, she had been strong to hear everything and see everything, but she could not keep it up forever. stott's words to her on the dock had in part prepared her for the worst, he had told her what to expect at home, but the realization was so much more vivid. while hundreds of miles of ocean still lay between, it had all seemed less real, almost attractive as a romance in modern life, but now she was face to face with the grim reality--this shabby cottage, cheap neighbourhood and commonplace surroundings, her mother's air of resignation to the inevitable, her father's pale, drawn face telling so eloquently of the keen mental anguish through which he had passed. she compared this pitiful spectacle with what they had been when she left for europe, the fine mansion on madison avenue with its rich furnishings and well-trained servants, and her father's proud aristocratic face illumined with the consciousness of his high rank in the community, and the attention he attracted every time he appeared on the street or in public places as one of the most brilliant and most respected judges on the bench. then to have come to this all in the brief space of a few months! it was incredible, terrible, heart rending! and what of the future? what was to be done to save her father from this impeachment which she knew well would hurry him to his grave? he could not survive that humiliation, that degradation. he must be saved in the senate, but how--how? she dried her eyes and began to think. surely her woman's wit would find some way. she thought of jefferson. would he come to massapequa? it was hardly probable. he would certainly learn of the change in their circumstances and his sense of delicacy would naturally keep him away for some time even if other considerations, less unselfish, did not. perhaps he would be attracted to some other girl he would like as well and who was not burdened with a tragedy in her family. her tears began to flow afresh until she hated herself for being so weak while there was work to be done to save her father. she loved jefferson. yes, she had never felt so sure of it as now. she felt that if she had him there at that moment she would throw herself in his arms crying: "take me, jefferson, take me away, where you will, for i love you! i love you!" but jefferson was not there and the rickety chairs in the tiny bedroom and the cheap prints on the walls seemed to jibe at her in her misery. if he were there, she thought as she looked into a cracked mirror, he would think her very ugly with her eyes all red from crying. he would not marry her now in any case. no self-respecting man would. she was glad that she had spoken to him as she had in regard to marriage, for while a stain remained upon her father's name marriage was out of the question. she might have yielded on the question of the literary career, but she would never allow a man to taunt her afterwards with the disgrace of her own flesh and blood. no, henceforth her place was at her father's side until his character was cleared. if the trial in the senate were to go against him, then she could never see jefferson again. she would give up all idea of him and everything else. her literary career would be ended, her life would be a blank. they would have to go abroad, where they were not known, and try and live down their shame, for no matter how innocent her father might be the world would believe him guilty. once condemned by the senate, nothing could remove the stigma. she would have to teach in order to contribute towards the support, they would manage somehow. but what a future, how unnecessary, how unjust! suddenly she thought of jefferson's promise to interest his father in their case and she clutched at the hope this promise held out as a drowning man clutches at a drifting straw. jefferson would not forget his promise and he would come to massapequa to tell her of what he had done. she was sure of that. perhaps, after all, there was where their hope lay. why had she not told her father at once? it might have relieved his mind. john burkett ryder, the colossus, the man of unlimited power! he could save her father and he would. and the more she thought about it, the more cheerful and more hopeful she became, and she started to dress quickly so that she might hurry down to tell her father the good news. she was actually sorry now that she had said so many hard things of mr. ryder in her book and she was worrying over the thought that her father's case might be seriously prejudiced if the identity of the author were ever revealed, when there came a knock at her door. it was eudoxia. "please, miss, will you come down to lunch?" chapter viii a whirling maelstrom of human activity and dynamic energy--the city which above all others is characteristic of the genius and virility of the american people--new york, with its congested polyglot population and teeming millions, is assuredly one of the busiest, as it is one of the most strenuous and most noisy places on earth. yet, despite its swarming streets and crowded shops, ceaselessly thronged with men and women eagerly hurrying here and there in the pursuit of business or elusive pleasure, all chattering, laughing, shouting amid the deafening, multisonous roar of traffic incidental to gotham's daily life, there is one part of the great metropolis where there is no bustle, no noise, no crowd, where the streets are empty even in daytime, where a passer-by is a curiosity and a child a phenomenon. this deserted village in the very heart of the big town is the millionaires' district, the boundaries of which are marked by carnegie hill on the north, fiftieth street on the south, and by fifth and madison avenues respectively on the west and east. there is nothing more mournful than the outward aspect of these princely residences which, abandoned and empty for three-quarters of the year, stand in stately loneliness, as if ashamed of their isolation and utter uselessness. their blinds drawn, affording no hint of life within, enveloped the greater part of the time in the stillness and silence of the tomb, they appear to be under the spell of some baneful curse. no merry-voiced children romp in their carefully railed off gardens, no sounds of conversation or laughter come from their hermetically closed windows, not a soul goes in or out, at most, at rare intervals, does one catch a glimpse of a gorgeously arrayed servant gliding about in ghostly fashion, supercilious and suspicious, and addressing the chance visitor in awed whispers as though he were the guardian of a house of affliction. it is, indeed, like a city of the dead. so it appeared to jefferson as he walked up fifth avenue, bound for the ryder residence, the day following his arrival from europe. although he still lived at his father's house, for at no time had there been an open rupture, he often slept in his studio, finding it more convenient for his work, and there he had gone straight from the ship. he felt, however, that it was his duty to see his mother as soon as possible; besides he was anxious to fulfil his promise to shirley and find what his father could do to help judge rossmore. he had talked about the case with several men the previous evening at the club and the general impression seemed to be that, guilty or innocent, the judge would be driven off the bench. the "interests" had forced the matter as a party issue, and the republicans being in control in the senate the outcome could hardly be in doubt. he had learned also of the other misfortunes which had befallen judge rossmore and he understood now the reason for shirley's grave face on the dock and her little fib about summering on long island. the news had been a shock to him, for, apart from the fact that the judge was shirley's father, he admired him immensely as a man. of his perfect innocence there could, of course, be no question: these charges of bribery had simply been trumped up by his enemies to get him off the bench. that was very evident. the "interests" feared him and so had sacrificed him without pity, and as jefferson walked along central park, past the rows of superb palaces which face its eastern wall, he wondered in which particular mansion had been hatched this wicked, iniquitous plot against a wholly blameless american citizen. here, he thought, were the citadels of the plutocrats, america's aristocracy of money, the strongholds of her coal, railroad, oil, gas and ice barons, the castles of her monarchs of steel, copper, and finance. each of these million-dollar residences, he pondered, was filled from cellar to roof with costly furnishings, masterpieces of painting and sculpture, priceless art treasures of all kinds purchased in every corner of the globe with the gold filched from a trust-ridden people. for every stone in those marble halls a human being, other than the owner, had been sold into bondage, for each of these magnificent edifices, which the plutocrat put up in his pride only to occupy it two months in the year, ten thousand american men, women and children had starved and sorrowed. europe, thought jefferson as he strode quickly along, pointed with envy to america's unparalleled prosperity, spoke with bated breath of her great fortunes. rather should they say her gigantic robberies, her colossal frauds! as a nation we were not proud of our multi-millionaires. how many of them would bear the searchlight of investigation? would his own father? how many millions could one man make by honest methods? america was enjoying unprecedented prosperity, not because of her millionaires, but in spite of them. the united states owed its high rank in the family of nations to the country's vast natural resources, its inexhaustible vitality, its great wheat fields, the industrial and mechanical genius of its people. it was the plain american citizen who had made the greatness of america, not the millionaires who, forming a class by themselves of unscrupulous capitalists, had created an arrogant oligarchy which sought to rule the country by corrupting the legislature and the judiciary. the plutocrats--these were the leeches, the sores in the body politic. an organized band of robbers, they had succeeded in dominating legislation and in securing control of every branch of the nation's industry, crushing mercilessly and illegally all competition. they were the money power, and such a menace were they to the welfare of the people that, it had been estimated, twenty men in america had it in their power, by reason of the vast wealth which they controlled, to come together, and within twenty-four hours arrive at an understanding by which every wheel of trade and commerce would be stopped from revolving, every avenue of trade blocked and every electric key struck dumb. those twenty men could paralyze the whole country, for they controlled the circulation of the currency and could create a panic whenever they might choose. it was the rapaciousness and insatiable greed of these plutocrats that had forced the toilers to combine for self-protection, resulting in the organization of the labor unions which, in time, became almost as tyrannical and unreasonable as the bosses. and the breach between capital on the one hand and labour on the other was widening daily, masters and servants snarling over wages and hours, the quarrel ever increasing in bitterness and acrimony until one day the extreme limit of patience would be reached and industrial strikes would give place to bloody violence. meantime the plutocrats, wholly careless of the significant signs of the times and the growing irritation and resentment of the people, continued their illegal practices, scoffing at public opinion, snapping their fingers at the law, even going so far in their insolence as to mock and jibe at the president of the united states. feeling secure in long immunity and actually protected in their wrong doing by the courts--the legal machinery by its very elaborateness defeating the ends of justice--the trust kings impudently defied the country and tried to impose their own will upon the people. history had thus repeated itself. the armed feudalism of the middle ages had been succeeded in twentieth century america by the tyranny of capital. yet, ruminated the young artist as he neared the ryder residence, the american people had but themselves to blame for their present thralldom. forty years before abraham lincoln had warned the country when at the close of the war he saw that the race for wealth was already making men and women money-mad. in he wrote these words: "yes, we may congratulate ourselves that this cruel war is nearing its close. it has cost a vast amount of treasure and blood. the best blood of the flower of american youth has been freely offered upon our country's altar that the nation might live. it has been indeed a trying hour for the republic, but i see in the near future a crisis approaching that unnerves me and causes me to tremble for the safety of my country. as a result of the war, corporations have been enthroned and an era of corruption in high places will follow and the money power of the country will endeavor to prolong its reign by working upon the prejudices of the people until all the wealth is aggregated in a few hands and the republic is destroyed." truly prophetic these solemn words were to-day. forgetting the austere simplicity of their forebears, a love of show and ostentation had become the ruling passion of the american people. money, money, money! was to-day the only standard, the only god! the whole nation, frenzied with a wild lust for wealth no matter how acquired, had tacitly acquiesced in all sorts of turpitude, every description of moral depravity, and so had fallen an easy victim to the band of capitalistic adventurers who now virtually ruled the land. with the thieves in power, the courts were powerless, the demoralization was general and the world was afforded the edifying spectacle of an entire country given up to an orgy of graft--treason in the senate--corruption in the legislature, fraudulent elections, leaks in government reports, trickery in wall street, illegal corners in coal, meat, ice and other prime necessaries of life, the deadly horrors of the beef and drug trusts, railroad conspiracies, insurance scandals, the wrecking of savings banks, police dividing spoils with pickpockets and sharing the wages of prostitutes, magistrates charged with blackmailing--a foul stench of social rottenness and decay! what, thought jefferson, would be the outcome--socialism or anarchy? still, he mused, one ray of hope pierced the general gloom--the common sense, the vigour and the intelligence of the true american man and woman, the love for a "square deal" which was characteristic of the plain people, the resistless force of enlightened public opinion. the country was merely passing through a dark phase in its history, it was the era of the grafters. there would come a reaction, the rascals would be exposed and driven off, and the nation would go on upward toward its high destiny. the country was fortunate, too, in having a strong president, a man of high principles and undaunted courage who had already shown his capacity to deal with the critical situation. america was lucky with her presidents. picked out by the great political parties as mere figureheads, sometimes they deceived their sponsors, and showed themselves men and patriots. such a president was theodore roosevelt. after beginning vigorous warfare on the trusts, attacking fearlessly the most rascally of the band, the chief of the nation had sounded the slogan of alarm in regard to the multi-millionaires. the amassing of colossal fortunes, he had declared, must be stopped--a man might accumulate more than sufficient for his own needs and for the needs of his children, but the evil practice of perpetuating great and ever-increasing fortunes for generations yet unborn was recognized as a peril to the state. to have had the courage to propose such a sweeping and radical restrictive measure as this should alone, thought jefferson, ensure for theodore roosevelt a place among america's greatest and wisest statesmen. he and americans of his calibre would eventually perform the titanic task of cleansing these augean stables, the muck and accumulated filth of which was sapping the health and vitality of the nation. jefferson turned abruptly and went up the wide steps of an imposing white marble edifice, which took up the space of half a city block. a fine example of french renaissance architecture, with spire roofs, round turrets and mullioned windows dominating the neighbouring houses, this magnificent home of the plutocrat, with its furnishings and art treasures, had cost john burkett ryder nearly ten millions of dollars. it was one of the show places of the town, and when the "rubber neck" wagons approached the ryder mansion and the guides, through their megaphones, expatiated in awe-stricken tones on its external and hidden beauties, there was a general craning of vertebrae among the "seeing new york"-ers to catch a glimpse of the abode of the richest man in the world. only a few privileged ones were ever permitted to penetrate to the interior of this ten-million-dollar home. ryder was not fond of company, he avoided strangers and lived in continual apprehension of the subpoena server. not that he feared the law, only he usually found it inconvenient to answer questions in court under oath. the explicit instructions to the servants, therefore, were to admit no one under any pretext whatever unless the visitor had been approved by the hon. fitzroy bagley, mr. ryder's aristocratic private secretary, and to facilitate this preliminary inspection there had been installed between the library upstairs and the front door one of those ingenious electric writing devices, such as are used in banks, on which a name is hastily scribbled, instantly transmitted elsewhere, immediately answered and the visitor promptly admitted or as quickly shown the door. indeed the house, from the street, presented many of the characteristics of a prison. it had massive doors behind a row of highly polished steel gates, which would prove as useful in case of attempted invasion as they were now ornamental, and heavily barred windows, while on either side of the portico were great marble columns hung with chains and surmounted with bronze lions rampant. it was unusual to keep the town house open so late in the summer, but mr. ryder was obliged for business reasons to be in new york at this time, and mrs. ryder, who was one of the few american wives who do not always get their own way, had good-naturedly acquiesced in the wishes of her lord. jefferson did not have to ring at the paternal portal. the sentinel within was at his post; no one could approach that door without being seen and his arrival and appearance signalled upstairs. but the great man's son headed the list of the privileged ones, so without ado the smartly dressed flunkey opened wide the doors and jefferson was under his father's roof. "is my father in?" he demanded of the man. "no, sir," was the respectful answer. "mr. ryder has gone out driving, but mr. bagley is upstairs." then after a brief pause he added: "mrs. ryder is in, too." in this household where the personality of the mistress was so completely overshadowed by the stronger personality of the master the latter's secretary was a more important personage to the servants than the unobtrusive wife. jefferson went up the grand staircase hung on either side with fine old portraits and rare tapestries, his feet sinking deep in the rich velvet carpet. on the first landing was a piece of sculptured marble of inestimable worth, seen in the soft warm light that sifted through a great pictorial stained-glass window overhead, the subject representing ajax and ulysses contending for the armour of achilles. to the left of this, at the top of another flight leading to the library, was hung a fine full-length portrait of john burkett ryder. the ceilings here as in the lower hall were richly gilt and adorned with paintings by famous modern artists. when he reached this floor jefferson was about to turn to the right and proceed direct to his mother's suite when he heard a voice near the library door. it was mr. bagley giving instructions to the butler. the honourable fitzroy bagley, a younger son of a british peer, had left his country for his country's good, and in order to turn an honest penny, which he had never succeeded in doing at home, he had entered the service of america's foremost financier, hoping to gather a few of the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table and disguising the menial nature of his position under the high-sounding title of private secretary. his job called for a spy and a toady and he filled these requirements admirably. excepting with his employer, of whom he stood in craven fear, his manner was condescendingly patronizing to all with whom he came in contact, as if he were anxious to impress on these american plebeians the signal honour which a fitzroy, son of a british peer, did them in deigning to remain in their "blarsted" country. in mr. ryder's absence, therefore, he ran the house to suit himself, bullying the servants and not infrequently issuing orders that were contradictory to those already given by mrs. ryder. the latter offered no resistance, she knew he was useful to her husband and, what to her mind was a still better reason for letting him have his own way, she had always had the greatest reverence for the british aristocracy. it would have seemed to her little short of vulgarity to question the actions of anyone who spoke with such a delightful english accent. moreover, he dressed with irreproachable taste, was an acknowledged authority on dinner menus and social functions and knew his burke backwards--altogether an accomplished and invaluable person. jefferson could not bear the sight of him; in fact, it was this man's continual presence in the house that had driven him to seek refuge elsewhere. he believed him to be a scoundrel as he certainly was a cad. nor was his estimate of the english secretary far wrong. the man, like his master, was a grafter, and the particular graft he was after now was either to make a marriage with a rich american girl or to so compromise her that the same end would be attained. he was shrewd enough to realize that he had little chance to get what he wanted in the open matrimonial market, so he determined to attempt a raid and carry off an heiress under her father's nose, and the particular proboscis he had selected was that of his employer's friend, senator roberts. the senator and miss roberts were frequently at the ryder house and in course of time the aristocratic secretary and the daughter had become quite intimate. a flighty girl, with no other purpose in life beyond dress and amusement and having what she termed "a good time," kate thought it excellent pastime to flirt with mr. bagley, and when she discovered that he was serious in his attentions she felt flattered rather than indignant. after all, she argued, he was of noble birth. if his two brothers died he would be peer of england, and she had enough money for both. he might not make a bad husband. but she was careful to keep her own counsel and not let her father have any suspicion of what was going on. she knew that his heart was set on her marrying jefferson ryder and she knew better than anyone how impossible that dream was. she herself liked jefferson quite enough to marry him, but if his eyes were turned in another direction--and she knew all about his attentions to miss rossmore--she was not going to break her heart about it. so she continued to flirt secretly with the honourable fitzroy while she still led the ryders and her own father to think that she was interested in jefferson. "jorkins," mr. bagley was saying to the butler, "mr. ryder will occupy the library on his return. see that he is not disturbed." "yes, sir," replied the butler respectfully. the man turned to go when the secretary called him back. "and, jorkins, you will station another man at the front entrance. yesterday it was left unguarded, and a man had the audacity to address mr. ryder as he was getting out of his carriage. last week a reporter tried to snapshot him. mr. ryder was furious. these things must not happen again, jorkins. i shall hold you responsible." "very good, sir." the butler bowed and went downstairs. the secretary looked up and saw jefferson. his face reddened and his manner grew nervous. "hello! back from europe, jefferson? how jolly! your mother will be delighted. she's in her room upstairs." declining to take the hint, and gathering from bagley's embarrassed manner that he wanted to get rid of him, jefferson lingered purposely. when the butler had disappeared, he said: "this house is getting more and more like a barracks every day. you've got men all over the place. one can't move a step without falling over one." mr. bagley drew himself up stiffly, as he always did when assuming an air of authority. "your father's personality demands the utmost precaution," he replied. "we cannot leave the life of the richest and most powerful financier in the world at the mercy of the rabble." "what rabble?" inquired jefferson, amused. "the common rabble--the lower class--the riff-raff," explained mr. bagley. "pshaw!" laughed jefferson. "if our financiers were only half as respectable as the common rabble, as you call them, they would need no bars to their houses." mr. bagley sneered and shrugged his shoulders. "your father has warned me against your socialistic views." then, with a lofty air, he added: "for four years i was third groom of the bedchamber to the second son of england's queen. i know my responsibilities." "but you are not groom of the bedchamber here," retorted jefferson. "whatever i am," said mr. bagley haughtily, "i am answerable to your father alone." "by the way, bagley," asked jefferson, "when do you expect father to return? i want to see him." "i'm afraid it's quite impossible," answered the secretary with studied insolence. "he has three important people to see before dinner. there's the national republican committee and sergeant ellison of the secret service from washington--all here by appointment. it's quite impossible." "i didn't ask you if it were possible. i said i wanted to see him and i will see him," answered jefferson quietly but firmly, and in a tone and manner which did not admit of further opposition. "i'll go and leave word for him on his desk," he added. he started to enter the library when the secretary, who was visibly perturbed, attempted to bar his way. "there's some one in there," he said in an undertone. "someone waiting for your father." "is there?" replied jefferson coolly. "i'll see who it is," with which he brushed past mr. bagley and entered the library. he had guessed aright. a woman was there. it was kate roberts. "hello, kate! how are you?" they called each other by their first names, having been acquainted for years, and while theirs was an indifferent kind of friendship they had always been on good terms. at one time jefferson had even begun to think he might do what his father wished and marry the girl, but it was only after he had met and known shirley rossmore that he realized how different one woman can be from another. yet kate had her good qualities. she was frivolous and silly as are most girls with no brains and nothing else to do in life but dress and spend money, but she might yet be happy with some other fellow, and that was why it made him angry to see this girl with $ , in her own right playing into the hands of an unscrupulous adventurer. he had evidently disturbed an interesting _tête-à-tête_. he decided to say nothing, but mentally he resolved to spoil mr. bagley's game and save kate from her own folly. on hearing his voice kate turned and gave a little cry of genuine surprise. "why, is it you, jeff? i thought you were in europe." "i returned yesterday," he replied somewhat curtly. he crossed over to his father's desk where he sat down to scribble a few words, while mr. bagley, who had followed him in scowling, was making frantic dumb signs to kate. "i fear i intrude here," said jefferson pointedly. "oh, dear no, not at all," replied kate in some confusion. "i was waiting for my father. how is paris?" she asked. "lovely as ever," he answered. "did you have a good time?" she inquired. "i enjoyed it immensely. i never had a better one." "you probably were in good company," she said significantly. then she added: "i believe miss rossmore was in paris." "yes, i think she was there," was his non-committal answer. to change the conversation, which was becoming decidedly personal, he picked up a book that was lying on his father's desk and glanced at the title. it was "the american octopus." "is father still reading this?" he asked. "he was at it when i left." "everybody is reading it," said kate. "the book has made a big sensation. do you know who the hero is?" "who?" he asked with an air of the greatest innocence. "why, no less a personage than your father--john burkett ryder himself! everybody says it's he--the press and everybody that's read it. he says so himself." "really?" he exclaimed with well-simulated surprise. "i must read it." "it has made a strong impression on mr. ryder," chimed in mr. bagley. "i never knew him to be so interested in a book before. he's trying his best to find out who the author is. it's a jolly well written book and raps you american millionaires jolly well--what?" "whoever wrote the book," interrupted kate, "is somebody who knows mr. ryder exceedingly well. there are things in it that an outsider could not possibly know." "phew!" jefferson whistled softly to himself. he was treading dangerous ground. to conceal his embarrassment, he rose. "if you'll excuse me, i'll go and pay my filial respects upstairs. i'll see you again," he gave kate a friendly nod, and without even glancing at mr. bagley left the room. the couple stood in silence for a few moments after he disappeared. then kate went to the door and listened to his retreating footsteps. when she was sure that he was out of earshot she turned on mr. bagley indignantly. "you see what you expose me to. jefferson thinks this was a rendezvous." "well, it was to a certain extent," replied the secretary unabashed. "didn't you ask me to see you here?" "yes," said kate, taking a letter from her bosom, "i wanted to ask you what this means?" "my dear miss roberts--kate--i"--stammered the secretary. "how dare you address me in this manner when you know i and mr. ryder are engaged?" no one knew better than kate that this was not true, but she said it partly out of vanity, partly out of a desire to draw out this englishman who made such bold love to her. "miss roberts," replied mr. bagley loftily, "in that note i expressed my admiration--my love for you. your engagement to mr. jefferson ryder is, to say the least, a most uncertain fact." there was a tinge of sarcasm in his voice that did not escape kate. "you must not judge from appearances," she answered, trying to keep up the outward show of indignation which inwardly she did not feel. "jeff and i may hide a passion that burns like a volcano. all lovers are not demonstrative, you know." the absurdity of this description as applied to her relations with jefferson appealed to her as so comical that she burst into laughter in which the secretary joined. "then why did you remain here with me when the senator went out with mr. ryder, senior?" he demanded. "to tell you that i cannot listen to your nonsense any longer," retorted the girl. "what?" he cried, incredulously. "you remain here to tell me that you cannot listen to me when you could easily have avoided listening to me without telling me so. kate, your coldness is not convincing." "you mean you think i want to listen to you?" she demanded. "i do," he answered, stepping forward as if to take her in his arms. "mr. bagley!" she exclaimed, recoiling. "a week ago," he persisted, "you called me fitzroy. once, in an outburst of confidence, you called me fitz." "you hadn't asked me to marry you then," she laughed mockingly. then edging away towards the door she waved her hand at him playfully and said teasingly: "good-bye, mr. bagley, i am going upstairs to mrs. ryder. i will await my father's return in her room. i think i shall be safer." he ran forward to intercept her, but she was too quick for him. the door slammed in his face and she was gone. meantime jefferson had proceeded upstairs, passing through long and luxuriously carpeted corridors with panelled frescoed walls, and hung with grand old tapestries and splendid paintings, until he came to his mother's room. he knocked. "come in!" called out the familiar voice. he entered. mrs. ryder was busy at her escritoire looking over a mass of household accounts. "hello, mother!" he cried, running up and hugging her in his boyish, impulsive way. jefferson had always been devoted to his mother, and while he deplored her weakness in permitting herself to be so completely under the domination of his father, she had always found him an affectionate and loving son. "jefferson!" she exclaimed when he released her. "my dear boy, when did you arrive?" "only yesterday. i slept at the studio last night. you're looking bully, mother. how's father?" mrs. ryder sighed while she looked her son over proudly. in her heart she was glad jefferson had turned out as he had. her boy certainly would never be a financier to be attacked in magazines and books. answering his question she said: "your father is as well as those busybodies in the newspapers will let him be. he's considerably worried just now over that new book 'the american octopus.' how dare they make him out such a monster? he's no worse than other successful business men. he's richer, that's all, and it makes them jealous. he's out driving now with senator roberts. kate is somewhere in the house--in the library, i think." "yes, i found her there," replied jefferson dryly. "she was with that cad, bagley. when is father going to find that fellow out?" "oh, jefferson," protested his mother, "how can you talk like that of mr. bagley. he is such a perfect gentleman. his family connections alone should entitle him to respect. he is certainly the best secretary your father ever had. i'm sure i don't know what we should do without him. he knows everything that a gentleman should." "and a good deal more, i wager," growled jefferson. "he wasn't groom of the backstairs to england's queen for nothing." then changing the topic, he said suddenly: "talking about kate, mother, we have got to reach some definite understanding. this talk about my marrying her must stop. i intend to take the matter up with father to-day." "oh, of course, more trouble!" replied his mother in a resigned tone. she was so accustomed to having her wishes thwarted that she was never surprised at anything. "we heard of your goings on in paris. that miss rossmore was there, was she not?" "that has got nothing to do with it," replied jefferson warmly. he resented shirley's name being dragged into the discussion. then more calmly he went on: "now, mother, be reasonable, listen. i purpose to live my own life. i have already shown my father that i will not be dictated to, and that i can earn my own living. he has no right to force this marriage on me. there has never been any misunderstanding on kate's part. she and i understand each other thoroughly." "well, jefferson, you may be right from your point of view," replied his mother weakly. she invariably ended by agreeing with the last one who argued with her. "you are of age, of course. your parents have only a moral right over you. only remember this: it would be foolish of you to do anything now to anger your father. his interests are your interests. don't do anything to jeopardize them. of course, you can't be forced to marry a girl you don't care for, but your father will be bitterly disappointed. he had set his heart on this match. he knows all about your infatuation for miss rossmore and it has made him furious. i suppose you've heard about her father?" "yes, and it's a dastardly outrage," blurted out jefferson. "it's a damnable conspiracy against one of the most honourable men that ever lived, and i mean to ferret out and expose the authors. i came here to-day to ask father to help me." "you came to ask your father to help you?" echoed his mother incredulously. "why not?" demanded jefferson. "is it true then that he is selfishness incarnate? wouldn't he do that much to help a friend?" "you've come to the wrong house, jeff. you ought to know that. your father is far from being judge rossmore's friend. surely you have sense enough to realize that there are two reasons why he would not raise a finger to help him. one is that he has always been his opponent in public life, the other is that you want to marry his daughter." jefferson sat as if struck dumb. he had not thought of that. yes, it was true. his father and the father of the girl he loved were mortal enemies. how was help to be expected from the head of those "interests" which the judge had always attacked, and now he came to think of it, perhaps his own father was really at the bottom of these abominable charges! he broke into a cold perspiration and his voice was altered as he said: "yes, i see now, mother. you are right." then he added bitterly: "that has always been the trouble at home. no matter where i turn, i am up against a stone wall--the money interests. one never hears a glimmer of fellow-feeling, never a word of human sympathy, only cold calculation, heartless reasoning, money, money, money! oh, i am sick of it. i don't want any of it. i am going away where i'll hear no more of it." his mother laid her hand gently on his shoulder. "don't talk that way, jefferson. your father is not a bad man at heart, you know that. his life has been devoted to money making and he has made a greater fortune than any man living or dead. he is only what his life has made him. he has a good heart. and he loves you--his only son. but his business enemies--ah! those he never forgives." jefferson was about to reply when suddenly a dozen electric bells sounded all over the house. "what's that?" exclaimed jefferson, alarmed, and starting towards the door. "oh, that's nothing," smiled his mother. "we have had that put in since you went away. your father must have just come in. those bells announce the fact. it was done so that if there happened to be any strangers in the house they could be kept out of the way until he reached the library safely." "oh," laughed jefferson, "he's afraid some one will kidnap him? certainly he would be a rich prize. i wouldn't care for the job myself, though. they'd be catching a tartar." his speech was interrupted by a timid knock at the door. "may i come in to say good-bye?" asked a voice which they recognized as kate's. she had successfully escaped from mr. bagley's importunities and was now going home with the senator. she smiled amiably at jefferson and they chatted pleasantly of his trip abroad. he was sincerely sorry for this girl whom they were trying to foist on him. not that he thought she really cared for him, he was well aware that hers was a nature that made it impossible to feel very deeply on any subject, but the idea of this ready-made marriage was so foreign, so revolting to the american mind! he thought it would be a kindness to warn her against bagley. "don't be foolish, kate," he said. "i was not blind just now in the library. that man is no good." as is usual when one's motives are suspected, the girl resented his interference. she knew he hated mr. bagley and she thought it mean of him to try and get even in this way. she stiffened up and replied coldly: "i think i am able to look after myself, jefferson. thanks, all the same." he shrugged his shoulders and made no reply. she said good-bye to mrs. ryder, who was again immersed in her tradespeople bills, and left the room, escorted by jefferson, who accompanied her downstairs and on to the street where senator roberts was waiting for her in the open victoria. the senator greeted with unusual cordiality the young man whom he still hoped to make his son-in-law. "come and see us, jefferson," he said. "come to dinner any evening. we are always alone and kate and i will be glad to see you." "jefferson has so little time now, father. his work and--his friends keep him pretty busy," jefferson had noted both the pause and the sarcasm, but he said nothing. he smiled and the senator raised his hat. as the carriage drove off the young man noticed that kate glanced at one of the upper windows where mr. bagley stood behind a curtain watching. jefferson returned to the house. the psychological moment had arrived. he must go now and confront his father in the library. chapter ix the library was the most important room in the ryder mansion, for it was there that the colossus carried through his most important business deals, and its busiest hours were those which most men devote to rest. but john burkett ryder never rested. there could be no rest for any man who had a thousand millions of dollars to take care of. like macbeth, he could sleep no more. when the hum of business life had ceased down town and he returned home from the tall building in lower broadway, then his real work began. the day had been given to mere business routine; in his own library at night, free from inquisitive ears and prying eyes, he could devise new schemes for strengthening his grip upon the country, he could evolve more gigantic plans for adding to his already countless millions. here the money moloch held court like any king, with as much ceremony and more secrecy, and having for his courtiers some of the most prominent men in the political and industrial life of the nation. corrupt senators, grafting congressmen, ambitious railroad presidents, insolent coal barons who impudently claimed they administered the coal lands in trust for the almighty, unscrupulous princes of finance and commerce, all visited this room to receive orders or pay from the head of the "system." here were made and unmade governors of states, mayors of cities, judges, heads of police, cabinet ministers, even presidents. here were turned over to confidential agents millions of dollars to overturn the people's vote in the national elections; here were distributed yearly hundreds of thousands of dollars to grafters, large and small, who had earned it in the service of the "interests." here, secretly and unlawfully, the heads of railroads met to agree on rates which by discriminating against one locality in favour of another crushed out competition, raised the cost to the consumer, and put millions in the pockets of the trust. here were planned tricky financial operations, with deliberate intent to mislead and deceive the investing public, operations which would send stocks soaring one day, only a week later to put wall street on the verge of panic. half a dozen suicides might result from the coup, but twice as many millions of profits had gone into the coffers of the "system." here, too, was perpetrated the most heinous crime that can be committed against a free people--the conspiring of the trusts abetted by the railroads, to arbitrarily raise the prices of the necessaries of life--meat, coal, oil, ice, gas--wholly without other justification than that of greed, which, with these men, was the unconquerable, all-absorbing passion. in short, everything that unscrupulous leaders of organized capital could devise to squeeze the life blood out of the patient, defenceless toiler was done within these four walls. it was a handsome room, noble in proportions and abundantly lighted by three large and deeply recessed, mullioned windows, one in the middle of the room and one at either end. the lofty ceiling was a marvellously fine example of panelled oak of gothic design, decorated with gold, and the shelves for books which lined the walls were likewise of oak, richly carved. in the centre of the wall facing the windows was a massive and elaborately designed oak chimney-piece, reaching up to the ceiling, and having in the middle panel over the mantel a fine three-quarter length portrait of george washington. the room was furnished sumptuously yet quietly, and fully in keeping with the rich collection of classic and modern authors that filled the bookcases, and in corners here and there stood pedestals with marble busts of shakespeare, goethe and voltaire. it was the retreat of a scholar rather than of a man of affairs. when jefferson entered, his father was seated at his desk, a long black cigar between his lips, giving instructions to mr. bagley. mr. ryder looked up quickly as the door opened and the secretary made a movement forward as if to eject the intruder, no matter who he might be. they were not accustomed to having people enter the sanctum of the colossus so unceremoniously. but when he saw who it was, mr. ryder's stern, set face relaxed and he greeted his son amiably. "why, jeff, my boy, is that you? just a moment, until i get rid of bagley, and i'll be with you." jefferson turned to the book shelves and ran over the titles while the financier continued his business with the secretary. "now, bagley. come, quick. what is it?" he spoke in a rapid, explosive manner, like a man who has only a few moments to spare before he must rush to catch a train. john ryder had been catching trains all his life, and he had seldom missed one. "governor rice called. he wants an appointment," said mr. bagley, holding out a card. "i can't see him. tell him so," came the answer, quick as a flash. "who else?" he demanded. "where's your list?" mr. bagley took from the desk a list of names and read them over. "general abbey telephoned. he says you promised--" "yes, yes," interrupted ryder impatiently, "but not here. down town, to-morrow, any time. next?" the secretary jotted down a note against each name and then said: "there are some people downstairs in the reception room. they are here by appointment." "who are they?" "the national republican committee and sergeant ellison of the secret service from washington," replied mr. bagley. "who was here first?" demanded the financier. "sergeant ellison, sir." "then i'll see him first, and the committee afterwards. but let them all wait until i ring. i wish to speak with my son." he waved his hand and the secretary, knowing well from experience that this was a sign that there must be no further discussion, bowed respectfully and left the room. jefferson turned and advanced towards his father, who held out his hand. "well, jefferson," he said kindly, "did you have a good time abroad?" "yes, sir, thank you. such a trip is a liberal education in itself." "ready for work again, eh? i'm glad you're back, jefferson. i'm busy now, but one of these days i want to have a serious talk with you in regard to your future. this artist business is all very well--for a pastime. but it's not a career--surely you can appreciate that--for a young man with such prospects as yours. have you ever stopped to think of that?" jefferson was silent. he did not want to displease his father; on the other hand, it was impossible to let things drift as they had been doing. there must be an understanding sooner or later. why not now? "the truth is, sir," he began timidly, "i'd like a little talk with you now, if you can spare the time." ryder, sr., looked first at his watch and then at his son, who, ill at ease, sat nervously on the extreme edge of a chair. then he said with a smile: "well, my boy, to be perfectly frank, i can't--but--i will. come, what is it?" then, as if to apologize for his previous abruptness, he added, "i've had a very busy day, jeff. what with trans-continental and trans-atlantic and southern pacific, and wall street, and rate bills, and washington i feel like atlas shouldering the world." "the world wasn't intended for one pair of shoulders to carry, sir," rejoined jefferson calmly. his father looked at him in amazement. it was something new to hear anyone venturing to question or comment upon anything he said. "why not?" he demanded, when he had recovered from his surprise. "julius caesar carried it. napoleon carried it--to a certain extent. however, that's neither here nor there. what is it, boy?" unable to remain a moment inactive, he commenced to pick among the mass of papers on his desk, while jefferson was thinking what to say. the last word his father uttered gave him a cue, and he blurted out protestingly: "that's just it, sir. you forget that i'm no longer a boy. it's time to treat me as if i were a man." ryder, sr., leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily. "a man at twenty-eight? that's an excellent joke. do you know that a man doesn't get his horse sense till he's forty?" "i want you to take me seriously," persisted jefferson. ryder, sr., was not a patient man. his moments of good humour were of brief duration. anything that savoured of questioning his authority always angered him. the smile went out of his face and he retorted explosively: "go on--damn it all! be serious if you want, only don't take so long about it. but understand one thing. i want no preaching, no philosophical or socialistic twaddle. no tolstoi--he's a great thinker, and you're not. no bernard shaw--he's funny, and you're not. now go ahead." this beginning was not very encouraging, and jefferson felt somewhat intimidated. but he realized that he might not have another such opportunity, so he plunged right in. "i should have spoken to you before if you had let me," he said. "i often--" "if i let you?" interrupted his father. "do you expect me to sit and listen patiently to your wild theories of social reform? you asked me one day why the wages of the idle rich was wealth and the wages of hard work was poverty, and i told you that i worked harder in one day than a tunnel digger works in a life-time. thinking is a harder game than any. you must think or you won't know. napoleon knew more about war than all his generals put together. i know more about money than any man living to-day. the man who knows is the man who wins. the man who takes advice isn't fit to give it. that's why i never take yours. come, don't be a fool, jeff--give up this art nonsense. come back to the trading company. i'll make you vice-president, and i'll teach you the business of making millions." jefferson shook his head. it was hard to have to tell his own father that he did not think the million-making business quite a respectable one, so he only murmured: "it's impossible, father. i am devoted to my work. i even intend to go away and travel a few years and see the world. it will help me considerably." ryder, sr., eyed his son in silence for a few moments; then he said gently: "don't be obstinate, jeff. listen to me. i know the world better than you do. you mustn't go away. you are the only flesh and blood i have." he stopped speaking for a moment, as if overcome by a sudden emotion over which he had no control. jefferson remained silent, nervously toying with a paper cutter. seeing that his words had made no effect, ryder thumped his desk with his fist and cried: "you see my weakness. you see that i want you with me, and now you take advantage--you take advantage--" "no, father, i don't," protested jefferson; "but i want to go away. although i have my studio and am practically independent, i want to go where i shall be perfectly free--where my every move will not be watched--where i can meet my fellow-man heart to heart on an equal basis, where i shall not be pointed out as the son of ready money ryder. i want to make a reputation of my own as an artist." "why not study theology and become a preacher?" sneered ryder. then, more amiably, he said: "no, my lad, you stay here. study my interests--study the interests that will be yours some day." "no," said jefferson doggedly, "i'd rather go--my work and my self-respect demand it." "then go, damn it, go!" cried his father in a burst of anger. "i'm a fool for wasting my time with an ungrateful son." he rose from his seat and began to pace the room. "father," exclaimed jefferson starting forward, "you do me an injustice." "an injustice?" echoed mr. ryder turning round. "ye gods! i've given you the biggest name in the commercial world; the most colossal fortune ever accumulated by one man is waiting for you, and you say i've done you an injustice!" "yes--we are rich," said jefferson bitterly. "but at what a cost! you do not go into the world and hear the sneers that i get everywhere. you may succeed in muzzling the newspapers and magazines, but you cannot silence public opinion. people laugh when they hear the name ryder--when they do not weep. all your millions cannot purchase the world's respect. you try to throw millions to the public as a bone to a dog, and they decline the money on the ground that it is tainted. doesn't that tell you what the world thinks of your methods?" ryder laughed cynically. he went back to his desk, and, sitting facing his son, he replied: "jefferson, you are young. it is one of the symptoms of youth to worry about public opinion. when you are as old as i am you will understand that there is only one thing which counts in this world--money. the man who has it possesses power over the man who has it not, and power is what the ambitious man loves most." he stopped to pick up a book. it was "the american octopus." turning again to his son, he went on: "do you see this book? it is the literary sensation of the year. why? because it attacks me--the richest man in the world. it holds me up as a monster, a tyrant, a man without soul, honour or conscience, caring only for one thing--money; having but one passion--the love of power, and halting at nothing, not even at crime, to secure it. that is the portrait they draw of your father." jefferson said nothing. he was wondering if his sire had a suspicion who wrote it and was leading up to that. but ryder, sr., continued: "do i care? the more they attack me the more i like it. their puny pen pricks have about the same effect as mosquito bites on the pachyderm. what i am, the conditions of my time made me. when i started in business a humble clerk, forty years ago, i had but one goal--success; i had but one aim--to get rich. i was lucky. i made a little money, and i soon discovered that i could make more money by outwitting my competitors in the oil fields. railroad conditions helped me. the whole country was money mad. a wave of commercial prosperity swept over the land and i was carried along on its crest. i grew enormously rich, my millions increasing by leaps and bounds. i branched out into other interests, successful always, until my holdings grew to what they are to-day--the wonder of the twentieth century. what do i care for the world's respect when my money makes the world my slave? what respect can i have for a people that cringe before money and let it rule them? are you aware that not a factory wheel turns, not a vote is counted, not a judge is appointed, not a legislator seated, not a president elected without my consent? i am the real ruler of the united states--not the so-called government at washington. they are my puppets and this is my executive chamber. this power will be yours one day, boy, but you must know how to use it when it comes." "i never want it, father," said jefferson firmly. "to me your words savour of treason. i couldn't imagine that american talking that way." he pointed to the mantel, at the picture of george washington. ryder, sr., laughed. he could not help it if his son was an idealist. there was no use getting angry, so he merely shrugged his shoulders and said: "all right, jeff. we'll discuss the matter later, when you've cut your wisdom teeth. just at present you're in the clouds. but you spoke of my doing you an injustice. how can my love of power do you an injustice?" "because," replied jefferson, "you exert that power over your family as well as over your business associates. you think and will for everybody in the house, for everyone who comes in contact with you. yours is an influence no one seems able to resist. you robbed me of my right to think. ever since i was old enough to think, you have thought for me; ever since i was old enough to choose, you have chosen for me. you have chosen that i should marry kate roberts. that is the one thing i wished to speak to you about. the marriage is impossible." ryder, sr., half sprang from his seat. he had listened patiently, he thought, to all that his headstrong son had said, but that he should repudiate in this unceremonious fashion what was a tacit understanding between the two families, and, what was more, run the risk of injuring the ryder interests--that was inconceivable. leaving his desk, he advanced into the centre of the room, and folding his arms confronted jefferson. "so," he said sternly, "this is your latest act of rebellion, is it? you are going to welsh on your word? you are going to jilt the girl?" "i never gave my word," answered jefferson hotly. "nor did kate understand that an engagement existed. you can't expect me to marry a girl i don't care a straw about. it would not be fair to her." "have you stopped to think whether it would be fair to me?" thundered his father. his face was pale with anger, his jet-black eyes flashed, and his white hair seemed to bristle with rage. he paced the floor for a few moments, and then turning to jefferson, who had not moved, he said more calmly: "don't be a fool, jeff. i don't want to think for you, or to choose for you, or to marry for you. i did not interfere when you threw up the position i made for you in the trading company and took that studio. i realized that you were restless under the harness, so i gave you plenty of rein. but i know so much better than you what is best for you. believe me i do. don't--don't be obstinate. this marriage means a great deal to my interests--to your interests. kate's father is all powerful in the senate. he'll never forgive this disappointment. hang it all, you liked the girl once, and i made sure that--" he stopped suddenly, and the expression on his face changed as a new light dawned upon him. "it isn't that rossmore girl, is it?" he demanded. his face grew dark and his jaw clicked as he said between his teeth: "i told you some time ago how i felt about her. if i thought that it was rossmore's daughter! you know what's going to happen to him, don't you?" thus appealed to, jefferson thought this was the most favourable opportunity he would have to redeem his promise to shirley. so, little anticipating the tempest he was about to unchain, he answered: "i am familiar with the charges that they have trumped up against him. needless to say, i consider him entirely innocent. what's more, i firmly believe he is the victim of a contemptible conspiracy. and i'm going to make it my business to find out who the plotters are. i came to ask you to help me. will you?" for a moment ryder was speechless from utter astonishment. then, as he realized the significance of his son's words and their application to himself he completely lost control of himself. his face became livid, and he brought his fist down on his desk with a force that shook the room. "i will see him in hell first!" he cried. "damn him! he has always opposed me. he has always defied my power, and now his daughter has entrapped my son. so it's her you want to go to, eh? well, i can't make you marry a girl you don't want, but i can prevent you throwing yourself away on the daughter of a man who is about to be publicly disgraced, and, by god, i will." "poor old rossmore," said jefferson bitterly. "if the history of every financial transaction were made known, how many of us would escape public disgrace? would you?" he cried. ryder, sr., rose, his hands working dangerously. he made a movement as if about to advance on his son, but by a supreme effort he controlled himself. "no, upon my word, it's no use disinheriting you, you wouldn't care. i think you'd be glad; on my soul, i do!" then calming down once more, he added: "jefferson, give me your word of honour that your object in going away is not to find out this girl and marry her unknown to me. i don't mind your losing your heart, but, damn it, don't lose your head. give me your hand on it." jefferson reluctantly held out his hand. "if i thought you would marry that girl unknown to me, i'd have rossmore sent out of the country and the woman too. listen, boy. this man is my enemy, and i show no mercy to my enemies. there are more reasons than one why you cannot marry miss rossmore. if she knew one of them she would not marry you." "what reasons?" demanded jefferson. "the principal one," said ryder, slowly and deliberately, and eyeing his son keenly as if to judge of the effect of his words, "the principal one is that it was through my agents that the demand was made for her father's impeachment." "ah," cried jefferson, "then i guessed aright! oh, father, how could you have done that? if you only knew him!" ryder, sr., had regained command of his temper, and now spoke calmly enough. "jefferson, i don't have to make any apologies to you for the way i conduct my business. the facts contained in the charge were brought to my attention. i did not see why i should spare him. he never spared me. i shall not interfere, and the probabilities are that he will be impeached. senator roberts said this afternoon that it was a certainty. you see yourself how impossible a marriage with miss rossmore would be, don't you?" "yes, father, i see now. i have nothing more to say." "do you still intend going away?" "yes," replied jefferson bitterly. "why not? you have taken away the only reason why i should stay." "think it well over, lad. marry kate or not, as you please, but i want you to stay here." "it's no use. my mind is made up," answered jefferson decisively. the telephone rang, and jefferson got up to go. mr. ryder took up the receiver. "hallo! what's that? sergeant ellison? yes, send him up." putting the telephone down, ryder, sr., rose, and crossing the room accompanied his son to the door. "think it well over, jeff. don't be hasty." "i have thought it over, sir, and i have decided to go." a few moments later jefferson left the house. ryder, sr., went back to his desk and sat for a moment in deep thought. for the first time in his life he was face to face with defeat; for the first time he had encountered a will as strong as his own. he who could rule parliaments and dictate to governments now found himself powerless to rule his own son. at all costs, he mused, the boy's infatuation for judge rossmore's daughter must be checked, even if he had to blacken the girl's character as well as the father's, or, as a last resort, send the entire family out of the country. he had not lost sight of his victim since the carefully prepared crash in wall street, and the sale of the rossmore home following the bankruptcy of the great northwestern mining company. his agents had reported their settlement in the quiet little village on long island, and he had also learned of miss rossmore's arrival from europe, which coincided strangely with the home-coming of his own son. he decided, therefore, to keep a closer watch on massapequa now than ever, and that is why to-day's call of sergeant ellison, a noted sleuth in the government service, found so ready a welcome. the door opened, and mr. bagley entered, followed by a tall, powerfully built man whose robust physique and cheap looking clothes contrasted strangely with the delicate, ultra-fashionably attired english secretary. "take a seat, sergeant," said mr. ryder, cordially motioning his visitor to a chair. the man sat down gingerly on one of the rich leather-upholstered chairs. his manner was nervous and awkward, as if intimidated in the presence of the financier. "are the republican committee still waiting?" demanded mr. ryder. "yes, sir," replied the secretary. "i'll see them in a few minutes. leave me with sergeant ellison." mr. bagley bowed and retired. "well, sergeant, what have you got to report?" he opened a box of cigars that stood on the desk and held it out to the detective. "take a cigar," he said amiably. the man took a cigar, and also the match which mr. ryder held out. the financier knew how to be cordial with those who could serve him. "thanks. this is a good one," smiled the sleuth, sniffing at the weed. "we don't often get a chance at such as these." "it ought to be good," laughed ryder. "they cost two dollars apiece." the detective was so surprised at this unheard of extravagance that he inhaled a puff of smoke which almost choked him. it was like burning money. ryder, with his customary bluntness, came right down to business. "well, what have you been doing about the book?" he demanded. "have you found the author of 'the american octopus'?" "no, sir, i have not. i confess i'm baffled. the secret has been well kept. the publishers have shut up like a clam. there's only one thing that i'm pretty well sure of." "what's that?" demanded ryder, interested. "that no such person as shirley green exists." "oh," exclaimed the financier, "then you think it is a mere _nom de plume_?" "yes, sir." "and what do you think was the reason for preserving the anonymity?" "well, you see, sir, the book deals with a big subject. it gives some hard knocks, and the author, no doubt, felt a little timid about launching it under his or her real name. at least that's my theory, sir." "and a good one, no doubt," said mr. ryder. then he added: "that makes me all the more anxious to find out who it is. i would willingly give this moment a check for $ , to know who wrote it. whoever it is, knows me as well as i know myself. we must find the author." the sleuth was silent for a moment. then he said: "there might be one way to reach the author, but it will be successful only in the event of her being willing to be known and come out into the open. suppose you write to her in care of the publishers. they would certainly forward the letter to wherever she may be. if she does not want you to know who she is she will ignore your letter and remain in the background. if, on the contrary, she has no fear of you, and is willing to meet you, she will answer the letter." "ah, i never thought of that!" exclaimed ryder. "it's a good idea. i'll write such a letter at once. it shall go to-night." he unhooked the telephone and asked mr. bagley to come up. a few seconds later the secretary entered the room. "bagley," said mr. ryder, "i want you to write a letter for me to miss shirley green, author of that book 'the american octopus.' we will address it care of her publishers, littleton & co. just say that if convenient i should like a personal interview with her at my office, no. broadway, in relation to her book, 'the american octopus.' see that it is mailed to-night. that's all." mr. bagley bowed and retired. mr. ryder turned to the secret service agent. "there, that's settled. we'll see how it works. and now, sergeant, i have another job for you, and if you are faithful to my interests you will not find me unappreciative. do you know a little place on long island called massapequa?" "yes," grinned the detective, "i know it. they've got some fine specimens of 'skeeters' there." paying no attention to this jocularity, mr. ryder continued: "judge rossmore is living there--pending the outcome of his case in the senate. his daughter has just arrived from europe. my son jefferson came home on the same ship. they are a little more friendly than i care to have them. you understand. i want to know if my son visits the rossmores, and if he does i wish to be kept informed of all that's going on. you understand?" "perfectly, sir. you shall know everything." mr. ryder took a blank check from his desk and proceeded to fill it up. then handing it to the detective, he said: "here is $ for you. spare neither trouble or expense." "thank you, sir," said the man as he pocketed the money. "leave it to me." "that's about all, i think. regarding the other matter, we'll see how the letter works." he touched a bell and rose, which was a signal to the visitor that the interview was at an end. mr. bagley entered. "sergeant ellison is going," said mr. ryder. "have him shown out, and send the republican committee up." chapter x "what!" exclaimed shirley, changing colour, "you believe that john burkett ryder is at the bottom of this infamous accusation against father?" it was the day following her arrival at massapequa, and shirley, the judge and stott were all three sitting on the porch. until now, by common consent, any mention of the impeachment proceedings had been avoided by everyone. the previous afternoon and evening had been spent listening to an account of shirley's experiences in europe and a smile had flitted across even the judge's careworn face as his daughter gave a humorous description of the picturesque paris students with their long hair and peg-top trousers, while stott simply roared with laughter. ah, it was good to laugh again after so much trouble and anxiety! but while shirley avoided the topic that lay nearest her heart, she was consumed with a desire to tell her father of the hope she had of enlisting the aid of john burkett ryder. the great financier was certainly able to do anything he chose, and had not his son jefferson promised to win him over to their cause? so, to-day, after mrs. rossmore and her sister had gone down to the village to make some purchases shirley timidly broached the matter. she asked stott and her father to tell her everything, to hold back nothing. she wanted to hear the worst. stott, therefore, started to review the whole affair from the beginning, explaining how her father in his capacity as judge of the supreme court had to render decisions, several of which were adverse to the corporate interests of a number of rich men, and how since that time these powerful interests had used all their influence to get him put off the bench. he told her about the transcontinental case and how the judge had got mysteriously tangled up in the great northern mining company, and of the scandalous newspaper rumours, followed by the news of the congressional inquiry. then he told her about the panic in wall street, the sale of the house on madison avenue and the removal to long island. "that is the situation," said stott when he had finished. "we are waiting now to see what the senate will do. we hope for the best. it seems impossible that the senate will condemn a man whose whole life is like an open book, but unfortunately the senate is strongly republican and the big interests are in complete control. unless support comes from some unexpected quarter we must be prepared for anything." support from some unexpected quarter! stott's closing words rang in shirley's head. was that not just what she had to offer? unable to restrain herself longer and her heart beating tumultuously from suppressed emotion, she cried: "we'll have that support! we'll have it! i've got it already! i wanted to surprise you! father, the most powerful man in the united states will save you from being dishonoured!" the two men leaned forward in eager interest. what could the girl mean? was she serious or merely jesting? but shirley was never more serious in her life. she was jubilant at the thought that she had arrived home in time to invoke the aid of this powerful ally. she repeated enthusiastically: "we need not worry any more. he has but to say a word and these proceedings will be instantly dropped. they would not dare act against his veto. did you hear, father, your case is as good as won!" "what do you mean, child? who is this unknown friend?" "surely you can guess when i say the most powerful man in the united states? none other than john burkett ryder!" she stopped short to watch the effect which this name would have on her hearers. but to her surprise neither her father nor stott displayed the slightest emotion or even interest. puzzled at this cold reception, she repeated: "did you hear, father--john burkett ryder will come to your assistance. i came home on the same ship as his son and he promised to secure his father's aid." the judge puffed heavily at his pipe and merely shook his head, making no reply. stott explained: "we can't look for help from that quarter, shirley. you don't expect a man to cut loose his own kite, do you?" "what do you mean?" demanded shirley, mystified. "simply this--that john burkett ryder is the very man who is responsible for all your father's misfortunes." the girl sank back in her seat pale and motionless, as if she had received a blow. was it possible? could jefferson's father have done them such a wrong as this? she well knew that ryder, sr., was a man who would stop at nothing to accomplish his purpose--this she had demonstrated conclusively in her book--but she had never dreamed that his hand would ever be directed against her own flesh and blood. decidedly some fatality was causing jefferson and herself to drift further and further apart. first, her father's trouble. that alone would naturally have separated them. and now this discovery that jefferson's father had done hers this wrong. all idea of marriage was henceforth out of the question. that was irrevocable. of course, she could not hold jefferson to blame for methods which he himself abhorred. she would always think as much of him as ever, but whether her father emerged safely from the trial in the senate or not--no matter what the outcome of the impeachment proceedings might be, jefferson could never be anything else than a ryder and from now on there would be an impassable gulf between the rossmores and the ryders. the dove does not mate with the hawk. "do you really believe this, that john ryder deliberately concocted the bribery charge with the sole purpose of ruining my father?" demanded shirley when she had somewhat recovered. "there is no other solution of the mystery possible," answered stott. "the trusts found they could not fight him in the open, in a fair, honest way, so they plotted in the dark. ryder was the man who had most to lose by your father's honesty on the bench. ryder was the man he hit the hardest when he enjoined his transcontinental railroad. ryder, i am convinced, is the chief conspirator." "but can such things be in a civilized community?" cried shirley indignantly. "cannot he be exposed, won't the press take the matter up, cannot we show conspiracy?" "it sounds easy, but it isn't," replied stott. "i have had a heap of experience with the law, my child, and i know what i'm talking about. they're too clever to be caught tripping. they've covered their tracks well, be sure of that. as to the newspapers--when did you ever hear of them championing a man when he's down?" "and you, father--do you believe ryder did this?" "i have no longer any doubt of it," answered the judge. "i think john ryder would see me dead before he would raise a finger to help me. his answer to my demand for my letters convinced me that he was the arch plotter." "what letters do you refer to?" demanded shirley. "the letters i wrote to him in regard to my making an investment. he advised the purchase of certain stock. i wrote him two letters at the time, which letters if i had them now would go a long way to clearing me of this charge of bribery, for they plainly showed that i regarded the transaction as a _bona fide_ investment. since this trouble began i wrote to ryder asking him to return me these letters so i might use them in my defence. the only reply i got was an insolent note from his secretary saying that mr. ryder had forgotten all about the transaction, and in any case had not the letters i referred to." "couldn't you compel him to return them?" asked shirley. "we could never get at him," interrupted stott. "the man is guarded as carefully as the czar." "still," objected shirley, "it is possible that he may have lost the letters or even never received them." "oh, he has them safe enough," replied stott. "a man like ryder keeps every scrap of paper, with the idea that it may prove useful some day. the letters are lying somewhere in his desk. besides, after the transcontinental decision he was heard to say that he'd have judge rossmore off the bench inside of a year." "and it wasn't a vain boast--he's done it," muttered the judge. shirley relapsed into silence. her brain was in a whirl. it was true then. this merciless man of money, this ogre of monopolistic corporations, this human juggernaut had crushed her father merely because by his honesty he interfered with his shady business deals! ah, why had she spared him in her book? she felt now that she had been too lenient, not bitter enough, not sufficiently pitiless. such a man was entitled to no mercy. yes, it was all clear enough now. john burkett ryder, the head of "the system," the plutocrat whose fabulous fortune gave him absolute control over the entire country, which invested him with a personal power greater than that of any king, this was the man who now dared attack the judiciary, the corner stone of the constitution, the one safeguard of the people's liberty. where would it end? how long would the nation tolerate being thus ruthlessly trodden under the unclean heels of an insolent oligarchy? the capitalists, banded together for the sole purpose of pillage and loot, had already succeeded in enslaving the toiler. the appalling degradation of the working classes, the sordidness and demoralizing squalor in which they passed their lives, the curse of drink, the provocation to crime, the shame of the sweat shops--all which evils in our social system she had seen as a settlement worker, were directly traceable to centralized wealth. the labor unions regulated wages and hours, but they were powerless to control the prices of the necessaries of life. the trusts could at pleasure create famine or plenty. they usually willed to make it famine so they themselves might acquire more millions with which to pay for marble palaces, fast motor cars, ocean-going yachts and expensive establishments at newport. food was ever dearer and of poorer quality, clothes cost more, rents and taxes were higher. she thought of the horrors in the packing houses at chicago recently made the subject of a sensational government report--putrid, pestiferous meats put up for human food amid conditions of unspeakable foulness, freely exposed to deadly germs from the expectorations of work people suffering from tuberculosis, in unsanitary rotten buildings soaked through with blood and every conceivable form of filth and decay, the beef barons careless and indifferent to the dictates of common decency so long as they could make more money. and while our public gasped in disgust at the sickening revelations of the beef scandal and foreign countries quickly cancelled their contracts for american prepared meats, the millionaire packer, insolent in the possession of wealth stolen from a poisoned public, impudently appeared in public in his fashionable touring car, with head erect and self-satisfied, wholly indifferent to his shame. these and other evidences of the plutocracy's cruel grip upon the nation had ended by exasperating the people. there must be a limit somewhere to the turpitudes of a degenerate class of _nouveaux riches_. the day of reckoning was fast approaching for the grafters and among the first to taste the vengeance of the people would be the colossus. but while waiting for the people to rise in their righteous wrath, ryder was all powerful, and if it were true that he had instituted these impeachment proceedings her father had little chance. what could be done? they could not sit and wait, as stott had said, for the action of the senate. if it were true that ryder controlled the senate as he controlled everything else her father was doomed. no, they must find some other way. and long after the judge and stott had left for the city shirley sat alone on the porch engrossed in thought, taxing her brain to find some way out of the darkness. and when presently her mother and aunt returned they found her still sitting there, silent and preoccupied. if they only had those two letters, she thought. they alone might save her father. but how could they be got at? mr. ryder had put them safely away, no doubt. he would not give them up. she wondered how it would be to go boldly to him appeal to whatever sense of honour and fairness that might be lying latent within him. no, such a man would not know what the terms "honour," "fairness" meant. she pondered upon it all day and at night when she went tired to bed it was her last thought as she dropped off to sleep. the following morning broke clear and fine. it was one of those glorious, ideal days of which we get perhaps half a dozen during the whole summer, days when the air is cool and bracing, champagne-like in its exhilarating effect, and when nature dons her brightest dress, when the atmosphere is purer, the grass greener, the sky bluer, the flowers sweeter and the birds sing in more joyous chorus, when all creation seems in tune. days that make living worth while, when one can forget the ugliness, the selfishness, the empty glitter of the man-made city and walk erect and buoyant in the open country as in the garden of god. shirley went out for a long walk. she preferred to go alone so she would not have to talk. hers was one of those lonely, introspective natures that resent the intrusion of aimless chatter when preoccupied with serious thoughts. long island was unknown territory to her and it all looked very flat and uninteresting, but she loved the country and found keen delight in the fresh, pure air and the sweet scent of new mown hay wafted from the surrounding fields. in her soft, loose-fitting linen dress, her white canvas shoes, garden hat trimmed with red roses, and lace parasol, she made an attractive picture and every passer-by--with the exception of one old farmer and he was half blind--turned to look at this good-looking girl, a stranger in those parts and whose stylish appearance suggested fifth avenue rather than the commonplace purlieus of massapequa. every now and then shirley espied in the distance the figure of a man which she thought she recognized as that of jefferson. had he come, after all? the blood went coursing tumultuously through her veins only a moment later to leave her face a shade paler as the man came nearer and she saw he was a stranger. she wondered what he was doing, if he gave her a thought, if he had spoken to his father and what the latter had said. she could realize now what mr. ryder's reply had been. then she wondered what her future life would be. she could do nothing, of course, until the senate had passed upon her father's case, but it was imperative that she get to work. in a day or two, she would call on her publishers and learn how her book was selling. she might get other commissions. if she could not make enough money in literary work she would have to teach. it was a dreary outlook at best, and she sighed as she thought of the ambitions that had once stirred her breast. all the brightness seemed to have gone out of her life, her father disgraced, jefferson now practically lost to her--only her work remained. as she neared the cottage on her return home she caught sight of the letter carrier approaching the gate. instantly she thought of jefferson, and she hurried to intercept the man. perhaps he had written instead of coming. "miss shirley rossmore?" said the man eyeing her interrogatively. "that's i," said shirley. the postman handed her a letter and passed on. shirley glanced quickly at the superscription. no, it was not from jefferson; she knew his handwriting too well. the envelope, moreover, bore the firm name of her publishers. she tore it open and found that it merely contained another letter which the publishers had forwarded. this was addressed to miss shirley green and ran as follows: _dear madam._--if convenient, i should like to see you at my office, no. broadway, in relation to your book "the american octopus." kindly inform me as to the day and hour at which i may expect you. yours truly, john burkett ryder, per b. shirley almost shouted from sheer excitement. at first she was alarmed--the name john burkett ryder was such a bogey to frighten bad children with, she thought he might want to punish her for writing about him as she had. she hurried to the porch and sat there reading the letter over and over and her brain began to evolve ideas. she had been wondering how she could get at mr. ryder and here he was actually asking her to call on him. evidently he had not the slightest idea of her identity, for he had been able to reach her only through her publishers and no doubt he had exhausted every other means of discovering her address. the more she pondered over it the more she began to see in this invitation a way of helping her father. yes, she would go and beard the lion in his den, but she would not go to his office. she would accept the invitation only on condition that the interview took place in the ryder mansion where undoubtedly the letters would be found. she decided to act immediately. no time was to be lost, so she procured a sheet of paper and an envelope and wrote as follows: mr. john burkett ryder, _dear sir._--i do not call upon gentlemen at their business office. yours, etc., shirley green. her letter was abrupt and at first glance seemed hardly calculated to bring about what she wanted--an invitation to call at the ryder home, but she was shrewd enough to see that if ryder wrote to her at all it was because he was most anxious to see her and her abruptness would not deter him from trying again. on the contrary, the very unusualness of anyone thus dictating to him would make him more than ever desirous of making her acquaintance. so shirley mailed the letter and awaited with confidence for ryder's reply. so certain was she that one would come that she at once began to form her plan of action. she would leave massapequa at once, and her whereabouts must remain a secret even from her own family. as she intended to go to the ryder house in the assumed character of shirley green, it would never do to run the risk of being followed home by a ryder detective to the rossmore cottage. she would confide in one person only--judge stott. he would know where she was and would be in constant communication with her. but, otherwise, she must be alone to conduct the campaign as she judged fit. she would go at once to new york and take rooms in a boarding house where she would be known as shirley green. as for funds to meet her expenses, she had her diamonds, and would they not be filling a more useful purpose if sold to defray the cost of saving her father than in mere personal adornment? so that evening, while her mother was talking with the judge, she beckoned stott over to the corner where she was sitting: "judge stott," she began, "i have a plan." he smiled indulgently at her. "another friend like that of yesterday?" he asked. "no," replied the girl, "listen. i am in earnest now and i want you to help me. you said that no one on earth could resist john burkett ryder, that no one could fight against the money power. well, do you know what i am going to do?" there was a quiver in her voice and her nostrils were dilated like those of a thoroughbred eager to run the race. she had risen from her seat and stood facing him, her fists clenched, her face set and determined. stott had never seen her in this mood and he gazed at her half admiringly, half curiously. "what will you do?" he asked with a slightly ironical inflection in his voice. "i am going to fight john burkett ryder!" she cried. stott looked at her open-mouthed. "you?" he said. "yes, i," said shirley. "i'm going to him and i intend to get those letters if he has them." stott shook his head. [photo, from the play, of shirley discussing her book with mr. ryder] "how do you classify him?" "as the greatest criminal the world has ever produced."--act iii. "my dear child," he said, "what are you talking about? how can you expect to reach ryder? we couldn't." "i don't know just how yet," replied shirley, "but i'm going to try. i love my father and i'm going to leave nothing untried to save him." "but what can you do?" persisted stott. "the matter has been sifted over and over by some of the greatest minds in the country." "has any woman sifted it over?" demanded shirley. "no, but--" stammered stott. "then it's about time one did," said the girl decisively. "those letters my father speaks of--they would be useful, would they not?" "they would be invaluable." "then i'll get them. if not--" "but i don't understand how you're going to get at ryder," interrupted stott. "this is how," replied shirley, passing over to him the letter she had received that afternoon. as stott recognized the well-known signature and read the contents the expression of his face changed. he gasped for breath and sank into a chair from sheer astonishment. "ah, that's different!" he cried, "that's different!" briefly shirley outlined her plan, explaining that she would go to live in the city immediately and conduct her campaign from there. if she was successful it might save her father and if not no harm could come of it. stott demurred at first. he did not wish to bear alone the responsibility of such an adventure. there was no knowing what might happen to her, visiting a strange house under an assumed name. but when he saw how thoroughly in earnest she was and that she was ready to proceed without him he capitulated. he agreed that she might be able to find the missing letters or if not that she might make some impression on ryder himself. she could show interest in the judge's case as a disinterested outsider and so might win his sympathies. from being a sceptic, stott now became enthusiastic. he promised to co-operate in every way and to keep shirley's whereabouts an absolute secret. the girl, therefore, began to make her preparations for departure from home by telling her parents that she had accepted an invitation to spend a week or two with an old college chum in new york. that same evening her mother, the judge, and stott went for a stroll after dinner and left her to take care of the house. they had wanted shirley to go, too, but she pleaded fatigue. the truth was that she wanted to be alone so she could ponder undisturbed over her plans. it was a clear, starlit night, with no moon, and shirley sat on the porch listening to the chirping of the crickets and idly watching the flashes of the mysterious fireflies. she was in no mood for reading and sat for a long time rocking herself engrossed in her thoughts. suddenly she heard someone unfasten the garden gate. it was too soon for the return of the promenaders; it must be a visitor. through the uncertain penumbra of the garden she discerned approaching a form which looked familiar. yes, now there was no doubt possible. it was, indeed, jefferson ryder. she hurried down the porch to greet him. no matter what the father had done she could never think any the less of the son. he took her hand and for several moments neither one spoke. there are times when silence is more eloquent than speech and this was one of them. the gentle grip of his big strong hand expressed more tenderly than any words the sympathy that lay in his heart for the woman he loved. shirley said quietly: "you have come at last, jefferson." "i came as soon as i could," he replied gently. "i saw father only yesterday." "you need not tell me what he said," shirley hastened to say. jefferson made no reply. he understood what she meant. he hung his head and hit viciously with his walking stick at the pebbles that lay at his feet. she went on: "i know everything now. it was foolish of me to think that mr. ryder would ever help us." "i can't help it in any way," blurted out jefferson. "i have not the slightest influence over him. his business methods i consider disgraceful--you understand that, don't you, shirley?" the girl laid her hand on his arm and replied kindly: "of course, jeff, we know that. come up and sit down." he followed her on the porch and drew up a rocker beside her. "they are all out for a walk," she explained. "i'm glad," he said frankly. "i wanted a quiet talk with you. i did not care to meet anyone. my name must be odious to your people." both were silent, feeling a certain awkwardness. they seemed to have drifted apart in some way since those delightful days in paris and on the ship. then he said: "i'm going away, but i couldn't go until i saw you." "you are going away?" exclaimed shirley, surprised. "yes," he said, "i cannot stand it any more at home. i had a hot talk with my father yesterday about one thing and another. he and i don't chin well together. besides this matter of your father's impeachment has completely discouraged me. all the wealth in the world could never reconcile me to such methods! i'm ashamed of the rôle my own flesh and blood has played in that miserable affair. i can't express what i feel about it." "yes," sighed shirley, "it is hard to believe that you are the son of that man!" "how is your father?" inquired jefferson. "how does he take it?" "oh, his heart beats and he can see and hear and speak," replied shirley sadly, "but he is only a shadow of what he once was. if the trial goes against him, i don't think he'll survive it." "it is monstrous," cried jefferson. "to think that my father should be responsible for this thing!" "we are still hoping for the best," added shirley, "but the outlook is dark." "but what are you going to do?" he asked. "these surroundings are not for you--" he looked around at the cheap furnishings which he could see through the open window and his face showed real concern. "i shall teach or write, or go out as governess," replied shirley with a tinge of bitterness. then smiling sadly she added: "poverty is easy; it is unmerited disgrace which is hard." the young man drew his chair closer and took hold of the hand that lay in her lap. she made no resistance. "shirley," he said, "do you remember that talk we had on the ship? i asked you to be my wife. you led me to believe that you were not indifferent to me. i ask you again to marry me. give me the right to take care of you and yours. i am the son of the world's richest man, but i don't want his money. i have earned a competence of my own--enough to live on comfortably. we will go away where you and your father and mother will make their home with us. do not let the sins of the fathers embitter the lives of the children." "mine has not sinned," said shirley bitterly. "i wish i could say the same of mine," replied jefferson. "it is because the clouds are dark about you that i want to come into your life to comfort you." the girl shook her head. "no, jefferson, the circumstances make such a marriage impossible. your family and everybody else would say that i had inveigled you into it. it is even more impossible now than i thought it was when i spoke to you on the ship. then i was worried about my father's trouble and could give no thought to anything else. now it is different. your father's action has made our union impossible for ever. i thank you for the honour you have done me. i do like you. i like you well enough to be your wife, but i will not accept this sacrifice on your part. your offer, coming at such a critical time, is dictated only by your noble, generous nature, by your sympathy for our misfortune. afterwards, you might regret it. if my father were convicted and driven from the bench and you found you had married the daughter of a disgraced man you would be ashamed of us all, and if i saw that it would break my heart." emotion stopped her utterance and she buried her face in her hands weeping silently. "shirley," said jefferson gently, "you are wrong. i love you for yourself, not because of your trouble. you know that. i shall never love any other woman but you. if you will not say 'yes' now, i shall go away as i told my father i would and one day i shall come back and then if you are still single i shall ask you again to be my wife." "where are you going?" she asked. "i shall travel for a year and then, may be, i shall stay a couple of years in paris, studying at the beaux arts. then i may go to rome. if i am to do anything worth while in the career i have chosen i must have that european training." "paris! rome!" echoed shirley. "how i envy you! yes, you are right. get away from this country where the only topic, the only thought is money, where the only incentive to work is dollars. go where there are still some ideals, where you can breathe the atmosphere of culture and art." forgetting momentarily her own troubles, shirley chatted on about life in the art centres of europe, advised jefferson where to go, with whom to study. she knew people in paris, rome and munich and she would give him letters to them. only, if he wanted to perfect himself in the languages, he ought to avoid americans and cultivate the natives. then, who could tell? if he worked hard and was lucky, he might have something exhibited at the salon and return to america a famous painter. "if i do," smiled jefferson, "you shall be the first to congratulate me. i shall come and ask you to be my wife. may i?" he added, shirley smiled gravely. "get famous first. you may not want me then." "i shall always want you," he whispered hoarsely, bending over her. in the dim light of the porch he saw that her tear-stained face was drawn and pale. he rose and held out his hand. "good-bye," he said simply. "good-bye, jefferson." she rose and put her hand in his. "we shall always be friends. i, too, am going away." "you going away--where to?" he asked surprised. "i have work to do in connection with my father's case," she said. "you?" said jefferson puzzled. "you have work to do--what work?" "i can't say what it is, jefferson. there are good reasons why i can't. you must take my word for it that it is urgent and important work." then she added: "you go your way, jefferson; i will go mine. it was not our destiny to belong to each other. you will become famous as an artist. and i--" "and you--" echoed jefferson. "i--i shall devote my life to my father. it's no use, jefferson--really--i've thought it all out. you must not come back to me--you understand. we must be alone with our grief--father and i. good-bye." he raised her hand to his lips. "good-bye, shirley. don't forget me. i shall come back for you." he went down the porch and she watched him go out of the gate and down the road until she could see his figure no longer. then she turned back and sank into her chair and burying her face in her handkerchief she gave way to a torrent of tears which afforded some relief to the weight on her heart. presently the others returned from their walk and she told them about the visitor. "mr. ryder's son, jefferson, was here. we crossed on the same ship. i introduced him to judge stott on the dock." the judge looked surprised, but he merely said: "i hope for his sake that he is a different man from his father." "he is," replied shirley simply, and nothing more was said. two days went by, during which shirley went on completing the preparations for her visit to new york. it was arranged that stott should escort her to the city. shortly before they started for the train a letter arrived for shirley. like the first one it had been forwarded by her publishers. it read as follows: miss shirley green, _dear madam._--i shall be happy to see you at my residence--fifth avenue--any afternoon that you will mention. yours very truly, john burkett ryder, per b. shirley smiled in triumph as, unseen by her father and mother, she passed it over to stott. she at once sat down and wrote this reply: mr. john burkett ryder, _dear sir._--i am sorry that i am unable to comply with your request. i prefer the invitation to call at your private residence should come from mrs. ryder. yours, etc., shirley green. she laughed as she showed this to stott: "he'll write me again," she said, "and next time his wife will sign the letter." an hour later she left massapequa for the city. chapter xi the hon. fitzroy bagley had every reason to feel satisfied with himself. his _affaire de coeur_ with the senator's daughter was progressing more smoothly than ever, and nothing now seemed likely to interfere with his carefully prepared plans to capture an american heiress. the interview with kate roberts in the library, so awkwardly disturbed by jefferson's unexpected intrusion, had been followed by other interviews more secret and more successful, and the plausible secretary had contrived so well to persuade the girl that he really thought the world of her, and that a brilliant future awaited her as his wife, that it was not long before he found her in a mood to refuse him nothing. bagley urged immediate marriage; he insinuated that jefferson had treated her shamefully and that she owed it to herself to show the world that there were other men as good as the one who had jilted her. he argued that in view of the senator being bent on the match with ryder's son it would be worse than useless for him, bagley, to make formal application for her hand, so, as he explained, the only thing which remained was a runaway marriage. confronted with the _fait accompli_, papa roberts would bow to the inevitable. they could get married quietly in town, go away for a short trip, and when the senator had gotten over his first disappointment they would be welcomed back with open arms. kate listened willingly enough to this specious reasoning. in her heart she was piqued at jefferson's indifference and she was foolish enough to really believe that this marriage with a british nobleman, twice removed, would be in the nature of a triumph over him. besides, this project of an elopement appealed strangely to her frivolous imagination; it put her in the same class as all her favourite novel heroines. and it would be capital fun! meantime, senator roberts, in blissful ignorance of this little plot against his domestic peace, was growing impatient and he approached his friend ryder once more on the subject of his son jefferson. the young man, he said, had been back from europe some time. he insisted on knowing what his attitude was towards his daughter. if they were engaged to be married he said there should be a public announcement of the fact. it was unfair to him and a slight to his daughter to let matters hang fire in this unsatisfactory way and he hinted that both himself and his daughter might demand their passports from the ryder mansion unless some explanation were forthcoming. ryder was in a quandary. he had no wish to quarrel with his useful washington ally; he recognized the reasonableness of his complaint. yet what could he do? much as he himself desired the marriage, his son was obstinate and showed little inclination to settle down. he even hinted at attractions in another quarter. he did not tell the senator of his recent interview with his son when the latter made it very plain that the marriage could never take place. ryder, sr., had his own reasons for wishing to temporize. it was quite possible that jefferson might change his mind and abandon his idea of going abroad and he suggested to the senator that perhaps if he, the senator, made the engagement public through the newspapers it might have the salutary effect of forcing his son's hand. so a few mornings later there appeared among the society notes in several of the new york papers this paragraph: "the engagement is announced of miss katherine roberts, only daughter of senator roberts of wisconsin, to jefferson ryder, son of mr. john burkett ryder." two persons in new york happened to see the item about the same time and both were equally interested, although it affected them in a different manner. one was shirley rossmore, who had chanced to pick up the newspaper at the breakfast table in her boarding house. "so soon?" she murmured to herself. well, why not? she could not blame jefferson. he had often spoken to her of this match arranged by his father and they had laughed over it as a typical marriage of convenience modelled after the continental pattern. jefferson, she knew, had never cared for the girl nor taken the affair seriously. some powerful influences must have been at work to make him surrender so easily. here again she recognized the masterly hand of ryder, sr., and more than ever she was eager to meet this extraordinary man and measure her strength with his. her mind, indeed, was too full of her father's troubles to grieve over her own however much she might have been inclined to do so under other circumstances, and all that day she did her best to banish the paragraph from her thoughts. more than a week had passed since she left massapequa and what with corresponding with financiers, calling on editors and publishers, every moment of her time had been kept busy. she had found a quiet and reasonable priced boarding house off washington square and here stott had called several times to see her. her correspondence with mr. ryder had now reached a phase when it was impossible to invent any further excuses for delaying the interview asked for. as she had foreseen, a day or two after her arrival in town she had received a note from mrs. ryder asking her to do her the honour to call and see her, and shirley, after waiting another two days, had replied making an appointment for the following day at three o'clock. this was the same day on which the paragraph concerning the ryder-roberts engagement appeared in the society chronicles of the metropolis. directly after the meagre meal which in new york boarding houses is dignified by the name of luncheon, shirley proceeded to get ready for this portentous visit to the ryder mansion. she was anxious to make a favourable impression on the financier, so she took some pains with her personal appearance. she always looked stylish, no matter what she wore, and her poverty was of too recent date to make much difference to her wardrobe, which was still well supplied with paris-made gowns. she selected a simple close-fitting gown of gray chiffon cloth and a picture hat of leghorn straw heaped with red roses, shirley's favourite flower. thus arrayed, she sallied forth at two o'clock--a little gray mouse to do battle with the formidable lion. the sky was threatening, so instead of walking a short way up fifth avenue for exercise, as she had intended doing, she cut across town through ninth street, and took the surface car on fourth avenue. this would put her down at madison avenue and seventy-fourth street, which was only a block from the ryder residence. she looked so pretty and was so well dressed that the passers-by who looked after her wondered why she did not take a cab instead of standing on a street corner for a car. but one's outward appearance is not always a faithful index to the condition of one's pocketbook, and shirley was rapidly acquiring the art of economy. it was not without a certain trepidation that she began this journey. so far, all her plans had been based largely on theory, but now that she was actually on her way to mr. ryder all sorts of misgivings beset her. suppose he knew her by sight and roughly accused her of obtaining access to his house under false pretences and then had her ejected by the servants? how terrible and humiliating that would be! and even if he did not how could she possibly find those letters with him watching her, and all in the brief time of a conventional afternoon call? it had been an absurd idea from the first. stott was right; she saw that now. but she had entered upon it and she was not going to confess herself beaten until she had tried. and as the car sped along madison avenue, gradually drawing nearer to the house which she was going to enter disguised as it were, like a burglar, she felt cold chills run up and down her spine--the same sensation that one experiences when one rings the bell of a dentist's where one has gone to have a tooth extracted. in fact, she felt so nervous and frightened that if she had not been ashamed before herself she would have turned back. in about twenty minutes the car stopped at the corner of seventy-fourth street. shirley descended and with a quickened pulse walked towards the ryder mansion, which she knew well by sight. there was one other person in new york who, that same morning, had read the newspaper item regarding the ryder-roberts betrothal, and he did not take the matter so calmly as shirley had done. on the contrary, it had the effect of putting him into a violent rage. this was jefferson. he was working in his studio when he read it and five minutes later he was tearing up-town to seek the author of it. he understood its object, of course; they wanted to force his hand, to shame him into this marriage, to so entangle him with the girl that no other alternative would be possible to an honourable man. it was a despicable trick and he had no doubt that his father was at the back of it. so his mind now was fully made up. he would go away at once where they could not make his life a burden with this odious marriage which was fast becoming a nightmare to him. he would close up his studio and leave immediately for europe. he would show his father once for all that he was a man and expected to be treated as one. he wondered what shirley was doing. where had she gone, what was this mysterious work of which she had spoken? he only realized now, when she seemed entirely beyond his reach, how much he loved her and how empty his life would be without her. he would know no happiness until she was his wife. her words on the porch did not discourage him. under the circumstances he could not expect her to have said anything else. she could not marry into john ryder's family with such a charge hanging over her own father's head, but, later, when the trial was over, no matter how it turned out, he would go to her again and ask her to be his wife. on arriving home the first person he saw was the ubiquitous mr. bagley, who stood at the top of the first staircase giving some letters to the butler. jefferson cornered him at once, holding out the newspaper containing the offending paragraph. "say, bagley," he cried, "what does this mean? is this any of your doing?" the english secretary gave his employer's son a haughty stare, and then, without deigning to reply or even to glance at the newspaper, continued his instructions to the servant: "here, jorkins, get stamps for all these letters and see they are mailed at once. they are very important." "very good, sir." the man took the letters and disappeared, while jefferson, impatient, repeated his question: "my doing?" sneered mr. bagley. "really, jefferson, you go too far! do you suppose for one instant that i would condescend to trouble myself with your affairs?" jefferson was in no mood to put up with insolence from anyone, especially from a man whom he heartily despised, so advancing menacingly he thundered: "i mean--were you, in the discharge of your menial-like duties, instructed by my father to send that paragraph to the newspapers regarding my alleged betrothal to miss roberts? yes or no?" the man winced and made a step backward. there was a gleam in the ryder eye which he knew by experience boded no good. "really, jefferson," he said in a more conciliatory tone, "i know absolutely nothing about the paragraph. this is the first i hear of it. why not ask your father?" "i will," replied jefferson grimly. he was turning to go in the direction of the library when bagley stopped him. "you cannot possibly see him now," he said. "sergeant ellison of the secret service is in there with him, and your father told me not to disturb him on any account. he has another appointment at three o'clock with some woman who writes books." seeing that the fellow was in earnest, jefferson did not insist. he could see his father a little later or send him a message through his mother. proceeding upstairs he found mrs. ryder in her room and in a few energetic words he explained the situation to his mother. they had gone too far with this match-making business, he said, his father was trying to interfere with his personal liberty and he was going to put a stop to it. he would leave at once for europe. mrs. ryder had already heard of the projected trip abroad, so the news of this sudden departure was not the shock it might otherwise have been. in her heart she did not blame her son, on the contrary she admired his spirit, and if the temporary absence from home would make him happier, she would not hold him back. yet, mother like, she wept and coaxed, but nothing would shake jefferson in his determination and he begged his mother to make it very plain to his father that this was final and that a few days would see him on his way abroad. he would try and come back to see his father that afternoon, but otherwise she was to say good-bye for him. mrs. ryder promised tearfully to do what her son demanded and a few minutes later jefferson was on his way to the front door. as he went down stairs something white on the carpet attracted his attention. he stooped and picked it up. it was a letter. it was in bagley's handwriting and had evidently been dropped by the man to whom the secretary had given it to post. but what interested jefferson more than anything else was that it was addressed to miss kate roberts. under ordinary circumstances, a king's ransom would not have tempted the young man to read a letter addressed to another, but he was convinced that his father's secretary was an adventurer and if he were carrying on an intrigue in this manner it could have only one meaning. it was his duty to unveil a rascal who was using the ryder roof and name to further his own ends and victimize a girl who, although sophisticated enough to know better, was too silly to realize the risk she ran at the hands of an unscrupulous man. hesitating no longer, jefferson tore open the envelope and read: my dearest wife that is to be: i have arranged everything. next wednesday--just a week from to-day--we will go to the house of a discreet friend of mine where a minister will marry us; then we will go to city hall and get through the legal part of it. afterwards, we can catch the four o'clock train for buffalo. meet me in the ladies' room at the holland house wednesday morning at a.m. i will come there with a closed cab. your devoted fitz. "phew!" jefferson whistled. a close shave this for senator roberts, he thought. his first impulse was to go upstairs again to his mother and put the matter in her hands. she would immediately inform his father, who would make short work of mr. bagley. but, thought jefferson, why should he spoil a good thing? he could afford to wait a day or two. there was no hurry. he could allow bagley to think all was going swimmingly and then uncover the plot at the eleventh hour. he would even let this letter go to kate, there was no difficulty in procuring another envelope and imitating the handwriting--and when bagley was just preparing to go to the rendezvous he would spring the trap. such a cad deserved no mercy. the scandal would be a knock-out blow, his father would discharge him on the spot and that would be the last they would see of the aristocratic english secretary. jefferson put the letter in his pocket and left the house rejoicing. while the foregoing incidents were happening john burkett ryder was secluded in his library. the great man had come home earlier than usual, for he had two important callers to see by appointment that afternoon. one was sergeant ellison, who had to report on his mission to massapequa; the other was miss shirley green, the author of "the american octopus," who had at last deigned to honour him with a visit. pending the arrival of these visitors the financier was busy with his secretary trying to get rid as rapidly as possible of what business and correspondence there was on hand. the plutocrat was sitting at his desk poring over a mass of papers. between his teeth was the inevitable long black cigar and when he raised his eyes to the light a close observer might have remarked that they were sea-green, a colour they assumed when the man of millions was absorbed in scheming new business deals. every now and then he stopped reading the papers to make quick calculations on scraps of paper. then if the result pleased him, a smile overspread his saturnine features. he rose from his chair and nervously paced the floor as he always did when thinking deeply. "five millions," he muttered, "not a cent more. if they won't sell we'll crush them--" mr. bagley entered. mr. ryder looked up quickly. "well, bagley?" he said interrogatively. "has sergeant ellison come?" "yes, sir. but mr. herts is downstairs. he insists on seeing you about the philadelphia gas deal. he says it is a matter of life and death." "to him--yes," answered the financier dryly. "let him come up. we might as well have it out now." mr. bagley went out and returned almost immediately, followed by a short, fat man, rather loudly dressed and apoplectic in appearance. he looked like a prosperous brewer, while, as a matter of fact, he was president of a gas company, one of the shrewdest promoters in the country, and a big man in wall street. there was only one bigger man and that was john ryder. but, to-day, mr. herts was not in good condition. his face was pale and his manner flustered and nervous. he was plainly worried. "mr. ryder," he began with excited gesture, "the terms you offer are preposterous. it would mean disaster to the stockholders. our gas properties are worth six times that amount. we will sell out for twenty millions--not a cent less." ryder shrugged his shoulders. "mr. herts," he replied coolly, "i am busy to-day and in no mood for arguing. we'll either buy you out or force you out. choose. you have our offer. five millions for your gas property. will you take it?" "we'll see you in hell first!" cried his visitor exasperated. "very well," replied ryder still unruffled, "all negotiations are off. you leave me free to act. we have an offer to buy cheap the old germantown gas company which has charter rights to go into any of the streets of philadelphia. we shall purchase that company, we will put ten millions new capital into it, and reduce the price of gas in philadelphia to sixty cents a thousand. where will you be then?" the face of the colossus as he uttered this stand and deliver speech was calm and inscrutable. conscious of the resistless power of his untold millions, he felt no more compunction in mercilessly crushing this business rival than he would in trampling out the life of a worm. the little man facing him looked haggard and distressed. he knew well that this was no idle threat. he was well aware that ryder and his associates by the sheer weight of the enormous wealth they controlled could sell out or destroy any industrial corporation in the land. it was plainly illegal, but it was done every day, and his company was not the first victim nor the last. desperate, he appealed humbly to the tyrannical money power: "don't drive us to the wall, mr. ryder. this forced sale will mean disaster to us all. put yourself in our place--think what it means to scores of families whose only support is the income from their investment in our company." "mr. herts," replied ryder unmoved, "i never allow sentiment to interfere with business. you have heard my terms. i refuse to argue the matter further. what is it to be? five millions or competition? decide now or this interview must end!" he took out his watch and with his other hand touched a bell. beads of perspiration stood on his visitor's forehead. in a voice broken with suppressed emotion he said hoarsely: "you're a hard, pitiless man, john ryder! so be it--five millions. i don't know what they'll say. i don't dare return to them." "those are my terms," said ryder coldly. "the papers," he added, "will be ready for your signature to-morrow at this time, and i'll have a cheque ready for the entire amount. good-day." mr. bagley entered. ryder bowed to herts, who slowly retired. when the door had closed on him ryder went back to his desk, a smile of triumph on his face. then he turned to his secretary: "let sergeant ellison come up," he said. the secretary left the room and mr. ryder sank comfortably in his chair, puffing silently at his long black cigar. the financier was thinking, but his thoughts concerned neither the luckless gas president he had just pitilessly crushed, nor the detective who had come to make his report. he was thinking of the book "the american octopus," and its bold author whom he was to meet in a very few minutes. he glanced at the clock. a quarter to three. she would be here in fifteen minutes if she were punctual, but women seldom are, he reflected. what kind of a woman could she be, this shirley green, to dare cross swords with a man whose power was felt in two hemispheres? no ordinary woman, that was certain. he tried to imagine what she looked like, and he pictured a tall, gaunt, sexless spinster with spectacles, a sort of nightmare in the garb of a woman. a sour, discontented creature, bitter to all mankind, owing to disappointments in early life and especially vindictive towards the rich, whom her socialistic and even anarchistical tendencies prompted her to hate and attack. yet, withal, a brainy, intelligent woman, remarkably well informed as to political and industrial conditions--a woman to make a friend of rather than an enemy. and john ryder, who had educated himself to believe that with gold he could do everything, that none could resist its power, had no doubt that with money he could enlist this shirley green in his service. at least it would keep her from writing more books about him. the door opened and sergeant ellison entered, followed by the secretary, who almost immediately withdrew. "well, sergeant," said mr. ryder cordially, "what have you to tell me? i can give you only a few minutes. i expect a lady friend of yours." the plutocrat sometimes condescended to be jocular with his subordinates. "a lady friend of mine, sir?" echoed the man, puzzled. "yes--miss shirley green, the author," replied the financier, enjoying the detective's embarrassment. "that suggestion of yours worked out all right. she's coming here to-day." "i'm glad you've found her, sir." "it was a tough job," answered ryder with a grimace. "we wrote her half a dozen times before she was satisfied with the wording of the invitation. but, finally, we landed her and i expect her at three o'clock. now what about that rossmore girl? did you go down to massapequa?" "yes, sir, i have been there half a dozen times. in fact, i've just come from there. judge rossmore is there, all right, but his daughter has left for parts unknown." "gone away--where?" exclaimed the financier. this was what he dreaded. as long as he could keep his eye on the girl there was little danger of jefferson making a fool of himself; with her disappeared everything was possible. "i could not find out, sir. their neighbours don't know much about them. they say they're haughty and stuck up. the only one i could get anything out of was a parson named deetle. he said it was a sad case, that they had reverses and a daughter who was in paris--" "yes, yes," said ryder impatiently, "we know all that. but where's the daughter now?" "search me, sir. i even tried to pump the irish slavey. gee, what a vixen! she almost flew at me. she said she didn't know and didn't care." ryder brought his fist down with force on his desk, a trick he had when he wished to emphasize a point. "sergeant, i don't like the mysterious disappearance of that girl. you must find her, do you hear, you must find her if it takes all the sleuths in the country. had my son been seen there?" "the parson said he saw a young fellow answering his description sitting on the porch of the rossmore cottage the evening before the girl disappeared, but he didn't know who he was and hasn't seen him since." "that was my son, i'll wager. he knows where the girl is. perhaps he's with her now. maybe he's going to marry her. that must be prevented at any cost. sergeant, find that rossmore girl and i'll give you $ , ." the detective's face flushed with pleasure at the prospect of so liberal a reward. rising he said: "i'll find her, sir. i'll find her." mr. bagley entered, wearing the solemn, important air he always affected when he had to announce a visitor of consequence. but before he could open his mouth mr. ryder said: "bagley, when did you see my son, jefferson, last?" "to-day, sir. he wanted to see you to say good-bye. he said he would be back." ryder gave a sigh of relief and addressing the detective said: "it's not so bad as i thought." then turning again to his secretary he asked: "well, bagley, what is it?" "there's a lady downstairs, sir--miss shirley green." the financier half sprang from his seat. "oh, yes. show her up at once. good-bye, sergeant, good-bye. find that rossmore woman and the $ , is yours." the detective went out and a few moments later mr. bagley reappeared ushering in shirley. the mouse was in the den of the lion. chapter xii mr. ryder remained at his desk and did not even look up when his visitor entered. he pretended to be busily preoccupied with his papers, which was a favourite pose of his when receiving strangers. this frigid reception invariably served its purpose, for it led visitors not to expect more than they got, which usually was little enough. for several minutes shirley stood still, not knowing whether to advance or to take a seat. she gave a little conventional cough, and ryder looked up. what he saw so astonished him that he at once took from his mouth the cigar he was smoking and rose from his seat. he had expected a gaunt old maid with spectacles, and here was a stylish, good-looking young woman, who could not possibly be over twenty-five. there was surely some mistake. this slip of a girl could not have written "the american octopus." he advanced to greet shirley. "you wish to see me, madame?" he asked courteously. there were times when even john burkett ryder could be polite. "yes," replied shirley, her voice trembling a little; in spite of her efforts to keep cool. "i am here by appointment. three o'clock, mrs. ryder's note said. i am miss green." "_you_--miss green?" echoed the financier dubiously. "yes, i am miss green--shirley green, author of 'the american octopus.' you asked me to call. here i am." for the first time in his life, john ryder was nonplussed. he coughed and stammered and looked round for a place where he could throw his cigar. shirley, who enjoyed his embarrassment, put him at his ease. "oh, please go on smoking," she said; "i don't mind it in the least." ryder threw the cigar into a receptacle and looked closely at his visitor. "so you are shirley green, eh?" "that is my _nom-de-plume_--yes," replied the girl nervously. she was already wishing herself back at massapequa. the financier eyed her for a moment in silence as if trying to gauge the strength of the personality of this audacious young woman, who had dared to criticise his business methods in public print; then, waving her to a seat near his desk, he said: "won't you sit down?" "thank you," murmured shirley. she sat down, and he took his seat at the other side of the desk, which brought them face to face. again inspecting the girl with a close scrutiny that made her cheeks burn, ryder said: "i rather expected--" he stopped for a moment as if uncertain what to say, then he added: "you're younger than i thought you were, miss green, much younger." "time will remedy that," smiled shirley. then, mischievously, she added: "i rather expected to see mrs. ryder." there was the faintest suspicion of a smile playing around the corners of the plutocrat's mouth as he picked up a book lying on his desk and replied: "yes--she wrote you, but i--wanted to see you about this." shirley's pulse throbbed faster, but she tried hard to appear unconcerned as she answered: "oh, my book--have you read it?" "i have," replied ryder slowly and, fixing her with a stare that was beginning to make her uncomfortable, he went on: "no doubt your time is valuable, so i'll come right to the point. i want to ask you, miss green, where you got the character of your central figure--the octopus, as you call him--john broderick?" "from imagination--of course," answered shirley. ryder opened the book, and shirley noticed that there were several passages marked. he turned the leaves over in silence for a minute or two and then he said: "you've sketched a pretty big man here--" "yes," assented shirley, "he has big possibilities, but i think he makes very small use of them." ryder appeared not to notice her commentary, and, still reading the book, he continued: "on page you call him '_the world's greatest individualized potentiality, a giant combination of materiality, mentality and money--the greatest exemplar of individual human will in existence to-day._' and you make indomitable will and energy the keystone of his marvellous success. am i right?" he looked at her questioningly. "quite right," answered shirley. ryder proceeded: "on page you say '_the machinery of his money-making mind typifies the laws of perpetual unrest. it must go on, relentlessly, resistlessly, ruthlessly making money--making money and continuing to make money. it cannot stop until the machinery crumbles._'" laying the book down and turning sharply on shirley, he asked her bluntly: "do you mean to say that i couldn't stop to-morrow if i wanted to?" she affected to not understand him. "_you?_" she inquired in a tone of surprise. "well--it's a natural question," stammered ryder, with a nervous little laugh; "every man sees himself in the hero of a novel just as every woman sees herself in the heroine. we're all heroes and heroines in our own eyes. but tell me what's your private opinion of this man. you drew the character. what do you think of him as a type, how would you classify him?" "as the greatest criminal the world has yet produced," replied shirley without a moment's hesitation. the financier looked at the girl in unfeigned astonishment. "criminal?" he echoed. "yes, criminal," repeated shirley decisively. "he is avarice, egotism, and ambition incarnate. he loves money because he loves power, and he loves power more than his fellow man." ryder laughed uneasily. decidedly, this girl had opinions of her own which she was not backward to express. "isn't that rather strong?" he asked. "i don't think so," replied shirley. then quickly she asked: "but what does it matter? no such man exists." "no, of course not," said ryder, and he relapsed into silence. yet while he said nothing, the plutocrat was watching his visitor closely from under his thick eyebrows. she seemed supremely unconscious of his scrutiny. her aristocratic, thoughtful face gave no sign that any ulterior motive had actuated her evidently very hostile attitude against him. that he was in her mind when she drew the character of john broderick there was no doubt possible. no matter how she might evade the identification, he was convinced he was the hero of her book. why had she attacked him so bitterly? at first, it occurred to him that blackmail might be her object; she might be going to ask for money as the price of future silence. yet it needed but a glance at her refined and modest demeanour to dispel that idea as absurd. then he remembered, too, that it was not she who had sought this interview, but himself. no, she was no blackmailer. more probably she was a dreamer--one of those meddling sociologists who, under pretence of bettering the conditions of the working classes, stir up discontent and bitterness of feeling. as such; she might prove more to be feared than a mere blackmailer whom he could buy off with money. he knew he was not popular, but he was no worse than the other captains of industry. it was a cut-throat game at best. competition was the soul of commercial life, and if he had outwitted his competitors and made himself richer than all of them, he was not a criminal for that. but all these attacks in newspapers and books did not do him any good. one day the people might take these demagogic writings seriously and then there would be the devil to pay. he took up the book again and ran over the pages. this certainly was no ordinary girl. she knew more and had a more direct way of saying things than any woman he had ever met. and as he watched her furtively across the desk he wondered how he could use her; how instead of being his enemy, he could make her his friend. if he did not, she would go away and write more such books, and literature of this kind might become a real peril to his interests. money could do anything; it could secure the services of this woman and prevent her doing further mischief. but how could he employ her? suddenly an inspiration came to him. for some years he had been collecting material for a history of the empire trading company. she could write it. it would practically be his own biography. would she undertake it? embarrassed by the long silence, shirley finally broke it by saying: "but you didn't ask me to call merely to find out what i thought of my own work." "no," replied ryder slowly, "i want you to do some work for me." he opened a drawer at the left-hand side of his desk and took out several sheets of foolscap and a number of letters. shirley's heart beat faster as she caught sight of the letters. were her father's among them? she wondered what kind of work john burkett ryder had for her to do and if she would do it whatever it was. some literary work probably, compiling or something of that kind. if it was well paid, why should she not accept? there would be nothing humiliating in it; it would not tie her hands in any way. she was a professional writer in the market to be employed by whoever could pay the price. besides, such work might give her better opportunities to secure the letters of which she was in search. gathering in one pile all the papers he had removed from the drawer, mr. ryder said: "i want you to put my biography together from this material. but first," he added, taking up "the american octopus," "i want to know where you got the details of this man's life." "oh, for the most part--imagination, newspapers, magazines," replied shirley carelessly. "you know the american millionaire is a very overworked topic just now--and naturally i've read--" "yes, i understand," he said, "but i refer to what you haven't read--what you couldn't have read. for example, here." he turned to a page marked in the book and read aloud: "_as an evidence of his petty vanity, when a youth he had a beautiful indian girl tattooed just above the forearm._" ryder leaned eagerly forward as he asked her searchingly: "now who told you that i had my arm tattooed when i was a boy?" "have you?" laughed shirley nervously. "what a curious coincidence!" "let me read you another coincidence," said ryder meaningly. he turned to another part of the book and read: "_the same eternal long black cigar always between his lips_ ..." "general grant smoked, too," interrupted shirley. "all men who think deeply along material lines seem to smoke." "well, we'll let that go. but how about this?" he turned back a few pages and read: "_john broderick had loved, when a young man, a girl who lived in vermont, but circumstances separated them._" he stopped and stared at shirley a moment and then he said: "i loved a girl when i was a lad and she came from vermont, and circumstances separated us. that isn't coincidence, for presently you make john broderick marry a young woman who had money. i married a girl with money." "lots of men marry for money," remarked shirley. "i said _with_ money, not for money," retorted ryder. then turning again to the book, he said: "now, this is what i can't understand, for no one could have told you this but i myself. listen." he read aloud: "_with all his physical bravery and personal courage, john broderick was intensely afraid of death. it was on his mind constantly._" "who told you that?" he demanded somewhat roughly. "i swear i've never mentioned it to a living soul." "most men who amass money are afraid of death," replied shirley with outward composure, "for death is about the only thing that can separate them from their money." ryder laughed, but it was a hollow, mocking laugh, neither sincere nor hearty. it was a laugh such as the devil may have given when driven out of heaven. "you're quite a character!" he laughed again, and shirley, catching the infection, laughed, too. "it's me and it isn't me," went on ryder flourishing the book. "this fellow broderick is all right; he's successful and he's great, but i don't like his finish." "it's logical," ventured shirley. "it's cruel," insisted ryder. "so is the man who reverses the divine law and hates his neighbour instead of loving him," retorted shirley. she spoke more boldly, beginning to feel more sure of her ground, and it amused her to fence in this way with the man of millions. so far, she thought, he had not got the best of her. she was fast becoming used to him, and her first feeling of intimidation was passing away. "um!" grunted ryder, "you're a curious girl; upon my word you interest me!" he took the mass of papers lying at his elbow and pushed them over to her. "here," he said, "i want you to make as clever a book out of this chaos as you did out of your own imagination." shirley turned the papers over carelessly. "so you think your life is a good example to follow?" she asked with a tinge of irony. "isn't it?" he demanded. the girl looked him square in the face. "suppose," she said, "we all wanted to follow it, suppose we all wanted to be the richest, the most powerful personage in the world?" "well--what then?" he demanded. "i think it would postpone the era of the brotherhood of man indefinitely, don't you?" "i never thought of it from that point of view," admitted the billionaire. "really," he added, "you're an extraordinary girl. why, you can't be more than twenty--or so." "i'm twenty-four--or so," smiled shirley. ryder's face expanded in a broad smile. he admired this girl's pluck and ready wit. he grew more amiable and tried to gain her confidence. in a coaxing tone he said: "come, where did you get those details? take me into your confidence." "i have taken you into my confidence," laughed shirley, pointing at her book. "it cost you $ . !" turning over the papers he had put before her she said presently: "i don't know about this." "you don't think my life would make good reading?" he asked with some asperity. "it might," she replied slowly, as if unwilling to commit herself as to its commercial or literary value. then she said frankly: "to tell you the honest truth, i don't consider mere genius in money-making is sufficient provocation for rushing into print. you see, unless you come to a bad end, it would have no moral." ignoring the not very flattering insinuation contained in this last speech, the plutocrat continued to urge her: "you can name your own price if you will do the work," he said. "two, three or even five thousand dollars. it's only a few months' work." "five thousand dollars?" echoed shirley. "that's a lot of money." smiling, she added: "it appeals to my commercial sense. but i'm afraid the subject does not arouse my enthusiasm from an artistic standpoint." ryder seemed amused at the idea of any one hesitating to make five thousand dollars. he knew that writers do not run across such opportunities every day. "upon my word," he said, "i don't know why i'm so anxious to get you to do the work. i suppose it's because you don't want to. you remind me of my son. ah, he's a problem!" shirley started involuntarily when ryder mentioned his son. but he did not notice it. "why, is he wild?" she asked, as if only mildly interested. "oh, no, i wish he were," said ryder. "fallen in love with the wrong woman, i suppose," she said. "something of the sort--how did you guess?" asked ryder surprised. shirley coughed to hide her embarrassment and replied indifferently. "so many boys do that. besides," she added with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, "i can hardly imagine that any woman would be the right one unless you selected her yourself!" ryder made no answer. he folded his arms and gazed at her. who was this woman who knew him so well, who could read his inmost thoughts, who never made a mistake? after a silence he said: "do you know you say the strangest things?" "truth is strange," replied shirley carelessly. "i don't suppose you hear it very often." "not in that form," admitted ryder. shirley had taken on to her lap some of the letters he had passed her, and was perusing them one after another. "all these letters from washington consulting you on politics and finance--they won't interest the world." "my secretary picked them out," explained ryder. "your artistic sense will tell you what to use." "does your son still love this girl? i mean the one you object to?" inquired shirley as she went on sorting the papers. "oh, no, he does not care for her any more," answered ryder hastily. "yes, he does; he still loves her," said shirley positively. "how do _you_ know?" asked ryder amazed. "from the way you say he doesn't," retorted shirley. ryder gave his caller a look in which admiration was mingled with astonishment. "you are right again," he said. "the idiot does love the girl." "bless his heart," said shirley to herself. aloud she said: "i hope they'll both outwit you." ryder laughed in spite of himself. this young woman certainly interested him more than any other he had ever known. "i don't think i ever met anyone in my life quite like you," he said. "what's the objection to the girl?" demanded shirley. "every objection. i don't want her in my family." "anything against her character?" to better conceal the keen interest she took in the personal turn the conversation had taken, shirley pretended to be more busy than ever with the papers. "yes--that is no--not that i know of," replied ryder. "but because a woman has a good character, that doesn't necessarily make her a desirable match, does it?" "it's a point in her favor, isn't it?" "yes--but--" he hesitated as if uncertain what to say. "you know men well, don't you, mr. ryder?" "i've met enough to know them pretty well," he replied. "why don't you study women for a change?" she asked. "that would enable you to understand a great many things that i don't think are quite clear to you now." ryder laughed good humouredly. it was decidedly a novel sensation to have someone lecturing him. "i'm studying you," he said, "but i don't seem to make much headway. a woman like you whose mind isn't spoiled by the amusement habit has great possibilities--great possibilities. do you know you're the first woman i ever took into my confidence--i mean at sight?" again he fixed her with that keen glance which in his business life had taught him how to read men. he continued: "i'm acting on sentiment--something i rarely do, but i can't help it. i like you, upon my soul i do, and i'm going to introduce you to my wife--my son--" he took the telephone from his desk as if he were going to use it. "what a commander-in-chief you would have made--how natural it is for you to command," exclaimed shirley in a burst of admiration that was half real, half mocking. "i suppose you always tell people what they are to do and how they are to do it. you are a born general. you know i've often thought that napoleon and caesar and alexander must have been great domestic leaders as well as imperial rulers. i'm sure of it now." ryder listened to her in amazement. he was not quite sure if she were making fun of him or not. "well, of all--" he began. then interrupting himself he said amiably: "won't you do me the honour to meet my family?" shirley smiled sweetly and bowed. "thank you, mr. ryder, i will." she rose from her seat and leaned over the manuscripts to conceal the satisfaction this promise of an introduction to the family circle gave her. she was quick to see that it meant more visits to the house, and other and perhaps better opportunities to find the objects of her search. ryder lifted the receiver of his telephone and talked to his secretary in another room, while shirley, who was still standing, continued examining the papers and letters. "is that you, bagley? what's that? general dodge? get rid of him. i can't see him to-day. tell him to come to-morrow. what's that? my son wants to see me? tell him to come to the phone." at that instant shirley gave a little cry, which in vain she tried to suppress. ryder looked up. "what's the matter?" he demanded startled. "nothing--nothing!" she replied in a hoarse whisper. "i pricked myself with a pin. don't mind me." she had just come across her father's missing letters, which had got mixed up, evidently without ryder's knowledge, in the mass of papers he had handed her. prepared as she was to find the letters somewhere in the house, she never dreamed that fate would put them so easily and so quickly into her hands; the suddenness of their appearance and the sight of her father's familiar signature affected her almost like a shock. now she had them, she must not let them go again; yet how could she keep them unobserved? could she conceal them? would he miss them? she tried to slip them in her bosom while ryder was busy at the 'phone, but he suddenly glanced in her direction and caught her eye. she still held the letters in her hand, which shook from nervousness, but he noticed nothing and went on speaking through the 'phone: "hallo, jefferson, boy! you want to see me. can you wait till i'm through? i've got a lady here. going away? nonsense! determined, eh? well, i can't keep you here if you've made up your mind. you want to say good-bye. come up in about five minutes and i'll introduce you to a very interesting person," he laughed and hung up the receiver. shirley was all unstrung, trying to overcome the emotion which her discovery had caused her, and in a strangely altered voice, the result of the nervous strain she was under, she said: "you want me to come here?" she looked up from the letters she was reading across to ryder, who was standing watching her on the other side of the desk. he caught her glance and, leaning over to take some manuscript, he said: "yes, i don't want these papers to get--" his eye suddenly rested on the letters she was holding. he stopped short, and reaching forward he tried to snatch them from her. "what have you got there?" he exclaimed. he took the letters and she made no resistance. it would be folly to force the issue now, she thought. another opportunity would present itself. ryder locked the letters up very carefully in the drawer on the left-hand side of his desk, muttering to himself rather than speaking to shirley: "how on earth did they get among my other papers?" "from judge rossmore, were they not?" said shirley boldly. "how did you know it was judge rossmore?" demanded ryder suspiciously. "i didn't know that his name had been mentioned." "i saw his signature," she said simply. then she added: "he's the father of the girl you don't like, isn't he?" "yes, he's the--" a cloud came over the financier's face; his eyes darkened, his jaws snapped and he clenched his fist. "how you must hate him!" said shirley, who observed the change. "not at all," replied ryder recovering his self-possession and suavity of manner. "i disagree with his politics and his methods, but--i know very little about him except that he is about to be removed from office." "about to be?" echoed shirley. "so his fate is decided even before he is tried?" the girl laughed bitterly. "yes," she went on, "some of the newspapers are beginning to think he is innocent of the things of which he is accused." "do they?" said ryder indifferently. "yes," she persisted, "most people are on his side." she planted her elbows on the desk in front of her, and looking him squarely in the face, she asked him point blank: "whose side are you on--really and truly?" ryder winced. what right had this woman, a stranger both to judge rossmore and himself, to come here and catechise him? he restrained his impatience with difficulty as he replied: "whose side am i on? oh, i don't know that i am on any side. i don't know that i give it much thought. i--" "do you think this man deserves to be punished?" she demanded. she had resumed her seat at the desk and partly regained her self-possession. "why do you ask? what is your interest in this matter?" "i don't know," she replied evasively; "his case interests me, that's all. its rather romantic. your son loves this man's daughter. he is in disgrace--many seem to think unjustly." her voice trembled with emotion as she continued: "i have heard from one source or another--you know i am acquainted with a number of newspaper men--i have heard that life no longer has any interest for him, that he is not only disgraced but beggared, that he is pining away slowly, dying of a broken heart, that his wife and daughter are in despair. tell me, do you think he deserves such a fate?" ryder remained thoughtful a moment, and then he replied: "no, i do not--no--" thinking that she had touched his sympathies, shirley followed up her advantage: "oh, then, why not come to his rescue--you, who are so rich, so powerful; you, who can move the scales of justice at your will--save this man from humiliation and disgrace!" ryder shrugged his shoulders, and his face expressed weariness, as if the subject had begun to bore him. "my dear girl, you don't understand. his removal is necessary." shirley's face became set and hard. there was a contemptuous ring to her words as she retorted: "yet you admit that he may be innocent!" "even if i knew it as a fact, i couldn't move." "do you mean to say that if you had positive proof?" she pointed to the drawer in the desk where he had placed the letters. "if you had absolute proof in that drawer, for instance? wouldn't you help him then?" ryder's face grew cold and inscrutable; he now wore his fighting mask. "not even if i had the absolute proof in that drawer?" he snapped viciously. "have you absolute proof in that drawer?" she demanded. "i repeat that even if i had, i could not expose the men who have been my friends. its _noblesse oblige_ in politics as well as in society, you know." he smiled again at her, as if he had recovered his good humour after their sharp passage at arms. "oh, it's politics--that's what the papers said. and you believe him innocent. well, you must have some grounds for your belief." "not necessarily--" "you said that even if you had the proofs, you could not produce them without sacrificing your friends, showing that your friends are interested in having this man put off the bench--" she stopped and burst into hysterical laughter. "oh, i think you're having a joke at my expense," she went on, "just to see how far you can lead me. i daresay judge rossmore deserves all he gets. oh, yes--i'm sure he deserves it." she rose and walked to the other side of the room to conceal her emotion. ryder watched her curiously. "my dear young lady, how you take this matter to heart!" "please forgive me," laughed shirley, and averting her face to conceal the fact that her eyes were filled with tears. "it's my artistic temperament, i suppose. it's always getting me into trouble. it appealed so strongly to my sympathies--this story of hopeless love between two young people--with the father of the girl hounded by corrupt politicians and unscrupulous financiers. it was too much for me. ah! ah! i forgot where i was!" she leaned against a chair, sick and faint from nervousness, her whole body trembling. at that moment there was a knock at the library door and jefferson ryder appeared. not seeing shirley, whose back was towards him, he advanced to greet his father. "you told me to come up in five minutes," he said. "i just wanted to say--" "miss green," said ryder, sr., addressing shirley and ignoring whatever it was that the young man wanted to say, "this is my son jefferson. jeff--this is miss green." jefferson looked in the direction indicated and stood as if rooted to the floor. he was so surprised that he was struck dumb. finally, recovering himself, he exclaimed: "shirley!" "yes, shirley green, the author," explained ryder, sr., not noticing the note of familiar recognition in his exclamation. shirley advanced, and holding out her hand to jefferson, said demurely: "i am very pleased to meet you, mr. ryder." then quickly, in an undertone, she added: "be careful; don't betray me!" jefferson was so astounded that he did not see the outstretched hand. all he could do was to stand and stare first at her and then at his father. "why don't you shake hands with her?" said ryder, sr. "she won't bite you." then he added: "miss green is going to do some literary work for me, so we shall see a great deal of her. it's too bad you're going away!" he chuckled at his own pleasantry. "father!" blurted out jefferson, "i came to say that i've changed my mind. you did not want me to go, and i feel i ought to do something to please you." "good boy," said ryder pleased. "now you're talking common sense," he turned to shirley, who was getting ready to make her departure: "well, miss green, we may consider the matter settled. you undertake the work at the price i named and finish it as soon as you can. of course, you will have to consult me a good deal as you go along, so i think it would be better for you to come and stay here while the work is progressing. mrs. ryder can give you a suite of rooms to yourself, where you will be undisturbed and you will have all your material close at hand. what do you say?" shirley was silent for a moment. she looked first at ryder and then at his son, and from them her glance went to the little drawer on the left-hand side of the desk. then she said quietly: "as you think best, mr. ryder. i am quite willing to do the work here." ryder, sr., escorted her to the top of the landing and watched her as she passed down the grand staircase, ushered by the gorgeously uniformed flunkies, to the front door and the street. chapter xiii shirley entered upon her new duties in the ryder household two days later. she had returned to her rooms the evening of her meeting with the financier in a state bordering upon hysteria. the day's events had been so extraordinary that it seemed to her they could not be real, and that she must be in a dream. the car ride to seventy-fourth street, the interview in the library, the discovery of her father's letters, the offer to write the biography, and, what to her was still more important, the invitation to go and live in the ryder home--all these incidents were so remarkable and unusual that it was only with difficulty that the girl persuaded herself that they were not figments of a disordered brain. but it was all true enough. the next morning's mail brought a letter from mrs. ryder, who wrote to the effect that mr. ryder would like the work to begin at once, and adding that a suite of rooms would be ready for her the following afternoon. shirley did not hesitate. everything was to be gained by making the ryder residence her headquarters, her father's very life depended upon the successful outcome of her present mission, and this unhoped for opportunity practically ensured success. she immediately wrote to massapequa. one letter was to her mother, saying that she was extending her visit beyond the time originally planned. the other letter was to stott. she told him all about the interview with ryder, informed him of the discovery of the letters, and after explaining the nature of the work offered to her, said that her address for the next few weeks would be in care of john burkett ryder. all was going better than she had dared to hope. everything seemed to favour their plan. her first step, of course, while in the ryder home, would be to secure possession of her father's letters, and these she would dispatch at once to massapequa, so they could be laid before the senate without delay. so, after settling accounts with her landlady and packing up her few belongings, shirley lost no time in transferring herself to the more luxurious quarters provided for her in the ten-million-dollar mansion uptown. at the ryder house she was received cordially and with every mark of consideration. the housekeeper came down to the main hall to greet her when she arrived and escorted her to the suite of rooms, comprising a small working library, a bedroom simply but daintily furnished in pink and white and a private bathroom, which had been specially prepared for her convenience and comfort, and here presently she was joined by mrs. ryder. "dear me," exclaimed the financier's wife, staring curiously at shirley, "what a young girl you are to have made such a stir with a book! how did you do it? i'm sure i couldn't. it's as much as i can do to write a letter, and half the time that's not legible." "oh, it wasn't so hard," laughed shirley. "it was the subject that appealed rather than any special skill of mine. the trusts and their misdeeds are the favourite topics of the hour. the whole country is talking about nothing else. my book came at the right time, that's all." although "the american octopus" was a direct attack on her own husband, mrs. ryder secretly admired this young woman, who had dared to speak a few blunt truths. it was a courage which, alas! she had always lacked herself, but there was a certain satisfaction in knowing there were women in the world not entirely cowed by the tyrant man. "i have always wanted a daughter," went on mrs. ryder, becoming confidential, while shirley removed her things and made herself at home; "girls of your age are so companionable." then, abruptly, she asked: "do your parents live in new york?" shirley's face flushed and she stooped over her trunk to hide her embarrassment. "no--not at present," she answered evasively. "my mother and father are in the country." she was afraid that more questions of a personal nature would follow, but apparently mrs. ryder was not in an inquisitive mood, for she asked nothing further. she only said: "i have a son, but i don't see much of him. you must meet my jefferson. he is such a nice boy." shirley tried to look unconcerned as she replied: "i met him yesterday. mr. ryder introduced him to me." "poor lad, he has his troubles too," went on mrs. ryder. "he's in love with a girl, but his father wants him to marry someone else. they're quarrelling over it all the time." "parents shouldn't interfere in matters of the heart," said shirley decisively. "what is more serious than the choosing of a life companion, and who are better entitled to make a free selection than they who are going to spend the rest of their days together? of course, it is a father's duty to give his son the benefit of his riper experience, but to insist on a marriage based only on business interests is little less than a crime. there are considerations more important if the union is to be a happy or a lasting one. the chief thing is that the man should feel real attachment for the woman he marries. two people who are to live together as man and wife must be compatible in tastes and temper. you cannot mix oil and water. it is these selfish marriages which keep our divorce courts busy. money alone won't buy happiness in marriage." "no," sighed mrs. ryder, "no one knows that better than i." the financier's wife was already most favourably impressed with her guest, and she chatted on as if she had known shirley for years. it was rarely that she had heard so young a woman express such common-sense views, and the more she talked with her the less surprised she was that she was the author of a much-discussed book. finally, thinking that shirley might prefer to be alone, she rose to go, bidding her make herself thoroughly at home and to ring for anything she might wish. a maid had been assigned to look exclusively after her wants, and she could have her meals served in her room or else have them with the family as she liked. but shirley, not caring to encounter mr. ryder's cold, searching stare more often than necessary, said she would prefer to take her meals alone. left to herself, shirley settled down to work in earnest. mr. ryder had sent to her room all the material for the biography, and soon she was completely absorbed in the task of sorting and arranging letters, making extracts from records, compiling data, etc., laying the foundations for the important book she was to write. she wondered what they would call it, and she smiled as a peculiarly appropriate title flashed through her mind--"the history of a crime." yet she thought they could hardly infringe on victor hugo; perhaps the best title was the simplest "the history of the empire trading company." everyone would understand that it told the story of john burkett ryder's remarkable career from his earliest beginnings to the present time. she worked feverishly all that evening getting the material into shape, and the following day found her early at her desk. no one disturbed her and she wrote steadily on until noon, mrs. ryder only once putting her head in the door to wish her good morning. after luncheon, shirley decided that the weather was too glorious to remain indoors. her health must not be jeopardized even to advance the interests of the colossus, so she put on her hat and left the house to go for a walk. the air smelled sweet to her after being confined so long indoor, and she walked with a more elastic and buoyant step than she had since her return home. turning down fifth avenue, she entered the park at seventy-second street, following the pathway until she came to the bend in the driveway opposite the casino. the park was almost deserted at that hour, and there was a delightful sense of solitude and a sweet scent of new-mown hay from the freshly cut lawns. she found an empty bench, well shaded by an overspreading tree, and she sat down, grateful for the rest and quiet. she wondered what jefferson thought of her action in coming to his father's house practically in disguise and under an assumed name. she must see him at once, for in him lay her hope of obtaining possession of the letters. certainly she felt no delicacy or compunction in asking jefferson to do her this service. the letters belonged to her father and they were being wrongfully withheld with the deliberate purpose of doing him an injury. she had a moral if not a legal right to recover the letters in any way that she could. she was so deeply engrossed in her thoughts that she had not noticed a hansom cab which suddenly drew up with a jerk at the curb opposite her bench. a man jumped out. it was jefferson. "hello, shirley," he cried gaily; "who would have expected to find you rusticating on a bench here? i pictured you grinding away at home doing literary stunts for the governor." he grinned and then added: "come for a drive. i want to talk to you." shirley demurred. no, she could not spare the time. yet, she thought to herself, why was not this a good opportunity to explain to jefferson how he came to find her in his father's library masquerading under another name, and also to ask him to secure the letters for her? while she pondered jefferson insisted, and a few minutes later she found herself sitting beside him in the cab. they started off at a brisk pace, shirley sitting with her head back, enjoying the strong breeze caused by the rapid motion. "now tell me," he said, "what does it all mean? i was so startled at seeing you in the library the other day that i almost betrayed you. how did you come to call on father?" briefly shirley explained everything. she told him how mr. ryder had written to her asking her to call and see him, and how she had eagerly seized at this last straw in the hope of helping her father. she told him about the letters, explaining how necessary they were for her father's defence and how she had discovered them. mr. ryder, she said, had seemed to take a fancy to her and had asked her to remain in the house as his guest while she was compiling his biography, and she had accepted the offer, not so much for the amount of money involved as for the splendid opportunity it afforded her to gain possession of the letters. "so that is the mysterious work you spoke of--to get those letters?" said jefferson. "yes, that is my mission. it was a secret. i couldn't tell you; i couldn't tell anyone. only judge stott knows. he is aware i have found them and is hourly expecting to receive them from me. and now," she said, "i want your help." his only answer was to grasp tighter the hand she had laid in his. she knew that she would not have to explain the nature of the service she wanted. he understood. "where are the letters?" he demanded. "in the left-hand drawer of your father's desk," she answered. he was silent for a few moments, and then he said simply: "i will get them." the cab by this time had got as far as claremont, and from the hill summit they had a splendid view of the broad sweep of the majestic hudson and the towering walls of the blue palisades. the day was so beautiful and the air so invigorating that jefferson suggested a ramble along the banks of the river. they could leave the cab at claremont and drive back to the city later. shirley was too grateful to him for his promise of coöperation to make any further opposition, and soon they were far away from beaten highways, down on the banks of the historic stream, picking flowers and laughing merrily like two truant children bent on a self-made holiday. the place they had reached was just outside the northern boundaries of harlem, a sylvan spot still unspoiled by the rude invasion of the flat-house builder. the land, thickly wooded, sloped down sharply to the water, and the perfect quiet was broken only by the washing of the tiny surf against the river bank and the shrill notes of the birds in the trees. although it was late in october the day was warm, and shirley soon tired of climbing over bramble-entangled verdure. the rich grass underfoot looked cool and inviting, and the natural slope of the ground affording an ideal resting-place, she sat there, with jefferson stretched out at her feet, both watching idly the dancing waters of the broad hudson, spangled with gleams of light, as they swept swiftly by on their journey to the sea. "shirley," said jefferson suddenly, "i suppose you saw that ridiculous story about my alleged engagement to miss roberts. i hope you understood that it was done without my consent." "if i did not guess it, jeff," she answered, "your assurance would be sufficient. besides," she added, "what right have i to object?" "but i want you to have the right," he replied earnestly. "i'm going to stop this roberts nonsense in a way my father hardly anticipates. i'm just waiting a chance to talk to him. i'll show him the absurdity of announcing me engaged to a girl who is about to elope with his private secretary!" "elope with the secretary?" exclaimed shirley. jefferson told her all about the letter he had found on the staircase, and the hon. fitzroy bagley's plans for a runaway marriage with the senator's wealthy daughter. "it's a godsend to me," he said gleefully. "their plan is to get married next wednesday. i'll see my father on tuesday; i'll put the evidence in his hands, and i don't think," he added grimly, "he'll bother me any more about miss roberts." "so you're not going away now?" said shirley, smiling down at him. he sat up and leaned over towards her. "i can't, shirley, i simply can't," he replied, his voice trembling. "you are more to me than i dreamed a woman could ever be. i realize it more forcibly every day. there is no use fighting against it. without you, my work, my life means nothing." shirley shook her head and averted her eyes. "don't let us speak of that, jeff," she pleaded gently. "i told you i did not belong to myself while my father was in peril." "but i must speak of it," he interrupted. "shirley, you do yourself an injustice as well as me. you are not indifferent to me--i feel that. then why raise this barrier between us?" a soft light stole into the girl's eyes. ah, it was good to feel there was someone to whom she was everything in the world! "don't ask me to betray my trust, jeff," she faltered. "you know i am not indifferent to you--far from it. but i--" he came closer until his face nearly touched hers. "i love you--i want you," he murmured feverishly. "give me the right to claim you before all the world as my future wife!" every note of his rich, manly voice, vibrating with impetuous passion, sounded in shirley's ear like a soft caress. she closed her eyes. a strange feeling of languor was stealing over her, a mysterious thrill passed through her whole body. the eternal, inevitable sex instinct was disturbing, for the first time, a woman whose life had been singularly free from such influences, putting to flight all the calculations and resolves her cooler judgment had made. the sensuous charm of the place--the distant splash of the water, the singing of the birds, the fragrance of the trees and grass--all these symbols of the joy of life conspired to arouse the love-hunger of the woman. why, after all, should she not know happiness like other women? she had a sacred duty to perform, it was true; but would it be less well done because she declined to stifle the natural leanings of her womanhood? both her soul and her body called out: "let this man love you, give yourself to him, he is worthy of your love." half unconsciously, she listened to his ardent wooing, her eyes shut, as he spoke quickly, passionately, his breath warm upon her cheek: "shirley, i offer you all the devotion a man can give a woman. say the one word that will make me the happiest or the most wretched of men. yes or no! only think well before you wreck my life. i love you--i love you! i will wait for you if need be until the crack of doom. say--say you will be my wife!" she opened her eyes. his face was bent close over hers. their lips almost touched. "yes, jefferson," she murmured, "i do love you!" his lips met hers in a long, passionate kiss. her eyes closed and an ecstatic thrill seemed to convulse her entire being. the birds in the trees overhead sang in more joyful chorus in celebration of the betrothal. chapter xiv it was nearly seven o'clock when shirley got back to seventy-fourth street. no one saw her come in, and she went direct to her room, and after a hasty dinner, worked until late into the night on her book to make up for lost time. the events of the afternoon caused her considerable uneasiness. she reproached herself for her weakness and for having yielded so readily to the impulse of the moment. she had said only what was the truth when she admitted she loved jefferson, but what right had she to dispose of her future while her father's fate was still uncertain? her conscience troubled her, and when she came to reason it out calmly, the more impossible seemed their union from every point of view. how could she become the daughter-in-law of the man who had ruined her own father? the idea was preposterous, and hard as the sacrifice would be, jefferson must be made to see it in that light. their engagement was the greatest folly; it bound each of them when nothing but unhappiness could possibly come of it. she was sure now that she loved jefferson. it would be hard to give him up, but there are times and circumstances when duty and principle must prevail over all other considerations, and this she felt was one of them. the following morning she received a letter from stott. he was delighted to hear the good news regarding her important discovery, and he urged her to lose no time in securing the letters and forwarding them to massapequa, when he would immediately go to washington and lay them before the senate. documentary evidence of that conclusive nature, he went on to say, would prove of the very highest value in clearing her father's name. he added that the judge and her mother were as well as circumstances would permit, and that they were not in the least worried about her protracted absence. her aunt milly had already returned to europe, and eudoxia was still threatening to leave daily. shirley needed no urging. she quite realized the importance of acting quickly, but it was not easy to get at the letters. the library was usually kept locked when the great man was away, and on the few occasions when access to it was possible, the lynx-eyed mr. bagley was always on guard. short as had been her stay in the ryder household, shirley already shared jefferson's antipathy to the english secretary, whose manner grew more supercilious and overbearing as he drew nearer the date when he expected to run off with one of the richest catches of the season. he had not sought the acquaintance of his employer's biographer since her arrival, and, with the exception of a rude stare, had not deigned to notice her, which attitude of haughty indifference was all the more remarkable in view of the fact that the hon. fitzroy usually left nothing unturned to cultivate a flirtatious intimacy with every attractive female he met. the truth was that what with mr. ryder's demands upon his services and his own preparations for his coming matrimonial venture, in which he had so much at stake, he had neither time nor inclination to indulge his customary amorous diversions. miss roberts had called at the house several times, ostensibly to see mrs. ryder, and when introduced to shirley she had condescended to give the latter a supercilious nod. her conversation was generally of the silly, vacuous sort, concerning chiefly new dresses or bonnets, and shirley at once read her character--frivolous, amusement-loving, empty-headed, irresponsible--just the kind of girl to do something foolish without weighing the consequences. after chatting a few moments with mrs. ryder she would usually vanish, and one day, after one of these mysterious disappearances, shirley happened to pass the library and caught sight of her and mr. bagley conversing in subdued and eager tones. it was very evident that the elopement scheme was fast maturing. if the scandal was to be prevented, jefferson ought to see his father and acquaint him with the facts without delay. it was probable that at the same time he would make an effort to secure the letters. meantime she must be patient. too much hurry might spoil everything. so the days passed, shirley devoting almost all her time to the history she had undertaken. she saw nothing of ryder, sr., but a good deal of his wife, to whom she soon became much attached. she found her an amiable, good-natured woman, entirely free from that offensive arrogance and patronizing condescension which usually marks the parvenue as distinct from the thoroughbred. mrs. ryder had no claims to distinguished lineage; on the contrary, she was the daughter of a country grocer when the then rising oil man married her, and of educational advantages she had had little or none. it was purely by accident that she was the wife of the richest man in the world, and while she enjoyed the prestige her husband's prominence gave her, she never allowed it to turn her head. she gave away large sums for charitable purposes and, strange to say, when the gift came direct from her, the money was never returned on the plea that it was "tainted." she shared her husband's dislike for entertaining, and led practically the life of a recluse. the advent of shirley, therefore, into her quiet and uneventful existence was as welcome as sunshine when it breaks through the clouds after days of gloom. quite a friendship sprang up between the two women, and when tired of writing, shirley would go into mrs. ryder's room and chat until the financier's wife began to look forward to these little impromptu visits, so much she enjoyed them. nothing more had been said concerning jefferson and miss roberts. the young man had not yet seen his father, but his mother knew he was only waiting an opportunity to demand an explanation of the engagement announcements. her husband, on the other hand, desired the match more than ever, owing to the continued importunities of senator roberts. as usual, mrs. ryder confided these little domestic troubles to shirley. "jefferson," she said, "is very angry. he is determined not to marry the girl, and when he and his father do meet there'll be another scene." "what objection has your son to miss roberts?" inquired shirley innocently. "oh, the usual reason," sighed the mother, "and i've no doubt he knows best. he's in love with another girl--a miss rossmore." "oh, yes," answered shirley simply. "mr. ryder spoke of her." mrs. ryder was silent, and presently she left the girl alone with her work. the next afternoon shirley was in her room busy writing when there came a tap at her door. thinking it was another visit from mrs. ryder, she did not look up, but cried out pleasantly: "come in." john ryder entered. he smiled cordially and, as if apologizing for the intrusion, said amiably: "i thought i'd run up to see how you were getting along." his coming was so unexpected that for a moment shirley was startled, but she quickly regained her composure and asked him to take a seat. he seemed pleased to find her making such good progress, and he stopped to answer a number of questions she put to him. shirley tried to be cordial, but when she looked well at him and noted the keen, hawk-like eyes, the cruel, vindictive lines about the mouth, the square-set, relentless jaw--wall street had gone wrong with the colossus that day and he was still wearing his war paint--she recalled the wrong this man had done her father and she felt how bitterly she hated him. the more her mind dwelt upon it, the more exasperated she was to think she should be there, a guest, under his roof, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that she remained civil. "what is the moral of your life?" she demanded bluntly. he was quick to note the contemptuous tone in her voice, and he gave her a keen, searching look as if he were trying to read her thoughts and fathom the reason for her very evident hostility towards him. "what do you mean?" he asked. "i mean, what can you show as your life work? most men whose lives are big enough to call for biographies have done something useful--they have been famous statesmen, eminent scientists, celebrated authors, great inventors. what have you done?" the question appeared to stagger him. the audacity of any one putting such a question to a man in his own house was incredible. he squared his jaws and his clenched fist descended heavily on the table. "what have i done?" he cried. "i have built up the greatest fortune ever accumulated by one man. my fabulous wealth has caused my name to spread to the four corners of the earth. is that not an achievement to relate to future generations?" shirley gave a little shrug of her shoulders. "future generations will take no interest in you or your millions," she said calmly. "our civilization will have made such progress by that time that people will merely wonder why we, in our day, tolerated men of your class so long. now it is different. the world is money-mad. you are a person of importance in the eyes of the unthinking multitude, but it only envies you your fortune; it does not admire you personally. when you die people will count your millions, not your good deeds." he laughed cynically and drew up a chair near her desk. as a general thing, john ryder never wasted words on women. he had but a poor opinion of their mentality, and considered it beneath the dignity of any man to enter into serious argument with a woman. in fact, it was seldom he condescended to argue with anyone. he gave orders and talked to people; he had no patience to be talked to. yet he found himself listening with interest to this young woman who expressed herself so frankly. it was a decided novelty for him to hear the truth. [photo, from the play, of mr. ryder discussing his son with miss green.] "marry jefferson yourself."--act iii. "what do i care what the world says when i'm dead?" he asked with a forced laugh. "you do care," replied shirley gravely. "you may school yourself to believe that you are indifferent to the good opinion of your fellow man, but right down in your heart you do care--every man does, whether he be multi-millionaire or a sneak thief." "you class the two together, i notice," he said bitterly. "it is often a distinction without a difference," she rejoined promptly. he remained silent for a moment or two toying nervously with a paper knife. then, arrogantly, and as if anxious to impress her with his importance, he said: "most men would be satisfied if they had accomplished what i have. do you realize that my wealth is so vast that i scarcely know myself what i am worth? what my fortune will be in another fifty years staggers the imagination. yet i started with nothing. i made it all myself. surely i should get credit for that." "_how_ did you make it?" retorted shirley. "in america we don't ask how a man makes his money; we ask if he has got any." "you are mistaken," replied shirley earnestly. "america is waking up. the conscience of the nation is being aroused. we are coming to realize that the scandals of the last few years were only the fruit of public indifference to sharp business practice. the people will soon ask the dishonest rich man where he got it, and there will have to be an accounting. what account will you be able to give?" he bit his lip and looked at her for a moment without replying. then, with a faint suspicion of a sneer, he said: "you are a socialist--perhaps an anarchist!" "only the ignorant commit the blunder of confounding the two," she retorted. "anarchy is a disease; socialism is a science." "indeed!" he exclaimed mockingly, "i thought the terms were synonymous. the world regards them both as insane." herself an enthusiastic convert to the new political faith that was rising like a flood tide all over the world, the contemptuous tone in which this plutocrat spoke of the coming reorganization of society which was destined to destroy him and his kind spurred her on to renewed argument. "i imagine," she said sarcastically, "that you would hardly approve any social reform which threatened to interfere with your own business methods. but no matter how you disapprove of socialism on general principles, as a leader of the capitalist class you should understand what socialism is, and not confuse one of the most important movements in modern world-history with the crazy theories of irresponsible cranks. the anarchists are the natural enemies of the entire human family, and would destroy it were their dangerous doctrines permitted to prevail; the socialists, on the contrary, are seeking to save mankind from the degradation, the crime and the folly into which such men as you have driven it." she spoke impetuously, with the inspired exaltation of a prophet delivering a message to the people. ryder listened, concealing his impatience with uneasy little coughs. "yes," she went on, "i am a socialist and i am proud of it. the whole world is slowly drifting toward socialism as the only remedy for the actual intolerable conditions. it may not come in our time, but it will come as surely as the sun will rise and set tomorrow. has not the flag of socialism waved recently from the white house? has not a president of the united states declared that the state must eventually curb the great fortunes? what is that but socialism?" "true," retorted ryder grimly, "and that little speech intended for the benefit of the gallery will cost him the nomination at the next presidential election. we don't want in the white house a president who stirs up class hatred. our rich men have a right to what is their own; that is guaranteed them by the constitution." "is it their own?" interrupted shirley. ryder ignored the insinuation and proceeded: "what of our boasted free institutions if a man is to be restricted in what he may and may not do? if i am clever enough to accumulate millions who can stop me?" "the people will stop you," said shirley calmly. "it is only a question of time. their patience is about exhausted. put your ear to the ground and listen to the distant rumbling of the tempest which, sooner or later, will be unchained in this land, provoked by the iniquitous practices of organized capital. the people have had enough of the extortions of the trusts. one day they will rise in their wrath and seize by the throat this knavish plutocracy which, confident in the power of its wealth to procure legal immunity and reckless of its danger, persists in robbing the public daily. but retribution is at hand. the growing discontent of the proletariat, the ever-increasing strikes and labour disputes of all kinds, the clamour against the railroads and the trusts, the evidence of collusion between both--all this is the writing on the wall. the capitalistic system is doomed; socialism will succeed it." "what is socialism?" he demanded scornfully. "what will it give the public that it has not got already?" shirley, who never neglected an opportunity to make a convert, no matter how hardened he might be, picked up a little pamphlet printed for propaganda purposes which she had that morning received by mail. "here," she said, "is one of the best and clearest definitions of socialism i have ever read: "socialism is common ownership of natural resources and public utilities, and the common operation of all industries for the general good. socialism is opposed to monopoly, that is, to private ownership of land and the instruments of labor, which is indirect ownership of men; to the wages system, by which labor is legally robbed of a large part of the product of labor; to competition with its enormous waste of effort and its opportunities for the spoliation of the weak by the strong. socialism is industrial democracy. it is the government of the people by the people and for the people, not in the present restricted sense, but as regards all the common interests of men. socialism is opposed to oligarchy and monarchy, and therefore to the tyrannies of business cliques and money kings. socialism is for freedom, not only from the fear of force, but from the fear of want. socialism proposes real liberty, not merely the right to vote, but the liberty to live for something more than meat and drink. "socialism is righteousness in the relations of men. it is based on the fundamentals of religion, the fatherhood of god and the brotherhood of men. it seeks through association and equality to realize fraternity. socialism will destroy the motives which make for cheap manufacturers, poor workmanship and adulterations; it will secure the real utility of things. use, not exchange, will be the object of labour. things will be made to serve, not to sell. socialism will banish war, for private ownership is back of strife between men. socialism will purify politics, for private capitalism is the great source of political corruption. socialism will make for education, invention and discovery; it will stimulate the moral development of men. crime will have lost most of its motive and pauperism will have no excuse. that," said shirley, as she concluded, "is socialism!" ryder shrugged his shoulders and rose to go. "delightful," he said ironically, "but in my judgment wholly utopian and impracticable. it's nothing but a gigantic pipe dream. it won't come in this generation nor in ten generations if, indeed, it is ever taken seriously by a majority big enough to put its theories to the test. socialism does not take into account two great factors that move the world--men's passions and human ambition. if you eliminate ambition you remove the strongest incentive to individual effort. from your own account a socialistic world would be a dreadfully tame place to live in--everybody depressingly good, without any of the feverish turmoil of life as we know it. such a world would not appeal to me at all. i love the fray--the daily battle of gain and loss, the excitement of making or losing millions. that is my life!" "yet what good is your money to you?" insisted shirley. "you are able to spend only an infinitesimal part of it. you cannot even give it away, for nobody will have any of it." "money!" he hissed rather than spoke, "i hate money. it means nothing to me. i have so much that i have lost all idea of its value. i go on accumulating it for only one purpose. it buys power. i love power--that is my passion, my ambition, to rule the world with my gold. do you know," he went on and leaning over the desk in a dramatic attitude, "that if i chose i could start a panic in wall street to-morrow that would shake to their foundations every financial institution in the country? do you know that i practically control the congress of the united states and that no legislative measure becomes law unless it has my approval?" "the public has long suspected as much," replied shirley. "that is why you are looked upon as a menace to the stability and honesty of our political and commercial life." an angry answer rose to his lips when the door opened and mrs. ryder entered. "i've been looking for you, john," she said peevishly. "mr. bagley told me you were somewhere in the house. senator roberts is downstairs." "he's come about jefferson and his daughter, i suppose," muttered ryder. "well, i'll see him. where is he?" "in the library. kate came with him. she's in my room." they left shirley to her writing, and when he had closed the door the financier turned to his wife and said impatiently: "now, what are we going to do about jefferson and kate? the senator insists on the matter of their marriage being settled one way or another. where is jefferson?" "he came in about half an hour ago. he was upstairs to see me, and i thought he was looking for you," answered the wife. "well," replied ryder determinedly, "he and i have got to understand each other. this can't go on. it shan't." mrs. ryder put her hand on his arm, and said pleadingly: "don't be impatient with the boy, john. remember he is all we have. he is so unhappy. he wants to please us, but--" "but he insists on pleasing himself," said ryder completing the sentence. "i'm afraid, john, that his liking for that miss rossmore is more serious than you realize--" the financier stamped his foot and replied angrily: "miss rossmore! that name seems to confront me at every turn--for years the father, now the daughter! i'm sorry, my dear," he went on more calmly, "that you seem inclined to listen to jefferson. it only encourages him in his attitude towards me. kate would make him an excellent wife, while what do we know about the other woman? are you willing to sacrifice your son's future to a mere boyish whim?" mrs. ryder sighed. "it's very hard," she said, "for a mother to know what to advise. miss green says--" "what!" exclaimed her husband, "you have consulted miss green on the subject?" "yes," answered his wife, "i don't know how i came to tell her, but i did. i seem to tell her everything. i find her such a comfort, john. i haven't had an attack of nerves since that girl has been in the house." "she is certainly a superior woman," admitted ryder. "i wish she'd ward that rossmore girl off. i wish she--" he stopped abruptly as if not venturing to give expression to his thoughts, even to his wife. then he said: "if she were kate roberts she wouldn't let jeff slip through her fingers." "i have often wished," went on mrs. ryder, "that kate were more like shirley green. i don't think we would have any difficulty with jeff then." "kate is the daughter of senator roberts, and if this marriage is broken off in any way without the senator's consent, he is in a position to injure my interests materially. if you see jefferson send him to me in the library. i'll go and keep roberts in good humour until he comes." he went downstairs and mrs. ryder proceeded to her apartments, where she found jefferson chatting with kate. she at once delivered ryder sr.'s message. "jeff, your father wants to see you in the library." "yes, i want to see him," answered the young man grimly, and after a few moments more badinage with kate he left the room. it was not a mere coincidence that had brought senator roberts and his daughter and the financier's son all together under the ryder roof at the same time. it was part of jefferson's well-prepared plan to expose the rascality of his father's secretary, and at the same time rid himself of the embarrassing entanglement with kate roberts. if the senator were confronted publicly with the fact that his daughter, while keeping up the fiction of being engaged to ryder jr., was really preparing to run off with the hon. fitzroy bagley, he would have no alternative but to retire gracefully under fire and relinquish all idea of a marriage alliance with the house of ryder. the critical moment had arrived. to-morrow, wednesday, was the day fixed for the elopement. the secretary's little game had gone far enough. the time had come for action. so jefferson had written to senator roberts, who was in washington, asking him if it would be convenient for him to come at once to new york and meet himself and his father on a matter of importance. the senator naturally jumped to the conclusion that jefferson and ryder had reached an amicable understanding, and he immediately hurried to new york and with his daughter came round to seventy-fourth street. when ryder sr. entered the library, senator roberts was striding nervously up and down the room. this, he felt, was an important day. the ambition of his life seemed on the point of being attained. "hello, roberts," was ryder's cheerful greeting. "what's brought you from washington at a critical time like this? the rossmore impeachment needs every friend we have." "just as if you didn't know," smiled the senator uneasily, "that i am here by appointment to meet you and your son!" "to meet me and my son?" echoed ryder astonished. the senator, perplexed and beginning to feel real alarm, showed the financier jefferson's letter. ryder read it and he looked pleased. "that's all right," he said, "if the lad asked you to meet us here it can mean only one thing--that at last he has made up his mind to this marriage." "that's what i thought," replied the senator, breathing more freely. "i was sorry to leave washington at such a time, but i'm a father, and kate is more to me than the rossmore impeachment. besides, to see her married to your son jefferson is one of the dearest wishes of my life." "you can rest easy," said ryder; "that is practically settled. jefferson's sending for you proves that he is now ready to meet my wishes. he'll be here any minute. how is the rossmore case progressing?" "not so well as it might," growled the senator. "there's a lot of maudlin sympathy for the judge. he's a pretty sick man by all accounts, and the newspapers seem to be taking his part. one or two of the western senators are talking corporate influence and trust legislation, but when it comes to a vote the matter will be settled on party lines." "that means that judge rossmore will be removed?" demanded ryder sternly. "yes, with five votes to spare," answered the senator. "that's not enough," insisted ryder. "there must be at least twenty. let there be no blunders, roberts. the man is a menace to all the big commercial interests. this thing must go through." the door opened and jefferson appeared. on seeing the senator talking with his father, he hesitated on the threshold. "come in, jeff," said his father pleasantly. "you expected to see senator roberts, didn't you?" "yes, sir. how do you do, senator?" said the young man, advancing into the room. "i got your letter, my boy, and here i am," said the senator smiling affably. "i suppose we can guess what the business is, eh?" "that he's going to marry kate, of course," chimed in ryder sr. "jeff, my lad, i'm glad you are beginning to see my way of looking at things. you're doing more to please me lately, and i appreciate it. you stayed at home when i asked you to, and now you've made up your mind regarding this marriage." jefferson let his father finish his speech, and then he said calmly: "i think there must be some misapprehension as to the reason for my summoning senator roberts to new york. it had nothing to do with my marrying miss roberts, but to prevent her marriage with someone else." "what!" exclaimed ryder, sr. "marriage with someone else?" echoed the senator. he thought he had not heard aright, yet at the same time he had grave misgivings. "what do you mean, sir?" taking from his pocket a copy of the letter he had picked up on the staircase, jefferson held it out to the girl's father. "your daughter is preparing to run away with my father's secretary. to-morrow would have been too late. that is why i summoned you. read this." the senator took the letter, and as he read his face grew ashen and his hand trembled violently. at one blow all his ambitious projects for his daughter had been swept away. the inconsiderate act of a silly, thoughtless girl had spoiled the carefully laid plans of a lifetime. the only consolation which remained was that the calamity might have been still more serious. this timely warning had saved his family from perhaps an even greater scandal. he passed the letter in silence to ryder, sr. the financier was a man of few words when the situation called for prompt action. after he had read the letter through, there was an ominous silence. then he rang a bell. the butler appeared. "tell mr. bagley i want him." the man bowed and disappeared. "who the devil is this bagley?" demanded the senator. "english--blue blood--no money," was ryder's laconic answer. "that's the only kind we seem to get over here," growled the senator. "we furnish the money--they furnish the blood--damn his blue blood! i don't want any in mine." turning to jefferson, he said: "jefferson, whatever the motives that actuated you, i can only thank you for this warning. i think it would have broken my heart if my girl had gone away with that scoundrel. of course, under the circumstances, i must abandon all idea of your becoming my son-in-law. i release you from all obligations you may have felt yourself bound by." jefferson bowed and remained silent. ryder, sr. eyed his son closely, an amused expression hovering on his face. after all, it was not so much he who had desired this match as roberts, and as long as the senator was willing to withdraw, he could make no objection. he wondered what part, if any, his son had played in bringing about this sensational denouement to a match which had been so distasteful to him, and it gratified his paternal vanity to think that jefferson after all might be smarter than he had given him credit for. at this juncture mr. bagley entered the room. he was a little taken aback on seeing the senator, but like most men of his class, his self-conceit made him confident of his ability to handle any emergency which might arise, and he had no reason to suspect that this hasty summons to the library had anything to do with his matrimonial plans. "did you ask for me, sir?" he demanded, addressing his employer. "yes, mr. bagley," replied ryder, fixing the secretary with a look that filled the latter with misgivings. "what steamers leave to-morrow for england?" "to-morrow?" echoed mr. bagley. "i said to-morrow," repeated ryder, slightly raising his voice. "let me see," stammered the secretary, "there is the white star, the north german lloyd, the atlantic transport--" "have you any preference?" inquired the financier. "no, sir, none at all." "then you'll go on board one of the ships to-night," said ryder. "your things will be packed and sent to you before the steamer sails to-morrow." the hon. fitzroy bagley, third son of a british peer, did not understand even yet that he was discharged as one dismisses a housemaid caught kissing the policeman. he could not think what mr. ryder wanted him to go abroad for unless it were on some matter of business, and it was decidedly inconvenient for him to sail at this time. "but, sir," he stammered. "i'm afraid--i'm afraid--" "yes," rejoined ryder promptly, "i notice that--your hand is shaking." "i mean that i--" "you mean that you have other engagements!" said ryder sternly. "oh no--no but--" "no engagement at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning?" insisted ryder. "with my daughter?" chimed in the senator. mr. bagley now understood. he broke out in a cold perspiration and he paled visibly. in the hope that the full extent of his plans were not known, he attempted to brazen it out. "no, certainly not, under no circumstances," he said. ryder, sr. rang a bell. "perhaps she has an engagement with you. we'll ask her." to the butler, who entered, he said: "tell miss roberts that her father would like to see her here." the man disappeared and the senator took a hand in cross-examining the now thoroughly uncomfortable secretary. "so you thought my daughter looked pale and that a little excursion to buffalo would be a good thing for her? well, it won't be a good thing for you, young man, i can assure you of that!" the english aristocrat began to wilt. his assurance of manner quite deserted him and he stammered painfully as he floundered about in excuses. "not with me--oh dear, no," he said. "you never proposed to run away with my daughter?" cried the irate father. "run away with her?" stammered bagley. "and marry her?" shouted the senator, shaking his fist at him. "oh say--this is hardly fair--three against one--really--i'm awfully sorry, eh, what?" the door opened and kate roberts bounced in. she was smiling and full of animal spirits, but on seeing the stern face of her father and the pitiable picture presented by her faithful fitz she was intelligent enough to immediately scent danger. "did you want to see me, father?" she inquired boldly. "yes, kate," answered the senator gravely, "we have just been having a talk with mr. bagley, in which you were one of the subjects of conversation. can you guess what it was?" the girl looked from her father to bagley and from him to the ryders. her aristocratic lover made a movement forward as if to exculpate himself, but he caught ryder's eye and remained where he was. "well?" she said, with a nervous laugh. "is it true" asked the senator, "that you were about to marry this man secretly?" she cast down her eyes and answered: "i suppose you know everything." "have you anything to add?" asked her father sternly. "no," said kate shaking her head. "it's true. we intended to run away, didn't we fitz?" "never mind about mr. bagley," thundered her father. "haven't you a word of shame for this disgrace you have brought upon me?" "oh papa, don't be so cross. jefferson did not care for me. i couldn't be an old maid. mr. bagley has a lovely castle in england, and one day he'll sit in the house of lords. he'll explain everything to you." "he'll explain nothing," rejoined the senator grimly. "mr. bagley returns to england to-night. he won't have time to explain anything." "returns to england?" echoed kate dismayed. "yes, and you go with me to washington at once." the senator turned to ryder. "good-bye ryder. the little domestic comedy is ended. i'm grateful it didn't turn out a drama. the next time i pick out a son-in-law i hope i'll have better luck." he shook hands with jefferson, and left the room followed by his crestfallen daughter. ryder, who had gone to write something at his desk, strode over to where mr. bagley was standing and handed him a cheque. "here, sir, this settles everything to date. good-day." "but i--i--" stammered the secretary helplessly. "good-day, sir." ryder turned his back on him and conversed with, his son, while mr. bagley slowly, and as if regretfully, made his exit. chapter xv it was now december and the senate had been in session for over a week. jefferson had not forgotten his promise, and one day, about two weeks after mr. bagley's spectacular dismissal from the ryder residence, he had brought shirley the two letters. she did not ask him how he got them, if he forced the drawer or procured the key. it sufficed for her that the precious letters--the absolute proof of her father's innocence--were at last in her possession. she at once sent them off by registered mail to stott, who immediately acknowledged receipt and at the same time announced his departure for washington that night. he promised to keep her constantly informed of what he was doing and how her father's case was going. it could, he thought, be only a matter of a few days now before the result of the proceedings would be known. the approach of the crisis made shirley exceedingly nervous, and it was only by the exercise of the greatest self-control that she did not betray the terrible anxiety she felt. the ryder biography was nearly finished and her stay in seventy-fourth street would soon come to an end. she had a serious talk with jefferson, who contrived to see a good deal of her, entirely unsuspected by his parents, for mr. and mrs. ryder had no reason to believe that their son had any more than a mere bowing acquaintance with the clever young authoress. now that mr. bagley was no longer there to spy upon their actions these clandestine interviews had been comparatively easy. shirley brought to bear all the arguments she could think of to convince jefferson of the hopelessness of their engagement. she insisted that she could never be his wife; circumstances over which they had no control made that dream impossible. it were better, she said, to part now rather than incur the risk of being unhappy later. but jefferson refused to be convinced. he argued and pleaded and he even swore--strange, desperate words that shirley had never heard before and which alarmed her not a little--and the discussion ended usually by a kiss which put shirley completely _hors de combat_. meantime, john ryder had not ceased worrying about his son. the removal of kate roberts as a factor in his future had not eliminated the danger of jefferson taking the bit between his teeth one day and contracting a secret marriage with the daughter of his enemy, and when he thought of the mere possibility of such a thing happening he stormed and raved until his wife, accustomed as she was to his choleric outbursts, was thoroughly frightened. for some time after bagley's departure, father and son got along together fairly amicably, but ryder, sr. was quick to see that jefferson had something on his mind which was worrying him, and he rightly attributed it to his infatuation for miss rossmore. he was convinced that his son knew where the judge's daughter was, although his own efforts to discover her whereabouts had been unsuccessful. sergeant ellison had confessed absolute failure; miss rossmore, he reported, had disappeared as completely as if the earth had swallowed her, and further search was futile. knowing well his son's impulsive, headstrong disposition, ryder, sr. believed him quite capable of marrying the girl secretly any time. the only thing that john ryder did not know was that shirley rossmore was not the kind of a girl to allow any man to inveigle her into a secret marriage. the colossus, who judged the world's morals by his own, was not of course aware of this, and he worried night and day thinking what he could do to prevent his son from marrying the daughter of the man he had wronged. the more he pondered over it, the more he regretted that there was not some other girl with whom jefferson could fall in love and marry. he need not seek a rich girl--there was certainly enough money in the ryder family to provide for both. he wished they knew a girl, for example, as attractive and clever as miss green. ah! he thought, there was a girl who would make a man of jefferson--brainy, ambitious, active! and the more he thought of it the more the idea grew on him that miss green would be an ideal daughter-in-law, and at the same time snatch his son from the clutches of the rossmore woman. jefferson, during all these weeks, was growing more and more impatient. he knew that any day now shirley might take her departure from their house and return to massapequa. if the impeachment proceedings went against her father it was more than likely that he would lose her forever, and if, on the contrary, the judge were acquitted, shirley never would be willing to marry him without his father's consent; and this, he felt, he would never obtain. he resolved, therefore, to have a final interview with his father and declare boldly his intention of making miss rossmore his wife, regardless of the consequences. the opportunity came one evening after dinner. ryder, sr. was sitting alone in the library, reading, mrs. ryder had gone to the theatre with a friend, shirley as usual was writing in her room, giving the final touches to her now completed "history of the empire trading company." jefferson took the bull by the horns and boldly accosted his redoubtable parent. "may i have a few minutes of your time, father?" ryder, sr. laid aside the paper he was reading and looked up. it was unusual for his son to come to him on any errand, and he liked to encourage it. "certainly, jefferson. what is it?" "i want to appeal to you, sir. i want you to use your influence, before it is too late, to save judge rossmore. a word from you at this time would do wonders in washington." the financier swung half-round in his chair, the smile of greeting faded out of his face, and his voice was hard as he replied coldly: "again? i thought we had agreed not to discuss judge rossmore any further?" "i can't help it, sir," rejoined jefferson undeterred by his sire's hostile attitude, "that poor old man is practically on trial for his life. he is as innocent of wrongdoing as a child unborn, and you know it. you could save him if you would." "jefferson," answered ryder, sr., biting his lip to restrain his impatience, "i told you before that i could not interfere even if i would; and i won't, because that man is my enemy. important business interests, which you cannot possibly know anything about, demand his dismissal from the bench." "surely your business interests don't demand the sacrifice of a man's life!" retorted jefferson. "i know modern business methods are none too squeamish, but i should think you'd draw the line at deliberate murder!" ryder sprang to his feet and for a moment stood glaring at the young man. his lips moved, but no sound came from them. suppressed wrath rendered him speechless. what was the world coming to when a son could talk to his father in this manner? "how dare you presume to judge my actions or to criticise my methods?" he burst out; finally. "you force me to do so," answered jefferson hotly. "i want to tell you that i am heartily ashamed of this whole affair and your connection with it, and since you refuse to make reparation in the only way possible for the wrong you and your associates have done judge rossmore--that is by saving him in the senate--i think it only fair to warn you that i take back my word in regard to not marrying without your consent. i want you to know that i intend to marry miss rossmore as soon as she will consent to become my wife, that is," he added with bitterness, "if i can succeed in overcoming her prejudices against my family--" ryder, sr. laughed contemptuously. "prejudices against a thousand million dollars?" he exclaimed sceptically. "yes," replied jefferson decisively, "prejudices against our family, against you and your business practices. money is not everything. one day you will find that out. i tell you definitely that i intend to make miss rossmore my wife." ryder, sr. made no reply, and as jefferson had expected an explosion, this unnatural calm rather startled him. he was sorry he had spoken so harshly. it was his father, after all. "you've forced me to defy you, father," he added. "i'm sorry--" ryder, sr. shrugged his shoulders and resumed his seat. he lit another cigar, and with affected carelessness he said: "all right, jeff, my boy, we'll let it go at that you're sorry--so am i. you've shown me your cards--i'll show you mine." his composed unruffled manner vanished. he suddenly threw off the mask and revealed the tempest that was raging within. he leaned across the desk, his face convulsed with uncontrollable passion, a terrifying picture of human wrath. shaking his fist at his son he shouted: "when i get through with judge rossmore at washington, i'll start after his daughter. this time to-morrow he'll be a disgraced man. a week later she will be a notorious woman. then we'll see if you'll be so eager to marry her!" "father!" cried jefferson. "there is sure to be something in her life that won't bear inspection," sneered ryder. "there is in everybody's life. i'll find out what it is. where is she to-day? she can't be found. no one knows where she is--not even her own mother. something is wrong--the girl's no good!" jefferson started forward as if to resent these insults to the woman he loved, but, realizing that it was his own father, he stopped short and his hands fell powerless at his side. "well, is that all?" inquired ryder, sr. with a sneer. "that's all," replied jefferson, "i'm going. good-bye." "good-bye," answered his father indifferently; "leave your address with your mother." jefferson left the room, and ryder, sr., as if exhausted by the violence of his own outburst, sank back limp in his chair. the crisis he dreaded had come at last. his son had openly defied his authority and was going to marry the daughter of his enemy. he must do something to prevent it; the marriage must not take place, but what could he do? the boy was of age and legally his own master. he could do nothing to restrain his actions unless they put him in an insane asylum. he would rather see his son there, he mused, than married to the rossmore woman. presently there was a timid knock at the library door. ryder rose from his seat and went to see who was there. to his surprise it was miss green. "may i come in?" asked shirley. "certainly, by all means. sit down." he drew up a chair for her, and his manner was so cordial that it was easy to see she was a welcome visitor. "mr. ryder," she began in a low, tremulous voice, "i have come to see you on a very important matter. i've been waiting to see you all evening--and as i shall be here only a short time longer i--want to ask you a great favour--perhaps the greatest you were ever asked--i want to ask you for mercy--for mercy to--" she stopped and glanced nervously at him, but she saw he was paying no attention to what she was saying. he was puffing heavily at his cigar, entirely preoccupied with his own thoughts. her sudden silence aroused him. he apologized: "oh, excuse me--i didn't quite catch what you were saying." she said nothing, wondering what had happened to render him so absent-minded. he read the question in her face, for, turning towards her, he exclaimed: "for the first time in my life i am face to face with defeat--defeat of the most ignominious kind--incapacity--inability to regulate my own internal affairs. i can rule a government, but i can't manage my own family--my own son. i'm a failure. tell me," he added, appealing to her, "why can't i rule my own household, why can't i govern my own child?" "why can't you govern yourself?" said shirley quietly. ryder looked keenly at her for a moment without answering her question; then, as if prompted by a sudden inspiration, he said: "you can help me, but not by preaching at me. this is the first time in my life i ever called on a living soul for help. i'm only accustomed to deal with men. this time there's a woman in the case--and i need your woman's wit--" "how can i help you?" asked shirley. "i don't know," he answered with suppressed excitement. "as i told you, i am up against a blank wall. i can't see my way." he gave a nervous little laugh and went on: "god! i'm ashamed of myself--ashamed! did you ever read the fable of the lion and the mouse? well, i want you to gnaw with your sharp woman's teeth at the cords which bind the son of john burkett ryder to this rossmore woman. i want you to be the mouse--to set me free of this disgraceful entanglement." "how?" asked shirley calmly. "ah, that's just it--how?" he replied. "can't you think--you're a woman--you have youth, beauty--brains." he stopped and eyed her closely until she reddened from the embarrassing scrutiny. then he blurted out: "by george! marry him yourself--force him to let go of this other woman! why not? come, what do you say?" this unexpected suggestion came upon shirley with all the force of a violent shock. she immediately saw the falseness of her position. this man was asking for her hand for his son under the impression that she was another woman. it would be dishonorable of her to keep up the deception any longer. she passed her hand over her face to conceal her confusion. "you--you must give me time to think," she stammered. "suppose i don't love your son--i should want something--something to compensate." "something to compensate?" echoed ryder surprised and a little disconcerted. "why, the boy will inherit millions--i don't know how many." "no--no, not money," rejoined shirley; "money only compensates those who love money. it's something else--a man's honour--a man's life! it means nothing to you." he gazed at her, not understanding. full of his own project, he had mind for nothing else. ignoring therefore the question of compensation, whatever she might mean by that, he continued: "you can win him if you make up your mind to. a woman with your resources can blind him to any other woman." "but if--he loves judge rossmore's daughter?" objected shirley. "it's for you to make him forget her--and you can," replied the financier confidently. "my desire is to separate him from this rossmore woman at any cost. you must help me." his sternness relaxed somewhat and his eyes rested on her kindly. "do you know, i should be glad to think you won't have to leave us. mrs. ryder has taken a fancy to you, and i myself shall miss you when you go." "you ask me to be your son's wife and you know nothing of my family," said shirley. "i know you--that is sufficient," he replied. "no--no you don't," returned shirley, "nor do you know your son. he has more constancy--more strength of character than you think--and far more principle than you have." "so much the greater the victory for you," he answered good humouredly. "ah," she said reproachfully, "you do not love your son." "i do love him," replied ryder warmly. "it's because i love him that i'm such a fool in this matter. don't you see that if he marries this girl it would separate us, and i should lose him. i don't want to lose him. if i welcomed her to my house it would make me the laughing-stock of all my friends and business associates. come, will you join forces with me?" shirley shook her head and was about to reply when the telephone bell rang. ryder took up the receiver and spoke to the butler downstairs: "who's that? judge stott? tell him i'm too busy to see anyone. what's that? a man's life at stake? what's that to do with me? tell him--" on hearing stott's name, shirley nearly betrayed herself. she turned pale and half-started up from her chair. something serious must have happened to bring her father's legal adviser to the ryder residence at such an hour! she thought he was in washington. could it be that the proceedings in the senate were ended and the result known? she could hardly conceal her anxiety, and instinctively she placed her hand on ryder's arm. "no, mr. ryder, do see judge stott! you must see him. i know who he is. your son has told me. judge stott is one of judge rossmore's advisers. see him. you may find out something about the girl. you may find out where she is. if jefferson finds out you have refused to see her father's friend at such a critical time it will only make him sympathize more deeply with the rossmores, and you know sympathy is akin to love. that's what you want to avoid, isn't it?" ryder still held the telephone, hesitating what to do. what she said sounded like good sense. "upon my word--" he said. "you may be right and yet--" "am i to help you or not?" demanded shirley. "you said you wanted a woman's wit." "yes," said ryder, "but still--" "then you had better see him," she said emphatically. ryder turned to the telephone. "hello, jorkins, are you there? show judge stott up here." he laid the receiver down and turned again to shirley. "that's one thing i don't like about you," he said. "i allow you to decide against me and then i agree with you." she said nothing and he went on looking at her admiringly. "i predict that you'll bring that boy to your feet within a month. i don't know why, but i seem to feel that he is attracted to you already. thank heaven! you haven't a lot of troublesome relations. i think you said you were almost alone in the world. don't look so serious," he added laughing. "jeff is a fine fellow, and believe me an excellent catch as the world goes." shirley raised her hand as if entreating him to desist. "oh, don't--don't--please! my position is so false! you don't know how false it is!" she cried. at that instant the library door was thrown open and the butler appeared, ushering in stott. the lawyer looked anxious, and his dishevelled appearance indicated that he had come direct from the train. shirley scanned his face narrowly in the hope that she might read there what had happened. he walked right past her, giving no sign of recognition, and advanced direct towards ryder, who had risen and remained standing at his desk. "perhaps i had better go?" ventured shirley, although tortured by anxiety to hear the news from washington. "no," said ryder quickly, "judge stott will detain me but a very few moments." having delivered himself of this delicate hint, he looked towards his visitor as if inviting him to come to the point as rapidly as possible. "i must apologize for intruding at this unseemly hour, sir," said stott, "but time is precious. the senate meets to-morrow to vote. if anything is to be done for judge rossmore it must be done to-night." "i fail to see why you address yourself to me in this matter, sir," replied ryder with asperity. "as judge rossmore's friend and counsel," answered stott, "i am impelled to ask your help at this critical moment." "the matter is in the hands of the united states senate, sir," replied ryder coldly. "they are against him!" cried stott; "not one senator i've spoken to holds out any hope for him. if he is convicted it will mean his death. inch by inch his life is leaving him. the only thing that can save him is the good news of the senate's refusal to find him guilty." stott was talking so excitedly and loudly that neither he nor ryder heard the low moan that came from the corner of the room where shirley was standing listening. "i can do nothing," repeated ryder coldly, and he turned his back and began to examine some papers lying on his desk as if to notify the caller that the interview was ended. but stott was not so easily discouraged. he went on: "as i understand it, they will vote on strictly party lines, and the party in power is against him. he's a marked man. you have the power to help him." heedless of ryder's gesture of impatience he continued: "when i left his bedside to-night, sir, i promised to return to him with good news; i have told him that the senate ridicules the charges against him. i must return to him with good news. he is very ill to-night, sir." he halted for a moment and glanced in shirley's direction, and slightly raising his voice so she might hear, he added: "if he gets worse we shall send for his daughter." "where is his daughter?" demanded ryder, suddenly interested. "she is working in her father's interests," replied stott, and, he added significantly, "i believe with some hope of success." he gave shirley a quick, questioning look. she nodded affirmatively. ryder, who had seen nothing of this by-play, said with a sneer: "surely you didn't come here to-night to tell me this?" "no, sir, i did not." he took from his pocket two letters--the two which shirley had sent him--and held them out for ryder's inspection. "these letters from judge rossmore to you," he said, "show you to be acquainted with the fact that he bought those shares as an investment--and did not receive them as a bribe." when he caught sight of the letters and he realized what they were, ryder changed colour. instinctively his eyes sought the drawer on the left-hand side of his desk. in a voice that was unnaturally calm, he asked: "why don't you produce them before the senate?" "it was too late," explained stott, handing them to the financier. "i received them only two days ago. but if you come forward and declare--" ryder made an effort to control himself. "i'll do nothing of the kind. i refuse to move in the matter. that is final. and now, sir," he added, raising his voice and pointing to the letters, "i wish to know how comes it that you had in your possession private correspondence addressed to me?" "that i cannot answer," replied stott promptly. "from whom did you receive these letters?" demanded ryder. stott was dumb, while shirley clutched at her chair as if she would fall. the financier repeated the question. "i must decline to answer," replied stott finally. shirley left her place and came slowly forward. addressing ryder, she said: "i wish to make a statement." the financier gazed at her in astonishment. what could she know about it, he wondered, and he waited with curiosity to hear what she was going to say. but stott instantly realized that she was about to take the blame upon herself, regardless of the consequences to the success of their cause. this must be prevented at all hazards, even if another must be sacrificed, so interrupting her he said hastily to ryder: "judge rossmore's life and honour are at stake and no false sense of delicacy must cause the failure of my object to save him. these letters were sent to me by--your son." "from my son!" exclaimed ryder, starting. for a moment he staggered as if he had received a blow; he was too much overcome to speak or act. then recovering himself, he rang a bell, and turned to stott with renewed fury: "so," he cried, "this man, this judge whose honour is at stake and his daughter, who most likely has no honour at stake, between them have made a thief and a liar of my son! false to his father, false to his party; and you, sir, have the presumption to come here and ask me to intercede for him!" to the butler, who entered, he said: "see if mr. jefferson is still in the house. if he is, tell him i would like to see him here at once." the man disappeared, and ryder strode angrily up and down the room with the letters in his hand. then, turning abruptly on stott, he said: "and now, sir, i think nothing more remains to be said. i shall keep these letters, as they are my property." "as you please. good night, sir." "good night," replied ryder, not looking up. with a significant glance at shirley, who motioned to him that she might yet succeed where he had failed, stott left the room. ryder turned to shirley. his fierceness of manner softened down as he addressed the girl: "you see what they have done to my son--" "yes," replied shirley, "it's the girl's fault. if jefferson hadn't loved her you would have helped the judge. ah, why did they ever meet! she has worked on his sympathy and he--he took these letters for her sake, not to injure you. oh, you must make some allowance for him! one's sympathy gets aroused in spite of oneself; even i feel sorry for--these people." "don't," replied ryder grimly, "sympathy is often weakness. ah, there you are!" turning to jefferson, who entered the room at that moment. "you sent for me, father?" "yes," said ryder, sr., holding up the letters. "have you ever seen these letters before?" jefferson took the letters and examined them, then he passed them back to his father and said frankly: "yes, i took them out of your desk and sent them to mr. stott in the hope they would help judge rossmore's case." ryder restrained himself from proceeding to actual violence only with the greatest difficulty. his face grew white as death, his lips were compressed, his hands twitched convulsively, his eyes flashed dangerously. he took another cigar to give the impression that he had himself well under control, but the violent trembling of his hands as he lit it betrayed the terrific strain he was under. "so!" he said, "you deliberately sacrificed my interests to save this woman's father--you hear him, miss green? jefferson, my boy, i think it's time you and i had a final accounting." shirley made a motion as if about to withdraw. he stopped her with a gesture. "please don't go, miss green. as the writer of my biography you are sufficiently well acquainted with my family affairs to warrant your being present at the epilogue. besides, i want an excuse for keeping my temper. sit down, miss green." turning to jefferson, he went on: "for your mother's sake, my boy, i have overlooked your little eccentricities of character. but now we have arrived at the parting of the ways--you have gone too far. the one aspect of this business i cannot overlook is your willingness to sell, your own father for the sake of a woman." "my own father," interrupted jefferson bitterly, "would not hesitate to sell me if his business and political interests warranted the sacrifice!" shirley attempted the rôle of peacemaker. appealing to the younger man, she said: "please don't talk like that, mr. jefferson." then she turned to ryder, sr.: "i don't think your son quite understands you, mr. ryder, and, if you will pardon me, i don't think you quite understand him. do you realize that there is a man's life at stake--that judge rossmore is almost at the point of death and that favourable news from the senate to-morrow is perhaps the only thing that can save him?" "ah, i see," sneered ryder, sr. "judge stott's story has aroused your sympathy." "yes, i--i confess my sympathy is aroused. i do feel for this father whose life is slowly ebbing away--whose strength is being sapped hourly by the thought of the disgrace--the injustice that is being done him! i do feel for the wife of this suffering man!" "ah, its a complete picture!" cried ryder mockingly. "the dying father, the sorrowing mother--and the daughter, what is she supposed to be doing?" "she is fighting for her father's life," cried shirley, "and you, mr. jefferson, should have pleaded--pleaded--not demanded. it's no use trying to combat your father's will." "she is quite right, father. i should have implored you. i do so now. i ask you for god's sake to help us!" ryder was grim and silent. he rose from his seat and paced the room, puffing savagely at his cigar. then he turned and said: "his removal is a political necessity. if he goes back on the bench every paltry justice of the peace, every petty official will think he has a special mission to tear down the structure that hard work and capital have erected. no, this man has been especially conspicuous in his efforts to block the progress of amalgamated interests." "and so he must be sacrificed?" cried shirley indignantly. "he is a meddlesome man," insisted ryder "and--" "he is innocent of the charges brought against him," urged jefferson. "mr. ryder is not considering that point," said shirley bitterly. "all he can see is that it is necessary to put this poor old man in the public pillory, to set him up as a warning to others of his class not to act in accordance with the principles of truth and justice--not to dare to obstruct the car of juggernaut set in motion by the money gods of the country!" "it's the survival of the fittest, my dear," said ryder coldly. "oh!" cried shirley, making a last appeal to the financier's heart of stone, "use your great influence with this governing body for good, not evil! urge them to vote not in accordance with party policy and personal interest, but in accordance with their consciences--in accordance with truth and justice! ah, for god's sake, mr. ryder! don't permit this foul injustice to blot the name of the highest tribunal in the western world!" ryder laughed cynically. "by jove! jefferson, i give you credit for having secured an eloquent advocate!" "suppose," went on shirley, ignoring his taunting comments, "suppose this daughter promises that she will never--never see your son again--that she will go away to some foreign country!" "no!" burst in jefferson, "why should she? if my father is not man enough to do a simple act of justice without bartering a woman's happiness and his son's happiness, let him find comfort in his self-justification!" shirley, completely unnerved, made a move towards the door, unable longer to bear the strain she was under. she tottered as though she would fall. ryder made a quick movement towards his son and took him by the arm. pointing to shirley he said in a low tone: "you see how that girl pleads your cause for you! she loves you, my boy!" jefferson started. "yes, she does," pursued ryder, sr. "she's worth a thousand of the rossmore woman. make her your wife and i'll--" "make her my wife!" cried jefferson joyously. he stared at his parent as if he thought he had suddenly been bereft of his senses. "make her my wife?" he repeated incredulously. "well, what do you say?" demanded ryder, sr. the young man advanced towards shirley, hands outstretched. "yes, yes, shir--miss green, will you?" seeing that shirley made no sign, he said: "not now, father; i will speak to her later." "no, no, to-night, at once!" insisted ryder. addressing shirley, he went on: "miss green, my son is much affected by your disinterested appeal in his behalf. he--he--you can save him from himself--my son wishes you--he asks you to become his wife! is it not so, jefferson?" "yes, yes, my wife!" advancing again towards shirley. the girl shrank back in alarm. "no, no, no, mr. ryder, i cannot, i cannot!" she cried. "why not?" demanded ryder, sr. appealingly. "ah, don't--don't decide hastily--" shirley, her face set and drawn and keen mental distress showing in every line of it, faced the two men, pale and determined. the time had come to reveal the truth. this masquerade could go on no longer. it was not honourable either to her father or to herself. her self-respect demanded that she inform the financier of her true identity. "i cannot marry your son with these lies upon my lips!" she cried. "i cannot go on with this deception. i told you you did not know who i was, who my people were. my story about them, my name, everything about me is false, every word i have uttered is a lie, a fraud, a cheat! i would not tell you now, but you trusted me and are willing to entrust your son's future, your family honour in my keeping, and i can't keep back the truth from you. mr. ryder, i am the daughter of the man you hate. i am the woman your son loves. i am shirley rossmore!" ryder took his cigar from his lips and rose slowly to his feet. "you? you?" he stammered. [photo, from the play, of jefferson and shirley appealing to mr. ryder] "for god's sake, mr. ryder, don't permit this foul injustice."--act iii. "yes--yes, i am the rossmore woman! listen, mr. ryder. don't turn away from me. go to washington on behalf of my father, and i promise you i will never see your son again--never, never!" "ah, shirley!" cried jefferson, "you don't love me!" "yes, jeff, i do; god knows i do! but if i must break my own heart to save my father i will do it." "would you sacrifice my happiness and your own?" "no happiness can be built on lies, jeff. we must build on truth or our whole house will crumble and fall. we have deceived your father, but he will forgive that, won't you?" she said, appealing to ryder, "and you will go to washington, you will save my father's honour, his life, you will--?" they stood face to face--this slim, delicate girl battling for her father's life, arrayed against a cold-blooded, heartless, unscrupulous man, deaf to every impulse of human sympathy or pity. since this woman had deceived him, fooled him, he would deal with her as with everyone else who crossed his will. she laid her hand on his arm, pleading with him. brutally, savagely, he thrust her aside. "no, no, i will not!" he thundered. "you have wormed yourself into my confidence by means of lies and deceit. you have tricked me, fooled me to the very limit! oh, it is easy to see how you have beguiled my son into the folly of loving you! and you--you have the brazen effrontery to ask me to plead for your father? no! no! no! let the law take its course, and now miss rossmore--you will please leave my house to-morrow morning!" shirley stood listening to what he had to say, her face white, her mouth quivering. at last the crisis had come. it was a fight to the finish between this man, the incarnation of corporate greed and herself, representing the fundamental principles of right and justice. she turned on him in a fury: "yes, i will leave your house to-night! do you think i would remain another hour beneath the roof of a man who is as blind to justice, as deaf to mercy, as incapable of human sympathy as you are!" she raised her voice; and as she stood there denouncing the man of money, her eyes flashing and her head thrown back, she looked like some avenging angel defying one of the powers of evil. "leave the room!" shouted ryder, beside himself, and pointing to the door. "father!" cried jefferson, starting forward to protect the girl he loved. "you have tricked him as you have me!" thundered ryder. "it is your own vanity that has tricked you!" cried shirley contemptuously. "you lay traps for yourself and walk into them. you compel everyone around you to lie to you, to cajole you, to praise you, to deceive you! at least, you cannot accuse me of flattering you. i have never fawned upon you as you compel your family and your friends and your dependents to do. i have always appealed to your better nature by telling you the truth, and in your heart you know that i am speaking the truth now." "go!" he commanded. "yes, let us go, shirley!" said jefferson. "no, jeff, i came here alone and i'm going alone!" "you are not. i shall go with you. i intend to make you my wife!" ryder laughed scornfully. "no," cried shirley. "do you think i'd marry a man whose father is as deep a discredit to the human race as your father is? no, i wouldn't marry the son of such a merciless tyrant! he refuses to lift his voice to save my father. i refuse to marry his son!" she turned on ryder with all the fury of a tiger: "you think if you lived in the olden days you'd be a caesar or an alexander. but you wouldn't! you'd be a nero--a nero! sink my self-respect to the extent of marrying into your family!" she exclaimed contemptuously. "never! i am going to washington without your aid. i am going to save my father if i have to go on my knees to every united states senator. i'll go to the white house; i'll tell the president what you are! marry your son--no, thank you! no, thank you!" exhausted by the vehemence of her passionate outburst, shirley hurried from the room, leaving ryder speechless, staring at his son. chapter xvi when shirley reached her rooms she broke down completely, she threw herself upon a sofa and burst into a fit of violent sobbing. after all, she was only a woman and the ordeal through which she had passed would have taxed the strongest powers of endurance. she had borne up courageously while there remained the faintest chance that she might succeed in moving the financier to pity, but now that all hopes in that direction were shattered and she herself had been ordered harshly from the house like any ordinary malefactor, the reaction set in, and she gave way freely to her long pent-up anguish and distress. nothing now could save her father--not even this journey to washington which she determined to take nevertheless, for, according to what stott had said, the senate was to take a vote that very night. she looked at the time--eleven o'clock. she had told mr. ryder that she would leave his house at once, but on reflection it was impossible for a girl alone to seek a room at that hour. it would be midnight before she could get her things packed. no, she would stay under this hated roof until morning and then take the first train to washington. there was still a chance that the vote might be delayed, in which case she might yet succeed in winning over some of the senators. she began to gather her things together and was thus engaged when she, heard a knock at her door. "who's there?" she called out. "it's i," replied a familiar voice. shirley went to the door and opening it found jefferson on the threshold. he made no attempt to enter, nor did she invite him in. he looked tired and careworn. "of course, you're not going to-night?" he asked anxiously. "my father did not mean to-night." "no, jeff," she said wearily; "not to-night. it's a little too late. i did not realize it. to-morrow morning, early." he seemed reassured and held out his hand: "good-night, dearest--you're a brave girl. you made a splendid fight." "it didn't do much good," she replied in a disheartened, listless way. "but it set him thinking," rejoined jefferson. "no one ever spoke to my father like that before. it did him good. he's still marching up and down the library, chewing the cud--" noticing shirley's tired face and her eyes, with great black circles underneath, he stopped short. "now don't do any more packing to-night," he said. "go to bed and in the morning i'll come up and help you. good night!" "good night, jeff," she smiled. he went downstairs, and after doing some more packing she went to bed. but it was hours before she got to sleep, and then she dreamed that she was in the senate chamber and that she saw ryder suddenly rise and denounce himself before the astonished senators as a perjurer and traitor to his country, while she returned to massapequa with the glad news that her father was acquitted. meantime, a solitary figure remained in the library, pacing to and fro like a lost soul in purgatory. mrs. ryder had returned from the play and gone to bed, serenely oblivious of the drama in real life that had been enacted at home, the servants locked the house up for the night and still john burkett ryder walked the floor of his sanctum, and late into the small hours of the morning the watchman going his lonely rounds, saw a light in the library and the restless figure of his employer sharply silhouetted against the white blinds. for the first time in his life john ryder realized that there was something in the world beyond self. he had seen with his own eyes the sacrifice a daughter will make for the father she loves, and he asked himself what manner of a man that father could be to inspire such devotion in his child. he probed into his own heart and conscience and reviewed his past career. he had been phenomenally successful, but he had not been happy. he had more money than he knew what to do with, but the pleasures of the domestic circle, which he saw other men enjoy, had been denied to him. was he himself to blame? had his insensate craving for gold and power led him to neglect those other things in life which contribute more truly to man's happiness? in other words, was his life a mistake? yes, it was true what this girl charged, he had been merciless and unscrupulous in his dealings with his fellow man. it was true that hardly a dollar of his vast fortune had been honestly earned. it was true that it had been wrung from the people by fraud and trickery. he had craved for power, yet now he had tasted it, what a hollow joy it was, after all! the public hated and despised him; even his so-called friends and business associates toadied to him merely because they feared him. and this judge--this father he had persecuted and ruined, what a better man and citizen he was, how much more worthy of a child's love and of the esteem of the world! what had judge rossmore done, after all, to deserve the frightful punishment the amalgamated interests had caused him to suffer? if he had blocked their game, he had done only what his oath, his duty commanded him to do. such a girl as shirley rossmore could not have had any other kind of a father. ah, if he had had such a daughter he might have been a better man, if only to win his child's respect and affection. john ryder pondered long and deeply and the more he ruminated the stronger the conviction grew upon him that the girl was right and he was wrong. suddenly, he looked at his watch. it was one o'clock. roberts had told him that it would be an all night session and that a vote would probably not be taken until very late. he unhooked the telephone and calling "central" asked for "long distance" and connection with washington. it was seven o'clock when the maid entered shirley's room with her breakfast and she found its occupant up and dressed. "why you haven't been to bed, miss!" exclaimed the girl, looking at the bed in the inner room which seemed scarcely disturbed. "no, theresa i--i couldn't sleep." hastily pouring out a cup of tea she added. "i must catch that nine o'clock train to washington. i didn't finish packing until nearly three." "can i do anything for you, miss?" inquired the maid. shirley was as popular with the servants as with the rest of the household. "no," answered shirley, "there are only a few things to go in my suit case. will you please have a cab here in half an hour?" the maid was about to go when she suddenly thought of something she had forgotten. she held out an envelope which she had left lying on the tray. "oh, miss, mr. jorkins said to give you this and master wanted to see you as soon as you had finished your breakfast." shirley tore open the envelope and took out the contents. it was a cheque, payable to her order for $ , and signed "john burkett ryder." a deep flush covered the girl's face as she saw the money--a flush of annoyance rather than of pleasure. this man who had insulted her, who had wronged her father, who had driven her from his home, thought he could throw his gold at her and insolently send her her pay as one settles haughtily with a servant discharged for impertinence. she would have none of his money--the work she had done she would make him a present of. she replaced the cheque in the envelope and passed it back to theresa. "give this to mr. ryder and tell him i cannot see him." "but mr. ryder said--" insisted the girl. "please deliver my message as i give it," commanded shirley with authority. "i cannot see mr. ryder." the maid withdrew, but she had barely closed the door when it was opened again and mrs. ryder rushed in, without knocking. she was all flustered with excitement and in such a hurry that she had not even stopped to arrange her toilet. "my dear miss green," she gasped; "what's this i hear--going away suddenly without giving me warning?" "i wasn't engaged by the month," replied shirley drily. "i know, dear, i know. i was thinking of myself. i've grown so used to you--how shall i get on without you--no one understands me the way you do. dear me! the whole house is upset. mr. ryder never went to bed at all last night. jefferson is going away, too--forever, he threatens. if he hadn't come and woke me up to say good-bye, i should never have known you intended to leave us. my boy's going--you're going--everyone's deserting me!" mrs. ryder was not accustomed to such prolonged flights of oratory and she sank exhausted on a chair, her eyes filling with tears. "did they tell you who i am--the daughter of judge rossmore?" demanded shirley. it had been a shock to mrs. ryder that morning when jefferson burst into his mother's room before she was up and acquainted her with the events of the previous evening. the news that the miss green whom she had grown to love, was really the miss rossmore of whose relations with jefferson her husband stood in such dread, was far from affecting the financier's wife as it had ryder himself. to the mother's simple and ingenuous mind, free from prejudice and ulterior motive, the girl's character was more important than her name, and certainly she could not blame her son for loving such a woman as shirley. of course, it was unfortunate for jefferson that his father felt this bitterness towards judge rossmore, for she herself could hardly have wished for a more sympathetic daughter-in-law. she had not seen her husband since the previous evening at dinner so was in complete ignorance as to what he thought of this new development, but the mother sighed as she thought how happy it would make her to see jefferson happily married to the girl of his own choice, and in her heart she still entertained the hope that her husband would see it that way and thus prevent their son from leaving them as he threatened. "that's not your fault, my dear," she replied answering shirley's question. "you are yourself--that's the main thing. you mustn't mind what mr. ryder says? business and worry makes him irritable at times. if you must go, of course you must--you are the best judge of that, but jefferson wants to see you before you leave." she kissed shirley in motherly fashion, and added: "he has told me everything, dear. nothing would make me happier than to see you become his wife. he's downstairs now waiting for me to tell him to come up." "it's better that i should not see him," replied shirley slowly and gravely. "i can only tell him what i have already told him. my father comes first. i have still a duty to perform." "that's right, dear," answered mrs. ryder. "you're a good, noble girl and i admire you all the more for it. i'll let jefferson be his own advocate. you'll see him for my sake!" she gave shirley another affectionate embrace and left the room while the girl proceeded with her final preparations for departure. presently there was a quick, heavy step in the corridor outside and jefferson appeared in the doorway. he stood there waiting for her to invite him in. she looked up and greeted him cordially, yet it was hardly the kind of reception he looked for or that he considered he had a right to expect. he advanced sulkily into the room. "mother said she had put everything right," he began. "i guess she was mistaken." "your mother does not understand, neither do you," she replied seriously. "nothing can be put right until my father is restored to honour and position." "but why should you punish me because my father fails to regard the matter as we do?" demanded jefferson rebelliously. "why should i punish myself--why should we punish those nearest and dearest?" answered shirley gently, "the victims of human injustice always suffer where their loved ones are tortured. why are things as they are--i don't know. i know they are--that's all." the young man strode nervously up and down the room while she gazed listlessly out of the window, looking for the cab that was to carry her away from this house of disappointment. he pleaded with her: "i have tried honourably and failed--you have tried honourably and failed. isn't the sting of impotent failure enough to meet without striving against a hopeless love?" he approached her and said softly: "i love you shirley--don't drive me to desperation. must i be punished because you have failed? it's unfair. the sins of the fathers should not be visited upon the children." "but they are--it's the law," said shirley with resignation. "the law?" he echoed. "yes, the law," insisted the girl; "man's law, not god's, the same unjust law that punishes my father--man's law which is put into the hands of the powerful of the earth to strike at the weak." she sank into a chair and, covering up her face, wept bitterly. between her sobs she cried brokenly: "i believed in the power of love to soften your father's heart, i believed that with god's help i could bring him to see the truth. i believed that truth and love would make him see the light, but it hasn't. i stayed on and on, hoping against hope until the time has gone by and it's too late to save him, too late! what can i do now? my going to washington is a forlorn hope, a last, miserable, forlorn hope and in this hour, the darkest of all, you ask me to think of myself--my love, your love, your happiness, your future, my future! ah, wouldn't it be sublime selfishness?" jefferson kneeled down beside the chair and taking her hand in his, tried to reason with her and comfort her: "listen, shirley," he said, "do not do something you will surely regret. you are punishing me not only because i have failed but because you have failed too. it seems to me that if you believed it possible to accomplish so much, if you had so much faith--that you have lost your faith rather quickly. i believed in nothing, i had no faith and yet i have not lost hope." she shook her head and gently withdrew her hand. "it is useless to insist, jefferson--until my father is cleared of this stain our lives--yours and mine--must lie apart." someone coughed and, startled, they both looked up. mr. ryder had entered the room unobserved and stood watching them. shirley immediately rose to her feet indignant, resenting this intrusion on her privacy after she had declined to receive the financier. yet, she reflected quickly, how could she prevent it? he was at home, free to come and go as he pleased, but she was not compelled to remain in the same room with him. she picked up the few things that lay about and with a contemptuous toss of her head, retreated into the inner apartment, leaving father and son alone together. "hum," grunted ryder, sr. "i rather thought i should find you here, but i didn't quite expect to find you on your knees--dragging our pride in the mud." "that's where our pride ought to be," retorted jefferson savagely. he felt in the humor to say anything, no matter what the consequences. "so she has refused you again, eh?" said ryder, sr. with a grin. "yes," rejoined jefferson with growing irritation, "she objects to my family. i don't blame her." the financier smiled grimly as he answered: "your family in general--me in particular, eh? i gleaned that much when i came in." he looked towards the door of the room in which shirley had taken refuge and as if talking to himself he added: "a curious girl with an inverted point of view--sees everything different to others--i want to see her before she goes." he walked over to the door and raised his hand as if he were about to knock. then he stopped as if he had changed his mind and turning towards his son he demanded: "do you mean to say that she has done with you?" "yes," answered jefferson bitterly. "finally?" "yes, finally--forever!" "does she mean it?" asked ryder, sr., sceptically. "yes--she will not listen to me while her father is still in peril." there was an expression of half amusement, half admiration on the financier's face as he again turned towards the door. "it's like her, damn it, just like her!" he muttered. he knocked boldly at the door. "who's there?" cried shirley from within. "it is i--mr. ryder. i wish to speak to you." "i must beg you to excuse me," came the answer, "i cannot see you." jefferson interfered. "why do you want to add to the girl's misery? don't you think she has suffered enough?" "do you know what she has done?" said ryder with pretended indignation. "she has insulted me grossly. i never was so humiliated in my life. she has returned the cheque i sent her last night in payment for her work on my biography. i mean to make her take that money. it's hers, she needs it, her father's a beggar. she must take it back. it's only flaunting her contempt for me in my face and i won't permit it." [photo, from the play, of mr. ryder holding out a cheque to shirley.] "so i contaminate even good money?"--act iv. "i don't think her object in refusing that money was to flaunt contempt in your face, or in any way humiliate you," answered jefferson. "she feels she has been sailing under false colours and desires to make some reparation." "and so she sends me back my money, feeling that will pacify me, perhaps repair the injury she has done me, perhaps buy me into entering into her plan of helping her father, but it won't. it only increases my determination to see her and her--" suddenly changing the topic he asked: "when do you leave us?" "now--at once--that is--i--don't know," answered jefferson embarrassed. "the fact is my faculties are numbed--i seem to have lost my power of thinking. father," he exclaimed, "you see what a wreck you have made of our lives!" "now, don't moralize," replied his father testily, "as if your own selfishness in desiring to possess that girl wasn't the mainspring of all your actions!" waving his son out of the room he added: "now leave me alone with her for a few moments. perhaps i can make her listen to reason." jefferson stared at his father as if he feared he were out of his mind. "what do you mean? are you--?" he ejaculated. "go--go leave her to me," commanded the financier. "slam the door when you go out and she'll think we've both gone. then come up again presently." the stratagem succeeded admirably. jefferson gave the door a vigorous pull and john ryder stood quiet, waiting for the girl to emerge from sanctuary. he did not have to wait long. the door soon opened and shirley came out slowly. she had her hat on and was drawing on her gloves, for through her window she had caught a glimpse of the cab standing at the curb. she started on seeing ryder standing there motionless, and she would have retreated had he not intercepted her. "i wish to speak to you miss--rossmore," he began. "i have nothing to say," answered shirley frigidly. "why did you do this?" he asked, holding out the cheque. "because i do not want your money," she replied with hauteur. "it was yours--you earned it," he said. "no, i came here hoping to influence you to help my father. the work i did was part of the plan. it happened to fall my way. i took it as a means to get to your heart." "but it is yours, please take it. it will be useful." "no," she said scornfully, "i can't tell you how low i should fall in my own estimation if i took your money! money," she added, with ringing contempt, "why, that's all there is to _you!_ it's your god! shall i make your god my god? no, thank you, mr. ryder!" "am i as bad as that?" he asked wistfully. "you are as bad as that!" she answered decisively. "so bad that i contaminate even good money?" he spoke lightly but she noticed that he winced. "money itself is nothing," replied the girl, "it's the spirit that gives it--the spirit that receives it, the spirit that earns it, the spirit that spends it. money helps to create happiness. it also creates misery. it's an engine of destruction when not properly used, it destroys individuals as it does nations. it has destroyed you, for it has warped your soul!" "go on," he laughed bitterly, "i like to hear you!" "no, you don't, mr. ryder, no you don't, for deep down in your heart you know that i am speaking the truth. money and the power it gives you, has dried up the well-springs of your heart." he affected to be highly amused at her words, but behind the mask of callous indifference the man suffered. her words seared him as with a red hot iron. she went on: "in the barbaric ages they fought for possession, but they fought openly. the feudal barons fought for what they stole, but it was a fair fight. they didn't strike in the dark. at least, they gave a man a chance for his life. but when you modern barons of industry don't like legislation you destroy it, when you don't like your judges you remove them, when a competitor outbids you you squeeze him out of commercial existence! you have no hearts, you are machines, and you are cowards, for you fight unfairly." "it is not true, it is not true," he protested. "it is true," she insisted hotly, "a few hours ago in cold blood you doomed my father to what is certain death because you decided it was a political necessity. in other words he interfered with your personal interests--your financial interests--you, with so many millions you can't count them!" scornfully she added: "come out into the light--fight in the open! at least, let him know who his enemy is!" "stop--stop--not another word," he cried impatiently, "you have diagnosed the disease. what of the remedy? are you prepared to reconstruct human nature?" confronting each other, their eyes met and he regarded her without resentment, almost with tenderness. he felt strangely drawn towards this woman who had defied and accused him, and made him see the world in a new light. "i don't deny," he admitted reluctantly, "that things seem to be as you describe them, but it is part of the process of evolution." "no," she protested, "it is the work of god!" "it is evolution!" he insisted. "ah, that's it," she retorted, "you evolve new ideas, new schemes, new tricks--you all worship different gods--gods of your own making!" he was about to reply when there was a commotion at the door and theresa entered, followed by a man servant to carry down the trunk. "the cab is downstairs, miss," said the maid. ryder waved them away imperiously. he had something further to say which he did not care for servants to hear. theresa and the man precipitately withdrew, not understanding, but obeying with alacrity a master who never brooked delay in the execution of his orders. shirley, indignant, looked to him for an explanation. "you don't need them," he exclaimed with a quiet smile in which was a shade of embarrassment. "i--i came here to tell you that i--" he stopped as if unable to find words, while shirley gazed at him in utter astonishment. "ah," he went on finally, "you have made it very hard for me to speak." again he paused and then with an effort he said slowly: "an hour ago i had senator roberts on the long distance telephone, and i'm going to washington. it's all right about your father. the matter will be dropped. you've beaten me. i acknowledge it. you're the first living soul who ever has beaten john burkett ryder." shirley started forward with a cry of mingled joy and surprise. could she believe her ears? was it possible that the dreaded colossus had capitulated and that she had saved her father? had the forces of right and justice prevailed, after all? her face transfigured, radiant she exclaimed breathlessly: "what, mr. ryder, you mean that you are going to help my father?" "not for his sake--for yours," he answered frankly. shirley hung her head. in her moment of triumph, she was sorry for all the hard things she had said to this man. she held out her hand to him. "forgive me," she said gently, "it was for my father. i had no faith. i thought your heart was of stone." impulsively ryder drew her to him, he clasped her two hands in his and looking down at her kindly he said, awkwardly: "so it was--so it was! you accomplished the miracle. it's the first time i've acted on pure sentiment. let me tell you something. good sentiment is bad business and good business is bad sentiment--that's why a rich man is generally supposed to have such a hard time getting into the kingdom of heaven." he laughed and went on, "i've given ten millions apiece to three universities. do you think i'm fool enough to suppose i can buy my way? but that's another matter. i'm going to washington on behalf of your father because i--want you to marry my son. yes, i want you in the family, close to us. i want your respect, my girl. i want your love. i want to earn it. i know i can't buy it. there's a weak spot in every man's armour and this is mine--i always want what i can't get and i can't get your love unless i earn it." shirley remained pensive. her thoughts were out on long island, at massapequa. she was thinking of their joy when they heard the news--her father, her mother and stott. she was thinking of the future, bright and glorious with promise again, now that the dark clouds were passing away. she thought of jefferson and a soft light came into her eyes as she foresaw a happy wifehood shared with him. "why so sober," demanded ryder, "you've gained your point, your father is to be restored to you, you'll marry the man you love?" "i'm so happy!" murmured shirley. "i don't deserve it. i had no faith." ryder released her and took out his watch. "i leave in fifteen minutes for washington," he said. "will you trust me to go alone?" "i trust you gladly," she answered smiling at him. "i shall always be grateful to you for letting me convert you." "you won me over last night," he rejoined, "when you put up that fight for your father. i made up my mind that a girl so loyal to her father would be loyal to her husband. you think," he went on, "that i do not love my son--you are mistaken. i do love him and i want him to be happy. i am capable of more affection than people think. it is wall street," he added bitterly, "that has crushed all sentiment out of me." shirley laughed nervously, almost hysterically. "i want to laugh and i feel like crying," she cried. "what will jefferson say--how happy he will be!" "how are you going to tell him?" inquired ryder uneasily. "i shall tell him that his dear, good father has relented and--" "no, my dear," he interrupted, "you will say nothing of the sort. i draw the line at the dear, good father act. i don't want him to think that it comes from me at all." "but," said shirley puzzled, "i shall have to tell him that you--" "what?" exclaimed ryder, "acknowledge to my son that i was in the wrong, that i've seen the error of my ways and wish to repent? excuse me," he added grimly, "it's got to come from him. he must see the error of _his_ ways." "but the error of his way," laughed the girl, "was falling in love with me. i can never prove to him that that was wrong!" the financier refused to be convinced. he shook his head and said stubbornly: "well, he must be put in the wrong somehow or other! why, my dear child," he went on, "that boy has been waiting all his life for an opportunity to say to me: 'father, i knew i was in the right, and i knew you were wrong,' can't you see," he asked, "what a false position it places me in? just picture his triumph!" "he'll be too happy to triumph," objected shirley. feeling a little ashamed of his attitude, he said: "i suppose you think i'm very obstinate." then, as she made no reply, he added: "i wish i didn't care what you thought." shirley looked at him gravely for a moment and then she replied seriously: "mr. ryder, you're a great man--you're a genius--your life is full of action, energy, achievement. but it appears to be only the good, the noble and the true that you are ashamed of. when your money triumphs over principle, when your political power defeats the ends of justice, you glory in your victory. but when you do a kindly, generous, fatherly act, when you win a grand and noble victory over yourself, you are ashamed of it. it was a kind, generous impulse that has prompted you to save my father and take your son and myself to your heart. why are you ashamed to let him see it? are you afraid he will love you? are you afraid i shall love you? open your heart wide to us--let us love you." ryder, completely vanquished, opened his arms and shirley sprang forward and embraced him as she would have embraced her own father. a solitary tear coursed down the financier's cheek. in thirty years he had not felt, or been touched by, the emotion of human affection. the door suddenly opened and jefferson entered. he started on seeing shirley in his father's arms. "jeff, my boy," said the financier, releasing shirley and putting her hand in his son's, "i've done something you couldn't do--i've convinced miss green--i mean miss rossmore--that we are not so bad after all!" jefferson, beaming, grasped his father's hand. "father!" he exclaimed. "that's what i say--father!" echoed shirley. they both embraced the financier until, overcome with emotion, ryder, sr., struggled to free himself and made his escape from the room crying: "good-bye, children--i'm off for washington!" the end transcriber's notes: the following words used an 'ae' or 'oe' ligature in the original: croesus, manoeuvre, subpoena, _coeur_, vertebrae, caesar. there were a number of faded/missing letters and some transposition errors in the edition this ebook was taken from. the following corrections were made: chapter headers standardised: v-vii previously had a trailing full-stop. opening quote inserted: "yes, and it was worth it to him... typo "determinatioin": ...arriving at this determination. opening quote inserted: "tell me, what do the papers say?" single quote moved: "you sent him a copy of 'the american octopus'?" single quote doubled: ...hatred of the hero of your book." acute accent inserted: ...proceeded to the hotel de l'athénée... typo "i'ts": ...life to my father. it's no use... quote moved/reversed: ...said shirley decisively. "what is more... closing quote inserted: ...what account will you be able to give?" typo "rosmore": ...judge rossmore--that is by saving him... closing quote inserted: "how?" asked shirley calmly. closing quote inserted: "upon my word--" he said. opening quote inserted: "the dying father, the sorrowing mother... opening quote inserted: ...a meddlesome man," insisted ryder "and... opening quote inserted: ...she replied seriously. "nothing can be... closing quote inserted: ...a hopeless love?" he approached her... quote moved/reversed: ...answered jefferson embarrassed. "the fact... swirling waters by the same author the mind-reader, being some pages from the life of dr xavier wycherley, psychologist and mental healer. the cockatoo. swirling waters by max rittenberg author of "the mind-reader," "the cockatoo," etc. second edition methuen & co. ltd. essex street w.c. london first published july rd second edition august to my dear mother whose advice and criticism have helped so greatly in my work, and especially in the making of this book; whose companionship has been a constant inspiration to me contents chap. page i. the whirlpool ii. a £ , , deal iii. shadowed iv. on the scent of a mystery v. the first move in the game vi. the beginning of a new life vii. a seat by the arena viii. who and where is rivière? ix. at monte carlo x. larssen turns another corner xi. a letter from rivière xii. the second meeting xiii. at the maison carrée xiv. by the druids' tower xv. waiting the verdict xvi. only pity! xvii. rivière is called back xviii. not wanted! xix. a throne-room xx. beaten to earth xxi. the bolted door xxii. the chameleon mind xxiii. larssen's man once again xxiv. confession xxv. white lilac xxvi. a challenge xxvii. women's weapons xxviii. the counter-move xxix. the parting xxx. heir to a throne xxxi. the reins had slipped xxxii. the new scheme xxxiii. larssen's appeal xxxiv. on board the "starlight" xxxv. intervention xxxvi. finality epilogue swirling waters chapter i the whirlpool on the crucial night of his career, march, -, clifford matheson, financier, was speeding in a taxi-cab to the gare de lyon. he was a clean-limbed man of thirty-seven. there was usually a look of masterfulness in the firm lines of his face, the straight, direct glance, the stiff, close-cut moustache. but to-night his eyes were tired, very tired. he leant back in a corner of the cab with drooping shoulders as though utterly world-weary. at the station his wife and father-in-law were looking impatiently for his arrival. they stood at the door of their _wagon-lit_ in the côte d'azur rapide, searching the crowded platform for him. it was now ten to eight, and the express was timed to pull out of the gare de lyon at eight o'clock sharp. "late again!" growled sir francis letchmere. "clifford makes a deuced casual sort of husband. bad form, you know!" good form and bad form were the foot-rules by which he measured mankind. olive bit her lip. it galled her pride that clifford should not be early on the platform to see to her comforts. the attentions of her father and maid did not satisfy her; she wanted clifford to be there to fetch and carry for her. pride was the keynote of her character. it was pride and not love that had decided her, five years before, to marry the financier. she had admired the way in which he had slashed out for himself his place in the world of london and paris finance, from his humble beginning as a clerk in a montreal broker's office. it ministered to her pride to be the wife of a man who had plucked success from the whirlpool of life. as to the methods by which he had amassed his money, with these she was not concerned. she knew, of course, that there were many who had bitter things to say about his methods. "probably it's his brother who's delayed him," said olive, looking for an explanation which would salve her _amour propre_. "they both seem to be crazy over their rubbishy scientific experiments." "who's this brother?" "i know scarcely anything about him. his name's rivière--he's a half-brother. he turns up unexpectedly from the wilds of canada, and lives like a hermit, so clifford tells me, in some tumbledown villa outside paris." "what's he like?" "i've never seen him." "what's the scientific experiment?" "clifford told me something about it, but i forgot. i wasn't interested in the slightest. no money in it, i could see at once. i told clifford so." sir francis tugged at his watch impatiently. "he'll miss this train for certain!" "no; there he is!" matheson was striding rapidly through the press of people on the platform. he quickly caught sight of his wife and father-in-law, and came up with a gesture of apology. "sorry i'm so late. very sorry, too, i shan't be able to travel with you to-night." "experiment to finish?" queried olive, with an unconcealed note of contempt in her voice. "a very important business engagement for this evening. will you excuse me? i can follow to-morrow." "can't it wait?" "it's highly important." "there's the 'phone to speak over." "i have to come face to face with my man. surely, olive, you can spare me for a day? have you everything you want for the journey?" "who is the man?" "lars larssen," answered matheson. he lowered his voice slightly, though on the bustling railway platform there was no likelihood of anyone listening to the conversation. sir francis nodded his head. he was heavily interested in company-promoting himself, as a means of swelling an inadequate property income, and lars larssen was a magic name. "hudson bay scheme?" he asked. "yes." "well, business before pleasure," he remarked sententiously. olive cut in with a question. "have you finished your experiments with your brother?" "no," answered matheson evenly. "when will they be finished?" "i can't say. there's a great deal to be discussed and planned." "then bring him with you to-morrow. you can plan together whatever it is you have to plan at monte. besides, i want to see him." "john is a busy man," protested matheson. "i don't think he can leave his laboratory." "give him my invitation, and make it a pressing one," pursued olive, careless of anything but her own whim. "tell him--tell him i particularly want him to explain his experiments to me himself." at this moment the little horn of departure sounded its quaint note from the end of the platform, and a porter hurried to lock the door of the _wagon-lit_. "have you everything you want for the journey?" asked matheson. "i have everything i want," replied his wife coldly. "my father has seen to that.... good-bye." she did not offer to kiss him, and he for his part drew back into a shell of reserve. many thoughts were buzzing through his mind as they exchanged the commonplaces of a railway station good-bye from either side of a compartment window. olive's last words were: "remember, i'm expecting you to bring your brother with you to-morrow." a very tired look was in matheson's eyes, and a weary droop on his shoulders, as the train pulled out and he was left alone on the platform. two frenchmen whispered to one another about him. "the milord matheson, see you! the very rich milord matheson." "ah, if i were only a rich man too!" "what would you do?" "i should _spend_. how i should spend!" he licked his lips at the thought of the pleasures of body that money could buy him. "i should _save_," said the other. "i should make myself the richest man in the world. that would be glorious!" these last words reached the ears of matheson, and set up a curious train of thought as he drove in his cab to his office in the rue laffitte. the words carried him back to a forest-clearing in the backwoods of ontario, where he and his half-brother had made holiday camp some eighteen years before. they were comparing ambitions--two young men unusually alike in features but very different in temperament and will-power. john rivière, the elder of the two, was dreaming of fame in the paths of science--he had worked his way through m'gill university and was hoping for a demonstratorship to keep him in living expenses. clifford matheson, a clerk in a broker's office, planned his life in terms of cities and money. "to make big money--that's what i call success." in the rapids of the stream by their feet was a swirl of waters covering a sunken rock, and rivière had thrown on to it a chip of wood. the chip was whirled round and round, nearer and nearer to the centre, until finally it was sucked under with a sudden extinguishment. "there's the life you plan," he had said to clifford.... chapter ii a £ , , deal when matheson reached his office, he was told by a clerk that mr lars larssen was already waiting to see him. he threw off his gloves and fur-lined coat and adjusted the lights before he answered that his visitor could be shown in. he added that the clerk could lock up his own rooms and leave, as he would not be wanted any longer that evening. there was a quiet simplicity in matheson's office that one would scarcely associate with the operations of high finance. one might have looked for costly furnishings and an atmosphere redolent of big money. yet here was a simple rosewood desk with a bowl of mimosa on it, and around the walls were a few simple landscapes from recent _salons_. if lars larssen were a magic name to sir francis letchmere, it was a magic name also to many other men of affairs. from cabin-boy to millionaire shipowner was his story in brief. but that does not tell one quarter. the son of scandinavian immigrants to the states, factory-workers, he had run away to sea at the age of fourteen, with the call of the ocean ringing in his ears from the viking inheritance that was his. but on this was superposed the fierce desire for success that formed the psychical atmosphere of the new american environment. as a boy in the smoke-blackened factory town, he had breathed in the longing to make money--big money--to use men to his own ends, to be a master of masters. with precocious insight he quickly learnt that money is made not by those who go out upon the waters, but by those who stay on land and send them hither and thither. he soon gave up the seafaring life and entered a shipbroker's office. he starved himself in order to save money to speculate in shipping reinsurance. an uncanny insight had guided him to rush in when shrewdly prudent business men held aloof. he had emphatically "made good." each fresh success had given him new confidence in himself and his judgment and his powers. he would allow nothing to stand in his path. scruples were to him the burden of fools. a fair-haired giant in build, with inscrutable eyes and mouth set grim and straight--such was lars larssen. though matheson was in no way a small man, yet he seemed somehow dwarfed when larssen entered the room. the financier was a self-made master, but the shipowner was a _born_ master of men--perhaps one's instinctive contrast lay there. the one had the strength of finished steel, but the other was rugged granite. lars larssen said quietly: "your letter brought me over to paris. i don't usually waste time in railway trains myself when i have men i can pay to do it for me. so you can judge that i consider your letter mighty important." "i'm sorry if you have given yourself an unnecessary journey," returned matheson. "i had intended my letter to make my attitude clear to you." "then you missed fire." "my attitude is simply this: i want to call the deal off." "not enough in it for you?" cut in larssen. "not enough in it for the public." the shipowner surveyed the other man through half-closed lids, weighing up how far this declaration might be a genuine expression of opinion and how far a mere excuse to cover some hidden motive. "talk it longer," he said. for reply matheson drew out a large-scale map of canada from a drawer and unfolded it with a decisive deliberation. he laid a finger on the south-western corner of hudson bay. "here is fanning trading station, the terminus of your five-hundred-mile railway. the land you run it over is mostly lakes, rivers, and frozen swamps for three-quarters of the year. the line is useless except for your own purpose--to carry wheat for the hudson bay steamship route to england. you agree?" "agreed." larssen was not the man to waste argument over minor points when a vital matter was under discussion. "then the scheme centres on the practicability of making the arctic hudson bay passage a commercial highway. it means the creating of a modern port at fanning. it means the lighting of a whole coast-line"--his finger travelled to the north of hudson bay and the northern coast of labrador--"before a cargo of wheat leaves port fanning." "i'll build lighthouses myself by the dozen if the canadian government won't. i'll equip every one with long-range wireless." "the cost will be tremendous." "there will be a differential of sixpence a bushel on wheat over my route. that talks down fifty lighthouses." "but it makes no allowance for rate-cutting by the big men on the present routes. further, if the canadian government are not with you on this scheme, they'll be against you. there are a dozen ways in which you might be frozen out. in that case the hudson bay route will be the biggest fiasco that ever happened." "nothing i've yet touched has been a fiasco," answered lars larssen with a grim tightening of jaw. "leave that end to me.... now your end is to get the money." "from the english and canadian public." "naturally." "you came to me because the english and canadian public are prejudiced against 'yankee propositions.' you yourself couldn't float it in england. on the other hand, i'm canadian-born, and my name carries weight both in england and in canada." "with the public," added larssen, and there was a subtle emphasis on the word "public," which carried a world of hidden meaning. matheson had been associated with other schemes which had a bad odour in the nostrils of city men. "with the public who provide the capital," answered the financier, and his emphasis was on the word "capital." he continued. "with myself and sir francis letchmere and a few titled dummies on the board--which is what you want from me--the public will tumble over one another to take up stock." "agreed." "the capitalization you propose is £ , , in ordinary £ shares, which the public will mostly take up. also £ , in deferred shares of the nominal value of one shilling each, which are to be allotted to yourself as vendor. that gives you four million votes out of a total of nine million, and for practical purposes means control." "the deferred shares are not to get a cent of dividend until a fifteen per cent. dividend is paid on the ordinary shares. that's the squarest deal for the public that ever was," retorted larssen. "but _you_ hold _control_." both men knew the tremendous import of that word. the fortunes of the world's financial giants have all been built up on "control." dwarfing "capital" and "credit" it stands--that word "control." if the wild gamble of the hudson bay scheme were to rush through to commercial success--if the limitless wheat-lands of canada were to pour their mighty torrent of life into europe through the channel of hudson bay--it would be lars larssen who would hold the key of the sluice-gate. directly, he would be master of the wheat of canada. indirectly, he could turn his master-position to financial gain in scores of ways. the £ , to be allotted him as vendor was a bagatelle; but to hold four million votes out of nine million was to control an empire. he replied evenly: "i keep control on any proposition i touch. that's creed with me. _creed._" "we split on that," answered matheson. "you want control for yourself?" "no." "then what is it you do want?" "i want half the deferred shares in the hands of lord ----." he named a canadian statesman and empire-builder whose integrity was beyond all suspicion. "i want him to hold them as trustee for the ordinary shareholders. he will consent if i ask him." "no doubt he will!" commented larssen ironically. he drew up his chair closer to the other man. there was a dangerous gleam in his eye as he said: "now see here. all the points you've put up were known to you months ago. what's happened to make you switch at the last moment?" he had put his finger on the very core of the matter, but matheson met his searching gaze without flinching. "what's happened is an entirely private matter. i've reasons for not wishing to be associated with your scheme unless you agree to half the deferred shares being held by lord ---- as trustee. these reasons of mine have only arisen during the last few weeks. circumstances are different with me from what they were when you first broached the plan. if you don't care to agree to my suggestion, i call the deal off. as regards the expenses you've incurred, i'll go halves." for comment, the shipowner flicked thumb and forefinger together. "no, i'll do more," pursued matheson. "i'll make you a more than fair offer--shoulder the whole expenses myself." larssen ignored the offer. "i went into the preliminaries of the scheme on the understanding that we were to pull together." "i know." "it means big money for you--enough to retire on." "i know." "then what the hell's the reason for this sudden attack of scruples?" for a moment matheson's eyes blazed black anger, but the anger died out of them and the tired look of the platform of the gare de lyon took its place. "you wouldn't understand," he answered. "the whirlpool." "what's that?" "it would be useless to explain. i have private reasons.... i've made you a thoroughly fair offer, and i don't think there's anything more to be said." matheson rose and walked to the window, pulling up the blind and gazing out on the sombre splendour of the big banking houses of the rue laffitte and the rue pillet-will. larssen looked at the silhouette of his antagonist with a tense set of his jaws. many plans were revolving in his mind. moralists might have labelled them "blackmail," but lars larssen was utterly free from scruples where his own interests were concerned. honesty with him was a mere matter of policy. to a man with the average sense of honour, such an attitude of mind is scarcely realisable, but lars larssen was no normal man. in him the napoleonic madness--or genius--burned fiercely. he had ambitions colossal in scale--he regarded his present wealth and power as a mere stepping-stone to the realisation of his great idea. that great ultimate purpose of his life he had never revealed to man or woman--save only to his dead wife. he aimed to be controlling owner of the world's carrying trade; to hold decision on peace and war between nation and nation because of that control of the vital food supply. to be emperor of the seven seas. he had one child only--his boy olaf, now aged twelve, at school in the states. olaf was to hold the seat of power after him and perpetuate his dynasty. that was larssen's life-dream. any man or woman who stood between him and his great goal was to be thrust aside or used as a stepping-stone. matheson, for instance--he was to be _used_. there must be something underlying matheson's sudden access of scruples--what was it? a case of _cherchez la femme_? or political ambitions, perhaps? if he could arrive at the motive, it might open up a new avenue for persuasion. he searched the silhouette of the man at the window for an answer to the riddle. but matheson's face was set, and the answer to the riddle was such as lars larssen could never have guessed. it lay outside the shipowner's pale of thought--beyond the limitations of his mind. for matheson also had his big life-scheme, and it now filled his mind with a blaze of light as he stood by the window, silent. larssen resolved to play for time while he set to work to ferret out his antagonist's motive for the sudden change of plan. he did not dream for a moment of relinquishing control on the hudson bay scheme. as he had stated openly, control was _creed_ to him. he broke the long silence with a conciliatory remark. "let's think matters over for a day or two. my scheme might be modified on the financial side. i'm prepared to make concessions to what you think is fair to the shareholders. we shall find some common ground of agreement." the smooth words did not deceive matheson. so his answer came with deliberate finality: "i've said my last word." "well, i'll consider it carefully. meanwhile, doing anything to-night? i hear that polaire is on at the folies bergères with her opium-den scene. a thriller, i'm told." theatres and music-halls were nothing to the shipowner; his idea was to keep matheson under observation if possible, and try to solve the riddle. "thanks, but i've got to get away from paris," answered matheson with his tired droop of the shoulders. "i have to join my wife and father-in-law at monte carlo." "very well, then, i'll say good-bye for the present." when larssen had left the office, he hurried into a taxi and was whirled to the grand hotel near at hand. here he found his secretary turning over the illustrated papers in the hall lounge, and gave a few curt directions. "drive round to the rue laffitte--a hurry case. on the second floor of no. is the office of clifford matheson. he may be still there--you'll know by the light in the window. wait till he comes out, and follow him. find out where he goes. if it's to a woman's house--good. in any case shadow him to-night wherever he goes." chapter iii shadowed matheson, alone in his office, thought deeply for a long while, pacing to and fro, grappling with a life-decision. to and fro, from door to windows, from windows to door, he paced, until the narrow confines of the office thrust at him subconsciously and drove him to the open streets. at his desk he made out a cheque in favour of lars larssen to the amount of twenty thousand pounds, enclosed it with a brief note in an addressed envelope, and put it away in a drawer. it was shortly after eleven when he took up his hat, fur-lined coat and heavy gold-mounted stick, clicked out the lights, and made his way down to the rue laffitte. at the corner of the rue laffitte he passed a young man lounging in the shadows, who presently turned and followed him at a sober distance. matheson made up towards the heights of montmartre, crowned by the white basilique of the sacred heart. the great church stood out in cold white beauty--serene and pure--above the feverish glitter of paris. up there a man might attune himself to the message of the stars--might weigh duty against duty in the balance of the infinite. he walked deep in thought, with shoulders drooping. beyond the clamorous glitter of the place pigalle, with its garish entertainment halls and all-night restaurants, there is a dark, narrow, winding lane ascending steeply to the great white sentinel church on the heights. up this matheson strode, still deep in thought, and his shadower followed. but, half-way up, a new factor cut sharply into the situation. out of a _ruelle_ crept two _apaches_ with the stealthy glide of their class. one followed close behind clifford matheson, while the other stopped to watch the lane against the possible arrival of an _agent de police_. the young man who had followed from the rue laffitte paused irresolute. on the one hand were his orders to shadow matheson wherever he might go that night; on the other hand was his personal safety. he was keenly alive to the merciless ferocity of the parisian _apache_, and he was unarmed. the wicked curved knife doubtless concealed under the belt of the _apache_ turned the scale decisively in the mind of the shadower. he saw no call to risk his own life. he gave up and retraced his steps, leaving matheson to his fate. chapter iv on the scent of a mystery the name of the young man who had shadowed matheson was arthur dean, and his position in life was that of a clerk in the leadenhall street office of lars larssen. the latter had brought him over to paris as temporary secretary because the confidential secretary had happened to be ill and away from business at the moment when matheson's letter arrived. young dean bitterly repented his cowardice before he was five minutes distant from the narrow lane on the heights of montmartre. not only had he left a fellow-countryman to possible violence and robbery, but his action would inevitably recoil on himself. to be even a temporary secretary to the great shipowner was a chance, an opportunity that most young business men of twenty-four would eagerly grasp at. he was throwing away his chance by this cowardly disobedience to orders--lars larssen was not the man to forgive an offence of that kind. dean turned on his tracks and again crossed the place pigalle. the lane behind was deserted. he mounted it and searched eagerly. his search was fruitless. matheson was nowhere visible--nor the two _apaches_. to what had happened in that interval of ten minutes there was no clue. the young fellow did not dare to go back to the grand hotel and report his failure. he wandered about aimlessly and miserably, until a flaunting poster outside an all-night _café chantant_ caught his eye and decided him to enter and kill time until some plan for retrieving his failure might occur to him. as he entered the swinging doors a cheery hand was laid on his shoulders. "hullo, old man! hail and thrice hail!" "jimmy!" there was a note of pleasure in the young man's voice. "the same," confirmed jimmy martin. he was a tubby, clean-shaven, rosy-faced little fellow of thirty odd, with an inexhaustible fund of good spirits. everyone called him "jimmy." dean had known him as a reporter on a london daily paper and a fellow-member of a local dramatic society in streatham. "why are you here?" asked dean. "strictly on business, my gay young spark. my present owners, the _europe chronicle_, bless their dear hearts, want to know if la belle ariola"--he waved his hand towards a poster which showed chiefly a toreador hat, a pair of flashing eyes, and a whirl of white draperies--"is engaged or no to the prince of sardinia. i find the maiden coy, not to say secretive----" "i wish you could help me," interrupted dean eagerly. "if four francs seventy will do it--my worldly possessions until next pay-day----" "no, no, this is quite different." he drew martin outside into the street and whispered. "to-night, as i happen to know, an englishman walking along a back street by the place pigalle was followed by two _apaches_." "a week-end tripper, or somebody with a flourish at each end of his name?" "somebody worth while. now i want to know particularly if anything happened." martin nodded in full understanding. "come along to the office about ten to-morrow morning, and i'll tell you if anything's been fired in from the _gendarmeries_ or the hospitals. what did you say the man's name was?" dean shook his head. "imitaciong oyster?" commented martin cheerfully. "very well, see you to-morrow. meanwhile, be good. flee the giddy lure. go home to your little bed and sleep sweet." there was seriousness under his good-natured banter. "come along and i'll see you as far as the bullyvards." arthur dean went with him, but did not return to the grand hotel. he found a small hotel for the night, and next morning at ten o'clock he was at the office of the _europe chronicle_, an important daily paper published simultaneously in paris, frankfort, and florence. martin came out from the news room into the adjoining ante-room with a slip of "flimsy" in his hand. "was your man hefty with the shillelagh?" he asked. "he carried a big, gold-mounted stick." "then here's your bird." he read out from the slip of paper: "last night, shortly after twelve, a certain gaspard p---- was brought to the hôpital malesherbes suffering from a fractured skull. this morning, on recovering consciousness, he states that he was attacked without cause by a drunken englishman, and struck over the head with a heavy stick. his state is grave." dean felt a warm wave of relief. he thanked the journalist cordially and was about to leave, when the telephone bell rang sharply in the adjoining news room. the sub-editor in charge took up the receiver. "_ullo, ullo! c'est ici le chronicle_," said the sub-editor, and after listening for a moment signed imperatively to martin to come in and shut the door. presently martin came out from the news room bustling with energy and took dean by the arm. "you specified two _apaches_, didn't you?" he asked, and hurried on without waiting for an answer. "one was probably the injured innocence now at the malesherbes and cursing those _sacrés angliches_, but the other lies low and says nuffink. that's the one that interests me. come along in my taxi and watch me chase a story." stopping only to borrow fifty francs for expenses from the cashier's wicket, martin hurried his friend into a taximeter cab and gave the brief direction: "pont de neuilly." three-quarters of an hour later they had reached the bridge at the end of the long avenue of the suburb of neuilly and had dismissed the cab. "now for our imitaciong sherlock holmes," said martin. "the 'phone message was that a man had found a fur coat and a gold-mounted stick under some bushes by the left bank of the seine four hundred metres down stream. he was apparently some sort of workman, and explained that he had no wish to be mixed up with the police. on the other hand, he felt he had to do his duty by the civilization that provides him with a blue blouse, bread, and bock, so he 'phoned the news to us.... wish everyone was as sensible," he added, viewing the matter from a professional standpoint. three hundred yards down, they began to look very carefully amongst the bushes that line the water's edge. it was not long before they came to the object of their search. under an alder-bush they found it--a heavy fur-lined coat sodden with the river water, and a gold-mounted stick. the maker's name had been cut out of the overcoat; its pockets were empty. martin held it up. "did this belong to your man?" he asked, as though sure of the answer. "no," answered dean decisively. the journalist whisked around in complete surprise and looked at him keenly. "_sure?_" "positive. there was astrakhan on the collar and cuffs of the coat my man was wearing." "and this stick?" "it looks much the same kind, but then there are thousands of sticks like this in use." the stout little journalist looked pathetically disappointed. for the moment he had no thought beyond the professional aspect of the matter--the unearthing of a "good story"--and the human significance of what he had found was entirely out of mind. he turned over the coat and stick in obvious perplexity, as though they ought somehow to contain the key to the puzzle if only he could see it. then he examined the traces of footsteps on the damp earth by the water-side. there was another set of footprints beside their own--no doubt the footprints of the man who had first found the objects and 'phoned to the _chronicle_. "what are you going to do next?" asked the young clerk. "take them to the police?" martin looked up and down the river bank. that part of the seine is usually deserted except for nursemaids and children and an occasional workman. at the moment there was apparently no one in sight. "you don't know the paris police--that's evident," returned the journalist. "they would throw fits on the floor if i were so much as to carry off a coat-button. no, we must hide the coat and stick in the bushes again, and tell them to-morrow." "why to-morrow?" "twenty-four hours' start is due to my owners, bless their sensational little hearts. if nothing further comes to light, then the press steps aside and allows the law to take its course. meanwhile to the morgue and the malesherbes. we'll pick up a cab on the avenue de neuilly. newspaper life, my young friend, is one dam taxi after another." the morgue is, of course, no longer the public peep-show that it used to be, but martin's card procured him instant admission. on the inclined marble slabs, down which ice water gently trickles, were two ghastly white figures of women which had been waiting identification for some days. the object of their search was not at the morgue. they proceeded across paris to the hôpital malesherbes, but at the place de l'opera dean asked to be put down. the journalist promised to 'phone to the grand hotel if anything of interest came to light, and arthur dean went to make his report to lars larssen. it was already past mid-day, and without doubt the shipowner would be impatient to hear news. only stopping at a telephone call office for a few minutes, dean hurried to his employer's suite of rooms. "well?" asked lars larssen. "to begin at the beginning, sir, i waited last night in the rue laffitte until mr matheson came out of his office. it was not long before he appeared, and then----" the shipowner interrupted curtly. "i want the heart of the matter." dean gulped and answered: "i believe mr matheson has been murdered." "believe! do you _know_?" "of course i don't know for certain, sir; but this morning i assisted at the finding of his coat and stick on the banks of the seine." "sure they were his?" "yes, quite sure. i was with a journalist friend of mine, but i didn't let him know that i recognized the coat and stick. i thought perhaps you would like me to tell you before the matter was made public." "good! now give me the full story." arthur dean summoned up his nerve to tell the connected tale he had thought out during the long cab rides that morning. it was essential that he should disguise his cowardice and his failure to carry out orders of the night before. with that exception, his account was a truthful and detailed story of all that had happened. he concluded with:-- "i 'phoned up mr matheson's office--without telling my name--and asked if he was in or had been to the office this morning. they said no. i got his hotel address from them and 'phoned the hotel. they also could tell me nothing about mr matheson." lars larssen paced the room in silence for some time. finally he shot out a question. "your salary is?" "£ a year, sir." "engaged, or likely to be?" the young man blushed deeply as he replied: "i hope to be shortly." "you can't marry on two pound a week." "i am hoping to get promotion in the office, and then----" "do you understand how to get promotion?" "of course, sir. i intend to work hard and study the details of the business outside my own department, and learn spanish as well as french----" lars larssen flicked thumb and finger together contemptuously. "the men i pay real money to are not that kind of men." arthur dean looked in surprise. "now see here," pursued the shipowner, fixing his eyes deep into the young man's, "why did you lie to me just now?" dean went deathly white, and began to falter a denial. "don't lie any further! something happened last night that you haven't told me of. i know, because you brought in no report last night. out with it!" under that merciless look the young clerk made a clean breast of the matter. his voice shook as he realized that it probably meant instant dismissal for him. here was the end of all his hopes. lars larssen made no comment until the last details had been faltered out. then he said abruptly: "i propose to raise you £ a year." dean stared at him in silent amazement. "£ a year is good salary for a young man. if i pay it, i want it earned. now understand this: what i want in my men is absolute loyalty, absolute obedience to orders, and absolute truthfulness to me. lie to others if you like--that's no concern of mine--but not to me. further, understand what orders mean. if i tell you to do a thing, i am wholly responsible for its outcome. the responsibility is not yours--it's mine. got that?" "it's very generous of you to give me such a chance, sir. it's much more than i have the right to expect. you can count on my loyalty and obedience to the utmost--of course, provided that----" "the men i want to raise in my employ, and the men i have raised, leave fine scruples to me. that's my end. your end is to carry out orders. if you're going to set store on niceties of truthfulness when business interests demand otherwise, you'll remain a two-pound-a-week clerk all your life." dean's weakness of moral fibre had been shrewdly weighed up by larssen. the young man was plastic clay to be moulded by a firm grasp. £ a year opened out to him a vista of roseate possibilities. £ a year was his price. the colour came and went in his face as he thought out the meaning of what his employer had just said. at length he answered: "i owe you many thanks, sir. what do you want me to do?" "understand this: £ a year is your starting salary. if i find you after trial to be the man i think you are, you can look forward to bigger money.... now my point lies here; mr matheson was engaged with me in a large-scale enterprise. alive, he would have been useful to me. i intend to keep him alive!" chapter v the first move in the game at the great leadenhall street office of the shipowner, an office which bore outside the simple sign--ostentatious in its simplicity--of "lars larssen--shipping," arthur dean had looked upon his employer from afar as some demi-god raised above other business men by mysterious gifts from heaven. a modern midas with the power of turning what he touched to gold. now he was granted an intimate glimpse into the workings of his employer's mind that came to him as a positive revelation. larssen's were no mysterious powers, but the powers that every man possessed worked at white heat and with an extraordinary swiftness and exactitude. the revelation did not sweep away the glamour; on the contrary, it increased it. lars larssen was a craftsman taking up the commonest tools of his craft and using them to create a work of art of consummate build. his present work was to keep alive the personality of clifford matheson until the hudson bay scheme should be launched. to use matheson's name on the prospectus, and to use his influence with sir francis letchmere and others. dead, matheson was to serve him better than alive. but the shipowner did not build his edifice on the foundation merely of what arthur dean had told him. he had to satisfy himself more accurately. a string of rapid, apparently unconnected orders almost bewildered the young secretary:-- "first, get a list of the big hotels at monte carlo. engage the trunk telephone and call up each hotel until you find where sir francis letchmere is staying. give no name.... buy a pair of workman's boots to fit you. get them in some side street shop. bring them with you--don't ask them to send.... take this typewriting"--he took a letter from his pocket and carefully clipped off a small portion--"and match it with a portable travelling machine. can you recognize the make of machine off-hand?" dean examined the portion of typed matter, and shook his head. "you must train yourself to observe detail. looks to me like the type on a 'thor' machine. try the thor co. first. if not there, go to every typewriter firm in paris until it matches.... go to the offices of the compagnie transatlantique and get a list of sailings on the cherbourg-quebec route. give no name.... meanwhile, 'phone your journalist friend and have him call on me." "what reason shall i give him, sir?" "anything that will pull him here. tell him i'm willing to be interviewed on the proposed international agreement about maritime contraband in time of war. quite sure you remember all my orders?" "i think so, sir." "repeat them." the young man did so. "good!" dean flushed with pleasure at the commendation. "had lunch yet?" "not yet." lars larssen smiled as he said: "well, postpone lunch till to-night, or eat while you're hustling around in cabs. this is a hurry case. here's an advance fifty pounds to keep you in expense money." as the crisp notes were put into his hand, arthur dean felt that he was indeed on the ladder which led to business status and wealth. his thoughts went out to a little girl in streatham who was waiting, he knew, till he could ask her to be his wife. if daisy could see how he was being taken into his employer's confidence! lars larssen startled him with a remark that savoured of thought-reading. "my three-hundred-a-year men," he said, "don't write home about business matters." "i quite understand, sir." later in the afternoon, jimmy martin of the _europe chronicle_ sent in his card at the grand hotel, and lars larssen did not keep him waiting beyond a few moments. the tubby little journalist was no hero-worshipper. few journalists can be--they see too intimately the strings which work the affairs of the world for the edification of a trustful public. consequently, martin's attitude in the presence of the millionaire shipowner was as free from constraint or subservience as it would be in the dressing-room of la belle ariola, who danced the bolero at a _café chantant_, or in the ward of the malesherbes hôpital, interviewing an _apache_ with a cracked skull. lars larssen summed him up with lightning rapidity of thought, and adjusted his own attitude to a friendly, confidential basis. said martin: "you want to talk about contraband of war? i'd better tell you the _chronicle_'s red-hot against the olive-branch merchants, so i hope you're not one of them. say you agree with us, and i can spread you over half a column." the shipowner smiled. "that's the talk i like. make a policy and set the buzzer going. now see here...." at the end of half an hour he had established a link of easy friendship, and had brought the conversation round without difficulty to the matter which was the real object of the interview. "dean was telling me about the help you gave him on his wild-goose chase to-day. many thanks. he's a steady young fellow and will get on--but a little too ready to jump at conclusions. of course you found nothing at the hospital?" on the answer much depended, but no one could have guessed it from the shipowner's face, which was smilingly confident. "nothing doing!" answered martin. "our young friend with the cracked skull met the holy tartar last night. he's raving sore--wants to prosecute him for assault, if he can find out who he is." "exactly. but there's a disappointment in store for him. i met my friend to-day going off to canada. what are you going to do about the coat and stick at neuilly?" "hunt around for a few more clues before turning it over to the police." there was a tired disappointment in the journalist's voice that lars larssen noted with keen satisfaction. "i doubt if the police'll do much unless the relations kick up a shindy. paris is the finest place in europe to get murdered in peacefully and without a lot of silly fuss. you see, it might be a hoax. your parisian hoaxer likes a dash of grand guignol horrors in his jokelet. the police have been had several times, and they're very much hoax-shy. i could tell you some pretty tales about mysterious disappearances that never get into the papers." a little later the journalist took his departure. as the great shipowner shook hands at the door, he said cordially: "if you want news from me when i'm in paris any time, come straight to me. i like your paper; i like your methods." martin left without a suspicion that he had been "pumped" for vital information. now the shipowner had to wait patiently for nightfall before the first definite move of his game could be played. one of his secrets of success was that he never allowed his mind to worry him. he shut the matter completely out of his conscious thoughts; got a trunk telephone call to his london office; sent off some cables to his new york office; and generally immersed himself on business matters quite unrelated to the matheson case. it was nearly ten o'clock that night before arthur dean returned from an errand on which he had been sent. in his arms was a bulky brown-paper parcel. he opened it in the privacy of his employer's sitting-room, and remembering the advice given him that morning as to the way to present a business report, pointed silently to a small slit in the side of the fur-lined coat, where it would cover a man's ribs. on the inner lining of the coat there was a dark stain around the slit, though the immersion in the river had of course washed away any definite blood-clot. lars larssen nodded appreciation of the young fellow's method of going straight to the heart of the subject. "good!" said he. "now for details." "i carried out your orders exactly, sir. took a cab to neuilly, dismissed it, put on the pair of workman's boots when i was in the darkness of the river bank, and found the coat and stick just where martin and i had hidden them in the bushes. the trees make it quite dark along that part of the seine, and i am certain no one saw me taking them and wrapping them in my brown paper. the coat was nearly dry." "did you find the stick broken?" "no. i broke it in two so that it could be wrapped in the same parcel as the coat." "did you examine footprints?" "yes. the only ones around the bushes were martin's and mine made this morning, and the prints of the man who first discovered them. of course my own prints this time were made by the boots you told me to buy and put on." "what next?" "i went along the river bank for a couple of miles with my parcel until i came to some other suburb, and then i caught a cab to the arc de triomphe, and there i took another cab to here." "the workman's boots?" "after i changed back to my ordinary boots, i threw them in the river, as you told me to." "they sank?" "yes, sir." "anything else?" "nothing else worth reporting, i think.... do you recognize this coat and stick as belonging to mr matheson, sir?" lars larssen nodded non-committally, and ordered the young fellow to get a trunk telephone call through to sir francis letchmere at monte carlo. dean had already found out that he was staying at the hotel des hespérides. but when the telephone connexion had been made, it was olive who answered from the other end of the wire:-- "this is mrs matheson. who is speaking?" "mr larssen. i want sir francis letchmere." "he's out just now. shall i take your message?" "have you heard yet from your husband?" "no. why?" "he's off to canada. i thought he would have wired you." "that's just like clifford!" there was an angry sharpness in the voice over the wire. "i reckon he was in too much of a hurry. it's in connexion with the hudson bay scheme--you know about that?" "yes. has anything gone wrong with it?" now there was anxiety in the voice. "a new situation has arisen. your husband suggested to me that he had better hurry across the pond and straighten up matters." larssen lowered his voice. "somebody in the canadian government wants oiling. of course he will have to work the affair very quietly." "it's too annoying! clifford had promised me faithfully to come on to monte by to-night's train. i wanted him here." "that's rough on you!" "what message did you wish to give to my father?" "about the hudson bay deal. i want to meet sir francis and talk business." "you're not going to drag him back to paris!" again there was annoyance in her voice, and lars larssen made a quick resolution. he answered: "certainly not, if you don't wish it. rather than that, i'll come myself to monte." "that's charming of you!" "the least i can do. i'll wire later when to expect me." "many thanks." when the conversation had concluded, the shipowner called the young secretary and asked him to bring in the new "thor" travelling typewriter he had purchased that afternoon. larssen had proved right in his guess of the make of machine with which his scrap of typing had been done. "take a letter. envelope first," said larssen. "you want me to take it direct on the machine, sir?" "yes." the shipowner began to dictate. "monsieur g. r. coulter, rue laffitte, , paris.... now for the letter.... cherbourg, march th." "any address above cherbourg?" "not at present. 'cherbourg, march th. dear coulter, i am called away to canada on business. the matter is very private, and i want my trip kept very quiet. i leave affairs in your hands until my return. get my luggage from my hotel and keep it in the office. if anything urgent arises, my name and address will be arthur dean, hotel ritz-carlton, montreal.'" the young secretary went white, and his fingers dropped from the keys of the typewriter. "sir!" it was a moment of crisis. "well?" asked lars larssen sharply. "a letter like that, sir...!" "you don't care to go to canada?" "it's not that, but----" he stammered, and stopped short. lars larssen allowed a moment of silence to give weight to his coming words. he drew out a cheque-book from his breast-pocket and very deliberately said: "make yourself out a cheque for a usual month's wages, and bring it to me to sign. that will be in lieu of notice." arthur dean took the cheque-book with shaking fingers and went to the adjoining room. when at length he came back, he found the shipowner making out a telegram. he stood in silence until the telegram was given into his hand, open, with an order to send it off to london. his glance fell involuntarily on the writing, and he could see that the wire was to call over somebody to replace him. "i don't think this will be necessary, sir," said dean, with a tremor in his voice which told of the mental struggle he had been through in the adjoining room, when his career lay staked on the issue of a single decision. it was not without definite purpose that lars larssen had put the cheque-book into his hands. he knew well the power of suggestion, and used it with a master-hand. he could almost see the young secretary torn between the thoughts of a miserable £ on the one hand, and the illimitable wealth suggested by a blank cheque-book on the other. "understand this," answered larssen. "whichever way you decide matters nothing to me from the business point of view. i can get a dozen, twenty men to replace you at a moment's notice. if you don't care to go to canada, you're perfectly free to say so. then we part, because you're useless to me. aside from the purely business point of view, i should be sorry. i like you; i see possibilities in you; i could help you up the business ladder." "that's very good of you, sir." "wait. i want you to see this matter in the proper light. you have an idea that what that letter represents could get you into trouble with the law. that's it, isn't it?" dean coloured. "now see here. i stand behind that letter. my reputation is worth about ten thousand times yours in hard cash. would i be mad enough to risk my reputation unless i had looked at every move on the board?" "i didn't think of that at the time." "exactly. now you see the other side of the picture. if you want half an hour to make up your mind once and for all, take it. consider carefully what you'd like to be in the future: clerk or business man. two pound a week; or six, ten, twenty, fifty a week. that represents the difference between the clerk and the business man in cold cash." "i've made up my mind, sir," answered dean firmly. "good!" said lars larssen, and held out his hand to his young employee. "there's the right stuff in you!" to have his hand shaken in friendship by the millionaire shipowner was as strong wine to arthur dean. he flushed with pleasure as he stammered out his thanks. a couple of hours packed with feverish activity followed. lars larssen knew that clifford matheson had the habit of carrying a small typewriter with him on his journeys, in order to get through correspondence while on trains and steamers. many busy men carry them. this habit of matheson's was exceedingly useful for his present purpose. the letter that arthur dean was to post off at cherbourg--one to the paris office of clifford matheson and one of similar purport to the london office--would only need the signature in holograph. larssen had several of matheson's signatures on various letters that had passed between them, and these he cut off and gave to his employee to copy. he criticised the spacing and the general lay-out of the letter already typed, showed dean how to imitate matheson's little habits of typing, and arranged that the letters dictated should be retyped on hotel paper at cherbourg and posted there. dean was to catch a night train to cherbourg, take steamer ticket there for quebec, and proceed to montreal. there were a host of directions as to his conduct while in canada, and as larssen poured out a stream of detailed orders, searching into every cranny and crevice of the situation, the young clerk felt once more the glamour of the master-mind. here was an employer worth working for! early next morning dean was at grimy cherbourg, and after posting off his letters he sent the following telegram to mrs matheson at monte carlo:-- "sailing this morning for canada on 'la bretagne.' urgent and very private business. larssen, grand hotel, paris, will explain. sailing as arthur dean to avoid canadian reporters. good-bye. much love." as the liner lay by the quayside with smoke pouring from her funnels and the bustle of near departure on her decks, a telegram in reply was brought to arthur dean. he opened and read:-- "most annoying. cannot understand why business could not have been given to somebody else. however, expect nothing from you nowadays. where is rivière? not arrived, and no line from him." rivière? who was this man? lars larssen had made no mention of this name. it was the one facet of the situation of which the shipowner knew nothing--the one unknown link in the chain of circumstance. arthur dean could only send a frantic wire to lars larssen, and the liner had cast off from her moorings before an answer came. this is what the shipowner found awaiting him at his hotel:-- "mrs m. wants to know where is rivière. reply urgent. who is rivière?" chapter vi the beginning of a new life on the morning of march th, clifford matheson lit a blazing fire in the laboratory of a tumbledown villa in neuilly in order to destroy the clothes and other identity marks of the financier. for some months past he had been leading a double life--as clifford matheson the financier, and as john rivière the recluse scientist. he had chosen to take up the name of his dead half-brother because he had been taking up the latter's life-work. the motives that had urged him to this strange double life were such as a lars larssen could scarcely comprehend. every man has his mental as well as his physical limitations. the keenest brain, if trained on some specialized line, will fail to understand what to the dabbler in many lines seems perfectly natural and reasonable. larssen, a master-mind, had his peculiar limitations as well as smaller men. his brain had been trained to see the world as an ant-heap into which some power external had stamped an iron heel. the ants fought blindly with one another to reach the surface--to live. that was the law of life as he saw it--to fight one's way to the open. the world he looked upon breathed in money through eager nostrils. money was the oxygen of civilization. without money a man slowly asphyxiated. it must be every man's ambition to own big money--to breathe it in himself with full-lunged, lustful, intoxicating gulps, and to dole it out as master to dependents pleading for their ration of life. that was the meaning of power: to give or withhold the essentials of life at one's pleasure. consequently he had failed to read the riddle of matheson's motive at that crucial interview in the financier's office on the rue laffitte. he had failed to realize that a man might be as eager to give as to grasp. he had failed to reckon on altruism as a possible dominating factor in the decisions of a successful man of business. further than that, it lay entirely outside lars larssen's plane of thought that a man who had fought his way up to worldly success from a clerk's stool in a montreal broker's office, who had made himself a power in the world of london and paris finance, could voluntarily give up money and power and bury himself in obscurity. larssen judged that matheson had been murdered and robbed by the _apaches_. it was possible, though extremely improbable, that he might have committed suicide. which it was, mattered nothing to the shipowner. but he did not dream for one instant that matheson might have thrown up place and power to disappear into voluntary exile. * * * * * clifford matheson had set himself from the age of eighteen to achieve a money success. at thirty-seven, he had achieved it. he had slashed out for himself a path to power in the financial world. he was rich enough to satisfy the desires of most men. five years ago he had married into a well-known english family, and the doors of society had been opened wide to him. but his marriage had been a ghastly mistake. olive, after marriage, had showed herself entirely out of sympathy with the idealism that formed so large a part of the complex character of her husband. she wanted money and power, and she drove spurs into her husband that he might obtain for her more and more money, more and more power. any other ambition in clifford she tried to sneer down with the ruthlessness of an utterly mercenary woman. he had come to loathe the sensuous artificiality of his life. he had come to loathe the ruthless selfishness of finance. he was sick with the callousness of that stratum of the world in which he moved. in the last couple of years he had found himself drawn powerfully towards the calm, passionless atmosphere of science in which his elder brother, john rivière, had found his life-work. rivière had made no worldly success for himself. the scientific researches he had undertaken made no stir when they found light in the pages of obscure quarterlies circulating amongst a few dozen other men engaged in similar research. rivière had not the temperament to push himself or the children of his brain. he had settled into a solitary bachelor life in a small canadian college--an unknown, unrecognized man--and yet the calm, steady purpose and the calm, passionless happiness of the life had made a deep impression on clifford matheson. rivière had come to an accidental death on a holiday with his brother in the wilds of northern canada. few knew of it beyond matheson. the financier had been drawn towards one special problem of science, and on this he had studied deeply the last few years. from his studies, an idea had developed which could only be worked out by experiments. many years of patient research would be needed, for this thought-child of matheson's was a master-idea, an idea which meant the exploring of a practically uncharted sea of knowledge. in brief, it was an attack of root-problem of human disease. doctors and pathologists had hitherto been viewing disease from the aspect of its myriad effects on the highly complex human being. it was as though one were to attempt to understand the subtleties of some full-grown language without first learning its elementary grammar--the foundations on which its super-structure is reared. now matheson, coming to the problem with a strong, fresh mind unhampered by the swaddling clothes of a college training, saw it from a view-point entirely different to that of the doctors. he wanted to know the elementary grammar of human disease. he found that no book dealt with it--nor attempted to deal with it. no recognized department of a medical course took as its province the root-causes of disease. pathology was a study of effects. bacteriology--that again was merely a study of effects. he had read widely amongst a variety of scientific research-matter, and had found that here and there an isolated attack was being made on the problem of causes. but nothing strong-planned--as any one of his financial schemes would be planned--nothing co-ordinated. the researches of the day were starting at points too complex, before the basic conditions of the problem were known. he wanted to learn, and to give to the world, the basic facts. disease, as he viewed it, was primarily the result of abnormal conditions of living. his idea was to study it in its simplest possible form. to study the effects of abnormal conditions of life on the lowest living organisms--the microscopic blobs of life whose structure is elemental. from his wide reading of the last couple of years, he knew what little was already known and the vast field that was unexplored territory. he need not waste time over what others had already dealt with--the new territory offered sufficient field for a life-work. once he could get at the basic facts of disease as it related to the very simplest organisms, he could progress upwards to the higher organisms, and so eventually to man. what could be learnt from the pathological condition of an amoeba might lay the foundations for the conquering of cancer in man, and a hundred other diseases as well. matheson's idea was a revolutionary one--a master-idea like a master-patent. it held limitless possibilities for the alleviation of human pain and suffering. it was an idea to which a man might well devote his whole intellect and energies. * * * * * some months before, the financier had bought, in the name of john rivière, a tumbledown villa on the outskirts of neuilly. in it he had fitted up a research laboratory in which to pursue the experimental end of the problem which had such vital interest for him. a high wall surrounded a garden overgrown with weeds and a villa falling to decay. at one time, no doubt, the house had formed a nest for the _petite amie_ of some rich parisian, but now the owner of the property was only too glad to sell it at any price, and without asking any but the most perfunctory questions of the man who had offered to buy. in the solitude of the ruined villa, matheson had been pursuing his scientific research at such times as he could snatch from his financial business. he had been leading a "double life"--from a motive far different to the double life of other married men. there was no woman in the case. there was no secret scheme of money-making. there was no solitary pandering to the senses with drink or drugs. but the financier had been finding that the leading of a double life bristled with practical difficulties. apart from the calls of his business, there were the insistent demands of his wife. the position was becoming an intolerable one. he had to choose between the life of the money-maker or that of the creator of a new field of knowledge. on the night of th march the conversation on the platform of the gare de lyon and the fight with lars larssen had brought the question of decision to a head. he had grappled with it in his office, pacing to and fro long after the shipowner had left. he had turned his steps towards the heights of montmartre so that he might carry his problem up to the solitude of a high place, in the peace of the eternal stars. he was deep in the question of decision when the two apaches had attacked him in the narrow lane leading to the basilique of the sacred heart. matheson was a man of considerable strength and alertness. he had felled one of the two _apaches_ with his heavy gold-mounted stick; the other one had sent through the fur-lined coat a knife-thrust which had grazed his ribs. matheson had beaten him off, and had then continued his path to the basilique. but the attack had brought a vivid inspiration for the solution of his personal problem. he would slip off the personality of clifford matheson and take up completely that of john rivière. he would leave his overcoat and stick by the riverside at neuilly, and 'phone information about them to the police or to a newspaper. that knife-slit in his overcoat would be taken as evidence of murder. they would judge him murdered, with robbery as motive. the courts would give leave for olive to presume death. she would be freed; she would come into her husband's fortune; she could marry again if she chose to. surely that was the solution of his personal problem! for his part he could live his life unshackled, and there was sufficient money already standing in the name of rivière at a paris bank to give him a modest income on which to keep himself and pay for the materials of research. no one would be the worse for his disappearance; his wife would be the gainer; and mankind, he hoped, would be the gainer through the research to which he could henceforth devote his life. yes, that was assuredly _the_ solution. chapter vii a seat by the arena rivière had bought fresh clothes and other necessities at the suburban shops of neuilly. he had shaved off his moustache; arranged his hair differently; put on a new shape of collar. it is curious how the shape of a collar is associated in most minds with the impression of a man's features. to change into another shape is to make a very noticeable difference to one's appearance. he had also bought travelling necessities. his intention was to wander for a couple of months. it would help him to clear his brain from the tangle of financial matters which still obsessed it against his will. he wanted to sweep out the hudson bay scheme, lars larssen, olive, and many other matters from the living-room of his mind. he wanted a couple of months in which to settle himself in the new personality; plan out his future work in detail; set the mental fly-wheel turning, so as to concentrate his energies undividedly on the work to come. in the afternoon, old mme dromet entered the villa to scrub and clean. she had a standing arrangement to come two or three afternoons a week. "are you going away from paris?" shouted old mme dromet to her employer, seeing the portmanteau and the other signs of departure. she was stone-deaf, and in the manner of deaf people always shouted what she had to say. rivière nodded assent, and produced a paper of written instructions. these he read through with her, so as to make sure that she thoroughly understood. then he gave her a generous allowance to cover the next few months. later in the afternoon, he was seated with his modest travelling equipment in a cab, driving to no. , rue laffitte. he mounted to the offices of the financier and, in order to test the efficacy of his changed appearance, asked to see mr clifford matheson. for a moment the clerk stared at the visitor. the resemblance to his employer was certainly very striking. yet there were differences. mr matheson wore a close-cut moustache, while this man was clean-shaven. the commanding look, the hard-set mask of the financier were softened away; there was joy of life, there was freedom of soul in the features and in the attitude of this visitor. "i am mr john rivière, his half-brother. will you tell him that i am here?" the clerk felt somehow relieved. that of course explained the striking resemblance. he replied: "mr matheson has not been at the office to-day, sir. i fancy he has left for monte carlo. i am not sure, but i believe that was his intention." "has he left no message for me?" "i will see, sir. please take a seat." presently the clerk returned. "i am sorry, sir, but there doesn't seem to be any message left for you." "tell him i called," said rivière, and went back to his cab. in it he was driven to the gare de lyon. at the booking-office he asked for a ticket for arles. his intention was to travel amongst the old cities of provence, and then make his way to the pyrenees and into spain. there was no definite plan of journey; he wanted only some atmosphere which would help him to clear his mind for the work to come. in the midi the early spring would be breathing new life over the earth. about midnight the southern express stopped at some big station. the rhythmic sway and clatter of a moving train had given place to a comparative stillness that awoke john rivière from sleep. he murmured "dijon," and composed himself to a fresh position for rest. some hours later there was again a stoppage, and instinctively he murmured "lyon-perrache." the phases of the journey along the main p.l.m. route had been burnt into him from the visits with olive to monte carlo. in the morning the strange land of provence opened out under mist which presently cleared away beneath the steady drive of the sun. the low hills that border the valley of the rhone cantered past him--quaint, treeless hills here scarped and sun-scorched, there covered with low balsam shrubs. now and again they passed a straggling white village roofed with big, curved, sun-mellowed tiles. around the village there would be a few trees, and on these the early spring of the midi had laid her fingers in tender caress. the air was keen and yet strangely soft; to rivière it was wine of life. he drew it in thirstily; let the wind of the train blow his hair as it listed; watched greedily the ever-changing landscape. the strange bare beauty of this land of sunshine and romance brought him a keen thrill of happiness. it was as though he had loosed himself from prison chains and had emerged into a new life of freedom. in full morning they reached arles, the old roman city in the delta of the rhone. it clusters, huddles around the stately roman arena on the hill in the centre of the town--a place of narrow, tortuous _ruelles_ where every stone cries out a message from the past. in the lanes, going about the business of the day, were women and girls moulded in the strange dark beauty of the district--the "belles arlésiennes" famous in prose and verse. yet chiefly it was the arena that fascinated him. all through the afternoon he wandered about the great stone tiers, flooded in sunlight, and reconstructed for himself a picture of the days when gladiators down below had striven with one another for success--or death. the arena was the archetype of civilized life. now he was a spectator, one of the multitude who look on. it was good to sit in the flooding sunlight and know that he was no longer a gladiator in the arena. there was higher work for him to do, away from the merciless stabbing sword and the cunning of net and trident. at intervals during the afternoon a few tourists--mostly americans--rushed up in high-powered, panting cars to the gateway of the arena; gave a hurried ten minutes to the interior; and then whirled away across the white roads of the rhone delta in a scurry of dust. only one visitor seemed to realize, like himself, the glamour of the past and to steep the mind in it. this was a woman. her age was perhaps twenty-five, in her bearing was that subtle, scarcely definable, sureness of self which marks off womanhood from girlhood. she climbed from tier to tier of the amphitheatre with firm confident step; stood gazing down on her dream pictures of the scene in the arena; moved on to a fresh vantage-point. she wore a short tailored skirt which ignored the ugly, skin-tight convention of the current fashion. her cheeks were fresh with a healthy english colour; her eyes were deep blue, toning almost to violet; her hair was burnished chestnut under the soft felt hat curled upwards in front; a faint odour of healthy womanhood formed as it were an aura around her. all this john rivière had noticed subconsciously as she passed close by him on the ledge where he sat, walking with her firm, confident step. though he noted it appreciatively, yet it disturbed him. he did not want to notice any woman. he had big work to do, and on that he wanted to concentrate all his faculties. he had had no thought of a woman in his life when he broke the chains that shackled him to the clifford matheson existence. he purposed to have no call of sex to divert him from the realization of his big idea. presently she had climbed to the topmost ledge of the amphitheatre, and stood out against the sky-line of the sunset-to-be, deep-chested, straight, clean-limbed, a very perfect figure of a modern diana. it is a dangerous place on which to stand, that topmost ledge of the amphitheatre, with no parapet and a sheer drop to the street below. almost against his will, rivière mounted there. but there was no occasion for his help, and they two stood there, some yards apart, silent, watching the red ball of the sun sink down into the limitless flats of the camargue, and the grey mist rising from the marshes to wrap its ghostly fingers round this city of the ghostly past. twice she looked towards him as though she must speak out the thoughts conjured up by this splendid scene. it wanted only some tiny excuse of convention to bridge over the silence between them, but rivière on his side would not seek it, and the woman hesitated to ask him to take up the thread that lay waiting to his hand. a cold wind sprang up, and she descended and made her way to her hotel on the place du forum. at dinner in the deserted dining-room of his hotel, rivière found himself seated at the next table to her. there are only two hotels worthy of the name in arles, and the coincidence of meeting again was of the very slightest. yet somehow he felt subconsciously that the arm of fate was bringing their two lives together, and he resented it. the silence between them remained unbroken. in the evening he wrapped himself in a cloak against the bitter wind rushing down the valley of the rhone and spreading itself as an invisible fan across the delta, and wandered about the dark alleys of the town, twisting like rabbit-burrows, lighted only here and there with a stray lamp socketed to a stone wall. now he had left the big-thoughted age of the romans, and was carried forward to the crafty, treacherous middle ages. in such an alley as this, bravos had lurked with daggers ready to thrust between the shoulder-blades of their victims. now he was in a wider lane through which an army had swept pell-mell to slay and sack, while from the overhanging windows above desperate men and women shot wildly in fruitless resistance. now he was in another of the lightless rabbit-burrows.... a sudden sharp cry of fear cut out like a whip-lash into the blackness. a woman's cry. there were sounds of angry struggle as rivière made swiftly to the aid of that woman who cried out in fear. stumbling round a corner of the twisting alley, he came to where a gleam from a shuttered window showed a slatted glimpse of a woman struggling in the arms of a lean, wiry peasant of the camargue. rivière seized him by the collar and shook him off as one shakes a dog from the midst of a fray. the man loosed his grip of the woman, and snarling like a dog, writhed himself free of rivière. then, whipping out a knife from his belt, he struck again and again. rivière tried to ward with his left arm, but one blow of the knife went past the guard and ripped his cheek from forehead to jawbone. at that moment a shutter thrown open shot as it were a search-light into the blackness of the alley, full on to the man with the knife, and rivière, putting his whole strength into the blow, sent a smashing right-hander straight into the face of his adversary. thrown back against the alley-wall, the man rebounded forward, and fell, a huddled, nerveless mass, on the ground. from doorways near men came out with lights ... there was a hubbub of noise ... excited questions eddied around rivière. but the latter made no answer. he turned to find the woman who had been attacked. "mr rivière!" it was the woman who had stood by him on the topmost ledge of the amphitheatre, drinking in that glorious fiery sunset over the grey camargue. she was flushed, but very straight and erect. "that brute was attacking me. oh, if only i had had some weapon!" then she noticed the blood dripping from the gash in his forehead, and cried out: "you're hurt! take this." her handkerchief was pressed into his hand. he answered as he took it: "it's nothing. fortunately it missed the eye. and you?" "i'm not hurt, thanks. oh, you were splendid! it makes one feel proud to be an englishwoman." "come to the hotel," he said, and ignoring the excited questioning of the knot of men, took her arm and led her rapidly to their hotel on the place du forum. "let me dress your wound until the doctor can come." "i don't want a doctor," he replied coldly. a sudden aloofness had come into his voice. her eye sought his with a piqued curiosity. for a moment, forgetting that here was a man who had rescued her from insult at considerable bodily risk, she saw him only as a man of curious, almost boorish brusqueness. why this sudden cold reserve? then, with a reddening of cheek at her momentary lapse from gratitude, she began to thank him for his timely help. rivière cut her short. "there is nothing to thank me for. i didn't even know it was you. i heard a woman's cry--that was all. you ought not to go about these dark _ruelles_ alone at night-time." they were at the door of their hotel by now. "can't i dress the wound for you?" she asked. "i've had practice in first aid, mr rivière." he paused suddenly in the doorway and asked her abruptly: "how do you know my name?" "i know more than your name. when your cut has been dressed, i'll explain in full." "thank you, but i can manage quite well myself. let us meet again in the _salon_ in, say, half an hour's time." they parted in the corridor and went to their respective rooms. when they met again, he had his head bound up with swathes of linen. his face was white with the loss of blood, and she gave a little cry of alarm. "you were badly hurt!" "no; merely a surface cut. but please tell me what you know about me." there was a quick change in her to a smiling gaiety. the man was human again--he had at all events a very human curiosity. "the name was from the hotel register, naturally," she answered. "but i know also that you are on your way to monte carlo, which certainly can't come from the register." rivière's face became coldly impassive as he waited for her to explain further. "you are a scientist," she continued slowly, watching him to note the effect of her words. "you are to meet a lady for the first time at monte carlo. yet she knows you by your first name, john. you see that i know a good deal about you." she waited for him to question her further, but he remained silent, deep in thought. more than a little piqued that he would not question further, she gave him abruptly the solution of the riddle. "two nights ago i travelled here from paris in the same train with an englishwoman and her father. they took breakfast at the table near to mine in the restaurant car, and i could scarcely help overhearing what they were saying. they chatted about you. then i found your name in the hotel register." "but why did you look it up?" he challenged abruptly. she parried the question. "the name caught my eye by accident. naturally i was interested by the coincidence." rivière turned the conversation to the impersonal subject of arles and its roman remains, and soon after they said good-night. "shall i see you at breakfast?" "i hope so," he answered. as she moved out of the room, a splendidly graceful figure radiating health and energy and life full-tide, rivière could not help following her with his eyes. his innermost being thrilled despite himself to the magic of her splendid womanhood. it plucked at the strings of the primitive man within him. in his room that evening he took up the blood-drenched handkerchief. in the corner was the name "elaine verney." the name conveyed nothing to him. he threw the handkerchief away, and shut her from his thoughts. he wanted no woman in this new life of his. with the morning came a resolution to avoid her altogether. he rose very early and took the first train out of arles. it took him to nîmes. chapter viii who and where is riviÈre? "who is rivière?" here was a new factor in the situation. lars larssen mentally docketed it as a matter to be dealt with immediately. after sending off a reply telegram to cherbourg (which reached the quayside too late and was afterwards returned to him), the shipowner got a telephone call through to olive at the hotel des hespérides. "this is mr larssen speaking. are you mrs matheson?" "yes. good morning." "good morning. i called you up to say that your husband has sailed for canada on 'la bretagne.' i had a line from cherbourg this morning." "so had i." "i suppose he explained matters to you?" "no, he referred me to you for explanations. just like clifford!... what about rivière--is he coming to monte?" lars larssen had to tread warily here. so he answered: "i didn't quite catch that name." "john rivière, my husband's half-brother. he lives in some suburb of paris, i forget where, and clifford was to bring him along to monte." the shipowner decided that he must find this man and discover if he knew anything. the words of jimmy martin flashed through his brain: "i doubt if the police'll do much unless the relatives kick up a shindy." meanwhile, there was nothing to do but tell the truth, which was his usual resource when in an unforeseen difficulty. "don't know anything about him. if you give me his paris address i'll dig him out." "we don't know his address." "then i'll find it at the office. as soon as i get a line on him i'll wire you. rivière? the name sounds french." "french-canadian. he's a couple of years older than clifford, i believe.... when are you coming yourself?" "to-night's train or to-morrow. i'm not sure if i can get away to-night." "do you play roulette?" "no. never been at the tables." "then i must teach you," said olive gaily. "delighted!" after the telephone conversation, larssen went straight to no. , rue laffitte. he had wired the night before to london to have a secretary sent over--sylvester, his usual confidential man, if the latter were back at business; if not, another subordinate he named. catching the nine o'clock train from charing cross, the secretary would arrive in paris about five in the afternoon. meanwhile, larssen, had to make his search for rivière in person. the business of a financier differs radically from a mercantile business on the point of staff. the main work of negotiation can only be carried out by the head of the firm himself, as a rule, and the routine work for subordinates is small, except when a public company flotation is being made. matheson had found that his paris office needed only a manager, coulter, and a couple of clerks, one english and one french. coulter was a steady-going, reliable man of forty odd, extremely trustworthy and not too imaginative. he knew lars larssen, of course, and received him deferentially. "what can i have the pleasure of doing for you, sir?" "i want the address of mr john rivière. or rather, mrs matheson wants it." "who is mr john rivière?" this came as a fresh surprise to lars larssen, and made him doubly anxious to discover the man. why all this mystery surrounding him? "i understand from mrs matheson that mr rivière is her husband's half-brother. lives somewhere around paris." "strange! i've never heard of him myself. i'll make enquiries if you'll wait a moment." presently coulter returned with the young english clerk of the office. "it seems that mr rivière called here yesterday afternoon and enquired for mr matheson," explained coulter. lars larssen turned to the young clerk with a questioning look. "it was the first time i had ever seen him, sir," said the clerk. "he came in and asked quite naturally for mr matheson. there was an astonishing likeness between them, but that was explained at once when he told me they were half-brothers." "an astonishing likeness?" "when i say a likeness, sir, i mean of course in a general way. mr rivière is younger and different in many ways." "describe him." the clerk did so to the best of his ability. "did he leave an address?" "no, sir." "or a message?" "no." "or say where he was going?" the clerk could offer no clue to the whereabouts or intentions of john rivière. repeated questioning added little to the meagre information already given. "mr matheson has not been at the office to-day or yesterday. have you seen anything of him?" asked coulter of the shipowner. "i know. he's away to canada." "to canada!" "yes. we discussed the matter the night i was here. hasn't he written you?" "we've heard nothing." "reckon you will to-day.... say, couldn't you look in mr matheson's desk to find the address of this mr rivière?" coulter was the financier's confidential man. he had full power to go over his employer's desk except for certain drawers labelled "private," and he did so now. when he came back from the search, he had an envelope in his hand addressed "lars larssen, esq." "all i could find was this envelope for you, sir. there seems to be no record of mr rivière's address." the shipowner slit open the letter and read it with a countenance that gave no clue whatever to what was passing in his mind. "my dear larssen," it ran, "i estimate your expenses on the hudson bay scheme at roughly £ , , and i enclose cheque for that amount. if this is right, please let me have a formal receipt and quittance. i want you to understand that my decision on the matter is final. i regret that i am obliged to back out at the last moment, but no doubt you will be able to proceed without my help." the letter was in handwriting, and had not been press-copied. larssen noted that point at once with satisfaction. but the letter itself gave him uneasiness. it explained nothing of matheson's motives. from the 'phone conversation with olive, it was clear that she had no suspicion that her husband wanted to withdraw from the hudson bay deal. in fact, she had asked anxiously if anything had gone wrong with the scheme. sir francis letchmere might of course be closer in matheson's business confidence, and that was one of the reasons for travelling to monte carlo and talking to him face to face. but with his keen intuitive sense, lars larssen felt that the explanation was in some way connected with this mysterious john rivière. it was imperative to get in touch with the man. where was rivière? was there nobody who could throw light on his whereabouts? his jaw tightened as he began to chew on the problem. paris is too big a city in which to hunt for a mere name. after thanking the manager, larssen withdrew from the room. passing through the outer office, he was addressed by the other of the two clerks, a young frenchman. "monsieur," said he in french, "here is a point which perhaps will be of service. i am at the window when monsieur rivière arrives _en taxi-auto_. on the _impériale_ i see a portmanteau. doubtless monsieur rivière journeys away from paris." "did you note the number of the cab?" the young frenchman made a gesture of sympathetic negation. there had been no reason to look at the number, even if he could have read it from a window on the second story. "thanks," said larssen, but the information seemed at first sight valueless. a man takes an unknown cab from an unknown house in an unknown suburb to an unknown terminus, when he buys a ticket for an unknown destination. sheer waste of energy to hunt for a needle in that haystack! yet his bulldog mind would not let go of the problem. presently he had found a new avenue of approach to it. if rivière had travelled away from paris on the evening of the th, probably he stayed that night or the next day at some hotel. there he would have to fill in his name, etc., in the hotel register according to the strict requirements of the french law. advertise in the papers for one john rivière from paris, age thirty-seven, staying at a hotel in the provinces on the th or th. offer a reward for information. the average frenchman is very keen on money; without a doubt he would answer the advertisement if he knew anything of john rivière. advertise in _le petit journal_, _le petit parisien_ and a few other dailies which cover france from end to end, as no english or american journals do in their respective countries. that was the right solution! larssen did not pay the cheque for £ , into his bank. he was after big game, and a mere £ , was a jack-rabbit. it would be safer, he felt, to let it lie amongst his secret papers. when sylvester, his private secretary, arrived by the afternoon train from london, lars larssen placed him in touch with only so much of the situation as he considered desirable. this was little. sylvester was to stay in paris while the shipowner went on to monte carlo. if the various advertisements brought a reply, sylvester was to hunt out john rivière in whatever part of france he might be, and then communicate with lars larssen for further orders. the secretary was a quiet, self-contained, silent man of thirty or thirty-one. a heavy dark moustache curtained expression from his lips. not only could he carry out orders to the letter, but he was to be trusted to keep his head in any unforeseen emergency and act on his own responsibility in a sound, common-sense way. but lars larssen trusted no man beyond the essentials of any situation. his was the brain to plan and direct. he preferred obedient tools to brilliant, independent helpers. at the train-side, larssen gave a final direction to his subordinate: "keep me in touch with every move." back at his hotel, sylvester occupied himself with the development of some films he had taken on the channel passage. in his hours of leisure he was a devoted amateur photographer. at the present time there was nothing to be done but wait the possible answer to the advertisement. chapter ix at monte carlo next day, the wonderful panorama of the riviera was unfolding itself before the eyes of the shipowner. the red rocks and the dwarf pines of the esterel coves, against which an azure sea lapped in soft caress.... cannes with its far-flung draperies of white villas.... the proud solemnity of the alpes maritimes thrusting up to the snow-line and glinting white against the sun.... fairy bungalows nesting in tropic gardens and waving welcome with their palm-fronds to the rushing train.... the baie des anges laughing with sky and hills.... the many-tunnelled cliff-route from villefranche to cap d'ail, where moments of darkness tease one to longing for the sight of the azure coves dotted with white-winged yachts and foam-slashed motor-boats.... europe's silken, jewelled fringe! but scenery made no appeal to lars larssen. scenery would not help him to the attainment of his great ambitions. scenery was _no use_ to him. his delight lay in men and women and the using of them. business--the turning of other men's energies to his own ends--was the very breath of his being. he was glad to reach the hectic crowdedness of the tiny principality of monaco--that triple essence of civilization and sensuous luxury. he felt at home with the big idea that drew the whole world to the gaming tables to pay homage to the goddess fortune. for a moment the suggestion came to him to buy up some beautiful islet and build a pleasure city on it which should be a wonder of the world. he was making a note of it for future consideration, when olive and her father met him on the platform at monte carlo. "i thought perhaps you would bring john rivière with you," said olive after they had exchanged greetings. a strong desire had sprung up to see this mysterious relation of clifford's, and to be balked of any passing whim was keen annoyance to her. "bring a will-o'-the-wisp," answered larssen. "can't you find him?" asked sir francis. larssen shook his head. "gad, that's curious. why doesn't he write? bad form, you know. but when a man's lived all his life in the backwoods of canada, i suppose one can't expect him to know what's what." olive studied the shipowner keenly as they drove to their hotel. his massive strength of body and masterful purpose of mind, showing in every line of his face, attracted her strongly. olive worshipped power, money, and all that breathed of them. here was the living embodiment of money and power. after dinner that evening all three went to the casino. the order had been given to sir francis letchmere's valet that he was to bring over to the salle de jeux any telegram or 'phone message that might arrive. larssen was keenly interested in the throng of smart men and women clustered around the tables. here was the raw material of his craft--human nature. moths around a candle--well, he himself had lit many candles. the process of singeing their wings intrigued him vastly. olive explained the game to him with a flush of excitement on her cheeks. he noted that flush and made a mental note to use it for his own ends. she took a seat at a roulette table and asked him to advise her where to stake her money. sir francis preferred _trente-et-quarante_, and went off to another table. "i can see you've been born lucky," she whispered to larssen. "i'll try to share it with you," he answered, and suggested some numbers with firm, decisive confidence. though he had keen pride in his intellect and his will, he had also firm reliance on his intuitive sense. with lars larssen, all three worked hand in hand. olive began to win. her eyes sparkled, and she exchanged little gay pleasantries and compliments with the shipowner. "we've made all the loose hay out of _this_ sunshine," said larssen after an hour or so, when a spell of losing set in. "now we'll move to another table." olive obeyed him with alacrity. she liked his masterful orders. here was a man to whom one could give confidence. "five louis on _carré_ - ," he advised suddenly when they had found place at another table. without hesitation she placed a gold hundred-franc piece on the intersecting point of the four squares , , , . the croupier flicked the white marble between thumb and second finger, and it whizzed round the roulette board like an echo round the whispering gallery of st paul's. at length it slowed down, hit against a metal deflector, and dropped sharply into one of the thirty-seven compartments of the roulette board. a croupier silently touched the square of with his rake to indicate that this number had won, and the other croupier proceeded to gather in the stakes. forty louis in notes were pushed over to olive. at this moment sir francis' valet came up to larssen with a telegram in his hand. the latter opened and scanned it quickly. "what is it?" asked olive. "a tip to gamble the limit on number ," replied larssen smilingly. olive placed nine louis, the limit stake, on number , and two minutes later a pile of bank-notes aggregating francs came to her from the croupier's metal box. "you're midas!" she whispered exultantly. "midas has a hurry call to the 'phone," he answered. for the telegram was from sylvester, and it read:-- "fourteen replies to hand. fourteen j. rivière's scattered about france." chapter x larssen turns another corner "clifford is a very shrewd man of business," remarked larssen, drinking his third cognac at ciro's at the end of a dinner which was a masterpiece even for monte carlo, where dining is taken _au grand sérieux_. he did not sip cognac, but took it neat in liqueur glassfuls at a time. there was a clean-cut forcefulness even in his drinking, typical of the human dynamo of will-power within. sir francis puffed out a cloud of cigar-smoke with an air of reflected glory. he had helped to capture matheson as a son-in-law, and a compliment of this kind was therefore an indirect compliment to himself. the capture of matheson was, in fact, the most notable achievement of his career. beyond that, he had done little but ornament the boards of companies with his name; manage his estate (through an agent) with a mixture of cross conservatism and despotic benevolence; and shoot, hunt and fish with impeccable "good form." he was typical of that very large class of leisured landowner in whose creed good form is next above godliness. "yes, clifford has his head screwed on right," he said. "before he left for canada," continued larssen, "he managed to gouge me for a tidy extra in shares for you and for mrs matheson." olive had been markedly listless, heavy-eyed and abstracted during the course of the dinner, a point which larssen had noted with some puzzlement. his mind had worked over the reasons for it without arriving at any definite conclusion. but now, at this unexpected announcement, her eyes lighted up greedily. "for me!" she exclaimed. "that's more than i expected from clifford." the shipowner reached to take out some papers from his breast-pocket, then stopped. "i was forgetting. i oughtn't to be talking shop over the dinner-table." sir francis made an inarticulate noise which was a kind of tribute to the fetish of good form. he wanted to hear more, but did not want to ask to hear more. "please go on," said olive. "talk business now just as much as you like. unless, of course, you'd rather not discuss details while i'm here." "i'd sooner talk business with you present, mrs matheson. i think a wife has every right to be her husband's business partner. i think it's good for both sides. when my dear wife was with me, we were share-and-share partners." he paused for a moment, then continued: "here's the draft scheme for the flotation." he held out a paper between sir francis and olive, and sir francis took it and read it over with an air of concentrated, conscious wisdom--the air he carefully donned at board meetings, together with a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez. "clifford will be chairman," explained larssen. "you and lord st aubyn and carleton-wingate are the men i want for the other directors. i, as vendor, join the board after allotment." "where's the point about shares for me?" asked sir francis, reading on. "that doesn't appear in the prospectus, of course. a private arrangement between clifford and myself. here's the memorandum." this he handed to olive, who nodded her head with pleasure as she read it through, her father looking over her shoulder. "keep it," said larssen as she made to hand it back. "keep it till your husband returns from canada." "when did he say he will be back?" "it's very uncertain. he doesn't know himself. it's a delicate matter to handle--very delicate. that's why he went himself to montreal." "he wired me that he's travelling under an assumed name." "very prudent," commented larssen. "i don't quite like it," murmured sir francis. "not the right thing, you know." larssen did not answer, but olive rejoined sharply: "what does it matter if it helps to get the flotation off and make money?" "well, perhaps so. still----" "can you fix up st aubyn and carleton-wingate?" asked larssen. "quickly?" "yes, i expect so. but has clifford approved this scheme?" "of course." "have you it with you?" "have i what?" "i mean the agreement clifford signed." sir francis, without knowing it, had stumbled upon the crucial weakness of larssen's daring scheme. but it would have taken a far shrewder man than he to realize the vital import of the point from larssen's easy, almost causal answer: "there's no signed agreement. we agreed the scheme in principle at the interview in clifford's office, and he left details to you and me. his last words were: 'tell my father-in-law to go ahead as quickly as he can manage.'" "but when i put this before st aubyn and carleton-wingate, they'll be expecting me to--i mean to say, isn't it deuced irregular, you know?" larssen did not answer this for a moment. he had a keen appreciation of the value of silence in business negotiations. he poured himself out another glass of cognac and drank it off. his attitude conveyed a contempt for letchmere's cautiousness which he would be too polite to put into words. "if you'd sooner write to clifford and have his agreement to the scheme in black and white ..." was his studiously, chilly reply. olive put in a word: "i dislike all those niggling formalities." "business is business," quoted her father sententiously. "besides, clifford will be back before the prospectus goes to the public." "probably," agreed larssen. "but in case he is not back in time, we're to go ahead just as if he were here. that's what he told me before he left paris. didn't he write you to that effect, sir francis?" "i heard nothing from him." "but i showed you my telegram," answered olive. "clifford said to refer to mr larssen for all details." "i must think matters over," said the baronet obstinately. lars larssen had been studying his man through half-closed eyelids, and he now summed him up with penetrating accuracy. it was not suspicion that made sir francis hesitate, but petty dignity. he had become huffed. he felt that his dignity had not been sufficiently studied in the transaction. matters had been arranged over his head without formally consulting him. it was "not the thing"--"not good form." to attempt to force matters would merely drive him into deeper obstinacy. and yet it was _vital_ to larssen's plan that sir francis should go ahead with the work of the flotation quickly--should go ahead with it in the full belief that clifford matheson had agreed to the scheme and to the use of his name. it was vital that sir francis should take the whole responsibility of the flotation on to his own shoulders. he was to make use of his son-in-law's name with the other prospective directors and on the printed prospectus just as though matheson were personally sanctioning it. larssen himself planned to remain in the background and pull the wires unseen. when the revelation of matheson's death came to light--as it inevitably must in the course of time--letchmere would be so far involved that he would be forced to shoulder responsibility for the use of matheson's name. to try to rush matters with sir francis would perhaps wreck the whole delicate machinery of the scheme. larssen quickly resolved to get at him in indirect fashion through olive, and accordingly he answered evenly: "think it over by all means. there's plenty to consider. take the draft scheme and look it through at your leisure.... now what's the plan of amusement for to-night?" before going to the casino, olive made an excuse to return to her rooms at the hespérides. alone in her bedroom, she took out from a locked drawer a hypodermic syringe in silver and glass, and a phial of colourless liquid. she held the phial in her hands with a curious look of furtive tenderness, fondling it softly. for many months past this had been her cherished secret--the drug that unlocked for her new realms of fancy and exquisite sensation. to herself she called it by a pet name, as though it were a lover. in the course of the evening's play at the tables, larssen was struck with her increasing animation and gaiety. the heavy, listless look had left her eyes, and they now glittered with life and fire. when they left the tables to stroll by the milk-white terraces of the casino, there was a flush in her cheeks and iridescence in her speech very different from a couple of hours before. a spirit of caustic, impish brilliance was in her. she turned it upon the people they had rubbed shoulders with at the tables; upon the people walking past them on the terraces; even upon her husband: "clifford is a per cent. success. there are men who can never achieve full success in any field whatever. they climb up to , , per cent., and then the grade is too steep for them." "they stick." "or run backwards downhill. i'm a passenger in a car of that kind. near to the top, but not reaching it. so i get out to walk on myself." "there are mighty few men who have the per cent. in them." "tell me this, mr larssen. did you know you were a per cent. man when you started your business life, or did you come to realize it gradually?" "i knew it from the first," replied the shipowner steadily. "knew it when i was a mere kiddy. set myself apart from the other boys. told myself i was to be their master. made myself master. fought for it. fought every boy who wouldn't acknowledge it.... when i went to sea as cabin-boy on the "mary r." of gloucester, the men on the trawler tried to "lick me into shape," as they called it. they didn't know what they were up against. i used those men as whet-stones--used them to kick fear out of myself. you notice that i limp a little? that's a legacy from the days of the 'mary r.'" olive looked at him with open admiration. "that's epic!" she exclaimed. "how far are you going to climb?" larssen had never revealed to any man or woman--save only to his wife--the great ultimate purpose of his life. he did not tell it to olive. she was to be used as a pawn in the great game, just as he was using sir francis and the dead clifford matheson. it came upon him that she was now a widow. he would fan her open admiration so as to make use of it when she awoke to the fact of her widowhood. so he answered: "how far i climb depends on the help of my best friends. i don't hide that. when my dear wife was with me, she was an inspiration to me. no man can drive his car to the summit without a woman to spur him on." "did marriage change you much?" "strengthened me. bolted me to my foundations.... but here i'm monopolizing the conversation with talk about myself. let's switch. what are _your_ ambitions?" olive laughed--a laugh with a bitter taste in it. "i wanted to help a man to drive his car to the summit, and the car has stuck. i could inspire, but my inspiring goes to waste. i'm an engine racing without a shaft to take up its energy. clifford is developing scruples. i don't know where he caught them. i can't stand sick people. that's my temperament--i must have energy and action around me." "i understand that. felt it myself at times," he answered sympathetically. without apparent reason her thoughts skipped to a woman who had sat near them at the roulette table. "wasn't she the image of a disappointed vulture? i mean the woman in green. swooping down from a distance to gorge herself with a tasty feast, and then finding a man with a rake to chase her off. i chuckled to myself as i watched her. do men and women look to you like animals? they do to me. monte carlo's a zoo, only the animals aren't caged." "that's right! you're an extraordinarily keen observer, mrs matheson." sir francis letchmere approached them beamingly from the direction of the casino. he had won money at _trente-et-quarante_, and was feeling very pleased with his own judgment and powers of intellect generally. "leave him to me," whispered olive to larssen. "i'll see that my father gets busy on the hudson bay scheme. but on one condition." "what's that?" "that you stay on at monte for a few days. i don't want to be left here alone. i hate being alone." "i'm due back in london. urgent business matters." "leave them for a few days. leave them to your managers. stay here and amuse me." larssen knew when to give way--or seem to give way--and how to do so gracefully. "i'll stay on without asking any conditions," he answered with flattering cordiality. "it's not often i get a command so pleasant to carry out!" chapter xi a letter from riviÈre olive made good her promise at once. she packed her father back to england the very next day, to get to work on the hudson bay flotation, and lars larssen remained on at monte carlo. though he had led olive to believe that he had given in merely to please her, yet his true motive was very different. his feelings towards her held no scrap of passion in them. he knew her as vain, shallow, feverishly pleasure-seeking--a glittering dragon-fly. as a woman she made no appeal to him. but as a tool to serve in the attaining of his ambitions, she might conceivably be highly useful. his true motive in remaining at monte carlo was double-edged--to bring olive into the orbit of his fascination, and to mark time until the mystery of john rivière had been set at rest. john rivière worried him. deep down in his being was a keen intuitive feeling that this mysterious half-brother of the dead man was in some way linked up with the attainment of his ambitions--to help or to hinder. why had he not come to monte carlo as arranged? why had he sent no line to olive to excuse himself? why had he made no further inquiry about clifford matheson--or had he indeed made some inquiry which might set him on the track of his brother's disappearance? it was vital to know how matters stood with this john rivière before he could march forward unhesitatingly with the hudson bay flotation. the result of the advertisements in the paris newspapers was annoying. where the shipowner had hoped for one answer--or perhaps a couple pointing in the same direction--over a dozen had been received. this meant waste of precious time while sylvester unravelled them. over the 'phone larssen and his secretary had discussed the various answers; rejected some of them; wired for confirmatory details in respect of others. provincial hotel-keepers and railway guards were so keenly "on the make" that they were ready to swear to identity on the slenderest basis of fact. in pursuit of two of the clues, sylvester travelled as far north as valognes in the cotentin, and as far east as gérardmer in the hautes-vosges. both journeys were fruitless, and worse than fruitless--waste of precious time and energy. while larssen waited eagerly for definite news from his secretary with whom he kept constantly in touch by telegram, news came in unexpected fashion through olive. "i've just heard from rivière," she announced. "he's at arles--down with a touch of fever. that's the reason he hadn't written before. those scientist people are terribly casual in social matters." "may i see the letter?" asked lars larssen. his reason for asking was a desire to study the man's handwriting and draw conclusions from it. he was a keen student of handwriting. after he had read through the note he remarked drily: "i guess i can give you another reason." "for his not writing?" "yes.... _cherchez la femme._" "why do you say that?" "this note was written by a woman." "it's a very decided hand for a woman." "yes it is. i'd stake big on that. look at the long crossings to the t's. look at the way the date is written. look at the way words run into one another." olive examined the letter carefully, and laughed. "you're right," said she. "he's travelling with some woman. those men who are supposed to be wrapped up in their scientific experiments--you can't trust them far!" then she added with a curious touch of conscious virtue: "but he'd no right to get that woman to send a letter to _me_." larssen had noted the printed heading to the letter, "hotel du forum, arles," and he wired at once to morris sylvester to proceed to arles and hunt out further details. it seemed an unnecessary precaution, but the shipowner never neglected the tiniest detail when he had a big scheme to engineer. his relief at the letter proved short-lived. late that night came a message from sylvester:-- "rivière not at arles and not down with fever. am following up further clues. will wire again in the morning." larssen did not show this wire to olive. he had told her nothing of his search for rivière--had not even appeared specially interested in him. but in point of fact his interest in the mysterious half-brother of the dead man was steadily growing with every fresh check to the search. the intuition on which he placed such firm faith told him insistently that john rivière was a factor vital to the fulfilment of his ambitions. all the morning he looked for the telegram his secretary was to send him. it came in the early afternoon:-- "have found rivière under extraordinary circumstances. letter and photograph follow." chapter xii the second meeting europe's beauty-spots of to-day were the beauty-spots of the roman empire two thousand years ago. wherever the traveller around europe now reaches a place that makes instant appeal; where harsh winds are screened away and blazing sunshine filters through feathery foliage; where all nature beckons one to halt and rest awhile--there he is practically certain to find roman remains. the wealthy romans wintered at nice and cannes and st raphael; took the waters at baden-baden and aix in savoy; made sporting centres of treves on the moselle and ronda in andalusia; dallied by the marble baths of nîmes. nîmes had captured rivière at sight. his first day in that leisured, peaceful, fragrant town, nestling amongst the hills against the keen _mistral_, had decided him to settle there for some weeks. he had taken a couple of furnished rooms in a villa with a delightful old-world garden. for a lengthy stay he much preferred his own rooms to the transiency and restlessness of a hotel, and at the villa clémentine he had found exactly what he required. the living-room opened wide to the sun. one stepped out from its french windows into the garden, where a little pebbly path led one wandering amongst oleanders and dwarf oranges and flaming cannas, to a corner where a tiny fountain made a home for lazy goldfish floating in placid contentment under the hot sun. here there was an arbour wreathed in gentle wisteria, where rivière took breakfast and the mid-day meal. at nightfall a chill snapped down with the suddenness of the impetuousness midi, and his evening meal was accordingly taken indoors. besides this little private preserve of his own, there was the beautiful public garden of nîmes--called the jardin de la fontaine--draping a hillside that looks down upon the marble baths of the romans, almost as freshly new to-day as two thousand years ago. a thick battalion of trees at the summit of the hillside makes stubborn insistence to the northern _mistral_, so that even when the wind tears over the plains of provence like a wild fury, scourging and freezing, the jardin de la fontaine is serene and windless. the _mistral_ goes always with a cloudless sky, as though the clouds were fleeing from its icy keenness, and the sun pours full upon the semi-circle of the jardin de la fontaine, turning it to a hothouse where the most delicate plants and shrubs can find a home. here men and women in toga and flowing draperies have whiled away leisure hours, spun day-dreams, made love, or schemed affairs of state and personal ambition. to-day, it is still the resort of nîmes where everyone meets everyone else, either by design or by the chance intercourse of a small town. on a morning of _mistral_, rivière was seated in the pleasant warmth of the jardin, planning out a special piece of apparatus for his coming research-work. he was concentrating intently--so intently that he did not notice miss verney passing him with a very professional-looking campstool, easel and sketch-book. this second encounter was pure accident. elaine had no intentions whatever of following the man who had left arles with such boorish brusqueness, without even the conventional good-bye at the breakfast-table. she had come to nîmes because she was a worker, because this town contained special material necessary to her bread-winning. she had guessed that rivière's hurried departure from arles was made in order to avoid meeting her. it hurt. woman-like, she set more value on a few pleasant words of farewell over a breakfast-table and a warm handshake than on a defence from assault at the risk of a man's life. the seeming illogicality of woman is of course a mere surface illusion. it hides a train of reasoning very different to a man's. it is a mental short-cut like an irishman's "bull," which condenses a whole chain of thought into a single link. in this case elaine knew that rivière's rescue held no personal significance. he did not know at the time that it was _she_ who was being attacked. he would have gone to the defence of any woman under similar circumstances. while altruism appealed to her strongly in a broad, general way, it did not appeal when it came home in such a specific, individual fashion. on the other hand, a warm handshake at the breakfast-table would have its personal significance. it would be a homage to herself, and not to women in general. its value would lie in its personal meaning. while she knew this thought was ungenerous, yet at the same time she knew that behind it there lay a sound basis of reason. her pride--that form of pride which is a very wholesome self-respect--made her flush at the thought that rivière would see her and imagine, in a man's way, that she had followed him to nîmes. she hurried on past him with a rapid side-glance. the situation was an awkward one. she had her work to do by the old roman baths and the druid's tower on the hillside, and she could not leave nîmes without doing it. when he came face to face with her, perhaps it would be best to give a cold bow of formal recognition--the kind of bow that says "good morning. i'm busy. you're not wanted." and yet, there was news for him in her possession of which he ought to be informed. it was only fair to the man who had defended her at considerable personal risk that she should do him this small service in return. in her pocket was a cutting of an advertisement in a parisian paper, several days old, asking for the whereabouts of john rivière. very possibly he had not seen it himself. it was only fair to let him know of it. the stitches in his forehead, which she had noted as she hurried past--these called mutely for the small service in return. elaine decided to wait until he recognized her, to give him the advertisement, and then to conclude their acquaintanceship with a few formal words of which the meaning would be unmistakable. accordingly she set her campstool not far away from him, and began her sketching in a vigorous, characteristic fashion. it was an hour or more before her intuition warned her that rivière was approaching from behind. as he passed, she raised her eyes quite naturally as though to look at the subject she was finishing. their eyes met. rivière raised his hat politely but without any special significance. his attitude conveyed no desire to renew their acquaintance. he did not stop to exchange a few words, as she expected. elaine was hurt. she felt that he should at least have given her the opportunity to refuse acquaintanceship. and a sudden resolve fired up within her to humble this man of ice--to melt him, and bring him to her feet, and then to dismiss him. "mr rivière," she called. he stopped, and answered with a formal "good morning." "i have something for you--some news." "yes?" "do you know that your friends are getting anxious about you?" rivière's attention concentrated. "which friends?" he asked. "i don't know which friends. but there's an advertisement in a paris paper asking for your whereabouts." "thank you for letting me know. what does it say?" she produced the cutting and handed it to him. he studied it in silence. there was no hint in its wording as to who was making inquiry--the advertisement merely asked for replies to be sent to a box number care of the journal. it struck rivière that it must have been inserted by olive. "thank you," he said. "i hadn't seen it before." "i'm going to ask something in return," said elaine, and smiled at him frankly. "i want to know why you're running away from your monte carlo friends." most women of rivière's world would have cloaked their curiosity under some conventional, indirect form of question. her frank directness struck him as refreshing, and he answered readily: "the lady you saw in the côte d'azur rapide was my sister-in-law, mrs matheson. mrs clifford matheson." "the wife of that man!" she interrupted. there was anger and contempt in her voice. "you know him?" "my father lost the last remains of his money in one of that man's companies. it hastened his death." "which company?" "the saskatchewan land development co. my father bought during the early boom in the shares." rivière remembered that he himself had cleared £ , over the flotation, and the remembrance jarred on him. the company was a moderately successful one, but in its early days the shares had been "rigged" to an unreal figure. still, he felt compelled, almost against his will, to defend his past action. "did he buy for investment or merely for speculation?" asked rivière. "i know very little about such matters." "as an investment, it would to-day be paying a moderate dividend." "my father had to sell again at a big loss." "it sounds very like speculation." "possibly." "i'm very sorry to hear of the loss; but a man who speculates in the stock market must look out for himself. it's a risky game for the outsider to play." elaine silently recognized the truth of his words. then it came to her suddenly that rivière had, a few moments ago, used the word "sister-in-law," and she said: "i was forgetting that mr matheson must be a relative of yours." "my half-brother." she looked at him with a searching frankness that was in its way a tacit compliment. he was radically different to the mental picture she had formed of the financier. he continued: "the lady you saw in the train was my sister-in-law. as you already know, she expects me to join her at monte carlo. i don't want to be drawn into that kind of life. i want to remain quiet. i have important work to do." "scientific work, isn't it?" "yes. and there's a big stretch of it in front of me. that's why i'm not travelling on to monte carlo. you understand my position now, miss verney?" "quite." "i'm right in calling you _miss_ verney?" "yes." then she added: "and you're wondering why an unmarried woman should be wandering alone amongst the by-ways of france?" "i can see that you also have work to do." rivière looked towards her almost finished sketch of the roman baths. she removed it and passed him the rest of the book. he found the book filled with curiously formal sketches and paintings of scenery--woodland glades, open heaths, temples, arenas, and so on. these sketches caught boldly at the high-lights of what they pictured, and ignored detail. the colouring was also very noticeably simplified--"impressionistic" would better express it. "they look like stage scenes," he commented. "they are. sketches for stage scenes. i'm a scene painter. just now i'm gathering material for the staging of a roman drama with a setting in roman provence. barrèze is to produce it at the odéon. it's my first big chance." rivière pointed to one of her sketches. "wasn't this worked into a scene for 'ames nues,' at the chatelet?" "quite right!" "i remember being very much impressed by it at the time.... yours must be particularly interesting work?" "the work one likes best is always peculiarly interesting. that's happiness--to have the work one likes best." seeing that rivière was genuinely interested, she began to dilate on her work, explaining something of its technique, telling of its peculiar difficulties. she showed him her sketches taken at arles; mentioned orange, for its roman arch and theatre, as a stopping-place on her return journey to paris. there was a glow in her voice that told clearly of her absorption in her chosen work. rivière was enjoying the frank camaraderie of their conversation. suddenly the thought of the newspaper cutting came back to him sharply. if olive had inserted that advertisement, she must have some special reason for it. perhaps she wanted to communicate with him in reference to the "death" of matheson. some hotel-keeper or railway-guard would no doubt have seen the advertisement and answered it, letting her know of rivière's stay at arles. it would be prudent to write and allay suspicion. but he could not pen the letter himself, because his handwriting would be recognized by olive. rivière solved the difficulty in his usual decisive fashion. "miss verney," he said, "i wonder if you would do me a very big favour without asking for my reasons in detail? it's a most unusual request i'm going to make." elaine remembered her resolve to thaw this man of ice, and bring him to her feet, and then dismiss him. she had thawed him already. to do him some special favour would be a most excellent means of attaining the second end. she answered: "anything in reason i'll do gladly." "you know that i want to avoid monte carlo. i don't even want my sister-in-law to know that i'm at nîmes." "yes?" "will you write a letter for me to say that i'm unwell and can't travel away from arles?" elaine looked at him searchingly. "it's certainly a most unusual request to make of a mere acquaintance," she remarked. "i have good reasons for asking it." "then i'll do what you ask." "would you mind coming round to my rooms?" "certainly; if you'll wait until i've finished this sketch." she worked on in silence for another quarter of an hour, completing her picture with rapid, vigorous brush-strokes. then he took up her campstool and easel, and they walked together alongside the roman aqueduct to the centre of the town, under an avenue of tall, spreading plane trees, yellow with the first delicate leaves of spring like the feathers of a newborn chick. the sunshine caressed the little garden of the villa clémentine, coquetting with the flaming cannas, twinkling amongst the pebbles of the paths, stroking the backs of the lazy goldfish. seating elaine in the arbour, rivière brought out pen and ink and a sheet of paper headed "hotel du forum, place du forum, arles," which he happened to have kept by accident from his visit to the town. then he dictated a formal letter to mrs matheson, explaining that he was laid up with a touch of fever and would not be able to join her at monte carlo. the illness was not serious, and there was no cause for anxiety. nevertheless it kept him tied. he hoped she would excuse him. "there will be a nîmes postmark on the envelope," commented elaine as she wrote the address. "no; i shall go over to arles this afternoon and post it there. as you know, it's scarcely an hour away by train." he glanced at his watch. "past twelve o'clock already! won't you stay and take lunch with me? madame giras is famous in nîmes for her _bouillabaisse_." she agreed readily, and a dainty lunch was soon served them in the covered arbour. over the olives and _bouillabaisse_ and the _oeufs provençals_ they chatted in easy, friendly fashion about impersonal matters--the strange charm of provence, art, music, the theatre. from that the conversation passed imperceptibly to more personal matters. elaine, keeping to her resolve of the morning, led it in that direction. he learnt that she was an orphan; that her nearest relatives were entirely out of sympathy with her ideas and aspirations, and profoundly distasteful to her; that she took full pride in her independence and the position she was carving out for herself in the world of theatrical art. "to be free; to be independent; to live your own life; to know that you buy your bread and bed with the money you've earned yourself--it's fine, it's splendid!" said elaine, with flushed cheek. "i wonder if men ever have that feeling as strongly as we women do?" "'to be free, sire, is only to change one's master,'" quoted rivière. "'master' is a word i should rule out of the dictionary," she replied. "and if ever your present freedom were suddenly denied to you by fate?" she shivered, and moved a little into the full blaze of the sunshine. * * * * * in the afternoon rivière took train to arles. the way lies by vineyards and olive orchards alternating with open, wind-swept heathland. the stunted olive trees, twisted and gnarled, pictured themselves to him as little old men worn and weary with their fight against the winds. here the _mistral_ was master and the olive trees his slaves. at arles rivière posted his letter in a box on the platform of the station, and asked of a porter when the next train would take him back to nîmes. standing close by as he asked this question was a lean, wiry, crafty-looking peasant of the camargue--a hard-bit youth toughened by his work on the soil. the most prominent feature of the face was the nose smashed out of shape. rivière did not know that it was he himself who had left that life-mark on the young man only a few days before--he had almost forgotten the incident--but the latter recognized rivière at once and went white with anger under the tanned skin. whilst he would have taken a blow from the knife as "all in the game," a smash from a bare fist that made a permanent disfigurement was completely outside his code of sportsmanship. he resented it with the white-hot passion of the midi. the meeting was pure chance. crau, the young provençal, was on the station to take train back to his home village in the marshes. now he made a sudden resolution, and going to the booking-office, asked for a ticket for nîmes. he had relations in that town--small tradespeople--and he would pay a visit to them for a few days. "our game is not yet finished, mr englishman," he muttered to himself. "no, not yet finished!" when the train reached nîmes, rivière alighted from a first-class compartment, quite unconscious of being followed by the young provençal from a third-class compartment. outside the station, in the broad avenue de la gare that leads to the heart of the town, rivière hailed a cab and gave the address, villa clémentine. crau was near enough to overhear. "villa clémentine," he repeated to himself, and again "villa clémentine," to fit it securely in his memory. then his lips worked with passionate revenge as he thought: "you have spoilt my looks, mr englishman; and now, _sangredieu_, to spoil yours!" before going to his relations, he went first to a chemist's. chapter xiii at the maison carrÉe the mystery of john rivière intrigued elaine. there was certainly a mysterious something about this man which she had not fathomed. his most open confidences held deep reserves. if he had not avowed himself a scientist, she would have classed him as a man of business. in those brief comments on stock exchange speculation, he had spoken in a tone of easy authority which goes only with intimate knowledge. he was no recluse, but a man of the world--a man who had clearly moved amongst men and women and held his place with ease. the idea that he was a boor had been entirely shelved. but why that brusque, boorish disappearance from arles? elaine, thinking matters over in the solitude of her room on the evening of the second encounter, was beginning to regret her resolve to humble john rivière. it began to appear petty and unworthy. she had no doubt now that she could bring him to her feet if she wished, by skilful acting. or even--in her thoughts she whispered it to herself--or even without acting a part. but that thought she thrust aside. she had her work to do in the world--the work that she loved. it called imperiously for all her energies. she was free, she was independent, her daily bread was of her own buying; and she wished circumstances to remain as they were. elaine decided to give up her petty resolve. she would avoid meeting him intentionally, and if they met, she would bring the plane of conversation down again to the superficiality of mere tourist acquaintanceship--"meet to-day and part to-morrow." for his part, rivière had found keen enjoyment in this frank camaraderie. they met as equals on the mental plane. both were profoundly interested in their respective life-work. they held ideas in common on a score of impersonal topics. he told himself that he had behaved very boorishly in his abrupt departure from arles. it had been unnecessary, as chance had now pointed out to him by this second accidental encounter. this acquaintanceship was the merest passing of "ships that pass in the night"--in a day or two she would be away and back to paris, and in all human probability they would never meet again. it was generous of her to have greeted him as though she had not noticed the abruptness of his departure from arles. it was generous of her to have clipped out the newspaper advertisement and to have called his attention to it. he mentally apologized to her for his curt behaviour. the next morning, rivière did not find elaine at the jardin de la fontaine. he wanted to meet her. he wanted to let her know indirectly what he was feeling. and so, almost unconsciously, he found himself walking away from the jardin towards the centre of the town, towards the ruined arena and the roman temple known as the maison carrée. most probably she would be sketching at one or other of them. he found her at the maison carrée--a square roman temple on which time has laid no rougher hand than on a white-haired mother still rosy of cheek and young of heart. elaine was sketching it in her book with the bold lines of the scene-painter, ignoring detail and working only for the high-lights and deep shadows. round her, peeking over her shoulders and chattering shrilly, were a group of children. in the background lounged a young provençal peasant with a nose twisted out of shape. "shall i lure the children away?" asked rivière as he raised his soft felt hat. "thanks--it would be a relief," answered elaine, but with a coldness in her greeting that struck him as curious. a few coppers scattered the children; the peasant slunk sullenly away. his eye and rivière's met, but there was no recognition on the part of the latter. "are you working this morning?" asked elaine presently. "no, i'm learning." he nodded towards her sketch-book. "may i continue the lesson?" "compliments are barred," she replied stiffly. "i neither give nor take them." rivière groped mentally for the reason of this curious change of attitude. yesterday she had been frankly friendly; to-day she held herself distinctly aloof. had he offended her in some way? he continued soberly. "i'm not paying insincere compliments. it isn't your sketch which interests me so much as your method of sketching. the directness of it. the way you get to the heart of the subject without worrying over detail. the incisiveness. i'm mentally applying your method to the problems of my own work.... to stand here and watch you sketching is pure selfishness on my part." "like other men, you imagine that women can't get beyond detail." a flush had come into her voice. "all through the ages men have been learning from women and refusing to acknowledge it." "in which sphere?" "in every sphere." "particularize." "take novel-writing. men sneer at the woman-novelist--say that she cannot draw a man to the life." "it's largely true." "what's the reason? because one can't draw to any satisfaction without models to base on. because a man never lets a woman into his innermost thoughts." "that argument ought to cut both ways." "it doesn't. women give up their innermost secrets to men because----well, because woman is the sex that gives and man the sex that takes. it's been bred in and in through the whole history of civilization." "woman the sex that gives? that reverses the usual idea." "you're thinking of the things that don't matter--money, jewels, dress, mansions, servants. those are the cheap things that man gives in return for the gifts that are priceless." rivière shook his head. "you argue only from a limited knowledge of the world. there are plenty of women who take everything--_everything_--and give nothing in return. perhaps you don't know such women. i do." "you mean women of the underworld? they are as men make them." "no, i'm thinking of _femmes du monde_. there are plenty of virtuous married women who are as grasping as the most soulless underworlder. probably you don't see them. you look at the world in a magic crystal that mirrors back your own thoughts and your own personality in different guises. you see a thousand you's, dressed up as other people." elaine had become very thoughtful. "my magic crystal--yes." she mused. "but surely everyone has his or her crystal to look into." "some can keep crystal-vision and reality apart. that's 'balance' ... and there lies the failure of the feminists--in 'balance.' they make up a bundle of all the iniquities of human nature, and try to dump it on man's side of the fence." "i love argument, but art is long and my stay at nîmes very brief. to-morrow i must move on to orange." "then i'll not disturb you further. i expect you have a good deal to get through." "yes. this afternoon it's the pont du gard; this evening the druids' tower." "this evening! the place is very lonely at night-time." "i know. but i must sketch it in moonlight. that's essential." "remember arles," warned rivière. "you ought not to be alone." she nodded. "i know. but i have my work to do." rivière felt uneasy over the matter. he did not wish to urge an undesired escort upon her, but he did not like to think of her working alone by the solitude of the druids' tower at night-time. "if i can be of any service to you while you are here at nîmes," he said, "you have only to send a note to the villa clémentine." with that he said good-bye and left her. it seemed evident that he had offended her in some way. possibly, he thought, it was by asking her to write that letter to olive. though she had agreed willingly enough at the time, it was possible that afterwards she had regretted it. it had offended against her sense of right. rivière felt distressed. then the remembrance came to him that this was the merest tourist acquaintanceship. to-morrow she would be leaving nîmes, and the episode would pass out of her thoughts. probably they would never meet again. it was not worth further thought on either side. resolutely he banished all thoughts of elaine from his mind, and concentrated on his own work-problems. from the corner of a lane near the maison carrée, crau, the young provençal, had been watching them keenly as they talked together. chapter xiv by the druids' tower mme giras, the proprietress of the villa clémentine, was a rosy, smiling body, plumped and rounded in almost every aspect, and with a heart of gold. yesterday it had been plain to her shrewd, twinkling eyes that monsieur and mademoiselle were soon to make a match of it. of course it was very shocking that mademoiselle should be travelling about alone at her age, but much could be forgiven in so charming a young lady. when rivière returned to the villa for lunch, he found the table in the arbour laid for two, and by one plate a rose had been placed. "i have prepared for two," said mme giras, smilingly. "is it not right?" "thank you; but it will not be necessary," answered rivière. "after all my preparations! and the lunch that was to be my _chef d'oeuvre_!" there was keen disappointment in her voice. "but perhaps mademoiselle will be coming to dine this evening?" "no, nor this evening. mademoiselle is very busy with her work. she is to leave nîmes to-morrow." "and monsieur also?" there was tragedy in her tone. it must mean that monsieur would give up his rooms to follow the young lady. "i shall probably remain here for a month or more," answered rivière somewhat stiffly: and then to salve her feelings: "you are making me wonderfully comfortable. i shall always associate the midi with mme giras." "_monsieur est bien amiable!_" replied the little old lady, much pleased. she hurried off to the kitchen to see that marie was making no error of judgment in the mixing of the sauces. rivière felt glad that the acquaintanceship with elaine had progressed no further. it was decidedly for the best that it had ended where it had. both of them had their life-work to call for all their energies. further companionship would only divert them from it. in his innermost being he knew that, and now he acknowledged it frankly to himself. from every point of view, it was best that their acquaintanceship should end. but late that afternoon a brief note came from elaine. "dear mr rivière," it said, "i have considered your warning. if you will be so kind as to accompany me this evening while i am sketching the druids' tower, i shall be glad. i propose to leave the hotel about eight." rivière was at her hotel punctually at eight. he helped her into her warm travelling cloak, and taking up her campstool and easel they walked briskly, with healthy, swinging strides, out by the avenue of plane trees bordering the roman aqueduct. they ascended the now deserted garden on the hillside till they came to the ruined tower which was grey with age when roman legions first swept in triumph over the country of the barbarians of gaul. a chill wind set the pines and the olives whispering mournfully together. the windowless tower brooded over its memories of the past, like an aged seer blind with years. the moonlight touched it tentatively as though it feared to disturb its dreaming. it was a perfect stage scene for a secret meeting of conspirators. in the daylight, the tower was ugly with its rubble of fallen stones--unkempt like a ragged tramp--but in the moonlight there was a glamour of ages in its mournful brooding. elaine was right to make her sketch at night-time. rivière placed the campstool for her, and watched her in silence as she plied her pencil with swift, decisive lines. with lithe, catlike softness, the youth crau had followed them up the hillside, padding noiselessly in the shadows of the pines and olives. crouching behind a tree, he felt in his breast-pocket and drew out a small package which he quietly unwrapped from its foldings. then he waited his moment with every muscle tensed for action. the night wind was chill. rivière started to pace up and down a few steps away from elaine. he approached nearer to the tree behind which crau was crouching in shadow. the lithe, wiry figure of the young provençal sprang out upon him. "now you'll pay me what you owe!" he cried out in provençal. "you cursed pig of an englishman!" rivière did not understand the words, but the menace in the voice left no doubt as to the meaning. and the voice brought back to him the narrow _ruelle_ at arles where he had defended elaine from the insult of the half-drunken peasant. he was about to step forward to grapple with him, when a warning cry from elaine stopped him for one crucial instant. "look out! there's something in his hand!" she called, and rushed impetuously forward to make her warning clear. as she came within range, crau raised his arm to throw his vitriol into rivière's face, but in a fraction of a second a sudden thought changed the direction of his aim. "your beautiful mistress! that will serve me better!" he hissed out venomously as he flung it full upon elaine; then fled at top speed. "my eyes! oh god, my eyes!" she cried, as she staggered to the ground. rivière sprang to her side, white with alarm. "the beast!" "my eyes! oh god, my eyes!" she moaned. "my eyes--my livelihood!" chapter xv waiting the verdict elaine lay in rivière's room in the villa clémentine. the doctor was injecting morphine, and a sister of mercy, grave-eyed under her spotless white coif like a madonna of francia, spoke soft words of comfort to soothe the agony of the blinded girl. in the adjoining room rivière waited the decision of the doctor--waited in tense, straining anxiety. from that moment by the druids' tower when the vitriol had been flung upon elaine, he had lived through a nightmare. up on the hillside he was impotent to relieve her agony. no house around to take her to. without a moment's delay he must get her into the hands of a doctor. at first he had tried to lead her down the hillside, along the winding paths of the gardens, his hands around her shoulders. it was too slow. twice the moaning girl had tripped over unseen obstacles. then he caught her up in his arms and ran with her, the shadows of the trees and the undergrowth clutching at him like mocking shapes in a dantesque vision of the nether world. even when down below the hillside, by the aqueduct, they were still far from the villa clémentine and yet farther from elaine's hotel by the station. some conveyance was imperative. but in a quiet country town like nîmes there are no cabs to be found wandering around at night-time. nor was there carriage or motor-car in sight. a peasant's cart drawn by a tiny donkey came providentially to solve the problem. rivière laid elaine on the straw of the cart; snatched the reins from the owner; drove home at frantic speed; had her put to bed in his own room by mme giras; 'phoned imperatively for a doctor and a nurse. and now he waited in straining anxiety for the verdict. the waiting was more horrible than the nightmare flight through the shadows of the garden on the hillside. that at all events had been action; now he was being stretched in passive helplessness on the rack of time. after an æon of waiting, the doctor left the sick-room and closed the door noiselessly behind him. rivière looked him square in the eye. "i want the truth," he said in french. the words sounded as though his throat had closed in tight around them. "we must wait until the morning before it will be possible that we may say definitely," replied the doctor. "to say if----?" "if we can save the right eye." "the left?" "i greatly fear----" a slight gesture of his two hands completed the sentence. "it's ghastly! that _beast_----!" "but you must not despair," continued the doctor in an endeavour to be optimistic. "madame is strong and healthy. she has a very sound constitution, and in such a case as this it is a most important factor in the recovery. you may rely on me to do my utmost. i have great hopes that we may save the right eye of madame, your wife." "mademoiselle," corrected rivière mechanically. "mademoiselle," amended the doctor with a formal little bow. "you will come again later to-night?" "that would serve no useful purpose. i have injected a large dose of morphine, and mademoiselle is on the point of sleep. i have left full instructions with the sister, and if anything unforeseen occurs, she will communicate with me by telephone." "i have a further question to ask you, doctor. mademoiselle verney is alone in nîmes. she has no friends here beyond myself, and she has been staying at the hotel de provence while passing through the town. would it be better for her to be at the hotel, or at the town hospital, or here?" "here--decidedly!" answered the doctor. "mme giras is kindness itself--i know her well. i recommend that mademoiselle stay here." rivière could do nothing but wait the verdict of the morning, tortured by hopes and fears. the doctor had spoken of saving the right eye, but was this mere professional optimism? suppose elaine were blinded for life--blinded on his account. what was she to do for her livelihood? he knew that she was an orphan; that her relations were repellant to her; and her pride could scarcely let her throw herself for long on the hospitality of her friends in paris. her slender means would soon be exhausted--what was she to do then? with overwhelming conviction rivière saw the inevitable solution. she had been blinded while trying to save him. the debt, the overwhelming debt, lay on him. he must provide for her, guard over her. if she would accept such help.... in the cold grey of a mist-shrouded morning he woke with a new insistent thought hammering into his brain. for the first time since he had taken up the personality of john rivière, doubt surged upon him in wave after wave of icy, sullen surf. had he had the right to cut loose from the life of clifford matheson? had one alone of a married couple the right to decide on such a separation? had he violated some unwritten law of fate, and was this the hand of fate punishing him through the woman he cared for more deeply than he had yet confessed to himself? he knew now that from the first moment of their meeting by the arena of arles she had opened within him--against his volition--a whole realm of inner feelings which up till then had lain dormant. he had wanted no woman in this new life of his, and both at arles and at nîmes he had tried to shut and bolt the gate of the secret realm. sincerely he had wanted to give his whole thoughts and energies to his future work, but here was something which persisted in his inner consciousness against his will. it was like curtaining the windows and shutting one's eyes against a storm--in spite of barriers the lightning slashes through to the retina of the eye. was fate to punish him through the woman he loved? rivière rose with determination and flung the thought aside. "fate" was only a bogey to frighten children with. "fate" was a coward's master. every man had the right to rough-hew his own life. he, rivière, had chosen his new life with eyes open, and, right or wrong, he would stick by his choice and hew out his life on his own lines. if "fate" were indeed a reality, then he would fight it as he had fought lars larssen. he would unknot the tangled threads at whatever cost to himself. the doctor looked very grave when he had left elaine's bedside the next morning. "the injuries are very serious," he told rivière. "the cornea of the right eye has almost been destroyed by the acid. it will heal over, but the sight will not be as it was before." "you mean blinded for life--in both eyes?" asked rivière, ruthless for his own feelings. "we must not hope for too much," hedged the doctor. "a great deal depends on the course of the recovery. i wish not to raise false hopes...." "you must pardon what i am going to say, doctor. i have every confidence in your skill, but is it not possible that the help of an eye specialist from paris or lyons might be of service?" the doctor put false dignity aside and answered sympathetically: "you are right, monsieur, a specialist _is_ needed. as soon as mademoiselle can stand the long journey, i would advise that she be taken to wiesbaden, to the very greatest specialist in the world." "you mean hegelmann?" "none other." "it would not be possible for him to travel to here?" the doctor shook his head decisively. "only for kings does he travel. he has too many patients in his surgical home at wiesbaden who need him daily." "when will mademoiselle be able to make the journey?" "within the week, i hope." * * * * * information of the attack had of course been given to the police, who were hot on the trail of the youth crau. meanwhile the local papers sent their reporters to interview rivière. he was too well accustomed to the ways of pressmen to refuse an interview. he received them and replied with the very briefest facts of the case, explaining that he wished to avoid publicity so far as it was possible. he asked them at all events to leave out names, as french journals will sometimes do, on request. amongst the callers was an englishman who sent in word that he was a local correspondent for the _europe chronicle_. rivière had him shown into the garden of the villa, to the arbour. the would-be interviewer was a man of thirty, quiet and secretive looking, with a heavy dark moustache curtaining the expression of his lips. "morris sylvester" was the name on his card. he carried a hand-camera, which he placed on a seat beside him and pointed it towards the path from the house. as rivière approached, sylvester's left hand was fingering the silent release of the instantaneous shutter. he had made a practice of working his camera surreptitiously while his eyes held the eyes of his subject. "mr sylvester," began rivière, "i want to ask you a favour, as one englishman to another. publicity is extremely distasteful to the lady who has been so terribly injured. to have her story spread broadcast for the satisfaction of idle curiosity would only add to her sufferings. isn't it possible for you to suppress this story?" sylvester looked hesitant. "i am sincerely sorry for the lady," he said. "but of course i have my duty to my journal. i had intended to wire a full column, and take a picture of the scene of the attack by the druids' tower." he took up his camera from the seat beside him, as though to show his purpose. after a moment of reflection he added: "would it satisfy you if i were to suppress names?" "i would much rather you wrote nothing at all," replied rivière. "i know that i can't insist. i appeal to your generosity in the matter." "very well. under the circumstances, in deference to the feelings of your friend, i'll take it on myself to suppress the story." "that's very kind of you. is there no form of _quid pro quo_...?" suggested rivière tentatively. "thanks--nothing." "you'll take something with me before you go?" "thanks--yes." over the glasses sylvester chatted pleasantly about matter of no import, and then brought the conversation round to the real object of his visit--to get certain information for lars larssen. "your name seems familiar to me, somehow," he ventured. "aren't you a scientist, mr rivière?" "i do a little private research work," was the guarded admission. "i seem to associate your name with that of clifford matheson, the financier." "my half-brother." "ah, that's it.... a very remarkable man. i had the pleasure of interviewing him once, at his office in the rue lafitte." rivière knew that for a lie. he had never seen sylvester before, to his knowledge, and he had a keen memory for faces. what was the man driving at? he must try and discover. with his long years of business training behind him, rivière became suddenly expansive, talking with apparent frankness without in reality saying anything of import. "as you say, a remarkable man. that is, as a financier. personally i have no interests in that direction. my brother and i have very little in common. he is the man of affairs, and i am buried in my work. what was the subject of your interview with him?" "canada's future. he gave me a splendid interview--first-rate copy," lied sylvester. "have you seen your brother lately? is he engaged on any big scheme just now? perhaps you could put me on to a news story in that direction? i should be glad if you could." rivière knew that sylvester was fishing for information of some kind, but what it was puzzled him completely, unless the man were now speaking the truth in his statement that he was on the look-out for financial news. that seemed the only solution of the puzzle. "i've seen nothing of my brother lately," answered rivière. "he's at monte carlo, i believe. i'm sorry not to be able to help you in the matter, but, as i said before, i'm very little interested in my brother's movements or plans. his ways and mine lie apart. if i hear of anything that might be of service to you, i'll let you know. will you give me your address?" "hotel de la poste will find me. i travel about the midi for the _chronicle_. they'll send on any message for me at the hotel." "many thanks for your kindness in the matter of suppressing the story of the attack," said rivière, and his tone intimated that it was now time for the visitor to leave. sylvester, having gained the objects of his visit, rose and took his departure. inside half-an-hour he had developed an excellent snap-shot of rivière walking along the garden path towards him. he wrote a long letter to lars larssen explaining that john rivière apparently knew nothing of the disappearance of clifford matheson, and detailing the story of elaine and the vitriol outrage. with the letter he enclosed a bromide print of the snapshot. * * * * * inside a room, closely shuttered to keep out the light, rivière was talking earnestly with elaine a few days later. the agony of the first days had died down, but she was absolutely helpless. her eyes were bandaged, and she was dependent on the sister of mercy and mme giras for everything. "crau is in prison," said he. "i've given formal evidence against him, and he is remanded for trial a month hence. when you are well again, they will take your evidence on commission. he will undoubtedly be sentenced to hard labour for some years." "what does it matter to me--now?" there was despair in her voice. "the doctor is very hopeful for you, if you will put yourself under hegelmann's care." "he can do nothing for me, i feel it. only useless expense. no man can give me back the sight i want for my work." "in time," said rivière gently, but he could not force conviction into his voice. it went hard with him to lie to the woman he cared for most in the world, even to bring temporary comfort to her. "my work. barrèze and the odéon," she murmured slowly, speaking to herself rather than to him. "my work was my life. i remember your saying to me in the garden, by the arbour, only a few days ago: 'if fate were to deny you your freedom!' i shivered even at the words.... do you believe in fate?" rivière's fist was clenched as he answered: "i'll fight fate for both of us." she was silent for a few moments. then she asked: "will you write a letter for me?" he brought pen and ink, and waited for her dictation. "my dear barrèze," she dictated slowly, "you must find someone else to paint your scenes of provence. i am blinded for life----" "don't ask me to write that!" "i am blinded for life," she continued with the clear tones of one whose mental vision sees the future unveiled. "they want me to go to hegelmann at wiesbaden. he is a great man, and will do for me all that surgical skill can do. there will be an operation--several, perhaps. it may perhaps give me a faint gleam of light--enough to tell light from darkness and to realize more keenly all that i have lost. i shall never see the theatre again--never paint again. i shall live on the memories of the past and the bitter thoughts of what might have been----" "i can't write it!" he cried, torn with the pathos of the words she bade him put to paper. "----of what might have been. my friends of the theatre must pass out of my life. they can have no use for a crippled, helpless woman, nor do i wish to cloud their happiness with my unwanted presence. say good-bye to them for me. and you, my dear barrèze, i would thank for the chance you gave me. your encouragement would have had its reward if i had kept my sight. but it is gone--gone for always--and i am wreckage on the rocks...." "elaine, elaine!" he cried. "you have me by your side! i ask you to let me devote my life to you!" the answer came gently: "i must not accept such a sacrifice. you offer it out of pity for me. later, you would repent of it. you have your work to do and your life to live in the open sunshine.... yet don't think me ungrateful. i am deeply grateful. i shall remember what you said out of pity for me, and treasure it amongst my dearest thoughts." "it's not pity, elaine, but----" he stopped abruptly. the accusing hand of memory had touched him on the shoulder. he had no right to make any such offer--it had come from his heart in passionate sincerity, but it was not his to give. olive was still his wife. disguise it as he would, he was still clifford matheson. he must leave elaine to think that pity alone had moulded his words. to explain to her now the shackles of circumstance that bound him fast would be sheer cruelty, for if she knew the whole truth, she would send him away from her and refuse even the temporary help he could give her. for elaine's sake he must keep silent. a pause of bitter reflection raised a barrier of stone between them. when he spoke again, it was from the other side of the barrier. "at least you will let me stay by you until you leave hegelmann's charge? that i claim.... and i believe he will be able to do for you much more than you imagine. he has worked wonders before. he will do so again. he is the foremost specialist in the world. all that money can command shall be yours." "money is terribly useless," said elaine sadly. chapter xvi only pity! what was elaine to do with her life? in those weary days of the sick-room at nîmes, and on the long railway journey through lyons, besançon and strasburg to wiesbaden, elaine had turned over and over, in feverishly restless search for hope, the possibilities that lay before her. her total capital was comprised in a few hundred pounds and the furniture of the flat she shared in paris with a girl friend--a student at the conservatoire. the money would see her through the expenses of dr hegelmann's nursing home and for a few months afterwards--a year at the outside. after that she must inevitably be dependent on the charity of friends or on some charitable institution. the thought of the time when her capital would be gone was like an icy hand gripping at her heart. "money is terribly useless," she had said to rivière, but there were times when she wished passionately that she had the money with which to buy comforts for a life of blindness. those were craven moments, however--moments which she despised when they were past. of what use to her would be the silken-padded cage she had longed to buy, when life held for her no work, no love? rivière she had thought of a thousand times. his every action and word in the days of their first acquaintanceship came back to her with the wonderful inner clarity of sight and hearing that belongs to those who have no outer vision. she saw him at the arena of arles, standing on the topmost tier a few yards distant from her, watching the red ball of the sun sink down into the mists of the grey camargue. he was aloof and cold--icy, unapproachable, masked in reserve. she saw him in the _ruelle_ of arles, with the light from the shuttered window falling on him in bars of yellow and black, fighting with berserk fury against the bare knife of the provençal youth. here he was primitive man unchained--a rodin figure with muscles knotted in a riot of hot-blooded passion. he was battling for her. no, not for her, but for the duty that a man owes to womankind. "i didn't even know it was you," he had said curtly. that had hurt her at the time, but now it seared into her. the rescue had meant nothing--it had brought him no nearer to her. he was still cold and aloof. she saw him in the jardin de la fontaine, lifting his hat with formal politeness and making to move on. still aloof, still encased in cold reserve. with deliberate intent she had set herself to melt him, and she had succeeded. by the arbour of the villa clémentine she saw him, chatting animatedly in keen enjoyment of her frank camaraderie. but that was only casual friendship. still aloof in what now mattered vitally to her. she saw him seeking her out by the maison carrée, standing to watch her sketch and passing to her the compliment of candid praise. then he had come nearer, but by such a little! she saw him silvered in the moonlight by the druids' tower, standing at her easel. here he would surely have revealed himself if he had had thoughts to utter of inner feelings. but he had remained silent. then there rang in her ears his passionate declaration of the sick-room: "elaine! elaine! you have me by your side! i ask you to let me devote my life to you!" she weighed it scrupulously in the balance of reason, and judged it pity. it was the hasty word of a chivalrous man torn by the sight of her helplessness. if it had been love, he would not have been stopped by her refusal. love is insistent, headstrong, ruthless of obstacles. love would have forced his offer upon her again and again. love would have divined the doubt in her mind. love would have drowned it in kisses. it was not love but pity that rivière felt for her. and while she silently thanked him for it, it was not enough. she would not encumber the life of a man who felt merely pity for her. that would be degradation worse than the acceptance of public charity. out of all the turmoil of her fevered thoughts there came this one conclusion: when her last money had been spent, when there only remained for her the bitter bread of charity, she would pass quietly out of life to a world where the outer sight would matter nothing. meanwhile, every casual word of rivière's was weighed and re-weighed, tested and assayed by her for the gold that might be hidden within. chapter xvii riviÈre is called back there are two sides to wiesbaden. the one is with the gay, cosmopolitan life that saunters along the wilhelmstrasse and dallies with the allurements of the most enticing shops in germany; suns itself in the gardens of the kursaal or on the wind-sheltered slopes of the neroberg; listens to an orchestra of master-artists in the open or to a prima donna in the brilliance of the opera-house; dines, wines, gambles, dissipates, burns the lamp of life under forced draught. the other side is with the life behind the curtains of the nursing homes, where dim flickers of life and health are jealously watched and tended. wiesbaden is both a bond street and a harley street. specialists in medicine and surgery have their consulting rooms a few doors away from those of specialists in jewellery, flowers or confectionery. their names and their specialities are prominent on door-plates almost as though they were competing against the lures of the traders. but dr hegelmann had no need to cry his services in the market-place. his consulting rooms and nursing home were hidden amongst the evergreens of a cool, restful garden well away from the flaunting life of the wilhelmstrasse. by the door his name and titles were inscribed in inconspicuous lettering on a small black marble tablet. his specialty needed no proclaiming. rivière found the great surgeon curiously uncouth in appearance. his brown, grey-streaked beard was longer than customary and ragged in outline; his eyebrows projected like a sea-captain's; his almost bald head seemed to be stretched tight over a framework of knobs and bumps; his clothes were baggy and shapeless. but all these unessentials faded away from sight when dr hegelmann spoke. his voice was wonderfully compelling--a voice tuned to a sympathy all-embracing. his voice could make even german sound musical. and his hands were the hands of a musician. before bringing elaine into the consulting-room, rivière explained the facts of the vitriol outrage, gave into his hands the letter of advice from the doctor at nîmes, and then broached the subject of payment. they spoke in german, because dr hegelmann had steadfastly refused to learn any language beyond his own. all his energies of learning had been focused on his one specialty. "i want to explain," said rivière, "that fraülein verney is not well-to-do. she is, i believe, practically dependent on her profession." "then we shall adjust the scale of payment to whatever she can afford," answered the doctor readily. "i value my rich patients only because they can pay me for my poorer patients." "many thanks. but that was not quite my meaning. i want to ask you to charge her at the lowest rate, and allow me to make up the difference." "without letting her know it." "precisely." "that shall be as you wish. i appreciate your motives." his voice was full of sympathy, giving a treble value to the most ordinary words. "that is the action of a true friend." rivière brought elaine into the consulting-room, and left her in the great specialist's gentle hands. an assistant surgeon was there to act as interpreter. the verdict came quickly. for a week elaine was to be in the surgical home receiving preliminary treatment, and then dr hegelmann was to operate on her right eye. for the left eye there was no hope. during the week of waiting, rivière came twice a day to elaine's bedside, to chat and read to her. one day he told her that he had arranged for the use of a bench at a private biological laboratory at wiesbaden belonging to one of the medical specialists. "that will enable me to begin my research while you're recovering from the operation. you'll have no need to think that you might be keeping me here away from my work." "i'm glad. it's very good to have a friend by one, but i should have worried at keeping you from your work. now i'm relieved.... is the laboratory here well equipped?" "quite sufficiently for my purposes. of course i'm sending to paris for my own microscope--it's a zeiss, with a one-twelfth oil immersion--and i'll have my own rocker microtome sent over also. there's a microtome in the laboratory here, but i might take weeks to get on terms with it. if you'd ever worked with the instrument, you'd know how curiously human it is in its moods and whims. if a microtome takes a liking to you, she'll work herself to the bone while you merely rest your hand on the lever. but if she has some secret objection to you, she'll pout and sulk, and jib and rear, and generally try to drive you distracted." elaine smiled. "i notice that man always applies the feminine gender to anything unreliable in the way of machinery. if it's sober and steady-going, you label it masculine, like big ben. but if it's uncertain in action, like a motor-boat, you call it fifi or lolo or vivienne." "that's a true bill," confessed rivière. "henceforth i'll keep to the strictly neutral 'it' when i mention a microtome." "i want to know the nature of your research work. you've never yet told me except in vague, general terms." rivière hesitated. it seemed to him scarcely a subject to discuss with one who herself was in the hands of the surgeon. "wouldn't you prefer a more cheerful topic?" he ventured. elaine appreciated the reason for his hesitation, and answered: "i want to hear of the spirit behind your technicalities. it won't depress me in the least. please go on." rivière began to explain to her the big idea which he was hoping to develop in the coming years. he avoided any details that might seem to have even a remote personal bearing. he spoke with enthusiasm--his voice became aglow with inner fire. and it was clear from her attitude and from the questions she interjected from time to time that she realized the value of his idea, appreciated his motives, and was whole-heartedly interested in what he was telling her. as elaine listened, a tiny voice within her was whispering: "here is your rival." and she felt glad that her rival was one of high purpose. the call of science and a high, impersonal aim, touched her as something sacred. rivière had brought with him a daily paper--the frankfort edition of the _europe chronicle_--in order to read it to her. thinking that she might be getting wearied of his personal affairs, he broke off presently, and with her agreement, opened the paper at the news pages, calling out the headlines until she intimated a wish to hear a fuller reading. he had finished the news pages for her, and was about to put the paper aside, when the instinct of long habit made him glance at the headlines of the financial page. elaine heard a sudden decisive rustle of the paper as he folded it quickly, and then came a minute of silence which carried to her sensitive brain a strange sensation of tenseness. "what is it?" she asked. "won't you read it out?" rivière's voice had altered completely when he answered her. there was now a reserved, constrained note in it. "an item of news which touches me personally," he said. "am i not to hear it?" "i would rather you didn't ask me." there was silence again. rivière sat stiff with rigid muscles while he thought out the bearings of the news item he had just read. then he asked her to excuse him on a matter of immediate urgency. at the post office he managed after some waiting to get telephonic communication with the frankfort office of the _europe chronicle_. "tell the financial editor that mr john rivière wants to speak to him," he said authoritatively. "please put me through quickly. i'm on a trunk wire." after a pause the stereotyped reply came that the financial editor was out. his assistant was now speaking, and would take any message. clifford matheson would not have had such an answer made to him, but rivière was an unknown name. he realized that he must now cool his heels in anterooms, and communicate with chiefs through the medium of their subordinates. "you have an item in to-day's paper regarding the forthcoming notation of hudson bay transport, ltd. mr clifford matheson's name is mentioned as chairman. i should very much like to know if you have had confirmation of that item, and from where it was obtained." "hold the line, please. i'll make enquiries." presently the answer came. "why do you wish to know?" "mr matheson is my half-brother, and though i'm in close touch with him, i've had no intimation of any such move on his part." "hold the line, please." another pause ensued, followed by the formal statement. "the news came to us last night from our paris office. we believe it to be correct. do we understand that you wish to deny it?" "no; i want to get confirmation of it. thanks--good-bye." then he asked the post-office for a trunk call to paris, and after an hour's wait he was put in touch with the headquarters of the _europe chronicle_. the second 'phone conversation proved as unsatisfactory as the first. a financial editor of a responsible journal does not talk freely with any unknown man who rings him up on a hasty trunk call. the reply came that the information in question reached the paper from a perfectly reliable source. if mr rivière cared to call at the office, they would give him proof of the accuracy of their statement. they could not discuss such a matter over the 'phone. rivière urged that he was speaking from wiesbaden. they were sorry, but they did not care to discuss the matter over the 'phone. he must either take their word for it that the information was correct, or else call in person at the paris office. it was clear to rivière that he must make the journey to paris if he were to unravel the mystery of that astounding statement. the dead clifford matheson mentioned authoritatively as chairman of the new company! why should such an impossible story be set afloat, and what was the "reliable source" spoken of? he knew that the _europe chronicle_ though a sensational paper, would not print self-invented fiction on its financial page. "i have an urgent call to paris," he told elaine. "i hope you will excuse my running away so brusquely? i'll be back before the day of your operation." "of course, i excuse you," she replied readily. "i know that something very important is calling you. and in any case, what right would i have to say yes or no to a private decision of your own?" there leapt in her a sudden hope that he would answer from the heart. but his reply held nothing beyond a bare statement. "this matter is extremely urgent. i propose to catch a night train to paris and be back by to-morrow evening. is there anything i can do for you before i go?" "i have everything ... but my sight." "and that, dr hegelmann will give you within the month!" he affirmed. in paris early the next morning, rivière sought out the financial editor of the _europe chronicle_. at a face-to-face interview, rivière's personality impressed, and the newspaper man showed himself quite willing to prove the _bona fides_ of his journal. "if you will step into the adjoining room," he said, "i'll send you the reporter who brought us the information. ask him any questions you like. i've perfect confidence in him, and i stand by any statement of his we print. i don't think people realize how careful we are on financial matters--they seem to think that a popular paper will print any sort of _canard_ offhand." there followed rivière into the next room a tubby rosy-faced little man, brisk and smiling. "well, sir, what can i do for you?" he rattled off cheerfully. "the financial editor tells me that i'm to preach to you the gospel of the infallibility of the _chronicle_. what's the particular text you're heaving bricks at?" jimmy martin's infectious good-humour brought an answering smile from rivière. "i'm not casting doubts on the modern-day bible," he replied. "i'm seeking information. i want to know who told you that clifford matheson, my half-brother, is to head the board of hudson bay transport, ltd." "i have it straight from the stable--from lars larssen." rivière's face did not move a muscle--he was still smiling pleasantly. "larssen and i are old pals," continued martin briskly. "so when he was passing through paris the other day he 'phoned me to the effect of come and crack a bottle with me, come and let's reminisce together over the good old days. i went; and he gave me the juicy little piece of news you saw in yesterday's rag. we saved up some of it for to-day--have you seen? clifford matheson heads the festal board, and the other revellers at the guinea-feast are the right hon. lord st aubyn, sir francis letchmere, bart., and g. lowndes hawley carleton-wingate, m.p. lars larssen sits below the salt--to wit, joins the board after allotment. the capital is to be a cool five million, and if i were a prophet i'd tell you whether they'll get it or not." "thanks--that's just what i wanted to know." "you withdraw the bricks?" "unreservedly.... by the way, do you know where my brother is at the moment?" "vague idea he's in canada. don't know where i get it from. those sort of things are floating in the air." "where is larssen?" "he was going on to london--dear old foggy, fried-fishy london! ever notice that london is ringed around with the smell of fried fish and naphtha of an evening? the city smells of caretakers; and piccadilly of patchouli; and the west end of petrol; but the smell of fish fried in tenth-rate oil in little side-streets rings them around and bottles them up. in paris it's wood-smoke and roast coffee, and i daresay heaps healthier, but i sigh me for the downright odours of old england! imitaciong poetry--excuse this display of emotion." when rivière left the office of the journal on the boulevard des italiens, he made his way rapidly to no. rue laffitte, second floor. there he inquired for clifford matheson, and was informed that the financier was in winnipeg. "you're certain of that?" asked rivière. "quite, sir!" answered the clerk in surprise. "we get cables from him giving addresses to send letters to. if you'd like anything forwarded, sir, leave it here and we shall attend to it." it was now clear beyond doubt that lars larssen was playing a game of unparalleled audacity. he had somehow arranged to impersonate the "dead" clifford matheson, and was using the impersonation to float the hudson bay scheme on his own lines. rivière flushed with anger at the realization of how lars larssen was using his name. but that was a trifle compared with the main issue. when he had fought lars larssen, it was not a mere petty squabble over a division of loot. the hudson bay scheme was no mere commercial machine for grinding out a ten per cent. profit. if successful, it meant an entire re-organization of the wheat traffic between canada and great britain. it meant, in kernel, the control of britain's bread-supply. it affected directly fifty millions of his fellow-countrymen. for that reason rivière had refused to lend his name to a scheme under which lars larssen would hold the reins of control. he knew the ruthlessness of the man and his overweening lust of power, which had passed the bounds of ordinary ambition and had become a napoleonic egomania. in refusing to act on the board, rivière had made an altruistic decision. but now the same problem confronted him again in a different guise. if he remained silent, the scheme would in all probability be floated in his name to a successful issue. if he remained silent, he would be betraying fifty millions of his fellow-countrymen. he had thought to strike out from the whirlpool into peaceful waters, but the whirlpool was sucking him back. weighing duty against duty, he saw clearly that he must at once confront larssen and crumple up his daring scheme. and so he wired to elaine: "an urgent affair calls me to london. shall return to you at the earliest possible moment. address, avon hotel, lincoln's inn fields." chapter xviii not wanted! in the train calaiswards, rivière felt as though he had just plunged into an ice-cold lake fed by torrents from the snow-peaks, and had emerged tingling in every fibre with the glow of health. the course before him was straight; the issue clean-cut. he had only to confront lars larssen to bring the latter to his knees. if there were opposition, the threat of a public prosecution would brush it aside. he must resume the personality of clifford matheson; return to olive; settle a generous income on elaine. he must wind up his financial affairs and devote himself to the scientific research he had planned. a straight, clean course. he looked forward eagerly to the moment when he would walk into larssen's private office and smash a fist through his hoped-for control of hudson bay. until that moment, he would keep outwardly to the identity of john rivière. but already he was feeling himself back in the personality of clifford matheson--the hard, firm lines had set again around his mouth, the look of masterfulness was in his eye. * * * * * the channel was in its sullen mood. overhead, skies were grey with ragged, shapeless cloud; below, the waters were the colour of slag and slapping angrily against the plates of the starboard bow under the drive of a wind from the north-east. the ashen cliffs of dover came to meet the packet reluctant and inhospitable. by the harbour-entrance, a petulant squall of rain beat upon them as though to shoo them away. the landing-stage was slippery and slimy with rain, soot, and petrol drippings from the motor-cars shipped to and fro. customs-house officers eyed them with tired suspicion; porters took their money and hastened away with the curtest of acknowledgments; an engine panted sullenly as it waited for never-ending mail-bags to be hauled up from the bowels of the packets and dumped into the mail-van. england had no welcome for rivière at her front door. through the weald of kent, where spring comes early, this april afternoon showed the land still naked and cold. on the coppices, dispirited catkins drooped their tassels from the wet branches of the undergrowth, but the young leaves lurked within their brown coverings as though they shivered at the thought of venturing out into the bleak air. on the oaks, dead leaves from the past autumn clung obstinately to their mother-branches. the hop-lands were a dreary drab; hop-poles huddled against one another for warmth; streams ran swollen and muddy and rebellious. "the garden of england" had no welcome for rivière. they swerved through tonbridge junction, glistening sootily under a drizzle of rain, and dived into the yawning tunnel of river hill as though into refuge from the bleakness of the open country. two fellow-travellers with rivière were discussing the gloomy outlook of a threatened railway strike which rumbled through the daily papers like distant thunder. fragment of talk came to his ears:-- "minimum wage.... damned insolence.... tie up the whole country.... have them all flogged to work.... not a statesman in the house.... weak-kneed set of vote-snatchers.... if i had my way...." the train ran them roof-high through endless vistas of the mean grey streets of south-east london, where the street-lamps were beginning to throw out a yellow haze against the murky drizzle of the late afternoon; slowed to a crawl in obedience to the raised arms of imperious signals; stopped over viaducts for long wearisome minutes while flaunting sky-signs drummed into the passengers the superabundant merits of somebody's whisky or somebodyelse's soap. half-an-hour late at the terminus, rivière had his valise sent to the avon hotel, hailed a taxi, and told the man to drive as fast as possible to leadenhall street. in that narrow canon of commerce was a large, substantial building bearing the simple sign--a sign ostentatious in its simplicity--of "lars larssen--shipping." "tell mr larssen that mr john rivière wishes to see him," he said to a clerk at the inquiry desk. "i'm sorry, sir, but mr larssen left the office not ten minutes ago." "can you tell me where he went to?" "if you'll wait a moment, sir, i'll send up an inquiry to his secretary. what name did you say?" "rivière--john rivière. the brother of mr clifford matheson." presently the answer came down the house 'phone that mr larssen had gone to his home in hampstead. rivière re-entered the taxi and gave an address on the heath. he wanted to thrash out the matter with larssen with the least possible delay. he would have preferred to confront the shipowner in his office, but since that plan had miscarried, he would seek him out in his private house. near king's cross another taxi coming out from a cross-street skidded as it swerved around the corner, and jolted into his own with a crash of glass and a crumple of mudguards. delay followed while the two chauffeurs upbraided one another with crimson epithets, and gave rival versions of the incident to a gravely impartial policeman. when rivière at length reached hampstead heath, it was to find that the shipowner had just left the house. rivière explained to the butler that it was very important he should reach larssen without delay, and his personality impressed the servant as that of a visitor of standing. he therefore told rivière what he knew. "mr larssen changed into evening dress, sir, and went off in his small covered car. i don't know where he's gone, sir, but he told me if anything important arose i was to ring him up at p. o. richmond, ." that telephone number happened to be quite familiar to rivière. it was the number of his own house at roehampton. he jumped into the waiting taxi once again, and ordered the chauffeur to drive across london to barnes common and roehampton. if he could not confront larssen at office or house, he would run him to earth that evening in his own home. no doubt larssen was going there to talk business with sir francis. roehampton is a country village held within the octopus arms of greater london. round it are a number of large houses with fine, spacious grounds--country estates they were when queen victoria ascended the throne of england. at olive's special choice, her husband had purchased one of the mansions and had it re-decorated for her in modern style. she liked its nearness to london proper--it gave her touch with bond street and theatreland in half-an-hour by fast car. she liked its spacious lawns and its terraced italian garden--they were so admirable for garden parties and open-air theatricals. she liked the useless size of the house--it ministered to her love of opulence. rivière had grown to hate it in the last few years. the name of the estate was "thornton chase." the approach lay through a winding drive bordered by giant beeches, and passed one of the box-hedged lawns to curl before a front door on the further side of the house. when at the very gates another delay in that evening of delays occurred. this time it was a tyre-burst. rivière, impatient of further waste of time, paid off the chauffeur and started on foot along the entrance drive. the drizzle of the afternoon had ceased, and a few stars shone halfheartedly through rents in the ragged curtain of cloud, as though performing a duty against their will. when passing through the box-hedged lawn as a short cut to the front door, one of the curtains of the lighted drawing-room was suddenly thrown back, and the broad figure of man stood framed in a golden panel of light. it was lars larssen. rivière stopped involuntarily. it was as though his antagonist had divined his presence and had come boldly forward to meet him. and, indeed, that was not far from the fact. larssen, waiting alone in the drawing-room, had had one of his strange intuitive impulses to throw wide the curtain and look out into the night. such an impulse he never opposed. he had learnt by long experience that there were centres of perception within him, uncharted by science, which gathered impressions too vague to put a name to, and yet vitally real. he always gave rein to his intuition and let it lead him where it chose. looking out into the night, the shipowner could not see rivière, who had stopped motionless in the shadow of a giant box clipped to the shape of a peacock standing on a broad pedestal. rivière waited. presently larssen turned abruptly as though someone had entered the room. a smile of welcome was on his lips. olive swept in, close-gowned in black with silvery scales. she offered her hand with a radiant smile, and larssen took it masterfully and raised it to his lips. rivière noted that it was not the shipowner who had moved forward to meet olive, but olive who had come gladly to him. they stood by the fireplace, and olive chatted animatedly to her guest. rivière scarcely recognized his wife in this transformation of spirit. with him she was cold and abrupt, and captious, eyes half-lidded and cheeks white and mask-like. now her eyes flashed and sparkled, and there was warm colour in her cheeks. of what olive and larssen said to one another, no word came to rivière. but attitude and gesture told him more than words could have done. it was as though he were a spectator of a bioscope drama, standing in darkness while a scene was being pictured for him in remorseless detail behind the lighted window. that olive's feeling for larssen had grown beyond mere friendship was plain beyond question. she was infatuated with the man; and he was playing with her infatuation. for a moment rivière's fist clenched; then his fingers loosened, and he watched without stirring. larssen must, in view of his action on the hudson bay coup, believe matheson to be dead. to him, olive was now a widow. therefore rivière had no quarrel with the shipowner on the ground of what he was now witnessing. his desire to crumple larssen in the hollow of his hand and fling him into the mud at his feet was based on very different grounds. on the other hand, olive must believe matheson to be alive. larssen would have told her that her husband was away in canada on business for a few weeks, and he would keep up the fiction until the hudson bay scheme were floated to a public issue. that rivière could watch the scene pictured before him without stirring--could watch in silence the spectacle of his wife's infatuation for another man--might seem superficially as the height of cynical cold-bloodedness. yet nothing could be farther from the truth. rivière was a man of very deep and very strong feelings held habitually under a rigid control. self-control is very often mistaken superficially for cold-bloodedness, just as heartiness is mistaken for big-heartedness. he was balanced enough to hold no blame for olive. within two years of marriage he had plumbed her to the depths. it was not in her to be more than a reckless spender of other people's money and other people's lives. she was born to waste just as another is born to create. the way in which she was throwing herself at larssen during his absence for a few weeks was typical of her inborn character, which nothing could uproot. it was clear beyond doubt that olive did not want him back. she preferred him out of her way. if he could disappear for ever, leaving his fortune in her hands, she would unquestionably be glad of it. what he had in fact brought about by taking up the personality of john rivière was what she seemed most to desire. he was coming home as an intruder. even in his own house there would be no welcome for him. _he was not wanted._ there was a sudden stiffening on the part of olive, as though she heard someone about to enter the room. sir francis came in, shook hands cordially with larssen, and all three made their way to dinner. rivière was left looking into an empty room. with sudden decision he made his way out of the grounds of thornton chase. he would see the shipowner to-morrow in his office at leadenhall street rather than thrash out the coming quarrel in front of olive and sir francis. his duty lay in taking up once more the role of clifford matheson and returning to olive's side. though what he had seen that evening made the duty trebly distasteful, he must carry it out to the end. yet to himself he was glad of the short respite. for one night more he would breathe freedom as john rivière. only one night more! for the moment, time was no object to him, and he proceeded on foot through roehampton village and by the sodden coppices of putney heath to the portsmouth high road and the railway station of east putney. he waited at the station until an underground train snaked its way in like a giant blindworm, and went with it to the temple and so to the quiet hotel he had chosen in lincoln's inn fields. on his way, he sent off a telegram to the shipowner stating that john rivière would call at leadenhall street at eleven o'clock in the morning. in the coffee-room of the avon hotel he sat down to write a long letter to elaine which would explain all that had been hidden from her. without sparing himself one jot he told her of the circumstances of his life since the crucial night of march th, and of the deception he carried out with her as well as with the rest of the world. it was long past midnight before he put to the letter the signature of "clifford matheson." and then with a stab of pain he remembered that elaine could not read it. there were passages in the letter which must not be read to her by any outside person. it was evident that what he had to tell her would have to be said by word of mouth. rivière tore up his letter into small fragments and burnt them carefully in the grate. chapter xix a throne-room dinner was over at thornton chase, and the three were back in the drawing-room--olive, larssen, and sir francis. the men smoked at olive's request; and she herself lighted one of a special brand of cigarettes which she had made for her by antonides. "i hate to have my drawing-room smelling of afternoon-tea and feminine chit-chat," she explained. "the two carleton-wingate frumps called on me this afternoon for a couple of solid hours' boring, which they dignify to themselves as a duty call. please smoke away the remembrance of them." "the carleton-wingates are a useful crowd," said larssen. "there's an m.p., a major-general and a minister plenipotentiary amongst them." "give me those to deal with, and you entertain the twin frumps," answered olive. "twins are always hateful in a room, because they sit together and chorus their comments together, just as if they were one mind with two bodies. you feel as if you ought to split yourself in two and devote half to each, so as not to cause jealousy. but twin old maids are especially hateful." "a very old family," was letchmere's comment. "they go back to henry vii." "what's the entertainment for to-night?" asked olive of larssen. "i propose to take you to the new cabaret," said he. "first-rate!" "but it doesn't start until ten-thirty. we've plenty of time. first, i want you to play to me." olive went over to the piano, and larssen followed to light the candles and turn back the case of polished rosewood inlaid with ivory. she laid her fingers on the keys and looked up at him expectantly. "something lively," he ordered, and she rattled into the latest success of the musical comedy stage. such as it was, she played it brilliantly. to-night she was in that morphia mood of the terrace of monte carlo when she had first told him of her contempt for her husband. under cover of the playing, while sir francis was reading a novel of turf life, olive whispered: "can't we have a few moments together by ourselves?" "i'll arrange it," answered larssen. "how?" "suppose we drop your father at the cabaret while we go on to see my offices?" "offices--at night-time!" she exclaimed. "my staff work all night there--i have a night-shift as well as a day-shift. in fact, the offices are busier at night-time than in the day-time." "isn't that a very unusual arrangement?" "yes. it enables me to deal with routine-work while the other fellow's asleep. that's always been one of my business principles: get to-morrow's work done to-day; get a twelve hours' start of the other man." "how typical of you!" "my place is thoroughly worth seeing. suppose i show you over it?" larssen's pride in his office was fully justified. there was nothing in london, nothing in england to match it as a perfect business machine. and there was no private office in europe which could compare in impressiveness with larssen's own. things went as he arranged, and from the busy hive of industry on the ground and first floors he took olive to his private room on the second. it was a room some thirty yards long and broad in proportion, with a central dome reaching above the roof. a few broad tables were almost lost in its immensity. round the walls were maps dotted with flag-pins telling of the position of ships. at the further end was larssen's own work-table--a horseshoe-shaped desk. above and behind it hung a portrait of his little boy by sargent. "it's almost a throne-room!" was olive's exclamation of wonder. larssen smiled his pleasure. it _was_ a throne-room. he had designed it as such. his private house at hampstead mattered little to him. his house on riverside drive, new york, and his great forest estate in the adirondacks mattered almost as little. his real home was at the office. "in my new york office, and in every one of my other offices round the world, there's a room like this. i alone use it. when i'm away, it stands for me. it's my sign." "above there," he continued, pointing to the central dome, "is the wireless apparatus which keeps me in touch with my ships. from ship to ship and office to office i can send my orders round the world. i'm independent of the wires and the cables." "that's epic!" she said, using the word she had used before when he spoke to her of his early career. no other word fitted lars larssen so closely. "heard from clifford lately?" he queried. "only a brief cable from winnipeg." "i had a letter telling me things are going well, but not as quickly as he expected. that letter would be a week old by now. every moment i'm expecting to hear that his work is put through and sealed up tight." "i'm not anxious to have him back. if you only could realize how he bores me to extinction." she waited for an expression of sympathy. "you've borne with it very bravely," he said, knowing that to a woman like olive no compliment is dearer than to be called "brave." "not that i want to say a word against clifford," he added quickly. "he's a very clever man of business, and i admire him for it. but a woman wants more than cleverness." "how well you understand!" said olive. "so few know me as i really am. if only we had met before----" she stopped abruptly as a door opened at the farther end of the room. morris sylvester entered briskly with a telegram in his hand. as confidential secretary, it was his duty to open all telegrams and most of the letters addressed to his chief. sylvester passed the open telegram to larssen, saying: "excuse my interruption. this telegram just arrived seems important. i thought you would like to see it." "thanks." larssen glanced over it. "no answer necessary." sylvester withdrew. "it's a wire from your gay brother-in-law," said larssen to olive. "from john rivière! where is he?" "in london. he proposes to call on me to-morrow morning at eleven." "i wonder what he has to say." "i'm completely in the dark." "i'd like to meet him." "shall i send him on to roehampton after he's seen me?" olive reflected that rivière might not want to see her, in view of the way he had avoided her so far. she answered: "ring me up on the 'phone when he's in your office. i'll speak to him over the wire." "right--i'll remember.... by the way, about the hudson bay company, did i tell you that the underwriting negotiations are going through fine? inside a week we ought to be ready for flotation." larssen proceeded to enlarge on the subject, and the broken thread of olive's avowal was not taken up again. they left the offices, and drove back to the cabaret to rejoin sir francis. chapter xx beaten to earth at eleven o'clock the next morning, the shipowner was at the horseshoe desk in his throne-room, fingering the snapshot of rivière which sylvester had secured at nîmes. he had seen in it the picture of a man very like clifford matheson, but not for a moment had he thought of it as the portrait of the financier himself. the shaven lip, the scar across the forehead, the differences of hair and collar and tie and dress had combined to make a thorough disguise. yet when the visitor entered by the farther door of the throne-room and came striding resolutely down the thirty yards of carpet, lars larssen knew him. the carriage and walk were matheson's. for a moment hot rage possessed him. not at matheson, but at himself. he ought to have guessed before. this was the one possibility he had completely overlooked. matheson had tricked him by shamming death. he ought not to have let himself be tricked. that was inexcusable. a moment later he had regained mastery of himself, and a succession of plans flashed past his mental vision, to be considered with lightning speed. the financier held the whip-hand--and the whip must be torn from him ... somehow. "sit down, matheson," said the shipowner calmly, when his antagonist had reached the horseshoe desk. neither man offered to shake hands. matheson took the seat indicated, and waited for larssen to begin. larssen knew the value of silence, however, and matheson was forced to open. "you thought me dead?" he asked. "i knew you had disappeared for private reasons of your own. i discovered those reasons, and so i respected your privacy," was the calm reply. "you had the cool intention of using my name in the hudson bay prospectus as though i had given you sanction for it." "you did give me sanction." "written?" "no; your word." "when?" "at our last interview at your paris office. you passed your word--an englishman's word--and i took it." matheson ignored the cool lie. "let's get down to business," he said. "with pleasure. what do you want?" "when we last met," continued matheson slowly, "i wanted you to assign half of your four million deferred shares to lord ----, to be held in trust for the general body of shareholders. well, now--_now_--i want the whole four million assigned." "and you propose that i should give them up for nothing?" queried larssen ironically. "for £ , in ordinary shares. the monetary value is the same. the difference would be that you'll have two hundred thousand with your own money, not the british public's." there was silence while the two men eyed one another relentlessly. at the side of larssen's forehead, under the temple, a tiny vein throbbed and jerked. that was the only outward sign of the feelings of murder which lay in his heart. "you have your nerve!" he commented. "i'm offering you easy terms." "offer _me_ terms!" "easy terms," repeated matheson. "i could, if i chose, step from here to my lawyers' and have you indicted for conspiracy. i could get you seven to ten years. i could have you breaking stones at portland." "then why don't you?" "i have my private reasons." "one of them being that you haven't a shred of evidence," was the cool reply. "who sends cables in my name to my managers?" demanded matheson. "i know nothing of that." "you _do_ know it. one of your employees sends them." "have you such a cable with you?" matheson ignored the retort. "you've told my wife and my father-in-law that i was alive." "i knew you _were_ alive. is that your idea of fraud?" "i'm not going to quibble over words. believing me to be dead, you had me impersonated, planning to use my name on the hudson bay scheme." "i've not used your name." "you used it to induce st aubyn and carleton-wingate to come on the board." "if you're thinking to prove that, you merely waste your time. the negotiations were carried out by your father-in-law." "you used my name to a reporter on the _europe chronicle_." "have you written evidence of that?" "martin will swear to it, if necessary." larssen laughed harshly. "an out-of-elbows reporter on a sensational yellow journal! do you dream for one instant that his word would stand against mine in a court of law? see here, matheson, you'd better go back and read over your brief with the man who's instructing you. he's muddled up the facts." "then what are the facts?" challenged matheson. lars larssen took a deep breath before he leaned forward across the horseshoe desk to answer. at the same time he moved a hidden lever under the desk. this was a device allowing any conversation of his to be heard telephonically in the adjoining room where his private secretary worked. it was useful occasionally when he needed an unseen listener to a business interview of his; and now he particularly wanted sylvester to hear what he and matheson were saying to one another. it would give sylvester his cue if he were to be called in at any point. "matheson," said the shipowner, "the facts of your case don't make a very edifying story. if you're sure you want to hear them as you'd hear them in a court of law, i'll spare another five minutes to tell you. you're quite certain you'd like to hear the outside view of your actions this past three weeks?" "i'm listening." with brutal directness larssen proceeded: "on the night of march th, you decided you were tired of your wife. thought you'd like a change of bedfellow. you left your coat and stick about a quarter-mile down the left bank of the seine from neuilly bridge, so that people would think you dead. you cut a knife-slit in the ribs of your coat to make a neater story of it. then, as i guessed you would, you went honeymooning with the other woman. away to the sunny south. i had you followed. "you registered together at the hotel du forum at arles, taking the names of john rivière and elaine verney. a man doesn't change his name unless he's got some shady reason for it. every court of law knows that. you dallied for a day or two at arles, getting this woman to write a lying letter to your wife saying that you were down with fever. we have that letter." "we!" "yes, _we_. we have that letter. i advised your wife to let me keep it for possible emergencies. i have it in this office along with the other evidence. i don't bluff--shall i ring and have my secretary show it to you?" "get on." "then you moved to nîmes, staying for shame's sake at different houses. hers was the hotel de provence, and yours was the villa clémentine. you went lovemaking with this woman in the moonlight, up to a quiet place on the hillside, and there you nearly got what was coming to you from a peasant called crau. then you had this verney woman stay with you in your villa clémentine, and finally you took her off to wiesbaden." larssen ostentatiously pressed an electric bell. "i'll give you chapter and verse," he said. morris sylvester came in quietly from his room close by, a slow smile under his heavy dark moustache, and nodded greeting to matheson. he had heard by the telephone device all of his chief's case against matheson, and was quite ready to take up his cue. "sylvester, you recognize this man?" said larssen. "yes. he is the mr john rivière i shadowed at arles and nîmes." larssen turned to the financier. "want to ask him any questions? ask anything you like." "no." "sure?" "quite," answered matheson. there was nothing to be gained at this stage by cross-examining the secretary. "that will do, sylvester." the secretary left the room. larssen leant forward across the desk once more and snarled: "there's the facts of the case as they'll go before the divorce court." "do you know that miss verney is blind?" there was a hoarseness in matheson's voice; he cleared his throat to relieve it. "that's no defence in a divorce court." "blind and undergoing an operation this very morning? do you know that it's doubtful if she will ever recover any of her sight?" larssen's mouth tightened a shade more. at last he found the heel of achilles. he could get at matheson through elaine. ruthlessly he answered: "that's no concern of mine. i'm stating facts to you. these facts are not all in your wife's possession. do you want me to put them there?" "your facts are a chain of lies. there's one sound link: that i changed my name. the rest are poisonous lies--provable lies." "whatever they may be, do you want them put before your wife?" he reached for a swinging telephone by his desk and called to the house operator: "get me p. o. richmond, . name, mrs matheson." while he was waiting for the connection to be made, sylvester entered the room and silently showed a visiting-card to his chief. it was olive's card. acting on a sudden impulse, she had motored to the office to see this mysterious john rivière before he should evade her. she knew that the interview was to be at eleven o'clock, and by thus calling in person, she would make certain of meeting him. larssen said aloud to his secretary: "show her up when i ring next." then to matheson: "there's no need to 'phone. your wife is waiting below." sylvester left the room. as the shipowner's hand hovered over the button of the electric bell, waiting for a yes or no from his antagonist, a great temptation lay before matheson. the recital of the events of the past three weeks, as given in the brutal wording of the shipowner, had torn at his nerves like the pincers of an inquisitor. he saw now how the world would judge the relations between elaine and himself. the change of name, the meeting at the same hotel at arles, the second meeting, the companionship of that fateful week at nîmes--the world would put only one interpretation on it all. elaine, lying helpless in her close-curtained room at the nursing home in wiesbaden, would be fouled with the imaginings of the prurient. not only had he brought blindness to her, but now he was to bring her to the pillory with the scarlet letter fixed upon her. yet he could avoid it if he chose. a choice lay open to him. larssen would be ready to exchange silence for silence. if matheson would stand aside and let the hudson bay scheme go through, no doubt larssen would play fair in the matter of elaine. that in effect was what he offered as his hand hovered over the electric bell. the shipowner, though an easy smile of triumph masked his feelings as he lay back in his chair, knew that he was at the critical point of his career. if matheson decided to let olive be shown in, then olive would have in her hands the judgment between the two men. to be dependent on a woman's mood, a woman's whim, would be larssen's position. it galled him to the quick. the seconds that slipped by while matheson considered were minute-long to him. if only matheson would weaken and propose compromise! larssen uttered no word of persuasion one way or another. he knew that, if his desire could be attained, it would be attained through silence. presently matheson stirred in his chair. "ring!" said he firmly. the fight had begun again. larssen pressed the bell without a moment's hesitation. his bluff had to be carried through with absolute decisiveness. he could not gauge how far his threat of the divorce court had intimidated matheson. beyond that, he was not at all sure that olive would side with him in the matter. she was unstable, unreliable. but on the outside no trace of his doubts appeared. he was perfectly cool, entirely master of himself. as he waited for sylvester to fetch mrs matheson, he took out a pocket-knife and began to trim his nails lightly. olive's appearance as she entered the throne-room was greatly changed from that of the evening before. the transient effect of the drug had worn off. her features were now heavy and listless, and there were dark shadows under the eyes. both men rose to offer a seat. "i came along to catch mr rivière before he left you," she explained to larssen, and turned with a set smile towards the visitor. for a moment or two she stared at matheson in amazement. then: "why, it's clifford! what have you been doing to yourself? why have you changed your appearance? why are you here? what's the meaning of all this?" "it's a long story," cut in larssen, and "there are two versions to it. which will you hear first, your husband's or mine?" she hesitated to answer, her mind buzzing with surprise, resentment, and anger. she hated to be caught at a disadvantage, as in this case. she was uncertain as to what her attitude ought to be. had clifford, suspecting her feelings towards larssen, returned hurriedly in order to trap her? what did he know? what did he guess? evidently she ought to be on her guard. "of course i will hear my husband first," she answered coldly, and larssen took it as an ill omen. he offered her a chair again, and seated himself so as to command them both. matheson, who remained standing, waved his hand towards the shipowner. "let him speak first." "i'm not anxious to," countered larssen. "fire away with your own version." "i hate all this mystery!" snapped olive irritably. "mr larssen, you tell me what it all means." "very well. _this_ is mr john rivière." "rivière?" "yes; that's your husband's _nom de discrétion_." "i thought it was dean." "no--rivière." "why is he back from canada so soon?" "he never went to canada." "you don't mean to say that the letter i received from arles was written by clifford himself?" "at his dictation." "who wrote it?" larssen turned to matheson. "do you wish me to explain who wrote it, or will you do it yourself?" "it was written at my dictation by a miss verney--a lady whom i met for the first time on my visit to arles. her relation to myself is that of a mere tourist acquaintanceship." "why were you at arles? why was she at arles?" "miss verney is--was--a professional scene-painter. she was making a brief tour in provence to collect material for a roman drama for which she was commissioned to design the scenery." "how old is she?" "i don't know--what does it matter?" "i want to know." "about twenty-five, i should say." "and what were you doing at arles?" matheson found it very difficult to frame his reasons under this remorseless cross-examination. he felt as though he were in the witness-box at a divorce trial, replying to hostile counsel. "when i left paris," he answered, "it was to take a quiet holiday for a couple of months before settling down to my new work." "what new work?" "i'll explain in detail later. scientific research, in brief." larssen scraped his chair scornfully. he would not comment with words at the present juncture. matheson was convicting himself out of his own mouth--the revelation was unfolding excellently. "you went to arles for research?" pursued olive. "no; for a holiday." "a holiday from what--from whom?" "from financial matters." "why did you take the name of john rivière?" "because i intended to take that name permanently." olive was startled. "you meant to leave me!" she exclaimed. "i meant to disappear and give you your freedom and the greater part of my property," answered matheson steadily. "how freedom?" "on the night of march th, the night i said good-bye to you at the gare de lyon, i made a sudden decision to take up my brother's work and live his life. he has been dead a couple of years. i happened to be attacked by a couple of _apaches_, and that gave me the opportunity. i contrived evidence of a violent death, and then cut loose entirely from the name of clifford matheson. you would be given leave by the courts to presume death, on the evidence of my coat and stick left by the river-bank at neuilly. you would come into my money and property, and you would be free to marry again if you chose." olive had become very thoughtful. her chin was buried in her hand. when she spoke again after a few moments' pause, it was in a strangely altered tone. "why did you come back?" she said. "because larssen was using my name in a way i won't countenance. i was forced to return in order to put a stop to it." "was that the only reason that made you return?" "yes, that was it." "you came back because mr larssen called you back?" "because i found that he was having me impersonated, and using my name illicitly." olive turned on the shipowner with a sudden wild fury, her eyes shooting fire and her lips quivering. "why did you have clifford impersonated?" she hissed out. larssen was taken aback at this utterly unexpected onslaught. "that's _his_ version!" he retorted. "my husband says so--that's sufficient for me!" "then i can't argue." "do you deny it?" "emphatically!" "you told me clifford was in canada, when all the time you knew he was at arles. didn't you tell me that?" "to save his face." "how?" "obviously because i knew he was dallying at arles and nîmes with this verney woman. you haven't heard one-tenth of the facts yet. you haven't heard that he stayed in the same hotel with her at arles. went with her to nîmes when the hotel people began to object. at nîmes, for decency's sake, they stayed at different houses, but he had her hanging around his villa. went lovemaking with her in the moonlight up to a quiet place on the hillside. then, had her live with him in the villa clémentine. finally, took her to wiesbaden. these are all facts for which i can bring you irrefutable evidence. i had my secretary shadowing him from the moment he left paris." olive turned on her husband with another lightning change of mood. "is she so very beautiful, this enchantress of yours?" she queried with the velvety softness of a cat. "she is blind," answered matheson with a quiver in his words. "blinded for life while trying to warn me of a vitriol attack. olive, i want you to listen without interruption while i tell you on my word of honour what are the facts underneath that vile story of larssen's. i want you to believe and have pity. "we had never seen one another before arles. there we met as casual tourists. it happened that i was able to defend her from the assault of a half-drunken peasant. after that we parted as the merest acquaintances. by pure chance we met again at nîmes. she came to nîmes to gather further material for her scene-painting. for scene purposes she had to make a sketch at night-time, and i went with her as escort as i would have done with any other woman. we were followed by the peasant crau. he was about to throw vitriol on me when miss verney intervened. she received the acid full in her eyes. she is, i believe, blinded for life. even now, as i speak, she lies on the operating table.... olive, there has been nothing between us!" his voice rang out in passionate sincerity. "i don't believe it," she replied icily. "you _must_ believe it! i give you my word of honour!" "i don't believe it! it's against human nature. you're in love with her--that's plain. you had opportunity enough. i know sufficient of human nature to put two and two together. i shall certainly sue for a divorce!" "against a blind girl?" "i don't care a straw whether she's blinded or not!" and then, for the first time in all that long interview, matheson blazed into open anger. "you know human nature?" he cried. "by god, you know your own, and you measure every other woman by yourself! behind my back you throw yourself at this damned scoundrel!" he flung out his hand toward larssen. there was no answering anger in larssen. he knew too well the value of keeping cool. he merely put in a word to egg matheson on to a further outburst. "that's a chivalrous accusation to make," said he. "it's true as everything else i've said! last night, at thornton chase, in the drawing-room before dinner, i saw through, the uncurtained window...." too late he pulled himself up short. the irrevocable word had been said. olive was now implacable. her voice was steely as she answered: "i wish to heaven you were dead!" larssen saw his supreme moment. "why not?" he suggested. "i don't understand." "let him disappear. let him become john rivière for good and all." "but my divorce?" "give it up--on conditions. you'll have your freedom just the same." "what conditions?" "ask your husband to sign approval of my hudson bay prospectus as it stands." "doesn't he approve it?" "no," answered matheson. "that's why i came back." "what's wrong with it?" "it gives larssen control. it's greatly unfair to the public." "and just for that you came back? what a reason!" scorn lashed from her. "yes, mr larssen is right! i owe it to my self-respect to be magnanimous. you can return to your mistress--i'll forego my divorce. sign the papers he wants you to, and you can live out your life as john rivière. your money, of course, comes to me." the shipowner, grimly triumphant, said nothing. matheson, in his blaze of anger, had turned olive definitely and finally against himself. there was no call for larssen to add to the command of her words. matheson's anger was spent. a great tiredness crept over his will. he could fight no more. larssen and olive had beaten him down--beaten him down through his anxiety to shield elaine. why should he sacrifice her for the sake of an altruistic ideal? the public he had striven to protect would not thank him for intervening in their interests. he would be merely a quixotic fool. he felt will-tired, soul-tired, more tired even than on the night of march th. he could fight no more. he sank down into a chair, and presently he said dully: "show me the prospectus." larssen unhurriedly produced from a drawer in his desk a private draft prospectus such as is offered to the underwriters. on it was a list of names--the firms to whom it was being shown confidentially before public issue. he reached for the electric bell to summon sylvester as a witness to matheson's signature, but at that very moment the secretary knocked and entered quickly with an open cablegram, which he passed to his chief. larssen's face grew white as he read it, but he said nothing beyond: "wait to witness a signature." matheson took the prospectus and read it through mechanically. the shipowner, with an appearance of casualness, turned to a map on the wall behind him and studied the position of his atlantic liners as indicated by the flag-pins. olive remained seated, her eyes fixed remorselessly on her husband. presently matheson reached for a pen. "what do you want on it?" he asked. "simply 'o.k., clifford matheson,'" answered the shipowner without turning round. "no date." matheson wrote across the printed document the formal letters "o.k.," and signed below. sylvester witnessed the signature, and passed the document to his chief. chapter xxi the bolted door the moment he had that vital document safe in his breast-pocket, lars larssen was a changed man. his mask of cool indifference and his assumption of perfect leisure were thrown aside. his face was drawn with lines of anxiety as he snapped a rapid stream of orders at sylvester: "send a wireless to the 'aurelia' to put back at once to plymouth. 'phone paddington to have a special ready for me in half-an-hour. 'phone my house to pack me a portmanteau and send it to paddington by fast car to catch the special. get my office car round at once. tell bates and carew and grasemann i'd like them to travel with me to plymouth to talk business. let me know when all that's moving. hurry!" sylvester sped away to execute his orders. larssen looked up at the portrait of his little boy, and the cablegram fluttered to the ground. "what's the matter?" asked olive. "pneumonia. dangerously ill." "poor little chap!" "my only child!" "he'll get over it, i'm sure." "he's never been strong and hardy." "still, with the best doctors...." "if money can pull him through, i'll pour it out like water. i'm off to the states to look after those fool doctors. the 'aurelia' is one of my fastest boats, and she'll take me across in five days. i'll give treble pay to every engineer and stoker." "how long will you be away?" "can't say exactly." "how unfortunate, just at this time!" "i can finish off the hudson bay deal by wireless. my ordinary business on this side will run on in the hands of bates, carew, and grasemann, who form my executive committee for london." they had both ignored matheson through this conversation. he was squeezed dry and done with. larssen had no further use for him at present, and olive had no sympathy to waste on a beaten man. he had been sitting brokenly in a chair at the desk where he had signed away his independence, gazing into a new-spilt ink-blot on the polished surface of the desk, seeing visions in its glistening, blue-black pool. but now he pushed back his chair with a rasping noise and rose decisively to face larssen. "we'll call it a month's truce!" he flung out. "what d'you mean?" "for a month from now neither you nor i will move further in the hudson bay scheme. for a month it'll be hung up." "who's to hang it up?" "i." "but i've got your signed approval in my pocket. signed and witnessed!" "the issue is not yet underwritten." it was a sheer guess, but in larssen's face matheson could read that his guess was correct. "well?" snapped larssen. "either you or i will tell the underwriters that the scheme goes no further until a month from date--until may rd. which is it to be--you or i?" sylvester came in rapidly. "all your orders are being carried out, and the car's on the way here from the garage." for a few tense moments larssen hesitated. the underwriting of the five-million issue was an absolute essential to a successful flotation, and the negotiations were not yet completed. if matheson were to interfere in them during his absence from london, big difficulties might develop. before that cablegram arrived, the shipowner could have beaten down any such threat on matheson's part, but now, with his little son calling for his presence, with the special train at paddington coupling up to speed him to plymouth, with the "aurelia" turning back, against the protest of its thousand passengers, to take him on board, the situation was radically changed. matheson had realised the altered situation, and putting aside any over-fine scruples, had gripped advantage from it. larssen's eyes blazed anger at the financier. then he held out his hand to olive. "good-bye!" he said. "good-bye!" she answered, taking his hand. "you or i?" repeated matheson. the shipowner turned at the door through which he was hurrying out. "i," he conceded. "then sign on it." "don't sign!" cried olive. "he _must_ sign!" larssen rushed back to his desk and scribbled on a sheet of paper: "until may rd, i fix up nothing with the underwriters." he scrawled his signature under it, and without further word hurried from the throne-room. matheson and his wife were left alone. when larssen had closed the door behind him, olive felt as if a big strong arm of support had suddenly been taken away from her. larssen's mere presence, even if he remained silent, gave her a fictitious sense of her own power, which now was crumbling away and leaving her with a feeling of insecurity and self-distrust. openly it expressed itself in peevish annoyance. "why couldn't you have stayed away altogether?" she muttered fretfully. "nobody wanted you back. your scruples, indeed! i must say you have a pretty mixed set of them. if you had had any consideration for me, you'd have stayed away altogether, instead of coming back and making scenes of this kind. i hate scenes! and why did you force that month's wait at the last moment? now things are complicated worse than ever!" matheson waited patiently for his wife to finish the recital of her complaints. he wondered if it were possible to appeal once more to her better feelings. at all events he would make the attempt. the signature he had forced out of larssen had given him back some of his self-respect, and he felt his brain as it were cleared for action once more. when olive had finished, matheson asked her quietly: "why did you marry me?" "why did you marry _me_?" she retorted. "because i honestly believed at the time that i loved you." "i suppose you found out afterwards that you'd made a mistake, and then blamed it on to me?" "i'm not blaming you--i'm trying to get the right perspective on to our marriage. i'm wondering if the woman i loved was yourself, or merely my idealization of you." "i can't help it if i'm not the incarnation of all the virtues you imagined me to be!" olive sat down and played nervously with a penholder, jabbing meaningless lines and dots on to a loose sheet of paper. "when i married you, i thought you were in sympathy with me over the big things of life--the things that matter. but you turned them aside with a laugh. that put a barrier between us." "i never could stand prigs. i thought i was marrying a man of the world." "we seemed to be radically opposed in ideas. we drifted farther and farther away from one another. at the end of five years, our marriage was empty even of tepid affection. if there had been children, perhaps...." "no doubt you'd have wanted to wheel them out in the perambulator!" matheson let the flippancy pass. he continued steadily: "i felt i could not do my big work under the constant friction of our married life, and my life in the financial world. i felt you longed for complete liberty." "i did, and i do so still." "so, when opportunity came to me on the night of march th, i made the sudden decision you know of. i thought i had cut myself loose. if it had not been for that one unthought-of thread--larssen's scheme to use me dead or alive--i should never have come back.... my sudden decision was wrong. i realise now that no man can cut himself utterly loose from the life he has woven for himself. he is part of the pattern of the great web of humanity. he is joined to the world around him by a thousand threads. if he tries to cut loose, there will always be some one unnoticed thread linking him to the old life." "that sort of thing may be interesting to people who're interested in it. it merely bores me." "olive, i want to say this: i'm ready to try once more. i'm ready to take up our married life as we started it on our wedding day. i'll try to forget the past and start afresh. i'll make allowances for you--will _you_ make allowances for me?" olive laughed mirthlessly. "in plain words, that means you want me to be somebody i've never pretended to be and never want to be. the idea is fatuous." "won't you believe me when i say that i'm genuinely anxious to do the right thing by you, and clear up the tangle i've made of your life and mine? i'm sorry for what i said in larssen's presence a little while ago. i was angry and carried beyond myself." "no apology can wipe out that sort of thing." "i'll do my best to make amends.... you're not looking at all well. there's a big change in you. monte carlo does you no good--the reverse in fact. why not see a doctor and get him to prescribe you a tonic and a quiet place to build up your health in? we'll go there together and start our married life afresh." "you've had your say--now let me have mine!" flung out olive. "when we married, i was mistaken too. i thought at the time you were a man who could do things. i judged on your previous career. after we were married, i found i was utterly misled. it isn't in you to climb to the top. you've too many sides to your nature. first one thing pulls you one way, and then another thing pulls you another way. to succeed, a man has to run in blinkers--straight on without minding the side issues. i imagined you a hundred per center, and i found you only a ninety per center. you can't climb to the top--it isn't in you!" "climb to where?" olive looked around at the vast throne-room of the shipowner, and her meaning was conveyed in the glance. "larssen has that final ten per cent.," admitted matheson. "but do you know what it means in plain language?" "what?" "utter unscrupulousness. utter ruthlessness. napoleon had that extra ten per cent. bismarck had it. you're right when you say i haven't it." olive moved irritably in her chair. "sour grapes," she commented. "call it that if you wish." she dug her pen viciously into the polished surface of the desk, leaving the holder quivering at the outrage. "larssen has been merely playing with you," continued matheson. "i don't want to blame, but to warn. i know the man far better than you do. he thinks you might be useful to him." "what are you going to do when the month is up?" she asked abruptly. "what do you want me to do?" she looked him straight in the eye, her pupils narrowed with hate. "go out of my life!" "a legal separation?" "no use at all. that ties me indefinitely." "what then?" "one of two things: divorce or disappearance." "you mean a framed-up divorce? the usual arranged affair?" "no, i don't. i mean a divorce with that verney woman as co-respondent." "i'll not have you insult her by calling her 'that verney woman!'" "miss verney, then.... it's either divorce or total disappearance." "larssen spoke glibly enough of disappearance, but the circumstances are very different now from what they were on the night of march th. then, not a soul outside myself knew of my intention. you'd have claimed leave from the courts to presume death, and it would certainly have been granted you. you would legally have been a widow, and i--as clifford matheson--should legally have been dead.... but now, both you and larssen, and his secretary as well, know that clifford matheson is alive." "does anyone else know?" "no one." "larssen will certainly keep the secret. so will his secretary. so shall i. that's no difficulty." "you mean to apply to the courts for a certificate of my death, knowing that it will be fraudulent." "that, or divorce against you and miss verney." the lines of obstinacy were hard-set around her mouth. "why are you so bitter against her?" olive remained contemptuously silent. her reason, as she saw it, should be obvious enough. if clifford was so dense as not to see it, she was certainly not going to enlighten him. even in face of what had gone before, matheson was still hoping to soften his wife towards elaine. he tried again. "her life is ruined. her work was her happiness as well as her livelihood. now, both are snatched away from her. she is an orphan; she has no relatives in sympathy with her; her means are very limited; she has heavy expenses to face over the operation and the convalescence. she is under hegelmann's care at wiesbaden. this very morning he is operating on her. i must go back to wiesbaden at once to hear how things are going." "you can wire and find out." "i prefer to go personally." "is she so very attractive to you?" matheson, sick at heart, reached for his hat and stick preparatory to taking his leave. a sudden thought struck olive. "you swear to me that you've told no one you're clifford matheson?" "no one knows beyond yourself, larssen, and sylvester." "and you'll tell no one else?" "i must reserve that right." "it's not in our bargain!" protested olive. "you were to disappear completely." "it won't affect our bargain," he retorted. "that's for me to say." "heaven knows that i've given up to you enough already!" "i ask you to swear to me you'll never tell anyone else! not even hint at it!" "i can't promise it." "that's your last word?" "yes." olive flashed hate at him. her hands were quivering when she answered, as though she could have torn him in pieces. "very well, then! i'll reserve my right of action too!" her fingers reached for the electric bell and pressed it imperatively. when sylvester appeared, she said decisively: "have a cab called for mr rivière." "certainly," he answered. the financier took up hat and stick, and with a cold "good-bye" passed out of the open door, sylvester following him. presently the secretary returned to confer with olive. larssen had told him to keep in touch with her. * * * * * clifford matheson was once more john rivière. he picked up his valise at the avon hotel and caught the first boat train for germany. it took him to the continent via queenboro'--flushing. his thoughts on the railway journey to queenboro' were very different to those which had filled his mind when he sped calaiswards on his way to england. then, he had felt as if he had just plunged into an ice-cold lake, and emerged tingling in every limb with the vigour of health renewed. the course before him had seemed straight; the issue clean-cut. now, he felt as if he had been tripped up and pushed bodily into a pool of mire. circumstances seemed more tangled than ever. finality had not been reached either in regard to his relations towards his wife, towards elaine, or towards larssen; in regard to the hudson bay scheme, or in his regard to his future freedom for work on the lines he so earnestly desired. the whirlpool had sucked him back, and he was once more battling with swirling waters. out of all the welter of his thoughts one course became clearer and clearer. he must tell elaine. he must put her in possession of the main facts of the situation which had developed in larssen's office. that he could tell her without violating the spirit of his bargain with olive was certain. he knew he could trust absolutely in elaine's silence. till then--till he had told her--there was no definite line of action he could see as the one inevitable solution. if the elements had seemed to bar his passage to london the day before, to-day they seemed to be calling welcome to him as train and boat sped him eastwards. the marshes of the swale were almost a joyous emerald green under the sparkle of the sun in the early afternoon; the estuary of the thames was alive with white and brown sail swelling full-bloodedly to the drive of a care-free, joyful breeze; torpedo-boats and destroyers sped in and out from sheerness with the supple strength of greyhounds unleashed, tossing the blue waters in curling locks of foam from their bows; the open sea sparkled and glinted and danced with the joy of life in its veins. at sundown, the sky behind the foaming wake of the packet was a blaze of glory. the sinking sun wove a cloth of gold on the halo of cloud about it, and circled the horizon with a belt of rose and opal. gradually the gold faded into fiery purple, with arms of unbelievable green stretching out to clasp the round cup of ocean; the purple died away reluctantly like the drums of a triumphant march receding to a distance; night took sea and sky into her arms, and crooned to them a mother-song of rest. on the railway station at flushing a telegram was handed to rivière--the reply to a telegram of inquiry sent by him from london. it was from elaine herself: "operation well over. doctor hopeful. little pain. glad when you are back," it ran, and he had almost worn through its creases, by reason of folding and unfolding, before he fell asleep that night in the train for wiesbaden. chapter xxii the chameleon mind many men are chameleons. they take their mental colour from the surroundings of the moment. they are swayed by every fresh change of circumstance, influenced by every strong mind with whom they come in contact. if such a man goes on from year to year in the same even groove of work, the chameleon mind may not be apparent on the surface; but if by any chance he is suddenly jolted from his accustomed groove, the mental instability becomes plain to read. arthur dean was of this class. when a clerk at £ per week he had looked forward to promotion to £ a week as something dazzling in its opulence, while £ a week represented the pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow. now a sudden turn of fortune's wheel had lifted him to a salary of £ a week and all expenses paid, and the work he was required to do for his money was so trifling in amount as to be almost ludicrous. he had merely to read over a few letters and send off a few brief cablegrams saying nothing in particular. as lars larssen had tersely phrased it, he was no longer a "clerk"--he was a "business man." and he knew that if he carried out orders faithfully and intelligently, his future with his employer was assured. larssen had a strong reputation for loyalty to his employees. he exacted much, but he gave much in return. as his own fortunes grew, so did those of his right-hand men. if a man after faithful service was stricken down by illness, larssen allowed him a liberal pension. that was "business" as the shipowner viewed it in his broad, far-sighted way. he saw business not as the mere handling of goods, but as the handling of _men_. in the attainment of his ambitions he was dependent on faithful service from his employees, and accordingly he made it worth their while to be faithful. he was liberal to them because liberality paid him. his position in the world was somewhat like that of a robber baron in the middle ages, carving out a kingdom with the help of loyal followers. the people he plundered were the outsiders, and a certain share of the spoils went to his men. so dean knew that if he carried out thoroughly the work entrusted to him, larssen would stand by his spoken promise. he resolved to obey orders as faithfully and as intelligently as he possibly could. he did not write home what form his new work was taking. in his letters to daisy he explained simply that he was being sent to canada on a confidential mission, at a big increase of salary, and that he was having a regal time of it. at quebec and montreal and ottawa and winnipeg he scoured the shops to find presents which would carry to her a realisation of his new position. dean began to feel his importance growing rapidly as he journeyed across the atlantic and around the principal cities of canada. he thought he realised the meaning of "business" as it was viewed by the men up above, the men at the roll-top desks. he saw now that it was not hard, plugging work that earned them their big salaries. in a short fortnight he had begun to look a little contemptuously on the grinders and plodders. why couldn't they realise how little their patient, plodding service could ever bring them? but some men, he reflected, were born to be merely clerks all their days. he was different--out of the common ruck. he could see largely, like lars larssen did. he was a man of importance. canada pressed a broad thumb on his plastic mind without his conscious knowledge. canada with her young, red-blooded vigour swept into him like a tidal wave of open sea into a sluggish, marshy creek. canada thrust her vastness and her limitless potentialities at him with a careless hand, as though to say: "here's opportunity for the taking." canada taught him in ten days what at home he would never have learnt in a lifetime: that london is not the british empire. the clerk who lives out his life in the rabbit-warren of the city of london by day, and in a cheap, pretentious, red-brick suburb by night, believes firmly that outside london not much matters. he lumps together the canadian, the south african, the australian, and the new zealander under the slighting category of "colonials." he imagines them bowing themselves humbly before the majesty of the londoner, taking their cues from london and reverencing it as the fount of all wisdom and might and wealth. there is no one more "provincial" than the cockney born and bred. after ten days of canada, dean with his chameleon mind felt himself almost a canadian. he was beginning to pity the limitations of the londoner. he considered himself raised above that level. winnipeg, the new "wheat pit" of north america, impressed him most strongly. he could feel the bursting strength of the young city--a david amongst cities. he could feel it growing under his feet to its kingdom of the granary of britain. the epic of the wheat pulsed its stately poetry into him--thrilled him with the majestic chords of its mighty song. he had a half-idea that lars larssen's big scheme was in some way connected with the epic of the wheat, and it gave him fresh importance to think that he was serving such a man in so confidential a position. he tried a little gamble in "may wheat" with a winnipeg bucket-shop, plunging what was to him the important sum of twenty dollars. luck was with him full-tide. from the moment he bought, may wheat shot upwards, and in a few days he had closed the deal with fifty dollars to his credit. that evening he wandered around the city with money jingling in his trouser-pockets. he bought himself a good seat at a music-hall, and at the bar boldly ordered cocktails with weird names of which the contents were wonderful mysteries to him. on his way home to his hotel about midnight, a flaming placard outside a tin-roofed chapel caught his eye and stopped him for a moment. the wording was crudely sensational: the wicked flourish! but for how long? a lifetime of ease for an eternity of hell-fire! do you choose hell? make your choice to-night! the meeting inside the chapel was in full swing. a roar of voices raised in a marching hymn swept out to the deserted street. dean's lips curved contemptuously for a moment. then the whim came to him to finish his night's amusement by a sarcastic enjoyment of the revivalist service. he would go inside and watch other people making fools of themselves. he entered the swinging doors of the chapel into a room hot with the odour of packed humanity, and found a place for himself at the rear. presently the hymn ended on a shout of triumph and a deep, solemn "amen." there was a shuffling and scraping of feet as the congregation sat down and prepared itself to listen to the preacher. he was a tall, lean man of fifty-five, with a thin grey beard and a hawk nose, and eyes that burnt with the intensity of inner fire. he was the ascetic, the fanatic, the man with a burning message to deliver. his eyes sought round his congregation before he gave out his text, seeking for the souls that might be ready for the saving. "and it came to pass, that the beggar died, and was carried by the angels into abraham's bosom; the rich man also died, and was buried. and in hell he lift up his eyes, being in torments, and seeth abraham afar off, and lazarus in his bosom. and he cried and said, father abraham, have mercy on me and send lazarus, that he may dip the tip of his finger in water, and cool my tongue; for i am tormented in this flame. but abraham said, son, remember that thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy good things, and likewise lazarus evil things; but now he is comforted, and thou art tormented." the preacher read out the words with a slow, even intensity, making them carry the weight of the inevitable. he paused for them to sink in before he began the delivery of his own message. "my friends," he said, "listen to this story from life. many years ago there was a young man in this very city who had a great temptation placed before him. he was a clerk in an office, as many of you are. he was ambitious, as many of you are. he was hoping for riches and power, as many of you are. "one day the devil tempted him. he could become rich if he chose to sacrifice his conscience. the devil promised him riches and power and all that his heart could desire. and he fell. "my friends, the devil kept his literal promise. he always does. when he comes to you in the watches of the night, and offers you all that you desire on earth in return for your soul, you can know that he will keep his promise. "the young man is now rich and famous, and if i told you his name, you would say that he is a man to be envied. you see his portraits in the papers; you hear of his mansions and his motor-cars, his yachts and his splendid entertainments; and you would never dream that he is the most unhappy man in canada. "the devil has given him everything he lusted for. and yet, not ten days ago, he came to me in secret and begged for help and counsel. his riches and power have turned to wormwood in his mouth. his wife and children hate him. his friends are only friends because he has money. he is the most lonely, the most miserable of men." the preacher leant forward over the pulpit and half whispered: "the wicked flourish like the green bay tree, but who knows what secret canker eats into their hearts? the devil stands beside them and whispers mockingly: 'i have given you everything your heart lusted for; does it taste sweet? does it taste sweet?' so much for this world; and now, my friends, what of the next world?" the preacher straightened himself and with passionate sincerity flung out a torrent of warning and exhortation to his congregation--a lava-stream of burning words that bit into their very souls. dean, who had come to mock, listened with a clutch at his heart that made him first shiver and then turn burning hot and faint. he passed his handkerchief over his forehead nervously, gripped at the seat to steady himself. at length he could stand the strain no longer as he rose and stumbled his way towards the door, towards the fresh air, the preacher stopped in his discourse to send an individual message to him. "stay, my friend!" he cried. "to-night is the hour for you to choose. to-morrow i shall be gone. to-morrow will be too late. choose now!" but dean had thrust open the swinging doors and had disappeared into the night. at his hotel the porter handed him a telegram just arrived. it was from lars larssen--an order to proceed to new york and wait the shipowner's arrival there. it had been despatched by wireless from on board the s.s. "aurelia." that scrap of paper came as a bracing tonic to arthur dean. it was an order, and just now he ached to be ordered. the curt message out-weighed all the burning words of the preacher. even from three thousand miles away lars larssen could grip hold of the mind of the young fellow and bend it to his purpose. the next morning dean was smiling scornfully at his weakness of the night before. he paid for a train ticket for new york via toronto in a newly confident frame of mind. he was larssen's man again. * * * * * at the beginning of the journey dean read papers and magazines and smoked away the long hours. tiring of that eventually, he sauntered to the observation platform at the rear of the train. and there he found the preacher. there was an embarrassing silence. the minister knew him at once for the young man who had left his chapel the night before in the middle of the discourse. dean knew that he was recognized, but did not wish to appear cognizant of it. he tried to look indifferent, but with poor success. the minister broke the silence by offering his card and saying: "one day you may need my help. if it please the lord that i am alive then, come to me and i will help you." dean took the card and read the name, the rev. enoch stephen way, and a toronto address. he pocketed the card and murmured a conventional thanks. "you are an englishman?" said the minister. "yes." "travelling on business?" "yes." the answer was curt, and the minister saw that the young man resented any cross-examination of his private affairs. he therefore turned the conversation at once to impersonal matters. "how do you like canada? how does it strike you?" "fine!" answered dean, relieved at the turn of the conversation. "so big." "you mean the extent of the country?" "it's not that, quite. i mean that people seem to think in a bigger way. i suppose it comes from having so much space around one." the train was now passing through the endless miles of forest-land and tangled hills on the route to fort william, with scarcely a sign of human habitation except by the occasional wayside stations. now and again the train would thunder over a high trestle bridge above a leaping torrent-river. dean waved his hand vaguely to include the primeval vastnesses around them. "that's right," answered the minister. "there's no cramping here. room for everyone. room for spiritual growth as well as material growth. i know the feeling you have. when i was a young man about your age i came to canada from the slums of liverpool. i had been twice in jail in liverpool. it was for theft. in england i should probably have developed into a chronic thief. there's little chance for a man who has once been in prison.... but canada gave me my chance. canada didn't bother about my past. canada only wanted to know what i could do in the future." dean's eyes widened at this frank avowal. he had never seen or heard of a man--and especially a man in the ministry--who would openly confess to a prison-brand upon him. "no wonder you like canada," was his lame answer. "tell me, my friend, why you left my chapel so hurriedly last night." dean flushed. "i was feeling a bit faint," he returned. "that's conscience." "oh, i don't know. the chapel was very packed and hot." "it was conscience. why won't you be frank with me?" "there's nothing to be frank about." the minister looked steadily at him, and dean flushed still further and fidgetted uncomfortably. "i must be getting back to my carriage," he murmured. "the lord has brought you to me a second time. there may never be a third time. the lord has----" a sudden jerk of the car threw them both off their feet. they were passing now over a high trestle bridge above a foaming torrent. there was a horrible grinding and jarring and crashing. the tail-car of the train flicked out sideways and hung half over the river, dragging with it the cars in front. for an age-long second it seemed as if the whole train would be precipitated into the water. then the couplings parted. the end car, turning over and over, struck the river a hundred feet below and impaled itself on a jagged spur of rock hidden under the swirl of waters. dean had been battered to insensibility before the car reached the rocks. he awoke to consciousness through the agonized dream that fiends were staking him down under water and torturing him by letting the water rise higher and higher, until finally he would be drowned by inches. he awoke, struggling frantically, to the reality which had dictated the dream. waters were swirling around him, and his legs were pinned fast in the wreckage of the car tilted up on end amongst the sunken rocks. burning pains shot through him. far up above on the bridge men were shouting and rushing wildly. he screamed out for help. a wave dashed at him and choked the scream on his lips. he struggled to free himself from the wreckage that pinned him fast, and blinding pain drove him to unconsciousness again. as he awoke for the second time, a groan near by made him twist his head to see who it might come from. it was the minister, held fast amongst the splintered wreckage of the car, his face streaming red from a jagged gash in his grey head. "i can't get to you! i'm helpless!" cried dean. the minister answered very simply: "my friend, see to yourself. the lord has called me to his side." with a sudden jerk the car settled deeper in the torrent. only by straining to the uttermost could dean keep his mouth to the air above the swirl of waters. "help!" he screamed to the bridge above. "i'll be drowned! help!" the minister began to pray aloud: "lord, thou hast been pleased to call me, and i come. receive my soul in pity, and forgive me my many sins. and, oh lord god, grant that this my young friend may live to see the light and to worship thee. let this be his hour of repentance. start him upon a new path, and keep his feet from straying. in thy mercy save him that he might live to thy glory. show him what thou hast shown me, and----" the minister's hand dropped suddenly forward, and the waters closed over him with a snarl. from the bridge far above a man was being lowered on a rope, like a spider hanging from a thread. dean watched him with paralyzed tongue. the strain to keep his head above the waters was racking him like a torment of the inquisition. the horror of the situation grew with every second. why did they lower so slowly? would release ever come in time to save him? his hour of repentance! yes, the preacher was right. this was his punishment for the part he had taken in the fraudulent personation of clifford matheson. it came to dean like a blinding flash of light that god was demanding of him whether he would repent or no--whether he would vow to run straight for the future. the man on the rope was growing larger. his face held the solemnity of an eternal judge. in his two hands were scrolls marked riches and poverty. he held them out towards dean, demanding his instant choice. the young man begged for a moment to consider. he shut his eyes against the decision thrust upon him. a voice thundered in his ears.... chapter xxiii larssen's man once again of the eleven passengers in the car that plunged over the bridge, arthur dean was the only one saved. nine had been drowned in the interior of the car when it crashed amongst the rocks of the torrent. only dean and the minister, standing in the observation platform at the rear of the car, had had a chance of life, and the minister had died before help had reached him. the shock affected dean more seriously than his injuries, which were nothing worse than severe bruises and cuts. he knew that he had had a miraculous escape, and the horror of the peril wove in and out of his thoughts as he lay in hospital at fort william, haunting dreams and waking thoughts alike. when he left the hospital he was a changed man--white and gaunt of face, and resolved in purpose to tell lars larssen at once that he would serve him no longer. he made for new york, and went straight to the shipowner's offices. these were situated at the very beginning of broadway, overlooking battery park, on the tip of the tongue of manhattan island. inside, they were very much on the same lines of the london offices--in fact, the latter were modelled on them. above the dome of the building stretched the antennæ of larssen's wireless. to his intense disappointment, dean was informed that the chief was away from new york, by the bedside of his little son at his school in florida. the young fellow had worked himself up to the point of handing in his resignation; he had fixed on just what he would say to his employer; and this check threw him back on his haunches. to travel down to florida would cost money, and he did not feel justified in paying for the journey out of the expenses allowance given him by larssen. to explain by letter was too difficult. after some thought he decided to take a return ticket by day coach, and to pay for it out of his own pocket. golden beach, where the school was situated, was a fashionable winter resort on the florida coast. in one of its several palatial hotels, larssen had engaged a suite of rooms and had made himself a temporary office. dean carried his modest portmanteau to the hotel, and waited in the piazza until larssen should return from a visit to his boy. it was late in the afternoon when the shipowner came striding along the white, palm-shaded road, purpose and masterfulness in every movement. when he caught sight of dean waiting on the piazza, he came up with a hand outstretched in cordial greeting. "well, dean, how are you feeling now? the accident must have given you a terrific shake-up." "much better, thank you, sir." "looks to me you could do with a fortnight's complete holiday," said larssen, surveying critically the gaunt white face of the young man. "say so, and it's yours." dean stammered some words of thanks. this cordial greeting threw him into confusion--made it so much more difficult to say what he had come to say. for a moment's respite, he asked after larssen's little boy. "he'll pull round. the crisis is over. his constitution's weak, but he'll pull round. money saved him. on the 'aurelia' i got hold of all the facts of the case by wireless, and took a grip of the situation. i sized up the doctors here as a couple of well-meaning fools. i wired to chicago for a man who's made a speciality of opsonic treatment for pneumonia. his own invention--something the other doctors sneer at. i had him packed from chicago to golden beach by special train, with full authority to boss the case.... yes, it's money that saved my boy. money, dean, holds the power of life and death. money is the mightiest thing in this world. i expect you've come to realise that lately, now you've left off being a clerk." dean gulped and answered: "that's what i've come to speak to you about, sir." the shipowner shot a swift glance at him. "come to my office," he said, and led the way. when he had the young fellow seated with the light full on him, larssen asked coldly: "what's your song? looking for a raise already?" "no, it's not that. i don't feel i can carry out this work." "what work?" "your work." "talk it longer." "it's like this, sir. when i was in winnipeg, i went one night to a music-hall, and on my way home i went by chance into a chapel meeting." "music-hall or chapel--it's all one to me, so long as you're not a drinker. you're free to spend your evenings as you like, provided it doesn't interfere with your work." "there was a preacher there, a mr enoch way, who impressed me very strongly, sir. so much so that i had to leave the meeting. when i got back to my hotel, i found a wire from you telling me to travel to new york. i caught the morning train, and on the train i met mr way again. we were on the observation platform together when the railway-car went over the bridge. he died not a yard away from me, down in the river! he was a fine man--a great man! and if i could die like he died, with a prayer on his lips for someone who was only a stranger----" dean choked and stopped. presently he resumed: "and when i lay in hospital at fort william, i thought things over and over. i began to see clearly that i ought never to have taken on the work you asked me to do." "why not?" "it's not right, sir! you know what you asked me to do wasn't right! it's fraud!" the words came clear and strong now. if larssen had been a man of ordinary passions, he would have kicked dean out of the door and told him to go to the devil. but the shipowner had not reached his present power by giving way to ordinary feelings. he answered very quietly: "i should have liked to meet that mr way. he must have been a man of personality. what did you tell him?" "i didn't tell him anything. i think he guessed. he was that kind of man--he could read right into you." "what did he tell you?" "the story of his life. he had been in prison twice when he was a young man." "i mean, what did he tell you to do?" "he told me it was my hour for repentance. that was when we were in the observation platform together. the next moment we were thrown over the bridge." "and then?" "he died praying god to help me to repent and live straight!" "repent of what?" "of taking part in a fraud. of pretending a dead man was still alive--going to canada and sending letters in his name so that his friends would think he was still alive. i don't know how i could have brought myself to do such a thing! i was tempted, i suppose, and i fell. but temptation is nothing--it's falling to temptation that matters! that's what he said in his sermon." "anything else to repent of?" "nothing very much, sir. of course i've not been all i should have been, but i'd never done anything radically wrong until then." the shipowner rose and laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. "i appreciate your feelings," he said. "they do you credit, dean. you're sound and straight, and that's what i want in my young men." dean looked up in surprise. "i don't think you quite understand, sir. i've come here to-day--come at my own expense--to hand you in my resignation." "well, there's no need for it. you've been worrying yourself over a bogey." "a bogey!" "yes. there's been no 'fraud' at all. clifford matheson is as alive as you are. he knows perfectly well that you've been in canada for him." "but the overcoat and stick! they were his--i'll swear to it!" "yes, they were his right enough. he laid them by the river-bank at neuilly himself." "why?" "that's complicated to answer. i don't know that i ought to tell you without mr matheson's express permission. in fact, i want you to keep what i've just told you entirely to yourself." dean felt bewildered. there was suspicion in his eyes. larssen saw the suspicion and continued rapidly. "you think i'm trying to bluff you? i never bluff with my staff, whatever i may do outside. i'll give you proof. have you got those signatures of clifford matheson's?" dean produced them from his pocket-book. the shipowner rapidly unlocked his desk and drew out a printed document which he placed in the young man's hands. "now see here. this prospectus was printed off a week after you left for canada. you can know that by the printed date. now what is the wording written over it in ink?" "'o.k., clifford matheson,'" read out dean. "compare it with your two signatures." "it's the same." "exactly. that prospectus was passed by mr matheson some time after you imagined him dead and buried." dean could answer nothing. the world had turned upside down for him. larssen took the prospectus and the two specimen signatures, and locked them away in his desk. "well?" he asked smilingly. "am i the devil tempting you to run crooked?" "i must apologize, sir--apologize sincerely! i didn't know of all this. i thought----i thought----" "that's all over now. we'll forget it. you've proved to me you're sound and straight. you've carried out orders well. carry out future orders in the same way, and i'll do everything i've promised for you. you know that i never break a promise to my staff?" "yes, indeed, sir. that's well known." "well, my next order is this: take a fortnight's holiday and get strong again.... do you fish?" "i'd like to." "i'll put you in the way of some splendid fishing. tarpon! after that you'll return to england with me. sound good to you?" "you're too generous, sir!" answered the young fellow with deep feeling. he was larssen's man once again. chapter xxiv confession rivière was at his glass-topped, bevel-edged bench in the private biological laboratory at wiesbaden, surrounded by his apparatus of experiment. at the moment he was looking down with one eye through the high-power immersion lens of his microscope at two tiny blobs of life in a drop of water. from day to day the salinity of the water was being slowly altered, and this was only one of thousands of experiments he had planned on the effect of changing conditions of life on the elemental organisms. every day he was passing in review scores of slides on which the elemental reaction to abnormal conditions was unfolding itself for his observation. each drop of water was a world where the vital spark was struggling against the harshness of nature. each drop of water embodied a fight of primitive protoplasm against disease. each drop of water was contributing its tiny quota to the new book of knowledge he hoped one day to give to his fellow-men. like all trained microscopists, rivière worked with both eyes open. the amateur observer has to screw one eye tight in order to avoid a confusion of impressions, and quickly tires himself. the trained man keeps both eyes open, and schools his brain to concentrate on the one vision and ignore the other. he sees only the miniature world at the further end of his complex of lenses. but rivière, self-controlled as he was, could not keep attention on his experimental slide. the vision of the miniature world faded out, and through the other eye came the impression of the outside of the polished brass tube of the microscope; the glass slide beyond, lit up by the reflector as though with a searchlight; and the plate-glass bench mirroring the cases of specimens and the shelves of chemical reagents. and then the material vision of both eyes faded away, and he saw only the inner vision of elaine lying with bandaged eyes in the darkened room of the dr hegelmann's surgical home. the great specialist, pulling at his beard with his long, delicately-chiselled fingers, so out of keeping with the shapelessness of his bulky, untidy figure, had taken rivière aside and had given him orders in that wonderfully musical voice of his. "fraulein is worrying--that is bad for the recovery. i will not have her worried. you must tell her that everything will come right--you must make her smile again." "but i'm only a casual acquaintance. we met by mere chance a few days before the attack at nîmes," rivière had said. "nevertheless, you can do much for her. she will listen to you gladly. you are no longer casual acquaintances. i am an observer of human nature as well as a surgeon, and i know that the mind is the key to the bodily health. i know that _you_ can influence her. talk to her freely--it will not tire her. that is my order." but rivière had not been able to carry out the spirit of the old man's shrewd command. when he was by her bedside, a great constraint had come upon him. what had been easy to embody in a letter, was terribly difficult to frame in spoken speech. several times he had tried to open the way to a confession. he knew it must scarify elaine, and he shrank from it. but yet it was plain her mind was not at rest, and that was worse for her than the knowledge of the truth. he, too, must act the surgeon. with sudden resolution, rivière put away his microscope and placed his experimental slides in their air-tight incubating chamber. he changed from his laboratory coat to his outdoor coat, and made his way rapidly towards the surgical home. as he crossed the wilhelmstrasse--gay with its alluring shops and its crowd of well-dressed, leisured saunterers--a man came up with outstretched hand to rivière and then hesitated visibly. "excuse me, sir, but i thought for the moment you were a friend of mine, a mr clifford matheson. i see now that i was mistaken by a very striking resemblance." "my half-brother." "ah, that's it!" said the man, visibly relieved. "well, remember me to him when you see him. warren is my name--major warren." "i'll certainly do so." "thanks--good afternoon." it was not the first proof rivière had had of the safety of his new identity. though larssen and olive had penetrated the disguise, others who knew him well, even his own clerks, had been perfectly satisfied with the explanation of the "half-brother." when he was ushered into the darkened room at the surgical home, elaine smiled greeting to him, and the smile stabbed him with self-reproach. he had come to wound her. there must be no further delay. he must act the surgeon _now_. elaine half-sat, half-lay in a _chaise longue_. his white lilac and fuchsia--those were her favourite flowers he had discovered--were on a small table by her side, scenting the room faintly but definitely. she had a letter in her hands, which she asked him to open and read to her. "the nurse doesn't read english well," she explained. rivière looked first at the signature. "it's from your friend madge in paris." "then it will be good reading." as he read it out to her, he kept glancing now and again at her face to note the effect of the words. the letter was mostly a gay account of the girl's doings in paris--the amusements of the past week, little scraps about mutual friends, theatrical gossip, and so on. it was meant to cheer, but it did not cheer. rivière could see that elaine was reading into every sentence the might-have-been of her own wrecked life. he hurried through it as quickly as possible, and then they chatted for some time of impersonal matters. his words began to come from him with a curious husky abruptness. elaine felt the tension, and knew that he had something important to tell her. she sought to help him to it. "your journey to london," she said. "did it effect your purpose? you haven't told me much." "i had the hardest fight of my life," he replied, taking up her opening with relief. this would lead him to what he had come to tell her. "and you won?" "i was beaten to my knees." "that doesn't sound like you as i knew you at arles." "the fight's not over yet. i managed to stumble up again for a final round." "may i know what the fight was about?" "i want you to know every detail of it," he answered swiftly. "i want your advice--your help." "my help?" there was a faint flush in her cheeks below the bandages. "what can _i_ do?" he paused a moment before replying, seeking the right beginning to his story. "you remember at nîmes telling me that your father had lost the last remnant of his fortune speculating in one of the clifford matheson companies?" "yes. and i was surprised to find how different you were to my conception of your brother." "i am clifford matheson." "i don't understand!" she gasped. "i am clifford matheson. i took the name of john rivière because ... well, the reason for that is one part of the story i have to tell you." the pain, so evident in the drawn lines about her mouth, made him pause. it was the first stroke of the scalpel. from outside the window came the care-free chirping of the birds making their spring nests and telling the whole world of their happiness. presently she whispered "go on," as though she had steeled herself to bear the next stroke of the knife. "my reason was that i wanted to cut myself loose--completely--from my life in the financial world and from my married life. a sudden opportunity came to me two days before i first met you at arles. i seized the opportunity and planned to disappear entirely from my world. i arranged evidence of a violent death, in the belief that it would be accepted by my friends and by the courts. my wife would be freed; she would come into my property; and i myself should be free to carry out in quiet the scientific work i'd planned." "which was _the_ reason?" "the last." "your wife, then, is the woman i saw in the côte d'azur rapide?" "yes." elaine considered this in silence for some moments. a question framed itself on her lips; she hesitated; finally it came out: "then you were not happy together?" "my marriage was a ghastly mistake. i was quite unsuited to my wife.... but i made a bigger mistake when i thought to cut loose from the life i'd woven for myself. one thread pulled me back inexorably. i had half committed myself to a deal involving five millions of the public's money with lars larssen, the shipowner----" "larssen!" she exclaimed. "you know him?" "no; but he was once pointed out to me at the academy, the year the portrait of his little boy was exhibited there. i could feel at once the tremendous strength of will behind the man. something beyond the human. i was fascinated and repelled at the one time. so that is the man who----" "who wants to drag you into a divorce court." elaine sat up rigid with shock. "a divorce court! how--why? what possible----?" "larssen doesn't stick at possibilities." "i realise that, but----" "i'll not let him drag you into court. be quite sure in your mind of that. but listen, elaine!" her name came from him unconsciously. "listen, i want you to know every detail. it's your right." elaine flushed. her voice held a delicate softness as she answered: "i'll listen without interruption." then rivière told her of what had happened since the crucial night of march th, omitting nothing that she ought to know, sparing nothing of himself. she listened quietly to his account of the interview at the rue laffitte when he had, as he thought, made the final settlement with larssen; and to the recital of what had occurred from the moment of his seeing the notice in the _europe chronicle_ of the coming flotation of hudson bay transport, ltd. he did not tell her of what he had seen through the lighted window of thornton chase, but passed on to the interview at larssen's office. she shuddered as he spoke of the shipowner's brutal insinuations, and burst out: "it was blackmail." "yes, but legalized blackmail." "you never gave in to him on that ground?" "listen further." rivière spoke of his wife's unexpected entry into the office at leadenhall street, and the scene that had followed when olive and larssen together had bent their joint wills to the task of forcing him to his knees. when he concluded on the signature wrung out of the shipowner at the last moment, elaine cried her relief: "then you're not beaten down! i'm glad--i'm glad!" on his further conversation with olive, rivière touched very briefly, merely indicating the terms his wife had rigidly demanded. "and that's how the matter rests at present," he ended bitterly. "i've taken away your livelihood; and dragged your name into this unsavoury mire; and there's no finality reached.... but i'll get this tangle straightened out somehow, if i have to choke larssen to do it!" rivière had strode over to the window--not to look out, because the curtains were close-drawn, but from sheer force of habit. he turned round sharply as a half-whispered question--an utterly unexpected question--came from elaine. "why did you leave me so abruptly at arles?" rivière's blood leapt hot in his veins and he answered recklessly: "because i loved you! loved you from the first moment we met! and i hadn't the right to love you. i wasn't running away from _you_--i was running away from _myself_." "now i see. i thought then.... and when you offered to devote your life to me? you remember that, don't you?" she was trembling as she spoke. "i meant every word of it!" "it was not pity for me? i want the truth--nothing but the truth! oh, if i could only see you now, to know if it were the truth!" her hands went up impulsively to the bandages over her eyes, then dropped helplessly to her side as she remembered they must on no account be touched. "as god hears me, it was not pity but love!" he answered with passionate sincerity. "then you give me something to live for!" her meaning thundered upon him. "you intended to----?" "yes." "when?" "when my money was exhausted." "i never dreamt!" "what else was left for me?" "surely you knew that i'd provide for you?" "i couldn't accept it--then." "you'll accept it now?" "i must think." "i insist! i claim it as my right! you wouldn't torture me all my life with the thought that i'd driven you to----" "don't say it." rivière took her hand and bent to kiss it reverently. there was silence for many moments--a silence of deep sympathy. elaine's flushed cheeks told rivière more plainly than words what she was feeling. "i'm so glad," she said at length. "so glad to know." "and i'm glad to have told you." "i shall get my sight back now. i have something to live for." "please god, you will." "i feel it. i have something to live for.... dear john!" she sought to take his hand in hers, but he rose abruptly from beside her couch and strode away. "we're forgetting!" he exclaimed bitterly. "i'm still clifford matheson." "not to me." "nothing can alter the fact." "let us live in dreamland awhile," she pleaded gently. "but the awakening must come." "we have till may rd." "till may rd.... and then?" "and then you will go back to the fight." "yes. but larssen won't relent. nor will my wife." "something may happen before then." "we must make things happen." "we?" "yes--you and i." there was silence again for some moments. he came back to her side. she sought for his hand, and he let her take it in hers. gradually the glow of an idea lit up her cheeks. "i think i see the way out!" she exclaimed. "what's the plan?" "will you trust to me--trust to me implicitly without asking for reasons?" "i'd trust you to the world's end!" "then write to your wife for me." "to say----?" "to say that i want to meet her." "but she'd never come!" "i know her better than you do. i saw her in the train that morning--heard her speak. it told me a great deal. we women know one another's springs of actions. if you write the letter i dictate, she'll come!" "if she came, it would only exhaust you and hinder your recovery. dr hegelmann would certainly not allow it if he knew. he's given me strict orders to chase away worry from you." "it would worry me still more not to write that letter.... i shall be fighting for you, and that will help me to get back my sight. please!" "then i'll fetch pen and paper and write for you. but we must let a week go by before posting. every day will give you new strength." "through your love," she whispered. chapter xxv white lilac happiness is a veil of iridescent gossamer draped over the ugliness of reality. happiness is rooted in illusion--in the ignoring of harsh fact and jarring circumstance, and the perception only of what is beautiful and joyous. happiness is an impressionist painting. one takes a muddy, sullen river flanked by rotting wharves and grimy factories and huddled, festering slums, and under the mantle of evening and the veil of illusion one creates a "nocturne in silver." the eye of the artist finds equal beauty in the thames by sordid southwark and the adriatic lapping venice in her soft caress. the common phrase has it as "the seeing eye"--but more justly it is the ignoring eye. the artist ignores the harsh and the ugly, and transfers to his canvas only the harmonious and the poetic. he epitomises happiness. little children know this truth instinctively. they find their highest happiness in make-believe. a child of the slums with a rag-doll and a few beads and a scrap of faded finery can make for herself a world of fairyland. she is a princess clothed in shimmering silk and hung about with pearls and diamonds. she is courted by a knight in golden armour. she is married amidst the acclamations of a loyal populace. she is the mother of a king-to-be. she is radiantly happy. and in her self-created world of make-believe she is far wiser than these grown-ups who insist with obstinate complacency on "seeing things as they are." they take pride in being disillusioned. not realising that happiness is bowered in illusion. * * * * * "let us live in dreamland awhile," elaine had said with the wisdom of a little child. it was tacitly agreed to by rivière. when together, they combined to ignore the tangle of ugly circumstance and the harsh struggle to come. for the time being they were in fancy two lovers with no barrier between and the world smiling joyously upon them. after a full day's work in his laboratory, he would come to her side and answer her questions with the tenderness of a lover. "you've brought me white lilac again," she said one day as he entered. "how did you first guess that white lilac is my favourite flower?" "white lilac is yourself," he answered. "why?" "every woman suggests a flower. one sees many roses--little bud roses, and big, buxom, full-blown roses, and wild, free-blowing roses. one sees many white camellias, and heavy-scented tuberoses, and opulent parma violets, and gorgeous tiger-lilies--those have been the women of my world. one sees many marigolds and cornflowers and poppies. but i've seen only one white lilac--you. white lilac is the fresh young spring. and yet it is a woman grown. white lilac is sweet and tender and gracious. white lilac is so faint in perfume that any other scented flower would smother it, and yet its fragrance lives in my memory beyond any other. white lilac is yourself." "how many-sided you are! financier, and scientist, and now ... and now poet." "no--lover." "then love must be living poetry." "that many-sidedness is my weakness." "i don't want it otherwise." "the success race has to be run in blinkers. one must see only the goal ahead. there must be no looking to right or left." "if success means that, then success is bought too dearly.... dear john, i don't want you otherwise than you are. i love you for your weakness and not your strength. that's the mother-love in a woman." "i can do so little for you." "so little? you've made this sick-room an enchanted castle for me! i dread the time when i shall have to leave it. but we won't speak of that--that's forbidden ground." "we'll speak only of the world we've created for ourselves. it's a whole planet with only you and i for its sole inhabitants. the planet earth is far away in space--just a cold white star amongst a wilderness of others." "i used to think you cold and bloodless--that was at arles and nîmes." "we were far apart then. we were next to one another in the physical plane, and yet a million miles away in the plane of reality. only the invisible things are the realities of life.... you were to leave nîmes the next day, and i never expected to see you again." "you remember the arena at arles, at sunset, when you climbed up to stand beside me. did you know then that i wanted you to speak to me? "yes, i knew that. but there was the barrier between us." "were we destined to meet, do you think?" "_quien sabe?_" there was a long silence between them--a silence which held no constraint, a silence that exists only between those in deep sympathy. silence is the test of true friendship. "i was so glad to know," she said at length. "it outweighed everything else." there was no need to put her thoughts more explicitly. "didn't you guess before?" he answered gently. "i couldn't be sure, and the doubt tortured me. i thought it might only be pity. such a world of difference!" "you're sure now?" "yes; your voice has told me more than your words. even the notes of the birds soften when they...." she left the sentence uncompleted. "it was larssen who brought us together," he meditated. "larssen! he dominates us both. he seems to hold us in his hands. he's like ... like fate. pitiless, relentless." "and, like fate, to be fought to the end." "i love you for your weakness, and yet i love you as the fighter. how contradictory it sounds!" "such seeming contradiction comes from elision. one leaves out the train of thought in between. between you and me there's no need for the lengthy explanation. there's scarcely need for words at all." "but yet i love to hear you speak. your words heal." "dr hegelmann is shrewd as well as marvellously skilful. he said to me to-day: 'i can see you are obeying orders. fraülein needs your doctoring as much as my surgery.'" "he's a dear man as well as a great man." rivière burst out impulsively: "but the days fly by and my cinderella's midnight rushes nearer!" "not yours alone. mine too!" "and when our fairy garments turn back to rags?" "we'll have had our hour--_our hour_! no one can take that away from us. its memories----" "to me it will be the memory of white lilac." elaine felt for the flowers in the tall vase by her side, and broke off a small spray. "keep this in symbol." she kissed it before she gave it into his hands. chapter xxvi a challenge olive was at her dressing-table at thornton chase, looking searchingly into a mirror. that afternoon she had been dragged unwillingly to the consulting-room of a cavendish square physician by her father, who had insisted on having "a tonic or something" prescribed for her. the physician was one of those men who achieve a fashionable practice by an outrageous bluntness--a calculatedly outrageous bluntness. he had found that women like to be bullied by their doctors. "you're drugging yourself to a lunatic asylum," he had told her after a very brief examination. "drugs? i, doctor?" she had replied with a little surprised raising of her eyebrows. "don't prevaricate! don't try to deceive _me_. you look a perfect wreck. all the signs of it. come, which is it--morphia, hashish or what?" "you're mistaken, doctor. i'm run down, that's all. i want a tonic." "and i'm a busy man." he rose brusquely and strode to the door to open it for her. "i must wish you good afternoon!" olive caved in. "well, perhaps now and again, when i feel absolutely in need of it, i do take a little stimulant," she conceded. the physician cross-examined her ruthlessly. finally he prescribed an absolute cessation of drug-taking, and gave her a special dietary and mixture of his own which would help to create a distaste for the morphia. "remember," he warned her as they parted, "you're looking an absolute wreck. everyone can see it. three months more of the same pace would make you a hag." olive was searching her mirror for refutation of his words, trying to stroke away the flabbiness of her cheek and chin muscles and the heavy strained shadows under the eyes. yes, it was true--the drug was stamping its mastery on her face, grinning from behind her eyelids. she must fight it down! the resolution came hot upon the thought that clifford had noticed the change in her. no doubt he would like her to drug herself to death. that would suit his plans to perfection. then he would be free to marry that verney woman. she must fight down her craving for the drug if only to spite clifford. with a curious vindictive satisfaction, olive took out her hypodermic syringe from its secret place and smashed it to pieces with the bedroom poker. she gathered up the fragments of glass and silver and threw them into the fire, heaping coals over them. as she was poking the fire, her maid knocked and entered with a letter. the postmark was wiesbaden; the handwriting was her husband's. no doubt a further appeal to her feelings, she reflected contemptuously. but the letter proved to be from elaine--written at the invalid's dictation by rivière. olive read it with a mixture of indignation and very lively curiosity. the letter was no appeal to her feelings--rather, a challenge:-- "i think we ought to meet," it said. "i have many things to tell you of which you know nothing at present--unless you have guessed. they affect your husband's position very materially. unfortunately i am confined to a sick-room, else i should have come to london before this in order to call upon you." that was all. olive's indignation was based on the obvious deduction that rivière had confided completely in the girl. her curiosity was roused by the thoughts of what she could be like to exert such a fascination, and what she could have to say. perhaps the letter was a ruse to see olive and then make another appeal for pity. well, in that case there would be a very delicious pleasure in giving an absolute refusal--a pleasure one could taste in anticipation and linger over in execution. one could play with the girl a little--pretend to be influenced, hesitate, ask for time to consider, raise hopes, fan them, and then administer the _coup de grace_. to see elaine promised an exciting diversion, very welcome just now when olive had to give up the customary stimulation of the drug. these considerations united in deciding her to travel to wiesbaden. she would cross to the continent alone, her father and her maid being left at home. sir francis knew nothing as yet of rivière--for olive had told him nothing. she had an unlimited capacity for keeping her own counsel when it suited her purpose. the next day saw her _en route_ for wiesbaden, following a letter to that effect to elaine. chapter xxvii women's weapons olive had a genius for dress. her gowns had not only style, which might be due to the costumier, but also effect, which is entirely personal. they invariably harmonized with the occasion, or with the way she sought to mould the occasion. sometimes she had snapped her fingers at fashion, taken matters with the high hand--and carried the occasion triumphantly. the illustrated weeklies published portraits of her when the theatrical market was dull. it was characteristic of olive that although she was going to visit a blinded girl with bandaged eyes, yet when she left the hotel quisisana at wiesbaden for the surgical home she had dressed studiously for the occasion. the part to be dressed was that of "the outraged wife." the gown was of clinging grey cashmere, cut with simplicity and dignity, with touches of soft violet to suggest sensitive inner feelings. the hat was of grey straw with willowy feathers drooping softly from it. she wore no jewellery beyond a simple pearl brooch and her wedding-ring. dressed thus, she felt ready for any cruelty. a nurse showed her into the room where elaine lay on her _chaise longue_ with bandages hiding the upper part of her face. "do you suffer much?" asked olive softly, when the nurse had left them alone. "thank you--there is no pain now. only waiting for the day of release, when my bandages are to be removed." "it must be terrible to know that one's sight can never be restored." "i don't expect it. but i shall have a fair measure of sight. dr. hegelmann promises it." "still, it's best not to raise one's hopes too high. doctors have to be optimistic as part of their trade. i remember one very sad case where----" olive stopped herself abruptly as though her tongue had run away with her. "pardon me--i was forgetting." "i know," affirmed elaine happily. "you know what?" "that i shall have a fair measure of sight. the doctor tells me recovery depends largely on the mental condition. i was worrying myself up till a few days ago, but now i'm supremely happy. so i shall recover--i've something to live for, you see!" elaine reached for the vase by her side and raised a spray of white lilac to breathe in its fragrance. the happiness so evident on elaine's lips stirred olive uneasily. "then you've had good news from outside? i'm very glad to hear it," she said. "good news? why, yes, thanks to you! i want first to thank you for your generosity. i was worrying so until i heard the news from john." "from whom?" "your husband. you see, he will always be john rivière to me. that's how i knew him during these wonderful days at arles and nîmes." her voice became dreamy with memories. "i met him first, you know, at the arena at arles. we sat for hours in the flooding sunlight reconstructing our pictures of the past. the stone tiers were vivid orange in the sunlight and deep purple in the shadows. a deep, greyish purple. we sat apart, i longing for him to speak to me and exchange thoughts. but there was no one to introduce us. how stupid convention is! at sunset we climbed up to the topmost tier and stood together as though on an island tower in the midst of a sea of marshland. i ached to speak to him, and still we remained silent and apart. that night came the introduction i longed for. i was wandering about the dark, narrow lanes of arles when a half-drunken peasant tried to attack me. i cried out for help, and john came to my defence with his strong arm and his clenched fist. there was no need for formal introduction after that. we found we were staying at the same hotel...." olive made no comment. elaine continued: "nîmes is fragrant with its memories for me. the jardin de la fontaine, the maison carrée, the druids' tower, the dear villa clémentine! there was a little pebbly garden and a fountain by which we used to sit for lunch--there were two lazy old goldfish i used to feed with crumbs. darby and joan!... those memories of nîmes wash away the burn of the vitriol, now that you've been so kind and generous." "i fail to understand," said olive coldly. the interview was shaping itself very differently to what she had expected. elaine turned her bandaged head towards her in surprise. "but john tells me you've offered to release him!" "offered to release him! my dear miss verney, clifford must have been saying pretty things to soothe you. i'm sorry to pour cold water on your dreams, but you'll have to learn the truth some time, and it's kinder to tell you now. release him! my husband is not an employee to be handed over to somebody else at a moment's notice. there are such things as marriage laws ... and divorce laws." "aren't we talking at cross-purposes, mrs matheson? i quite understand all that. john tells me that you have promised to divorce him. that's very generous of you." "you seem to ignore the point that a divorce suit involves a co-respondent." "no; not at all. i wanted to see you in order to thank you; and then to arrange the details so that the matter can go through with as little trouble as possible. of course, after your kindness, i shall let the suit go undefended." olive searched the bandaged face of her rival with merciless scrutiny. but the blinded girl seemed unconscious of that look of stabbing hatred and suspicion. she was apparently smiling happily--weaving day-dreams. her hand went out to the vase of white lilac caressingly. for that was the part elaine had set herself to play for the sake of the man she loved. he had been beaten down to his knees by larssen and olive in the shipowner's office because he had had elaine to protect. to save her from the mire of the divorce court he had had to give in and sign at larssen's dictation. now she was determined to release him for free action. whatever it might cost her in self-respect, she was going to make olive believe that a divorce suit was the one thing she most ardently desired. "i shall let the divorce suit go undefended," she had said, smiling happily. olive made a decisive effort to regain the whip-hand. "divorce by collusion is out of the question!" she retorted sharply. "the king's proctor sees to that. you don't imagine that it's sufficient merely to say you don't defend the suit? there must be evidence before the court." elaine bowed her head. "there is evidence," she said in a low voice. "at arles, nîmes, or here?" "at nîmes." "then my husband lied to me! he swore to me on his word of honour that there was nothing between you!" "john is very chivalrous." "you tell me he lied?" "i don't know just what he said to you.... and i want you to realise this: the fault was on my side. i loved him. i love him still. i shall love him always. always, whatever happens." then she added, because in the playing of her part she had determined to spare herself no degradation: "i care nothing for what people say. they may sneer and point at me, but nothing shall keep us apart." olive went chalk-white with anger. she had not travelled the long journey to wiesbaden to be fooled in this way. the ground had been cut from under her feet by elaine's most unexpected attitude, and the situation needed some drastic counter-move on her part. "a pretty story!" she retorted. "if you imagine your childish bluffing would deceive me, you've a lot to learn yet! clifford was not lying, and you are! that's the long and short of it!" "then call him here and ask him before me!" olive saw her opportunity. she could find out rivière's address from dr. hegelmann or from one of the staff of the nursing home, and go to confront him before elaine could see and warn him of the new development. it would be strategic to allay suspicion of her coming move, however. "i want to see nothing more of clifford," she replied. "we've agreed to part. he's to go on with his life as john rivière. if you like to marry him as john rivière, you're quite welcome to do so as far as i'm concerned." "you mean that you want to get permission from the courts to presume death, and then take possession of his property?" "any such arrangement is entirely a private matter between my husband and myself." "i doubt if john would agree to that arrangement now. he would make you a suitable allowance, of course." olive could have choked this girl lying helpless in her chair, and yet holding the whip-hand in their triangle of conflicting interests. she felt as if she had been tripped and thrown without a word of warning. to have travelled to wiesbaden to play the outraged wife sitting in judgment on the woman who had sinned, and now----! if only larssen were here to advise her! she tried another move, altering her voice to as much sweetness as she could command under her white-hot anger. "my dear, i appreciate your feelings," she said. "you want to fight for the man you love. you'd even blacken your character for his sake. you'd face the sneers of the world for his sake. i admire you for it. it brings us nearer together. i admit that i had misjudged you a little. that was because i hadn't seen you and spoken to you. now i know what a fine character you are, and i want you not to bring unnecessary suffering on yourself. i'm older than you, and i've seen very much more of the world. i know that a good woman can't live with a married man for long. the situation becomes intolerable after a time. one can't ignore the conventions of the world one lives in." "i'm ready to face all that. i've counted the cost." "but is clifford ready to? think of him. think of his work. he would not only be ostracised socially, but also scientifically. his work would be ignored. you would destroy his life-work. you would kill his ambition!" olive's thrust went home, though not to the exact point she aimed at. elaine remained silent as the thought raced through her of how olive, if she deemed it to her own interests, might kill rivière's work. "so you see, dear," pursued olive, "that our interests are really very much the same. we both care deeply for clifford. we both want to help him in his life-work. we both want to do our best for him. that means that we must pull together and not against one another. we must each of us think matters out coolly and dispassionately. isn't that what you think as well as i?" "yes," admitted elaine. "then i'll say good-bye for the present. i mustn't stay longer or dr. hegelmann will call me over the coals. i have to remember that you're not altogether strong again yet. so i'll say good-bye now and call again to-morrow morning." "good-bye." "do you like lilies? i must send you some. as i passed a florist's in the wilhelmstrasse i saw some splendid tiger-lilies. good-bye, my dear." elaine waited with feverish impatience for three minutes to elapse, when she judged olive would be clear of the house. then she rang a bell by her side. she must get a message through to rivière to let him know of the new development in the situation before olive could reach him with _her_ story. rivière knew nothing beforehand of elaine's plan of self-accusation; it was vital that he should know of it now, when it had been carried to so effective an end. the nurse came to answer the call. "i want to telephone," said elaine in her halting german. "but the telephone is downstairs!" "you must lead me there, nurse." "no; i cannot do that. it is against orders. the doctor has forbidden you to leave this room, fraülein." "i must! i tell you i must! it's----it's--oh, what is the german for 'vital?'" the nurse shook her head uncomprehendingly. elaine rose from her couch and stumbled with outstretched arms against the nurse. "please lead me to the telephone and get me my number!" she cried in an agony of anxiety. "it is against orders. come, you must lie down again and keep quiet." there was a brisk rap at the door, and dr. hegelmann came in to see how his patient was progressing. "what's this?" he exclaimed, seeing elaine standing up and the nurse trying to persuade her to return to her couch. "doctor, please let me telephone!" "to whom?" "to mr rivière. i must speak to him quickly--i _must_!" "nurse, do as fraülein asks," he ordered briefly. the nurse made no comment, but led her patient downstairs at once, found the telephone number of the laboratory at which rivière had his research-bench, and called for the connection. "what do they say?" asked elaine after a torturing wait. "they ask me to hold the line." again a very long wait. "what do they say?" asked elaine again. "wait a little.... yes, i'm here." ... "mr rivière has just left the laboratory." "where has he gone?" prompted elaine. "where has he gone?" ... "they do not know." "but i _must_ find him!" cried elaine. "try his hotel, please." the hotel people knew nothing of rivière's whereabouts. "say to them to give him the message to telephone me the moment he arrives." the nurse gave the message and the telephone number of the home. suddenly she felt her patient sway heavily against her. the reaction had set in from the feverish tension of the last hour--elaine had fainted away. chapter xxviii the counter-move olive, as elaine had guessed, went straight to rivière's laboratory to confront him. not finding him there, she made her way to his hotel and again drew blank. this left her uncertain as to her next movements. should she return to the nursing home, and wait about in its neighbourhood in the hope of meeting her husband on his way to see elaine? that course seemed undignified. should she try the laboratory once more? that seemed a mere waste of precious time. should she walk the length of the wilhelmstrasse on the chance of crossing him there? that seemed a very long shot. on the whole she judged it advisable to return to the hotel quisisana, and from there to hold her husband by telephone. accordingly she said to the hotel porter at rivière's hotel: "when mr rivière comes in, tell him to 'phone up at once no. ." "already haf i taken zat message, lady." "to 'phone up no. ?" asked olive in surprise. the porter referred to a slate by his side. "your pardon, lady, i am wrong. ze number gifen me before is ." olive opened her purse, took out a gold piece, and passed it into his hand. "alter it to ," she said. the porter hesitated, looked at the -mark piece, looked around the hall to see if anyone were observing him, and then said in a very low voice: "very goot. vat name shall i say?" "mrs matheson." she then left for the quisisana. and that was why rivière never received elaine's message, and why he went first to call on his wife. olive received him in her private sitting-room. she was horribly uncertain what line of action she ought to take, now that elaine had so completely reversed the situation. her nerves, weakened by the almost continuous drugging of the last few months, were all a-quiver. the threat of the "suitable allowance" drove her to frenzy. she wanted somebody to vent her rage upon, and there was nobody to serve the purpose. for a moment she regretted she had not brought her maid with her to wiesbaden. her attitude must depend on clifford's attitude. but, whatever line of action was to be taken, one point seemed clear. she must be calm with clifford--forgiving. she must play for the quixotic side of his nature. she had better be even cordial. accordingly she gave him a wifely kiss when he entered. rivière wondered how elaine could have worked this miracle for him. "you've seen miss verney, i suppose?" he suggested. "yes; and i must admit i was very pleasantly surprised. i had formed an altogether wrong opinion of her." "then i'm glad you met.... you see now that your suspicions of her were absolutely unfounded." olive knew the sincerity in rivière's tone. so it was just as she had guessed--the girl had been attempting a daring bluff by her self-accusation. "absolutely unfounded," agreed olive. "that's why i want to forgive and forget." she gave him one of her sweetest smiles. rivière was puzzled. he had an uneasy feeling that something very vital was being kept from him. he noticed his wife's hands all a-quiver, and that fact jarred against the calm of her words. he answered: "you've changed your attitude towards me very quickly. i take it you only arrived in wiesbaden to-day?" "yes; but it's more than a fortnight since that scene in larssen's office. i've had time to reflect over things. i was too hasty in what i said then. you must remember that you sprang a surprise on me when you returned in that secret way, and naturally i was put out. i always hate to be taken at a disadvantage, as you ought to know by now.... clifford, when _will_ you learn to read women as well as you read men? if you'd approached me a little differently; if you hadn't assumed i was hostile to you; if you'd only taken me a little more patiently and pressed your point more insistently----" olive paused significantly. "which point?" "surely you remember?" "there were many points we discussed." "_the_ point--when you were generous enough to offer to start our life afresh." rivière looked keenly at his wife. her eyes were downcast, as though it hurt her modesty to have to make overtures. there was a faint blush on her cheeks. he began to feel he had been a brute. she continued: "you ought to have given me a day to think it over, instead of rushing away as you did. you ought to have known that a woman's pride won't let her yield without being pressed to yield. i wanted you to press me; i wanted to make a fresh start with you; i wanted to help you with your big work! clifford when _will_ you learn to read a woman?" "what's your suggestion now?" he asked. "my suggestion is your own--to wipe out the past, and start our married life afresh. a few days ago i went to see a doctor--a man in cavendish square who has a big reputation for women's ailments. father insisted on my going to consult him, and he was right. i ought to have gone to him months ago." "what did he tell you?" "the long and short of it is that i must give up society engagements and all excitements of that kind, and lead a very quiet life. i ought to go to some quiet place away from people, with someone with me whom i care for and who cares for me. that was the gist of his prescription. of course i have a special dietary and medicine to take, but that's only incidental!" her voice held a pathetic braveness, and rivière was touched by it. "i'm awfully sorry," he murmured. "it's hard on me, to give up all that." "i know." "it's meant a big fight with myself. look at me--you can see it in my face. i'm looking a wreck." "the kind of life you've been leading would crack up any constitution. i'm glad you've taken advice in time." "it was the turning-point for me." "where are you going for your rest-cure?" "isn't that for you to decide, clifford dear?" rivière roused himself with an effort akin to that of ulysses in the house of circe. "i'd better be quite frank with you," he answered. "i can't live with you again as man and wife." "i realise your feeling so well. i admire you for it. it brings us nearer together. you feel yourself under an obligation to miss verney because of her intervention between you and that vitriol-thrower. you don't know just how you can repay it. obviously you can't offer her money. a girl of her finely-strung feelings couldn't take a pension from you.... now i have a suggestion that clears away the difficulty completely." "what is it?" asked rivière non-committally. "let _me_ make her an allowance. let the money pass through my hands to her. it needn't be a large allowance. i daresay she could live nicely on three or four pounds a week. if you agree, i'll go and arrange it myself, so as not to hurt her feelings." that would be indeed revenge on elaine! to buy back clifford for a paltry four pounds a week--to have the delicate pleasure of doling out the money in the role of lady bountiful! she had a mental vision of the sweet little letters she could write to elaine when she enclosed the monthly cheque--letters so sweet that they would sear. but rivière answered abruptly: "what did miss verney say to you to make such a complete change in your attitude towards her?" "we chatted together this afternoon and came to realise one another's point of view--that was all. it was perfectly natural. a blind girl ... helpless ... without resources of her own.... do you think i'm flint?" "then she made some appeal to you?" "clifford, dear, i don't think you and i ought to discuss what passed between miss verney and myself in the sick-room this afternoon. some things are sacred." "i must know this: did she suggest the idea of the allowance or did you?" olive hesitated as to how she should answer that question. it was very tempting to say that elaine had suggested it--but decidedly risky. rivière might ask the girl point-blank. it was better to be prudent in this game of strategy, and accordingly she replied: "i don't think you ought to ask me that question." "i must see miss verney at once," said rivière decisively. "but we must think of her feelings. she's very sensitive, very highly-strung. wouldn't it be kinder to let _me_ arrange it?" "i don't think so." "i ask you this for her sake!" "still, i must see her at once." "as your wife, i ask you to let me end the matter once and for all. clifford dear, i must speak out frankly, though i hate to have to do it. listen to me quietly while i try to put the situation to you in the proper light.... you're in love with miss verney--i know it. it's hard for you to have to cut loose--very hard. but for her sake you _must_ cut loose. _now, at once._ matters can't go on as they are. i know perfectly well that the relations between you are absolutely innocent--i haven't a word to breathe against her character now that i've seen her and really know her. but things can't go on as they are. you must put yourself aside and consider her alone. you must think of her reputation. people will begin to talk." "what people?" asked rivière uneasily. "at the nursing home i can see that they regard you as lovers. a woman realises a point like that instinctively. no word was said, but i _know_.... things can't remain stationary in a situation of that kind. you know it as well as i do. you are a man of strong passions.... miss verney is highly-strung, very impressionable." and then olive made her one big mistake. she added: "she confessed to me that--how shall i put it?--that it would be dangerous for her to see more of you." "miss verney told you that?" "in effect." "i don't believe it!" "it's as true as i sit here!" "i don't believe it for a moment!" "she said even more than that." "what?" "that she would be ready to live with you, divorce or no divorce. don't you see the danger now? clifford, i appeal to your chivalry! for her sake cut loose now, at once, before it's too late! say good-bye to her by letter; leave me to arrange the allowance----" "i tell you i must see her!" "no!" "i _must_!" olive lost control of herself. "i'm your wife! i forbid you to!" she ordered sharply. rivière stiffened. "you told me a fortnight ago you never wanted to see me again." "i've changed my mind!" "there's a reason for the change." "i've told you the reasons!" "not all the reasons." "d'you doubt my word?" rivière's business training made him recognize the true meaning of that phrase. he had heard it so many times before from men who were planning some shady trick. he answered decisively: "i've the right to hear from miss verney herself what she said to you this afternoon, and i'm going to hear it. that's final!" olive was now chalk-white with rage. every nerve of her body was quivering, but by a supreme effort she regained control over her words. "you're insulting me!" she returned. "you doubt my word when i tell you that miss verney is ready to become your mistress. very well, come with me and i'll repeat it in front of her." "no." "you're afraid of the test!" "i'll not discuss such a matter." "you're afraid of the test!" "i'll not have that insult put upon her." "it's true! i'll swear to it on the bible! if it's not true, let her deny it before me. there's the challenge. you owe it to her as well as to me to accept. at least give her the opportunity of denying it, if you think you know her. but you don't know women--you never have, and you never will. i tell you you're living on a volcano. you've no right to compromise her as you're doing now. it's currish! at least i thought you had some spark of chivalry in you! but you won't make the test because you know i've spoken truth. you're afraid. if you want to prove to yourself she's the angel you think her, then make the test. ask her before me in any form of words you like. either that or take my word!" "i'll not ask her that." "then at least come with me to see her, and satisfy yourself indirectly that i've spoken the truth when i tell you you're living on a volcano. play the game, clifford, play the game!" rivière took up his hat and stick. "we'll go to see miss verney now," he answered. husband and wife drove together to the nursing home to see elaine. but a nurse informed them decisively that fraulein verney could receive no visitors; the excitement of the afternoon had been too much for her slowly returning strength, and dr hegelmann had ordered her absolute quietude. to-morrow, perhaps, she might be allowed to receive her friends--or perhaps the day after to-morrow. "i intend to call to-morrow morning," said olive to her husband. "i too." "shall we say . ?" "if you wish." "then call for me at the quisisana at ten o'clock.... in the meantime, i leave it to your sense of honour not to communicate with miss verney." "agreed." "you needn't trouble to see me to my hotel. i'll go back in the taxi." it was a night of very troubled thought for all three. to rivière, with his complex, many-layered nature, especially so. the one inevitable, clean-cut solution to all this tangle of circumstance seemed farther off than ever. if rivière had been a man of larssen's temperament, difficulties would have been smoothed away like hills under the drive of a high-powered car. lars larssen would have said to himself: "which woman do i want?" and having settled that point, would have jammed on the levers and shot his car straight forward without the slightest regard for any other vehicle or pedestrian on his road. were any obstacle in his path, so much the worse for the obstacle. if larssen under similar circumstances had wanted elaine he would have taken her then and there and left olive to do whatever she pleased. if he had wanted olive, he would have thrown elaine in the discard without a moment's remorse. decisions are easy for such a man as larssen, because the burden of scruples has been pitched aside. rivière, on the other hand, was cursed with scruples--as olive had phrased it, "a pretty mixed set of scruples." he felt he had to do the square thing by his wife, by elaine, and by the public who were being called upon to invest their savings under the guarantee of his name. he had to smash the shipowner's scheme, and he had to get back to his own scientific work in peace and quietude. for olive, as for larssen, decisions were far simpler. her objective was her own gratification; the only point in doubt was the most prudent way to attain it. her present dominant wish was to revenge herself on elaine, and to do that she was ready to make any sacrifice of other desires. even her infatuation for larssen paled against the white-hot light of this new passion. elaine, exhausted by the tension of her interview with olive, slept that night in a succession of heavy-dreamed dozes punctuated by violent starts of waking, like a train creeping into a london terminus through an irregular detonation of fog-signals. why had rivière sent no answer to her message? what had olive said to him? had she done the best possible thing to free rivière? that was the never-ceasing anxiety. in her great love for him, the one thing she most desired was to _give_. chapter xxix the parting at the breakfast-table the next morning, rivière found a letter with an official seal awaiting him. it was a call to nîmes to give evidence in the coming trial of the peasant crau. he was asked to be there on a date a few days later. olive was already waiting for him in the palm-lounge of the quisisana when he reached there at ten-o'clock. she was smilingly gracious--had seemingly forgiven him his doubting of her word the evening before. they took a taxi to the nursing home, and on the way olive stopped at a florist's to buy a bunch of tiger-lilies. her choice of flower struck rivière as very characteristic of her own temperament. they received permission to visit the patient, and were shown to her room by a nurse. "i have brought you a few flowers, dear," said olive. elaine murmured some words of thanks and felt the flowers to see what they might be. when she recognized them, they conveyed to her the same impression as they had done to rivière. she drew her vase of white lilac nearer to her, and that trifling action seemed to rivière as though she were calling upon him for protection. "we've come to talk matters over calmly and dispassionately," said olive, taking the reins of conversation into her own hands. "my husband and myself are both anxious to make some arrangement which will be for your happiness. clifford feels, and i entirely agree with him, that he's under a distinct obligation to you." "there is no obligation," answered elaine. "it's very generous of you to say so, but both clifford and i feel it deeply. your livelihood has been taken away from you, and it's our bare duty to make you some form of compensation. the suggestion of letting it come through me would be a very suitable way of solving a delicate problem." she turned to her husband. "don't you think so, clifford?" "i want to hear what miss verney has to say." "very well." elaine paused before she replied, so that her words might carry a fuller significance. "mrs matheson," she said, "i don't wish to accept anything from you." "that means, i take it, that you are ready to accept from my husband?" "accept what?" "well, financial assistance." "no." "then what are you going to do when you leave the home?" "i shall return to my relations until i've learnt a new trade and can manage to support myself." "but surely you will let us help you with the expenses of the first few months?" "i prefer not." "clifford, can't you persuade miss verney?" "i don't wish to persuade her." olive tried a fresh avenue of attack. "very well, then, let's leave that point. what i want to say now is still more delicate. i don't want to wound your feelings, but now that all three of us are together the matter ought to be discussed calmly and dispassionately and settled once and for all." rivière interrupted. "you promised me that this matter should not be mentioned." "promised?" "in effect." "but we _must_ discuss it!" elaine put in a word: "i'd sooner the whole situation were threshed out now. please!" "as you will," answered rivière. "but remember that you're perfectly free to close the discussion at any moment." olive resumed: "yesterday, when we had our chat together, i was forced to draw certain inferences. and i had to tell clifford that it would be only right for him to avoid compromising you further." "what inferences?" "must i speak more definitely?" "i prefer plain speaking." "well, that people would begin to talk malicious gossip about yourself and my husband." rivière interrupted again. "this discussion is an insult to miss verney." but elaine answered: "i prefer to thresh it out.... what people say matters nothing to me. in any case, nobody knows that mr rivière is your husband." "but they will." "you mean that you'll tell them?" "it must come out." "you mean that you want mr rivière to return to you openly as your husband?" "naturally." "then why did you tell me yesterday that you had cut definitely loose from him? that you never wanted to see him again? that he was free to live out his life as john rivière?" "why did you say that you had lived with my husband at nîmes?" retorted olive sharply. "that you'd let the divorce suit go undefended?" it thundered upon rivière what elaine had done for him--how she had wrought her miracle--and that moment cleared his mind of all doubt and hesitancy. "i've heard sufficient," he cut in. "you've not heard all i've got to say!" pursued olive vindictively, and a torrent of words poured out from her: "it was a pretty scheme your miss verney had planned! she was to egg me on to divorce you, so that she could get a clutch on your feelings and marry you and your money! your money--that puts it in a nutshell! that's the kind of woman a man like you falls in love with! a woman who's too shrewd and too cunning to commit herself. who provokes and tantalizes and lures on a man, and then stops him short at the very last moment. the musical-comedy type. the 'mind the paint' girl. a hundred times worse than the frankly vicious. a woman who knows that a week of living with a man would sicken him of her. who's shrewd enough to tantalize him into hand-and-feet marriage. that's your miss verney. you're welcome to her as miss verney! so long as i live, you'll never have her as your wife! that's my last word--my absolute final last word!" olive rose from her chair, quivering in every limb, and swept out of the room. elaine bowed her head in the shame of those bitter words. rivière came to her side and kissed her hand reverently. "you did this for me. i understand all. elaine, dear, i understand it all. there's no need for you to explain." "you don't believe----?" "not a word of it! you're the sweetest, bravest----" words failed him, and he could only take her hand tenderly in his and let his welter of unspoken thoughts go silently to her. "the things she said--you don't believe they're true?" she faltered. "don't speak of them.... you've piled up a debt on me more than i can ever repay. you've freed my hands to fight down larssen, but at what a cost to yourself?" "then it's freed you?" "absolutely. the divorce was larssen's trump-card. you've fought for me far better than i could ever have fought for myself. to think of you lying there helpless, and yet battling for me! my god, but at what a cost to yourself!" "if it's freed you, dear john, nothing else matters." "it has. now i can smash larssen's scheme.... but what of you, what of you?" "we must part--now," she murmured. "why now?" "don't ask me to explain." rivière clenched his hand. "yes, you're right," he said after a pause. "we must part--for a time." "it will be best for both of us. you must go back to your world." "i'm wanted at nîmes a few days hence, to give evidence at the trial." "then leave wiesbaden to-day." "give me till to-morrow near you." "no, you must go to-day.... we'll say good-bye now." she held out her hand, but he took her in his arms and kissed her passionately. "no--don't!" "forgive me--i'm a brute!" "dear john, go now. don't stay. go back to your world and fight your battle. i shall recover my sight--i feel that more strongly than ever. i shall need it if only to read your letters. go now, and take with you my wishes for all happiness and all success in your life-work!" rivière tried to answer, but the words choked in his throat. "elaine!" was all he could utter. * * * * * that night he took train for paris, to call on barrèze the manager of the odéon theatre. there he fixed up an arrangement by which barrèze would send to elaine, in the guise of payment for the uncompleted work she had done for him, a substantial sum of money. it was a temporary expedient only, but it would serve rivière's purpose. then he proceeded to nîmes to attend the trial of the youth crau. chapter xxx heir to a throne the liner "claudia" was ripping her way eastwards through a calm atlantic, like shears through an endless length of blue muslin. an unclouded morning sun beat full upon the pale cheeks and delicate frame of larssen's little twelve-year-old son, alone with his father on their private promenade deck. the contrast between the broad frame of the shipowner and the delicate, nervous, under-sized physique of his boy was striking in its irony. here was the strong man carving out an empire for his descendants, and here was his only son, the inheritor-to-be. neither physically nor mentally could olaf ever be more than the palest shadow of his father, and yet larssen was the only person who could not see this. he was trying to train his boy to hold an empire as though he were born to rule. "how clever mr dean is!" olaf was saying. "why?" "look at the set of wheels he's rigged up for me so as i can sail my boat on deck." he held up a beautiful model yacht, perfect in line and rig, with which he was playing. underneath it was a crudely-made contrivance of wood and wire, with four corks for wheels--the handiwork of arthur dean. "was that your idea?" inquired larssen. "no, dad.... now, watch me sail her up to windward." "wait. you ought to have thought out that idea for yourself." "i haven't any tools on board, dad." "then go and make friends with the carpenter." larssen took up the crude contrivance and looked it over contemptuously. "i want you to think out a better device; pitch this overboard; then find out where mr chips lives, make friends with him, and get him to construct you a proper set of wheels to your own design." the boy looked troubled. "i don't want to throw it overboard!" he protested. "i want to sail my boat on deck now." "sonny, there are heaps of things that are good for you to do which you won't want to do. it's like being told by the doctor to take medicine. it's nasty to take, but very good for you.... i want to see you one day a big strong fellow able to handle men and things--a great big strong fellow men will be afraid of. that's to be your ambition. you've got to learn to handle men and things. here's one way to do it." "but mr dean wouldn't like it if he knew i'd thrown his wheels overboard." "dean is a servant. he's paid to do things for you. his feelings don't matter.... but you needn't tell him you threw his wheels away. say they slipped over the side. now, get a pencil and paper, and let me see you work out a better contrivance." olaf obeyed, though reluctantly, and presently he was deep amongst the problems of the inventor. lars larssen watched the boy with a tenderness that few would have given him credit for. "i've got it! look, dad!" cried the boy excitedly, and began to explain his idea and his tangled drawing. "good! that's what i want from you. now, don't you feel better at having worked out the idea all on your own?" "yes, dad. i'll go to mr chips at once and get it made. in which part of the ship does he live?" "you must find that out yourself." "how much shall i offer him?" "don't offer him anything. make friends with him, and he'll do it for you for nothing." "but i always give people money to do things for me." "that's a bad habit. drop it. get things done for you for nothing." "why?" "because i want you to be a business man when you grow up, and not merely a spender of money." "what does a business man mean exactly?" "a ruler of men." the boy looked troubled again. his confusion of thoughts sorted themselves into his declaration: "i don't want to be a ruler of men; i want people to like me." "that's a poor ambition." "why?" "mostly anyone wants that. it's a sign of weakness. drop it." "what ought i to want?" "people to fear you." "why should they be afraid of me, dad?" "for one thing, because some day you'll have all my money and all my power. just how big that is you can't realise yet. that's one reason. the other reason must lie with yourself--you must make yourself strong and afraid of nothing. how many fights did you have this term, before you got ill?" "only one." it was clear from the boy's downcast eyes that he had been beaten in his fight. "that's bad. that's disobeying my orders. didn't i tell you to fight every boy in the school until they acknowledged you master?" "i'm not strong enough." "you must make yourself strong enough. it's not a question of muscle, but will-power. when you're properly over this illness, i'll pick you out a school in england with about thirty or forty boys of your own age. they're soft, these english boys, softer than americans. i want you to lick your way through them, and then i'll take you back to the states to polish up on americans." after a pause came this question: "dad, must i have all your money when i grow up? couldn't some one else have some of it?" "sonny, don't look at it that way. you're born to an empire; try and make yourself fit for it. i'm building it for you. it'll be a glorious inheritance.... now throw those wheels overboard, and run along and find mr chips." presently arthur dean came to the private deck to ask if larssen had any orders for him. he was acting as interim private secretary. the shipowner dictated a few messages to be sent by wireless, and then remarked: "when you're back in london, i suppose you'll be going to see your young lady as well as your parents?" dean blushed. "taking her back any presents?" "yes, sir." "a ring?" "not yet, sir." "well, i don't doubt that'll come in its own good time." "you don't think i ought to----?" began dean tentatively. "i don't interfere in that. it's your own private affair and no concern of mine. you can afford to marry her on your present salary. if she's a girl likely to make a good wife, i hope you _will_ marry her. i like my employees to be married. it's healthy for them and makes them better business men. is she an ambitious girl?" "i hardly know that." "well, my advice to you is this: marry someone ambitious. you'll need it. you're inclined to weaken." "it's very good of you to take such an interest in me." "i like you. i want to make you one of my right-hand men eventually. now i want to say this in particular: keep business affairs to yourself." "i'll certainly do so, sir." "don't talk about them even to your parents, even to your young lady. i'm paying you a very good salary for a man of your age, and i expect a closed mouth about my affairs." "of course." "get the reason for it. this deal i'm engaged on is a big thing, and there are plenty of city people in london who'd like to know just what i'm planning, and just why matheson and i sent you to canada. i want you to keep them guessing until the scheme's floated. d'you get that?" "certainly, sir! you may rely on me not to say anything about your business affairs to anybody. i know how things leak around once anybody's told." "that's right! now send off those wireless messages, and then go and amuse yourself for the rest of the morning. cabin and all quite comfortable?" "quite, thank you, sir," answered dean, and went off buoyantly. in the afternoon olaf was sailing his yacht on deck on the new set of wheels made for him by the ship's carpenter, while his father sat stretched in a long deck-chair watching him tenderly and weaving dreams for his future. the thought crossed his mind--not for the first time--whether it wouldn't be advisable to get a stepmother for the boy. larssen had a strong intuitive feeling that he would not live to old age, and he wanted to know that the boy would have someone to care for him and to stand behind him while he was seating himself firmly on his father's throne. specifically, the shipowner was reviewing olive as a possible stepmother. there was no scrap of passion in his thoughts. he was viewing the matter as a business proposition, weighing the pros and cons calmly and cool-bloodedly. would olive be the right stepmother for the boy? she was of good family, with influential connections. she made a fine presence as a hostess. her ambition was undoubted. even the trifling point of the similarity between olive's name and that of his boy impressed him, by some curious twist of mind, as favourable. "dad, look at me!" called out olaf. "i've made some buoys, and now i'm going to sail her round a racing course." he had run needles through three corks, and planted them in the pitch-seams of the deck to form the three points of a large triangle, in imitation of the buoys of a yacht-race course. "this buoy is sandy hook, and this one is the fastnet, and that one over there is gibraltar." "good!" said the shipowner. "i'll time the race." he took out his watch. "are you ready?... go!" when the course was completed and the yacht lay at anchor again at sandy hook, larssen called his son to the seat at his side. "do you remember much of your mother?" he asked. the boy's face clouded over. "i don't know. sometimes i seem to see her very plainly, and sometimes again i don't seem to see her at all when i try to. was mother very beautiful?" "very beautiful, to me," assented the shipowner. "i think i should have loved her very much." "how would you like to have a new mother?" olaf thought this over in silence for some time. "it depends," he ventured at length. "depends on what?" "i don't know. i must see her. then i could tell you." "you care for the idea?" "i must see her first." "yes, that's right. well, sonny, as soon as we're in london i'll take you to see her. but remember this: don't breathe a word of it to anyone. keep a tight mouth. that's what a business man has always got to learn." "why?" "because silence in the right place means big money." olaf reflected over the new problem for some time. "dad," he said presently, "i'd like her to like me very much. and i'd like her to be a good sailor." larssen smiled at the naïve requirement. "is that very important?" "yes. you see, i want her to live with us on a yacht, and some women are so ill whenever they go on board a boat." "which do you like best: the country, or a big city, or the sea?" "the sea--the sea! i hate a big city. the crowds of people make me feel...." he groped about for a word which would express his feeling " ... make me feel so lonely." "you'll have to overcome that. one day your work will lie in controlling crowds of people." "dad, let me stay on a yacht till i get quite well again!" larssen considered for a moment. "well, if it will help you to get your fighting muscle, i'll arrange it. there's a small cruising yacht of mine--the 'starlight'--lying in southampton water. i might have her cruise about the channel for you." "thank you, dad, i'd like that immensely." "yes, i'll see to that. we must go up to london for a few days, and meanwhile i'll arrange to have the 'starlight' put in order for you." "can i be captain of the yacht?" "that's the spirit i want! but you can't be captain at a jump. you must work your way up. first you'll have to work for your mate's ticket. i'll tell the captain to put you through your paces--give you your trick at the wheel and so on. but see here, sonny, it'll be work and not play. you'll have to obey orders just as if you were a new apprentice." "i love the sea! i'll work right enough." larssen grew grave with memories. "work? you'll never know work as i knew it. at fourteen i was a drudge on a banks trawler. kicked and punched and fed on the leavings of the fo'castle. hands skinned raw with hauling on the dredge-ropes----" a deck steward bearing a wireless telegram came to interrupt them. the message was from olive, and it read: "important developments. come to see me as soon as you arrive." larssen scribbled an answer and handed it to the steward for despatch. the boy was thinking over the coming cruise of the "starlight." suddenly he exclaimed: "i've got an idea! invite her on board my yacht!" larssen smiled. "that's a very practical test for her!" he said. chapter xxxi the reins had slipped the italian garden at thornton chase was perfect in its artificiality. it sloped down towards richmond park in a series of stately terraces with box-hedge borders trimmed so evenly that not a twig or leaf offended against the canons of symmetry. they were groomed like a racehorse. centred in a square of barbered lawn was a fountain where neptune drove his chariot of sea-horses. the apollo belvedere, the capitoline venus, minerva, and flora had their niches against a greenhouse of which the roof formed the terrace above--a greenhouse where patrician exotics held formal court. olive was feeding a calm-eyed borzoi from the tea-table when larssen and his little boy arrived. the pose was that of a gainsborough portrait--she had dressed the part as closely as modern dress would allow. sir francis was leaning back in an easy-chair with one leg crossed squarely over the other knee, and in spite of country tweeds and homburg hat, he was somehow well within the picture. but lars larssen, with his broad frame and his masterful step, was markedly out of harmony with that atmosphere of leisured artificiality. a lesser man would have been conscious of his incongruity--not so with larssen. he forced his personality on his environment. he made the italian garden seem out of place in his presence. a sensitive would almost have felt the resentment of the trimly correct hedges and shrubs and the classic statues at being thrust out of the picture on larssen's arrival. for some time the conversation progressed on very ordinary tea-table lines. olive made much of the little boy--petted him, sent in for special cakes to tempt him with, showered a host of questions on him about school and games and hobbies. sir francis exchanged views on weather, politics, and the coming cricket season with his guest. the latter subject mostly resolved itself into a monologue on the part of the baronet, since cricket held no more interest for larssen than ninepins; but he listened with polite attention while sir francis expounded the chances of the australian team (he had been to lord's that morning to watch them at preliminary practice), and his own pet theory of how the googly ought to be bowled. then, having offered libation on the altars of weather, politics, and cricket, the baronet felt himself at liberty to touch on business matters. "have you heard when clifford will be back?" he asked. "let me see. to-day's the th. i expect him not later than may rd. probably sooner." "everything going smooth?" "yes; fine. i'm glad we delayed the issue until may. canada's getting well in the public eye just now. when the leaves spread out on the park-trees, town-dwellers begin to remember that the country grows crops. they recollect that there's million acres of cropland in canada-- million bushels of wheat to move. they awake to the notion that the wheat will need transport to europe. yes, early may is the time for our hudson bay issue--clifford was right in suggesting the postponement." olive caught the new drift of conversation between her father and her guest, and turned to cut in. "olaf would like to see the aviary," she said to her father. "especially the new owl. it's so amusing to look at in the daytime. will you take him round and show him everything?" the boy jumped up gleefully, and sir francis roused himself from his easy-chair to obey his daughter's order. he had grown accustomed to obeying--experience had shown him it was more comfortable in the long run to do as she wished. "bring some cake along, and we'll feed the birds," he said to the boy, and the two moved off together to the aviary, which lay sheltered under the south wall of the house. when the two were out of earshot, larssen turned smilingly to olive, and his tone was that of one who finds himself at home again. "it's good to be back," he said. olive did not smile welcome to him, as he expected. there was an unlooked-for constraint in her voice as she inquired: "another cup?" "thanks." she took the cup from him. "i've missed you," he added. "i've had a worrying time," began olive as she poured out tea and cream for him. "clifford?" "ye-es." larssen read through the slight hesitancy of her answer. "that means the verney girl, does it?" "i've seen her." "where?" "at wiesbaden." "what made you travel to there?" "she wrote me a letter." "which roused your curiosity." "yes." "did you satisfy yourself?" "i satisfied myself that so far there's nothing to take hold of between her and clifford." "if she managed to give you that impression, she must be clever as well as attractive." "i know i'm right.... though of course they're in love with one another. both admit it." olive was ill at ease--a most unusual frame of mind for her. larssen guessed she had some confession to make, and prepared himself for an outwardly sympathetic attitude. "no doubt she's got the hooks into clifford tight enough," he answered. "it'll be merely a question of time. no cause for you to worry. wait quietly. have them watched." "i intend to do nothing of the kind!" said olive sharply. larssen at once adjusted himself to her mood. "well, that's as you please. the affair is yours and not mine. i don't doubt you have good reasons." olive played nervously with a spoon. "i've decided to drop the matter." "which?" "divorce." larssen had the sudden feeling that during his absence in the states the reins had slipped from his hands. he would have to play very warily for their recovery. "no doubt you're right," he answered tacitly, inviting explanation. "i want my husband back." "very natural." "i want you to get him back for me." "that's a large order. i don't know the circumstances yet." "there's nothing much to tell. i saw this miss verney and i saw clifford, and i've changed my mind--that's all." "what did she say to you." "she tried to make me believe that she wanted a divorce and would let the suit go undefended." "bluff?" "yes." "you saw through it at once?" "yes." "then what's made you switch?" "why shouldn't i change my mind?" countered olive coldly. larssen summed her up now with pin-point accuracy. jealousy had worked this transformation. she wanted her husband because the other woman wanted him. and he, larssen, was dependent on olive's whims! the flotation of his hudson bay scheme hinging on her momentary fancies! the fighting instinct surged up within him. he could look for no help from olive--it was to be a single-handed battle with clifford matheson. well, he'd give no quarter to anyone--man or woman! aloud he said, with a perfect assumption of resignation: "what do you wish me to do?" "i don't know. i want you to suggest." "i suppose sir francis knows all about everything?" "no; i've told him nothing. he still believes clifford went to canada." "that simplifies matters." "how?" "i've got the glimmering of a plan. let me work out details before i put it before you for the o.k.... as i see the problem, it's this. you want clifford to cut loose from miss verney. you want him to return to you. you want me to use that signature to my hudson bay prospectus to induce him to return." "well?" "you're making a mistake." "in what?" "never try to force a man's feelings in such a matter. get him to persuade himself. let him return of his own free will or not at all. now my plan, if it works out right, will do that." "what _is_ the plan?" "give me time to get details settled. is clifford in london?" "i don't know where he is." "i suppose i could get his address through miss verney?" "no doubt." "where is she in wiesbaden?" "with dr hegelmann." "just one more question: are you a good sailor?" "yes; but why? what a curious question!" larssen smiled at her reassuringly. "you'll have to trust me a little. naturally i want my hudson bay scheme to go through smoothly, and if at the same time i can bring husband and wife together, why, it'll be the best day's work done in my life! it'll make me feel good all over!" "thanks; that's kind of you!" returned olive, thawed by the cordial ring of his words. "no need for thanks--wait till i've worked the _deus ex machinâ_ stunt.... what do you think of my boy?" "a dear little fellow! but he needs care." "he looks weak now, but that's the after-effect of the illness. he'll put on muscle presently. he'll be a match for any boy of his age in six months' time." "i hope so." "sure. let's come and join them at the aviary." they rose and walked to the house, chatting of impersonal matters, and nothing affecting the hudson bay scheme passed between larssen and olive or sir francis until the moment of leaving. the baronet was at the door of the motor, seeing his guests depart, when larssen said in a low voice: "important matter to see you about. could you come to the office?" "when?" "to-night?" "to-night i'm due at the banquet to the australian team." "couldn't you come on afterwards? i shall be at the office till midnight. it's about the hudson bay deal." "very well--i'll come about eleven." "right! i'll expect you." as they drove home in the car, larssen said to his boy: "tell me your impressions." "i think the garden is fine, and the birds are bully little fellows." "mrs matheson--do you like her?" "is she----is she the lady you meant when you said on board ship you were going to marry someone?" "i want to know what you think of her." a troubled look came into olaf's sensitive eyes. "i don't like her very much, dad." "why not?" "i don't think she means what she says." "you're mistaken. mrs matheson has taken a great liking to you, and i want you to be very nice to her. you must meet her again and get better acquainted. now see here, i'd like you to invite her on your yacht. that's the big test, isn't it?" olaf's eyes brightened at the mention of the yacht. "very well, dad," he answered. "if you want me to, of course, i'll try and be nice to her." "i'll send you down to southampton water with dean, and from the yacht i want you to write a letter to mrs matheson. i'll give you the gist of what to say, and you'll put it in your own words." "are you going to marry mrs matheson, dad?" "not if you don't like her after better acquaintance. i promise you that." chapter xxxii the new scheme larssen had spoken part truth when he told olive over the tea-table that he had the glimmering of a plan in his mind. but its object was by no means what he had led her to believe. it was a scheme of an audacity in keeping with his previous impersonations of the "dead" clifford matheson, and its single objective was the attainment of his personal ambitions. even his own son was to be used to help in the gaining of that one end. the new scheme, in its essential, held the simplicity of genius. he would, single-handed, float the hudson bay company with matheson's name at the head of the prospectus, whether matheson assented or not. the first move was to evade the spirit of his own written compact: "until may rd, i fix up nothing with the underwriters." to get round this obstacle, he decided on the audacious plan of underwriting the entire issue _himself_. that is to say, he would give an absolute guarantee that if any portion of the five million pounds were not subscribed for by the general public, he himself would pay cash for and take up those shares. it was a huge risk. in the ordinary course of business no single finance house in london, the world's financial centre, would take on its shoulders the guaranteeing of a five million pound issue. lars larssen proposed to do it. in order to provide the requisite security, he would have to mortgage his ships and his private investments. he would be dicing with nine-tenths of his entire fortune. the second move was to prevent interference, while the issue was being offered to the public, from those who knew anything of the inner history of the flotation--matheson, olive, elaine, and dean. arthur dean could easily be kept out of the way. elaine would no doubt be still confined to the surgical home at wiesbaden. matheson and his wife were problems of much more difficulty. in whatever part of europe matheson might be, he would be certain to hear of the flotation. the point was to delay his knowledge of it for two or three days. after that, interference on his part could not undo what had been done. "one cannot unscramble an egg." for the success of the first move, it was essential to have the willing co-operation of sir francis. consequently larssen was particularly cordial and gracious to him that evening at the leadenhall street offices, passing him compliments about his business abilities, which found their mark unerringly. presently the shipowner got down to the crux of the matter, taking out the draft prospectus from the drawer in his desk and smoothing it out to show the signature of clifford matheson. "as you see, i sent it to clifford to o.k.," he said. sir francis looked at the signature through his pair of business eyeglasses, and nodded an official confirmation. larssen continued: "there's no alteration necessary--clifford passes it as it stands. but i've thought of one point which i reckon would add very considerable weight in its appeal to the public." "what's that?" "the underwriting. there are a few blank lines here"--he turned over to a page of small type--"where the details of the underwriting arrangements were to be filled in. we were negotiating on a per cent. basis, you remember. on some of it we should have had to offer an overriding commission of another per cent. say - / per cent. on the average--that's £ , on the round five million shares. a big sum for the company to pay out!" "i don't see how we can avoid it." "we might cut it out altogether and state that 'no part of this issue has been underwritten.' that sounds like confidence on our part." sir francis shook his head emphatically. "it might do in the states, but it won't do over here. our public wouldn't like it. it's not the thing." larssen knew this latter was an overwhelming reason to the baronet's mind. "very well; pass that suggestion," said he. "here's a far better one. suppose we could get the underwriting done at per cent. straight. that would save the company £ , ." "what house would take it on at that?" "_i_ would." "_you!_" exclaimed the amazed sir francis. "why not?" quietly replied the shipowner. "but----!" the baronet paused in perplexity. "well, what's the particular 'but'?" "we--the company--would have to ask you for the fullest security." "of course." "security up to the whole five million pounds." "of course." "but----but i don't quite see your reason for the suggestion." "my reason is just this," answered larssen earnestly. "i want that prospectus to breathe out confidence in every line and every word. i want the whole five millions taken up by the public, and not left partly on the underwriters' shoulders. i want to do everything i can to make the public realise that they're being offered the squarest deal that ever was. what better plan could you have than getting the vendor--myself--to guarantee the whole issue at a mere per cent. cover? no financial house of any standing would look at it for a trifle of per cent. but i stand in and take the whole risk--the whole five million risk--and give you securities on my ships that bears looking into with a microscope." sir francis gasped his admiration of the daring offer. "that's pluck!" he exclaimed. "well, what do you say? are you agreeable, for one?" "certainly--certainly!" "then will you bring st aubyn and carleton-wingate here, and get their consent? say to-morrow morning?" "that's very short notice." "you can get them on the telephone. if they're here to-morrow morning and consent--there ought to be no difficulty about that--you three directors can sick the lawyers on to me at once and fix up the security deeds in a day or so." "you ought to have been born an englishman!" said the baronet admiringly. "one point occurs to me. let's keep this matter close until the prospectus is actually launched. i don't want any stock exchange 'wreckers!' trying to stick a knife into my back. you know some of their tricks?" "certainly--certainly!" "i don't think i'd even mention it to your daughter. women--even the best of them--can't help talking." "women are not meant for business," agreed the baronet sententiously. chapter xxxiii larssen's appeal in pursuance of his second move, larssen had to see miss verney. to write to her would probably be fruitless waste of time; and it was emphatically not the kind of interview to delegate to a subordinate. he had to seek her in person. it was curious to reflect that, in this tangle of four lives, the balance of power had shifted successively from one to the other. at first it was with matheson. a letter of his had brought the shipowner hastening to paris to see him. later, it was larssen who sat still and matheson who hurried to find him. later again, it was olive who held decision between the two men. and now elaine. as soon as he had settled the underwriting affair with sir francis and his two co-directors, larssen went straight to wiesbaden to the surgical home, and had his card sent in to elaine. elaine received him in the garden of the home, under the soft shade of a spreading linden, where she had been chatting with another patient. near by, a laburnum drooped in shower of gold over a bush of delicate white guelder-rose as zeus over danæ. upon the wall of the home wistaria hung her pastel-shaded pendants of flower, like the notes of some beautiful melody, sweet and sad, along the giant staves of her stem. a chopin could have harmonized the melody, weaving in little trills and silvery treble notes from the joy-song of the nesting birds. the bandages had been removed from the patient's eyes, and she wore a pair of wide dark glasses side-curtained from the light. after a few conventional words of greeting and inquiry, larssen drew up a chair beside hers. "you're wondering why i've called on you," he began. "you're thinking that a stranger--and a busy man at that--wouldn't have travelled to wiesbaden merely to inquire after you. you're thinking that i want something." "what is it you want from me?" asked elaine with frank directness. "i want your help," returned larssen with an assumption of equal frankness. "my help! for what?" "for matheson." "and what is this help you want from me?" "it's simple enough, but first let me spread out the situation as i see it. if i'm wrong, you'll correct me.... to begin with, matheson is a man of complex character and high ideals. the latter have been snowed under in his business career. he's like an alpine peak. from the distance, it looks cold and aloof, but underneath there's a carpet of blue gentian waiting to spring out into blossom when the sun melts off the snow-layer. i don't pay idle compliments when i say that i haven't far to look for the sun that's melting off the snow." he paused. elaine remained silent, but larssen's vivid metaphor went home to her. "i used to admire matheson as a financier," pursued the shipowner. "now i respect him as a man. he's put up the fists to me over what he believes to be his duty to the british public, and i like him all the better for it." "you threatened mr matheson that you would have me dragged into a divorce court if he didn't sign agreement to your prospectus." it was a definite statement and not a question, and from it larssen judged that the financier had told her everything from start to finish. "i did, and there's where my mistake lay. one mustn't threaten a man of matheson's calibre. please understand this, miss verney, all question of divorce is dead." "it would make no difference to me." "it was fine of you to say so to mrs matheson. you've pluck." "then you've been talking matters over with mrs matheson?" "certainly. i want to arrive at a final settlement for all of us." "how?" "that's where i want your help. first let me complete my lay-out of the situation.... matheson is a man of high ideals. but he tangled up his life pretty badly on the night of march th, when he tried to cut loose from his old career. it was a mistake. we've both made mistakes, he and i. the unfortunate part is that the consequences don't fall on us. they fall on mrs matheson and yourself. you note that i place mrs matheson before yourself? that's deliberate." again he paused, but elaine did not make any comment. she guessed now what larssen had come to say to her, and a shiver of fear went through her. not fear of larssen as a man, but as a spokesman for fate. in the deliberate unfolding of his statement, there was the passionless gravity of fate. guessing her thoughts, larssen's voice deepened as he continued: "i definitely place mrs matheson before yourself. she is his wife. he married her for better or worse. however mistaken he may have been in his estimate of her, he must keep to his promise of the altar-side. she is his wife. as a man of honour, matheson's first duty is to stand by his wife. i don't want to wound your feelings, believe me. but i have to say this: you must realise mrs matheson's point of view." "i think i do." "do you realise that she is eating her heart out in loneliness?" "i didn't know." "i do know. i went to see her a couple of days ago at thornton chase. the change in her these last few weeks startled me. i deliberately say this: you have, unknowingly, dealt her a blow from which she will never recover. she is naturally far from strong, and though i'm not a doctor, i venture to make this prophecy: within three years, mrs matheson will be dead." a low cry of expostulation came from elaine. "it's an ugly, brutal fact," pursued larssen, pressing home his advantage to the fullest extent. now that he had probed for and reached the raw nerve of feeling, he intended to keep it tight gripped in the forceps of his words. "it's brutal, but it's true. unwittingly, you have shortened her life." "i've sent mr matheson away," faltered elaine. "i guessed that. but will he stay away from you?" "yes." "i doubt it." "we've said good-bye!" "but he writes to you?" there was an answer in her silence. "he writes to you. that means a great deal--a very great deal." "what do you want from me?" cried the tortured girl. "reparation," was the grave answer. "to----?" "to mrs matheson--to his wife." "what more can i do than i have done?" "doesn't your heart tell you?" "i'm torn with----" "with love for him. i know. i know. i'm asking from you the biggest sacrifice of all--for his sake and for her sake. while she lives, give her back what happiness you can," larssen's voice had lowered almost to a whisper. "what more can i do than i have done?" "much more. write to matheson definitely and finally. send him back to his wife. she is to cruise on board the 'starlight'--a yacht of mine--with my little son. send matheson to meet her on the yacht." "and then?" "then they will come together again. i'm certain of it. i've seen mrs matheson and read the change in her feelings. she'll be a different woman now.... can you see to write?" "yes--faintly." "then write to matheson what your heart will dictate to you," said larssen gently. presently he resumed: "where is he now?" "at nîmes." "ah, yes--the trial." "it should be finished to-day." "then matheson will probably be returning to london to see me. there's no need for him to hurry back. he could board the 'starlight' at boulogne or any other port he might prefer." "isn't may rd the day that ends your agreement?" asked elaine. "it is; but i'll extend that date." larssen took from his pockets a fountain-pen and a scrap of paper and scribbled a few words on it, signing his name underneath. "suppose you enclose this when you're writing to matheson? it extends our agreement until may th." he passed the paper to her. the power of the human word, of the human voice--how limitless it is! larssen, master of word and voice, had elaine convinced through and through of his sincerity in the matter of reconciling husband and wife. he had appealed with unerring judgment to her finest feelings, and she read her own altruism into his words. larssen knew that his point was won, and long experience had taught him to close an interview as soon as he had carried conviction. "i won't tire you any longer," he said, rising. "i just want to say this: you're _big_. you're the finer woman by far, but she is his wife." chapter xxxiv on board the "starlight" the trial at nîmes proved a wearisome, sordid affair, and its result was a foregone conclusion. if there had been some motive of romantic jealousy on the part of the youth crau, a french jury might have returned a sentimental verdict of acquittal. as it was, they found him guilty, and the judge sentenced him to three years penal servitude. rivière was heartily glad when the trial was over. it was now the end of april--close to the date of may rd, when the truce between larssen and himself would expire. the shipowner would be back in london, and no doubt would have heard from olive something of the changed situation. force of circumstance would make him readjust his attitude, and he would probably be ready to offer compromise. rivière judged it advisable to return to england, and there to wait for overtures on the part of larssen. he had taken ticket for london, and was preparing for travel, when two letters reached him, from olive and elaine. the latter gave him a keen thrill of pleasure. it was written by elaine herself, and this was proof indeed of the miracle of surgery wrought by dr hegelmann. but its contents made him very thoughtful. she was asking him to go back to his wife. she was pointing out to him a path of duty exceedingly hard to tread. olive's letter added further pressure on his feelings. she was advised to try a sea-voyage for her health, she told him; larssen had placed his yacht at her disposal; she begged her husband to meet her at boulogne and once more to give her a chance to explain. it was an appeal utterly different to the attitude she had taken at wiesbaden--there was now a sincerity in it which rivière could not mistake. the enclosure in elaine's letter did not surprise him. if larssen of his own accord offered to extend the truce until may th, it must mean that the shipowner was aware of his shaky position and ready to suggest compromise. the effect of those three communications on rivière's mind was what larssen had so shrewdly planned. rivière wired to his wife that he would meet her at boulogne harbour. that evening he caught a paris express with a through p.l.m. carriage for boulogne. at the gare de lyon, in the early morning, they shunted him round the slow and tedious girdle railway to the gare du nord, clanked him on the boat train, and sped him northwards again in a revigorated burst of railway energy. north of paris, a p.l.m. carriage undergoes a marked change of character. it deferentially subdues its nationality, and takes on an anglo-american aspect. harris-tweeded young men pitch golf-bags and ice-axes on the rack, and smoke bulldog pipes in its corridors with an air of easy proprietorship. american spinsters, scouring europe in couples, order lunch in high-pitched american without troubling to translate. the few frenchmen who find themselves in the train have almost the apologetic air of intruders. while passing through the corridor of a second-class carriage, rivière happened on the tubby little figure and rosy smiling countenance of jimmy martin the journalist. martin never forgot a face or a name--it was part of his profession to make an unlimited acquaintanceship with everyone who might possibly "have a story to tell." "hail, sir!" said he cheerily. "you haven't forgotten the little sermon i had to preach to you on the infallibility of my owners, the _europe chronicle_?" rivière shook hands cordially. "i remember perfectly. you're going home on holiday, i expect?" "i'm going home for good, praise be. i've sacked my owners. i told them that they were a set of unmitigated liars, scoundrels and bloodsuckers, and that i couldn't reconcile it with my conscience to work for them any longer without a per cent. increase in pay. they demurred, and i promptly sacked them--having in my pocket an offer from a london paper. thus we combine valour with prudence--a mixture which is more colloquially known as 'business.'" "what's your new post?" "reporter for the _london daily truth_. if you've a story to tell at any time, and want a platform to speak from, 'phone me up." "thanks; i will." "i've been turning my think-tank on to the hudson bay transport flotation. you certainly had some inside information on that deal. why did it shut up with a snap, i ask myself. who banged the lid down?" martin's effort to pump information was very transparent, but his infectious good humour made it impossible to take offence. rivière was a keen judge of men, and he felt instinctive confidence in the honesty of the whimsical little journalist. one could trust this man. there was nobody within hearing along the corridor of the railway carriage. accordingly he answered: "if you'll keep the information strictly to yourself until i want publication, i'll tell you." martin sobered instantly. "mr rivière," said he, "you can trust me absolutely. i play square." "so i judge.... you ask me who banged the lid down. i did." "phew! you must have landed larssen a hefty one on the solar plexus." "the matter is not finally settled yet. it's just possible that i might need the platform you offered me. then i'll talk further." "exclusive?" asked martin, with the journalist part of him on top. "i can't promise that. it depends." "well, first call at any rate. we might get out a special edition in front of the other fellows. we've started a new evening paper at the _daily truth_ office, and i'd like to secure a scoop for one of the two.... my stars, if i could have seen the scrap between you and larssen! there must have been some juicy copy in that!" "no doubt," commented rivière drily. "well, i'll say good-bye now." "anyhow, thanks for your promise. i'll look forward to the next meeting. _au revoir_, as they say in this whisker-ridden country." boulogne harbour was crowded with grimy tramp steamers, fishing boats, and a rabble of plebeian harbour craft, but the yacht "starlight" was not in view. rivière inquired at the office of the harbour-master, and was informed that a telegram promised the yacht's arrival by nightfall. she arrived true to promise, and lay out beyond the twin piers of the harbour-mouth in the quiet of sunset of the evening of april th--a trim-lined, quietly capable, three-masted craft. larssen had referred to her as a "small cruising yacht," but in reality the "starlight" was much more than that casual description would convey. in addition to her extensive sailing power, she had a set of marine oil engines for use in light winds or special emergency, and her cabins and saloons were roomy and comfortable. she could carry a party of a dozen passengers with comfort if there were need, and had four life-boats as well as a shore dinghy. the kitchen equipment was admirable. altogether, a trim, well-found yacht which might have voyaged round the world without mishap. the dinghy was sent off with the mate and a couple of seamen, and entered the harbour to enquire for rivière at the harbour-master's office, according to arrangement. "pleased to meet you, sir," said the mate. "mrs matheson's compliments, and will you come aboard?" "is mr larssen on the yacht?" "no. mrs matheson, her maid, and master olaf--that's all. we're giving the little chap a training in seamanship.... jim, take the gentleman's luggage." they rowed out to the "starlight," lying trimly at anchor like a capable, self-possessed hostess awaiting the arrival of a week-end guest at a country-house. olive waved greeting to her husband as he came near. by her side was larssen's little son, holding her hand. he might have almost been posed there by the shipowner to inspire confidence in the peaceful intentions of the yachting cruise. olive thoroughly believed that larssen's sole object in placing the yacht at her disposal was to reconcile husband and wife, and so indirectly to smooth over the quarrel between himself and clifford. she had no suspicion that his real objective was to get matheson on the high seas, the only region where he could not hear of the coming flotation of the hudson bay transport, ltd. larssen had told her that she was free to order the yacht's movements as she pleased--he merely suggested in a perfectly casual way that a cruise to the norwegian fjords might prove enjoyable. "it was good of you to come!" said olive as her husband mounted the gangway to the white-railed deck. there was unmistakable sincerity in her greeting. "i'm to be captain of the 'starlight' as soon as i get my skipper's ticket," confided the little boy as he shook hands. matheson had made up his mind to carry out elaine's wish. he had come back to his wife; and he was prepared to fall in with any plan that she might propose. accordingly, when she suggested the alternatives of a cruise down the channel and up to the hebrides, or a cruise to norway, he left the decision to her. she chose norway. matheson, with the shipowner's agreement in his pocket to extend their truce to may th, raised no objection. there was ample time to be back in england before that date. olive gave her orders to the captain. before weighing anchor, the latter sent on shore for further provisions. at the same time he dispatched a telegram to larssen stating that they were bound for norway that evening. a smooth deft dinner was served to matheson and his wife in the comfortable saloon as the yacht weighed anchor, slung round to a light wind from the south-east, and made gently towards the outer edge of the goodwins. through the starboard portholes wimereux plage twinkled gaily to them from its string of lights on esplanade and summer villas; cap grisnez flashed its calm white light of guardianship; calais town sent a message of kindly greeting from the far distance; only the varne sands whispered a wordless warning as they swirled the waters above them and sent a flock of shivering wavelets to beat against the smooth hull of the "starlight." * * * * * on that night of april th, while clifford matheson slept on board the yacht, the presses of fleet street thundered off millions of newspapers which bore on their financial page the impressive prospectus of hudson bay transport, ltd. the post bore off to every town and village in the united kingdom hundreds of thousands of copies of the issue in its full legal detail. heading the prospectus were these names on the board of directors:-- clifford matheson, esq. (chairman). the right hon. lord st aubyn, p.c., k.c.v.o. sir francis letchmere, bart. gervase lowndes hawley carleton-wingate, esq., m.p. lars larssen, esq. (managing director). to join the board after allotment. the capital was divided into , , ordinary £ shares, and , , deferred shares of s. the latter were assigned to the vendor, lars larssen, in payment for various considerations. he had also underwritten the entire issue of ordinary shares for a commission of per cent. the lists for subscription were to open on may st and close at midday on may rd. the london and united kingdom bank, in which lord st. aubyn was a director, was receiving subscriptions and carrying out the routine of issuing allotment letters. such in essence was the prospectus of hudson bay transport, ltd. it embodied every point that larssen aimed for. it was entirely legal, since matheson had o.k.'d a copy of the prospectus, and the further agreement between the two men had been technically evaded by the fact of larssen underwriting the entire issue himself. by the time the "starlight" reached norway, the subscription lists would be closed and matheson would be impotent to veto the issue. if he were three days on the high seas between france and norway, larssen would have gained the control of britain's wheat-supply. and matheson had no knowledge of the daring game that his adversary was venturing. not even a suspicion of it. in his pocket was the shipowner's agreement to extend their truce to may th. his mind was at rest regarding the hudson bay scheme. his thoughts were now centred on olive and the strange _volte face_ in her feelings towards him. the change in her was scarcely understandable. yet it was entirely a normal outcome of her essential character. olive had never appreciated clifford's value to herself until that day at wiesbaden when she had realised his value to the woman who was ready to sacrifice her reputation and her happiness in order to free his hands. the torrent of bitter words she had poured on elaine was the reflex action of that sudden realisation. it was born of uncontrollable jealousy. now she wanted to win clifford back. it was not sufficient that he had returned to her side. she wanted his regard, his esteem, his affection, his love. she wanted a child by him to bind them together. the tenderness with which she was looking after larssen's little son was an outward expression of that inner hope. it was a prophecy of the future. olaf stood for what might be. if she should have a child of her own, she felt convinced that clifford would remain with her. those feelings were now the focus of olive's thoughts. the sincerity of her greeting to clifford was not an assumed emotion. it was inner-real. and yet it might not last for long. the effect of her drug-taking was to make every momentary feeling seem an eternal, ineradicable mainspring of action. her many moods were each at the moment vitally important to her. they obsessed her. the morphia had not only undermined her physical health, but had made her mind the prey of every passing emotion. for his part, matheson was trying to weigh up the essential value of this sudden change in his wife. he admitted the sincerity; he doubted the permanency. he realised that she ardently desired a child of her own--that was plain to read from her attitude towards larssen's son. but in the past she had always been impatient with children, and he questioned whether her present feeling was more than transitory. the morning of may st brought grey sky, grey waters, and a tumbling sea. the yacht was beating north-east, close-hauled, into a stiff breeze from eastwards. no land was in sight--only a few trawler sails and a squat, ugly tramp steamer flinging a pennant of black smoke to westwards. as the day wore on the wind rose steadily, and in the afternoon the watch turned out to reef sails. matheson was an excellent sailor, and this tussle with the elements exhilarated him. olive, too, was quite at home on board a yacht, and the two marched the decks together in keen enjoyment of the bite of the wind and the whip of the salt spray. by nightfall the wind had increased to a half-gale but the "starlight" rode through the sea in splendid defiance, sure of her staunchness and steady in her purpose. * * * * * in this fight for the control of britain's wheat-supply, larssen had played to the highest his powers of intellect, his foresight, and his ruthless determination. he had forced the signature of clifford matheson to the draft prospectus, thus sanctioning its issue. he had evaded by one daring stroke the spirit of his own signed agreement. he had most carefully and minutely arranged for the flotation of the company at the time when matheson would be on the high seas and out of touch with london news. the "starlight" was a well-found yacht, capable of weathering any north sea gale. she had oil-engines to supplement her sailing power. she was provisioned for a month. rough weather would not drive her back to harbour. she could fight through any wind or sea to norway. nothing had been overlooked to carry larssen's scheme to perfect success. save only the hand of providence.... fate.... for such a man as lars larssen there is no other antagonist he need fear. but fate, with its little finger, can squeeze him to nothingness. out in the north sea, wallowing sullenly in the trough of the waves, her masts gone by the board and her deck awash, lay the derelict schooner "valkyrie" of bergen. she would have been at the bottom of the sea had it not been for her cargo of norway pine, keeping her painfully afloat against her will. fate, with its little finger, moved this uncharted peril right in the track of the "starlight," beating close-reefed through the buffeting waves on the night of may st, while larssen, in his london home, satisfied that his plans had foreseen every human eventuality, slept the easy sleep of the successful. chapter xxxv intervention the "starlight" struck the sodden derelict shortly before midnight, with a crash that jarred the yacht to her innermost fibres. she struck it full abeam, like a motor-car smashing in the dark into an unlighted farm-waggon drawn across a country lane. bows crumpled up; bowsprit snapped away; foremast, loosed from its stay, and forced back by the pressure of a half-gale on the close-hauled foresail, carried over to port in a tangle of rope and wire and canvas. thrown back on her haunches, the "starlight" gasped and shivered and began to settle by the head from the rush of water into the forecastle. "all on deck with lifebelts!" a seaman rushed through the saloons, throwing wide the cabin doors, and shouting the captain's order. up above, men were ripping the canvas covers off the life-boats, flinging oilskins and rugs and provisions into them, slewing round the davits, hauling on the fall-ropes--a furious medley of energies. matheson rushed to his wife's cabin, helped her on with some clothes, tied her lifebelt, wrapped a rug around her, and hurried her on deck. "what have we hit?" he snapped at the captain. "derelict." "how long d'you give her?" "ten minutes at the outside!" flung back the captain, and then into his megaphone: "lower away there with no. !" lifeboat no. was the second boat on the port side--the leeward side. no. was buried under the tangle of wreckage from the collapse of the foremast, and therefore useless. the boat was already in the water, with the mate and four seamen aboard, when matheson, who had hurried below, came again on deck with olaf in his arms. behind him panted the stewardess and olive's maid, terrified and clutching some worthless finery of hers. "women and children to no. !" shouted the captain. "i won't go without you!" cried olive to her husband, clinging tight to him. the captain wasted no precious moments on argument. he thrust the stewardess and the trembling maid before him, and stout arms bundled them down to the plunging boat. then he passed down the little boy. "is there room for all of us?" cried olive. "no!" the mate cast off, and lifeboat no. disappeared into the black night. "haul on the main and mizzen sheets!" ordered the captain, to bring the yacht round and get a leeward launch for nos. and . presently the two crackling sails gybed over with a thud, and the "starlight" lay on the starboard tack, head down and filling rapidly. "hurry like hell!" shouted the captain. into no. , with the boatswain in charge and four seamen, went olive and her husband and the cook; and into no. crowded the carpenter, the two stewards, and the rest of the crew. for the captain was left the frail dinghy, slung from the stern. true to the tradition of the sea, he had refused a place in any of the lifeboats. lifeboat no. got away first of the two. it was being tossed dizzily amongst the inky combers twenty yards distant, the men rowing feverishly to get clear of the yacht before she sank and sucked them under. but with no. there was some hitch. the boatswain had unshackled the fall-ropes aft, and the boat slewed off with the jerk of a heavy wave. "clear away there forward, blast you!" two seamen were tugging at the fall-block. something had fouled. the "starlight" was rearing head stern up; her shattered bows were already under the waves; her life was now a matter of seconds only. "cut the ropes, you blasted idiots!" before the two men could get their knives through the tough rope, the "starlight" reared like a bucking mare and plunged to her grave, dragging with her lifeboat no. and its eight occupants. "jump for it!" yelled the boatswain. matheson, one foot caught under a seat, was dragged down and down until his heart hammered like a piston and his lungs were bursting with the fierce effort to hold his breath. to the drowning man there comes a moment when he perforce gives up the fight and abandons himself to the blessed peace of unconsciousness, like a wanderer in a snowstorm lying down to rest. that moment had come to matheson, when suddenly the half-severed rope that shackled the lifeboat to the doomed yacht gave way, and with a mutinous jerk the boat rushed itself to the surface, bottom upwards, flinging matheson clear. his craving lungs opened to the free air; he lay back on his cork-jacket gulping it in greedily as the whirlpool formed by the sinking yacht carried him round and round in dizzy circles. the moments of recuperation past, his first thought was for his wife. he caught sight of a shapeless something at the further side of the whirlpool, and with all his strength beat round towards it. it was olive, clinging to an oar. he reached her; shouted some words of hope above the roar of the wind; searched around the blackness of the night for a place of safety. thirty yards away, tossed upwards on a giant wave as though in signal to them, there showed for a brief moment the silhouette of an upturned boat, with two men clinging to it. "our boat--over there!" he cried to olive, and clutching her by the arm, fought the combers towards the hope of refuge. straddled across the upturned lifeboat were the boatswain and a seaman. the others had disappeared. on such a night it was impossible to rescue them unless by the accident of chance. matheson, buffeted and blinded by the thrash of the waves, just managed to drag olive to the boat's side. the boatswain, fraser by name, lent him a hand while he recuperated sufficiently to hoist olive across the keel of the storm-tossed boat. "where are the other boats?" he asked of fraser, when he had recovered speech. the boatswain made a gesture of helplessness. in that inky night, who could say where lifeboats no. and might be? presently a rocket flung a rain of white stars across the black curtain of the sky. it must be from one of their own boats. but it was far away across the waters. they shouted with all their might. the wind hurled their words away in disdain of the puny effort. matheson had pocketed a flask of brandy when the call of all hands on deck had sent him tumbling out of his berth. he now poured some of the spirit down olive's throat, and passed the flask on to the men. "be sparing with it," he warned. then he set to work to make his moaning wife as comfortable as the terrible circumstances of their plight would permit. he took off his coat and got her into it, binding her cork jacket around. a rope was trailing from the stern and he secured this and tied it round her waist, giving one end to fraser to hold and keeping tight hold of the other himself. very little was said as the endless hours of the night dragged their leaden length to a sullen dawn. "give me the morphia!" olive had moaned at intervals, in a delirium of fever. the seaman, who had been the man on watch when the "starlight" struck the unlighted derelict, had cursed intermittently at the cause of the disaster. "why didn't they show a blasted light?" he kept on repeating with obstinate illogicality. "why didn't the fools show a blasted light?" "old man larssen will give you hell when we get to shore." olive, in her delirium, caught at the words. "i can see the shore!" she cried. "over there--over there! why don't you row? you want to kill me first!" matheson tried to soothe her. "we'll soon be on shore. a boat will pick us up at daybreak." "why didn't they show a blasted light?" cursed the seaman. the sullen dawn uncurtained a waste of slag-coloured, heaving waters. the gale had spent its sudden fury, as though its work were now accomplished, but the sky was grey and inhospitable. matheson raised himself on his knees on the keel of the boat again and again to search around, but no sail or steamer-smoke gave hope of rescue. it was not until ten o'clock that a trawler came within distance of seeing them, but apparently their signals of distress were not noticed, for the fishing vessel passed on to its work and disappeared over the horizon. a few fitful gleams of sunlight mocked their shiverings with promise of warmth--promise unfulfilled. their brandy was now exhausted, and some ship's biscuits in the boatswain's pocket were sodden and uneatable. thirst began to add to the horrors of the situation. olive was moaning for water, and they had none to give her. the afternoon was far advanced before a copenhagen-hull packet ran across them, taking on board three exhausted men and a woman in delirium. chapter xxxvi finality at hull, prepared by wireless, doctors and nurses were waiting for olive when the vessel reached port late at night. as matheson hurried with the ambulance along the quayside, a tubby little figure of a man came up to him. "you remember me--martin?" he asked. "i'm covering this story for the _daily truth_." "come with me," answered matheson. "i'll give you the information you want presently." he had first to see olive safely in hospital. it was all that he could do for her. then he returned to the journalist. "i suppose that you know that the other two boats were picked up early this morning?" said martin. "good! and larssen's little boy?" "quite sound. i made a special interview with him.... by the way, you know that the hudson bay flotation is going strong on the wing?" he held out a newspaper folded back to the financial page. a few moments' glance was sufficient to tell matheson all that he needed to know--that the issue had been launched in his name on the night of april th; that to-morrow at twelve o'clock the lists were to be closed. if he were to act at all, he must act now--_at once_. his jaw squared and his mouth tightened as he thought out the situation. then to the journalist: "we've got to smash this--you and i." from the wallet in his breast-pocket matheson took out larssen's two agreements--blurred with sea-water, but now dried and fit for his purpose. he handed the agreements to martin, who whistled surprise as he read them. "he's underwritten it himself," was the latter's comment. "yes. that evades his agreement with me.... what's the price of a full-page advertisement in your paper?" "first, what's the idea?" returned the journalist. matheson led the way to a hotel near at hand, and on a sheet of hotel note-paper wrote these words:-- "the use of my name on the hudson bay prospectus is absolutely unauthorized. i earnestly advise all investors to cancel their applications by wire--at once. (signed) "clifford matheson" "i want that on a full page," he said decisively. the journalist read the words, and then looked up suspiciously. "i knew you as a mr john rivière," he objected. "i know, but i'm clifford matheson. i'll prove it to you. i'll bring you the two survivors from the 'starlight' to testify." "that's not much evidence." "in town i could take you to my bankers, but to-night it's impossible. martin, you've _got_ to believe me! hear what those two men have to say!" the journalist considered the matter in sober silence. "an advertisement like this is sheer libel," he answered presently. "larssen could rook you for goodness knows what damages if you got it published." "i know. that goes." "but my owners wouldn't stand for the damages. they'd be equally liable, you know." "i'll guarantee them up to my last shilling. get your editor on the trunk wire, and find out how much guarantee he'll want me to put up." martin looked at him half in admiration and half in doubtfulness. "it would be a tremendous risk for me to take!" matheson looked him square in the eye. "if you want a scoop that will make your career," he answered slowly, "it's here. waiting for you to pick it up. i promised you first call on my news--here it is. have you the pluck to take your opportunity?" "exclusive?" asked martin, the magic word "scoop" setting him aflame. "exclusive," agreed matheson. "you'll prove to me that you're clifford matheson right enough?" "within half an hour. and give you a full interview, explaining my reasons for the announcement." "well, i'm on!" martin had a well-deserved newspaper reputation for accuracy and good judgment. on his urgent recommendation, therefore, the managing editor of the _daily truth_ consented to run clifford matheson's full-page advertisement and to insert the interview, contingent on his depositing with martin a cheque for £ , to indemnify the paper against a possible libel action on the part of lars larssen. matheson also prepared letters to sir francis letchmere, lord st aubyn, and carleton-wingate, giving a statement of his reasons for the announcement in the _daily truth_ of the next morning, and asking them to send telegrams to all those who had made applications for shares. the telegram to be sent out was worded:-- "i strongly advise all investors to cancel by wire their applications for shares in hudson bay transport. see explanation in daily truth of may rd.--clifford matheson." martin, who was leaving for london by a midnight train, took charge of the three letters and promised to have them safely delivered to the three directors of the company early in the morning. * * * * * two days later, matheson had to leave his wife in the hands of the doctors in order to attend a brief meeting of the board of directors of hudson bay transport, ltd. they were seated in the stately board-room of the london and united kingdom bank in lombard street, at one end of the huge oval table over which the affairs of nations are settled. clifford matheson was in the chair. the routine business of the meeting had been cleared when a clerk announced that mr larssen wished to enter. until the allotments had been made by the other four directors, he had no legal right to sit at the board of the company or to take part in any discussion. he now asked formal permission to enter, and the directors formally agreed to receive him. if they thought to find in lars larssen a beaten man, they were greatly mistaken. he came in with his usual masterful stride, and his eyes met theirs surely and squarely. "i've come to hear what's been fixed between you," he said, and took a seat at the table. matheson took up a paper from the bundle before him on the table, and replied with studied formality: "the applications for shares totalled £ , , in round figures. of these, all but £ were cancelled by telegram or letter on the morning of may rd." "as a consequence of your advertisement in the newspaper?" "yes. the board decided to proceed to allotment, and we have accordingly allotted the applications for shares. the remainder of the , , ordinary shares will have to be taken up and paid for by yourself under the terms of your underwriting agreement." "i expected that. i'm ready to carry out my bond." "as you will see," continued matheson with the same studied formality cloaking the irony of his words, "you gain control." larssen smiled tolerantly. "that's turned the trick right enough, but don't flatter yourself that _you_ did it. if it hadn't been for a sheer accident that no man alive could foresee or prevent, i'd have won hands down. i haven't been beaten by _you_, and so i don't bear grudge. and i've no intention of bringing a libel action to gratify your longing for the limelight. i'll just sit tight and let the hudson bay scheme flatten out to nothing." he flicked thumb and forefinger together contemptuously. "that hudson bay scheme was chicken-feed. i've bigger than that up my sleeve. what you've done won't put the stopper on me. let me tell you, matheson, that it will take a better man than you to down lars larssen." when he left the board-room, all four directors remained silent. they knew that he had spoken truth. even in defeat lars larssen was a bigger man than any of the four. * * * * * from the first, the doctors had little hope of saving olive. her constitution, never a strong one, had been undermined by the luxurious pleasure-seeking of her life and the deadly nerve-poison of the morphia. that night and day on the upturned boat--drenched with the waves, chilled, famished, tortured with thirst--had been an ordeal to shatter even a woman with big reserves of strength, and olive had no such reserves. when matheson and his father-in-law hurried back to hull, it was to find that life was slowly ebbing. towards the end her mind cleared of delirium, and she spoke rationally. "perhaps it is all for the best, clifford," she murmured. "you came back to me, but could i have held you?" "you had come to care for me again," he answered gently. "yes, but i am so uncertain. it's my nature. i might have held you for a little while ... and then." "you must think only of getting well again," he urged. "don't try to buoy me up with false hopes. it is kind of you, dear; but i see things clearly now.... you came back to me, and i am content. i want rest now--just rest." presently her eyelids closed in sleep. matheson sat watching by her bedside for a long while, holding her hand. she stirred once and murmured drowsily, "you came back to me." and in her sleep she passed away so gradually that none could say when mortal life had ended and the life eternal had begun. epilogue in the spring of the following year, clifford and elaine were on their wedding journey to italy. he had rented a sea-coast villa on the ligurian riviera, and they were travelling to there from paris. it was late at night when the rome express set them down at their destination. the sea was booming eerily against the rock-wall of the tiny harbour of santa margherita, crowded with lateen-sailed fishing craft silhouetted as a tangle of masts and ropes. but the morning showed a cloudless sky and sunshine dancing on the blue waters of the gulf of tigullio. they walked together to the tiny fishing village of portofino, along the most beautiful road in italy. to the one side the azure sea was lapping to their feet soft messages of welcome, and to the other the olives and the pastel pines were crowding down the hillsides to wish them joy and happiness. they climbed together through a grey-green veil of olive-orchards, past the little white noah's ark houses of the olive farmers and their quaint little noah's ark cypresses, to the full height of portofino kulm, where the whole enchanted coast-line of the riviera from genoa to sestri levante lay spread out as a jewelled fringe of ocean. elaine stood hatless while the wanton breeze caressed her glorious hair and caught at her skirts with careless familiarity. she threw her arms wide as she cried joyously to clifford: "just to be able to _see_ all this!" "thanks to dr hegelmann." "i'm glad your work is for science. some day you'll be able to give to others in return for what science has given to me." "indeed i hope so." "for a month i claim you for myself," continued elaine. "you and i alone.... then i'll share you with your work--your big work. you and i and your work!" * * * * * turnbull and spears, printers, edinburgh a selection of books published by methuen and co. ltd., london essex street w.c. contents page general literature ancient cities antiquary's books arden shakespeare classics of art 'complete' series connoisseur's library handbooks of english church history handbooks of theology 'home life' series illustrated pocket library of plain and coloured books. leaders of religion library of devotion little books on art little galleries little guides little library little quarto shakespeare miniature library new library of medicine new library of music oxford biographies four plays states of italy westminster commentaries 'young' series shilling library books for travellers some books on art some books on italy fiction books for boys and girls shilling novels sevenpenny novels * * * * * a selection of messrs. methuen's publications in this catalogue the order is according to authors. an asterisk denotes that the book is in the press. colonial editions are published of all messrs. methuen's novels issued at a price above _ s. d._, and similar editions are published of some works of general literature. colonial editions are only for circulation in the british colonies and india. all books marked net are not subject to discount, and cannot be bought at less than the published price. books not marked net are subject to the discount which the bookseller allows. messrs. methuen's books are kept in stock by all good booksellers. if there is any difficulty in seeing copies, messrs. methuen will be very glad to have early information, and specimen copies of any books will be sent on receipt of the published price _plus_ postage for net books, and of the published price for ordinary books. this catalogue contains only a selection of the more important books published by messrs. methuen. a complete and illustrated catalogue of their publications may be obtained on application. * * * * * =abraham (g. d.).= motor ways in lakeland. illustrated. _second edition. demy vo. s. d. net._ =adcock (a. st. john).= the book-lover's london. illustrated. _second edition. cr. vo. s. net._ =ady (cecilia m.).= pius ii.: the humanist pope. illustrated. _demy vo. s. d. net._ =andrewes (lancelot).= preces privatae. translated and edited, with notes, by f. e. brightman. _cr. vo. s._ =aristotle.= the ethics. edited, with an introduction and notes, by john burnet. _demy vo. s. d. net._ =atkinson (c. t.).= a history of germany, - . _demy vo. s. d. net._ =atkinson (t. d.).= english architecture. illustrated. _third edition. fcap. vo. s. d. net._ a glossary of terms used in english architecture. illustrated. _second edition. fcap. vo. s. d. net._ english and welsh cathedrals. illustrated. _demy vo. s. d. net._ =bain (f. w.).= a digit of the moon: a hindoo love story. _tenth edition. fcap. vo. s. d. net._ the descent of the sun: a cycle of 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the tragedy of the cÆsars: a study of the characters of the cÆsars of the julian and claudian houses. illustrated. _seventh edition. royal vo. s. d. net._ the vicar of morwenstow. with a portrait. _third edition. cr. vo. s. d. also fcap. vo. s. net._ old country life. illustrated. _fifth edition. large cr. vo. s. also fcap. vo. s. net._ a book of cornwall. illustrated. _third edition. cr. vo. s._ a book of dartmoor. illustrated. _second edition. cr. vo. s._ a book of devon. illustrated. _third edition. cr. vo. s._ =baring-gould (s.)= and =sheppard (h. fleetwood).= a garland of country song. english folk songs with their traditional melodies. _demy to. s._ songs of the west. folk songs of devon and cornwall. collected from the mouths of the people. new and revised edition, under the musical editorship of cecil j. sharp. _large imperial vo. s. net._ =barker (e.).= the political thought of plato and aristotle. _demy vo. s. d. net._ =bastable (c. f.).= the commerce of nations. _sixth 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sign of the spider, the. bertram mitford. son of the state, a. w. pett ridge. _printed by_ morrison & gibb limited, _edinburgh_ distributed proofreaders canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net (this file was produced from images generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) at his gates. a novel. by mrs oliphant, author of 'chronicles of carlingford,' etc., etc. in three volumes. vol. iii. london: tinsley brothers, , catherine st., strand. . [_all rights reserved_] john childs and son, printers. at his gates. chapter i. the drawing-room within was very different from the wild conflict of light and darkness outside. there was music going on at one end, some people were reading, some talking. there were flirtations in hand, and grave discussions. in short, the evening was being spent as people are apt to spend the evening when there is nothing particular going on. there had been a good deal of private yawning and inspection of watches throughout the evening, and some of the party had already gone to bed, or rather to their rooms, where they could indulge in the happiness of fancying themselves somewhere else--an amusement which is very popular and general in a country house. but seated in an easy-chair by the fire was a tall man, carefully dressed, with diamond studs in his shirt, and a toilette which, though subdued in tone as a gentleman's evening dress must be, was yet too elaborate for the occasion. the fact that this new guest was a stranger to him, and that his father was seated by him in close conversation, made it at once apparent to ned that it must be golden. clara was close to them listening with a look of eager interest to all they said. these three made a little detached group by one side of the fire. at the other corner sat mrs burton, with her little feet on a footstool, as near as possible to the fender. she had just said good-night to the dignified members of the party, the people who had to be considered; the others who remained were mere young people, about whose proceedings she did not concern herself. she was taking no part in the talk at the other side of the fire. she sat and warmed her little toes and pondered; her vivid little mind all astir and working, but uninfluenced by, and somewhat contemptuous of, what was going on around; and her chilly little person basking in the ruddy warmth of the fire. ned came up and stood by her when he came in. no one took any notice of him, the few persons who remained in the room having other affairs in hand. ned was fond of his mother, though she had never shown any fondness for him. she had done all for him which mere intellect could do. she had been very just to the boy all his life; when he got into scrapes, as boys will, she had not backed him up emotionally, it is true, but she had taken all the circumstances into account, and had not judged him harshly. she had been tolerant when his father was harsh. she had never lost her temper. he had always felt that he could appeal to her sense of justice--to her calm and impartial reason. this is not much like the confidence with which a boy generally throws himself upon his mother's sympathy, yet it was a great deal in ned's case. and accordingly he loved his mother. mrs burton, too, loved him perhaps more than she loved any one. she was doing her best to break his heart; but that is not at all uncommon even when parents and children adore each other. and then ned was not aware that his mother had any share intentionally or otherwise in the cruel treatment he had received. 'who is that?' he asked under his breath. 'a mr golden, a friend of your father's,' said mrs burton, lifting her eyes and turning them calmly upon the person she named. there was no feeling in them of one kind or another, and yet ned felt that she at least did not admire mr golden, and it was a comfort to him. he went forward to the fire, and placed himself, as an englishman loves to do, in front of it. he stood there for ten minutes or so, paying no particular attention to the conversation on his right hand. his father, however, looked more animated than he had done for a long time, and clara was bending forward with a faint rose-tint from the fire tinging the whiteness of her forehead and throat, and deeper roses glowing on her cheeks. her blue eyes were following mr golden's movements as he spoke, her hair was shining like crisp gold in the light. she was such a study of colour, of splendid flesh and blood, as rubens would have worshipped; and mr golden had discrimination enough to perceive it. he stopped to address himself to clara. he turned to her, and gave her looks of admiration, for which her brother, bitterly enough biassed against him on his own account, could have 'throttled the fellow!' ned grew more and more wrathful as he looked on. and in the mean time the late young ladies came fluttering to say good-night to their hostess; the young men went off to the smoking-room, where ned knew he ought to accompany them, but did not, being too fully occupied; and thus the family were left alone. notwithstanding, however, his wrath and his curiosity, it was only the sound of one name which suddenly made the conversation by his side quite articulate and intelligible to ned. 'i hear the drummond has a pretty daughter; that is a new weapon for her, burton. i wonder you venture to have such a family established at your gates.' 'the daughter is not particularly pretty; not so pretty by a long way as helen was,' said mr burton. 'i don't see what harm she can do with poor little norah. we are not afraid of her, clara, are we?' and he looked admiringly at his daughter, and laughed. as for clara she grew crimson. she was not a girl of much feeling, but still there was something of the woman in her. 'i don't understand how we could be supposed to be afraid of norah drummond,' she said. 'but i assure you i do,' said mr golden. 'pardon me, but i don't suppose you have seen the drummond herself, the drummond mamma--in a fury.' 'father,' said ned, 'is mr golden aware that the lady he is speaking of is our relation--and friend? do you mean to suffer her to be so spoken of in your house?' 'hold your tongue, ned.' 'ned! to be sure it is ned. why, my boy, you have grown out of all recollection,' said golden, jumping up with a great show of cordiality, and holding out his hand. ned bowed, and drew a step nearer his mother. he had his hands in his pockets; there were times, no doubt, when his manners left a great deal to be desired. 'ah, i see! there are spells,' said mr golden, and he took his seat again with a hearty laugh--a laugh so hearty that there seemed just a possibility of strain and forced merriment in it. 'my dear miss burton,' he said, in an undertone, which however ned could hear, 'didn't i tell you there was danger? here's an example for you, sooner than i thought.' 'mother,' said ned, 'can i get your candle? i am sure it is time for you to go up-stairs.' 'yes, and for clara too. run away, child, and take care of your roses; golden and i have some business to talk over; run away. as for you, ned, to-morrow morning i shall have something to say to you.' 'very well, sir,' said ned solemnly. he lighted his mother's candle, and he gave her his arm, having made up his mind not to let her go. the sounds of laughter which came faintly from the smoking-room did not tempt him; if truth must be told, they tempted clara much more, who stood for a moment with her candle in her hand, and said to herself, 'what fun they must be having!' and fretted against the feminine fetters which bound her. such a thought would not have come into norah's head, nor into katie dalton's, nor even into that of lady florizel, though it was a foolish little head enough; but clara, who was all flesh and blood, and had been badly brought up, was the one of those four girls who probably would have impressed most deeply a journalist's fancy as illustrating the social problem of english young womanhood. ned led his mother not to her own room, but to his. he made her come in, and placed a chair for her before the fire. it is probable that he had sense enough to feel that had he asked her consent to his marriage with norah drummond he would have found difficulties in his way; but short of this, he had full confidence in the justice which indeed he had never had any reason to doubt. 'do you like this man golden, mother?' he asked. 'tell me, what is his connection with us?' 'his connection, i suppose, is a business connection with your father,' said mrs burton. 'for the rest, i neither like him nor hate him. he is well enough, i suppose, in his way.' 'mrs drummond does not think so,' said ned. 'ah, mrs drummond! she is a woman of what are called strong feelings. i don't suppose she ever stopped to inquire into the motives of anybody who went against her in her life. she jumps at a conclusion, and reaches it always from her own point of view. according to her view of affairs, i don't wonder, with her disposition, that she should hate him.' 'why, mother?' 'well,' said mrs burton, i am not in the habit of using words which would come naturally to a mind like mrs drummond's. but from her point of view, i should say, she must believe that he ruined her husband--drove him to suicide, and then did all he could to ruin his reputation. these are things, i allow, which people do not readily forget.' 'and, mother, do you believe all this? is it true?' 'i state it in a different way,' she said. 'mr golden, i suppose, thought the business could be redeemed, to start with. when he drew poor mr drummond into active work in the concern, he did it in a moment when there was nobody else to refer to. and then you must remember, ned, that mr drummond had enjoyed a good deal of profit, and had as much right as any of the others to suffer in the loss. he was ignorant of business, to be sure, and did not know what he was doing; but then an ignorant man has no right to go into business. mr golden is very sharp, and he had to preserve himself if he could. it was quite natural he should take advantage of the other's foolishness. and then i don't suppose he ever imagined that poor mr drummond would commit suicide. he himself would never have done it under similar circumstances--nor your father.' 'had my father anything to do with this?' said ned hoarsely. 'that is not the question,' said mrs burton. 'but neither the one nor the other would have done anything so foolish. how were they to suppose mr drummond would? this sort of thing requires a power of realising other people's ways of thinking which few possess, ned. after he was dead, and it could not be helped, i don't find anything surprising,' she went on, putting her feet nearer the fire, 'in the fact that mr golden turned it to his advantage. it could not hurt drummond any more, you know. of course it hurt his wife's feelings; but i am not clear how far golden was called upon to consider the feelings of drummond's wife. it was a question of life and death for himself. of course i do not believe for a moment, and i don't suppose anybody whose opinion is worth considering could believe, that a poor, innocent, silly man destroyed those books--' 'mother, i don't know what you are speaking of; but it seems to me as if you were describing the most devilish piece of villany----' 'people do employ such words, no doubt,' said mrs burton calmly; 'i don't myself. but if that is how it appears to your mind, you are right enough to express yourself so. of course that is mrs drummond's opinion. i have something to say to you about the drummonds, ned.' 'one moment, mother,' he cried, with a tremor and heat of excitement which puzzled her perhaps more than anything she had yet met with in the matter. for why should ned be disturbed by a thing which did not concern him, and which had happened so long ago? 'you have mentioned my father. you have said _they_, speaking of this man's infamous----was my father concerned?' mrs burton turned, and looked her son in the face. the smallest little ghost of agitation--a shadow so faint that it would not have showed upon any other face--glided over hers. 'that is just the point on which i can give you least information,' she said; and then, after a pause, 'ned,' she continued, 'you are grown up; you are capable of judging for yourself. i tell you i don't know. i am not often deterred by any cause from following out a question i am interested in; but i have preferred not to follow up this. i put away all the papers, thinking i might some day care to go into it more deeply. you can have them if you like. to tell the truth,' she added, sinking her voice, betrayed into a degree of confidence which perhaps she had never given to human creature before, 'i think it is a bad sign that this man has come back.' 'a sign of what?' mrs burton's agitation increased. though it was the very slightest of agitations, it startled ned, so unlike was it to his mother. 'ned,' she said, with a shiver that might be partly cold, 'nobody that i ever heard of is so strong as their own principles. i do not know, if it came to me to have to bear it, whether i could bear ruin and disgrace.' 'ruin and disgrace!' cried ned. 'i don't know if i have fortitude enough. perhaps i could by myself; i should feel that it was brought about by natural means, and that blame was useless and foolish. but if we had to bear the comments in the newspapers, the talk of everybody, the reflections on our past, i don't know whether i have fortitude to bear it; i feel as if i could not. 'mother, has this been in your mind, while i have been thinking you took so little interest? my poor little mamma!' the wicked little woman! and yet all that she had been saying was perfectly true. 'ned,' she said, with great seriousness, 'this dread, which i can never get quite out of my mind, is the reason why i have been so very earnest about the merewethers. i have never, you know, supported your father's wish that you should go into the business. on the contrary, i have always endeavoured to secure you your own career. i have wished that you at least should be safe----' 'safe!' he cried. 'mother, if there is a possibility of disgrace, how can i, how can any of us, escape from it--and more especially i? and if there is a chance of ruin, why i should be as great a villain as that man is, should i consent to carry it into another house.' 'it is quite a different case,' she cried with some eagerness, seeing she had overshot her mark. 'i hope there will be neither; and you have not the least reason to suppose that either is possible. look round you; go with your father to the office, inspect his concerns as much as you please; you will see nothing but evidences of prosperity. so far as you know, or can know, your father is one of the most prosperous men in england. nobody would have a word to say against you, and i shall be rich enough to provide for you. if there is any downfall at all, which i do not expect, nobody would ever imagine for a moment that you knew anything of it; and your career and your comfort would be safe.' 'o mother! mother!' poor ned turned away from her and hid his face in his hands. this was worse to him than all the rest. 'you ought to think it over most carefully,' she said; 'all this is perfectly clear before you. i may have taken fright, though it is not very like me. i may be fanciful enough' (mrs burton smiled at herself, and even ned in his misery half smiled) 'to consider this man as a sort of raven, boding misfortune. but you know nothing about it; there is abundant time for you to save yourself and your credit; and this is the wish which, above everything in the world, i have most at heart, that, if there is going to be any disaster,--i don't expect it, i don't believe in it; but mercantile men are always subject to misfortune,--you might at least be safe. i will not say anything more about it to-night; but think it over, ned.' she rose as she spoke and took up her candle, and her son bent over her and touched her little cold face with his hot lips. 'i will send you the papers,' she said as she went away. strange little shadow of a mother! she glided along the passage, not without a certain maternal sentiment--a feeling that on the whole she was doing what was best for her boy. _she_ could provide for him, whatever happened; and if evil came he might so manage as to thrust himself out from under the shadow of the evil. she was a curious problem, this woman; she could enter into mr golden's state of mind, but not into her son's. she could fathom those struggles of self-preservation which might lead a man into fraud and robbery; but she could not enter into those which tore a generous, sensitive, honourable soul in pieces. she was an analyst, with the lowest view of human nature, and not a sympathetic being entering into the hearts of others by means of her own. no smoking-room, no jovial midnight party, received ned that night. he sat up till the slow november morning dawned reading those papers; and then he threw himself on his bed, and hid his face from the cold increasing light. a bitterness which he could not put into words, which even to himself it was impossible to explain, filled his heart. there was nothing, or at least very little, about his father in these papers. there was no accusation made against mr burton, nothing that any one could take hold of--only here and there a word of ominous suggestion which chilled the blood in his veins. but golden's character was not spared by any one; it came out in all its blackness, more distinct even than it could have done at the moment these events occurred. men had read the story at the time with their minds full of foregone conclusions on the subject--of prejudices and the heat of personal feeling. but to ned it was history; and as he read golden's character stood out before him as in a picture. and this man, this deliberate cold-blooded scoundrel, was sleeping calmly under his father's roof--a guest whom his father delighted to honour. ned groaned, and covered his eyes with his hands to shut out the hazy november morning, as if it were a spy that might find out something from his haggard countenance. sleep was far from his eyes; his brain buzzed with the unaccustomed crowd of thoughts that whirled and rustled through it. a hundred projects, all very practicable at the first glance and impossible afterwards, flashed before him. the only thing that he never thought of was that which his mother had called the wish of her heart--that he should escape and secure his own career out of the possible fate that might be impending. this, of all projects, was the only one which, first and last, was impossible to ned. the first step which he took in the matter was one strangely different. he had to go through all the ordinary remarks of the breakfast-table upon his miserable looks; but he was too much agitated to be very well aware what people were saying to him. he watched anxiously till he saw his father prepare to leave the house. fortunately mr golden was not with him. mr golden was a man of luxury, who breakfasted late, and had not so much as made his appearance at the hour when mr burton, who, above everything, was a man of business, started for the station. ned went out with him, avoiding his mother's eye. he took from his father's hand a little courier's bag full of papers which he was taking with him. 'i will carry it for you, sir,' he said. mr burton was intensely surprised; the days were long gone by when ned would strut by his side, putting out his chest in imitation of his father. 'wants some money, i suppose!' mr burton--no longer the boy's proud progenitor, but a wary parent, awake to all the possible snares and traps which are set for such--said to himself. they had reached the village before ned had began to speak of anything more important than the weather or the game. then he broke into his subject quite abruptly. 'father,' he said, 'within the last few days i have been thinking of a great many things. i have been thinking that for your only son to set his face against business was hard lines on you. will you tell me frankly whether a fellow like me, trained so differently, would be of real use to you? could i help you to keep things straight, save you from being cheated?--do anything for you? i have changed my ideas on a great many subjects. this is what i want to know.' 'upon my word, a wonderful conversion,' said his father with a laugh; 'there must be some famous reason for a change so sudden. help _me_ to keep things straight!--keep me from being cheated! you simpleton! you have at least a capital opinion of yourself.' 'but it was with that idea, i suppose, that you thought of putting me into the business,' said ned, overcoming with an effort his first boyish impulse of offence. 'perhaps in the long-run,' said mr burton jocularly; 'but not all at once, my fine fellow. your greek and your latin won't do you much service in the city, my boy. though you have taken your degree--and a deuced deal of money that costs, a great deal more than it's worth--you would have to begin by singing very small in the office. you would be junior clerk to begin with at fifty pounds a year. how should you find that suit your plans, my fine gentleman ned?' 'was that all you intended me for?' asked ned sternly. a rigid air and tone was the best mask he could put upon his bitter mortification. 'certainly, at first,' said mr burton; 'but i have changed my mind altogether on the subject,' he added sharply. 'i see that i was altogether deceived in you. you never would be of any use in business. if you were in golden's hands, perhaps--but you have let yourself be influenced by some wretched fool or other.' 'has mr golden anything to say to your business?' asked ned. the question took his father by surprise. 'confound your impudence!' he cried, after a keen glance at his son and sputter of confused words, which sounded very much like swearing. 'what has given you so sudden an interest in my business, i should like to know? do you think i am too old to manage it for myself?' 'it was the sight of this man, father,' said ned, with boyish simplicity and earnestness, 'and the knowledge who he was. couldn't i serve you instead of him? i pledge you my word to give up all that you consider nonsense, to settle steadily to business. i am not a fool, though i am ignorant. and then if i am ignorant, no man could serve you so truly as your son would, whose interests are the same as yours. try me! i could serve you better than he.' 'you preposterous idiot!' cried mr burton, who had made two or three changes from anger to ridicule while this speech was being delivered. 'you serve me better than golden!--golden, by jove! and may i ask if i were to accept this splendid offer of yours, what would you expect as an equivalent? my consent to some wretched marriage or other, i suppose, allowance doubled, home provided, and my blessing, eh? i suppose that is what you are aiming at. out with it--how much was the equivalent to be?' 'nothing,' said ned. he had grown crimson; his eyes were cast down, not to betray the feeling in them--a choking sensation was in his throat. then he added slowly--'not even the fifty pounds a year you offered me just now--nothing but permission to stand by you, to help to--keep danger off.' mr burton took the bag roughly out of his hand. 'go home,' he said, 'you young ass; and be thankful i don't chastise you for your impudence. danger!--i should think you were the danger if you were not such a fool. go home! i don't desire your further company. a pretty help and defender you would be!' and ned found himself suddenly standing alone outside the station, his fingers tingling with the roughness with which the bag had been snatched from him. he stood still for half a minute, undecided, and then he turned round and strolled listlessly back along the street. he was very unhappy. his father was still his father, though he had begun to distrust, and had long given over expecting any sympathy from him. and the generous resolution which it had cost him so much pain to make, had not only come to nothing, but had been trampled under foot with derision. his heart was very sore. it was a hazy morning, with a frosty, red sun trying hard to break through the mist; and everything moved swiftly to resist the cold, and every step rang sharp upon the road; except poor ned's, who had not the heart to do anything but saunter listlessly and slowly, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes fixed wistfully upon nothing. everything in a moment had become blank to him. he wondered why the people took the trouble to take off their hats to him--to one who was the heir of misery and perhaps of disgrace and ruin, as his mother had said. ruin and disgrace! what awful words they are when you come to think of it--dreadful to look forward to, and still more dreadful to bear if any man could ever realise their actual arrival to himself! norah was standing at the open door of the gatehouse. he thought for a moment that he would pass without taking any notice; and then it occurred to him in a strange visionary way that it might be the last time he should see her. he stopped, and she said a cold little 'good morning' to him, without even offering her hand. then a sudden yearning seized poor ned. 'norah,' he said, in that listless way, 'i wish you would say something kind to me to-day. i don't know why i should be so anxious for it, but i think it would do me good. if you knew how unhappy i am----' 'oh ned, for heaven's sake don't talk such nonsense,' cried impatient norah. '_you_ unhappy, that never knew what it was to have anything go wrong! it makes me quite ill to hear you. you that have got everything that heart can desire; because you can't just exactly have your own way--about--me--oh, go away; i cannot put up with such nonsense--and to me, too, that knows what real trouble means!' poor ned made no protest against this impatient decision. he put on his hat in a bewildered way, with one long look at her, and then passed, and disappeared within his father's gates. norah did not know what to make of it. she stood at the door, bewildered too, ready to wave her hand and smile at him when he looked round; but he never looked round. he went on slowly, listlessly, as if he did not care for anything--doing what both had told him--the father whom he had been willing to give up his life to--the girl who had his heart. that afternoon he carried out their commands still more fully. he went away from his father's house. on a visit, it was said; but to go away on a visit in the middle of the shooting season, when your father's house is full of guests, was, all the young men thought, the most extraordinary thing which, even in the freedom of the nineteenth century, an only son, deputy master of the establishment, had ever been known to do. chapter ii. it was a long time before it was fully understood in dura what had become of ned. at first it was said he had gone on a visit, then that he had joined some of his college friends in an expedition abroad; but before spring it began to be fully understood, though nobody could tell how, that ned had gone off from his home, and that though occasional letters came from him, his family did not always know where he was, or what he was about. there was no distinct authority for this, but the whole neighbourhood became gradually aware of it. the general idea was that he had gone away because norah drummond had refused him; and the consequence was that norah drummond was looked upon with a certain mixture of disapproval and envy by the youthful community. the girls felt to their hearts the grandeur of her position. some were angry, taking ned's part, and declaring vehemently that she had 'led him on;' some were sympathetic, feeling that poor norah was to be pitied for the tragical necessity of dismissing a lover; but all felt the proud distinction she had acquired by thus driving a man (they did not say boy) to despair. the boys, for the most part, condemned ned as a muff--but in their hearts felt a certain pride in him, as proving that their side was still capable of a great act of decision and despair. as for norah, when the news burst upon her, her kind little heart was broken. she cried till her pretty eyes were like an old woman's. she gave herself a violent headache, and turned away from all consolation, and denounced herself as the wickedest and cruellest of beings. it was natural that norah should believe it implicitly. after that scene in the rectory garden, when poor ned, in his boyish passion, had half thrown the responsibility of his life upon her shoulders, there had been other scenes of a not unsimilar kind; and there was that last meeting at the door of the gatehouse, when she had dismissed him so summarily. oh, if he had only looked round, norah thought; and she remembered, with a passing gleam of consolation, that she had intended to wave her hand to him. 'what shall i do? oh, what shall i do?' she said, 'if--anything should happen to him, mamma, i shall have killed him! if anybody calls me a murderess, i shall not have a word to say.' 'not so bad as that, my darling,' helen said, soothing her; but helen herself was very deeply moved. this was the revenge, the punishment she had dreamt of. by her means, whom he had injured so deeply, reginald burton's only son had been driven away from him, and all his hopes and plans for his boy brought to a sudden end. it was revenge; but the revenge was not sweet. christianity, heaven knows, has not done all for us which it might have done, but yet it has so far changed the theories of existence that the vague craving of the sufferer for punishment to its oppressors gives little gratification when it is fulfilled. helen was humbled to the dust with remorse and compunction for the passing thought, which could scarcely be called an intention, the momentary, visionary sense of triumph she had felt in her daughter's power (as she believed) to disturb all the plans of the others. now that was done which it had given her a vague triumph to think of; and though her tears were not so near the surface as norah's, her shame and pain were deeper. and this was all the more the fact because she dared not express it. a word of sympathy from her (she felt) would have looked like nothing so much as the waving of a flag of triumph. and, besides, from ned's own family there came no word of complaint. the dura people put the very best face upon it possible. mrs burton, who had never been known to show any emotion in her life, of course made none of her feelings visible. her husband declared that 'my young fool of a son' preferred amusing himself abroad to doing any work at home. clara was the only one who betrayed herself. she assured katie dalton, in confidence, that she never could bear to see that hateful norah again--that she was sure it was all her fault. that ned would never have looked at her had not she done everything in her power to 'draw him on'--and then cast him off because somebody better worth having came in her way. clara's indignation was sharp and vehement. it was edged with her own grievance, which she was not too proud to refer to in terms which could not disguise her feelings. but she was the only one of her house who allowed that ned's disappearance had any significance. his mother said nothing at all on the subject even to her husband and her child; but in reality it was the severest blow that fate had ever aimed at her. her hopes for his 'career' toppled over like a house of cards. the merewethers, astounded at the apology which had to be sent in reply to their invitation to ned for christmas, suddenly slackened in their friendship. lady florizel ceased to write to clara, and the marchioness sent no more notes, weighted with gilded coronets, to her dear mrs burton. so far as that noble household was concerned, ned's prospects had come to an end. the son of so rich a man, future proprietor of dura, might have been accepted had he been on the spot to press his suit; but the ladies merewether were young and fair, and not so poor as to be pressed upon any one. so lady florizel and the parliamentary influence sunk into the background; and keenly to the intellectual machine, which served mrs burton instead of a heart, went the blow. this was the moment, she felt, in which ned could have made himself 'safe,' and disentangled himself from the fatal web which instinct told her her husband was weaving about his feet. there was no confidence on business matters between mr burton and his wife; but a woman cannot be a man's constant companion for twenty years without divining him, and understanding, without the aid of words, something of what is going on in his mind. she had felt, even before golden's arrival, a certain vague sense of difficulty and anxiety. his arrival made her sure of it. he had been abroad, withdrawn from the observation of english mercantile society for all these years; but his talents as the pilot of a ship, desperately making way through rocks and sandbanks, were sufficiently well known; and his appearance was confirmation sure to mrs burton of all her fears. thus she felt in her reticent, silent breast that her boy had thrown up his only chance. the son of the master of dura could have done so much--the son of a bankrupt could do nothing. he might have withdrawn himself from all risk--established himself in a sure position--had he taken her advice; and he had not taken it. it was the hardest personal blow she had ever received. it did not move her to tears, as it would have done most women. she had not that outlet for her sorrow; but it disarranged the intellectual machinery for the moment, and made her feel incapable of more thinking or planning. even her motherhood had thus its anguish, probably as deep an anguish as she was capable of feeling. she was balked once more--her labour was in vain, and her hopes in vain. she had more mind than all of her family put together, and she knew it; but here once more, as so often in her experience, the fleshly part in which she was so weak overrode the mind, and brought its counsels to nought. it would be hard to estimate the kind and degree of suffering which such a conviction brought. time went on, however, as it always does; stole on, while people were thinking of other things, discussing ned's disappearance and norah's remorse, and mr nicholas's hopes of a living, and mary's trousseau. when the first faint glimmer of the spring began, they had another thing to talk of, which was that cyril rivers had appeared on the scene again, often coming down from london to spend a day, and then so ingratiating himself with the rectory people, and even with nicholas, the bridegroom elect, that now and then he was asked to spend a night. this time, however, he was not invited to the great house; neither would mrs drummond ask him, though he was constantly there. she was determined that nobody should say she drew him on this time, people said. but the fact was that helen's heart was sick of the subject altogether, and that she would have gone out of her way to avoid any one who had been connected with the burtons, or who might be supposed to minister to that revenge of which she was so bitterly ashamed. while cyril rivers went and came to dura village, mr golden became an equally frequent visitor at the house. the city men in the white villas had been filled with consternation at the first sight of him; but latterly began to make stiff returns to his hearty morning salutations when he went up to town along with them. it was so long ago; and nothing positively had been proved against him; and it was hard, they said, to crush a man altogether, who, possibly, was trying to amend his ways. perhaps they would have been less charitable had he been living anywhere else than at the great house. gradually, however, his presence became expected in dura; he was always there when there were guests or festivities going on. and never had the burtons been so gay. they seemed to celebrate their son's departure by a double rush of dissipation. the idea of any trouble being near so pleasant, so brilliant a place was ridiculous, and whatever mrs burton's thoughts on the subject might have been, she said nothing, but sent out her invitations, and assembled her guests with her usual calm. the rectory people were constantly invited, and so indeed were the drummonds, though neither norah nor her mother had the heart to go. things were in this gay and festive state when mr baldwin suddenly one morning paid his daughter a visit. it was not one of his usual visits, accompanied by the two aunts, and the old man-servant and the two maids. these visits had grown rarer of late. mrs burton had so many guests, and of such rank, that to arrange the days for her father on which the minister of the chapel could be asked to dinner, and a plain joint provided, grew more and more difficult; while the old people grew more and more alarmed and indignant at the way clara was going on. 'her dress alone must cost a fortune,' her aunt louisa said. 'and the boy brought up as if he were a young lord; and the girl never to touch a needle nor an account-book in her life,' said mrs everest; and they all knew by experience that to 'speak to' clara was quite futile. 'she will take her own way, brother, whatever you say,' was the verdict of both; and mr baldwin knew it was a true one. nevertheless, there came a day when he felt it was his duty to speak to clara. 'i have something to say to haldane; and something to arrange with the chapel managers,' he said apologetically to his sisters; and went down all alone, in his black coat and his white tie with his hat very much on the back of his head, to his daughter's great house. 'i have got some business with haldane and with the chapel managers,' he said, repeating his explanation; 'and i thought as i was here, clara, i might as well come on and see you.' 'you are very welcome always, papa.' 'but i don't know if i shall be welcome to-day,' he went on, 'because i want to speak to you, clara.' 'i know,' she said, with a faint smile, 'about our extravagance and all that. it is of no use. i may as well say this to you at once. i cannot stop it if i would; and i don't know that i would stop it if i could.' 'do you know,' he said, coming forward to her, and laying his hand on her shoulder; for though he wore his hat on the back of his head, and took the chair at public meetings, he was a kind man, and loved his only child. do you know, clara, that in the city--you may despise the city, my dear, but it is all-important to your husband--do you know they say burton is going too fast? i wish i could contradict it, but i can't. they say he's in a bad way. they say----' 'tell me everything, papa. i am quite able to bear it.' 'well, my dear, i don't want to make you unhappy,' said mr baldwin, drawing a long breath, 'but people do begin to whisper, in the best-informed circles, that he is very heavily involved.' 'well?' she said looking up at him. she too drew a long breath, her face, perhaps, paled by the tenth of the tint. but her blue eyes looked up undaunted, without a shadow in them. her composure, her calm question, drove even mr baldwin, who was used to his daughter's ways, half out of himself. 'well?' he cried. 'clara, you must be mad. if this is so, what can you think of yourself, who never try to restrain or to remedy?--who never made an attempt to retrench or save a penny? if your husband has even the slightest shadow of embarrassment in his business, is this great, splendid house, full of guests and entertainments, the way to help him through?' 'it is as good a way as any other,' she said, still looking at him. 'papa, you speak in ignorance of both him and me. i don't know his circumstances; he does not tell me. it is he that enjoys all this; not me. and if he really should be in danger, i suppose he thinks he had better enjoy it as long as he can; and that is my idea too.' 'enjoy it as long as he can! spend other people's money in every kind of folly and extravagance!' cried mr baldwin aghast. 'clara, you must be mad.' 'no, indeed,' she said quietly. 'i am very much in my senses. i know nothing about other people's money. i cannot control mr burton in his business, and he does not tell me. but don't suppose i have not thought this all over. i have taken every circumstance into consideration, papa, and every possibility. if we should ever be ruined, we shall have plenty to bear when that comes. there is clary to be taken into consideration too. if there were only two days between mr burton and bankruptcy i should give a ball on one of those days. clary has a right to it. this will be her only moment if what you say is true.' to describe mr baldwin's consternation, his utter amazement, the eyes with which he contemplated his child, would be beyond my power. he could not, as people say, believe his ears. it seemed to him as if he must be mistaken, and that her words must have some other meaning, which he did not reach. 'clara,' he said, faltering, 'you are beyond me. i hope you understand yourself--what--you mean. it is beyond me.' 'i understand it perfectly,' she said; and then, with a little change of tone, 'you understand, papa, that i would not speak so plainly to any one but you. but to you i need not make any secret. if it comes to the worst, clary and i--ned has deserted us--will have enough to bear.' 'you will always have your settlement, my dear,' said her father, quite cowed and overcome, he could not tell why. 'yes. i shall have my settlement,' she said calmly; 'but there will be enough to bear.' it was rather a relief to the old man when clary came in, before whom nothing more could be said. and he was glad to hurry off again, with such astonishment and pain in his heart as an honest couple might have felt who had found a perverse fairy changeling in their child's cradle. he had thought that he knew his daughter. 'clara has a cold exterior,' he had said times without number; 'but she has a warm heart.' had she a heart at all? he asked himself; had she a conscience? what was she?--a woman or a----the old man could have stopped on the way and wept. he was an honest old man, and a kind, but what kind of a strange being was this whom he had nourished so long in his heart? it was a relief to him to get among his chapel managers, and regulate their accounts; and then he took mr truston, the minister, by the arm, and walked upon him. 'come with me and see haldane,' he said. mr truston was the same man who had wanted to be faithful to stephen about the magazine, but never had ventured upon it yet. 'i am afraid you are ill,' said the minister. 'lean upon me. if you will come to my house and take a glass of wine.' 'no, no; with my daughter so near i should never be a charge to the brethren,' said mr baldwin. 'and so poor haldane gets no better? it is a terrible burden upon the congregation in ormond road.' 'it must be indeed. i am sure they have been very kind; many congregations----' 'many congregations would have thrown off the burden utterly; and i confess since they have heard that he has published again, and has been making money by his books----' 'ah, yes; a literary man has such advantages,' said the minister with a sigh. he did not want to favour the congregation in ormond road to the detriment of one of his own cloth; and at the same time it was hard to go against mr baldwin, the lay bishop of the denomination. in this way they came to the gatehouse. stephen had his proofs before him, as usual; but the pile of manuscripts was of a different complexion. they were no longer any pleasure to him. the work was still grateful, such as it was, and the power of doing something; but to spend his life recording tea-meetings was hard. he raised his eyes to welcome his old friend with a certain doubt and almost alarm. he too knew that he was a burden upon the congregation in ormond road. 'my dear fellow, my dear stephen!' the old man said, very cordially shaking his hand, 'why you are looking quite strong. we shall have him dashing up to ormond road again, mrs haldane, and giving out his text, before we know where we are.' stephen shook his head, with such attempt at smiling as was possible. mr baldwin, however, was not so much afraid of breaking bad news to him as he had been at the great house. 'it is high time you should,' he continued, rubbing his hands cheerfully; 'for the friends are falling sadly off. we want you there, or somebody like you, haldane. how we are to meet the expenses next year is more than i can say.' a dead silence followed. miss jane, who had been arranging stephen's books in the corner, stopped short to listen. mrs haldane put on her spectacles to hear the better; and poor mr truston, dragged without knowing it into the midst of such a scene, looked around him as if begging everybody's forbearance, and rubbed his hands faintly too. 'the fact is, my dear haldane--it was but for five years--and now we've come to the end of the second five--and you have been making money by your books, people say----' it was some little time before stephen could answer, his lips had grown so dry. 'i think--i know--what you mean,' he said. 'yes. i am afraid that is how it must be. not with my will--not with my will,' said mr baldwin; 'but then you see people say you have been making money by your books.' 'he has made sixteen pounds in two years,' said miss jane. stephen held up his hand hurriedly. 'i know how it must be,' he said. 'everybody's patience, of course, must give way at last.' 'yes--that is just about how it is.' there was very little more said. mr baldwin picked up his hat, which he had put on the floor, and begged the minister to give him his arm again. he shook hands very affectionately with everybody; he gave them, as it were, his blessing. they all bore it as people ought to bear a great shock, with pale faces, without any profane levity. 'they take it very well,' he said, as he went out. 'they are good people. oh, my dear truston, i don't know a greater sign of the difference between the children of this world and the children of the light than the way in which they receive a sudden blow.' he had given two such blows within an hour; he had a right to speak. and in both cases, different as was the mien of the sufferers, the blow itself had all the appearance of a _coup de grâce_. it had not occurred to mr baldwin, when he made that classification, that it was his own child whom he had taken as the type of the children of wrath. he thought of it in the railway, going home; and it troubled him. 'poor clara! her brain must be affected,' he thought; he had never heard of anything so heathenish as her boldly-professed determination to give a ball, if need was, on the eve of her husband's bankruptcy, and for the reason that they would have a right to it. it horrified him a great deal more than if she had risked somebody else's money in trade and lost. poor clara! what might be coming upon her? but, anyhow, he reflected, she had her settlement, and that she was a child of many prayers. mrs burton said nothing of this stroke which had fallen upon her. it made her fears into certainty, and she took certain steps accordingly, but told nobody. in stephen's room at the gatehouse there was silence, too, all the weary afternoon. they had lost the half of their living at a blow. the disaster was too great, too sudden and overwhelming, to be spoken of; and to one of them, to him who was helpless and could do nothing, it tasted like the very bitterness of death. chapter iii. mrs burton said nothing about her troubles to any one: she avoided rather than sought confidential intercourse with her husband. she formed her plans and declined to receive any further information on the subject. her argument to herself was that no one could have any right to suppose she knew. when the crash came, if come it must, she would be universally considered the first of the victims. the very fact of her entertainments and splendours would be so much evidence that she knew nothing about it--and indeed what did she know? her own fears and suspicions, her father's hints of coming trouble--nothing more. her husband had never said a warning word to her which betrayed alarm or anxiety. she stood on the verge of the precipice, which she felt a moral certainty was before her, and made her arrangements like a queen in the plenitude of her power. 'there will be enough to bear,' she repeated to herself. she called all the county about her in these spring months before people had as yet gone to town. she made dura blaze with lights and echo with music: she filled it full of guests. she made her entertainments on so grand a scale, that everything that had hitherto been known there was thrown into the shade. the excitement, so far as excitement could penetrate into her steady little soul, sustained and kept her up; or at least the occupation did, and the thousand arrangements, big and little, which were necessary. if her husband was ever tempted to seek her sympathy in these strange, wild, brilliant days which passed like a dream--if the burden on his shoulders ever so bowed the man down that he would have been glad to lean it upon hers, it is impossible to say; he looked at her sometimes wondering what was in her mind; but he was not capable of understanding that clear, determined intelligence. he thought she had got fairly into the whirl of mad dissipation and enjoyed it. she was playing into his hands, she was doing the best that could be done to veil his tottering steps, and divert public attention from his business misfortunes. he had no more idea why she was doing it, or with what deliberate conscious steps she was marching forward to meet ruin, than he had of any other incomprehensible wonder in heaven or earth. the haldanes made no secret of the distress which had fallen upon them. it was a less loss than the cost of one of mrs burton's parties, but it was unspeakable to them who had no way of replacing it. by one of those strange coincidences, however, which occur so often when good people are driven to desperation, stephen's publisher quite unexpectedly sent him in april a cheque for fifty pounds, the produce of his last book, a book which he had called 'the window,' and which was a kind of moral of his summer life and thoughts. it was not, he himself thought, a very good book; it was a medley of fine things and poor things, not quite free from that personal twaddle which it is so difficult to keep out of an invalid's or a recluse's view of human affairs. but then the british public is fond of personal twaddle, and like those bits best which the author was most doubtful about. it was a cheap little work, published by one of those firms which are known as religious publishers; and nothing could be more unexpected, more fortunate, more consoling, than this fifty pounds. mrs haldane, with a piety which, perhaps, was a little contemptuous of poor stephen's powers, spoke of it, with tears in her eyes, as an answer to prayer; while miss jane, who was proud of her brother, tried to apportion the credit, half to providence and half to stephen; but anyhow it made up the lost allowance for the current year, and gave the poor souls time to breathe. all this time the idea which had come into dr maurice's mind on the day of the picnic in october had been slowly germinating. he was not a man whose projects ripened quickly, and this was a project so delicate that it took him a long time to get it fully matured, and to accustom himself to it. it had come to full perfection in his mind when in the end of april mrs drummond received a letter from him, inviting norah and herself to go to his house for a few days, to see the exhibitions and other shows which belong to that period of the year. this was an invitation which thrilled norah's soul within her. she was at a very critical moment of her life. she had lost the honest young lover of her childhood, the boy whose love and service had grown so habitual to her that nobody but norah knew how dreary the winter had been without him; and she was at present exposed to the full force of attentions much more close, much more subtle and skilful, but perhaps not so honest and faithful. norah had exchanged the devotion of a young man who loved her as his own soul, for the intoxicating homage of a man who was very much in love with her, but who knew that his prospects would be deeply injured, and his position compromised, did he win the girl whom he wooed with all the fascinations of a hero in a romance, and all the persistency of a mind set upon having its own way. his whole soul was set upon winning her; but what to do afterwards was not so clear, and rivers, like many another adventurer in love and in war, left the morrow to provide for itself. but norah was very reluctant to be won. sometimes, indeed, capitulation seemed very near at hand, but then her lively little temper would rise up again, or some hidden susceptibility would be touched, or the girl's independent soul would rise in arms against the thought of being subjugated like a young woman in a book by this 'novel-hero!' what were his dark eyes, his speaking glances, his skilful inference of a devotion above words, to her? had not she read about such wiles a thousand times? and was it not an understood rule that the real hero, the true lover, the first of men, was never this bewitching personage, but the plainer, ruder man in the background, with perhaps a big nose, who was not very lovely to look upon? these thoughts contended in norah with the fascinations of him whom she began to think of as the _contre-heros_. the invitation to london was doubly welcome to her, insomuch that it interrupted this current of thought and gave her something new to think about. she was fond of dr maurice: she had not been in town since she was a child: she wanted to see the parks and the pictures, and all the stir and tumult of life. for all these six years, though dura was so near town, the mother and daughter had never been in london. and it looked so bright to norah, bright with all the associations of her childhood, and full of an interest which no other place could ever have in its associations with the terrible event which ended her childhood. 'you will go, mamma?' she said, wistfully reading the letter a second time over her mother's shoulder. and helen, who felt the need of an interruption and something new to think of as much as her child did, answered 'yes.' dr maurice was more excited about the approaching event than they were, though he had to take no thought about his wardrobe, and they had to take a great deal of thought; the question of norah's frocks was nothing to his fussiness and agitation about the ladies' rooms and all the arrangements for their comfort. he invited an old aunt who lived near to come and stay with him for the time of the drummonds' visit, a precaution which seemed to her, as it seems to me, quite unnecessary. i do not think helen would have had the least hesitation in going to his house at her age, though there had been no chaperon. it was he who wanted the chaperon: he was quite coy and bashful about the business altogether: and the old aunt, who was a sharp old lady, was not only much amused, but had her suspicions aroused. in the afternoon, before his visitors arrived, he was particularly fidgety. 'if you want to go out, henry, i will receive your guests,' the old lady said, not without a chuckle of suppressed amusement; 'probably they will only arrive in time to get dressed before dinner. you may leave them to me.' 'you are very kind,' said the doctor, but he did not go away. he walked from one end of the big drawing-room to the other, and looked at himself in the mirror between the windows, and the mirror over the mantelpiece. and then he took up his position before the fireplace, where of course there was nothing but cut paper. 'how absurd are all the relations between men and women,' he said, 'and how is it that i cannot ask my friend's widow, a woman in middle life, to come to my house--without----' 'without having me?' said the aunt. 'my dear henry, i have told you before--i think you could. i have no patience with the freedom of the present day in respect to young people, but, so far as this goes, i think you are too particular--i am sure you could----' 'you must allow me to be the best judge, aunt, of a matter that concerns myself,' said dr maurice, with gentle severity. 'i know very well what would happen: there would be all sorts of rumours and reports. people might not, perhaps, say there was anything absolutely wrong between us--pray may i ask what you are laughing at?' for the old lady had interrupted him by a low laugh, which it was beyond her power to keep in. 'nothing, my dear, nothing,' she said, in a little alarm. 'i am sure i beg your pardon, henry. i had no idea you were so sensitive. how old may this lady be?' 'the question is not about this lady, my dear aunt,' he answered in the dogmatic impatient tone which was so unlike him, 'but about any lady. it might happen to be a comfort to me to have a housekeeper i could rely on. it would be a great pleasure to be able to contribute to the comfort of robert drummond's family, poor fellow. but i dare not. i know the arrangement would no sooner be made than the world would say all sorts of things. how old is mrs drummond? she was under twenty when they were married, i know--and poor drummond was about my own age. that is, let me see, how long ago? norah is about eighteen, between eighteen and nineteen. her mother must be nearly, if not quite, forty, i should think----' 'then, my dear henry----' began the old lady. 'why, here they are!' he said, rushing to the window. but it was only a cab next door, or over the way. he went back to his position with a little flush upon his middle-aged countenance. 'my dear aunt,' he resumed, with a slight tremor in his voice, 'it is not a matter that can be discussed, i assure you. i know what would happen; and i know that poor helen--i mean mrs drummond--would never submit to anything that would compromise her as norah's mother. even if she were not very sensitive on her own account, as women generally are, as norah's mother of course she requires to be doubly careful. and here am i, the oldest friend they have, as fond of that child as if she were my own, and prevented by an absurd punctilio from taking them into my house, and doing my best to make her happy! as i said before, the relations between men and women are the most ridiculous things in the world.' 'but i do think, henry, you make too much of the difficulties,' said the old aunt, busying herself with her work, and not venturing to say more. 'you must allow me to be the best judge,' he said, with a mixture of irritation and superiority. 'you may know the gossip of the drawing-rooms, which is bad enough, i don't doubt; but i know what _men_ say.' 'oh, then, indeed, my poor henry,' said the old lady, with vivacity, eagerly seizing the opportunity to have one shot on her own side, 'i can only pray, good lord deliver you; for everybody knows there never was a bad piece of scandal yet, but it was a man that set it on foot.' aunt mary thus had the last word, and retired with flying colours and in very high feather from the conflict; for at this moment the drummonds arrived, and dr maurice rushed down-stairs to meet them. the old aunt was a personage very well worth knowing, though she has very little to do with this history, and it was with mingled curiosity and amusement that she watched for the entrance of mrs drummond and her daughter. it would be a very wise step for him anyhow to marry, she thought. the maurice family were very well off, and there were not many young offshoots of the race to contend for the doctor's money. was he contemplating the idea of a wife young enough to be his daughter? or had he really the good sense to think of a woman about his own age? aunt mary, though she was a woman herself, and quite ready to stand up for her own side, considered helen drummond, under forty, as about his own age, though he was over fifty. but as the question went through her mind, she shook her head. she knew a great many men who had made fools of themselves by marrying, or wishing to marry, the girl young enough to be their daughter; but the other class who had the good sense, &c., were very rare indeed. there was, however, very little light thrown upon the subject by aunt mary's observations that evening. mrs drummond was very grave, almost sad; for the associations of the house were all melancholy ones, and her last visit to it came back very closely into her memory as she entered one room--the great old gloomy dining-room--where norah, a child, had been placed by dr maurice's side at table on that memorable occasion, while she, unable even to make a pretence of eating, sat and looked on. she could not go back now into the state which her mind had been in on that occasion. everything was calmed and stilled, nay, chilled by this long interval. she could think of her robert without the sinking of the heart--the sense of hopeless loneliness--which had moved her then. the wound had closed up: the blank, if it had not closed up, had acquired all the calmness of a long-recognized fact. she had made up her mind long since that the happiness which she could not then consent to part with, was over for her. that is the great secret of what is called resignation: to consent and agree that what you have been in the habit of calling happiness is done with; that you must be content to fill its place with something else, something less. helen had come to this. she no longer looked for it--no longer thought of it. it was over for her, as her youth was over. her heart was tried, not by active sorrow, but by a heavy sense of past pain; but that did not hinder her from taking her part in the conversation--from smiling at norah's sallies, at her enthusiasm, at all the height of her delight in the pleasure dr maurice promised her. norah was the principal figure in the scene. she was surrounded on every side by that atmosphere of fond partiality in which the flowers of youth are most ready to unfold themselves. dr maurice was even fonder than her mother, and more indulgent; for helen had the jealous eye which marks imperfections, and that intolerant and sovereign love which cannot put up with a flaw or a speck in those it cherishes. to dr maurice the specks and flaws were beauties. norah led the conversation, was gay for every one, talked for every one. and the old aunt laughed within herself, and shook her head: 'he cannot keep his eyes off her; he cannot see anything but perfection in her,--but she is a mere excited child, and her mother is a beautiful woman,' said aunt mary to herself; 'man's taste and woman's, it is to be supposed, will be different to the end of time.' but after she had made this observation, the old lady was struck by the caressing, fatherly ways of her nephew towards this child. he would smooth her hair when he passed by her; would take her hand into his, unconsciously, and pat it; would lay his hand upon her shoulder; none of which things he would have ventured to do had he meant to present himself to norah as her lover. he even kissed her cheek, when she said good-night, with uncontrollable fondness, yet unmistakable composure. what did the man mean? he had sketched out a very pretty programme for them for their three days. next evening they were to go to the theatre; the next again, to an opera. norah could not walk, she danced as she went up-stairs. 'the only thing is, will my dress do?' she said, as she hung about her mother in the pretty fresh room, new-prepared, and hung with bright chintz, in which mrs drummond was lodged. could it have been done on purpose? for certainly the other rooms in the house still retained their dark old furniture; dark-coloured, highly-polished mahogany, with deep red and green damask curtains--centuries old, as norah thought. mrs drummond was surprised, too, at the aspect of this room. she was more than surprised, she was almost offended, by the presence of the old aunt as chaperon. 'does the man think i am such a fool as to be afraid of him?' she wondered, with a frown and a smile, but gave herself up to norah's pleasure, rejoicing to see that the theatre and the opera were strong enough to defeat for the moment and drive from the field both cyril and ned. and the next day, and the next, passed like days of paradise to norah. she drove about in dr maurice's carriage, and laughed at her own grandeur, and enjoyed it. she called perpetually to her mother to notice ladies walking who were like themselves. 'that is what you and i should be doing, if it were not for this old darling of a doctor! trudging along in the sun, getting hot and red----' 'but think, you little sybarite, that is what we shall be doing to-morrow,' cried helen, half amused and half afraid. 'no, the day after to-morrow,' said norah, 'and then it will be delightful. we can look at the people in the carriages, and say, "we are as good as you;--we looked down upon you yesterday." and, mamma, we are going to the opera to-night!' 'you silly child,' helen said. but to eyes that danced so, and cheeks that glowed so, what could any mother say? it was the after-piece after that opera, however, which was what neither mother nor daughter had calculated upon, but which, no doubt, was the special cause of their invitation, and of the new chintz in the bed-rooms, and of all the expense dr maurice had been at. norah was tired when they got home. she had almost over-enjoyed herself. she chatted so that no one could say a word. her cheeks were blazing with excitement. when the two elder people could get a hearing, they sent her off to bed, though she protested she had not said half she had to say. 'save it up for to-morrow,' said dr maurice, 'and run off and put yourself to bed, or i shall have you ill on my hands. mrs drummond, send her away.' 'go, norah, dear, you are tired,' said helen. norah stood protesting, with her pretty white cloak hanging about her; her rose-ribbons a little in disorder; her eyes like two sunbeams. how fondly her old friend looked at her; with what proud, tender, adoring, fatherly admiration! if aunt mary had not been away in bed, then at least she must have divined. dr maurice lit her candle and took her to the door. he stooped down suddenly to her ear and whispered, 'i have something to say to your mother.' norah could not have explained the sensation that came over her. she grew chill to her very fingers' ends, and gave a wondering glance at him, then accepted the candle without a word, and went away. the wonder was still in her eyes when she got up-stairs, and looked at herself in the glass. instead of throwing off her cloak to see how she looked, as is a girl's first impulse, she stared blankly into the glass, and could see nothing but that surprise. what could he be going to talk about? what would her mother say? helen had risen to follow her daughter, but dr maurice came back, having closed the door carefully, and placed a chair for her. 'mrs drummond, can you give me ten minutes? i have something to say to you,' he said. 'surely,' said helen; and she took her seat, somewhat surprised; but not half so much surprised as norah was, nor, indeed, so much as dr maurice was, now that matters had finally come to a crisis, to find himself in such an extraordinary position. helen ran lightly over in her mind a number of subjects on which he might be going to speak to her; but the real subject never entered her thoughts. he did not sit down, though he had given her a chair. he moved about uneasily in front of her, changing his attitude a dozen times in a minute, and clearing his throat. 'he is going to offer me money for norah,' was helen's thought. 'mrs drummond,' he said--and his beginning confirmed her in her idea--'i am not a--marrying man, as you know. i am--past the age--when men think of such things. i am on the shady side of fifty, though not very far gone; and you are--about forty, i suppose?' 'thirty-nine,' said helen, with more and more surprise, and yet with the natural reluctance of a woman to have a year unjustly added to her age. 'well, well, it is very much the same thing. i never was in love that i know of, at least not since;--and--and--that sort of thing, of course, is over for--you.' 'dr maurice, what do you mean?' cried helen in dismay. 'well, it is not very hard to guess,' he said doggedly. 'i mean that you are past the love-business, you know, and i--never came to it, so to speak. look here, helen drummond, why shouldn't you and i, if it comes to that--marry? if i durst do it i'd ask you to come and live here, and let norah be child to both of us, without any nonsense between you and me. but that can't be done, as you will easily perceive. now, i am sure we could put up with one another as well as most people, and we have one strong bond between us in norah--and--i could give her everything she wishes for. i could and i would provide for her when i die. you are not one to want pretences made to you, or think much of a sacrifice for your child's sake. i am not so vain but to allow that it might be a sacrifice--to us both.' 'dr maurice,' said helen, half laughing, half sobbing, 'if this is a joke----' 'joke! am i in the way of making such jokes? why, it has cost me six months to think this joke out. there is no relaxation of the necessary bonds that i would not be ready to allow. you know the house and my position, and everything i could offer. as for settlements, and all business of that kind----' 'hush,' she said. 'stop!' she rose up and held out her hand to him. there were tears in her eyes; but there was also a smile on her face, and a blush which went and came as she spoke. 'dr maurice,' she said, 'don't think i cannot appreciate the pure and true friendship for robert and me----' 'just so, just so!' he interposed, nodding his head; he put his other hand on hers, and patted it as he had patted norah's, but he did not again look her in the face. the elderly bachelor had grown shy--he did not know why; the most curious sensation, a feeling quite unknown to him was creeping about the region of his heart. 'and the love for norah----' resumed helen. 'just so, just so.' 'which have made you think of this. but--but--but----' she stopped; she had been running to the side of tears, when suddenly she changed her mind. 'but i think it is all a mistake! i am quite ready to come and stay with you, to keep house for you, to let you have norah's company, when you like to ask us. i don't want any chaperon. your poor, dear, good aunt! dr maurice,' cried helen, her voice rising into a hysterical laugh, 'i assure you it is all a mistake.' he let her hand drop out of his. he turned away from her with a shrug of his shoulders. he walked to the table and screwed up the moderator lamp, which had run down. then he came back to his former position and said, 'i am much more in the world than you are; you will permit me to consider myself the best judge in this case. it is not a mistake. and i have no answer from you to my proposal as yet.' then helen's strength gave way. the more serious view which she had thrust from her, which she had rejected as too solemn, came back. the blush vanished from her face, and so did the smile. 'you were his friend,' she said with quivering lips. 'you loved him as much as any one could, except me. have you forgotten you are speaking to--robert's wife?' 'good lord!' cried dr maurice with sudden terror; 'but he is dead.' 'yes, he is dead; but i do not see what difference that makes; when a woman has once been a man's wife, she is so always. if there is any other world at all, she must be so always. i hate the very name of widow!' cried helen vehemently, with the tears glittering in her eyes. 'i abhor it; i don't believe in it. i am his wife!' dr maurice was a man who had always held himself to be invincible to romantic or high-flown feelings. but somehow he was startled by this view of the question. it had not occurred to him before; for the moment it staggered him, so that he had to pause and think it over. then he said, 'nonsense!' abruptly. 'mrs drummond, i cannot think that such a view as this is worth a moment's consideration; it is against both reason and common sense.' she did not make any reply; she made a movement of her hand, deprecating, expostulating, but she would not say any more. 'and scripture, too,' said dr maurice triumphantly, 'it is quite against scripture.' then he remembered that this was not simply an argument in which he was getting the better, but a most practical question. 'if it is disagreeable to you, it is a different matter,' he said; 'but i had hoped, with all the allowances i was ready to make, and for norah's sake----' 'it is not disagreeable, dr maurice; it is simply impossible, and must always be so,' she said. then there was another silence, and the two stood opposite to each other, not looking at each other, longing both for something to free them. 'in that case i suppose there had better be no more words on the subject,' he said, turning half away. 'except thanks,' she cried; 'thanks for the most generous thoughts, the truest friendship. i will never forget----' 'i do not know how far it was generous,' he said moodily, and he got another candle and lighted it for her, as he had done for norah; 'and the sooner you forget the better. good night.' good night! when he looked round the vacant room a moment after, and felt himself alone, it seemed to dr maurice as if he had been dreaming. he must have fallen down suddenly from some height or other--fallen heavily and bruised himself, he thought--and so woke up out of an odd delusion quite unlike him, which had arisen he could not tell how. it was a very curious sensation. he felt sore and downcast, sadly disappointed and humbled in his own conceit. it had not even occurred to him that the matter might end in this way. he gave a long sigh, and said aloud, 'perhaps it is quite as well it has ended so. probably we should not have liked it had we tried it,' and then went up to his lonely chamber, hearing, as he thought, his step echo over all the vacant house. yes, it was a vacant house. he had chosen that it should be years ago, and yet the feeling now was dreary to him, and it would never be anything but vacant for all the rest of his life. chapter iv. it was difficult for the two who had thus parted at night to meet again at the breakfast-table next morning without any sign of that encounter, before the sharp eyes of aunt mary, and norah's youthful, vivacious powers of observation. dr maurice was the one who found the ordeal most hard. he was sullen, and had a headache, and talked very little, not feeling able for it. 'you are bilious, henry; that is what it is,' the aunt said. but though he was over fifty, and prided himself on his now utterly prosaic character, the doctor felt wounded by such an explanation. he did not venture to glance at helen, even when he shook hands with her; though he had a lurking curiosity within him to see how she looked, whether triumphant or sympathetic. he knew that he ought to have been gay and full of talk, to put the best face possible upon his downfall; but he did not feel able to do it; not to feel sore, not to feel small, and miserable, and disappointed, was beyond his powers. helen was not gay either, nor at all triumphant; she felt the embarrassment of the position as much as he did; but in these cases it is the woman who generally has her wits most about her; and mrs drummond, who was conscious also of her child's jealous inspection, talked rather more than usual. norah had demanded to know what the doctor had to say on the previous night; a certain dread was in her mind. she had felt that something was coming, something that threatened the peace of the world. 'what did he say to you, mamma?' she had asked anxiously. 'nothing of importance,' helen had replied. but norah knew better; and all that bright may morning while the sunshine shone out of doors, even though it was in london, and tempted the country girl abroad, she kept by her mother's side and watched her with suspicious eyes. had norah known the real state of affairs, her shame and indignation would have known no bounds; but helen made so great an effort to dismiss all consciousness from her face and tone, that the child was balked at last, and retired from the field. aunt mary, who had experience to back her, saw more clearly. whatever had been going to happen had happened, she perceived, and had not been successful. thus they all breakfasted, watching each other, helen being the only one who knew everything and betrayed nothing. after breakfast they were going to the exhibition. it had been deferred to this day, which was to be their last. 'i do not think i will go,' said dr maurice; and then he caught norah's look full of disappointment, which was sweet to him. '_you_ want me, do you, child?' he asked. there was a certain ludicrous pathos in the emphasis which was almost too much for helen's gravity, though, indeed, laughter was little in her thoughts. 'of course i want you,' said norah; 'and so does mamma. fancy sending us away to wander about london by ourselves! that was not what you invited us for, surely, dr maurice? and then after the pictures, let us have another splendid drive in the carriage, and despise all the people who are walking! it will be the last time. you rich people, you have not half the pleasure you might have in being rich. i suppose, now, when you see out of the carriage window somebody you know walking, it does not make you proud?' 'i don't think it does,' said the doctor with a smile. 'that is because you are hardened to it,' said norah. 'you can have it whenever you please; but as for me, i am as proud----' 'i wish you had it always, my dear,' said dr maurice; and this time his tone was almost lachrymose. it was so hard-hearted of helen to deny her child these pleasures and advantages, all to be purchased at the rate of a small personal sacrifice on her part--a sacrifice such as he himself was quite ready to make. 'oh, i should not mind that,' cried norah; 'if i had it always i should get hardened to it too. i should not mind; most likely then i should prefer walking, and think carriages only fit for old ladies. didn't you say that one meets everybody at the academy, mamma?' 'a great many people, norah.' 'i wonder whom we shall meet,' said the girl; and a sudden blush floated over her face. helen looked at her with some anxiety. she did not know what impression cyril rivers might have made on norah's heart. was it him she was thinking of? mrs drummond herself wondered, too, a little. she was half afraid of the old friends she might see there. but then she reflected to herself dreamily, that life goes very quickly in london, that six years was a long time, and that her old friends might have forgotten her. how changed her own feelings were! she had never been fond of painters, her husband's brothers-in-arms. now the least notable of them, the most painty, the most slovenly, would look somehow like a shadow of robert. should she see any of those old faces? whom should she meet? norah's light question moved many echoes of which the child knew nothing; and it was to be answered in a way of which neither of them dreamed. the mere entrance into those well-known rooms had an indescribable effect upon helen. how it all rushed back upon her, the old life! the pilgrimages up those steps, the progress through the crowd to that special spot where one picture was hung; the anxiety to see how it looked--if there was anything near that 'killed' it in colour, or threw it into the shade in power; her own private hope, never expressed to any one, that it might 'come better' in the new place. dr maurice stalked along by her side, but he did not say anything to her; and for her part, she could not speak--her heart and her eyes were full. she could only see the other people's pictures glimmering as through a mist. it seemed so strange to her, almost humiliating, that there was nothing of her own to go to--nothing to make a centre to this gallery, which had relapsed into pure art, without any personal interest in it. by-and-by, when the first shock had worn off, she began to be able to see what was on the walls, and to come back to her present circumstances. so many names were new to her in those six years; so many that she once knew had crept out of sight into corners and behind doorways. she had begun to get absorbed in the sight, which was so much more to her than to most people, when mr rivers came up to them. he had known they were to be in town; he had seen them at the opera the previous night, and had found out a good deal about their plans. but london was different from dura; and he had not ventured to offer his attentions before the eyes of all the world, and all the cousins and connections and friends who might have come to a knowledge of the fact that an unknown pretty face had attracted his homage. but of a morning, at the royal academy, he felt himself pretty safe; there every one is liable to meet some friend from the county, and the most watchful eyes of society are not on the alert at early hours. he came to them now with eager salutations. 'i tried hard to get at you at the opera last night,' he said, putting himself by norah's side; 'but i was with my own people, and i could not get away.' 'were you at the opera last night?' said norah, with not half the surprise he anticipated; for she was not aware of the facilities of locomotion in such places, nor that he might have gone to her had he so desired; and besides, she had seen no one, being intent upon the stage. yet there was a furtive look about him now, a glance round now and then, to see who was near them, which startled her. she could not make out what it meant. 'come, and i will show you the best pictures,' he said; and he took her catalogue from her hand and pointed out to her which must be looked at first. they made a pretty group as they stood thus,--norah looking up with her sunshiny eyes, and he stooping over her, bending down till his silky black beard almost touched her hair. she little, and he tall--she full of vivacity, light, and sunshine; he somewhat quiet, languishing, byronic in his beauty. norah was not such a perfect contrast to him as clara was--rubens to the byron; but her naturalness, the bright, glowing intelligence and spirit about her--the daylight sweetness of her face, with which soul had as much to do as feature, contrasted still more distinctly with the semi-artificiality of the hero. for even granting that he was a little artificial, he was a real hero all the same; his handsomeness and air of good society were unmistakable, his conversation was passable; he knew the thousand things which people in society know, and which, whether they understand them or not, they are in the habit of hearing talked about. all these remarks were made, not by norah, nor by norah's mother, but by dr maurice, who stood by and did not pretend to have any interest in the pictures. and this young fellow was the honourable cyril, and would be lord rivers. dr maurice kept an eye upon him, wondering, as helen had done, did he mean anything? what did he mean? 'but there is one above all which i must show you--every one is talking of it,' said mr rivers. 'come this way, miss drummond. it is not easy to reach it; there is always such a crowd round it. dr maurice, bring mrs drummond; it is in the next room. come this way.' norah followed him, thinking of nothing but the pictures; and her mother and dr maurice went after them slowly, saying nothing to each other. they had entered the great room, following the younger pair, when some one stepped out of the crowd and came forward to helen. he took off his hat and called her by her name--at first doubtfully, then with assurance. 'i thought i could not be mistaken,' he cried, 'and yet it is so long since you have been seen here.' 'i am living in the country,' said helen. once more the room swam round her. the new-comer's voice and aspect carried her back, with all the freshness of the first impression, to the studio and its visitors again. 'and you had just been in my mind,' said the painter. 'there is a picture here which reminds us all so strongly of poor dear drummond. will you let me take you to it? it is exactly in his style, his best style, with all that tenderness of feeling--it has set us all talking of you and him. indeed, none of his old friends have forgotten him; and this is so strangely like his work----' 'where is it?--one of his pupils, perhaps,' said helen. she tried to be very composed, and to show no emotion; but it was so long since she had heard his name, so long since he had been spoken of before her! she felt grateful, as if they had done her a personal service, to think that they talked of robert still. 'this way,' said the painter; and just then norah met her, flying back with her eyes shining, her ribbons flying, wonder and excitement in her face. norah seized her mother by the hands, gasping in her haste and emotion. 'oh, mamma, come; it is our picture,' she cried. wondering, helen went forward. it was the upper end of the room, the place of honour. whether it was that so many people around her carried her on like a body-guard making her a way through the crowd, or that the crowd itself, moved by that subtle sympathy which sometimes communicates itself to the mass more easily than to individuals, melted before her, as if feeling she had the best right to be there, i cannot tell. but all at once helen found herself close to the crimson cord which the pressure of the throng had almost broken down, standing before a picture. one picture--was there any other in the place? it was the picture of a face looking up, with two upward-reaching hands, from the bottom of an abyss, full of whirling clouds and vapour. high above this was a bank of heavenly blue, and a white cloud of faintly indistinct spectators, pitiful angel forms, and one visionary figure as of a woman gazing down. but it was the form below in which the interest lay. it was worn and pale, with the redness of tears about the eyes, the lips pressed closely together, the hands only appealing, held up in a passionate silence. helen stood still, with eyes that would not believe what they saw. she became unconscious of everything about her, though the people thronged upon her, supporting her, though she did not know. then she held out her hands wildly, with a cry which rang through the rooms and penetrated every one in them--'robert!'--and fell at the foot of the picture, which was called 'dives'--the first work of a nameless painter whom nobody knew. it would be impossible to describe the tumult and commotion which rose in the room to which everybody hastened from every corner of the exhibition, thronging the doorways and every available corner, and making it impossible for some minutes to remove her. 'a lady fainted! is that all?' the disappointed spectators cried. they had expected something more exciting than so common, so trifling an occurrence. 'fortunately,' the newspapers said who related the incident, 'a medical man was present;' and when helen came to herself, she found dr maurice standing over her, with his finger on her pulse. 'it is the heat, and the fatigue--and all that,' he said; and all through the rooms people repeated to each other that it was the heat, and the dust, and the crowd, and that there was nothing so fatiguing as looking at pictures. 'both body and mind are kept on the strain, you know,' they said, and immediately thought of luncheon. but dr maurice thought of something very different. he did not understand all this commotion about a picture; if his good heart would have let him, he would have tried to think that helen was 'making a fuss.' as it was he laid this misfortune to the door of women generally, whom there was no understanding; and then, in a parenthesis, allowed that he might himself be to blame. he should not have agitated her, he thought; but added, 'good lord, what are women good for, if they have to be kept in a glass-house, and never spoken to? the best thing is to be rid of them, after all.' i will not attempt to describe what helen's thoughts were when she came to herself. she would not, dared not betray to any one the impression, which was more than an impression--the conviction that had suddenly come to her. she put up her hand, and silenced norah, who was beginning, open-mouthed, 'oh, mamma!' she called the old friend to her, who had attended the group down into the vestibule, and begged him to find out for her exactly who the painter was, and where he was to be heard of; and there she sat, still abstracted, with a singing in her ears, which she thought was only the rustle of the thoughts that hurried through her brain, until she should be able to go home. it was while they were waiting thus, standing round her, that another event occurred, of which helen was too much absorbed to take any but the slightest cognizance. she was seated on a bench, still very pale, and unable to move. dr maurice was mounting guard over her. norah stood talking to mr rivers on the other side; while meanwhile the stream of the public was flowing past, and new arrivals entering every moment by the swinging doors. norah had grown very earnest in her talk. 'we have the very same subject at home, the same picture,' she was saying; her eyelashes were dewy with tears, her whole face full of emotion. her colour went and came as she spoke; she stood looking up to him with a thrill of feeling and meaning about her, such as touch the heart more than beauty. and yet there was no lack of beauty. a lady who had just come in, paused, having her attention attracted to the group, and looked at them all, as she thought she had a right to do. 'the poor lady who fainted,' she heard some one say. but this girl who stood in front had no appearance of fainting. she was all life, and tenderness, and fire. the woman who looked on admired her fresh, sweet youthfulness, her face, which in its changing colour was like a flower. she admired all these, and made out, with a quick observant eye, that the girl was the daughter of the pale beautiful woman by the wall, and not unworthy of her. and then suddenly, without a pause, she called out, 'cyril!' young rivers started as if a shot had struck him. he rushed to her with tremulous haste. 'mother! you don't mean to say that you have come here alone?' 'but i do mean it, and i want you to take care of me,' she said, taking his arm at once. 'i meant to come early. we have no time to lose.' norah stood surprised, looking at the woman who was cyril's mother; in a pretty pause of expectation, the blush coming and going on her face, her hand ready to be timidly put out in greeting, her pretty mouth half smiling already, her eyes watching with an interest of which she was not ashamed. why should she be ashamed of being interested in cyril's mother? she waited for the approach, the introduction--most likely the elder woman's gracious greeting. 'for she must have heard of me too,' norah thought. she cast down her eyes, pleasantly abashed; for lady rivers was certainly looking at her. when she looked up again, in wonder that she was not spoken to, cyril was on the stair with his mother, going up. he was looking back anxiously, waving his hand to her from behind lady rivers. he had a beseeching look in his eyes, his face looked miserable across his mother's shoulders, but--he was gone. norah looked round her stupefied. had anything happened?--was she dreaming? and then the blood rushed to her face in a crimson flush of pride and shame. she bore this blow alone, without even her mother to share and soften it; and the child staggered under it for the moment. she grew as pale as helen herself after that one flash. when the carriage came to the door, two women, marble-white, stepped into it. dr maurice had not the heart to go with them; he would walk home, he said. and norah looked out of the window, as she had so joyfully anticipated doing in her happiness and levity, but not to despise the people who walked. the only thought of which she was capable was--is everybody like that? do people behave so naturally? is it the way of the world? this is what they met at the academy, where they went so lightly, not knowing. the name of the painter of the 'dives' reached them that same night; it was not in the catalogue. his name was john sinclair, thirty-fifth avenue, new york. chapter v. 'you must be dreaming,' cried dr maurice with energy. 'you must be dreaming! with my--folly--and other things--you have got into a nervous state.' 'i am not dreaming,' she said very quietly. there was no appearance of excitement about her. she sat with her hands clasped tightly together, and her eyes wandering into the unknown, into the vacant air before her. and her mind had got possession of one burden, and went over and over it, repeating within herself, 'john sinclair, thirty-fifth avenue, new york.' 'i will show you the same picture,' she went on. 'the very same, line for line. it was the last he ever did. and in his letter he spoke of dives looking up----john sinclair, thirty-fifth avenue, new york!' 'helen, helen!' said dr maurice with a look of pity. he had never called her anything but mrs drummond till the evening before, and now the other seemed so natural; for, in fact, she did not even notice what he called her. 'how easy is it to account for all this! some one else must have seen the sketch, who was impressed by it as much as you were, and who knew the artist was dead, and could never claim his property. how easy to see how it may have been done, especially by a smart yankee abroad.' she shook her head without a word, with a faint smile; argument made no difference to her. she was sure; and what did it matter what any one said? 'then i will tell you what i will do,' he said. 'i have some friends in new york. i will have inquiries made instantly about john sinclair. indeed it is quite possible some one may know him here. i shall set every kind of inquiry on foot to-morrow, to satisfy you. i warn you nothing will come of it--nothing would make me believe such a thing; but still, to prevent you taking any rash steps----' 'i will take no rash steps,' she said. 'i will do nothing. i will wait till--i hear.' 'why this is madness,' he said. and then all at once a cold shudder passed over him, and he said to himself, 'good god! what if she had not refused last night!' but the very fact that she had refused was a kind of guarantee that there was nothing in this wild idea of hers. had there been anything in it, of course she would have accepted, and all sorts of horrors would have ensued. such was dr maurice's opinion of providence, and the opinion of many other judicious people. the fact that a sudden re-appearance would do no harm made it so much less likely that there would be any re-appearance. he tried hard to dismiss the idea altogether from his mind. it was not a comfortable idea. it is against all the traditions, all the prejudices of life, that a man should come back from the dead. a wild, despairing dives might wish for it, or a mourner half frantic with excess of sorrow; but to the ordinary looker-on the idea is so strange as to be painful. dr maurice had a true affection for robert drummond; but he could not help feeling that it would be out of all character, out of harmony, almost an offence upon decency, that he should not be dead. it was curious, however, what an effect this fancy of helen's had in clearing away the cloud of embarrassment which had naturally fallen between her and him. all that produced that cloud had evidently disappeared from her mind. she remembered it no more. it was not that she had thrust it away of set will and purpose, but that without any effort it had disappeared. this was, it is true, somewhat humiliating to dr maurice; but it was very convenient for all the purposes of life that it should be so. and she sat with him now and discussed the matter, abstracted in the great excitement which had taken possession of her, yet calmed by it, without a recollection that anything had ever passed between them which could confuse their intercourse. this unconsciousness, i say, was humiliating in one sense, though in another it was a relief, to the man who did not forget; but it confused him while it set helen at her ease. it was so extraordinary to realise what was the state of affairs yesterday, and what to-day--to enter into so new and wonderful a region of possibilities, after having lived so long in quite another; for, to be sure, helen had only known of dr maurice's project as regarded herself since last night; whereas, he had known it for six months, and during all that time had been accustoming himself to it, and now had to make a mental spring as far away from it as possible--a kind of gymnastic exercise which has a very bewildering effect upon an ordinary mind. it was a relief to all the party when the drummonds went home next morning; except, perhaps, to the old aunt, who had grown interested in the human drama thus unexpectedly produced before her, and who would have liked to see it out. the mother and daughter were glad to go home; and yet how life had changed to them in these three days! it had given to helen the glow of a wild, incomprehensible hope, a something supernatural, mixed with terror and wonder, and a hundred conflicting emotions; while to norah it had taken the romance out of life. to contemplate life without romance is hard upon a girl; to have a peep, as it were, behind the scenes, and see the gold of fairy-land corroding itself into slates, and the beauty into dust and ashes. such a revolution chills one to the very soul. it is almost worse than the positive heart-break of disappointed love, for that has a warm admixture of excitement, and is supported by the very sharpness of its own suffering; whereas in norah's pain there was but disenchantment and angry humiliation, and that horrible sense that the new light was true and the other false, which takes all courage from the heart. she had told her mother, and helen had been very indignant, but not so wroth as her daughter. 'lady rivers might have no time to wait--she might have wanted him for something urgent--there might be something to explain,' helen said; but as for norah, she felt that no explanation was possible. for months past this man had been making a show of his devotion to her. he had done everything except ask her in words to be his wife. he had been as her shadow, whenever he could come to dura, and his visits had been so frequent that it was very evident he had seized every opportunity to come: yet the moment his mother appeared on the scene, the woman whom in all the world he ought to have most wished to attach to the girl whom he loved, he had left her with shame and embarrassment--escaped from her without even the politeness of a leave-taking. norah had wondered whether she cared for him in the old days; she had asked herself shyly, as girls do, whether the little flutter of her heart at his appearance could possibly mean that sacredest, most wonderful and fascinating of mysteries--love? sometimes she had been disposed to believe it did: and then again she had surprised herself in the midst of a sudden longing for poor ned with his big nose, and had blushed and asked herself angrily, was the one compatible with the other? in short, she had not known what to make of her own feelings; for she was not experienced enough to be able to tell the difference--a difference which sometimes puzzles the wisest--between the effect produced by gratified vanity, and pleasure in the love of another, and that which springs from love itself. but she was in no doubt about the anger, the mortification, the indignant shame with which her whole nature rose up against the man who had dared to be ashamed of her. of this there could be no explanation. she said to herself that she hoped he would not come again or attempt to make any explanation, and then she resented bitterly the fact that he did not come. she had made up her mind what she would say, how she would crush him with quiet scorn, and wonder at his apologies. 'why should you apologise, mr rivers? i had no wish to be introduced to your mother,' she meant to say; but as day after day passed, and he gave her no opportunity of saying this, norah's thoughts grew more bitter, more fiery than ever. and life was dull without this excitement in it. the weather was bright, and the season sweet, and i suppose she had her share of rational pleasure as in other seasons; but to her own consciousness norah was bitterly ill-used, insomuch as she had not an opportunity to tell, or at least to show cyril rivers what she thought of him. it had been an immediate comfort to her after the affront he had put upon her, that she would have this in her power. the change that had come upon the lives of the two ladies in the gatehouse was, however, scarcely apparent to their little world. norah was a little out of temper, fitful, and ready to take offence, the daltons at the rectory thought; and mrs drummond was more silent than usual, and had an absorbed look in her eyes, a look of abstraction for which it was difficult to account. but this was all that was apparent outside. perhaps mr rivers was a little longer than usual in visiting dura; he had not been there for ten days, and katie dalton wondered audibly what had become of him. but nobody except norah supposed for a moment that his connection with dura was to be broken off in this sudden way. and everything else went on as usual. if mrs drummond was less frequently visible, no one remarked it much. norah would run over and ask katie to walk with her, on the plea that 'mamma has a headache,' and mrs dalton would gather her work together, and cross the road in the sunshine and 'sit with' the sufferer. but the only consequence of this visit would be that the blinds would be drawn down over the three windows in front, mrs dalton having an idea that light was bad for a headache, and that when she returned she would tell her eldest daughter that poor dear mrs drummond was very poorly, and very anxious for news of a friend whom she had not heard of for years. and the picture of dives, which had been hung in a sacred corner, where helen said her prayers, was brought out, and placed in the full light of day. it was even for a time brought down-stairs, while the first glow of novel hope and wonder lasted, and placed in the drawing-room, where everybody who saw it wondered at it. it was not so well painted as the great picture in the academy. it was even different in many of its details. there was no hope in the face of this, but only a haggard passionate despair, while the look of the other was concentrated into such an agony of appealing as cannot exist where there is no hope. dr maurice even, when he came down, declared forcibly that it was difficult for him to trace the resemblance. perhaps the leading idea was the same, but then it was so differently worked out. he looked at the picture in every possible light, and this was the conclusion he came to;--no; no particular resemblance,--a coincidence, that was all. and john sinclair was a perfectly well-known painter, residing in new york, a man known to dr maurice's friends there. why there was no name to the picture in the catalogue nobody could tell. it was some absurd mistake or other; but john sinclair, the painter, was a man who had been known in new york for years. 'depend upon it, it is only a coincidence,' dr maurice said. after that visit, from what feeling i cannot say, the picture was taken back up-stairs. not that mrs drummond was convinced, but that she shrank from further discussion of a matter on which she felt so deeply. she would sit before it for hours, gazing at it, careless of everything else; and if i were to reproduce all the thoughts that coursed through helen's mind, i should do her injury with the reader, who, no doubt, believes that the feelings in a wife's mind, when such a hope entered it, could only be those of a half-delirious joy. but helen's thoughts were not wildly joyful. she had been hardly and painfully trained to do without him, to put him out of her life. her soul had slid into new ways, changed meanings; and in that time what change of meaning, what difference of nature, might have come to a man who had returned from death and the grave? could it all be undone? could it float away like a tale that is told, that tale of seven long years? would the old assimilate with the new, and the widow become a wife again without some wrench, some convulsion of nature? not long before she had denounced the name vehemently, crying out against it, declaring that she did not believe in it: but now, when perhaps it might turn out that her widowhood had been indeed a fiction and unreal--now! how she was to be a wife again; how her existence was to suffer a new change, and return into its old channel, helen could not tell. and yet that robert should live again, that he should receive some recompense for all his sufferings; that even she who had been in her way so cruel to him, should be able to make up for it--for that helen would have given her life. the news about john sinclair was a discouragement, but still it did not touch her faith. she carried her picture up-stairs again, and put it reverently, not in its old corner, but where the sunshine would fall upon it and the full light of day. the fancifulness of this proceeding did not occur to her, for grief and hope, and all the deeper emotions of the heart, are always fanciful: and in this time of suspense, when she could do nothing, when she was waiting, listening for indications of what was coming, that silent idol-worship which no one knew of, did her good. meanwhile dura went on blazing with lights, and sweet with music, making every day a holiday. mrs burton did not walk so much as she used to do, but drove about, giving her orders, paying her visits, with beautiful horses which half the county envied, and toilettes which would have been remarked even in the park. 'that little woman is losing her head,' the rector said, as he looked at an invitation his wife had just received for a fête which was to eclipse all the others, and which was given in celebration of clara's birthday. it was fixed for the th of july, and people were coming to it from far and near. there was to be a garden party first, a sumptuous so-called breakfast, and a ball at night. the whole neighbourhood was agitated by the preparations for this solemnity. it was said that ned, poor ned, whose disappearance was now an old story, was to be disinherited, and that clara was to be the heiress of all. the importance thus given to her birthday gave a certain colour to the suggestion; it was like a coming of age, people said, and replaced the festivities which ought to have taken place on the day when ned completed his twenty-first year, a day which had passed very quietly a few weeks before, noted by none. but to clara's birthday feast everybody was invited. the great county people, the merewethers themselves, were coming, and in consideration of clara's possible heiress-ship, it was whispered that the marchioness had thoughts of making her son a candidate for the place deserted by cyril rivers. cyril, too, moreover, was among the guests; he was one of a large party which was coming from town; and the village people were asked, the daltons and the drummonds, beside all the lesser gentry of the neighbourhood. it was to katie dalton's importunate beseechings, seconded, no doubt, by her own heart, which had begun to tire of seclusion and long for a little pleasure, that norah relinquished her first proud determination not to go; and dr maurice had just sent a box from town containing two dresses, one for the evening, and one for out-of-doors, which it was beyond the powers of any girl of nineteen to refuse the opportunity of wearing. when norah had made up her own mind to this effort, she addressed herself to the task of overcoming her mother's reluctance; and, after much labour, succeeded so far that a compromise was effected. norah went to the out-door fête, under the charge of mrs dalton, and helen with a sigh took out her black silk gown once more, and prepared to go with her child in the evening. the daltons were always there, good neighbours to support and help her; and seated by mrs dalton's side, who knew something of her anxiety about that friend whom she had not heard of for years, mrs drummond felt herself sustained. when norah returned with the daltons from the garden party, mr rivers accompanied the girls. he came with them to the door of the gatehouse, where katie, secretly held fast by norah, accompanied her friend. he lingered on the white steps, waiting to be asked in; but norah gave no such invitation. she went back to her mother triumphant, full of angry delight. 'i have been perfectly civil to him, mamma! i have taken the greatest care--i have not avoided him, nor been stiff to him, nor anything. and he has tried so hard, so very hard, to have an explanation. very likely! as if i would listen to any explanation.' 'how did you avoid it, norah, if you were neither angry nor stiff?' 'katie, mamma, always katie! i put her between him and me wherever we went. it was fun,' cried norah, with eyes that sparkled with revengeful satisfaction. her spirits had risen to the highest point. she had regained her position; she had got the upper hand, which norah loved. the prospect of the evening which was still before her, in which she should wear that prettiest ball-dress, which surely had been made by the fairies, and drag cyril rivers at her chariot-wheels, and show him triumphantly how little it mattered to her, made norah radiant. she rushed in to the haldanes' side of the house to show herself, in the wildest spirits. mrs haldane and miss jane--wonder of wonders--were going too; everybody was to be there. the humble people were asked to behold and ratify the triumph, as well as the fine people to make it. as for mrs haldane, she disapproved, and was a great deal more grim than ordinary; but, for once in a way, because it would be a great thing to see, and because mr baldwin and his sisters were to be there too,--'as much out of their proper place as we,' she said, shaking her head,--she had allowed herself to be persuaded. miss jane required no persuading. she was honestly delighted to have a chance of seeing anything--the dresses and the diamonds, and norah dancing with all the grandees. when norah came in, all in a cloud of tulle and lace, miss jane fairly screamed with delight. 'i am quite happy to think i shall see the child have one good dance,' she said, walking round and round the fairy princess. 'were you fond of dancing yourself, miss jane?' said norah, not without the laugh of youth over so droll an idea. but it was not droll to miss jane; she put her hands, which were clothed in black with mittens, on the child's shoulders, and gave her a kiss, and answered not a word. and stephen looked on from that immovable silent post of his, and saw them both, and thought of the past and present, and all the shadowy uncertain days that were to come. how strange to think of the time when miss jane, so grave and prosaic in her old-maidish gown, had been like norah! how wonderful to think that norah one day might be as miss jane! and so they all went away to the ball together, and stephen in his chair immovable till his nurses came back, and susan bustling about in the kitchen, were left in the house alone. one ball is like another; and except that the dura ball was more splendid, more profuse in ornament, gayer in banks of flowers, richer in beautiful dresses and finery, more ambitious in music, than any ball ever known before in the country, there is little that could be said of it to distinguish it from all others, except, perhaps, the curious fact that the master of the house was not present. he had not been visible all day. he had been telegraphed for to go to town that morning, and had not returned; but then mr golden, who was a far more useful man in a ball-room than the master of the house, was present, and was doing all that became a man to make everything go off brilliantly. he was the slave of the young heroine of the feast to whom everybody was paying homage; and it was remarked by a great many people, that even when going on the arm of lord merewether to open the ball, clara had a suggestion to whisper to this amateur majordomo. 'he is such an old friend; he is just the same as papa,' she said to her partner with a passing blush; but then clara was in uncommonly brilliant looks that evening, even for her. her beautiful colour kept coming and going; there was an air of emotion, and almost agitation, about her, which gave a charm to her usually unemotional style of beauty. lord merewether, who was under his mother's orders to be 'very attentive,' almost fell in love with clara, in excess of his instructions, when he noticed this unusual fluctuation of colour and tone. it supplied just what she wanted, and made the rubens into a goddess--or so at least this young man thought. but helen had not been above an hour in this gay scene when a strange restlessness seized upon her. she did her best to struggle against it; she tried hard to represent to herself that nothing could have happened at home, no post could have come in since she left it, and that norah needed her there. she saw mr rivers hovering about with his explanation on his lips trying to get at her, since norah would have nothing to say to him; and felt that it was her duty to remain by her child at such a moment. but, after a while, her nerves, or her imagination, or some incomprehensible influence was too much for her. 'you look as if you would faint,' mrs dalton whispered to her. 'let mr dalton take you to the air--let charlie get you something; i am sure you are ill.' 'i am not ill; but i must get home. i am wanted at home,' said helen with her brain swimming. how it was that she did it, she never could tell afterwards; but she managed to retain command of herself, to recommend norah to mrs dalton's care, and finally to steal out; no one noticing her in the commotion and movement that were always going on. when she got into the open air with her shawl wrapped about her, her senses came back. it was foolish, it was absurd--but the deed was done; and, though her restlessness calmed down when she stepped out into the calm of the summer night, it was easier then to go on than to go back; and norah was in safe hands. it was a moonlight night, as is indispensable for any great gathering in the country. to be sure it was july, and before the guests went home, the short night would be over; but still, according to habit, a moonlight night had been selected. it was soft, and warm, and hazy,--the light very mellow, and not over bright,--the scent of the flowers and the glitter of the dew filling the air. there was so much moon, and so much light from the house, that helen was not afraid of the dark avenue. she went on, relieved of her anxiety, feeling refreshed and eased, she could not tell how, by the blowing of the scented night-air in her face. but before she reached the shade of the avenue, some one rushed across the lawn after her. she turned half round to see who it was, thinking that perhaps charlie or mr dalton had hurried after her to accompany her home. the figure, however, was not that of either. the man came hurriedly up to her, saying, in a low but earnest tone, 'mrs burton, don't take any rash step,' when she, as well as he, suddenly started. the voice informed her who spoke, and the sight of her upturned face in the moonlight informed him who listened. 'mrs drummond!' he exclaimed. they had not met face to face, nor exchanged words since the time when she denounced him in the presence of cyril rivers in st mary's road. 'mrs drummond,' he repeated, with an uneasy laugh; 'of all times in the world for you and me to meet!' 'i hope there is no reason why we should meet,' said helen impetuously. 'i am going away. there can be nothing that wants saying between you and me.' 'but, by jove, there is though,' he said; 'there is reason enough, i can tell you--such news as will make the hair stand upright on your head. ah! they say revenge is sweet. i shall leave you to find it out to-morrow when everybody knows.' 'what is it?' she asked breathlessly, and then stopped, and went on a few steps, horrified at the thought of thus asking information from the man she hated most. he went on along with her, saying nothing. he had no hat on, and the rose in his coat showed a little gleam of colour in the whitening of the light. 'you ought to ask me, mrs drummond,' he said; 'for revenge, they say, is sweet, and you would be glad to hear.' 'i want no revenge,' she said hurriedly; and they entered the gloom of the avenue side by side, the strangest pair. her heart began to beat and flutter--she could not tell why; for she feared nothing from him; and all at once there rose up a gleam of secret triumph in her. this man believed that robert drummond was dead, knew no better. what did she care for his news? if indeed she were to tell him hers! 'well,' he said, after an interval, 'i see you are resolved not to ask, so i will tell you. i have my revenge in it too, mrs drummond; this night, when they are all dancing, burton is off, with the police after him. it will be known to all the world to-morrow. you ought to be grateful to me for telling you that.' 'burton is off!--the police--after him!' she did not take in the meaning of the words. 'you don't believe me, perhaps--neither did his wife just now; or at least so she pretended; but it is true. there was a time when he left me to bear the brunt, now it is his turn; and there is a ball at his house the same night!' she interrupted him hurriedly. 'i don't know what you mean. i cannot believe you. what has he done?' she said. mr golden laughed; and in the stillness his laugh sounded strangely echoing among the trees. he turned round on his heel, waving his hand to her. 'only what all the rest of us have done,' he said. 'good night; i am wanted at the ball. i have a great deal to do to-night.' she stood for a moment where he had left her, wondering, half paralysed. and then she turned and went slowly down the avenue. she felt herself shake and tremble--she could not tell why. was it this man's voice? was it his laugh that sounded like something infernal? and what did it all mean? helen, who was a brave woman by nature, felt a flutter of fear as she quickened her steps and went on. a ball at his house--the police after him. what did it mean? the silence of the long leafy road was so strange and deep after all the sound and movements; the music pursued her from behind, growing fainter and fainter as she went on; the world seemed to be all asleep, except that part of it which was making merry, dancing, and rejoicing at dura. and now the eagerness to get home suddenly seized upon her again,--something must have happened since she left; some letter; perhaps--some one--come back. when she got within sight of the gatehouse, the moon was shining right down the village street as it did when it was at the full. all was quiet, silent, asleep. no, not all. opposite her house, against the rectory gates, two men were standing. as she went up into the shadow of the lime-trees, and rang the bell at her own door, one of them crossed the road, and came up to her touching his hat. 'asking your pardon, ma'am,' he said, 'there is some one in your house, if you're the lady of this house, as oughtn't to be there.' a thrill of great terror took possession of helen. her heart leapt to her mouth. 'i don't understand you. who are you? and what do you want?' she asked, almost gasping for breath. 'i'm a member of the detective force. i ain't ashamed of my business,' said the man. 'we seen him go in, me and my mate. with your permission, ma'am, we'd like to go through the house.' 'go through my house at this hour!' cried helen. she heard the door opened behind her, but did not turn round. she was the guardian of the house, she alone, and of all who were in it, be they who they might. her wits seemed to come to her all at once, as if she had found them groping in the dark. 'have you any authority to go into my house? am i obliged to let you in? have you a warrant?' 'they've been a worriting already, ma'am, and you out,' said susan's voice from behind. 'what business have they, i'd like to know, in a lady's house at this hour of the night?' 'has any one come, susan?' helen said. 'not a soul.' she was standing with a candle in her hand, holding the door half open. the night air puffed the flame; and perhaps it was that too that made the shadow of susan's cap tremble upon the panel of the door. 'i cannot possibly admit you at this hour,' said mrs drummond. 'to-morrow, if you come with any authority; but not to-night.' she went into her own house, and closed the door. how still it was and dark, with susan's candle only flickering through the gloom! and then susan made a sudden clutch at her mistress's arm. she held the candle down to helen's face, and peered into it, 'i've atook him into my own room,' she said. chapter vi. the gatehouse was full of long, rambling, dark passages with mysterious closets at each elbow of them, or curious little unused rooms--passages which had struck terror to norah's soul when she was a child, and which even now she thought it expedient to run through as speedily as possible, never feeling sure that she might not be caught by some ghostly intruder behind the half-shut doors. mrs drummond followed susan through one of these intricate winding ways. it led to a corner room looking out upon the garden, and close to the kitchen, which was susan's bed-chamber. for some forgotten reason or other there was a sort of window, three or four broad panes of glass let into the partition wall high up between this room and the kitchen, the consequence of which was that susan's room always showed a faint light to the garden. this was her reason for taking it as the hiding-place for the strange guest. mrs drummond went down the dark passage, feeling herself incapable of speech and almost of thought; a vague wonder why he should be so hotly pursued, and how it was that susan should have known this and taken it upon herself to receive and shelter one who was a stranger to her, passed through helen's mind. both these things were strange and must be inquired into hereafter, but in the mean time her heart was beating too high with personal emotion to be able to think of anything else. was it possible that thus strangely, thus suddenly, she was to meet him again from whom she had been so long parted? their last interview rushed back upon her mind, and his appearance then. seven years ago!--and a man changes altogether, becomes, people say, another being in seven years. this thought quivered vaguely through helen's mind. so many thoughts went pursuing each other, swift and noiseless as ghosts. it was not above two minutes from the time she came into the hall until she stood at the threshold of susan's room; but a whole world of questions, of reflections, had hurried through her thoughts. she trembled by intervals with a nervous shiver. her heart beat so violently that it seemed at once to choke and to paralyse her. to see him again--to stand face to face with him who had come back out of the grave,--to change her whole being,--to be no more herself, no more norah's mother, but robert's wife again! her whole frame began to shake as with one great pulse. it was not joy, it was not fear; it was the wonder of it, the miracle, the strange, strange, incomprehensible, incredible--could he be there?--nothing more between the two who had been parted by death and silence but that closed door? susan turned round upon her just before they reached it. susan, too, hard, bony woman, little given to emotion, was trembling. she wiped her eyes with her apron and gave a sniff that was almost a groan, and thrust the candle into helen's hand. 'oh, don't you be hard upon him, miss helen as was!' cried susan with a sob; and turned and fled into her kitchen. helen stopped for a moment to steady herself--to steady the light of the poor candle which, held by such agitated, unsteady hands, was flickering wildly in her grasp. and then she opened the door. some one started and rose up suddenly with a movement which had at once fear and watchfulness in it. her agitation blinded her so that she could not see. she held up the light,--if her misty eyes could have made him out,--and then all at once there came a voice which made her nerves steady in a moment, calmed down her pulses, restored to her self-command. 'helen, is it you? i thought it must be my wife.' the blood rushed back to helen's heart with an ebb as sudden as the flow had been, making her faint and sick. but the revulsion of feeling was as strong, and gave her strength. the light gave a leap in her hand as she steadied herself, and threw a wild broken gleam upon him. 'mr burton,' she said, 'what are you doing here?' 'then the news had not come,' he cried, with a certain relief; 'nobody knows as yet? well, well, things are not so bad, then, as i thought.' she put the candle on the table and looked at him. he was dressed in his morning clothes, those light-coloured summer garments which made his full person fuller, but which at this hour, and after the scene from which she had just come, looked strangely disorderly and out of place. his linen was crushed and soiled, and his coat, which was of a colour and material which showed specks and wrinkles as much as a woman's dress, had the look of having been worn for a week night and day. the air of the vagabond which comes so rapidly to a hunted man had come to him already, and mixed with his habitual air of respectability, of wealth and self-importance, in the most curious, almost pitiful way. 'tell me,' she said, repeating her question almost without knowing what she said, 'why are you here?' he did not answer immediately. he made an effort to put on his usual jaunty look, to speak with his usual jocular superiority. but something--whether it was the flickering, feeble light of the candle which showed him her face, or some instinct of his own, which necessity had quickened into life--made him aware all at once that the woman by his side was in a whirl of mental indecision, that she was wavering between two resolves, and that this was no time to trifle with her. in such circumstances sometimes a man will seize upon the best argument which skill could select, but sometimes also in his haste and excitement he snatches at the one which makes most against him. he said-- 'i will tell you plainly, helen. i am as your husband was when he went down to the river--that night.' she gave a strange and sudden cry, and turning round made one quick step to the door. if she had not seen that dives in the exhibition, if she had not been in the grip of wild hope and expectation, i think she would have gone straightway, driven by that sudden probing of the old wound, and given him up to his pursuers. at least that would have been her first impulse; but something turned her back. she turned to him again with a sudden fire kindled in her eyes. 'it was you who drove him there,' she said. he made a little deprecating gesture with his hands, but he did not say anything. he saw in a moment that he had made a mistake. 'you drove him there,' she repeated, 'you and--that man; and now you come to me and think i will save you--to me, his wife. you drove him to despair, to ruin, and you think i am to save you. why should i? what have you done that i should help you? you had no pity on him; you let him perish, you let him die. you injured me and mine beyond the reach of recovery; and now you put yourself into my hands--with your enemies outside!' he gave a shudder, and looked at the window as if with a thought of escape; and then he turned round upon her, standing at bay. 'well,' he said, 'you have your revenge; i am ruined too. i don't pretend to hide it from you; but i have no river at hand to escape into to hide all my troubles in,--but only a woman to taunt me that i have tried to be kind to--and my wife and my child dancing away close by. listen; that is what you call comfort for a ruined man, is it not?' he pointed towards dura as he spoke. just then a gust of the soft night-wind brought with it the sound of the music from the great house, that house ablaze with gaiety, with splendour, and light, where clara burton all jewelled and crowned with flowers was dancing at this moment, while her mother led the way to the gorgeous table where princes might have sat down. no doubt the whole scene rose before his imagination as it did before helen's. he sat down upon susan's rush-bottomed chair with a short laugh. one candle flickering in the dim place revealing all the homely furniture of the servant's bed-room. what a contrast! what a fate! helen felt as every generous mind feels, humbled before the presence of the immediate sufferer. he had injured her, and she, perhaps, had suffered more deeply than reginald burton was capable of suffering; but it was his turn now; he had the first place. the sorrow was his before which even kings must bow. while she stood there with pity stealing into her heart, he put down his head into his hands with a gesture of utter weariness. 'whatever you are going to do,' he said faintly, 'let susan give me something to eat first. i have had nothing to eat all day.' this appeal made an end of all helen's enmity. it had been deep, and hot, and bitter when all was well with him--but the first taste of revenge which ned's disappearance gave her had appeased mrs drummond. it had been bitter, not sweet. and now this appeal overcame all her defences. if he had asked her to aid in his escape she might have resisted still. but he asked her for a meal. tears of humiliation, of pitying shame, almost of a kind of tenderness came into her eyes. god help the man! had it come to this? she turned into the kitchen, where susan sat bolt upright in a hard wooden chair before the fire, with her arms folded, the most watchful of sentinels. they had a momentary discussion what there was to set before him, and where it was to be served. susan's opinion was very strongly in favour of the kitchen. 'those villains 'ud see the lights to the front,' said susan. 'and then miss norah, she'll be coming home, and folks with her. them policemen is up to everything. the shutters don't close up to the very top; and if they was to climb into one o' the trees! and besides, there's a fire here.' 'it is too warm for a fire, susan.' 'not for them as is in trouble,' said the woman; and she had her way. helen arranged the table with her own hands, while susan made up with her best skill an impromptu meal--not of the richest or choicest, for the larder at the gatehouse was poorly enough supplied; but fortunately there had been something provided for next day's dinner which was available. and when the fugitive came in to the warm kitchen--he who the day before had made all the household miserable in dura over the failure of a salmi--he warmed his hands with a shiver of returning comfort, and sniffed the poor cutlet as it cooked, and made a wretched attempt at a joke in the sudden sense of ease and solace that had come to him. 'he was always one for his joke, was mr reginald,' susan said with a sob; and as for helen, this poor pleasantry completed her prostration. the sight of him warming himself on this july night, eating so eagerly, like a man famished, filled her with an indescribable pity. it was not so much magnanimity on her part as utter failure on his. how could she lay sins to this man's charge, who was not great enough in himself to frighten a fly? the pity in her heart hurt her like an ache, and she was ashamed. but what was to be done? she went softly, almost stealthily (with the strange feeling that they might hear her out of doors, of which she was not herself aware), up to her bed-room, which was over the drawing-room, and looked out into the moonlight. the men still kept their place, opposite at the rectory gate--and now a third man, one of the dura police, with his lantern in his hand, joined them. helen was a woman full of all the natural prejudices and susceptibilities. her pride received such a wound by the appearance of this policeman as it would be difficult to describe. reginald burton was her enemy, her antagonist; and yet now she remembered her cousin. the burtons had been of unblemished good fame in all their branches till now. the shame which had been momentarily thrown upon her husband had been connected with so much anguish that helen's pride had not been called uppermost. but now it seized upon her. the moment the dura policeman appeared, it became evident to her that all the world knew, and the pang ran through her proud heart like a sudden arrow. her kindred were disgraced, her own blood, the honest, good people in their graves; and ned--poor, innocent ned!--at the other end of the world. the pang was so sharp that it forced tears from her, though she was not given to weeping. a policeman! as if the man was a thief who was her own cousin, of her own blood! and then the question returned, what was to be done? i don't know what horrible vision of the culprit dragged through the street, with his ignominy visible to the whole world, rose before helen's imagination. it did not occur to her that such a capture might be very decorously, very quietly made. she could think of nothing but the poor ragged wretch whom she had once seen handcuffed, his clothes all muddy with the falls he had got in struggling for his liberty, and a policeman on either side of him. this was the only form in which she could realise an arrest by the hands of justice. and to see the master of dura thus dragged through the village, with all the people round, once so obsequious, staring with stupid, impudent wonder! anything, anything rather than that! helen ran down-stairs again, startling herself with the sound she made. in the quiet she could hear the knife and fork which were still busy in the kitchen, and the broken talk with susan which the fugitive kept up. she heard him laugh, and it made her heart sick. this time she turned to the other side, to the long passage opposite to that which led to the kitchen, which was the way of communication with the apartments of the haldanes. the door there, which was generally fastened, was open to-night, and the light was still in stephen's window, and he himself, for the first time for years, had been left to this late hour in his chair. he was seated there, very still and motionless, when helen entered. he had dropped asleep in his loneliness. the candles on the table before him threw a strange light upon the pallor of his face, upon the closed eyes, and head thrown back. his hair had grown grey in these seven years; his face had refined and softened in the long suffering, in the patient, still, leaden days which he had lived through, making no complaint. he looked like an apostle in this awful yet gentle stillness--and he looked as if he were dead. but even mrs drummond's entrance was enough to rouse him--the rustle of her dress, or perhaps even the mere sense that there was some one near him. he opened his eyes dreamily. 'well, mother, i hope you have enjoyed it,' he said, with a smile. then suddenly becoming aware who his companion was, 'mrs drummond! i beg your pardon. what has happened?' she came and stood by him, holding out her hand, which he took and held between his. there was a mutual pity between these two--a sympathy which was almost tenderness. they were so sorry for each other--so destitute of any power to help each other! most touching and close of bonds! 'something has happened,' she said. 'mr haldane, i have come to you for your advice.' he looked up at her anxiously. 'not norah--not--any one arrived----' 'oh, no, no; something shameful, painful, terrible. you know what is going on at the great house. mr haldane, reginald burton is here in susan's kitchen, hidden, and men watching for him outside. men--policemen! that is what i mean. and oh! what am i to do?' he held her hand still, and his touch kept her calm. he did not say anything for a minute, except one low exclamation under his breath. 'sit down,' he said. 'you are worn out. is it very late?' 'past midnight. by-and-by your mother will be back. tell me first, while we are alone and can speak freely, what can i do?' 'he is hiding here,' said stephen, 'and policemen outside? then he is ruined, and found out. that is what you mean. compose yourself, and tell me, if you can, what you know, and what you _wish_ to do.' 'oh, what does my wish matter?' she cried. 'i am asking you what is possible. i know little more than i tell you. he is here, worn-out, miserable, ruined, and the men watching to take him. i don't know how it has happened, why he came, or how they found it out; but so it is. they are there now in front of the house. how am i to get him out?' 'is that the only question?' stephen asked. she looked at him with an impatience she could not restrain. 'what other question can there be, mr haldane? in a few minutes they will be back.' 'but there is another question,' he said. 'i believe this man has been our ruin--yours and mine--yours, mrs drummond, more fatally than mine. golden was but one of his instruments, i believe--as guilty, but not more so. he has ruined us, and more than us----' she wrung her hands in her impatience. 'mr haldane, i hear steps. we may but have a moment more.' he put his hand upon her arm. 'think!' he cried. 'are we to let him go--to save him that he may ruin others? is it just? think what he has made us all suffer. is there to be no punishment for him?' 'oh, punishment!' she cried. 'do you know what punishment means, when you make yourself the instrument of it? it means revenge; and there is nothing so bitter, nothing so terrible, as to see your own handiwork, and to think, "it was not god that did this; it was me."' 'how can _you_ tell?' 'oh, yes, i can tell. there was his son. i thought it was a just return for all the harm he had done when his poor boy----but ned went away, and left everything. it was not my fault; it was not norah's fault. yet she had done it, and i had wished she might. no; no more revenge. how can i get him away?' 'i am not so forgiving as you,' he said. helen could not rest. she rose up from the seat she had drawn to his side, and went to the window. there were steps that frightened her moving about outside, and then there was the sound of voices. 'come in and go over the house! come in at this hour of the night!' said a voice. it was miss jane's voice, brisk and alert as usual. helen hurried into the hall, to the door, where she could hear what was said. 'but jane, jane, if any one has got in? a thief--perhaps a murderer! oh, my poor stephen!' 'nonsense, mother! if you like to stay outside there, i'll go over all the house with susan, and let you know. why, mrs drummond! here are some men who want to come in to search for some one at this time of night.' 'i have told them already they should not come in,' said helen. she had opened the door, and stood in front of it with a temerity which she scarcely felt justified in; for how did she know they might not rush past her, and get in before she could stop them? such was her idea--such was the idea of all the innocent people in the house. the dura policeman was standing by with his truncheon and his lantern. 'i've told 'em, mum, as it's a mistake,' said that functionary; 'and that this 'ere is the quietest, most respectablest 'ouse--' 'thanks, wilkins,' said helen. it was a positive comfort to her, and did her good, this simple testimony. and to think that wilkins knew no better than that! 'will you keep near the house?' she said, turning to him, with that feeling that he was 'on our side' which had once prepossessed norah in favour of mr rivers. 'my daughter will be coming back presently, and i don't want to have her annoyed or frightened with this story. no one except the people who belong to it shall enter this house to-night.' 'as you please, ma'am; but i hope you knows the penalty,' said the detective. helen did not know of any penalty, nor did she care. she was wound up to so high a strain of excitement, that had she been called upon to put her arm in the place of the bolt, or do any other futile heroic piece of resistance, she would not have hesitated. she closed the door upon mrs haldane and her daughter, one of whom was frightened and the other excited. as they all came into the hall, susan became visible, with her candle in her hand, defending the passage to the kitchen. something ludicrous, something pathetic and tragic and terrible was in the aspect of the house, and its guardians--had one been wise enough to perceive what it meant. 'if susan will come with me,' said miss jane briskly; 'after that idiot of a man's romance, my mother will think we are all going to be murdered in our beds. if susan will come with me, i'll go over all the house.' 'we have examined ours,' said helen. 'susan, go with miss jane. mrs haldane, mr stephen is tired, i think.' 'stephen must not be alarmed,' said mrs haldane with hesitation. 'but are you sure it is safe? do you really think it is safe? you see, after all, when our door is open it is one house. a man might run from one room to another. oh, jane--mrs drummond--if you will believe me, i can see a shadow down that passage! oh, my dear, you are young and rash! the men will know better; let them come in.' 'i cannot allow them to come in. there is no one, i assure you, except your son, who wants your help.' 'you are like jane,' said the old lady; 'you are so bold and rash. oh, i wish i had begged them to stay all night. i wouldn't mind giving a shilling or two. think if stephen should be frightened! oh, yes, i am going; but don't leave me, dear. i couldn't be alone; i shall be frightened of my life.' this was how it was that helen was in stephen's room again when miss jane came down, bustling and satisfied. 'you may make yourself perfectly easy, mother. we have gone over all the rooms--looked under the beds and in the cupboards, and there is not a ghost of anything. poor susan is tired sitting up for us all; i told her i'd wait up for norah. well, now you don't ask any news of the ball, stephen. norah has danced the whole evening; i have never seen her sitting down once. her dress is beautiful; and as for herself, my dear! but everybody was looking their best. i don't admire clara burton in a general way; but really clara burton was something splendid--yes, yes, mother; of course we must get stephen to bed.' 'good-night,' said helen, going up to him. she looked in his face wistfully; but now the opportunity was over, and what could he say? he held her hand a moment, feeling the tremor in it. 'good-night,' he said; and then very low he added hurriedly, 'the gate into the dura woods--the garden door.' 'thanks,' she said, with a loud throb of her heart. the excitement, the suspense, were carrying helen far beyond her will or intention. she had been sensible of a struggle at first whether she would not betray the fugitive. now her thoughts had progressed so fast and far, that she would have fought for him, putting even her slight strength in the way to defend him or protect his retreat. he was a man whom she almost hated; and yet all her thoughts were with him, wondering was he safe by himself, and what could be done to make him safer still. she left the haldanes' side of the house eagerly, and hurried down the passage to the kitchen. he was there, in susan's arm-chair before the fire. his meal was over, and he had turned to the fire again, and fallen into a doze. while she was moving about in a fever of anxiety, he himself with his head sunk on his breast, was unconscious of his own danger. helen, who felt incapable of either resting or sleep, stood still and looked at him in a sort of stupor. 'poor dear, poor dear!' said susan, holding up her hand in warning, 'he's been worrited and worn out, and he's dozed off--the best thing he could do.' he might rest, but she could not. she went down the few steps to the garden, and stole out into the night, cautiously opening and closing the door. the garden was walled all round. it was a productive, wealthy garden, which, even when the gatehouse had been empty, was worth keeping up, and its doors and fastenings were all in good order. there was no chance of any one getting in by that side. mrs drummond stole out into the white moonlight, which suddenly surged upon her figure, and blazoned it all over with silver, and crept round, trembling at every pebble she disturbed, to the unused door which opened into the dura woods. it had been made that there might be a rapid means of communication between the gatehouse and the mansion, but it had never been used since the drummonds came. she had forgotten this door until stephen reminded her of its existence. it was partially hid behind a thicket of raspberry-bushes, which had grown high and strong in front. fortunately, a rusted key was in the lock. with the greatest difficulty helen turned it, feeling as if the sound, as it grated and resisted, raised whirlwinds of echoes all round her, and must betray what she was doing. even when it was unlocked, it took all her strength to pull it open, for she could do no more. for one moment she pressed out into the dark, rustling woods. through the foliage she could see the glance of the lights from the house and the moving flicker of carriage-lamps going down the avenue. the music came upon her with a sudden burst like an insult. oh, heaven! to think that all this should be going on, the dancing and laughter, and _him_ dozing there by susan's kitchen fire! she paused a little in the garden in the stillness--not for rest, but that she might arrange her thoughts, without interruption. but there was no stillness there that night. the music came to her on the soft wind, now lower, now louder; the sound of the carriage wheels coming and going kept up a low, continuous roll; now and then there would come the sound of a voice. it was still early; only a few timid guests who feared late hours, old people and spectators like the haldanes, were leaving the ball. it was in full career. the very sky seemed flushed over dura house, with its numberless lights. helen formed her plan as she crept about the garden in the moonlight. oh, if some kindly cloud would but rise, and veil for a little this poor earth with its mysteries! but all was clear, well seen, visible; the clear night and the blue heavens were not pitiful, like helen. man is often hard upon man, heaven knows, yet it is man only who can feel for the troubles of mankind. chapter vii. while her mother was thus occupied norah was taking her fill of pleasure. she 'danced every dance'--beatific fulfilment of every girlish wish in respect to a ball. she was so young and so fresh that this perpetual motion filled up the measure of her desires, and left her little time to think. to be sure, once or twice it had come over her that ned, poor ned, was not here to share in all this delight; and if norah had been destitute of partners, or less sought than she thought her due, no doubt her heart would have been very heavy on account of ned. but she had as many partners as any girl could desire, and she had no time to think. she was as happy as the night was long. the dancing was delightful to her for itself, the music was delightful, and the 'kindness' of everybody, which was norah's modest, pretty synonym for the admiration she received; and she asked no more of heaven than this, which she was receiving in such full measure. to be sure, her mother's disappearance disturbed her for the moment. but when mrs dalton had sworn by all her gods that mrs drummond was not ill, norah resigned herself once more to her happy fate. there was, at the same time, a special point which exhilarated norah, satisfied her pride, and raised her spirits. during all the festivities of the afternoon she had kept cyril rivers at arm's length. perhaps if he had not shown so much anxiety to approach nearer, norah would not have felt the same satisfaction in this--but his explanation, it was evident, was hanging on his very lips, and she had triumphantly kept him from making it. the same process was repeated in the evening. she had rushed into a perfect crowd of engagements in order to escape him. poor charlie dalton, whom clara had no longer any thought of, and who for the greater part of the evening had been standing about, dolefully gazing after her, was pressed unceremoniously into norah's service. once, when she happened to be disengaged and saw rivers approaching, she was so lost to all sense of shame as to seize him breathlessly by the arm. 'dance this dance with me, charlie,' she whispered impatiently. 'why must i dance?' said the poor boy, who had no heart for it. 'because i am determined not to dance with him,' said norah, energetically leading off her captive. and thus she kept the other at a distance, though perhaps she would have been less rigid in evasion had he been more indifferent to the opportunity. it was late in the night, after supper, when he secured her at last. 'miss drummond, you have avoided me all night----' 'i!' cried norah, 'but that is ridiculous. why should i avoid you, mr rivers? indeed i am sure i have spoken to you at least a dozen times this evening. it is not one's own fault when one is engaged.' 'and i have been so anxious to see you--to explain to you,' he cried, his eagerness, and the long, tantalizing delay having overcome his wisdom. 'i have been quite miserable.' 'about what, mr. rivers?' 'about what you must have thought very abominable behaviour--that day at the pictures; fancy, it is two months since, and you have never allowed me a moment in which i could say it till now!' 'at the pictures?' said norah, feigning surprise. 'i don't think we have seen you very often lately, and two months is a long time to remember. oh, i recollect! you left us in a hurry.' 'my mother had come to look for me--there was some business in hand that i had to be consulted about. i cannot tell you what a wretched ass i felt myself, dragged away without a moment to explain--without even time to say, "this is my mother."' 'mr rivers,' said norah, drawing her small person to its full height, and loosing her hold of his arm, 'i think it would have been good taste not to say anything about this. when we did not remark upon it, why should you? i am only a girl, i am nineteen, and i never disobeyed mamma that i know of; but still, do you think i should have let her carry me off like a baby from my friends whom i cared for, without a word? there are some things that one ought not to be asked to believe. you were not obliged to say anything at all about it. i should like to be polite, but i can't make myself a fool to please you. and, on the other hand, you know lady rivers is nothing to us. i did not ask to be introduced to her, and poor mamma was too ill even to know. please don't say any more about it. it would have been much better not to have mentioned it at all.' 'but, miss drummond!----' 'yes, i know. you wanted to be polite. but never mind. i am quite, quite satisfied,' said norah with a gleam of triumph. 'look here! let us have katie for our _vis-a-vis_. don't you think clara burton is looking quite beautiful to-night?' mr rivers did not reply. he said to himself that he had never been so completely snubbed in his life. he had never felt so small, so cowed, and that is not pleasant to a man. her very pardon, her condonation of his offence, was humbling to him. had she resented it, he had a hundred weapons with which to meet her resentment; but he had not one to oppose to her frank indignation, and her pardon. and yet, with curious perversity, never before had norah seemed so sweet to him. he had felt the wildest jealousy of poor charlie during that dance, which he went through so unwillingly; and, but for the cheerful strains of the lancers, which commenced at this point, and set them all--so many who enjoyed it, so many who did not enjoy it--in motion, it was in his mind to commit himself as he had never yet done--to throw himself upon her mercy. this thought gave to his handsome face a look which norah in her triumph secretly enjoyed, and called 'sentimental.' 'but i am not one of those girls that fall down and worship a man, and think him a demigod,' norah said to herself. 'he is no demigod! he has not so much courage as i have. he is frightened of--me! oh, if ned were but here!' this last little private exclamation was accompanied with the very ghost of a sigh--half of a quarter of a sigh, norah would have said, had she described it--ned was afraid of her too, and was not the least like a demigod. i do not defend norah for her sauciness, nor do i blame her; for, after all, the young men of the present day are very unlike demigods; and there are some honest girls left in the world capable of loving a man as his wife ought, without worshipping him as his slave, and without even bowing herself down in delicious inferiority before him, grovelling as so many heroines do. norah was incapable of grovelling under any circumstances; but then she had been brought up by her mother, in the traditions of womanly training such as they used to be in a world which we are told is past. this is the very worst place in the world for a digression, i allow; it is to permit of the dancing of that figure which they were just about to commence. clara burton was dancing in the same set, with mr golden. and as her own partner after this little episode was for some time anything but lively, norah gave her mind to the observation of clara. clara and mr golden were great friends. she had said to lord merewether that he was like papa, but it may be doubted whether papas generally, even when most indulgent, are looked up to by their children as clara looked up to her father's friend. all dura had remarked upon it before now; all dura had wondered, did the parents see it? what did mrs burton mean by permitting it? but it never once entered into mrs burton's cool, clever little head to fancy it possible that the attractions of such a man could move her child. everybody in the neighbourhood, except those most concerned, had seen clara wandering with this man, who was nearly as old as her father, through the dura woods. everybody had seen the flushed, eager, tender way in which she hung upon him, and looked up to him; and his constant devotion to her. 'if i were you i should speak to mr burton about it,' the rector's wife had said half a dozen times over; but the rector had that constitutional dislike to interfere in anything which is peculiar to englishmen. that night clara was beautiful, as norah had said; she was full of agitation and excitement--even of something which looked like feeling; her colour was splendid, her blue eyes as blue as the sea when it is stirred, her hair like masses of living gold, her complexion like the flushings of the sunset upon snow. as for her partner, a certain air of warning mingled in his assiduity. once norah saw him hold up his finger, as if in remonstrance. he was wary, watchful, observant of the glances round him; but clara, who never restrained herself, put on no trammels to-night. she stood looking up at him, talking to him incessantly, forgetting the dance, and when she was compelled to remember it, hurrying through the figure that she might resume the intermitted conversation. gradually the attention of the other dancers became concentrated on her. it was her moment of triumph, no doubt--her birthday, her coming of age as it were, though she was but eighteen--her entry, many people thought, into the glory of heiress-ship. but all this was not enough to account for the intoxication of excitement, the passion that blazed in clara's eyes. what did it mean? when the dance was over, the majority of the dancers made their way into the coolness of the conservatory, which was lighted with soft lamps. mr rivers took norah back to mrs dalton. his dark eyes had grown larger, his air more sentimental than ever. he withdrew a little way apart, and folded his arms, and stood gazing at her, just, norah reflected with impatience, as a man would do who was the hero in a novel. but very different ideas were in norah's mind. she seized upon charlie once more, who was sentimental too. 'come out on the terrace with me. i want to speak to clara,' she said. they were stopped just inside the open window by a stream of people coming in for the next dance. norah had been pushed close to the window, half in half out, by the throng. this was how she happened to hear the whispered talk of a pair outside, who were close by her without knowing it, and whom nobody else could hear. 'at the top of the avenue, at three o'clock. wrap a cloak round you, my darling. in the string of carriages ours will never be noticed. it is the best plan.' 'and everything is ready?' asked another voice, which was clara's. 'everything, my love! in an hour and a half----' 'for you! i could do it only for you!' in a minute after the two came in, pushing past norah and her companion, who, both pale as statues, let them pass. the others were not pale. clara's face was dyed with vivid colour, and mr golden, bending over her, looked almost young in the glow of animation and admiration with which he gazed at her. charlie dalton had not heard the scrap of dialogue, which meant so much; but he ground his teeth and stared at his supplanter, and crushed norah's hand which held his arm. 'that fellow!' charlie said between his teeth. 'had it been some one else, i could have borne it.' 'oh, charlie, take me back to your mother,' cried norah. her thoughts went like the wind; already she had made out her plan--but what was the use of saying anything to him, poor simpleton, to make him more unhappy? norah went back, and placed herself by mrs dalton's side. 'i do not mean to dance any more. i am tired,' she said; and, though the music tempted her, and her poor little feet danced in spite of her, keeping time on the floor, she did not change her resolution. mr rivers came, finding the opportunity he sought; but norah paid no heed to him. the men whose names were written upon her card came too, in anxiety and dismay. but to all she had the same answer. 'i am tired. i shall dance no more to-night.' 'let me look at you, child,' said kind mrs dalton; 'indeed you look tired--you look as if you had seen a ghost.' 'and so i have,' said norah. she felt as if she must cry; clara burton had been her play-fellow, almost her sister, as near to her as katie, and as much beloved. what was it clara was going to do? the child shivered in her terror. when the dancers were all in full career once more, norah put her mouth close to mrs dalton's ear and whispered forth her story. 'what can we do? what shall we do?' she asked. it would be impossible to describe mrs dalton's consternation. she remonstrated, struggled against the idea, protested that there must be some mistake. but still norah asked, 'what can we do? what can we do?' 'my dear norah! see, they are not near each other--they are not looking at each other. you have made a mistake.' 'why should they look at each other? everything is arranged and settled,' said norah. mrs dalton, if you will not come with me, i will go myself. clara must not be allowed to go. oh, only think of it! clara, one of us! i have made up my plan; and if you will not come, i will go myself.' 'norah, where will you go? what can _you_ do--a child? and, oh, how can i go after clara and leave the girls?' replied mrs dalton in her distress. 'you can leave them with charlie,' said norah. it had struck two before this explanation was made, and already a few additional guests had begun to depart. there was very little time to lose. before mrs dalton was aware she found herself hurried into the cloak-room, wrapped in some wrap which was not hers, and out under the moonlight again, scarcely knowing how she got there. 'this is not my cloak, norah,' she said piteously; 'my cloak was white.' 'never mind, dear mrs dalton; white would have been seen,' said norah, who was far too much excited to think of larceny. and then, impetuous as a little sprite, she led her friend round the farther side of the lawn, and placed her under the shadow of a clump of evergreens. 'there is a brougham standing here which never budges,' whispered norah, 'with a white horse. i have seen him driving a white horse. now stand very still. oh, do stand still, please!' 'but, norah, i see no one. it is mrs ashurst's old white horse; it is the fly from the inn. norah, it is very cold. our carriage will be coming. if it comes while we are gone--' norah grasped her tremulous companion by the arm. 'you would go barefoot from here to london,' she said in her ear, with a voice which was husky with excitement, 'to save any one, you know you would; and this is clara--clara!' some one came rapidly across the grass--a dark, veiled, hooded figure, keeping in the shadow. the morning was breaking in the east and mingled mysteriously with the moonlight, making a weird paleness all about among the dark trees and bushes. there was such a noise and ceaseless roll of carriages passing, of servants waiting about, of impatient horses, pawing and tossing their heads, that the very air was full of confusion. mrs dalton's alarm was undescribable. she held back the impetuous girl by her side, who was rushing upon that new-comer. 'norah! it is some lady looking for her carriage. norah!' norah paid no heed; she rushed forward, and laid hold upon the long grey cloak in which the new-comer was muffled. 'clara!' she cried. 'oh, clara! stop, stop! and come back.' at this moment there suddenly appeared among them another figure, in an overcoat, with a soft felt hat slouched over his face, who took clara by the hand and whispered, 'quick! there is not a moment to lose.' 'is it you, norah?' said clara from under her cloak. 'you spy! you prying inquisitive--! go back yourself. you have nothing to do with me.' 'oh, clara!' cried the other girl, clasping her hands; 'don't go away like this. it is almost morning. they will see you--in your ball dress. clara, clara, dear! hate me if you like--only, for heaven's sake, come back.' and now mrs dalton crept out from the shadow of the bushes. 'mr golden, leave her. let her go. how dare you over-persuade a child like that? let her go, or i will call out to stop you. clara!' he pushed them apart--one to one side, one to the other. 'quick!' he cried, with a low call to a servant who stood close by. 'quick, clara! don't lose a moment.' he had pushed them aside roughly, and stood guarding her retreat, facing round upon them. 'what is it to you,' he said, 'if i am employed to take miss burton to her father? you may call any one you please--you may go and tell her mother. i am coming--now, for your life!' the brougham dashed off with dangerous speed, charging, as it seemed, into the mass of carriages. there was a tumult and trampling of horses, a cry as of some one hurt; but all that the two terrified women on the lawn saw was clara's face, looking back at them from the carriage window, with an insolent, triumphant look. she had partially thrown off her cloak, and appeared from under it in her white dress, a beautiful, strange vision--and then there came the sound of the collision and conflict, and the struggle of horses, and the cry. but whoever was wounded, it was not anybody belonging to that equipage. the white horse could be traced down the avenue like a long, lessening streak of light. so far, at least, the scheme had been successful. they were gone. norah could not speak; she walked about upon the lawn, among the servants, wringing her hands. the morning dew, which was beginning to fall, shone wet upon her hair. 'what can we do--what can we do?' she cried. 'my dear child, we have done all we can. oh, that foolish, foolish girl! norah, your feet must be wet, and so i am sure are mine; and your pretty white tarlatan all spoiled. oh, heaven help us! is this what it has all come to? i dare not send charlie after them. norah, run and call mr dalton. he might go, perhaps. norah, oh, you must not go alone!' cried the rector's wife. but norah was gone. she rushed into the house, through all the departing guests, her cloak and her hair all wet with dew. she made her way into the ball-room in that plight, and rushed up to mr dalton, and led him alarmed out into the hall. mrs dalton had followed, and was slowly gathering up her dress. her heart was full of dismay and trouble; that clara should thus destroy herself--break her parents' hearts! and norah must certainly have spoilt her pretty new dress. 'one would not have minded had it done any good,' she murmured within herself. when they met the rector in the hall, a hurried consultation ensued. 'take our fly, george,' said mrs dalton heroically. 'we can get home somehow. take it! they cannot be very far gone--you may overtake them yet.' 'overtake them! though i don't even know which way they have gone,' said the rector, fretful with this strange mission. but, all the same, he went off, and hunted out the fly, and offered the driver half a sovereign if he could overtake the brougham with a white horse. but everything retarded mr dalton. his horse was but a fly horse, not the most lively of his kind. the man had been drinking miss burton's health, and was more disposed to continue that exercise than to gallop vaguely about the roads, even with the promise of an additional half-sovereign; mrs dalton, in the mean while, threw off her borrowed cloak, and went into the almost deserted ball-room in search of the mistress of the house; and mary and katie, wondering and shivering, standing close to charlie, who was their protector for the moment, made a group round norah in the hall, with the daylight every moment brightening over their faces, weariness stealing over them, and mystery oppressing them, and no appearance of either father or mother, or the fly! norah leant against katie's shoulder and cried. after all her impetuous exertions the reaction was sharp. she would not give any explanation, but leant upon her friend, and cried, and shivered. 'oh, where can mamma be? where is the fly? oh, norah, have my cloak too; i don't want it. how cold you are! charlie, run and look for the fly,' cried katie. they stood all clinging together, while the people streamed past, getting into their carriages, going away. the daylight grew clearer, the sun began to rise, while still they stood there forlorn. and what with weariness, what with wonder and anxiety and vexation, mary and katie were almost crying too. finally mrs dalton appeared, when almost all the guests were gone, with a flush on her kind face, and an energy which triumphed over her weariness. 'come, children, we must pluck up our courage and walk,' she said. 'take up your dresses, girls, and help norah with hers. poor child, perhaps the walk will be the best thing for her. it is of no use waiting for the fly.' here charlie came back to report that the fly was nowhere visible, but that some one who had been knocked down by a runaway horse was being carried up to the house, much injured. 'a white horse in a brougham. they say it took fright, and dashed down the avenue; and they are afraid the man is badly hurt,' said charlie. the ladies shuddered as the poor fellow was carried past them, his head bound round with a handkerchief stained with blood. they were the last to leave, and came down the steps just as this figure was being carried in. it was broad daylight now, and they all felt guilty and miserable in their ball dresses. this was how the last ball ended which was given by the burtons in dura house. they walked down weary, feeling some weight upon them which the majority of the party did not understand, all the length of the leafy avenue, where the birds were singing, and the new morning sending arrows of gold. the fly, with mr dalton in it, very tired and fretful, met them at the gate. he had not so much as come within sight of the brougham with the white horse. but yet he was ready to go up to the great house as duty demanded, to put himself at the service of its mistress. charlie, enlightened all in a moment as to the meaning of the night's proceedings, went with him, like a ghost of misery and wrath. the girls and the mother went home alone through the sunshine. and the echoes grew still about that centre of tumult and rejoicing. the rejoicing had ended now; and, with that feast, the reign of the burtons at dura had come to an end. chapter viii. a summer night passes quickly to those who have need of darkness for their movements. when mrs drummond found herself at liberty to carry out the plan she had formed, the time before her was very short. she went back to the kitchen, and called susan to her. mr burton woke up as she came in, and they had a hurried consultation; the consequence of which was that susan was sent to the stables, which were not very far from the garden door of the gatehouse, to order a carriage to be dispatched instantly to pick up mr burton at the north gate, two miles off, in the opposite direction from the village. he could walk thus through the grounds by paths he was familiar with, and drive to a station five miles further off on another railway. so readily do even innocence and ignorance fall into the shifty ways of guilt that this was helen's plan. he was to wait here till susan returned, and the experiment of her going would be a proof if the way was quite safe for him. when susan was gone mrs drummond returned alone to where her guest sat before the kitchen fire. she had her blotting-book under her arm, and an inkstand in her hand. 'before you go,' she said in a low voice, 'i want you to do something for me.' 'i will do anything for you,' he cried--'anything! helen, i have not deserved it. you might have treated me very differently. you have been my salvation.' 'hush!' she said. his thanks recalled her old feelings of distrust and dislike rather than the new ones of pity. she put down her writing things on the table. 'i have my conditions as well as other people,' she said. 'i want now to know the truth.' 'what truth?' 'about rivers's,' she said. 'helen!' 'it is useless for you to resist or deny me,' she replied, 'you are in my power. i am willing to do everything to serve you, but i will have a full explanation. write it how you please--but you shall not leave this place till you have given me the means, when i please, and how i please, of proving the truth.' 'what is the truth, as you call it?' he said sullenly; 'what have i to do with it? drummond and the rest went into it with their eyes open; all the accounts of the concern were open to them.' 'i do not pretend to understand it,' said helen. 'but you do. here are pens and paper. i insist upon a full explanation--how it was that so flourishing a business perished in three years; where those books went to, which robert was so falsely accused of destroying. oh, are you not afraid to tire out my patience? do you know that you are in my power?' he gave an alarmed look at her. he had forgotten everything but those fables about feminine weakness which are current among such men, and had half laughed in his sleeve half an hour before at her readiness to help and serve him. but now all at once he perceived that laughter was out of place, and there was no time to lose. the reflection that ran through his mind was--all must come out in a week or two--it will do her no good; but it can do me no harm. 'if i am to give an account of the whole history it will take me hours,' he said. 'i may as well give up all thought of getting away to-night.' but he drew the blotting-book towards him. helen did not relax nor falter. she lighted another candle; she left him to himself with a serious belief in his good faith which startled him. she moved about the kitchen while he wrote, filling a small flask with wine out of the solitary bottle which had been brought out for his refreshment, and which represented the entire cellar of the gatehouse--even brushing the coat which he had thrown aside, that it might be ready for him. the man watched her with the wonder of an inferior nature. he had loved her once, and it had given him a true pleasure to humble her when the moment came. but now the ascendancy had returned into her hands. had he been in her place how he would have triumphed! but helen did not triumph. his misery did not please, it bowed her down to the ground. she was sad--suffering for him, ashamed, anxious. he did not understand it. gradually, he could not have told how, her look affected him. he tore up the first statement he had commenced, a florid, apologetic narrative. he tore up the second, in which he threw the blame upon the ignorance of business of poor drummond and his fellow-directors. finally he was moved so strangely out of himself that he wrote the simple truth, and no more, without a word of apology or explanation. half-a-dozen lines were enough for that. the apology would, as he said, have taken hours. and then susan came back. by this time he had written not only the explanation required of him, but a letter to his wife, and was ready to try his fate once more. helen herself went with him to the garden door; the path through the woods was dark, hidden from the moonlight by the close copses and high fence, which it skirted for many a mile. and there would not be daylight to betray him for at least an hour. he stood on the verge of the dark wood, and took her hand. 'helen, you have saved me: god bless you,' he said. and in a moment this strange episode was over, as though it had never been. she stood under the rustling trees, and listened to his footsteps. the night wind blew chill in her face, the dark boughs swayed round her as if catching at her garments. a hundred little crackling sounds, echoes, movements among the copse, all the jars and broken tones of nature that startle the fugitive, made her heart beat with terror. if she had felt a hand on her shoulder, seizing her instead of him, helen would not have been surprised. but while she stood and listened all the sounds seemed to die away again in the stillness of the night. and the broad moonlight shone, silvering the black trees, out of which all individuality had fled, and the music from dura came back in a gust, and the roll of the carriages slowly moving about the avenue, waiting for the dancers. and but that helen stood in so unusual a spot, with that garden door half open behind her, and the big key in her hand, she might have thought that all this was nothing more than a dream. she went in, and locked the door; and then returned to susan's kitchen. it was her turn now to feel the cold, after her excitement was over; she went in shivering, and drew close to the fire. she put her head down into her hands. the tears came to her eyes unawares; weariness had come upon her all at once, when the necessity of exertion was over. she held in her hand the paper she had made burton write, but she had not energy enough to look at it. would it ever be of any use to her? would he whom it concerned ever return? or was all this--the picture, the visit to the exhibition, the sudden conviction which had seized upon her--were these all so many delusions in her dream? after a while miss jane, all unconscious, excited with her unusual pleasure, and full of everything she had seen, came and sat by her and talked. 'i told susan to go to bed,' said miss jane; 'and i wish you would go too, mrs drummond. i will sit up for norah. oh, how proud i was of that child to-night! i suppose it's very wrong, you know--so my mother says--but i can't help it. it is just as well i am a single woman, and have no children of my own; for i should have been a fool about them. the worst of all is that we shan't keep her long. she will marry, and then what shall we do? i am sure to lose her would break stephen's heart.' 'she is very young,' said helen, who answered for civility's sake alone, and who with all the heavy thoughts in her heart and apprehensions for the fugitive, would have given much to be left to herself. 'yes, she is young; but not too young to do a great deal of mischief. when i saw all those men on their knees before her!' cried miss jane, with a laugh of triumph. she had never been an object of much admiration or homage herself; men had not gone on their knees to her, though no doubt she was more worthy than many of the foolish creatures who have been so worshipped; but the result of this was that miss jane enjoyed heartily the revenge which other women had it in their power to take for all the slights and scorns to which she and her homely sisters had been subjected. she liked to see 'them' punished, though 'they' were an innocent, new generation, blameless, so far as she was concerned. she would not have injured a fly; but her face beamed all over with delight at the thought that it was norah's mission to break hearts. thus the good soul sat and talked, while helen listened to every sound, and wondered where was he now? what might be happening? she did not even hear what was being said to her until miss jane fell into a moralising vein. 'the burtons are at the height of their splendour now,' she said. 'i never saw anything so grand as it was. i don't think anything could be grander. but oh, mrs drummond, people's sins find them out. there's clara getting bewitched by that man; everybody could see it. a man old enough to be her father, without a scrap of character, and no money even, i suppose. think of that! and oh, what will all their grandeur do for them, with ned at the other end of the world, and clara throwing herself away?' 'oh, hush, hush!' cried helen. 'don't prophesy any more misfortune; there is enough without that.' and five minutes after norah came to the door, surrounded by the party from the rectory, all pale and terror-stricken, with the news which they felt to be so terrible. 'clara has gone away!' they stood at the door and told this tale, huddled together in the fresh sunshine, the girls crying, the elder women asking each other, 'what would the burtons do?' 'she was almost rude to me. she sent me away,' mrs dalton said, 'or i should have stayed with her. and mr burton is not there! what will she do?' they could scarcely make up their minds to separate, worn out and miserable as they all were. and, opposite, in the morning sunshine, two men still watched the gatehouse, as they had watched it all through the night. these miseries all ended in a misery which was comic, had any of them had heart enough left to laugh. while she helped to undress norah, miss jane suddenly uttered a scream, which made helen tremble from head to foot. she had caught in her hands the pretty flounces of that white dress, that lovely dress, dr maurice's present, which had turned poor little cinderella-norah into an enchanted princess; but now, alas, all limp, damp, ruined! even stained with the dewy grass and gravel across which it had come. miss jane could have cried with vexation and dismay. this was the climax of all the agonies of that wonderful night; but, fortunately, it was not so hopeless as the others. an hour later, when the house was all silent, and even helen lay with her eyes shut, longing to sleep, miss jane stole down-stairs again, carrying this melancholy garment on her arm. she went to susan's kitchen, where the fire was still burning, and spreading it out upon the big table, took it to pieces to see what could be done. and then she made a discovery which drew from her a cry of joy. the dress was _grenadine_, not tarlatan! dear, ignorant reader, perhaps you do not know what this means? but well did miss jane understand. 'grenadine will wash!' she said to herself triumphantly. she was a clever woman, and she was not unconscious of the fact. she could wash and starch with any professional. accordingly, she set to work with scissors and soap and starch and hot irons; but, above all, with love--love which makes the fingers cunning and the courage strong. mr burton made his escape safely. he had reached the north gate before the dog-cart did, which came up for him just as the morning was breaking. with this delay it so happened that when he reached the station to which he was bound, a brougham with a white horse appeared in sight behind, and gave him a thrill of terror; it was not a likely vehicle certainly for his pursuers; but still it was possible that they might have found nothing more suitable had they got scent of him at dura. he sprang out of the dog-cart accordingly, and took refuge in one of the corners of the station. it was a junction, and two early morning trains, one up and one down, passed between four and five o'clock. both parties accordingly had some time to wait. mr burton skulking behind anything that would shelter him, made out, to his great amazement, that the other traveller waiting about was his friend golden, accompanied by a cloaked and veiled woman. the fugitive grinned in ghastly satisfaction when he saw it. he had no desire just then to encounter golden, and in such companionship he was safe. it was a lovely morning, fresh and soft, cooler than july usually is, and the pair on the platform walked about in the sun, basking in it. he watched them from behind a line of empty carriages. the woman, whoever she was, clung close to her companion, holding his arm clasped with both her hands; while golden bent over her, with his face close to her veil. 'i wonder who she is? i wonder what they are doing here at this hour? i wonder if he has been to dura? and, by jove, to think of his going in for that sort of thing, as if he were five-and-twenty!' mr burton said to himself. he was full of curiosity, almost of amazement, and he longed to go and sun himself on that same platform too; but he was a fugitive, and he dared not. how could he tell who might be about, or what golden's feelings were towards him? they had been very good friends once; but burton had stood by golden but feebly at the time of the trial about rivers's, and golden had not stood by burton warmly during the time of difficulty which had culminated in ruin. he watched them with growing curiosity, with a kind of interest which he could not understand--with--yes, he could not deny it, with a curious wistfulness and envy. he supposed the fellow was happy like that, now? and as for himself, he was not happy--he was cold, weary, anxious, afraid. he had a prison before him, perhaps a felon's sentence--anyhow, at the least, a loud, hoarse roar of english society and the newspapers. if he could but succeed in putting the channel between him and them! and there was that other man, as guilty as himself, perhaps more guilty ('for he had not my temptations,' mr burton said to himself; 'he had not a position to keep up, an expensive establishment, a family'), sunning himself in the full morning light, waiting for his train in the eye of day, not afraid of anybody--nay, probably at the height of pleasure and success, enjoying himself as a young man enjoys himself! when the pair approached a little closer to his hiding-place than they had yet done, burton, in his haste to get out of the way, slipped his foot, and fell upon the cold iron rails. he rose with a curse in his heart, the poignancy of the contrast was too much for him. had he but known that his appearance would have confounded his old friend, and set all his plans to nought! could he but have imagined who it was that clung to golden's arm! but he did not. he saw the up-train arrive, and the two get into it. he had meant to go that way himself, feeling london, of all refuges, the most safe; but he had not courage to venture now. he waited for the other train going down into the country. he made a rapid calculation how he could shape his course to the sea, and get off, if not as directly, perhaps more securely. he had found a dark overcoat in the dog-cart, which was a boon to him; he had poor helen's flask of wine in his pocket. and as he got into the train, and dashed away out of the station and over the silent, sunshiny country, where safety lay, golden and golden's companion went out of mr burton's mind. he had a hundred things to think of, and yet a hundred more. why should he trouble himself about that? thus the night disappeared like a mist from the face of the world; and the th of july, an ordinary working day like the others,--saturday, the end of a common week,--rose up business-like and usual upon a host of toiling folk, to whom the sight of it was sweet for the sake of the resting day that came after it. old ann from dura den drove her cart with the vegetables, and the big posy for the sick gentleman, under stephen's window, and wondered that it should still be closed, though it was ten o'clock. susan, very heavy-eyed and pale, was cleansing and whitening her steps, upon which there had been so many footsteps last night. 'well, susan, you _are_ late,' said old ann. 'our folks were all at that ball last night,' said susan, 'keeping a body up, awaiting for 'em till morning light.' 'well, well, young folks must have their diversions. we was fond of 'em oursels once on a day,' said the charitable old woman. across the road the blinds were still down in the rectory. the young people were all asleep; and even the elder people had been overcome with weariness and the excitement through which, more or less, all of them had gone. before old ann's cart resumed its progress, however, stephen's window had been opened, and signs of life began to appear. about eleven mrs drummond came down-stairs. she had slept for an hour, and on waking had felt assured that she must have been dreaming, and that all her vision of the night was a delusion; but her head ached so, and her face was so pale when she looked at herself in the glass, that helen trembled and asked herself if this was the beginning of a fever. something must have happened--it could not all be a dream. she knelt down to say her prayers in front of the table, where her picture, her idol, was. and then she saw a paper, placed upright beneath it, as flowers might be put at a shrine. she read it then, for the first time, on her knees. it was the paper that reginald burton had written, which she had taken from him in her weariness without being able to read it. half-a-dozen lines, no more. she did not understand it now; but it was enough, it was final. no one, after this, could throw reproach or scorn upon her robert's name. robert! this night had been like a year, like a lifetime. it had made her forget. now she knelt there, and everything came back to her. she did not say her prayers; the attitude sometimes is all that the heavy-laden are capable of; of itself that attitude is an appeal to god, such as a child might make who plucked at its mother's dress to attract her notice, and looked up to her, though it could find no words to say. not a word came to helen's lips. she knelt and recollected, and thought--her mind was in a whirl, yet it was silent, not even forming a wish. it was as if she held her breath and gazed upon something which had taken place before her, something with which she had no connection. 'i have seen the wicked great in power, like a green bay-tree; and i passed again, and lo! he was not.' was that the story, written in ruin, written in tears? and robert! where was he--he who had stretched out his hands to her in the depths of despair, from hell, from across the atlantic, from--where? helen rose up piteously, and that suspense which had been momentarily dispossessed by the urgency of more immediate claims upon her attention, came back again, and tore her heart in twain. oh, they might think her foolish who did not know! but who else except robert could have seized her very heart with those two up-stretched hands of dives, hands that could have drawn her down, had she been there, out of the highest heaven? she could trust no longer, she thought, to the lukewarm interest of friends--to men who did not understand. she must bestir herself to find out. she must find out if she should die. thus, with dry, bright eyes, and a fire new-lit in her heart which burned and scorched her, she went down-stairs into the common world. 'i will bring your breakfast directly, 'm,' said susan, meeting her in the passage, and helen went in to the old, ghostly drawing-room, the place which had grown so familiar to her, almost dear. was it the old drawing-room she had lived in yesterday? or what strange vision was it that came across her of another room, far different, a summer evening as this was a summer morning, a child who cried 'mamma, here is a letter!' nothing--nothing! only a mere association, one of the tricks fancy plays us. this feverish start, this sudden swimming of the head, and wild question whether she was back in st mary's road, or where she was, arose from the sight of a letter which lay, awaiting her, on the centre of a little round table. it lay as that letter had lain some years ago, in which he took his leave of her--as a hundred letters must have lain since. a common letter, thrown down carelessly, without any meaning. oh, fool, fool that she was! chapter ix. mrs burton was alone in her deserted house. the house was not deserted in the common sense of the word. up-stairs at this very moment it was buzzing with life and movement; and at least the young men in the smoking-room--men who had come from town, from their duties and their pleasures, expressly for the ball--were commenting to each other carelessly upon the absence of their host. 'young burton has been off for six months on a wandering fit, and old burton is up to the eyes in business, as usual,' cyril rivers explained, who was not unfriendly to his entertainers; while the marchioness, with lady florizel in the room of state up-stairs, who was commenting upon clara's behaviour, and declaring her intention to leave next morning. 'fortunately, merewether has not committed himself,' the marchioness was saying. in another room of the house, mrs burton's two aunts, supported by their two maids, were shaking their heads together in mingled sorrow and anger. 'depend upon it, something will come of all this,' mrs everest said, as she put on her nightcap; and aunt louisa cried, and exclaimed that when clara entered on such an extravagant course, she always knew that some chastisement must come. 'i would shut that child up, and feed her on bread and water,' cried the stronger-minded sister; and so said the maids, who thought miss clary was bewitched--and with such a man! while all this was going on, little mrs burton was alone in the ball-room, which was still blazing with lights. she was seated wearily in a big chair at one end. but for her diamonds, which sought the light, and made a blaze of radiance round about her, like the aureole of a saint, she would have been invisible in the great, spacious, empty room. a deserted ball-room has been so often described, that i will not repeat the unnecessary picture. this ball-room, however, had not a dismal aspect; everything was too well managed for that. the flowers, arranged in great brilliant banks of colour, were not fading, but looked as brilliant as ever; the lights shone as brightly. except for some flowers dropped about from the bouquets of the dancers, some shreds of lace and tulle torn from their dresses, it might have been before instead of after the ball. mrs burton was seated at the further end. she sat quite motionless, her hands crossed in her lap, her diamonds reflecting the light. what a night this had been for her! the other parties concerned had each had their share--her husband his ruin, her child her elopement; but this small woman with her hands clasped, with this crowded house to regulate and manage, with her part still to play in the world around her, knew all and had all to bear. she sat thus among the ruins, nothing hid from her, nothing postponed. through her slight little frame there was a dull throbbing of pain; but her head was clear, and did not lose a jot of all that fate had done, of all it had in store. she did not complain. she had foreseen much; she had gone forward with her eyes open; she had even said that were her husband to be bankrupt in two days, she would give a ball on the intermediate night. if it was a brag, she had excelled that brag; she had given her greatest ball, and reached her apotheosis, on the very night when he was flying from justice. and no good angel had interfered to soften to her the news of these successive blows. she had herself opened the ball with old lord bobadil--the man of highest rank present; and it was when she had resumed her seat after that solemn ceremonial that golden, whom she hated, approached her, and whispered in her ear the news of her husband's ruin. she had been prepared for the news, but not then, nor at such a moment; nevertheless, she stood up and received the blow without a cry, without a moment's failure of her desperate courage. and everything had gone on. she was always pale, so that there was nothing to betray her so far as that went, and her cares as hostess never relaxed. she went from side to side, dispensing her attentions, looking after everybody's comfort as if she had been a queen, and all the time asking herself had he been taken? was he a prisoner? how much shame should she have to bear? then, when the slow hours had gone on, and the insupportable din about her seemed as if it must soon come to an end, there arrived that other messenger of woe, poor kind mrs dalton, with tears in her eyes, and a voice which faltered. 'the rector has gone after them. oh, will you let me stay with you? can i be of any use to you?' mrs dalton had sobbed, attracting, as the other woman--the real sufferer--knew, the attention of those groups about, who had no right to know anything of her private sorrows. 'it is not necessary. my father is here, and my aunts. i can have everything done that is wanted,' mrs burton replied: and she had turned round to show some one who came to ask her where the basket was with all the ribbons, and flowers, and pretty toys for the cotillion. through all this she had stood her ground. she had shaken hands with the last of her guests and had seen the visitors to their rooms before she gave in; and even now she was not giving in. had any one entered the empty room, mrs burton would have proved equal to the occasion; she would have risen to meet them--have talked on any subject with perfect self-command. but, fortunately, no one came. poor old mr baldwin had arrived at dura only that night, he had heard a great many disquieting rumours, and he was very unhappy about his son-in-law's position, and about the way in which his daughter took it. even the fact that she had her settlement scarcely consoled him; for he said to himself that the creditors would 'reflect' upon all this extravagance, and that even about the settlement itself a great deal would be said. he had hovered about her all the evening, looking wistfully at her, inviting her confidence; but mrs burton had not said a word to him, even of her daughter's disappearance. she had felt no impulse to do anything about clary. whether it was that all her energy was required to bear up against those successive blows, or if her pride shrank from informing even her own friends, or finally, if she felt it useless, and knew that now no power on earth could compel the self-willed girl to return, it is certain that mrs burton had 'taken no steps.' even now she did not think of taking any steps. she allowed her father and her aunts to go to bed without a word. she sat and pondered, and did nothing. alone in that great blazing deserted room--alone in the house--alone in the world: this was what she felt. out of doors the birds were singing and the sun shining; but the closed windows admitted only the palest gleam of the daylight. when the servants came to tell her that mr dalton was at the door, asking to see her, she sent him a civil message: 'many thanks; but her father was with her, and could do all she wanted.' then her maid came to ask if mrs burton did not want anything, and was sent away with a wave of her hand. then the butler came timidly to ask should they shut up? was master to be expected? at that summons mrs burton rose. 'i am tired,' she said, putting on her company calm; for simmons the butler was as important in his way as old lord bobadil. 'i was glad to rest a little after all the worry. yes, certainly, shut up, and let everybody go to bed. i do not expect your master to-night.' 'if i might make so bold, madam,' said simmons, 'tom the groom have just been in to say as orders was took to the stables to send the dog-cart for master to the north gate, and as he took him up there and drove him to turley station, and as he gave him this note, and said as it was all right.' 'all right!' she repeated the words, looking at him with a ghastly bewilderment which frightened the man. and then she recovered herself, and resumed her former composure. 'that will do, simmons. your master had a--journey--to make. i was not aware he would have started so--soon. have everything shut up as quickly as possible, and let all the servants go to bed.' she went up-stairs, emerging all at once into the full morning sunshine in the hall, which dazzled and appalled her. the light dazzled her eyes, but not her jewels, which woke at its touch, and blazed about her with living, many-coloured radiance. a little rainbow seemed to form round her as she went up-stairs. how her temples throbbed! what a dull aching was in every limb, in every pulse! she went into clara's room first. she was not a very tender mother, and never had been; yet almost every night for seventeen years she had gone into that room before retiring to her own. clara's maid was seated, fast asleep, before a table on which a candle was burning pitifully in the full daylight. the room looked trim and still as a room does which has not been occupied in that early brightness. the maid woke with a shiver as mrs burton entered. 'oh, miss clara, i beg your pardon!' she said. 'it is no matter. my daughter will not want you to-night. go to bed, jane,' said mrs burton. 'and you can tell barnes to go to bed. neither of you will be wanted. go at once.' when she was left alone, she cast a glance round to see if there was any letter. there was a little three-cornered note fastened on the pin-cushion. she took that into her hand along with her husband's note, which she held there, but did not attempt to read either. with a quick eye she noted that clara's jewel-case and all the presents which had been showered upon her that morning--her eighteenth birthday--had gone. a faint, mechanical smile came upon her face, and then she locked the door, and went to her own room. there she sat down again to think, with the diamonds still upon her and all her ornaments, and the two letters in her hand. why should she read them? she knew exactly what they would be. the one she did open after a long pause was clary's. the other--had she any interest in it? it gave her a sensation of disgust rather: she tossed it on the table. clary's note was very short. it ran thus:-- 'dear mamma,--feeling sure you never would consent, and as we both know we could not live without each other, i have made up my mind to leave you. i shall be mrs golden when you get this, for he has prepared everything. we start immediately for the lakes, and i will write you from there. of course it would have been nicer to have been lady somebody; but then i never saw any one who was half so nice as he is; and he hopes, and so do i, that you will soon make up your mind to it, and forgive us. 'your affectionate clary. 'he bids me say it is to be at st james's, piccadilly, and that if you inquire, you will find everything quite right.' mrs burton tossed this from her too on to the same table where the father's letter lay unopened. the scorn with which they filled her stopped for a moment the movements of that wonderful machine for thinking which nothing had yet arrested. it was 'human nature' _pur et simple_. clara had taken her jewels, had made sure it was 'all right' about the wedding; and the father had sent the same message--'all right.' all right! a smile flitted across the pale, almost stern, little face of the woman who was left to bear all this, and to bear it alone. most other women would have made some passionate attempt to do something--to pursue the one or the other--to go to their succour. mrs burton had no such impulse. she was like a soldier who has fought to the last gasp; she stood still upon her span of soil, her sword broken, her banner taken from her; nothing to fight for any longer, yet still, with the instinct of battle, holding out, and standing firm. so long as there was any excuse for keeping up the conflict, she would have borne every blow like a stoic; what she could not bear was the thought of giving in; and the hour for giving in had come. must it be told? must she acknowledge before the world that all had been in vain? that her husband was a fugitive, her daughter the victim of a scoundrel, her family for ever crushed down and trampled in the dust? to everything else she could have wound up her high courage. this was the only thing that was really hard for her, and this was what she had to do. how much, she wondered, would she have to suffer? probably mr burton would be taken, tried, share the fate which various men whose names she knew had already borne. should she have to go to him? to visit him in his prison? to read her own name in the papers--'mrs burton spent an hour with the prisoner.' 'his wife was present!' she clasped her small, thin hands together. for a long time she had wondered whether when it came she would feel it. she could have answered her own question now. ruin, shame, public comment, sudden descent from her high estate, humiliation, sympathy, even pity--all these were before her; and it would have been hard for her to say which was the worst. the young men roused her with their voices as they came up-stairs. it was not worth while going to bed, she heard one say; a bath, and then a long walk somewhere before breakfast was the only thing possible. this called her attention to the clock striking on the mantelpiece. six o'clock! no longer night, but day! she rose, and took off her jewels and her evening dress. it troubled, and tired, and irritated her to do all this for herself; but she succeeded at last. a nightly vigil, and even all the emotion through which she had passed did not make the same difference to her colourless countenance which it would have done to a more blooming woman. when she knocked at her father's door, and went in to his bedside to speak to him, he thought her looking very much as usual. he thought he must have overslept himself, which was likely enough, considering how late he had been last night; and that she had come to call him and have a chat with him before all her fine people came down to breakfast. it was kind of clara. it showed, what he had sometimes doubted, that she was still capable of recollecting that she was his child. 'i have come to tell you of some things that have happened,' she said, sitting down in the big chair by the bed, 'and to ask your advice and help. some strange things have happened to-night. in the first place, papa, you were a true prophet. mr burton has been obliged to go away.' 'to go away?' 'yes, to escape, to fly--whatever you call it. he is--ruined. i suppose he must be worse than ruined,' she added quietly; 'for--i hear--the police----' 'oh, clara! oh, my poor, poor child!' 'don't be sorry for me, papa. let us look at it calmly. i am not one to cry, you know, and get over it in that way. so far as i have heard yet, he has got off: he reached turley station this morning, i suppose in time for the train. most likely he has money, as he has not asked for any, and he may get safely off. stop, papa; that is not all i have to tell you. there is something more.' 'clara, my own poor girl! there can be nothing so bad.' 'some people would think it worse,' she said. 'papa, don't say any more than you can help. clara has--eloped. she has gone off with mr golden, whom you all forgave, whom i hated, who was--her father's friend.' the old man gave a great cry. clary was his grandchild, whom he adored. he loved her with that fond, caressing, irresponsible love which is sometimes sweeter than even a parent's love for his own child. it was for others to find fault with, to correct, her; the grandfather had nothing to do but admire, and pet, and praise. 'clary!' it was but the other day that he told her stories as she sat on his knee! 'yes, clary. here is her note, and here is--mr burton's. they are both gone. all this has happened since last night.' 'clara, what o'clock is it now?' 'half-past six,' she said, mechanically taking out her watch, 'and fortunately nobody will be stirring for some time at least. papa, what are you going to do?' 'i am going to get up,' he said. 'clara, there is still time. if i can get up to town by the first train, i may be in time to stop it yet.' 'to stop--what?' 'the marriage, child, the marriage! clary's destruction! go away, my dear, and let me get up.' 'it would be of no use,' she said. 'papa, when clary has made up her mind, nothing that we can say would stop her. you might do it by law, perhaps; but she will never come home again--never hear reason. i know her better. there were a great many things i wanted to ask about----' 'leave me just now, for heaven's sake, clara! i must try, at least, to save the child.' she rose without another word, and went away. a smile once more stole upon her face, and stayed there, rigid and fixed. he might have been of a little help to herself; but he thought of clary first--clary, who was obstinate, and whom nothing could move--who was coaxing and winning to those who loved her, and would persuade the old man to anything. well, mrs burton said to herself, she had hoped for his help for a moment; but now it was clear that she must do everything for herself. she went down-stairs, and took down a cloak which hung in the hall, and wrapping it about her, stepped out into the fresh air. that, at least, might help her, though nothing else would. she walked down to the avenue, to the skirt of the woods. like a cordial the soft air breathed about her, and gave her a certain strength. she was not a woman who cared about the meaner delights of wealth; all these she would have given up without a pang. but to exchange this large, free, lofty life which she had been leading for the restrained and limited existence of her father's house--to be no longer entire mistress of her own actions, but to be bound by her father's antiquated notions, by what aunt everett and aunt louisa thought proper--that would be hard to bend her mind to. to give up dura for clapham! even that she could do stoically, and no one would ever be the wiser. but to bear all the shame, all the comments, a husband in prison, a story of romance of real life, ruin of the father, elopement of the daughter, in the newspapers! mrs burton gave no outward sign of the struggle that went on within her, but she clasped her little thin white hands together, and she recognised at once, wholly and clearly, without any self-deception, what she would have to bear. she waited there till her father came up to her on his way to the station. he stopped and told her he would come back as soon as he could. 'most likely i will take clary to clapham first,' he said. 'better than here, don't you think? she might be frightened to face you after her folly. my dear, take a little courage, if you can. the innocent child has given us all the clue that is necessary--st james's, piccadilly. no marriage could take place before eight o'clock, and i shall reach there soon after--in time to prevent that, at least. i will take her to clapham, and then, my dear, i will come straight back to you.' 'very well, papa,' she said. in her heart she wondered at his simplicity, at the folly of his hopes; but what was the use of saying anything? if it pleased him to do this, if this was what he thought best, why, let him do it. let every one act as it seemed good in his own eyes. 'and by-the-by, clara, one thing more,' he said--'ned's address. where is he now? i must telegraph at once for him.' then some faint semblance of the tigress guarding her young appeared in mrs burton. 'ned! why should ned be brought home? why should he be involved in trouble he has nothing to do with? he is out of it; he, at least, is safe. no, papa; i will not have him brought back.' 'clara, you are mad, you are incomprehensible!' cried her father. 'give me the boy's address.' 'i will not,' she answered, looking at him. the woman had come to light in her at last--the woman and something of the mother. as a daughter she had neglected none of the observances of respect. she had been dutiful, though she had long been an independent agent, and had forgotten the very idea of obedience. but never had she defied her father before. she did it now calmly, as she did everything. she had upheld her family and its importance as long as mortal strength could do it; and now when that had failed, she could at least defend her boy. 'clara, you astonish me. i could not have believed it of you,' said her father severely. but he had no time to remonstrate or to command. he had to hurry away for his train. and she stood and looked after him, her breath for the first time quickened with excitement, her resolution bringing a certain colour to her cheek. ned was safe, and out of all this trouble. it was the only gleam of comfort in her clouded sky. he who should bring her boy back to undergo all this shame and suffering was her enemy, though it were done on the specious pretence of serving her. to bring her son back to support and help her would be to do her the last and cruellest wrong. she could do without the help and support. she was ready to bear anything, since it must be borne. what relief could it afford her to know that another suffered too, and that other her son? she went back to the house with quickened steps under the sway of the thought, that ned, at least, was safe and out of it. she was not the kind of woman who would complain of bearing anything alone. breakfast was a very late and straggling meal that day at dura; but mrs burton was the first at the table--before even the young man who had proposed a bath and a walk instead of sleep. the breakfast was as sumptuous, as well served, as usual, and there were the same number of servants about, the dogs, as usual, on the lawn, the man with the post-bags, as usual, visible, coming up the avenue. the ordinary eye would have seen no indication of any change. but mrs burton made a calm little speech to every new group, which had the most curiously disconcerting effect upon her guests. she said to them that family circumstances compelled her to make preparations at once for leaving dura; that some things had happened which she need not tell them of--family events--which had changed all her arrangements. she hoped, under these circumstances, they would pardon her, if she said plainly---- 'oh, yes, certainly. not another word,' the visitors cried, dismayed. they all gazed at each other, and whispered over their teacups when her back was turned. they heard her say the same thing to one party after another--even to the marchioness herself, who had come down fully primed, meaning to overwhelm mrs burton with a theatrical leave-taking. 'why, why, why!' she cried in her wrath, 'you mean that you want to--get rid of us, mrs burton!' and her hair stood on end upon her noble head. 'i am afraid, without making any mystery of it, that is what i do mean, lady upshire,' said the woman, who was only the wife of a rich city man--a _parvenue_, one of the _nouveaux riches_--fixing her blue eyes calmly upon her splendid guest. 'what pluck she has!' the young men said to themselves. they almost cheered her for her dauntless front. and they were all gone by two o'clock--marchioness and maid, guardsman and public servant--every visitor, gentle and simple. they disappeared as if by magic. what questions they asked each other, what speculations they entertained among themselves, mrs burton neither knew nor cared. the first thing was to be free of them; and when the afternoon came, she was alone with the startled servants and her two aunts, to whom as yet she had given no explanations, and whose private opinion, stated a hundred times that morning, was, that at last beyond all controversy clara must be mad. chapter x. mr baldwin came back to dura in the afternoon, worn out and disappointed--foiled by the simple fact, which had never occurred to the old man as possible, that clary--his innocent clary--had wittingly or unwittingly given a false indication, and that st james's, piccadilly, knew nothing of any such marriage. mr baldwin drove to all the hotels, to all the churches, he could think of, from st james's, camberwell, to st james's, kentish town, but in vain. just when it was too late to follow them further, he discovered an anonymous little chapel which he must have passed a dozen times in his journeys, where the ceremony had actually taken place. charles golden to clara burton. then he had gone to the northern railway station, and discovered that they had left by the eleven o'clock train. all he had done had been to verify their movements. the poor old man aged ten years during this running to and fro. he went back to his daughter worn out and miserable. little clary, the pride of the family, with all her beauty, her youth, and the possibilities that lay before her! 'now i know that we may go too far in carrying out the precepts of christianity,' he groaned, when his sympathetic sisters came to console him. 'we thought he had repented, and we took him back to our hearts.' in this, however, poor mr baldwin deceived himself. golden had been received back into their hearts, not because he had repented, but because the scandal against him had died into oblivion, and because in their souls even the honest men admired the consummate cleverness of the rogue. and in this point, at least, mr golden had not been mercenary; he had actually fallen in love with clara burton, knowing the desperate state of her father's affairs--affairs which were so desperate, when he was called on to help in regulating them, that he had been 'obliged to decline' the task. golden had a little sybarite 'place' of his own on the shores of the mediterranean. so many scraps of money had adhered to his fingers in his various commercial adventures, though these adventures were always unfortunate, that he could afford himself that crowning luxury of a beautiful wife; and then mr baldwin was a rich man and a doting grandfather, who after a while would be sure to forgive. as for mrs burton, she had expected her father's failure, and was not surprised or disappointed. she had given her daughter up, not with any revengeful or vindictive intention, but simply as a matter of fact. 'oh, don't curse her, clara!' aunt louisa sobbed in the midst of her tears. and then indeed mrs burton was surprised. 'curse her! i have no intention of cursing her,' she said. clary had taken her own way; she had pleased herself. what she had done was quite easily to be accounted for; it was human nature. mrs burton was not subject to passions herself, but she recognised them as a motive-power; and though perhaps in her inmost heart there was a sense of shame that _her_ child should be violently moved by those lowest, almost brutal, forces (for so she deemed them), yet her intelligence understood and allowed the possibility. clary had acted according to her nature; that was all that was to be said. she had laid an additional burden upon her family--or rather upon her mother, the only one of the family left to bear it; but then it was not natural to clary to take account of what other people might have to bear. thus mrs burton accepted it, making no complaint. if it gave her any additional individual pang for itself, and not merely as part of the whole, she at least said little about it, and made no individual complaint. but there came a moment when actual feeling, emotion not to be disguised, broke forth in this self-possessed woman. she had decided to remain at dura till further news, and until her husband's affairs could be fully examined into; and though her aunts went home, her father remained with her. two long days passed over without news. on the third, tuesday, mr baldwin went to town to make what inquiries were possible. as yet there had been but vague hints in the newspapers--rumours of changes affecting 'a well-known name in the city'--and the old man had hesitated to show himself, to ask any questions which might, as he said, 'precipitate matters.' 'while we are in ignorance, quiet is best,' he had said; but when the third day arrived, though mrs burton still bore the suspense like a stoic, mr baldwin could not bear it any longer. when he was gone, she showed no signs of impatience; she went about her business as usual, and she had a great deal to do. she had begun at once to wind up the accounts of the house, to arrange with her servants, to whom she was a just and not ungenerous mistress, when they should go, and what would be done to find them places. but when the languid afternoon came, her energy flagged a little. she did not allow, even to herself, that she was anxious. she went into the great drawing-room, and sat down near a window from which she could see the avenue. perhaps for the first time, the impulse came into her mind to prefer a smaller room, to take refuge somewhere else than in this waste of damask and gilding; but if such was the case, she restrained and condemned the thought. she was herself so small, almost invisible, in the great, silent place, full of those mirrors which reflected nothing, those chairs where no one sat. no marble statue with a finger on its lip was ever so complete an embodiment of silence as she, seated there all alone, motionless, looking out upon the road. it might have been hours before any one came. a summer afternoon, slow, languid, endless, one vast blank of drowsy calm and blazing sunshine, the wind too listless to blow, the leaves too heavy to wave, everything still, even the birds. but at last, at last some one came--not mr baldwin's slow, heavy old steps, but rapid young ones, light and impatient. she gazed at the speck as it gradually approached, and became recognisable. then her heart gave a great unexpected, painful throb. ned! her last little gleam of satisfaction, her last comfort, then, was not to be. he was not out of it, safe, as she had hoped, but here to bear all the brunt, to share all the shame. she tried to get up, to go and meet him, but sank back, faint and incapable, in her chair, trembling, sick to the heart; overwhelmed for the first time. he came in, bringing a gust of fresh air (it seemed) with him. he was dusty, and pale, and eager. 'mother!' he cried, as he came up to her. she held up her hand with a gesture which was almost passionate, repelling him. 'oh, ned, ned! why have you come here?' 'don't you want me, mamma?' he kissed her as he spoke, and put his arm round her. if she had been another kind of woman, he would have sobbed on her breast, for the lad's heart was very sore. 'no, i do not want you,' she said. 'i thought you were safe. i thought you were out of it all. i was ready to bear anything--it cannot hurt me--any more. but you, a boy, a lad, with all your life to come! oh, ned, ned, why have you come here?' she had never done it before in all her life. she did not embrace him, but clutched at his arm with her two hands, and shed passionate, hot tears. 'i do not want you! i do not want you!' she cried, and clung to him. 'i wish you were at the end of the world!' 'oh, mother!' cried the boy. he was fond of her, though perhaps she had never done anything to deserve it. and she--loved him. yes. all at once she found it out, with a mother's passion. loved him so that she would have been glad never to see him again; glad to be cut in pieces for him; glad to suffer shame, and pain, and misery, and ruin alone, that he might be out of it. this, which she had scarcely suspected, she found out at last. but when this moment was over, and the fact that he had come was indisputable, and had to be made the best of, mrs burton recovered her usual calm. she was ashamed of herself for having 'broken down.' she said it was fatigue and want of sleep which had made her weak, and then she told him all the circumstances dispassionately, as was natural to her. he himself had been summoned by a telegram from golden. he had been at dresden when he received it, and he had travelled night and day. but why from golden, he asked, a man whom he hated? 'your mother wants you here. there has been a great smash, and your presence is indispensable,' was what the telegram had said. but i will not attempt to describe how the little, pale, dispassionate mother told the tale, nor how the young son, full of youthful passion, indignation, rage, and grief, heard of his family's downfall, and the ruin of all its prospects and hopes. when mr baldwin came back, he brought news still more overwhelming. the fact which had made further concealment impossible, and had driven burton to flight, was the winding up of a trust account for which he had been responsible. the property had been invested by him, and he had paid the interest regularly; but it was found that not a penny of the original capital remained; he had appropriated all. when it was known that he had disappeared, other inquiries had been at once set on foot, but kept carefully out of the papers, lest his escape might be facilitated; and then such disclosures were made as mr baldwin could only repeat bit by bit, as his strength permitted. the old man cried like a child; he was utterly broken down. it had even come out about rivers's, he said. one of the missing books, which poor drummond had been accused of destroying, had been found in a private safe, along with other damning accounts, which the unhappy man had not been able to destroy or conceal, so quickly did his fate overtake him. the unhappy man! both mr baldwin and mrs burton remembered the time when robert drummond had been thus described--when all the newspapers had preached little sermons about him, with many a repetition of this title--articles which burton had read, and shaken his head over, and declared were as good as sermons, warning the ignorant. this flashed upon mrs burton's mind, and it came more dimly to her father. fortunately, ned's misery was not complicated by such recollections; he had enough without that. 'but the general impression is that he has escaped,' said mr baldwin; and he repeated to them the vague account which had been given to him of the two futile detectives, who had watched the fugitive into a house, and kept in front of it, putting the inhabitants on their guard, while he was smuggled out by a side-door. no doubt he had escaped. and it was known that he had money; for he had drawn a large sum out of the bank the day before. 'i am glad you have come back, ned,' the grandfather added. 'it is you who ought to manage all this, and not your mother. of course she has her settlement, which nobody can touch. and i think now, my dear, that you should leave dura, and come with me to clapham. you will have your aunts' society to make up a little, and it will be more convenient for ned.' mrs burton looked at her son almost wistfully. 'ned, is there any sacrifice i can make that will induce you to go away?' 'none, mother,' he said, 'none. i will do anything else that you ask me. but here i must have a will of my own. i cannot go away.' 'go away!' said mr baldwin. 'i don't know how he has got here; for your mother would not let me send for you, ned; but of course this is your proper place. it will be very painful--very painful,' said the old man. 'but you have your settlement, clara; and we must hope everything will turn out for the best.' 'my mother will give up her settlement, sir, of course,' said ned. 'after what has happened, she could not--it would be impossible--what! you don't see it? must not those suffer who have done the wrong?' 'ned, you are a fool,' said mr baldwin, 'a hot-headed young fool. i see your sense now, clara. that scoundrel, golden, has sent for him only to increase our vexation. give up her settlement! then pray how is she to live?' 'with me,' said ned, rising up, and standing behind his mother's chair. he would have taken her hand to sustain him, if he could; but she did not give him her hand. he put his on the back of her chair. that, at least, was something to give him strength. 'with you!' mr baldwin was moved by this absurdity to something of his former vigour. 'it would be satisfactory, indeed, trusting her to you. i will have no quixotical nonsense brought in. this is my affair. i am the proper person to look after my daughter's settlement. it is the only comfort in a bad business. don't let me hear any more of such childish folly.' 'it is not folly,' said ned firmly, though his voice trembled. 'i am sure my mother feels like me. we have no right to keep anything while my father has been spending other people's money; or if we have a right in law--' mrs burton put up her hand to stop him. it was the first time in her life that she had allowed herself to be discussed, what she should or would do, without taking any share in it. the fact was, the question was a new one--the problem quite strange to her. she had considered it as certain up to this moment that her settlement belonged to her absolutely, and that her husband's conduct one way or other could have no effect upon her undoubted right. the problem was altogether new. she put up her hand to interrupt the discussion. 'i have not thought of this,' she said. 'ned, say no more. i want time to think. i shall tell you to-morrow what i will do.' against this decision there was not a word to say. the old man and the boy gave up their discussion as suddenly as they had begun it. let them argue as they would, it was she who must settle the question; and just then the great bell rang--the bell which regulated the clock in the village, and warned all the countryside when the great people at the great house were going to dine. the ears which were accustomed to it scarcely noted the sound; but ned, to whom it had become a novelty, and as great a mockery as a novelty, started violently, put up his hands to his ears, and rushed out into the hall, where simmons stood in all the splendour of his evening dress. 'stop that infernal noise!' cried poor ned, in a sudden outburst of rage and humiliation. he felt tempted to knock down the solemn spy before him, who already, he saw, had noted his dusty dress, his agitated face. 'happy to see you home, sir,' said simmons. 'did you speak, sir? is there anything as i can do for you?' 'the bell is not to be rung any more,' said ned, walking gloomily off to his room. it was the first sign to the general world that the grandeur of dura had come to an end. a mournful dinner followed, carefully cooked, carefully served, an assiduous, silent servant behind each chair, and eaten as with ashes, and bitterness, and tears, a few faint remarks now and then, a feeble attempt, 'for the sake of the servants,' to look as if nothing was the matter. it was mr baldwin chiefly, a man who never could make up his mind that all was over, who made these attempts. mrs burton, for her part, was above all pretences. her long stand against approaching ruin was over; she had laid down her arms, and she no longer cared who knew it. and as for ned, he was too miserable, too heart-broken, to look anything but overwhelmed with sorrow and shame, as he was. in the evening he strolled out, feeling the air of the house insupportable. his mother had gone to her room with her new problem which she had to solve, and mr baldwin was tired, and fretful, and anxious to get to bed early, feeling that there was a certain virtue in that fact of going early to bed which might redeem the unusually disturbed, excited life he was leading--a life in which he had been fatally entangled with ruins, and elopements, and sitting up half the night. ned, who had no mind for sleep, and no power of thinking which could have been of any service to him in the circumstances, went out disconsolately, saying to himself that a stroll in the woods might do him good. but when he had reached the top of the avenue, where the path diverged into the woods, some 'spirit in his feet' led him straight on. why, he asked himself, should he go to the village? why should he go to the gatehouse? yes, that was where he wanted to go--where his foolish heart had gone before him, courting slight and scorn. why should he go? if she had sent him away then with contumely, how much more now? at that time, if she had but looked upon him kindly, he had thought he had something to offer her worthy her acceptance. now he had nothing, and less than nothing--an empty purse and a dishonoured name. ned slouched his hat over his eyes. he would go and look at the house, look at her window. if he might see her face again, that would be more than he hoped for. norah could be nothing--nothing to him now. so saying, he wandered down the leafy, shadowy way. the sun had set, the gray of the evening had come on; the moon was past the full, and rose late; it was one of those soft, tranquil, mournful summer evenings which fill the heart with wistfulness and longings. the water came unbidden into poor ned's eyes. oh, what ruin, what destruction had overwhelmed him and his since last he walked down that path! then everything that life could offer to make up for the want of norah (though that was nothing) lay within his grasp. now, though norah was clearly lost, everything else was lost with her. he saw no hope before him; his very heart was crushed; a beggar, and more than a beggar; a man who did not know how to dig or how to work; the son of a father who was disgraced. these were miserable thoughts to pour through the mind of a young man of twenty-one. there have been others who have had as much to bear; but they, perhaps, had no norah to complicate and increase the burden. as he drew near the gatehouse, his heart began to beat louder. possibly she would not care to speak to him at all, he thought; how quickly she had dismissed him last time, when he had no stains upon him, as he had now! he drew his hat still more over his brows. he walked quickly past the gatehouse. the windows were all open, and stephen haldane sat within, in an interior faintly lighted up by the candles which miss jane had just set down upon the table. 'don't shut my window yet,' he heard the invalid say. 'my poor window! my chief pleasure!' it was strange to ned to hear those words, which seemed to let him into the very secret of the sick man's life. 'and a capital window it has been too,' said miss jane briskly, thinking of the book, and the money it had brought in. ned slackened his steps when he had passed. there had been something at one of the windows on the other side--something, a shadow, a passing gleam, as of a pale face pillowed upon two arms. the poor boy turned, and went back this time more slowly. yes, surely there was a face at the window. the arms were withdrawn now; there was no light inside to reveal who it was; only a something--a pale little face looking out. back again--just once more, once more--to have a last look. he would never see her again, most likely. as far away as if she were a star in heaven would she be henceforward. he would pass a little more slowly this time; there was no one about to see him. the road was quieter than usual; no one in sight; and with his hat so over his eyes, who could recognise him? he went very softly, lingering over every step. she was still there, looking out, and in the dark with no one near her! oh, norah! if she could but know how his heart was pulling at him, forcing him towards that door! he thought he heard some sound in the silence as of an exclamation, and the face disappeared from the window. a moment after the door opened suddenly, and a little figure rushed out. 'ned!' it said, 'ned! is it possible? can it be you? and, oh, what do you mean walking about outside like that, as if you knew nobody here?' 'oh, norah! i did not know if i might come,' said abject ned. 'of course you may come. why shouldn't you come? oh, ned, i was so lonely! i am so glad to see you! i did not know what to do with myself. susan would not bring in the lamp, and i am so afraid of this room when it is dark!' 'how you once frightened me about it!' he said, as he went in with her. his heart felt so much lighter, he could not tell how. insensibly his spirits rose, and with a sense of infinite refreshment, and even of having escaped from something, he went back to the recollections of his youth. such an innocent, simple recollection, belonging to the time when all was pleasure, when there was no pain. 'did i? but never mind. oh, ned! poor ned! have they brought you here because of all this trouble? i have so much to say to you. my heart is breaking for you. oh, you poor, poor, dear boy!' this was not how he had expected to be spoken to. he could scarcely see her face, it was so dark, what with the curtains at the windows and the shadows of the lime leaves; but she had put her hand into his to comfort him. he did not know what to say; his heart was torn in twain, between misery and joy. it was so hard to let any gleam of light into that desperate darkness; and yet it was so hard to keep his heart from dancing at the sound of her soft, tender voice. 'norah,' he said, 'oh, norah! it will not be so very bad if you are sorry for me. you would not speak to me last time. i thought i might, perhaps, never see you again.' 'oh, ned! i was only a child. how foolish i was! i hoped you would look back; but you never looked back; and we who have been brought up together, who have always been--fond of each other!' 'do you? do you? oh, norah! not just because you are sorry? do you care--a little for me? speak the truth.' 'ned, ned!--i care for you more than anybody--except mamma.' there was a little silence after this. they were like two children in the simplicity of their youth; their hearts beat together, their burdens--and both the young shoulders were weighed down by premature burdens--were somehow lightened, they could not tell how. after a while, norah, nestling like a little bird in the dark, said softly, 'do you mind sitting without the lamp?' and ned answered, 'no.' they sat down together, holding each other's hands; they were not afraid of the dark. they poured out their hearts to each other. all his sorrows, all his difficulties, ned poured into norah's sympathetic bosom; and she cried, and he consoled her; and she patted his hand or his sleeve, and said, 'poor boy! poor, dear ned!' it was not much. she had no advice to give him, not many words of wisdom; but what she did say was as healing as the leaves of that tree in paradise. her touch stanched all his wounds. 'i have something to tell you too,' she said, trembling a little, when all his tale had been told. 'ned, you have heard of poor papa, my father, who died before we came here? oh, ned! listen. stoop down, and let me whisper. ned, he did not die--' 'norah!' 'hush. yes; it is quite true. oh, don't be frightened. i can't help being frightened staying here alone. mamma went to him yesterday. oh, ned! after seven years! was there ever anything so strange?' 'poor mrs drummond!' said ned. 'oh, norah, thank god; my father has not done so much harm as i thought. are you all alone, my own darling? i suppose she was happy to go.' he said this with a strange accent of blame in his voice. 'for her own selfish happiness she could leave norah--my norah--all alone!' this was what the young man, in his haste, thought. 'i think she was frightened too,' said norah, under her breath. 'she did not understand it. it is as if he had been really dead, and come alive again. mamma did not say anything; but i know she was frightened too.' 'norah, most likely he hates us. if he should try to keep you from me--' 'oh, ned, do you mean that this means anything? do you think it is right? we are all in such trouble, not knowing what may happen. do you mean,' said norah, faltering and trembling, 'do you mean that this means--is it--being engaged?' 'doesn't it, dear? oh, norah, what could it mean else? you would never have the heart to cast me off now?' 'cast you off! oh, no, ned! oh, never, ned! but then that is different. we are so dreadfully young. we have no money. we are in such trouble. oh! do you think it is right?' 'it can't be wrong to be fond of each other, norah; and you said you were--a little.' 'yes; oh, yes! oh, ned! do be satisfied. isn't it enough for us to care for each other--to be the very best, dearest friends?' 'it is not enough for me,' he said, turning his head aside, and speaking sternly in the dark. 'isn't it, ned?' said norah timidly. 'ned, i wish i could see your face. you are not angry? you poor, dear boy! oh! you don't think i could have the heart to cross you? and you in such trouble. ned, what must we do?' 'you must promise me, norah, on your true and faithful word, that you will marry me as soon as we can, whatever anybody may say.' norah in her alarm seized at the saving clause which staved off all immediate terrors. 'when we _can_, ned.' 'yes, my own darling. you promise? i shall not mind what happens if i have your promise--your faithful promise, norah.' 'i promise you faithfully, ned--faithfully, dear ned!--when we can--if it should not be for years.' 'but it shall be!' he cried; and then they kissed each other, poor children! and norah was sitting by herself crying when susan brought in the lamp. chapter xi. mrs burton took her new problem away with her into the quiet of her room. it was a question which had never occurred to her before. some few first principles even an inquiring mind like hers must take for granted, and this had been one of them. she had no love for money, and no contempt for it--it was a mere commonplace necessity, not a thing to be discussed; and though she had a high natural sense of honour and honesty, in her own person, it had not occurred to her to consider that in such a matter she had anything to do but to accept the arrangement which was according to law and common custom, an arrangement which, of course, had been made (theoretically) in view of a calamity such as had just happened. it was the intention of her settlement, and of all settlements, she said to herself, to secure a woman against the chances of her husband's ruin. she, in most cases, was entirely irresponsible for that ruin. she had nothing to do with it, and was unable to prevent it. she had married with the belief that she herself and her children would be provided for, and the first duty of her friends was to make sure that it should be so. up to this point there was no flaw in the argument. mrs burton knew that she had brought her husband a good fortune; and her future had been secured as an equivalent. it was like buying a commission--it was like making an investment. she had put in so much, she had a right to secure to herself absolutely the power of taking it out again, or recovering what had been hers. mr burton had not incurred his liabilities with her knowledge or consent; he had never consulted her on the matter. he had never said or even hinted to her that her expenditure was too great, that he could not afford it. true it was possible that fastidious persons might blame her for proceeding so long on her splendid course, after hints and rumours had reached her about her husband's position; but these were nothing more than rumours. she had no sort of official information, nothing really to justify her in making a sudden change in her household, which probably would have affected mr burton's credit more than her extravagance. she was in no way responsible. she had even protested against the re-introduction of golden into his affairs. she could not blame herself for anything she had done; she had always been ready to hear, always willing to give him her advice, to second him in any scheme he propounded to her. she put herself at the bar, and produced all the evidence she knew of, on both sides of the question, and acquitted herself. the money she could have saved by economy was not worth considering in the magnitude of mr burton's affairs. she had done nothing which she could feel had made her his accomplice in his wrong-doing. and she had no right to balk her father in his care for her--to establish a bad precedent in regard to the security of marriage settlements--to put it in the power of any set of creditors to upbraid some other woman whose view of her duty might be different. she had no right to do it. she had to think not of herself only, but of all the married women who slept serenely in the assurance that, whatever happened, their children's bread was secure. she reflected that such a step would put an end to all security--that no woman would venture to marry, that no father would venture to give his child to a man in business, if this safeguard were broken down. it would be impossible. it would be a blow aimed at the constitution of the country--at the best bulwark of families; it would be an injustice. of all a commercial man's creditors, surely his wife was the one claimant who had most right to come first. others might be partially involved; she had put everything in his hands. without this safeguard she would not have married him, she would not have been permitted to marry him. going over the question carefully, mrs burton felt, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she had right on her side. she had right on her side--but she had not ned. this was a very different matter--an argument such as she had scarcely ever taken into consideration before. mrs burton did not disdain the personal argument. she knew that in the confused state of human affairs, in the intricate range of human thoughts, it was often impossible to go upon pure reason, and that personal pleas had to be admitted. but she had never consciously done this before. she was almost scornful of her own weakness now. but she could not help herself. she had to suffer the entrance of this great personal argument, if with a mental pang yet without resistance. she loved her son. all that reason could do for her, all the approbation of her own judgment, the sense of right, the feeling that her position was logically unassailable, would not be enough to console her for the illogical, unreasoning disapproval of her boy. for the first time in her life, with a great surprise, this certainty seized upon her. up to this time she had gone her own way, she had satisfied herself that she was right according to her own standard, and she had not cared what any one said or thought. but now all at once, with wonder, almost with shame, she found that she had descended from this high eminence. a whole host of foolish, childish, unreasonable principles of action, inconsequences, and stupidities were suddenly imported into her mental world by this apparition of ned. not the most certain sense of right that reasoning creature ever had, would neutralise, she felt, that pained and wondering look in her son's eyes. if he disapproved it would be a cold comfort to her that reason was on her side. if this indignant, impatient, foolish young soul protested against her that what she did would not bear comparing with some fantastic visionary standard which he called honour, what would it avail her that by her own just standard of weight and measure she was not found wanting? thus all mrs burton's principles and habits, her ways of thinking, the long-exercised solitary irresponsible power of her intelligence, which had guided her through life for forty years, were all at once brought to a sudden stand-still by the touch, by the breath of that thing called love, which, she knew not how, had suddenly come in upon her like a giant. this new influence paralysed the fine, delicate, exquisite machinery, by which hitherto all her problems had been worked out. she tried to struggle against it, but the struggle was ineffectual. it was the first time she had felt herself, acknowledged herself, to be acting like a fool! what then? she could not help it. even in the clear, cold daylight of her mind the entrance of this new force, all shadowy, mysterious, wonderful, could not be contested. she threw down her arms once more. she had been beaten terribly, miserably in the battle of her life--she was beaten sweetly, wonderfully now, in a way which melted her hardness and made the disused heart beat and tremble strangely within her, in the other world where reason hitherto had reigned supreme. but nothing more was said on the subject for some time. next morning brought letters, which roused the little party once more into excitement. there was one from mr burton, informing his wife that he had got safely to france by a way little used, and was now in the small seaport of st servan, awaiting letters from his family, and their advice as to what was best. he had not meant to go there, but a chance encounter with golden at the station had driven him to take the down-train instead of the up-train. he would remain there if he could, he added, until he heard from home; but if any alarm came would hasten across the country to brest, from whence he could get off to america. mr burton did not say a word of apology or explanation, but he begged to have news 'of all,' to be told 'how people were taking it,' and to have the newspapers sent him. he added in a p.s. the following question: 'by the way, what could golden be doing at turley station, seven miles from dura, at four o'clock in the morning? and who could the lady be who was with him? if you hear anything on this subject, let me know.' clara's letter was from windermere. it was full of effusiveness and enthusiasm, hoping that dearest mamma would forgive them. papa, charles had told her, was not likely to be in a position to forgive any one, but would want it himself, which was very dreadful; but was it not beautiful of charles, and showed how generous and true he was, that papa's ruin made no difference to his feelings? this reflection, clara said, made her so happy, that she felt as if she could even forgive papa--for if he had not been so rash and so wicked she never would have known how much her dear charles loved her. they were coming back to london in a fortnight from this heavenly lake, and would start then on a roundabout journey to charles's delightful 'place' on the mediterranean. and, oh! clara hoped with effusion, dearest mamma would see them, and forgive them, and believe that she never had been so happy in her life as when she signed herself dear mamma's ever affectionate clara golden. these were the letters that came to the little party at dura on the morning after ned's arrival. they were received with very different feelings by the three. mr baldwin, on the whole, was pleased. he was pleased with the 'love to grandpapa,' with which clara wound up her letter; and he was glad the child was happy at least. 'what is done cannot be undone,' he said; 'and that is quite true about there being nothing mercenary in it, you know.' mrs burton gave a faint smile as she laid the letters down one after another. they were just such letters as she expected. had she been alone, perhaps, she would have tossed them from her in scorn, as she had done with the previous notes; but that had been in a moment of strong excitement, when she was not full mistress of herself; and what was the good, mrs burton thought, of quarrelling with your own whom you cannot alter; or of expecting sense and good taste where such qualities did not exist? from these two, her husband and her daughter, she did not expect any more. but poor ned was utterly cast down by these epistles. he asked himself, as norah had done when mr rivers left her at the door of the academy's exhibition, was this natural? was this the way of the world? and, like norah, felt his own distress doubled by the horrible thought that to think of your own comfort first and above all, and to be utterly unmoved by the reflection that you have caused untold misery to others, is the natural impulse of humanity. he was so sad, and looked so humbled, that his mother's heart was penetrated in her new enlightenment by a strange perception of how he was feeling. she was not so feeling herself. the sight of selfishness, even on so grand a scale, did not surprise nor shock her; but she felt what he was feeling, which was as strange to her as a new revelation. the family at dura during these days were like a beleaguered city--they lived encircled in a close round, if not of enemies, yet of observant, watchful spectators, who might become enemies at any moment, who might note even the postmark on their letters, and use that against them. whenever a step was heard approaching the door, a little thrill went through them. it might be some one coming to announce deeper misfortune still. it might be some one who dared to be insolent, some one who had a right to curse and denounce. the tension of their nerves was terrible, the strain of watchfulness, and the pain of standing secretly and always on their defence. 'let us go, let us go, clara, i cannot stay here any longer; now that we know where to write to them, let us go,' cried mr baldwin after the letters had been read and discussed; and then the old man went out to take a melancholy walk, and ponder what it would be best to do. should they go back to clapham? or should he take his poor child away somewhere for 'change of air'? if ever any one wanted change of air surely clara must. 'ned, come here,' said mrs burton, when they were left alone. he went and sat down by her, listless, with his hands in his pockets. notwithstanding the joy of last night, the letters, the shame and ruin and misery, had overwhelmed ned. 'i have been thinking over what you said yesterday about my settlement,' said his mother. 'ned, in one way your grandfather was right. it is the equivalent to my fortune. it was the foundation of our family life--without that i should not have been permitted to marry; i should not probably have chosen to marry. to give up that is to make an end of all the securities of life--i speak as arguing the question.' 'how can _we_ argue the question?' cried ned. 'what have the securities of life mattered to the others, who had no connection with--with my father? he was nothing to them but a man of business. they trusted him, and they have nothing left.' 'yes, ned; but if one of them had been a secured creditor, as it is called, you would not have expected him to give up his security, in order to place himself on an equal level with the others. the most visionary standard of honour would never demand that.' 'we are not secured creditors. we are part of him, sharing his responsibility,' cried ned bitterly, 'sharing his shame.' 'but we are the first of all his creditors, all the same, in justice; and our debt is secured. ned, i do not say this is what i am going to do; but i think, according to my judgment, your grandfather is right.' 'then, mother----' he had risen up, his face had grown very pale, his nostrils dilated, his eyes shining. she who had never been afraid for anything in her life was afraid of her son--of his indignation, of his wrath. she put out her hand, half appealing, half commanding, to stop him. she caught at him, as it were, before he could say another word. 'ned, hear me out first! i approve of it as a matter of justice. i think we have no right to set up a new standard to make a rule for other women in my position. there will always be such, i suppose. the settlement itself was simply a precaution against this possible thing--which has happened. but i do not say i mean to act according to my opinion. that is different. i have--thought it over, ned.' 'mother,' he said, melting almost into tears, and taking her hand into his, 'mother! you who are so much wiser than i am--you are going to let yourself be guided by me?' 'yes,' she said. 'i don't quite make myself out, ned. i have always taken my own way. mine is the right way, the just way; but perhaps yours is the best.' 'mother, mother dear! i am awfully miserable; but i feel as if i could tell you how happy i am, now.' and, without another word of preface, without a pause to hear her out, without even observing the bewildered look as of one stopped in mid-career with which she regarded him, ned dashed into the story of his own love, of his despair and his joy. she listened to him with her blue eyes dilating, looking out of her pale face like stars out of a winter sky--suddenly stiffened back into a little silent stone-woman. she was bewildered at first and thrown off her balance. and then gradually, slowly, the new impatience and faith that had been born of love died in her, and the old, cold, patient toleration, the faint smile, came back. it was natural. his own affairs, of course, were the closest to him. he thought of his private story first, not of hers. she had never subjected herself to such a shock before, and did not know how hard it was to bear. well! but what of that? that was her own folly, not any one else's. she had put aside her armour, thrown open her breast, for the first time; and if an arrow, barbed and sharp, was the first thing that came to it, that was but natural--it was her own fault. she sat, therefore, and listened with the faint smile even now stealing about her lips--a smile that was half at herself, half at human nature, thus once more, once again, proving itself. and ned, who had felt so bitterly the absorption of his father and sister in their own affairs, their indifference to the feelings of others--ned did the same. he slurred over the sacrifice which his mother, at no small cost, was bending her own will to make, and rewarded her by the story of his own boyish happiness--how norah had cast him off once, how she loved him now. this was the best, the only return he could make to her. from her own serious, weighty purpose, which involved (she felt) so much, he led her aside to his love-tale, of which, for the moment at least, it was madness to expect that anything could come. 'but you don't say anything?' he said at last, half offended, when he had done--or rather when her failure of response had stopped the fulness of his speech. 'i don't know what i can say,' she answered, with a coldness which he felt at once. 'this seems scarcely the time--scarcely the moment--' 'of course,' he said hurriedly, 'i do not expect nor hope that it can be very soon.' 'no one, i should think, would be so mad as to expect that,' said his mother; 'and these long, aimless engagements, without any visible end----' 'i do not see how my engagement can be thought aimless,' he said, growing hot. 'not in your own mind, i suppose; but, so far as anything like marriage is concerned, considering the state of affairs generally, i do not see much meaning in it,' said mrs burton coldly. 'your prospects are not brilliant. it was only last night, for instance, that you proposed to burden yourself with me.' 'mother!' 'it is quite true. in answer to your grandfather's sensible question how i was to live, you answered: with you. did you mean, upon some hypothetical engagement, whatever you may happen to get, to support a wife--and me?' he made no answer. a hot flush of mingled anger and pain came over him; he was wrong somehow; he did not quite see how. he had missed the right way of making his announcement, but still it was not his fault. he could not see how he was to blame. 'you must not be surprised in these circumstances if i cannot make any very warm congratulations,' she added. 'make your mind easy, however, ned. i never intended to be a burden on you; but even without that----' 'what have i done, mother, that you should speak to me so?' he cried. 'you were so different just now. it is not for norah's sake? no one could dislike norah. what have i done?' 'nothing,' she said; and then, with that faintest smile, 'you have acted according to your nature, ned--like the rest. i have no reason to complain.' then there was a pause. he was a generous, tender-hearted boy, full of love and sympathy; but he had never so much as imagined, could not imagine, the state of feeling his mother had been in--and, accordingly, could not understand where he was wrong. wrong somehow, unknowingly, unintentionally--puzzled, affronted, sore at heart--he went away from her. was it mere caprice on her part? what was it? so it happened that the boy put his foot upon his mother's very heart; and then strained all his faculties, anxiously, affectionately, to find out what had made her countenance change, and could not, with all his efforts, discover what it was. the smile remained on mrs burton's face when she was left alone. he had declined to hear her decision about the settlement. was it not natural that she should reconsider it, now that she found how little interest he took in the matter? but it is easier to let that intruder love, who disorders reason, into a woman's heart than to turn him out again. she did again another novel thing; she made a compromise. she sent for her father at once, and entered into the matter with him. 'i allow that all you say is perfectly just,' she said; 'but this is, partly, a matter of feeling, papa.' she smiled at herself as she said it, but yet did say it, without flinching. 'i will keep a portion of my settlement--say half. it is, as you said, the only thing i have to depend on.' 'my dear,' said poor mr baldwin, 'of course you have always me to depend on. you are my only child. what i have must come to you, clara.' 'but i don't want it to come to me, papa.' 'no, that i am sure you don't; but what is the use of my money to me, but to make my child and her children comfortable--that is excepting, clara--always excepting what i feel bound to do--what i have always done--in the cause of--god. but, all the same, i cannot approve of any sacrifice of your rights.' 'i would rather not say any more about it,' she said. and thus for the moment the discussion terminated. ned went down to the village again, and was made happy, almost quite happy, by a talk with norah; and they went over together to the rectory, and told mrs dalton, as a substitute for the absent mother, and were very wretched and very happy together over their miserable prospects and their rapture of early love. norah, however, was sorry that he had told his mother so prematurely. 'she will think it heartless of us, ned, to think of being happy when she must be so miserable. oh, i would have broken it to her very gently. i would have told her how it happened--by accident--that we did not mean anything. oh, ned, boys are always so awkward. you have gone and made her think!' 'if you were to come and talk to her, norah--' 'no, indeed. what am i to her? a little upstart thing, thrusting myself in, taking away her son. oh, ned, how could you? go and give her a kiss, and say we never meant it. say i would never, never think of such a thing while everybody is in such trouble. say we are so sorry--oh, ned! how can you, you who are only a boy, be half sorry enough?' with which salutary bringing down ned went home, and was very humble to his mother and very anxious to win back her confidence--an attempt in which he partly succeeded; for, having once begun to open her heart, she could not altogether close it; and a new necessity, a new want, had developed in her. but he never made his way back entirely into that place which had been his for a moment, and which he had forfeited by his own folly. he never quite brought back the state of mind in which she had considered that matter of the settlement first. next day mrs burton left dura with her father, 'on a visit,' it was said; and ned went to town, 'to see after' his father's affairs. poor boy! there was not much that he could see after. he worked hard and laboriously, under his grandfather's directions and under the orders of the people who had the winding-up of mr burton's concerns in hand; but he had not experience enough to do much out of his own head; and it was in this melancholy way that his knowledge of business began. and poor little norah, alone in the gatehouse, went and poured out her heart to mr stephen, who listened to her with a heart which throbbed to every woe of hers. a great woe was hanging over the haldanes, a trouble which as yet they but dimly foresaw. burton had ruined them in his prosperity, and now, in his downfall, was about to drag them still lower. already the estate of dura was in the market, with its mansion, and grounds, and woods, and farms--and the gatehouse. they had got to feel that the gatehouse was their home, and all stephen's happiness was connected with that window, with the tailor and shoemaker who took their evening walks on the other side of the way, with the rector and his morning discussions, even with old ann in her market cart. and how was he now to go away and seek another refuge? heavy were the hearts in the gatehouse. norah, when ned had gone, was overwhelmed by terrors. fears lest her mother should not approve, wondering questions about her unknown father, doubts of mrs burton, fears of ned and for ned, came upon her like a host, and made her miserable. and then mr rivers came down, who had already made several attempts to see her, and this time made her wretched by succeeding and telling her another love tale, to which she could make no reply. but for that incident at the exhibition, and the pain it had brought about, things might have ended otherwise. had cyril rivers made up his mind in may instead of delaying till july, the chances were that norah, flattered, pleased, and not unwilling to suppose that she might perhaps love him in time, would have given a very different answer. and then she asked herself in dismay, what would have happened when poor ned came? so that, on the whole, it was for the best, as people say. the pain and shock of that discovery which she had made when lady rivers drew her son away--and he went--had been for the best; though it would be hard to believe that cyril thought so, as he went back mortified to town, feeling that it had cost him a great deal to make this sacrifice, and that his sacrifice had been in vain. thus dura changed in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. the great house was empty and desolate; the great bell pealed no more through all the echoes; the noisy comings and goings of the burtons, the sound of them as they moved about, the dash of mr burton's phaeton and his wife's fine horses, had all died out into the silence. miss jane plodded wearily about the village, trying to find some cheap cottage where stephen could find refuge when the property was sold. and norah, anxious and pale, and full of many terrors, lived alone in her end of the house, and watched for the postman every morning, and wondered, wondered, till her heart grew sick, why no letters came. where was helen? she had disappeared from them into the unknown, as her husband had done. was it into hades, into the everlasting darkness, that she had followed her lost, as orpheus followed eurydice? a week passed, and the silent days crept on, and no one could tell. chapter xii. helen drummond had a tedious voyage from southampton to st malo. she was not a good sailor, nor indeed a good traveller in any way. she was not rich enough to procure for herself those ameliorations of the weariness of journeys which are within the reach of everybody who has money. she had to consult cheapness more than comfort, and when she arrived at last in the bay, with all its rocky islets rising out of the blue, beautiful sea, and the little fortress city reigning over it, and all the white-sailed boats skimming about like so many sea-birds, she would have been unable to observe the beauty of the scene from sheer weariness, if anxiety had not already banished from her every thought but one. where was he? how should she find him? was it real? was it possible? could it be true? the boat was late of arriving; it had been delayed, and was not expected at the moment when the passengers were ready to land. helen looked, with a beating heart, upon all the loungers on shore, wondering could he be among them; but it was not till almost all her fellow-passengers had left the vessel that a tattered, grinning _commissionaire_ came up to her, and asked if she were madame drummond. when she answered, a voluble explanation followed, which helen, in her agitation, and with ears unaccustomed to the voluble breton-french mixed with scraps of still less comprehensible english, understood with great difficulty. monsieur had been on the pier half the night; he had been assured by all the officials that the boat could not arrive till noon. monsieur had charged himself, françois, to be on the watch, and bring him news as soon as the steamer was in sight; in place of which he, the delighted françois, would have the gratification of leading madame to monsieur. half dead with excitement and fatigue, helen followed her guide. he led her along the rocky shore to where a little steam ferry-boat puffed and snorted. then she had to embark again for a five minutes' passage across the bay. she landed on the other side, so stupified with suspense, and with the accumulated excitement which was now coming to a climax, that she felt incapable of uttering a word. her body was all one pulse, throbbing wildly; a crimson flush alternated with dead pallor in her face; her heart choked her, palpitating in her throat. whom was she going to meet? what manner of man was it who said he was her robert, who wrote as robert wrote, who had called her to him, with the force of absolute right? for was not robert dead, dead, buried under the cold river, seven years ago? she was not happy, she was frightened, as norah said. her position was incomprehensible to her. she, robert's spotless wife, his faithful widow--to whom was she going? she did not know what the words meant that were being poured into her ears. the figures she met whirled past her like monsters in a dream. her own weary feet obeyed her mechanically; she moved and breathed, and kept command of herself, she knew not how. there is a little cottage on the very edge of the cliff, in that village of dinard on the breton coast, which looks across the bay into which the rance rushes impetuously meeting the great sea-tides--and from which st servan opposite, st malo with its walls and towers, all the lip of the bay lined with houses, with fortifications, with bristling masts and sails, show fair in the sunshine. coming into it from the dusty road, so small is it, so light, so close to the water, the traveller feels that he must have come suddenly into the light poop cabin of some big ship, lifting its breast high from the sea. here it was that helen came in, her frame all one tremble, breathless, stupified, carried along in the wild whirl of some dream. she saw some one get up with a great cry--and then--she saw nothing more. the excitement, the weariness, the strangeness and terror that possessed her, were more than she could bear. she fell down at robert's feet, as she had done at the foot of the picture in the exhibition. it was perhaps the easiest, gentlest way of getting over the great shock and convulsion of the new life that had now to begin. helen was conscious after a while of a voice, of two voices talking vaguely over her, one which she did not know, one----at the sound of that her brain tried to rally; she tried to recollect. where was she?--in st mary's road, in the old days before the studio was built? that was what it felt like. she could not see anything; a whirling, revolving cloud of darkness went round and round, swallowing her up. she tried to raise her hand to grasp at something. now she was sinking, sinking into that sea which had gleamed upon her for a moment, through the window--a sea full of ships, yet with no saviour for her. if she could only move her hand, raise her head, see something beside this blinding blackness. and then again that voice! she had fallen, fallen somewhere, and something buzzed loud in her ears, something coming that was about to crush her--on the steps at st mary's road. 'helen! don't you know me? look at me, if you can, my own love!' she gave a long, sobbing cry. she opened her eyes heavily. 'yes, robert,' she said. the wonder and the terror had gone away in her faint, with the seven years that created them. when the soul loses the common thread of time and place it comes back to its primal elements, to the things in it that are everlasting. she answered out of her unconsciousness as (god send it!) we shall answer our friends in heaven out of the death-trance, not wondering--restored to the unity of love which is for ever and ever, not for a time. she was lying on a little sofa, that window on one side of her, with its glorious sea and sky and sunshine. on the other, a man, with hair as white as snow, with norah's eyes, looking at her in an agony of tenderness, with a face worn and lined by suffering and toil. the sight of him startled her so that she came to herself in a moment. it startled her into the consciousness that she was his wife, and in a manner responsible for him, for his well-being and comfort. she started up, wondering how she could think of herself, indignant at herself for taking up the foreground for a moment. 'oh, my dear, my dear!' she cried. 'what have they done to you, robert?' and drew him to her, taking him into her arms. not frightened now, not wondering, not strange at all. the strangeness was that he had been kept away from her so long, cruelly kept away, to make him like this, whitened, worn, old. all at once strength and calm and self-command came back to helen. except for his looks, the harm some one had done to him, this interval crumpled away like a burnt paper, and disappeared, and was as if it had never been. she put her arms round him, drew him to her with an indignant love and tenderness. 'my poor robert! my poor robert! how you have wanted me,' she said, with the tears in her eyes. 'ah! wanted you!' he cried; and he too gave in to this impulse of nature. he was not an impassioned man claiming his own, but a weary one come back to his natural rest. he put his white head down upon hers, and in the relief and sudden ease and consolation, wept like a child. it was more than joy; terrible fears had come to him at the last, terrors that his appeal might be unwelcome--that his recollection might have died out of her heart. he knew that she was in the sight of the world faithful to him; but whether her heart was true, whether the surprise would be a joy, he did not know. let us leave them to tell their mutual story. the reader knows one side of it. the other had come about thus. it took a long time to tell it so as to satisfy helen; but it may be put here into fewer words. on the night when robert, as he said, died, he had been picked up by a tug steamboat, which was on its way down stream to take a vessel going to america down to the sea. he had been all but dead, and with the addition of the care, distress, and anxiety through which he had passed before, partial drowning was no joke to him. how it was that he managed to get transferred from the little steamer into the ship, he had never very clearly discovered. whether he had passionately entreated to be taken on board, or whether he had dashed himself once more into the river and been rescued this time by the sea-going vessel, he could not tell. but, anyhow, he had been taken on board the american; and there, amid all the discomforts of a merchant ship, where there was no room for passengers, and where his presence was most unwelcome, he had an illness, which made his slow passage across the atlantic look like a feverish dream to him. he knew nothing about it, except as a horror and misery which had been. when the ship arrived, he had been transferred to an hospital, where he lingered until all hope of life had gone out of him, if indeed any ever existed. and then, all at once, and unaccountably, he had got well again, as people do over whom no anxious nurses watch, who are of importance to no one. when he came to life again he was one of the poorest of the poor, unknown, penniless, an object of charity. in that position he could never go home, never make himself known to those whom (he felt) he had ruined, whom he had already made up his mind to leave free at the cost of his life. forlorn, hopeless, and miserable, poor robert had still the necessity upon him of maintaining the worthless life which providence had, as it were, thrust back upon his hands. he went to the studio of a painter in new york--that same john sinclair whose name had been attached to the 'dives.' he had told his story fully and truly. when a man asserts in a painter's studio that he is himself a painter, the means are at hand for the verification of his assertion; and when robert took the palette in his hand, mr sinclair believed his story. he had begun humbly, under this kind stranger's help; he had become a portrait-painter, a branch of art which, in his youth, he had followed for the sake of bread and butter, as so many do. but robert, friendless and hopeless, driven out of everything but art, had, by a mere instinct of self-preservation, to keep himself alive, taken to his work in a way which made it a very different thing from the paint which is done for bread and butter. a very little bread and butter sufficed him. but man does not live by bread alone; and all the better aliment, the food of his soul, he had to get somehow out of his portraits. the consequence of this was, that gradually these portraits became things to talk of, things that people went far to see, and competed to have. he cared so little for it--was that why the stream of fortune came to him? but when his languid soul awoke after a while to a sense of the work he was doing, robert ceased to care little for it. he began to care much; and as his portraits kept their popularity his gains increased. he became hungry for gain; he grew a miser, and over-worked himself, thinking of his wife, thinking of the child to whom he was dead, he managed to get some news of them incidentally through his friend and former patron sinclair; he heard where they were, and that they were well. at length, when he had scraped so much money together that he thought he might venture upon some communication, his heart went back to the agony of his parting, and the subject of his last sketch returned to him. ah! was he not dives now, stretching out vain hands, not daring to cry! he could not summon courage enough to write, but he could paint--he could put all his despairing soul, which yet had a faint hope in it, into that imploring face, those beseeching hands. he worked at it night and day, throwing his whole heart and soul into the canvas. and, with a heart trembling at his own temerity, after he sent his picture to england he himself had come back, but not to england--he had not courage for that; he was not even sufficiently instructed to know whether it would be safe for him to go back--whether he might bring the law upon him with fresh bugbears and troubles in its train--but he went to france. he had come to brest, and he had wandered to this the nearest point from which communication with england was easy. he had arrived at st malo in may, at the very time when helen saw the picture in the exhibition, and received its message into her very heart. but he had not ventured to send his letter till months after--not till now. 'helen!' he said, trembling; 'will you stay with me here? will you go with me, back to new york? what shall we do?' 'robert, let us go home.' 'can i go home? i do not think so. i have a little money, for the child and you. i made it hardly--after i died. i should not like to give it once again to satisfy people who suffered no more than we did.' 'oh, robert,' she said. 'i have my story to tell you too.' and her story took as long in telling as his did; for it was difficult to her to remember that he knew nothing--that he did not know what he had been accused of; as difficult as it was for him to understand the allusions she made to the lost books and the censure which had been passed upon his name. he would stop her and say, 'what does that mean?' a dozen times in a single sentence. and then, as the story advanced to its climax, impatience seized him, and a growing excitement. he got up from his seat beside her, and paced about the little room. then she saw, for the first time, that he was lame. how he had suffered! the seven years had not made much difference to her; her peaceful life had smoothed out the lines which sorrow had made in her face. there was not a white thread in her brown hair; she had almost grown younger instead of older, having upon her wherever she went a reflection of norah's youth, which somehow she shared. but robert was lame, and walked with difficulty, a consequence of his almost suicide; he was old, thin, white-haired, with furrows of anxiety and longing and heart-hunger in his face. all this had been done by the man who had beguiled him into the doomed bank, who had looked on calmly at his ruin, who had willingly countenanced the destruction of his good name. mrs drummond had lived through it all, had got over her hot fits of rage and indignation, and at this moment had her heart softened towards reginald burton, whom she had saved. she was not prepared for the excitement, the suppressed fury, the passionate indignation of her husband, to whom all this was new. she told him of the paper she had extorted from her cousin that last night, 'which clears you entirely--' she said. 'clears me!' he cried, gnashing his teeth. 'my god! _clears_ me! i who have done nothing but suffer by him. clears _me_!' 'i do not quite mean that, robert. you were cleared before. no one believed it. but we thought golden only was to blame. now this paper is formal, and explains everything. it makes it all easy for you.' he did not stop, as if this was anything consolatory; he kept moving up and down, painfully, with his lameness. 'and that scoundrel has got off,' he cried between his teeth--'got off! and has the audacity to clear me.' poor helen was disconcerted. she had forgotten her own fury of indignation when she first saw the accusation against him. she had long, long grown used to all that, and used to the reflection that nobody believed it whose opinion was worth anything. she had insisted upon burton's confession and explanation, she scarcely knew why--more as a punishment to him than as a vindication of robert. she was confused about it altogether, not quite knowing what she meant. and now, in the light of his indignation, she felt almost as if she had done her husband an injury--insulted him. she faltered, and looked at him wistfully, and did not know what to say. she had not lost the habit of love, but she had lost the habit of companionship; she had told her story wrongly; she did not know how to bring him to her state of feeling, or to transport herself into his. and this too was the fault of the man who had driven robert to despair--the man whom she had saved. 'he has got off,' she said humbly, 'by my means. robert, i tried revenge once, but i will never try it again. i could not give him up, however bad he had been, when he was in my power.' the sound of trembling in her voice went to his heart. 'my poor helen! my sweet helen!' he cried, coming to her. 'do you think i blame you? you could not have done otherwise. for you there was but one course--but if i had the chance now----' just then there was a commotion at the door, and sounds of many voices. a great many exclamations in french, with one or two broken questions in english, came to their ears. 'you has you papiers. domm you papiers. you say you is jean--jean smiff, et pas----' 'je me fie à monsieur ici. monsieur est-il chez lui? c'est un anglais. il nous expliquera tout ça,' said another voice. it was the voice of the maire, whom robert had made friends with in his hunger for human companionship. the parley at the door went on for a few minutes longer, and then there entered a band of excited frenchmen. one, a gendarme from st malo, carried an open telegram in his hand; another, in a blouse, kept his hand upon the shoulder of a burly englishman in a light coat. the maire brought up the rear. they seemed such a crowd of people as they entered the little, light room, that it was some moments before the three english people thus brought face to face recognised each other. helen with difficulty suppressed a cry. robert stood confronting the party with the flush of his indignation not yet subsided, with a wonder beyond words in his eyes. as for the other, he showed no sign of surprise. he was driven back to his last stronghold, forced to use all his strength to keep himself up and maintain his courage. his eye dilated and gave a flutter of wonder at the sight of helen. it was evident that he did not recognise her companion. he kept his arms folded, as if for self-preservation, to keep within him all the warmth, all the courage possible, physically to keep up and support himself. the three men rushed into explanation all at once. a telegram had been received at st malo, describing an englishman who was supposed to have gone there, and whose description, which the gendarme held out, in the telegram, corresponded exactly with that of the prisoner. the prisoner, however, called himself smith. smiff--or smitt, as his pursuers pronounced it--and produced papers which were _en règle_; but he could not explain what he was doing here; he showed no inclination to be taken to the english consul. on the contrary, he had crossed to dinard as soon as he heard that inquiries had been made about him at his hotel. while all this was being told the stranger stood immovable, with his arms folded; he did not understand half of it. his french was as deficient as the french of untravelled englishmen usually is, and the tumult around him, at the same time, confused his mind and quickened his outward senses. he could not make out what his chances of liberation were; but his eyes were open to any possibility of escape. they were bloodshot and strained those eyes; now and then that flutter of wonder, of excitement, of watchfulness, came into them, but he showed no other sign of emotion. at such a terrible crisis all secondary sensations perish; he had no time to wonder what helen, whom he had left behind him in england, should be doing here. rather it was natural that everybody connected with his fate should be here, gathering round him silently to see the end. thus this encounter had but little effect upon burton; but it would be impossible to describe the effect it had upon the man who stood opposite to him, whom he had not recognised. robert drummond had suffered as few men ever suffered. he had died--he had come alive again--he had lived two separate lives. for some years up to this day his existence had been that of a man deprived of all the hopes and consolations of life--a man miserably alone, dead to every one belonging to him. even the return to life which he had tried to realise this morning was no more than an experiment. he might never be able to conquer, to forget those seven ghosts which stood between him and his wife and child. he could not take up his life again where he left it--that was impossible. and all this had been done by the influence of the man before him, who was in his power, whom he might if he would give over to prison and trial and punishment. a gleam of fierce joy shot through drummond's heart, and then---- they stood facing each other, with the frenchmen grouped about them. but burton had not, beyond the first glance, looked at his judge. his face confronted him, but his eyes did not; he had escaped as yet the knowledge who it was. a thousand and a thousand thoughts whirled through drummond's mind; he had only a moment to decide in; he had the past to satisfy, and the burning, fiery indignation of the present moment, in which for the first time he had identified and comprehended the past. give him up! punish him! should such a scoundrel get off, when innocent men had so bitterly suffered? let him fall, and bring down in his train all who were concerned--all who made a prey of the ignorant and the poor! this wave of thought possessed him with a whirl and sweep like the rushing tide--and then there came the interval of silence, the moment when the waters fell back and all was still. revenge! 'i tried revenge, once, but i will never try it again!' who was it that had said this close to him, so that the very air repeated and repeated it, whispering it in his ear? he had himself been dead, and he had come alive again. his new life, which had commenced this morning, was spotless as yet. he had to decide, decide, decide in a moment how it should be inaugurated, by mercy or by judgment--by the sin (was it not a sin?) of helping the escape of a criminal, or by the righteous deed (where was it said that this might be a sin too?) of handing him over to punishment. how his soul was tossed upon these waves! he stood as in the midst of a great battle, which raged round him. fierce arrows tore his heart, coming from one side and another, he could not tell how. give up the accursed thing--punish the unworthy soul--be just! be just! but then that other, 'neither have i condemned thee; go, and sin no more.' and all had to be done in a minute, while those voluble explanations interlaced each other, and each man expounded his case. drummond glanced at his wife for help, but she dared not look at him. she sat on the sofa against the light, with her hands tightly clasped in her lap. was she praying? for so long, out of the depths of his hell, dives, poor dives, had not dared to pray. he did not know what he said when at length he spoke; it was some commonplace, some nothing. but it attracted at once the attention of the prisoner. burton turned round, and gazed at the man whom he thought dead. he did not recognise the voice, except that it was a voice he knew; he did not even recognise the face, which had grown prematurely old, framed in its white hair, at the first glance; but there crept over him a shudder of enlightenment, a gleam of perception. his senses were quickened by his own position. he shook where he stood as if with cold or palsy. he looked at helen, he looked at the man by her side. then an inarticulate cry came from him; terror of he knew not what deprived him, fortunately, of all power of speech. he fell back in his fear, and his attendants thought he meant to escape. they threw themselves between him and the door. it was then that drummond spoke in his haste, scarcely knowing what he said. 'i know him,' he said in french. 'it is a long time since we have met, and he has just recognised me, you perceive. we are not friends, so you may trust me. his papers are quite right, and it is a mistake about the telegram. look here; this is not his description. "nez ordinaire;" why, he has a long nose. "teint brun;" he is quite fresh-coloured, and his hair is grey. this is a great mistake. monsieur le maire, i know the man, and i will be responsible for him. you must let him go.' 'i thought so,' said the maire, pleased with his own discrimination. 'je l'ai dit. monsieur nous expliquera tout ça. voilà que j'ai dit.' 'mais, monsieur----' began the gendarme. helen sat against the light, seeing nothing, and closed her eyes, and clasped her hands in her lap. burton, bewildered and terror-stricken, looked on without showing any emotion. perhaps the passiveness of his face was his best safeguard. five minutes of expostulation and explanation followed, and then gradually the frenchmen edged themselves out of the room. fortunately monsieur le maire had taken this view from the beginning; he had been sure it was a mistake. when they were got rid of at last, the three who were left behind looked at each other in a silence which was more significant than words. burton dropped into a chair; he was not able to stand nor to speak, but kept gazing at drummond with a pitiful wonder and terror. at last-- 'are you robert drummond?' he asked hoarsely. 'have you come back from your grave----' 'i am robert drummond,' said the other; 'and you are--john smith, who must be got out of here as soon as possible. have you money?' 'yes.' 'then i advise you to go away at once. go up to dinan by the river-side, or walk to st brieuc to get the train. in the one case you are on your way to brest, where there are ships always sailing; by the other you can get to paris or wherever you please. you may wait here till the evening, if you choose; but then go.' 'i will go to brest,' he said humbly. 'i would rather not know where you went; but go you must. my wife and i met to-day for the first time for seven years; we do not wish for company, you may suppose.' drummond's voice was very stern. he had no compassion for the man who stood thus humbled and miserable before him; not for him had he done this. and burton was too much stupefied, too much bewildered, to make any direct reply. he looked at helen with dull wonder, and asked under his breath--' 'did you know?' 'no,' she said. 'it came upon me almost as suddenly as upon you.' then he pulled some papers out of his pocket. 'these are english papers. i don't know if it is long since you have left. but you might like to see them.' when he had done this, he made a few steps towards the door, where the old french bonne was waiting to show him where to go. then he paused, and turned round again, facing them. 'what a man says in my position is very little to anybody,' he said; 'but--i want to say to you, forgive me. i have helped to do you dreadful harm; but i--i did not mean it. i never meant it. i meant to get gain myself; but i never wished to harm you.' and then he disappeared, saved again, saved at his uttermost need--surely this time finally saved--and by those whom he had injured the most. when he reached the clean little room where he was to stay all day, it appeared to reginald burton that he must be in a dream. the same feeling had been in his mind ever since he escaped from england. all was strange to him; and strangest of all was the fact that he could no longer command or regulate matters by his own will, but was the sport of circumstances, driven about he knew not how. his bewilderment was so great that he was not able to think. saved first by a helpless woman, whose powers he would have laughed at a month ago; saved now by a ghost out of the grave! that night he left dinard under cover of the darkness, and walked to st brieuc, where he got the train for brest. he arrived there in time to get on board of a vessel about to sail for america. and thus reginald burton escaped from the immediate penal consequences of his sins. from the other consequences no man ever escapes. the prison, the trial, the weary round of punishment he had eluded; but his life was over and ended, and everything that was worth having in the world had abandoned him. love was not his to carry away with him; reputation, honour, wealth, even comfort were gone. he had to make a miserable new beginning, to shrink into poverty, obscurity, and dependence. it would be hard to say whether these were more or less easy to bear than the prison work, prison life, prison garb from which he had escaped. chapter xiii. this was the end of mr burton of dura--mr burton, of the great city firm, he who had been known as one of the greatest of commercial magnitudes, he who had ruined as many people as if he had been an emperor. for some time there was a very great deal about it in the newspapers, and his concerns were exposed to the light of day. he involved many others with him in his downfall, and some in his shame. if he had been taken, he would have joined in prison those men whom in our own day we have seen degraded from a high position in society down to the picking of oakum in gaol--men whom we all pour our loathing upon at the moment of their discovery, but of whom we say 'poor souls!' a few months after, when some clever newspaper correspondent has a peep at them, disguised in the prison garb, and known as numbers and . burton missed the prison and the pity; but he did not miss the punishment. in spite of various attempts that were made to stop it, the investigation of his affairs was very full and clear. it became apparent from his own private books, and that one of rivers's which had been found in his safe, that the bank had been in reality all but ruined when it was made into a joint-stock company. burton and his colleague had guaranteed the debts, and put the best face possible upon things generally; and mr golden's management, and an unexpected run of good luck, had all but carried the labouring concern into clear water. it was at this period that burton, thanking his stars or his gods, withdrew from the share in the management which he had held nominally, and left it to golden to complete the triumph of daring and good fortune. how this failed is already known to the reader. the mystery of the lost books was never cleared up; for golden was out of the way, enjoying his honeymoon, when the private affairs of the other conspirator were thus thrown open to the light of day. but there was enough in the one book found among mr burton's to show how very inconvenient to him the finding of the others would have been. thus daylight blazed upon all those tortuous, gloomy paths, and showed how the desire of self-interest guided the man through them, with an absolute indifference to the interests of others. he had not meant any harm, as he said; he had meant his own gain in the first place, his own recovery when his position was threatened, his own safety when danger came. he had not set out with a deliberate intention of ruining others; but this is a thing which nobody ever does; and he had not cared afterwards how many were ruined, so that he could hold on his way. such cases happen now and then, and human justice cannot touch them; but most generally nemesis comes sooner or later. even at the worst, however, his material punishment was never so hard as that of some of his victims. the loss of the trust-money, which had been the immediate cause of his ruin, took the very bread out of the mouths of a family of orphans; but mr burton, at the lowest depths of his humiliation, had always bread enough, and to spare. he was never even thrown into such mental anxiety, such stress of painful calculation, as that into which the inhabitants of the gatehouse were cast by his downfall. miss jane went painfully all over dura, looking at the cottages, to see if by any means something could be found or contrived to suit stephen; and her heart sank within her as she inspected the damp, low-roofed places, which were so very different from the warm old wainscoted rooms, the comfort of the gatehouse. when the property was sold, however, it was found that the gatehouse had been made into a separate lot, and had been bought, not by the rich descendant of the old harcourts who had got dura, but by some one whose name was unknown. 'somebody who is going to live in the house himself, no doubt,' miss jane said, with a very long face; 'and i am sure i wish him well in it, whoever he may be,' she added with a struggle. 'but oh, norah! what a thing it will be for us to go away!' 'if i knew him, i would go to him, and beg for your rooms for you. he never would have the heart to turn you out, if he was a good man,' cried norah. 'for us it does not matter; but oh, miss jane, for you!' 'it cannot be helped, my dear,' said miss jane, drying her eyes. 'we have no right to it, you know. it does seem hard that we should be ruined by his prosperity, and then, as it were ruined again by his downfall. it seems hard; but it is not anybody's fault. of course when we accepted it we knew the penalty. he might have turned us out at any time. no, norah; we have no reason to complain.' 'that makes it worse,' cried impulsive norah. 'it is always a comfort when one can think it is somebody's fault. and so it is--mr burton's fault. oh, how much harm he has done! oh, what a destroyer he has been! he has done as much harm as a war or a pestilence,' cried norah. 'think of poor--papa!' she had always to make a pause before that name, not believing in it somehow, feeling it hurt her. by this time she had heard all about the meeting between her father and mother, and the day had been fixed when she was to join them; but still she had a sore, wounding, jealous sense that the new father was her rival--that he might be almost her enemy. fathers on the whole seemed but an equivocal advantage to norah. there was mr burton, who had ruined and shamed every one connected with him; and there was poor--papa, who might, for anything she knew, take all the gladness out of her own life. 'oh, hush, my dear!' said miss jane. 'mr burton has been a bitter acquaintance to us; but he is ned's father, and we must not complain.' just then there was a knock at the door, and ned himself came in. he came from town, as he did often, to spend the evening with his betrothed. their days were running very short now, and their prospects were not encouraging. he had not even time to look for any employment for himself, so much was he occupied with his father's affairs; and norah was going away, and when should they meet again? these evenings which they spent together were very sweet; but they were growing daily sadder as they approached more closely to the shadow of the farewell. but this time ned came in with a flush of pleasure in his face. his eyes were so brightened by it, and his colour so much improved, that he looked 'quite handsome,' miss jane thought; and he walked in with something of the impulsive satisfaction of old days. 'my grandfather is a brick,' he said, 'after all. he has given me my fortune. he has helped me to do something i had set my heart on. miss jane, don't think any more of leaving the gatehouse. so long as i live nobody can turn you out.' 'what do you mean, ned?' 'i mean that dear old grandpapa has been awfully good to me,' said ned, 'and the gatehouse is mine. i love it, miss jane. don't you say anything. you may think it will be bitter for me to come here after all that has passed; but i love it. since ever i was a boy, i have thought this room the dearest place in the world--ever since norah sat and talked rubbish, and frightened me out of my life. how well i remember that! she has forgotten years ago! but i shall never forget. what are you crying about, miss jane? now this is very hard upon a fellow, i must say. i thought it was good news.' 'and so it is--blessed news, you dear, dear, kind boy!' cried miss jane. 'oh, children! what can i say to you? god bless you! and god will bless you for thinking of the afflicted first, before yourselves.' 'i had nothing to do with it--i knew nothing about it,' cried norah proudly; and all at once, without any warning, she threw herself upon ned, and gave him a sudden kiss on his brown cheek. for five minutes after none of the three were very coherent; for to do a good action when you are young makes you feel very foolish, and ready to cry with any one who cares to cry. ned told them all about it between laughing and sobbing--how his grandfather had given him his portion, and how it was the best possible investment to buy the gatehouse. 'for you see,' said ned, 'when norah makes up her mind to marry, we shall have a house all ready. as for everybody here knowing what has happened, everybody all over the country knows,' he added, with a hot flush on his cheek; 'and at dura people like me--a little, and would not be unkind, as in other places. and how could i let the place norah had been brought up in--the place i love--go to other people? so, miss jane, be happy, and set your brother's mind at rest. nobody shall disturb you here as long as i live; and if i should die, it would go to norah.' 'oh, ned, hush!' cried norah, putting up her hand to his lip. and then they went out into the garden, and wandered about and talked. nothing but this innocent and close association, with no one to think it might be improper or to call them to account, could have made exactly such a bond as that which existed between these two innocent young souls. they were lovers, and yet they were half brother and sister. they talked of their plans with the wistful certainty and uncertainty of those who feel that another will may come in to shatter all their purposes, though in themselves they are so unalterable and sure. there was this always hanging over them, like the sword in the fable, of which they were conscious, though they would not say a word about it. to-night their spirits were raised. the fact that this familiar place was _theirs_, that ned was actually its master, that here they might spend their days together as man and wife, exhilarated them into childish delight. 'i always think of you as in that room,' he said to her, 'when i picture my norah to myself; and there is never half an hour all day long that i don't do that. i always see the old curtains and the funny old furniture. and to think it is ours, norah, and that we shall grow old here, too!' 'i never mean to grow old,' said norah. 'fancy, ned, mamma is not old, and she is nineteen years older than me. nineteen years--twenty years! it is as good as a century; it will never come to an end!' 'or if it does come to an end,' said wise ned, in the additional discretion of two years' additional age, 'at least we shall have had our day.' with this chastened yet delightful consciousness of the life before them they parted that evening. but next time they met ned was not equally bright. he had been very sorely tried by the newspapers, by the shame he had to bear, by the looks askance which were bestowed on 'burton's son.' 'i never shall be able to stay there,' he said, pouring out his troubled heart to norah. 'i cannot bear it. fancy having to hear one's father insulted, and not being able to say a word. i cannot do it; oh, norah, i cannot! we must give up the thought of living here. i must go abroad.' 'where, ned?' 'oh, i don't know. america, australia--anywhere. i cannot stay here. anywhere that i can earn my bread.' 'ned,' said norah, her happy voice all tuned to tones of weeping, 'remember i am mamma's only child. she has got--some one else now; but, after all, i am her only child.' 'do you think i forget that?' he said. 'it is because i am afraid, because i feel, they will never, never trust you to me--so useless as i am--my father's son. oh, norah, when i think it all over, my heart is like to break!' 'but, ned, you were in such good spirits last night.' 'ah, but last night was different. my own norah! if they said no, dear, if they were angry--oh, norah! don't hate me for saying it--what would you do?' 'what could i do?' she said, with her brown eyes blazing, half in indignation, half in resolution. 'and what do you think they are made of, ned, to dare to say such a thing to me? was mamma ever cruel? i would do just what i will do now; i would say, 'ned, please don't! dear ned, don't!' but if you would, notwithstanding all i said to you, of course i must go too.' 'my own norah! but now they are going to take you away from me, and when, when shall i see you again?' 'people go to st malo by the boat,' said norah demurely. 'it sails from southampton, and it gets there in i don't remember how many hours. there is nothing against people going to st malo that want to go.' and thus once more the evening had a more cheerful termination. but none of the party were cheerful when norah picked up all her little belongings, and went up to town to dr maurice who was to be her escort. probably, of all the party, she herself was the most cheerful; for she was the one who was going away to novelties which could not but be more or less agreeable to her imagination, while the others, in the blank of their daily unchanging existence, were left behind. miss jane cried over her, mrs haldane bade god bless her, and as for stephen, he drew her close to him, and could not speak. 'i don't know what life will be worth, norah, without your mother and you,' he said, looking up to her at last with the patient smile he had worn since ever norah could remember--the one thing in the world which was more pathetic than sorrow itself; for he loved helen, and missed her to the bottom of his heart--loved her as a disabled, shipwrecked man may love a woman altogether out of his reach, most purely, most truly, without hope or thought of any return--but as no man may justly love a woman who has her husband by her side. this visionary difference, which is yet so real, stephen felt, and it made him very sad; and the loss of the child gave him full warrant to look as sad as he felt. 'but, oh, stephen! let us not complain,' said mrs haldane; 'for has it not been shown to us beyond all question that everything is for the best.' all for the best! all that had happened--mr burton's ruin, the tragical overthrow of his family, the destruction of poor ned's hopes and prospects, the shame and humiliation and misery--had all been so 'overruled,' as mrs haldane would have said, that their house was more firmly secured to them than ever, and was theirs, most likely, as long as stephen lived! it was a small matter to be procured at such a cost; but yet it was a satisfaction to her to feel that so many laws had been overthrown on her account, and that all was for the best. as for ned's parting with norah, it is a thing which must not be spoken of. it took place in the cab in which her young lover conveyed her from the station to dr maurice's door. ah, what rending of the young hearts there was as they tore themselves asunder! what big, hollow eyes, with the tears forced back from them, what gulps of choking sorrow swallowed down, as ned, looking neither to the right hand nor the left, stalked away from dr maurice's door! to tell the truth, dr maurice himself was not very comfortable either. he had got a great fright, and he had not recovered it. his brain was still confused; he felt as if he had been beaten about the head; a dull, hot colour dwelt upon his cheeks. he tried to explain to himself that he was feverish; but he was not feverish--or at least it was only his mind, not his body, which was so. it was partly wonder, but chiefly it was fright, on account of his own marvellous and hairbreadth escape. at the time when he had made that proposal to helen, he believed, as she did, and everybody else, that her husband had died years ago. and, good heavens! what if she had not refused? dr maurice grew hot and cold all over, he actually shuddered, at the supposition. and yet such a thing might have happened. he went reluctantly, yet with curiosity, to see his old friend. he wondered with a confused and troubled mind whether helen would have said anything about it--whether drummond would take any notice of it. the doctor was impatient with drummond, and dissatisfied altogether as to his conduct. a man, he reflected, cannot do that sort of thing with impunity. to be for seven years as though he had never been, and then to come to life again and interfere with everybody's affairs! it was hard. drummond had got his full share of sympathy; he had turned his whole world upside down. seven years ago he had been mourned for as few men are mourned; and now it was a mistake, it was almost an impertinence, that he should come to life again, as if nothing had happened. but nevertheless dr maurice volunteered to take norah to st malo. he was glad to do it--to rub out the recollection of that false step of his--to show that he bore no malice, and that no thoughts were in his mind which were inconsistent with his old friendship for robert and respect for robert's wife. robert's wife! she had called herself so when she was but robert's widow. but nobody understood, nobody thought, what a change it was to helen to fish up her old existence again, and resume its habits as if there had been no break in it. love had conquered the strangeness at first; but there were so many strangenesses to be conquered. she had fallen into so different a channel from that into which his thoughts had been diverted. they were both unchanged in their affections; but how different in everything else! they were each other's nearest, closest, dearest; and yet they had to make acquaintance with each other over again. nothing can be more strange than such a close union, accompanied by such a total ignorance. it was not even as if helen had remained as he had known her--had received no new influences into her life. both had an existence unknown to the other. robert in the joy of his recovered identity, in the happiness of finding that there was still love and companionship for him in the world, took the reunion more simply than helen did, and ignored its difficulties, or did not feel them. he had always taken things more simply than she. his absolute faith in her, his simple delight in finding her, his fond admiration of her, revived in helen some of her old feelings of suppressed wonder and half doubt. but that doubt was humbler now than it had been once. in the old life a ghost of impatience had been in her; she had doubted his powers, and chafed at his failures. now she began to doubt whether she had ever understood him--whether she had done him justice. for once, at least, robert had risen to that height of power which passion sometimes forces almost beyond the reach of genius. he had made alive and put upon a dead piece of canvas, for all the world to see, one face which was a revelation out of the worlds unknown. helen's heart had never wanted any additional bond to the husband whom she had chosen and clung to through good and evil; but her mind had wanted something more than his easy talent, his exquisite skill, the gentle, modest pitch of imagination which was all that common life moved him to. but on that point she was satisfied now. the only drawback was, she was no longer sure that it was robert. he was himself, and yet another. he was her own by a hundred tender signs and sureties; and yet he was strange to her--strange! and it was thus, with a suppressed excitement, which neither told, that the re-united pair awaited their child's coming. she breathless with curiosity and anxiety to know what norah would think of her unknown father; he eager to make acquaintance with the new creature whom he knew only as a child. 'the child' he called her, till helen smiled at his pertinacity, and ceased to remind him that norah was no longer a child. their excitement rose very high when the steamboat came in. helen's feelings were, as usual, by far the most complicated. norah was her own creation, if we may say so, framed by her, cultivated by her--not only flesh of her flesh, but heart of her heart, and mind of her mind; yet the influence of norah's opinions, norah's ways of thinking, was strong upon her mother, almost more strong than helen's were on norah; for the latter had all the confidence of youth, the former all the hesitation of middle age. what if norah should not 'take to' the new father--the stranger who yet was so truly her own robert of old? neither the one nor the other even so much as recollected dr maurice--the poor man who was bracing up his courage to meet them, wondering what they might think. and they thought of him simply not at all. and norah approached that rocky shore with an unconcealable, almost avowed, jealousy of her father. a shade of that emotion, half shame, half pain, with which a young woman regards her mother's second marriage was in her mind. it was a partial desecration of her idea of her mother, and she was jealous of the new companion who naturally must be more to helen than even she herself could be. she was jealous, though she had long given her mother a rival more dangerous still in ned; but in such feelings no one is reasonable. dr maurice had stolen into her confidence, she knew not how, and, partly out of pure perversity, was very strenuous in ned's favour, and had promised to plead his cause. the wretched man was almost glad that there should be this new complication coming along with norah, to perplex from the very beginning her father's relations with her. had things been as he once hoped--had he been able to make norah his own child, as he had tried to do--then he would have resisted ned to his last gasp; but as she was not his, he was wickedly glad that she should not be altogether robert's, but that from the first his should be but a divided proprietorship. 'i will do what i can to make things easy for you, norah,' he said, as they drew near st malo, half out of love, half out of spite. 'i will give you what i meant to leave you, and that should get over part of the difficulty.' 'oh, dr maurice, you have always been so good to me!' cried heedless norah. 'if it had been you instead of papa----' she was angry with herself when she had made that foolish, hasty speech; but, oh! how sweet it was to her companion! what balm it shed upon those awkward sorenesses of his! he drew her hand through his arm, and bent over her with the tenderest looks. 'it would be strange if i did not do my best for my little norah,' he said, with something like a tear in his eye. hypocrite! if she had been his little norah, then heaven have mercy upon poor ned! they landed, and there was all the flutter and agitation of meeting, which was more confusing, more agitating, than meetings generally are, though these are always hard enough to manage. they went together across the bay to the little cottage on the cliff. they took a long time to settle down. robert hung about his child as if she had been a new toy, unable to keep from gazing at her, touching her, recalling what she used to be, glorying and rejoicing over the possession of her; while helen, on her side, watched too with a painful closeness, reading the thoughts in norah's eyes before they had come. she wanted to jump into certainty at once. but they had to eat, and drink, and rest; they had to talk of all that had happened--of all that might yet happen. and so the first days passed, and the family unconsciously re-united itself, and the extraordinary sank, no one knowing how, into the blessed calm of every day. and then there occurred an event which took all the company by surprise: norah fell in love with her father. she 'took to' him as a girl might be expected to take to a man whose image she was. she was more like him a great deal than she was like her mother. her hasty, impulsive ways, her fresh simplicity of soul, were all his. she had been thought to resemble her mother before; but when she was by her father's side, it was apparent in a moment whom she most resembled. she discovered it herself with a glow of delight. 'why, mamma, he is like me!' she cried, with a delightful youthful reversal of the fact. and poor helen did not quite like it. it is terrible, but it is true--for the first moment it gave her a pang. the child had been all hers; she had almost ceased to remember that there could be any sharing of her. she had been anxious about norah's reception of her father; but she was not quite prepared for this. dr maurice, for his part, was simply furious, and went as near to hating robert drummond as it was possible to do; but then, of course, that feeling on maurice's part was simply ludicrous, and deserved nothing but to be laughed at. this curious event made the most tragi-comic convulsion in the cottage on the cliff. chapter xiv. and now all the threads are shortening in the shuttle, and the web is nearly woven out. if any one has ever supposed for a moment that robert drummond and his wife would make a last appearance as cruel parents, interfering with their daughter's happiness, it does not say much for the historian's success in elucidating their characters. if norah had wanted to marry a bad man, they would no doubt have made a terrible stand, and made themselves very unhappy; but when it was only their own prejudices, and poverty, and other external disadvantages that had to be taken into account, nothing but the forecasting imagination of two timid lovers could have feared for the result. when two people have themselves married upon nothing, it is so much more easy for them to see how that can be managed over again; and, heaven save you, good people! so many of us used to marry upon nothing in the old days. but a great deal had to happen before this could come to pass. the drummonds went home to england late in the autumn, and robert was received back by the world with such acclamations as perhaps have not greeted a man of his profession in england for ages. of itself the picture of 'dives' had made a great impression upon the general mind; but when his strange story became public, and it was known that the picture of the year had been painted by a man risen, as it were, out of the grave, warmer still became the interest in it. the largest sum which had been given for a picture for years was offered for this to the resuscitated painter. helen, always visionary, revolted from the very thought of selling this picture, which had been the link between herself and her husband, and which had so many associations to them both; but robert had too much practical good sense to yield to this romantic difficulty. 'i am no longer dives,' he said, as he drew his wife's arm through his own, and took her out with him to conclude the bargain. it increased the income which robert's american gains brought him, and made them a great deal more comfortable. but helen would never visit at the great house where 'dives' was, and she would have given half her living to have possessed the greatest work her husband ever produced--the only one by which, all the critics said, he would be known to posterity. this was one of the disappointments of her new life, and it was without doubt an unreasonable disappointment, as so many are that sting us most deeply. the drummonds were so fortunate, after some waiting and bargaining, as to secure their old house in st mary's road, with the studio in which such happy and such terrible hours had been passed. it was beyond their means; but yet they made an effort to purchase this pleasure for themselves. and here for two years the family lived together unbroken. now and then they went to the gatehouse, and made the hearts of the haldanes glad. and painters would throng about the studio, and the old life came back as if it had never had a break. by times helen would sit in the familiar room, and ask herself was it _now_--the present--or was it the past which had come back? the difference was, there was no child curled against the window, with brown hair about her shoulders, and a book in her arms, but only that slim, fair, brown-eyed maiden, who wore a ring of betrothal upon her finger, and had thoughts which travelled far by times after her distant lover; and that the master of the house, when he came into the room, was not the light-footed, youthful-browed robert of old, but a white-haired man, growing old before his time. these were the changes; but everything else was unchanged. robert drummond, however, never painted another picture like that 'dives;' it was the one passion flower, the single great blossom, of his life. he painted other pictures as he used to do, which were good drummonds, specimens of that master which the picture-dealers were very willing to have and collectors to add to their treasures, but which belonged to a world altogether distinct from the other. this helen felt too with a gentle pang, but not as she had felt it of old. once he had risen above that pleasant, charming level of beautiful mediocrity; once he had painted, not in common pigments, but in colours mixed with tears and life-blood. at such a cost even she was glad that no more great works should be produced. she was satisfied; her craving for genius and fame had once been fed, almost at the cost of their lives; and now she was content to descend to the gentler, lower work--the work by which men earn their daily bread. ah! but even then, even now, had it been--not raphael, perhaps, who was one of the shaksperian men, without passion, who do the work of gods as if they were the humanest, commonest of labourers--but such a fiery soul as that of michelangelo whom this woman had mated! but it was not so. she could have understood the imperfection which is full of genius; what she was slow to understand was the perfection in which no genius was. but she was calmed and changed by all she had gone through, and had learned how dearly such excellence may be bought, and that life is too feeble to bear so vast a strain. accordingly, fortified and consoled by the one gleam of glory which had crowned his brows, helen smiled upon her painter, and took pleasure in his work, even when it ceased to be glorious. that was over; but the dear common life--the quiet, blessed routine of every day--that ordinary existence, with love to lighten it, and work to burden it, and care and pleasure intermingled, which, apart from the great bursts of passion and sorrow and delight that come in from time to time, is the best blessing god gives to man--that had come back, and was here in all its fulness, in perfect fellowship and content. norah lived at home with her parents for two years--the reason of which was, not that they objected to poor ned, but that ned was so sick at heart with all that he had suffered, that he was not capable of settling down to such work as could be procured for him in england. he was 'burton's son;' and though even the people who looked cold at him on account of his parentage would soon have forgotten it, ned himself could not forget. there was even a moment of despair in which he had declared that he would not share his disgrace with the girl he loved, but would carry it with him to his grave as soon as might be, and trouble no one any more. this state of mind alarmed norah dreadfully, but it did not alarm the more experienced persons, who were aware that the mind at one-and-twenty has a great many vagaries, and is not always to be taken at its word. the despair came to a sudden end when ned found himself suddenly appointed to a vice-consulship in an italian seaport, where his chief made him do all the work, and where he received very little of the pay. when this serious moment came, and life had to be fairly looked in the face, ned came to himself--he became a reasonable creature. of course, after his despair, his first idea was to be married instantly; but finally he consented to wait until something better--something they could live on--could be procured for him. he bore his banishment valiantly, and so did norah. and it did him good; he began to forget that he was 'burton's son;' the whole terrible story began to steal out of his mind with that blessed facility which belongs to youth. his sky brightened from those early clouds; his mind, which was a very good, clear, capable intelligence, developed and strengthened; and finally, the exertions of his mother and grandfather, and those of drummond, who had some influence too among great people who were lovers of art, procured him an appointment at home. ned would have nothing to do with business; he shuddered at the very name of it, and rejected the plans his kind grandfather had formed for him with a repugnance which was almost horror. mr baldwin did not understand how the boy could be so foolish; but his mother understood, and subdued all opposition. instead of taking his chance, therefore, of commerce, with the hope of becoming in his turn a millionnaire, ned made himself very happy in the public service on a few hundreds a year. if he lived long enough, and nobody was promoted over him, and nothing happened to him or the office, the chances were that after thirty years or so he might find himself in enjoyment of a thousand a year. and all the family said to each other, 'that is very good, you know, for a young man without much interest,' and congratulated ned as if he had the thousand a year already which was thirty years off, and subject to all the chances of good and evil fortune, of economical ministers, and those public crises which demand the sacrifice of junior clerks. but notwithstanding all these drawbacks, ned was very happy in his new appointment, and his marriage day drew nigh. mrs burton had lived for some time with her father and her aunts at clapham--as long, indeed, as she could bear it; then she took a little house in town. she had given up half of her settlement to her husband's creditors; and whether she measured her sacrifice by her own knowledge of human nature, or did it simply in the revulsion of her heart, after ned's careless reception of the larger offering which she was willing to have made for him--certain it is that she got much more honour from her public renunciation of the half than she would have done had she let the whole go as she once intended. her magnanimity was in all the papers, and everybody commended the modest, unexaggerated sacrifice. and she had still a very good income of her own, derived from the half she retained. her life in london, she thought, was happier than at clapham. yet, perhaps, a doubt may be entertained on this subject; for a life so limited was hard to her, however luxurious it might be. she did not care for luxuries; but she did care to watch the secret movements of life, to penetrate the secrets of human machinery, to note how men met the different emergencies of their existence. she gathered a little society round her who were as fond of this pursuit as herself; but unless they could have provided themselves with cases on which to operate, this association could not do them much good, and it was dry fare to be driven to scrutinising each other. she thought she was happier in her tiny house in mayfair, where she kept three maids and a man, and was extremely comfortable; but i believe that in reality her time of highest enjoyment was also her time of greatest suffering, when she was ruling her own little world at dura, and seeing her house tumble to pieces, and holding out against fate. she had had a chance for a moment of a better life when her son came back, and touched with a careless, passing hand those chords of her heart which had never vibrated before. but the touch was careless, momentary. before that vibration had done more than thrill through her, the thoughtless hand was lifted, and the opportunity over, and mrs burton, with her soft cynic smile, her perfect toleration for the wants and weaknesses of humanity, her self-contained and self-sufficing character, had returned to herself. she was proud, very proud, in her way, and she was never betrayed into such weakness again. which was to blame, the mother or the son, it would be hard to say; and yet ned could hardly be blamed for failing to perceive an opportunity which he never guessed at nor dreamed of. some exceptionally sympathetic natures might perhaps by instinct have felt the power that had been put into their hands; but it is impossible to say that he was to blame for not feeling it. of all human creatures in this chilly universe, ned remained the one who most deeply interested his mother. she made no opposition to his marriage; she even made a distinct effort to like and to attract norah, who on her side did her best to be affectionate and filial to the woman whose cold gentleness and softness of manner were so unlike her own. it was an experiment which mutually could not be said to have failed. they were always, as people say, on the best of terms; but so far as any real _rapprochement_ went, it cannot be said that it succeeded. ned's life, however, such as it was, was the one point in her family to which mrs burton could turn without that emotion of calmly-observant contempt--if the sentiment could be described as anything so decided or warm as contempt--with which she regarded human nature in general. her husband, when he reached america, at once wrote home to claim a share in the income secured by her settlement, which she accorded him without hesitation, moved by a certain gentle, unexpressed disdain. he received his allowance, as she termed it, or his share, as he called it, with unfailing regularity, and made a hundred ventures with it in the new field of speculation he had entered on with varying success. he gained money and he lost it as he moved about from one town to another; and sometimes in his letters he would tell her of his successes--successes which made her smile. it was his nature, just as it was mr baldwin's nature to take the chair at meetings, to devote himself to the interests of the denomination. the one tendency was no more elevated than the other, when you came to look into them, the student of human nature thought. perhaps, on the whole, the commercial gambling on a small scale which now occupied the ruined merchant was more honest than the other; for burton thought of nothing but his own profit or gain, whereas mr baldwin thought he was doing god a service. but this was not a comparison for a daughter, for a wife, to make. and then clara came back from her southern villa, a young mother, with a husband who was no longer her lover, and of whom she had become aware that he was growing old. the villa was situated on the shores of the loveliest sea, in the most beautiful climate in the world; but clara tired of it, and found it dull, and with her dulness bored her husband so that his life became a burden to him. he brought her home at her urgent desire, with her baby, and they lived about in london for a short time, now in an hotel, now in a lodging, till it occurred to clara that it was her duty to go and live near 'dear grandpapa,' and delight his old age with the fourth generation of his descendants. it suited her very well for a time. 'dear grandpapa' was abject to her; her aunts became slaves to herself and her baby; she became the centre of all their thoughts and plans. clary, who loved all pleasant things, and to whom luxury and ease were life, made herself at home at clapham; and mr golden relieved her of his presence, paid visits here and there, lived at his club--which, strangely enough, had not expelled him--and returned to all the delights of his old bachelor life. what was to be the final end of it was hard to prophesy; but already clary had begun to be bored at clapham, and to make scenes with her husband when he paid her his unfrequent visits. and this was the love-match so romantically made! clary, amid all her jealousies and all her dulness, kept so firm a hold upon the rich old people who could not live for ever, and who could restore her at their death, if they so pleased, to much of her old splendour, that her mother derived a certain painful amusement from this new manifestation of her life. amusement, i cannot deny,--and painful, i hope; seeing that the creature who thus showed forth to her once again the poor motives and self-seeking of humanity was her only daughter. but with such evidences before her eyes of what human nature could be, was it wonderful that mrs burton should stand more and more by herself, and harden day by day into a colder toleration, a more disdainful acquiescence in the evils she could not fight against. what was the good of fighting against them? what could she do but render herself extremely unhappy, and spoil the comfort of others without doing them any good? it was not their fault; they were acting according to their nature. thus mrs burton's philosophy grew, and thus she spent her diminished life. it was in the midst of all these varied circumstances that the joy-bells rang for norah's wedding. mrs burton did not go; for even her philosophy was not equal to the sight of dura, where, according to the wish of both bride and bridegroom, the bridal was; but clara, eager in the dulness of clapham for any change, was present in a toilet which filled her aunts with compunction, yet admiration, and which one of them had been wheedled into giving her. clara took great state upon her as the matron, the only one of the party who had attained that glory, though she was the youngest, as she reminded them all. 'but if i don't do better than clary has done, i hope i shall never marry at all,' katie dalton cried with natural indignation. the pretty procession went out of the gatehouse on foot to the church behind the trees, where norah, as she said, had been 'brought up,' and where mr dalton blessed the young pair, while his kind wife stood holding helen's hand and crying softly, as it were, under her breath. helen herself did not cry; and norah's tears came amid such an april shining of happiness, that no one could object to them. the whole village came out to watch the pair whom the whole village knew. a certain tenderness of respect, such as the crowd seldom shows, was in the salutations dura gave to the son of the ruined man who had so long reigned among them. no one could remember, not the most tenacious rural memory, an unkind act of ned's; and the people were so sorry for him, that their pleasure in his joy was half pathetic. 'poor lad!' they said; 'poor fellow! and it was none of his fault.' and the friendliness that brought him back to hold his high festival and morning joy of youth among them touched the kindly folks, and went to their hearts. stephen haldane sat at his window, and watched the bride come and go. tears came into his eyes, and a pathetic mixture of gladness and sorrow to his heart. he watched the procession go out, and in his loneliness folded his hands and prayed for them while they were in church. it was summer once more, and the blossomed limes were full of bees, and all the air sweet with scent and sound. while all the goodly company walked together to the kirk, stephen, who could not go with them, sat there in the sunshine with his folded hands. what thoughts were in his mind! what broken lights of god's meaning and ways gleamed about him! what strange clouds passed over him through the sunshine--recollections of his own life, hopes for theirs! and when the bride went away from the door, away into the world with her husband--in that all-effectual separation from her father's house which may be but for a few days, but which is more or less for ever, stephen once more looked out upon them from his window. and by his side stood helen, escaped there to command herself and to console him. the father leaned out of the window, waving his hand; but the mother stood behind, with her hand upon the arm of the invalid's chair. when robert turned round, it was with wonder that he perceived in stephen's eyes a deeper feeling, a more penetrating emotion, than he himself felt, or had any thought of. he held out his hand to his friend, and he put his arm round his wife. 'well, helen,' he said, with his cheery voice, 'she is gone as you went from your mother; and there are two of us still, whatever life may have in store.' 'if there had not been two of us,' the mother cried, with momentary passion, 'i think i should have died!' stephen haldane took her hand in his, in sign of his sympathy. he held it tightly, swaying for a moment in his chair. and he said nothing, for there was no one whose ear was his, to whom his words were precious. but in his heart he murmured, god hearing him, 'there is but one of me; and i never die.' the end. john childs and son, printers. the pauper of park lane by william le queux illustrations by frank t. merrill published by cupples and leon company, new york. this edition dated . the pauper of park lane, by william le queux. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ the pauper of park lane, by william le queux. chapter one. introduces a man and a mystery. "there's some mystery about that girl--i'm certain of it." "what makes you suspect that?" "well, first, she's evidently a lady--the daughter of a man who has come down in the world most probably: and secondly--" "ah! you mean the secret lover--the man who was here yesterday and bought a twenty-guinea evening gown of her to send to his sister--eh?" exclaimed mr warner, "buyer" of the costume department of the great drapery house of cunnington's, in oxford street, that huge store which, as everybody knows, competes with whiteley's and harrod's for the premier place of the middle-class trade in london. "yes," laughed miss thomas, the rather stout middle-aged woman who was head saleswoman of the department, as she stood in the small, glass-partitioned office of the buyer, a pleasant-faced man of forty-five who was an expert in ladies' costumes, and twice yearly bought his stock personally in paris and in berlin. "yes. she's a really nice girl, but i can't quite make her out, although she's been here for over a year now." "and the lover?" asked the buyer, with a glance across the long square room where autumn costumes of every description were displayed upon stands, or hanging by the hundred in long rows, while ranged round the walls were many expensive evening-dresses exhibited in glass cases. it was afternoon, and the place was full of customers, the assistants in their neat black holding ready-made skirts to their sides to try the effect, or conducting the prospective purchaser to the fitting-rooms. and yet they were not what mr warner termed "busy." "the man, too, is a mystery, like miss rolfe. nobody knows his name. he comes in sometimes, goes up to her, and asks to be served with a skirt or something, and has it sent to mr evans at some chambers in dover street. the name is, of course, not the right one," said the head assistant. "but miss rolfe knows it, of course?" "probably she does." "and she meets him after business hours?" "i think so. but she keeps herself very much to herself, and is always at home early." mr warner glanced across at the tall, fair-haired, handsome girl, whose figure showed to such advantage in her black satin gown. at that moment she was displaying a cheap tweed skirt to two middle-aged women. her face, as he caught its profile, was very soft and refined, the contour of her cheeks perfect, and the stray wisp of hair across the brow gave a softness to her countenance that was charming. many a stage girl whose photograph was displayed in the shop-windows was not half so beautiful as the demure, hard-working shop-assistant, marion rolfe. the air of mystery surrounding her, mr warner found interesting, and the love-romance now in progress he intended to watch. towards his assistants, he was always lenient. unlike some "buyers," he was never hard, and never bullied them. he believed that by treating them with kindliness and with the courtesy every man should show towards a woman he obtained the best of their business abilities, as no doubt he did. "warner of the costumes" was known through the whole "house" as one of the most considerate of men, and one of the most trusted of old mr cunnington's advisers. those in his department were envied by all the other seven hundred odd assistants in the employment of the great firm. while mr warner and miss thomas were speaking, a smart-looking, fair-haired, fair-moustached young man of about twenty-five, in frock coat and silk hat, entered, and walking up to the little office, greeted the buyer saying-- "mr warner, i'm sorry to worry you, but may i speak to my sister for a moment on some important family business? i won't keep her but a few moments, for i see she's busy." "why, certainly, mr rolfe," was the good-humoured reply, as miss thomas went away to serve a customer. "it's against our rules, as you know, but for my own part i can never see why a young lady need be debarred from speaking to her own brother." "you're always very good, mr warner," responded the young man, "and i'd like to thank you for many little kindnesses you've shown to marion." "oh, nothing, nothing, my dear mr rolfe," warner said. "your sister is an excellent business woman--one of the best i have, i may tell you. but look! she's disengaged now. go over to her." and he watched the young man crossing the department. marion, surprised when her brother stood before her, immediately asked whether he had received mr warner's permission. "of course i have," was his quick reply in rather an excited manner, she thought. "i just ran up to tell you that i have to go abroad suddenly to-night, and to say good-bye. old sam statham is sending me out to servia. he only told me at one o'clock that i must go, and i've been buying some things necessary." "to servia!" exclaimed the girl, amazed that her brother, to whom she was devoted, was to go so far from her. "yes. we have some mining interests and some other things out there, and old sam suddenly decided to send me out to make certain inquiries. i shall be away a month or two, i daresay, as i have to go to see a new mine in the course of preparation down on the banks of the danube somewhere." "but do take care of yourself, charlie," urged the girl, looking up into her brother's face. "i've heard that it's an unsafe country." "unsafe! why that's quite a fallacy. servia is as safe as the strand nowadays. bland, our chief clerk, was out there a year, and he's been telling me how delightful the people are. servia is entirely misjudged by us." "then you'll go to-night?" "yes, by the mail from charing cross," he replied. "but don't come and see me off. i hate people to do that. and when you see dear old max, tell him that i'm sorry i had no time to go round before leaving. i've just telephoned, and his man says he won't be back till seven. that will be too late for me." "very well," replied his sister. "but--" "but what?" "well, charlie, i'm sorry you're going. i feel--well, i feel that you are going to a place where an accident might happen to you. i know nothing about servia, and besides--" "well?" "the mystery about old sam statham always haunts me. i don't somehow like that man." "you only met him once, and he was very courteous to you. besides, he is my master. were it not for him i should most probably be going about london penniless." "i know, i know," she said. "have you been to his house in park lane lately?" "i was there this morning, but only for five minutes. he gave me some instructions about a call i had to make in the city." "i wish you could leave him and get some other work as secretary. i don't like him. he isn't what he pretends to be, i'm sure he isn't." "he pretends to be nothing," laughed her brother. "old sam is a millionaire, and millionaires need no pretence. he could buy up this show twice over, and then leave a million for the death duties. you've taken a prejudice against him." "a woman's prejudice--which often is not very far wrong." "i know that you women see much further than we men do, but in this, marion, you are quite wrong. old sam is eccentric and mean, but at heart he's not at all a bad old fellow." "well, i tell you frankly, i don't half like your going to servia under his auspices." charlie rolfe laughed aloud. "my dear marion, of what are you apprehensive?" he asked. "i go in a very responsible position, as his confidential secretary, to inquire into certain matters in his interests. if i carry out my mission successfully, i shall get a rise of salary." "granted. but you know what you're told me about the queer stories afloat regarding samuel statham and his house in park lane." "i've never believed them, although they are, of course, curious. yet you must remember that every man of great wealth has mysterious stories put about by his enemies. every man and every woman has enemies. who has not?" "but you've admitted yourself that you've never been in more than one room in the mansion," she said, looking him straight in the face. "that's true. but it doesn't prove anything, does it?" he asked. and marion saw that he was nervous and agitated, quite unlike his usual self. perhaps, however, it was on account of her apprehensions, she thought. she had only seen samuel statham, the well-known millionaire, on one occasion. she had called at the offices in old broad street one afternoon to see her brother, who was his confidential secretary, when the old fellow had entered, a short, round-shouldered, grey-bearded old man, rather shabbily-dressed, who, looking at her, bluntly asked who she was and what she wanted there. one of his eccentricities was that he hated women, and marion knew that. in a faltering tone she replied that she was sister of his secretary, whereupon his manner instantly changed. he became the acme of politeness, asked her into his private room, offered her a glass of port--which, of course, she refused--and chatted to her most affably till her brother's return. why she had taken such a violent dislike to the old man she herself could not tell. possibly it was his sudden change of manner, and that his pleasant suavity was feigned. and this, combined with the extraordinary rumours regarding his past, and the mystery of his great mansion in park lane, had caused her to view him with bitter prejudice. several customers were waiting to be served, and marion saw mr warner's eye upon her. "well, charlie," she said, "perhaps i'll get down to charing cross to see you off. you go to paris first, i suppose?" "yes. i take the orient express from there, by way of vienna and budapest to belgrade. but," he added, "don't come and see me off, there's a good girl." "why? i've been before, when you've gone to the continent." "yes, i know," he answered impatiently; "but--well, it makes me feel as if i shan't come back. don't come, will you?" marion smiled. his anxiety that she should not come struck her as distinctly curious. he was not himself. of that she was convinced. to her, ever since her father's death, he had been a good friend, and for a year prior to her engagement at cunnington's he had divided his salary with her. no girl ever had a better brother than he had been, yet of late she had noticed a complete change in his manner. he was no longer frank with her, as he used to be, and he seemed often to hide from her facts which, with her woman's keen intelligence, she afterwards discovered. "miss rolfe!" exclaimed mr warner, emerging from his office. "disengaged?" and he pointed to a pair of somewhat obese ladies who were examining a costume displayed on a stand. "well, good-bye, charlie," she said, shaking his hand. "i must go. we're very busy this afternoon. perhaps i shall see you at charing cross. if not--then take care of yourself, dear. good-bye." and she turned and left him to attend to the two ladies, while he, with a nod across to mr warner, strode out of the shop. "i hope to goodness marion doesn't come," he muttered to himself. "women are so infernally inquisitive. and if she does go to charing cross she's sure to suspect something!" chapter two. concerns a silent secret. that same afternoon, while charlie rolfe was bidding farewell to his sister marion, max barclay was sitting in the cosy study of one of the smaller houses in cromwell road, smoking cigarettes with a thin-faced, grey-haired, grey-bearded man whose cast of features at once betrayed him to be a foreigner. the well-furnished room was the typical den of a studious man, as its owner really was, for about it was an air of solid comfort, while upon the floor near where the elder man was lying back in his leather easy-chair were scattered some newspapers with headings in unfamiliar type--the greek alphabet. the air was thick with cigarette smoke, giving forth an aroma unusual to english nostrils--that pleasant aroma peculiar to servian tobacco. the younger man, dressed in well-fitting, dark grey flannels, his long legs sprawled out as he lay back in his chair taking his ease and gossiping with his friend, was, without doubt, a handsome fellow. tall beyond the average run of men, with lithe, clean-cut limbs, smart and well-groomed, with closely-cropped dark hair, a pair of merry dark eyes, and a small dark moustache which had an upward trend, his air was distinctly military. indeed, until a few months before he had held a commission, in a cavalry regiment, but had resigned on account of the death of his father and his consequent succession to the wide and unencumbered barclay estates in lincolnshire and up in the highlands. though now possessor of a fine old english home and a seventeenth-century castle in scotland, max barclay preferred to divide his time between his chambers in dover street and wandering about the continent. there was time enough to "settle down," he always declared. besides, both the houses were too big and too gloomy to suit his rather simple bachelor tastes. his aunt emily, an old lady of seventy, still continued to live at water newton hall, not far from that quaint, old world and many-spired town, stamford; but kilmaronock castle was unoccupied save for six weeks or so when he went up with friends for the shooting season. agents were frequently making tempting offers to him to let the place to certain wealthy americans, but he refused all inducements. the fine old place between crieff and perth had never been let during his father's lifetime, and he did not intend that any stranger, except his own friends, should enjoy the splendid shooting now. "my dear petrovitch," he was saying between whiffs of his cigarette, "it is indeed reassuring what you tell me regarding the settled state of the country. you have surely had sufficient internal troubles of late." "ah, yes!" sighed the elder man, a deep, thoughtful expression upon his pleasant, if somewhat sallow, countenance. "servia has passed through her great crisis--the crisis through which every young nation must pass sooner or later; and now, heaven be thanked, a brighter day has dawned for us. under our new _regime_ prosperity is assured. but"--and pausing, he looked max straight in the face, and in a changed voice, a voice of increased earnestness and confidence, he added with only a slight accent, for he spoke english very well--"i did not ask you here to discuss politics. we servians are, i fear, sad gossips upon our own affairs. i wanted to speak to you upon a subject of greatest importance to myself personally, and of someone very dear to me. now we have been friends, my dear max, you and i, through some years, and i feel--nay, i know, that you will regard what i say in entire confidence." "most certainly," was the young englishman's reply, though somewhat surprised at his friend's sudden change of manner. it was true that he had known dr michael petrovitch for quite a number of years. long ago, when he had first visited belgrade, the servian capital, the man before him, well-known throughout the balkans as a patriot, was occupying the position of minister of finance under king milan. both his excellency and his wife had been extremely kind to him, had introduced him to the smart social set, had obtained for him the _entree_ to the palace festivities, and had presented him to queen nathalie. thus a firm friendship had been established between the two men. but affairs in servia had considerably changed since then. madame petrovitch, a charming english lady, had died, and his excellency, after becoming minister of commerce and subsequently foreign minister in several succeeding cabinets, had gone abroad to represent his country at foreign courts, first st petersburg, then berlin, and then constantinople, finally returning and coming to live in england. even now he was not more than fifty, and it had long ago been whispered that his majesty was constantly urging him to return and accept the portfolio of finance or of commerce. but he steadily declined. as a statesman, his abilities had long ago been recognised by europe, and none knew his value or appreciated him more than his own sovereign; yet for private reasons he preferred to live quietly in the cromwell road to returning to all the worries of state and those eternal bickerings in the servian skuptchina. he was a man of even temper, of charming manner, and of scrupulous honesty. had he been dishonest in his dealings he might have amassed a great fortune while occupying those posts in the various ministries. but he had preferred to remain as he was, upright, even though comparatively poor. "well?" asked max, after a long silence. "i am waiting." "it is a matter to which i refer not without some hesitation," declared his friend. "i want to speak to you about maud." "about maud. well?" "i am worried about the child--a good deal." "for what reason?" asked max, considerably surprised. maud was petrovitch's only daughter, a very beautiful girl, now nineteen years of age, who had been brought up in england and to whom he was entirely devoted. "well, she has fallen in love." "all girls do sooner or later," replied max, philosophically. "but she's too young yet--far too young. twenty-five is quite early enough for a girl to marry." "and who's the man?" "your friend--charlie rolfe." "charlie!" he exclaimed, in great surprise. "and he's in love with maud. are you quite sure of this?" "quite. she meets him in secret, and though rolfe is your friend, max, i tell you i don't like it," he declared. "i am not surprised. secret affections never meet with a parent's approbation. if charlie is in love with her, and the affection is mutual, why doesn't he come straight and tell you?" "exactly my argument," declared petrovitch, lighting a fresh cigarette with the end of one half-consumed. "but tell me, rolfe is an intimate friend of yours, is he not?" "very," was max's reply, though he did not inform his friend of his love for marion. "what is his exact position?" "as far as i know, he is private secretary to old samuel statham, the great financier. his position is quite a good one--as far as confidential secretaryships go." "statham! i've heard of him. there's some extraordinary story about his house in park lane, isn't there? nobody has ever been inside, or something." "there is, i believe, some cock and bull story," responded max. "the old fellow is a bit eccentric, and doesn't care for people prying all over his house. he lives alone, and has no friends. do you know, one can be very lonely in london. it is a perfect sahara to those who are friendless." "yes," said petrovitch, huskily. "i know it by experience myself. when i was a youth i lived here. i was a foreign clerk in an insurance office in the city, and i lived perfectly alone--among all these millions. i remember it all as though it were only yesterday. i was indeed glad to get back to servia." "but why are you worried about maud, old fellow?" max asked. "don't you like rolfe--or what?" "i like him very much, indeed i took a great fancy to the young fellow when you introduced him to me last year at aix-les-bains. from the very first i noticed that he was attracted towards the child, and i did not object because i thought a little flirtation would amuse her. these secret meetings, however, i don't like. it is not right. she's met him in st james's park, and at other places of late, and they have gone for long walks together without my knowledge or sanction." max thought for a moment. "does she know that you are aware of the meetings?" "no." "well, i must admit that i had no idea matters had gone so far as they evidently have," he said. "i, of course, knew that he has greatly admired maud from the very first. he was, in fact, always speaking of her in admiration, yet i believed that he did not consider his position to be sufficiently established in warranting him to declare his love to her. shall i throw out a gentle hint to him that the secret meetings would be best discontinued?" "if he were to discontinue his visits here altogether it would, i think, be best," said petrovitch in a hard voice, quite unusual to him. max was surprised at this. had any unpleasantness occurred between the two men, which his friend was concealing, knowing that rolfe was his most intimate chum? "does he come often?" "he calls about once a week--upon me, ostensibly, but really in excuse to see the child." "and now--let us speak frankly, old fellow," max said, bending slightly towards the man seated opposite him. "do you object to rolfe paying his attentions to your daughter?" "yes--i do." "then i very much regret that i ever introduced him. we were together at aix-les-bains for three weeks last summer, and, as you know, we met. you were my old friend, and i could not help introducing him. i regret it now, and can only hope you will forgive me such an indiscretion." "it was not indiscreet at all--only unfortunate," he answered, almost snappishly. "but tell me straight out--what do you wish me to do?" max urged. "recollect that if i can serve you in any way you have only to command me." "even at the expense of your friend's happiness?" asked petrovitch, his sharp eyes fixed upon the young man. "if he really loves her, the circumstances of the cue are altered," was the diplomatic answer. "and if he does not? if it is, as i suspect, a mere flirtation--what then?" "then i think you should leave the matter to me, to act with my discretion," young barclay replied. he recollected that charlie was marion's brother, and he saw himself already in a somewhat difficult position. "my own idea is," he went on, "that it is something more than a mere flirtation, and that the reason of the secret meetings is because he fears to ask your consent to be allowed to pay court to your daughter." "what makes you think so?" "from some words that his sister marion let drop the other day." "ah! marion is a sweet and charming girl," the elder man declared. "what a pity she should be compelled to drudge in a shop!" "yes," replied max, quickly. "it is a thousand pities. she's far too refined and good for that life." "a matter of unfortunate necessity, i suppose." necessity! max barclay bit his lips when he recollected how very easily she might leave that shop-life if she would only accept money from him. but how could she? how could he offer it to her without insult? no. until she consented to be his wife she must still remain there, at the beck and call of every irritating tradesman's wife who cared to enter the department to purchase a ready-made costume or a skirt "with material for bodice." "i'm sorry for marion," dr petrovitch went on. "she frequently comes here of an evening, and often on sundays to keep maud company. they get on most excellently together." "yes; she is devoted to maud. she has told me so." "i believe she is," petrovitch said. "and yet it is unfortunate, for friendliness with marion must also mean continued friendliness with her brother." "ah! i see now that you do not like him," max said, openly, for he could not now fail to see from his friend's expression that something had occurred. what it was he was utterly unable to make out. "no, i don't," was the ex-minister's plain, determined answer. "and to tell you the truth, i have other views regarding maud's future. so just tell the young man whatever you think proper. only request him neither to call here, nor to attempt to see the child again!" chapter three. tells of a woman's love. in the dull hazy london sunset fopstone road, which leads from earl's court road into nevern square, was quite deserted. there is a silence and monotony in the eminently respectable thoroughfares in that particular district that, to their residents, is often very depressing. traffic there is none save a stray hansom or a tradesman's cart at long intervals, while street organs and even the muffin men avoid them because, unlike the poorer districts, they find no stray coppers and no customers. on the same evening as the events recorded in the previous chapters, about six o'clock, just as the red dusky after-glow was deepening into twilight, charlie rolfe emerged from earl's court station, walked along to the corner of fopstone road, and, halting, looked eagerly down it. but there was not a soul. indeed there was no sound beyond that of a distant cab whistle somewhere in nevern square. for about five minutes he waited, glancing impatiently at his watch, and then, turning upon his heel, strolled along in the direction of the square. a few moments later, however, there hurried up behind him a sweet-faced, smartly-dressed girl who, as he turned to meet her, laughed merrily, saying: "i do hope, charlie, i haven't kept you waiting, but i've had such trouble to get out. dad asked me to write some private letters in english for him; i really believe he suspects something. we meet too often." "no, darling," answered rolfe, raising his hat and taking her small gloved hand. "we don't meet frequently enough for me. and i think that your father is entirely unsuspicious. i was with him last night, and he did not strike me as possessing any knowledge of these secret meetings of ours." "yes, but you know how dangerous it is," replied the pretty girl, glancing round. "somebody might pass, recognise me, and tell dad." "and what then, dearest?" he laughed. "why your fears are utterly groundless." "i know, but--" "but what?" "well, dad would be annoyed--that's all--annoyed with both of us." "he must already have seen, darling, that i love you. he isn't blind," said charlie rolfe, moving slowly along at her side. hers was, indeed, a face that would attract attention anywhere, oval, delicately moulded, slightly flushed by the momentary excitement of meeting her lover. her hair was well-dressed, her narrow-waisted figure still girlish; her dress, a pale biscuit-coloured cloth, which, in its refined simplicity, suited well the graceful contour of the slender form, and contrasted admirably with the soft white skin; the dark hair, a stray coquettish little wisp of which fell across her brow beneath her neat black hat, and the dark brown eyes, so large, luminous, and expressive. her gaze met his. every sensitive feature, every quiet graceful movement told plainly of her culture and refinement, while on her face there rested an indescribable charm, a look of shy, sweet humility, of fond and all-consuming love for the man beside her. as she lifted her eyes at the words of affection he was whispering into her ear as they went along the quiet, deserted street, she perceived how tall and athletic he was, and noticed, woman-like, the masculine perfection of his dress, alike removed from slovenliness and foppery. "no," she said at last, her eyes gazing in abstraction in front of her. "i don't suppose dad is in any way blind. he generally is too wide-awake. i have to make all sorts of excuses to get out-- dressmakers, painting-lessons, buying evening gloves, a broken watch-- and all sorts of thing like that. the fact is," she declared, laughing sweetly and glancing again at him, "i have almost exhausted all the subterfuges." "ah, dearest, a woman can always find some excuse," he remarked, joining in her laughter. "yes, but that's all very well; you haven't a father," she protested, "so you don't know." she had only left school at brighton two years before, therefore her clandestine meetings with charlie rolfe were adventures which she dearly loved. and, moreover, they both of them were devoted to each other. charlie absolutely adored her. hitherto women had never attracted him, but from the day of their introduction on the gravelled walk in front of the villa des fleurs at aix, his whole life had changed. he was hers-- hers utterly and entirely. for three months he had existed in constant uncertainty, until one warm evening at scarborough--where she and her father were staying at the grand--while they were alone together in the sloping garden of the spa he summoned courage to tell her the secret of his heart, and to his overwhelming joy found that his passion was reciprocated. thus had they become lovers. as max rightly guessed, he had feared for the present to tell dr petrovitch the truth lest he should object and a parting be the result. his position was not what he wished it to be. as secretary to the eccentric old financier, his salary was an adequate one, but not sufficient to provide maud with a home such as her own. he therefore intended in a little while to tell old statham the truth, and to ask for more. and until he had done so, he hesitated to demand of the doctor his daughter's hand. together they strolled slowly on, chatting as lovers will. at the bottom of fopstone road they continued round the crescent of philbeach gardens, along warwick road, and crossing old brompton road, entered that maze of quiet, eminently respectable streets in the neighbourhood of redcliffe square, strolling slowly on in the falling gloom. "do you know, darling," he exclaimed at last, "i wanted to see you very particularly this evening, because i am leaving london to-night for servia." "for servia!" she cried, halting and fixing her great eyes upon his in quick surprise. "yes." her countenance fell. "then you--you are leaving me?" "it is imperative, my darling," he said, in a low, tender voice, taking her hand in his. he wished to kiss her sweet lips, but there in the open street such action was impossible. courtship in our grimy, matter-of-fact london has many drawbacks, even though every house contains its life-romance and every street holds its man or woman with a broken heart. "but you never told me," she complained. "you've left it until the last minute. do you start from charing cross to-night?" "yes. i would leave to-morrow at nine, and catch the orient express from calais for belgrade, but i have business to do in paris to-morrow." "ah! belgrade!" sighed the girl. "i wonder if i shall ever see it again? long ago i used to be so fond of it, and we had so very many good friends. dear old dad is so popular. why, when we drove out the people in their brown homespun clothes used to run after the carriage and cheer `petrovitch the patriot,' as they call dad." "of course you will return soon," charlie said. "no doubt your father will be induced to enter the new pashitch cabinet." the girl shook her head dubiously. "i know the king has several times asked him to return to servia, but for some mysterious reason he has always declined." "but he is the most popular man in the country, and he cannot remain away much longer. it is his duty to return and assist in the government." "yes. but my mother died in belgrade, you know, and i think that may be the reason he does not care to return," replied the girl. "why are you going there?" she asked. "on a mission for statham--regarding a mining concession," he answered. "you know we have a lot of interests out there. perhaps i shall be away only a week or two--perhaps six months." "six months!" she cried in a blank voice. "it is such a long, long time to look forward to." "i have no desire to leave you, my own darling," he declared, looking straight into her beautiful face. "but the mission is confidential, and for that reason i have received orders to go." "your train leaves at nine," she said, "and it is already nearly seven-- only two hours! and those two remaining hours i cannot spend with you, for i must be in to dinner at seven. i must leave you in a moment," she added, and the faint flush in her face died away. her voice ceased. he looked down musing, without replying. he was impressed by her utter loneliness--impressed, too, without knowing it by the time and place. the twilight of the short evening was gathering fast. a cold damp feeling was mingled with the silence of the dull, drab london street. it struck him that it felt like a grave. a slight nervous trembling came over his well-beloved, and a weary little sigh escaped her lips. that sigh of hers recalled him to a sense of her distress at his departure, and the face that met her troubled eyes was, in an instant, as full as ever of resolute hopefulness. "what matters, my own, if i am away?" he asked with a smile. "we love each other, and that is all-sufficient." all the pity of his strong, tender nature went forth to the lovely girl whom he loved with such strong passionate devotion. "what matter, indeed!" she cried, hoarsely, tears springing to her eyes. "is it no matter that i see you, charlie? ah! you do not know how i count the hours when we shall meet again--how--how--" and unable to further restrain her emotion, she burst into tears. he was silent. what, indeed, could he say? reflections, considerations, possibilities crowded in upon his mind, already disturbed and perplexed. the sweetness of the hours passed in her society had increased insensibly ever since that well-remembered afternoon in aix; the tones of her voice, the notes of those melodious old servian songs she so often sang, her slightest action held a charm for him such as his earnest nature had never experienced before. and they must part. within himself he doubted whether they would ever meet again. he had secret fears--fears of something that was in progress--something that might entirely change his life--something he held secret from her. but he put the thought away. it was a horrible reflection--a qualm of conscience. what would she think of him if she actually knew the truth? he bit his lip, and in resolution again took her white-gloved hand. "no, darling," he said, softly, in an earnest effort to cheer her. "i will return very soon. be brave, and remember that my every thought is of you always--of you, my love." "i know," she sobbed. "i know, charlie, but--but i cannot really help it. forgive me." "forgive you! of course i do, sweetheart; only do not cry, or they will certainly suspect something when you sit down to dinner." his argument decided her, and she slowly dried her tears, saying: "i only wish i could go to charing cross to see you off. but an hour ago i telephoned to your sister marion to come and dine with us, and go with me to a concert at queen's hall." "and she accepted?" he asked, quickly, almost breathlessly. rolfe gave a sigh of relief. at any rate neither his sister nor his well-beloved would be at charing cross at nine that evening. "i must try and bring her to the station, if possible. does she know you are going?" asked the girl. "oh, yes. but i particularly asked her not to see me off." "in order that i might come alone. oh! how very good of you, charlie!" "no. forgive me for saying so, but like a good many men who travel a lot i never like being seen off--not even by you, yourself, my darling!" "very well," she sighed, looking up into his serious eyes. "i must, i suppose, act as you wish. may god protect you, my dearest, and bring you back again in safety to me." then as he whispered into her ear words of courage and ardent affection, with linked arms they re-traced their steps back to earl's court road, where, with lingering reluctance, he took affectionate leave of her. having watched her turn the corner, he went slowly back towards earl's court station, and as he did so, beneath his breath he murmured "ah! if she knew--if she knew! but she must never know--she shall never know-- never as long as i have breath. i love her--love her better than my life--and she is mine. yet--yet how can i, after--after--" and he sighed deeply without concluding the sentence, while his face went ashen pale at the thought which again crossed his mind--a thought, secret and terrible. chapter four. which is distinctly mysterious. max barclay, on leaving dr petrovitch, had taken a cab straight to charlie's chambers in jermyn street, arriving there shortly before six. green, his man, had told him, however, that his master had returned soon after luncheon, ordered two big bags to be packed, and had left with them upon a hansom, merely saying that he should be absent a week, or perhaps two, and that no letters need be forwarded. max was not surprised at this sudden departure, for old statham had a habit of sending his confidential secretary hither and thither at almost a moment's notice. the old fellow's financial interests were enormous, and widely dispersed. some of them were in servia and bulgaria, where he held concessions of great value. he had had a finger in most of the financial undertakings in the near east during the past fifteen years or so. out of the oriental railway extension from salonica to the servian frontier alone he had, it was said, made a huge fortune, for he was the original concessionaire. for some years he had lived in the balkans, looking after his interests in person, but nowadays he entrusted it all to his agents with occasional visits by this confidential secretary. therefore max suspected that charlie had left for the east, more especially that at the hour he had left jermyn street he could have caught the afternoon continental service from charing cross _via_ boulogne. so he went on to his own rooms, changed, dined at the automobile club, his mind being full of what the doctor had told him concerning charlie and maud. he had, of course, suspected it all along. marion knew the truth, but, loyal to her brother, she had said no word. yet when he had seen rolfe with the ex-statesman's pretty daughter, he had long ago guessed that the pair were more than mere friends. that the doctor disapproved of the affair was somewhat disconcerting, more especially as he had openly declared that he had other ideas of maud's future. what were they? was her father hoping that she would marry some young servian--a man of his own race? he sat in the club over a cigar till nearly nine o'clock, wondering how he could assist the man who was not only his dearest friend but brother of the girl to whom he was so entirely devoted and whom he intended to make his wife. he sighed with regret when he thought of her undergoing that shop drudgery to which she had never been accustomed. the early rising, the eternal drive of business, the calm, smiling exterior towards those pettish, snapping women customers, and those hasty scrambles for meals. he had seen her engaged in her business, and he had met her after shop hours, pale, worn, and fagged out. and yet he--the man who was to be her husband--lived in that ease and idleness which an income of twelve thousand a year secured. had petrovitch not told him that marion was dining at cromwell road and going to a concert with maud afterwards, he would have wired to her to meet him. but he knew how devoted the two girls were to each other, notwithstanding the difference of their stations, and how maud welcomed marion's company at concerts or theatres to which her father so seldom cared to go. suddenly it occurred to him that if he returned to the doctor's he would meet marion there later on, when she came back from queen's hall, and be able to drive her home to that dull street at the back of oxford street where the assistants of cunnington's, limited, "lived in." this reflection aroused him, and, glancing at the smoking-room clock, he saw it wanted a quarter to ten. two other men, friends of his, were sitting near, discussing motoring matters, and their eternal chatter upon cylinders, tyres, radiators, and electric horns bored him. therefore he rose, put on his coat, and, hailing a cab, told the man to drive to victoria, where he took the underground railway to gloucester road station. from there to the house of the ex-minister was only a very short walk. the night was mild, bright, and starlight, for the haze of sundown which had threatened rain had been succeeded by a brilliant evening. cromwell road is always deserted at that hour before the cabs and carriages begin to return from restaurants and theatres, and as he strolled along, knowing that he was always welcome at the doctor's house to chat and smoke, his was the only footfall to be heard in the long open thoroughfare. ascending the steps beneath the wide portico, he pressed the visitors' bell, but though he waited several minutes, there was no response. again and again he rang, but the bell was apparently out of order, so he gave a sounding rat-tat with the knocker. then he listened intently; but to his surprise no one stirred. over the door was a bright light, as usual, revealing the number in great white numerals, and through the chinks of the venetian blinds of the dining-room he could see that the electric lamps were on. again and again he rang and knocked. it was surely curious, he thought, that all the servants should be out, even though the doctor might be absent. the failure to arouse anybody caused him both surprise and apprehension. though the electric bell might be out of order, yet his loud knock must be heard even up to the garrets. london servants are often neglectful in the absence of their masters, and more especially if there is no mistress, yet it seemed hardly creditable that they would go out and leave the place unattended. seven or eight times he repeated his summons, standing upon the door-steps with his ears strained to catch the slightest sound. once he thought he heard distinctly the noise of stealthy footsteps in the hall, and he held his breath. they were repeated. he was quite certain that his ears had not deceived him, for in the street all was silent as the grave. he heard someone moving within as though creeping slowly from the door. what could it mean? were thieves within? he examined the door to see if the lock had been tampered with, but, so far as he could discern, it was untouched. he was undecided how to act, though now positively certain that something unusual was in progress. he glanced up and down the long road, with its rows of gas lamps, but no one was visible. the only sound was the far-distant rat-tat of the postman on his last round. for the doctor to be out of an evening was very unusual; and that stealthy footstep had alarmed him. if there were actually thieves, then they had probably entered by the area door. max was by no means a coward. there was a mystery there--a mystery he intended to at once investigate. doctor petrovitch was one of his dearest friends and he meant to act as a friend should act. what puzzled him most of all was the absence of the servants. all of them were apparently highly trustworthy, yet the foreigner in london, he remembered, often engaged servants without sufficient inquiry into their past. for a few moment he stood motionless, his ears strained, at the door. the movement was repeated. someone seemed to be leaving the dining-room, for he distinctly heard the light footfall. therefore, with scarce a sound, he crept down the steps to the pavement and descended the winding flight to the area door. with great caution he turned the handle, but alas! the knob went right round in his hand, the door remaining still fastened. a light showed in the kitchen, but whether anyone was there he of course could not tell. again he tried the door, but without avail. it was securely fastened, while, as far as he could ascertain, there were no marks of any forcible entry. should he rap at the door? or would that further alarm the intruders? he had knocked many times at the front door, it was true, but they would no doubt wait until they believed he had gone. or else they might escape by the rear of the premises. what should he do? he hesitated again, with bated breath. next instant, however, he heard upon the stone steps above him, leading from the pavement to the front door, the light tread of feet quickly descending. someone, having watched him descend there, was leaving the house! and yet so noiselessly that at first max believed himself mistaken. in a second he had dashed up the area steps and stood upon the pavement. but already he realised the truth. the front door stood ajar, and the intruder was flying as fast as his feet could carry him in the direction of the brompton road. swiftly, without looking back, the man sped lightly along the pavement to the next corner, which he turned and was a moment later lost to view. max barclay did not follow. he stood there like a man in a dream. "what--in heaven's name--is the meaning of this?" as, held powerless, he stood staring in the direction the fugitive had taken. his first impulse had been to follow, but next moment, as the escaping intruder had passed beneath a street lamp he recognised the figure unmistakably, both by the clothes and hat, as none other than his friend charles rolfe! he fell back, staggered by the discovery. for quite a brief space he stood unable to move. then, seeing the door ajar, he ascended the steps and entered the house. the lights were switched on everywhere, but, on going in, something--what it was he could never describe--struck him as peculiar. hardly had he crossed the threshold than he became instinctively aware that some mystery was there. in a few seconds the amazing truth became apparent, for when he entered the dining-room, to the left of the hall, he started, and an involuntary exclamation of surprise escaped him. the place was empty, devoid of every stick of furniture! from room to room he dashed, only to find that everything had been mysteriously removed. in the few brief hours or his absence doctor petrovitch had apparently fled, taking with him all his household effects. he stood in the hall utterly dumbfounded. why had rolfe been there? what had he been doing in the empty house? the swift manner in which the removal had been effected increased the mystery, for he had not left the doctor till five o'clock. besides, he had no doubt dined with his daughter maud and with marion, and they would not leave until about eight o'clock. again, a removal of that magnitude, requiring at least two vans, after dark could not possibly be effected without attracting the notice of the constable on duty! perhaps the police really did know who carried out the sudden change of residence. anyhow, the whole affair was a complete enigma which amazed and stupefied him. presently, when he had somewhat recovered from his surprise, he ascended the stairs, his footsteps now echoing strangely through the empty place, and there found that the drawing-room, and, in fact, all the other rooms, had been completely and quickly cleared. the carpets had in some cases been left, but in the hasty removal curtains had been torn down from the rings, leaving cornices and poles, and the grand piano remained, it being apparently too large and heavy for rapid transit. he ascended, even to the servants' rooms on the top floor, but found scarcely a vestige of furniture left. in one back room, a small half-garret with a slightly eloping roof, he noticed a cupboard which curiosity led him to open, as he had opened other cupboards. as he did so, he saw a bundle upon the floor, as though it had been hastily thrown there. as he pulled it forth it unrolled, and he then saw that it was a woman's light grey tweed skirt and coat. the latter felt damp to his touch, and as he held it up to examine it he saw that the breast and sleeve were both saturated with blood! it dropped from his nerveless fingers. some secret crime had been committed in that house, so suddenly and mysteriously divested of its furniture. but what? max barclay, pale as death, stood gazing around him, staggered, bewildered, horrified, scarce daring to breathe. why had charles rolfe fled so hurriedly and secretly from the place? chapter five. what a constable saw. slowly max barclay regained possession of his senses. the discovery had so staggered him that, for a few moments, he had stood there in that room, staring at the woman's tweed coat, transfixed in horror. there was some great and terrible mystery there, and with it charlie rolfe, the man whom he had so implicitly trusted, his most intimate friend, and brother of the woman who was all the world to him, was closely associated. he glanced around the bare garret in apprehension. all was so weird and unexpected that a queer, uncanny feeling had crept over him. what could have occurred to have caused this revolution in the doctor's house? here in that house, only a few hours ago, he had smoked calmly with petrovitch, the studious servian patriot, the man whom the servians worshipped, and who was the right hand of his sovereign the king. when they had chatted of maud's flirtation there had been no suggestion of departure. indeed, the doctor had invited him to return after dinner, as he so often did. max was an easy, gay, careless man of the world, yet he was fond of study, and fond of the society of clever men like petrovitch. the latter was well-known in literary circles on the continent by reason of having written a most exhaustive history of the ottoman empire. that night marion, his well-beloved, had no doubt dined at that house, prior to going to the concert with maud. at least she would be aware of something that might give a clue to this extraordinary and hurried flight, if not to the ugly stain upon the woman's dress lying upon the floor at his feet. he was undecided how next to act. should he go to the police-station and inquire of the inspector whether removing vans had been noticed by the constable on the beat, or should he take a cab to queen's hall to try and find marion and maud? he glanced at his watch, and saw that by the time he got to the concert they would in all probability have left. marion was compelled to be in by eleven o'clock, therefore maud would no doubt come out with her. indeed, in a quarter of an hour his friend's daughter would be due to return there. this decided him, and, without more ado, he left the house. was it worth while at present, he reflected, saying anything to the police regarding the blood-stained garment? charlie might give the explanation. he would see him before the night was out. therefore, finding a constable at the corner of earl's court road, he inquired of him if he had noticed any removing vans before the house in question. the man replied that he had only come on duty at ten, therefore, it would be best if he went to the police-station, to which he directed him. "if the man on duty saw any removing vans in the evening, he would certainly report it," the constable added politely, and barclay then went in the direction he indicated. a quarter of an hour later he stood in the police-office, while the inspector turned over the leaves of the big book in which reports of every untoward or suspicious occurrence are entered for reference, in case of civil actions or other eventualities. at first he could find nothing, but at last he exclaimed: "there's something here. i suppose this is it. listen: p.c. baldwin, when he came off duty, reported to the station-sergeant that two large pantechnicon vans and a small covered van of harmer's stores, knightsbridge, drove up at : to number a, cromwell road, close to queen's gate gardens, and with seven men and a foreman removed the whole of the furniture. the constable spoke to the foreman, and learned that it was a sudden order given by the householder, a dr petrovitch, a foreigner, for his goods to be removed before half-past ten that night, and stored at the firm's depository at chiswick." "but they must have done it with marvellous alacrity!" max remarked, at the same time pleased to have so quickly discovered the destination of the doctor's household goods. "bless you, sir," answered the inspector, "harmer's can do anything. they'd have sent twenty vans and cleared out the place in a quarter of an hour if they'd contracted to do so. you know they can do anything, and supply anything from a tin-tack to a live monkey." "then they've been stored at chiswick, eh?" "no doubt, sir. the constable would make all inquiry. you know harmer's place at chiswick, not far from turnham green railway station? at the office in knightsbridge they'd tell you all about it. this foreign doctor was a friend of yours, i suppose?" "yes, a great friend," replied barclay. "the fact is, i'm much puzzled over the affair. only late this afternoon i was in his study, smoking and talking, but he told me nothing about his sudden removal." "ah, foreigners are generally pretty shifty customers, sir," was the officer's remark. "if you'd seen as much as i have of 'em, when i was down at leman street, you'd think twice before you trusted one. of course, no reflection intended on your friend, sir." "but there are foreigners who are gentlemen," max ventured to suggest. "yes, there may be. i haven't met many, and we have to deal with all classes, you know. but tell me the circumstances," added the inspector, scenting mystery in this sudden flight. "petrovitch might be some city speculator who had suddenly been ruined, or a bankrupt who had absconded." max barclay was, however, not very communicative. perhaps it was because of charlie's inexplicable presence in that deserted house, or perhaps on account of the inspector's british antipathy towards foreigners; nevertheless, he said nothing regarding that woman's coat with the tell-tale mark of blood. besides, the doctor and maud must be somewhere in the vicinity. no doubt he would come round to dover street in the morning and explain his unusual removal. the discovery of rolfe's presence there was nevertheless inexplicable. the more he reflected upon it, the more suspicious it seemed. the inspector's curiosity had been aroused by max's demeanour. the latter had briefly related how he had called, to find the house empty, and both occupier, his daughter, and the servants gone. "did you see any servant when you were there this evening?" "yes; the man-servant costa." "ah, a foreigner! old or young?" "middle-aged." "a devoted retainer of his master, of course." "i believe so." "then he may have been in his master's secret--most probably was. when a master suddenly flies he generally confides in his man. i've known that in many instances. what nationality was this petrovitch?" "servian." "oh, we don't get many of those people in london. they come from the east somewhere, don't they--a half-civilised lot?" "doctor petrovitch is perfectly civilised, and a highly-cultured man," max responded. "he is a statesman and diplomat." "what! is he the minister of servia?" "he was--in berlin, constantinople, and other places." "then there may be something political behind it," the officer suggested, beaming as though some great flash of wisdom had come to him. "if so, it don't concern us. england's a free country to all the scum of europe. this doctor may be flying from some enemy. russian refugees often do. i've heard some queer tales about them, more strange than what them writers put in sixpenny books." "yes," remarked barclay, "i expect you've had a pretty big experience of foreigners down in whitechapel." "and at vine street, too, sir," was the man's reply, as he leaned against the edge of his high desk, over which the flaring gas jets hissed. "nineteen years in the london police gives one an intimate acquaintance with the undesirable alien. your story to-night is a queer one. would you like me to send a man round to the house with you in order to give it a look over?" max reflected in an instant that if that were done the woman's dress would be discovered. "well--no," he replied. "at present i think it would be scarcely worth while. i think i know where i shall find the doctor in the morning. besides, a friend of mine is engaged to his daughter, so he'll be certain to know their whereabouts." "very well--as you wish. but," he said, "if you can't find where they're all disappeared to, give us a call again, and we'll try to assist you to the best of our ability." max thanked him. a ragged pickpocket, held by two constables, was at that moment brought in and placed in the railed dock, making loud protests of "i'm quite innocent, guv'nor. it warn't me at all. i was only a-lookin' on!" so barclay, seeing that the inspector would be occupied in taking the charge, thanked him and left. outside, he reflected whether he should go direct to charlie's chambers in jermyn street. his first impulse was to do so, but somehow he viewed rolfe with suspicion. if his friend had not seen him--and he believed he had not--then for the present it was best that he should hold his secret. perhaps the doctor had sent a telegram to his own chambers. he would surely never leave london without sending him word. therefore max hailed a passing cab and drove to dover street. his chambers, on the first floor, were cosy and well-furnished, betraying a taste in antique of the louis xiv period. odd articles of furniture he had picked up in out-of-the-way places, while several of the pictures were family portraits brought from kilmaronock castle. the red-carpeted sitting-room, with its big inlaid writing-table, bought from an old chateau on the loire, its old french chairs and modern book-case, was lit only by the green-shaded reading lamp, beneath which were some letters where his man had placed them. on a small table at the side was a decanter of whisky, a syphon, glasses, and cigars, and beside them his letters. eagerly he turned them over for a telegram, but there was none. neither was there a letter from the doctor. on the writing-table stood the telephone instrument. it might have been rung while his man gustave had been absent. that evening he had sent him on a message down to croydon, and he had not yet returned. he pushed his opera-hat to the back of his head, and stood puzzled as to how he should act. green had told him that is master had left for the continent, and yet had he not with his own eyes seen him fly from that house in cromwell road? yes; there was a mystery--a deep, inexplicable mystery. there was not a doubt of it! chapter six. mentions a curious confession. when about ten o'clock next morning mr warner, buyer of the costumes at cunnington's, noticed the tall, athletic figure of the young man in brown tweeds known as mr evans of dover street advance across the drab carpet with which the "department" was covered, he smiled within himself. the "young ladies" of cunnington's were not allowed any flirtations. it was "the sack" at a moment's notice for any girl being found flirting either with one of the male assistants or with an outsider, though he be a good customer. cunnington's hundred and one rules, with fines ranging from threepence to half-a-crown, were stringent ones. mr cunnington himself, a short, black-bearded man, of keen business instinct, was a kindly master; but in such a huge establishment with its hundreds of employees, rules must of necessity, be adhered to. nevertheless, the buyers or headmen of the various departments each controlled their own assistants, and some being more lenient than others towards the girls, rules were very often broken. cunnington's was, therefore, known to be one of the most comfortable "cribs" in the trade. assistants who came up to london in search of a billet always went to see mr cunnington, and happy he or she who obtained a personal introduction to him. he had earned his success by dint of hard work. originally an assistant himself in a birmingham shop, he had gone into business for himself in oxford street, in one small establishment, and had, by fair dealing and giving good value, prospered, until great rows of windows testified to the fortune he had amassed. unlike most employers in the drapery trade, he was generous to a degree, and he appreciated devoted service. in his great shops he had many old hands. some, indeed, had been with him ever since his first beginning. those were his trusted lieutenants, of whom "warner of the costumes" was one. what warner said was never queried, and, being a kindly man, the girls in his department did pretty much as they liked. max barclay, or mr evans as he had several times given his name, had run the gauntlet of the shopwalkers of the outer shops, and penetrated anxiously to the costumes. at that hour there were no customers. before eleven there is but little shopping in oxford street. buyers then see travellers, who come in their broughams, and assistants re-arrange and display their stocks. on entering the department, max at once caught sight of the tall fair-haired girl who, with her back to him, was arranging a linen costume upon a stand. two other girls glanced across at him, but, knowing the truth, did not ask what he required. he was miss rolfe's admirer, they guessed, for men did not usually come in alone and buy twenty-guinea ready-made costumes for imaginary relatives as he had done. he was standing behind her before she turned suddenly, and blushed in surprise. warner, sitting in his little glass desk, noticed the look upon the girl's face and fully realised the situation. he liked marion's brother, while the girl herself was extremely modest and an excellent saleswoman. he knew that charles rolfe and this mr evans were friends, and that fact had prevented him from forbidding the flirtation to continue. evans was evidently a gentleman. of that he had no doubt. "why!" she exclaimed to her lover. "this is really a great surprise. you are early?" "because i wanted to see you, marion," he answered, quickly. she noticed his anxiety, and in an instant grew alarmed. "why, what's the matter?" she asked, glancing round to see whether the other girls were watching her. "you ought not to come here, you know, max. i fear mr warner will object to you seeing me in business hours." "oh! never mind him, darling," he replied, in a low voice. "i want to ask you a question or two. where did you see maud last night?" "i met her at the door at queen's hall. i was to go to cromwell road to call for her, but she telegraphed to me at the last moment. she was with charlie, she told me." "and where is charlie?" "gone to servia. he left charing cross by the mail last night." max reflected that his friend had not left as his sister supposed. "and where did you leave maud?" "i walked to the `tube' station at piccadilly circus, and left her there. she went to earl's court station, and i took a bus home. she told me that you'd been to see the doctor earlier in the evening. but why do you ask all this?" "because--well, because, marion, something unusual has occurred," he replied. "unusual!" she echoed. "what do you mean?" "did maud tell you anything about her future movements last night--or mention her father's intentions?" "intentions of what?" "of leaving the house in cromwell road." "no; she told me nothing. only--" "only what?" "well, it struck me that she had something on her mind. you know how bright and merry she usually is. well, last night she seemed very thoughtful, and i wondered whether she had had any little difference with charlie." "you mean that they may have quarrelled?" "i hardly think that likely," she said, quickly. "charlie is far too fond of her, as you know." "and her father does not altogether approve of it," max remarked. "he has told me so." "poor charlie!" the girl said, for she was very fond of her brother. he was always a good friend to her, and gave her money to buy her dresses and purchase the few little luxuries which her modest stipend as a shop-assistant would not allow her to otherwise possess. "i'm sure he's devoted to maud. and she's one of the best girls i know. they'd make a perfect pair. but the doctor's a foreigner, and doesn't really understand englishmen." "perhaps that's it," max said, trying to assume a careless air, for he felt that a hundred eyes were upon him. their position was not a very comfortable one, to say the least. he knew that he ought not to have come there during business hours, but the mystery had so puzzled him that he felt he must continue his inquiries. he had fully expected the morning post to bring him a line from the doctor. but there had been nothing. both he and maud had disappeared suddenly, leaving no trace behind--no trace except that woman's coat with the stain of blood upon the breast. was it one of maud's dresses, he wondered. in the band he had noticed the name of its maker--maison durand, of conduit street--one of the best dressmakers in london. true he had found it in the servants' quarters, but domestics did not have their clothes made by durand. "but tell me, max," said the girl, her fine eyes fixed upon her lover, "what makes you suggest that the doctor is about to leave cromwell road." "he has left already," was max's reply. "that's the curious part of it." "left! moved away!" "yes. i came to ask you what you know about it. they've gone away without a word!" "how? why, you were there last evening!" "i was. but soon after i left, and while maud was with you at the concert, three vans came from harmer's stores and cleared out the whole of the furniture." "there wasn't a bill of sale, or something of that sort, i suppose?" she suggested. "certainly not. the doctor is a wealthy man. the copper mines of kaopanik bring him in a splendid income in themselves," max said. "no; there's a mystery--a very great mystery about the affair." "a mystery! tell me all about it!" she cried, anxiously, for maud was her best friend, while the doctor had also been _extremely_ kind to her. "i don't know anything," he responded. "except that the whole place by half-past ten last night had been cleared out of furniture. only the grand piano and a few big pieces have been left. harmer's have taken the whole of it to their depository at chiswick." "well, that's most extraordinary, certainly," she said, opening her eyes in blank surprise. "maud must have known what was taking place. possibly that is why she was so melancholy and pensive." "did she say nothing which would throw any light upon their sadden disappearance?" marion reflected for a few moments, her brows slightly knit in thought. "well, she said something about her father being much worried, but she did not tell me why. about a fortnight ago she told me that both she and her father had many enemies, one of whom would not hesitate to kill him if a chance occurred. i tried to get from her the reason, but she would not tell me." "but you don't think that the doctor has been the victim of an assassin, do you?" max asked in apprehension. "no; but maud may have been," she answered. "killed?" "i hope not, yet--" "why do you hesitate, marion, to tell me all you know?" he urged. "there is a mystery here which we must fathom." "my brother knows nothing yet, i suppose." barclay hesitated. "i suppose not," was his reply. "then, before i say anything, i must see him." "but he's away in servia, is he not? he won't be back for six months." "then i must wait till he returns," she answered, decisively. "maud has told you something. come, admit it," he urged. the girl was silent for a full minute. "yes," she sighed. "she did tell me something." "when?" "last night, as we were walking together to the station--something that i refused to believe. but i believe it now." "then you know the truth," he cried. "if there had not been some unfair play, the doctor would never have disappeared without first telling me. he has many times entrusted me with his secrets." "i quite believe that he would have telegraphed or written," she said. "he looked upon you as his best friend in london." "and, marion, this very fact causes me to suspect foul play," he said, the recollection of that fugitive in the night flashing across his brain. "what do you, in the light of this secret knowledge, suspect?" her lips were closed tightly, and there was a strange look in her eyes. "i believe, max," she replied, in a low, hard voice, "that something terrible must have happened to maud!" "did she apprehend something?" "i cannot tell. she confessed to me something under a bond of secrecy. before i tell you i must consult charlie--the man she loved so dearly." "but are we not lovers, marion?" he asked, in a low intense voice. "cannot you tell me what she said, in order that i may institute inquiries at once. delay may mean the escape of the assassin if there really has been foul play." "i cannot betray maud's confidence, max," was her calm answer. this response of hers struck him as implying that maud had confessed something not very creditable to herself, something which she, as a woman, hesitated to tell him. if this were actually true, however, why should she reveal the truth to maud's lover? would she not rather hide it from him? "but you will not see charlie for months," he exclaimed, in dismay. "what are we to do in the meantime?" "we can only wait," she answered. "i cannot break my oath to my friend." "then you took an oath not to repeat what she told you?" "she told me something amazing concerning--" and she hesitated. "concerning herself," he added. "well?" "it was a confession, max--a--a terrible confession. i had not a wink of sleep last night for her words rang in my ears, and her face, wild and haggard, haunted me in the darkness. ah! it is beyond credence-- horrible!--but--but, max--leave me. these people are noticing us. i will see you to-night, where you like. only go--go! i can't bear to talk of it! poor maud! what that confession must have cost her! and why? ah, i see it all now! because--because she knew that her end was near!" chapter seven. contains several revelations. max barclay re-traced his steps along oxford street much puzzled. what marion had told him was both startling and curious in face of the sudden disappearance of the doctor and his daughter. if the latter had made a confession, as she apparently had, then marion was, after all, perfectly within her right in not betraying her friend. yet what could that confession be? marion had said it was "a terrible confession," and as he went along he tried in vain to imagine its nature. the morning was bright and sunlit, and oxford street was already busy. about the circus the ebb and flow of traffic had already begun, and the windows of the big drapery shops were already attracting the feminine crowds with their announcements of "summer sales" and baits of "great bargains." for a moment he paused at the kerb, then, entering a hansom, he drove to mariner's stores, the great emporium in knightsbridge, which had been entrusted with the removal of the doctor's furniture. without much difficulty he found the manager, a short, dapper, little frock-coated freckled-faced business man, and explained the nature of his inquiry. the man seemed somewhat puzzled, and, going to a desk, opened a big ledger and slowly turned the pages. "i think there must be some mistake, sir," was his reply. "we have had no removal of that name yesterday." "but they were at cromwell road late last night," max declared. "the police saw them there." "the police could not have seen any of our vans removing furniture from cromwell road last night," protested the manager. "see here for yourself. yesterday there were four removals only--croydon to southsea, fitzjohn's avenue to lower norwood, south audley street to ashley gardens, and elgin avenue to finchley. here they are," and he pointed to the page whereon the particulars were inscribed. "the goods in question were removed by you from cromwell road, and stored in your depository at chiswick." "i think, sir, you really must be mistaken," replied the manager, shaking his head. "did you see our vans there yourself?" "no. the police did, and made inquiry." "with the usual result, i suppose, that they bungled, and told you the wrong name." "they've got it written down in their books." "well, all i can say is, that we didn't remove any furniture from the road you mention." "but it was at night." "we do not undertake a job at night unless we receive a guarantee from the landlord that the rent is duly paid, and ascertain that no money is owing." max was now puzzled more than ever. "the police say that the effects were sent to your depository," he remarked, dissatisfied with the manager's assurance. "in that case inquiry is very easy," he said, and walking to the telephone he rang up the depository at chiswick. "is that you, merrick?" he asked over the 'phone. "i say! have you been warehousing any goods either yesterday or to-day, or do you know of a job in cromwell road, at the house of a doctor petrovitch?" for a full minute he waited the reply. at last it came, and he heard it to the end. "no," he said, putting down the receiver and turning to barclay. "as i expected. they know nothing of the matter at the depository." "but how do you account for your vans--two pantechnicons and a covered van--being there?" he asked. the manager shook his head. "we have here the times when each job in london was finished, and when the vans returned to the yard. they were all in by : . therefore, they could not have been ours." "well, that's most extraordinary." "is it somebody who has disappeared?" "yes." "ah! the vans were, no doubt, painted with our names specially, in order to mislead the police," he said. "there's some shady transaction somewhere, sir, depend upon it. perhaps the gentleman wanted to get his things away, eh?" "no. he had no necessity for so doing. he was quite well off--no debts, or anything of that kind." "well, it's evident that if our name is registered in the police occurrences the vans were painted with our name for some illegal purpose. the gentleman's disappeared, you say." "yes. and--well, to tell you the truth, i suspect foul play." "have you told the police that?" asked the man, suddenly interested. "no; not yet. i've come to you first." "then if i were you i'd tell the police the result of your inquiries," the manager said. "no doubt there's a crooked incident somewhere." "that's just what i fear. quite a number of men most have been engaged in clearing the place out." "have you been over it? is it entirely cleared?" "nearly. the grand piano and a big book-case have been; left." "i wonder if it's been done by professional removers, or by amateurs?" suggested the manager. "ah! i don't know. if you saw the state of the place you'd know, wouldn't you?" "most probably." "then if you'll come with me i'll be delighted to show you, and you can give me your opinion." so the pair entered a cab, and a quarter of an hour later were passing along the hall of the empty house. the manager of harmer's removals inspected room after room, noticed how the curtains had been torn down, and noted in the fire grate of the drawing-room a quantity of tinder where a number of papers seemed to have been burned. "no," he said presently. "this removal was carried out by amateurs, who were in a very violent hurry. those vans were faked--bought, perhaps, and repainted with our name. it's evident that they deceived the constable very cleverly." "but the whole affair is so extraordinary?" gasped max, staring at his companion. "yes. it would appear so. your friend, the doctor, evidently wished to get his goods away with the least possible delay and in the greatest secrecy." "but the employment of so many men did not admit of much secrecy, surely!" "they were only employed to load. they did not unload. only the three drivers probably know the destination of the furniture. it was valuable old stuff, i should say, if one is to judge by what is remaining." "yes, the place was well and comfortably furnished." "then i really think, sir, that if you suspect foul play it's your duty to tell the police. in cases like this an hour's delay is often fatal to success in elucidating the mystery." max was undecided how to act. it was his duty to tell the police his suspicions and show them that blood-stained coat. and yet he felt so certain that the doctor must in the course of the day take him into his confidence that he hesitated to make a suggestion of foul play and thus bring the affair into public prominence. the fact that harmer's name had been upon vans not belonging to that firm was in itself sufficient proof that there had been a conspiracy somewhere. but of what nature was it? what could possibly have been its object? what was maud's "terrible confession!" the expert in removals was examining some litter in the dining-room. "they evidently did not stop to pack anything," he remarked, "but simply bundled it out with all possible speed. one fact strikes me as very peculiar." "what is that?" "well, if they wanted to empty the place they might have done so, leaving the curtains up, and the palms and things in the windows in order to lead people to believe that the house was still occupied. apparently, however, they disregarded that precaution altogether." "yes. that's true. the object of the sudden flight is a complete mystery," max remarked. he had not taken the man to the top room, where, in the cupboard, the woman's dress was hidden. "you say that the doctor was rich. therefore, it wasn't to escape from an execution threatened by the landlord." "certainly not." "well, you may rest assured, sir, that the removal was not effected by professional men. the way in which carpets have been torn up and damaged, curtains torn from their rings, and crockery smashed in moving, shows them to have been amateurs." they had ascended to the front bedroom, wherein remained a large, heavy old-fashioned mahogany chest of drawers, and he had walked across to them. "indeed," he added. "it almost looks as though it were the work of thieves?" "thieves! why?" "well--look at this. they had no keys, so they broke open the drawers, and removed the contents," he answered. "and look across there!" he pointed to a small iron fireproof safe let into the wall--a safe evidently intended originally as a place for the lady of the house to keep her jewels. the door stood ajar, and max, as he opened it, saw that it was empty. the curious part of the affair was that max was convinced within himself that when he had searched the house on the previous night that safe was not there. if it was, then the door must have been closed and concealed. he remembered most distinctly entering that room and looking around. the chest of drawers had been moved since he was last there. when he had seen them they had been standing in their place concealing the iron door of the safe, which, when shut, closed flush with the wall. someone had been there since! and whoever it was, had moved the heavy piece of furniture and found the safe. he examined the door, and from its blackened condition, the twisted iron, and the broken lock, no second glance was needed to ascertain that it had been blown open by explosives. whatever valuables dr petrovitch had kept there had disappeared. the theory of theft was certainly substantiated by these discoveries. max stood by the empty safe silent and wondering. "i noticed downstairs in the study that a board had been prised up, as though somebody has been searching for something," the man from harmer's remarked. "probably the doctor had something in his possession of which the thieves desired to get possession." "well," said max, "i must say that this safe being open looks as though the affair has actually been the work of thieves. if so, then where is the doctor, where is his daughter maud, and where are the servants?" "yes. i agree. the whole affair is a complete mystery, sir," the other replied. "there have been thieves here without a doubt. perhaps the doctor knows all about it, but for some reason dare not utter a word of complaint. indeed, that's my theory. he may be in fear of them, you know. it's a gang that have done it, without a doubt." "and a pretty ingenious gang, too," declared max, with knit brows. "they evidently made short work of all the furniture. i wonder why they took it, and where it is at present." "if it has gone to a sale room the police could trace it," max suggested. "certainly. but suppose it was transferred from the vans it was taken away in to the vans of some depository, and removed, say, to portsmouth or plymouth, and there stored? it could be done quite easily, and would never be traced." "yes. but it's a big job to have made a whole houseful of furniture disappear in a couple of hours." "it is not so big as it first seems, sir. i'd guarantee to clear a house of this size in one hour, if necessary. and the way they turned out the things didn't take them very long. they were in a desperate hurry, evidently." "do you think that thieves did the work?" "i'm very strongly of that opinion. everything points to it. if i were you i'd go back to the police and tell them about the safe, about that chest of drawers, and the flooring in the study. somebody's been prying about here, depend upon it." max stood, still undecided. did it not seem very much as though the thieves had visited there after charles rolfe had fled so hurriedly? chapter eight. the pauper of park lane. about half-way up park lane--the one-sided row of millionaires' residences that face hyde park--not far from the corner of that narrow little turning, deanery street, stood a great white house, one of a short row. the windows were protected from the sun by outside blinds of red and buff-striped holland, and the first floor sills were gay with, geraniums. the house was one of imposing importance, and dwarfed its neighbours, being both higher, larger, and more artistic. on the right side dwelt one of manchester's cotton kings, and on the other a duke whose rent-roll was one of the biggest in the united kingdoms. the centre house, however, was far more prosperous-looking than the others, and was often remarked upon by country cousins as they passed up and down upon omnibuses. it was certainly one of the finest in the whole of that select thoroughfare where rents alone were ruinous, and where the possession of a house meant that one's annual income must run into six figures. the mere nobility of england cannot afford to live in park lane nowadays. it is reserved for the kings of britain's commerce, the stock exchange speculator, or the get-rich-quick financier. those who read these lines know well the exterior of many of the houses of notable people who live there. some are in excellent taste, while others betray the blatant arrogance of the man who, risen from penury, has suddenly found himself a controller of england's destinies, a birthday knight, and the husband of a woman whom the papers have suddenly commenced to dub "the beautiful lady so-and-so." other houses are quiet and sober in their exterior, small, modest, and unobstructive, the town residences of men of great wealth, who, posing as gentlemen, are hoping for a peerage. the hopes in park lane are many. almost every household possesses a secret ambition, some to shine in society, other in politics, and some even in literature. the really wealthy man sneers at a baronetcy, an honour which his tea-merchant received last year, and as for a knighthood, well, he can plank down his money this afternoon and buy one just as he bought a cigar half an hour ago in bond street. he must have a title, for his wife wants to be known by the name of his country place, and he has secret ambitions for a seat in the lords. and so in every house in that long, one-sided row are hopes eternal which rise regularly every year towards the end of june. diamond, copper, soap, pork, and railway "kings" who dwell there are a curious assortment, yet the combined wealth of that street alone would be sufficient to pay off our national debt and also run a respectable-sized kingdom for a year or two. almost every man could realise a million sterling, and certainly one of the very wealthiest among them was old samuel statham, the man who owned and lived in that house with the red-striped sun-blinds. while max barclay was engaged in his investigations at the deserted house in cromwell road, old sam was standing at the window of his study, a large front room on the ground floor overlooking the park. it was a quiet, soberly-furnished apartment, the carpet of which was so soft that one's feet fell noiselessly, while over the mantelshelf was a large life-sized venus by a modern french artist, the most notable picture in the salon five years ago. the leather-covered chairs were all heavy and old-fashioned, the books in uniform bindings of calf and gold, and the big writing-table of the early victorian period. upon the table stood a great silver candelabra fitted with electric lamps, while littered about the floor were quantities of folded papers and business documents of various kinds. there was but little comfort about the room. artistic taste and luxury are commonly associated with park lane, therefore the stranger would have been greatly surprised if he had been allowed a peep within. but there was a curious bet about the house. no stranger had ever been known to pass beyond the big swing-glass doors half-way down the hall. no outsider had ever set foot within. levi, the hook-nosed old butler, in his well-cut clothes and spotless linen, was a zealous janitor. no one, upon any pretext whatsoever, was allowed to pass beyond the glass doors. his master was a little eccentric, it was said, and greatly disliked intruders. he hated the inquisitiveness of the modern press, and always feared lest his house should be described and photographed as those of his neighbours constantly were. therefore all strangers were rigorously excluded. some gossip had got about concerning this. a year ago the wealthy old financier had been taken suddenly ill, and his doctor was sent for from cavendish square. but even he was not allowed to pass the rigidly-guarded frontier. his patient saw him in the hall, and there he diagnosed the ailment and prescribed. the doctor in question, a well-known physician, remarked upon old sam's eccentricity over a dinner-table in mayfair, and very soon half smart london were talking and wondering why nobody was ever invited to the table of samuel statham. in the city, as head of statham brothers, foreign bankers, whose offices in old broad street are known to every city man, he was always affable, yet very shrewd. he and his brother could drive hard bargains, but they were always charitable, and the name of the firm constantly figured for a substantial amount in the lists in response to any charitable appeal. from small beginnings--the early days of both brothers being shrouded in mystery--they had risen to become what they now were, a house second only to the rothschilds in financial power, a house whose assistance was sought by kings and emperors, and whose interests were world-wide. that morning old sam statham appeared unusually agitated. rising at five o'clock, as was his habit summer and winter, he had been hard at work for hours when levi brought him his tiny cup of black turkish coffee. then, glancing at the clock upon his desk, he had risen, gone to the window, and gazed out eagerly, as though in search of someone. it was eight o'clock, and there were plenty of people about. but, though he looked up and down the thoroughfare, he was disappointed. so he snapped his thin fingers impatiently and returned to his writing. his personal appearance was truly insignificant. when, in the street, he was pointed out to people as the great samuel statham, they invariably expressed astonishment. there was nothing of the blatant millionaire about him. on the contrary, he was a thin, grey, sad-looking man, rather short of stature, with a face very broad in the brow and very narrow at the chin, ending with a small, scraggy white beard clipped to a point. his cheeks were hollow, his dark eyes sunken, the skin upon his brow tightly stretched, his lips pale and thin, and about his clean-shaven upper lip a hardness that was in entire opposition with his generous instincts towards his less fortunate fellow men. one of his peculiarities of dress was that he always wore a piece of greasy black satin ribbon, tied loosely in a bow as a cravat. the same piece did duty both by day and at evening. his clothes, for the most part, hung upon his lean, shrunken limbs as though they had been made for a much more robust man, and his hats were indescribably greasy and out of date. when he went to the city levi compelled him to put on his best silk hat and a decent frock coat, but often of an afternoon he might be seen sitting alone in the park and mistaken for some poor, broken-down old man the sadness of whose face compelled sympathy. this carelessness of dress appears to be one of the inevitable results of great fortune. a man should never be judged by his coat nowadays. the struggling clerk who lives in busy brixton or cackling croydon usually gives himself greater airs, and dresses far better than the head of the firm, while the dainty typewriter wears prettier blouses and neater footgear than his own out-door daughters, with their slang, their "pals," and their distorted ideas of maiden modesty. but old sam statham had neither kith nor kin. he was a lonely man--how utterly lonely only he himself knew. he had only his perpetual calculations of finance, his profit and loss accounts, and occasional chats with the ever-faithful levi to occupy his days. he seldom if ever left london. even the stifling august days, when his clerks went to the mountains or the sea, he still remained in london, because, as he openly declared, he hated to mix with strangers. curiously enough, almost the only man he trusted was his private secretary, charlie rolfe, the smart young man who came there from ten o'clock till two each day, wrote his private letters, and was paid a very handsome salary. usually old sam was a very quiet-mannered man whom nothing disturbed. but that morning he was distinctly upset. he had scarcely slept a single wink, and his deep-sunken eyes and almost haggard face told of a great anxiety wearing out his heart. he tried to add up a long column of figures upon a sheet of paper before him, but gave it up with a deep sigh. again he rose, glanced out of the window, audibly denounced in unmeasured terms a motor-'bus which, tearing past, caused his room to shake, and then returned to his table. but he was far too impatient to sit there long, for again he rose and paced the room, his grey brows knit in evident displeasure, his thin, bony hands clenched tightly, and from his lips escaping muttered imprecations upon some person whom he did not name. once he laughed--a hard little laugh. his lip curled in exultant triumph as he stuck his hands into the pockets of his shabby jacket and again went to look over the _brise-brise_ curtains of pale pink silk into the roadway. for a moment he looked, then, with a start, he stood glaring out. next instant he sprang back from the window with a look of terror upon his blanched cheeks. he had caught sight of somebody whose presence there was both unwelcome and unexpected, and the encounter had filled him with anxiety and dismay. as he had gazed inquiringly forth, with his face close to the window-pane, his eyes had met those of a man of about his own age, shabby, with grey, ragged hair, threadbare clothes, broken boots, and a soft grey felt hat, darkly stained around the band--a tramp evidently. the stranger was leaning idly against the park railings, evidently regarding the house with some wonder, when the sad face of its master had appeared. the pair glared at each other for one single second. then sam statham, recognising in the other's crafty eyes a look of cruel, relentless revenge, started back into the room, breathless and deathly pale. he staggered to his chair, supporting himself by clutching at its back. "then they did not lie!" he gasped aloud. "he--he's alive--therefore so it's all over! i--i saw his intentions plainly written in his face. i've played the game and lost! he has returned, therefore i must face the inevitable. yes," he added, with that same bitter laugh, only this time it was the hoarse, discordant laugh of a man who found himself cornered, without any possible means of escape. "yes--this is the end-- i must die!--to-day!" and he whispered, glancing round the room as though in terror of his own voice, "yes--before the sun sets." chapter nine. in which levi gives advice. for fully five minutes samuel statham stood steadying himself by the back of his chair. his face was white and rigid, his jaw set, his breathing quick and excited, his hands trembling, his face full of a sudden horror. he had entirely changed. the sight of that shabby stranger had filled him with fear. once or twice he glanced furtively at the window. then, straightening himself in a vain endeavour to remain calm, he bent and crept back to the window in order to ascertain whether the man still remained. bent and out of sight he approached the lace-edged curtain and peered through unseen. yes; the fellow was still there. he had lit his pipe with calm unconcern, and was leaning back against the railings in full view of the house. the man's attitude was that of complete triumph. ah! what a fool he had been to have shown himself so openly as he had done! to think that this man of all men was still alive! he crept back again, trembling. his face was haggard and bloodless, the countenance of a man whose future was but a blank--the dismal blank of the grave. his whole body trembled as he sank into his writing-chair, and, leaning his elbows upon the desk, he buried his face in his hands and sobbed. yes; he, the hard-headed financier, whose influence was felt in every corner of the world, the man who controlled millions and who loaned great sums to certain of the rulers of europe, sobbed aloud. "ah!" he cried to himself, "i was a fool when i disbelieved them. i thought that blackmail was their object in telling me the story of how that man was alive and had been seen. therefore i only laughed at them and took no precaution. ah! i was a fool, and my foolishness must end fatally. there is no way out of it for me--only death. i've been a fool--a confounded fool. i ought to have made certain; i ought not to have taken any risk. i'm wiser now than i was then. age has brought me wisdom as well as destroying my belief in the honesty of men and the loyalty of friends"; and as he sighed heavily, his brow still bent upon his hand, he touched the bell, and old levi appeared. "levi," he said, in a low unusual voice, "go quietly to that window and, without attracting attention, look outside at a man opposite." the faithful old servant, somewhat surprised at these rather unusual instructions, walked stealthily to the window and peered through the lace insertion of the _brise-brise_. scarcely had he done so than, with a cry, he withdrew, and facing his master, stood staring at him. "did you see anyone, levi?" asked his master, raising his head suddenly. "yes," was the hoarse whisper of the man who stood there, white-faced in fear. "it's him! i--i thought you said he was dead." "no; he isn't! he's there in the flesh." "and what are we to do?" "what can we do? he recognised me a moment ago, and he's watching the house." "which means that you had better leave england for a considerable time." "what!" cried statham, in quick reproof. "what--run away? never!" "but--well, in the circumstances, don't you scent danger--a very grave danger?" asked the old servant whose devotion to his master had always been so marked. "when i am threatened i always face my accuser. i shall do so now," was the great man's calm reply, even though it were in absolute contradiction to his attitude only a few moments before. perhaps it was that he did not wish old levi to know his fear. "but--but that can only result in disaster," remarked the old servant, who never addressed his master as "sir"--the pair were on too intimate terms for that. "if i might presume to advise, i think--" "no, levi," snapped the other; "you haven't any right to give advice in this affair. i know my own business best, surely?" "and that man knows as much as you do--and more." "they told me he was alive, and i--fool that i was--disbelieved them!" the old millionaire cried. "and there he is now, watching outside like a terrier outside a rat-hole. and i'm the rat, levi--caught in my own trap!" "is there no way out of this?" asked the other. "surely you can escape if you so desire--get away to america, or to the continent." "and what's the use. he'd follow. and even if he didn't, think of what he can tell if he goes to the police." "yes; he could tell sufficient to cause statham brothers to close their doors--eh?" remarked the old servant very seriously. "that's just it. i've been a confounded idiot. rolfe warned me only the other day that the fellow was in london, but i said i wouldn't believe him until i saw the man with my own eyes. to-day i have actually seen him, and there can be no mistake. he's the man that--that i--" his sentence remained unfinished, for he sank into his chair and groaned, covered his face again with his hands in an attitude of deep remorse, while levi stood by watching in silence. "rolfe could help you in this matter," the man exclaimed at last. "where is he?" "i don't know. i sent him yesterday to belgrade, but last night he telephoned that he had lost the train." "then he may have left at nine o'clock this morning?" "most probably." "then you must recall him by wire." "no telegram can reach him till he gets to servia, for i don't know whether he's gone from ostend or paris." "they'd know in the city. why not ask them?" "no; they wouldn't know." "why?" "because rolfe had with him a big sum in german notes and a quantity of securities belonging to the national bank of servia. in that case he would not let anyone know his route, for fear of thieves. it is one of my strictest orders to him. why he lost the train last night i can't tell." "well, it's a thousand pities we can't get at him, for he's the only man to help you out--of this difficulty." "yes; i quite agree. that shabby, down-at-heel man waiting outside is my master, levi--the master of statham ltd. my future is in his hands!" he had raised his head, and sat staring at the beautiful picture upon the wall before him, the picture with its wonderful tints which had been copied in a hundred different places. his countenance was haggard and drawn, and in his eyes was a look of unspeakable terror, as though he were looking into his own grave, as indeed at that moment he was. the sombre melancholy-looking levi stood watching for a moment, and then, creeping to the window, looked out into the sunshine of park lane. the ragged tramp was still there, idling against the railings, and smoking a short, dirty pipe quite unconcernedly. he was watching for the re-appearance of that white, startled face at the window--the face of the great samuel statham. "he's still outside, i suppose?" queried the man at the other end of the room. levi replied in the affirmative, whereat old samuel clenched his teeth and muttered something which sounded like an oration. he was condemning himself for his disbelief in his secretary's warnings. "had i listened to him i could easily have saved myself--i could have prevented him from coming here," he said in a meaning voice. "yes; it would not have been difficult to have prevented this. after what has occurred that blackguard has no right to live." "aha! then you believe me, levi?" cried the wretched man. "you do not blame me?" he asked, anxiously. "he was to blame--not you." "then i was right in acting as i did, you think--right to protect my interests." "you were right in your self-defence," the man answered, somewhat grey, sphinx-like, for levi was a man whose thoughts one could never read from his thin, grey, expressionless face. "but you were injudicious when you disregarded rolfe's warning." "i thought he had his own interests to serve," was statham's reply. "frankly, you believed it to be an attempt at blackmail. i quite follow you. but do you think rolfe would be guilty of such a thing?" "my dear levi, when a poor man is in love, as rolfe is, it is a sore temptation to obtain by any means, fair or foul, sufficient to marry and support a wife. you and i were both young once--eh? and we thought that our love would last always. where is yours to-day, and"--he sighed--"where is mine?" "you are right," replied the old servant slowly, with a slight sigh. "you refer to little marie. ah! i can see her now, as plainly as she was then, forty years ago. how beautiful she was, how dainty, how perfect, and--ah!--how well you loved her. and what a tragedy--the tragedy of your life--the tragedy that has ever been hidden from the world--the--" "no! enough, levi!" cried his master hoarsely, staring straight before him. "do not recall that to me, especially at this moment. it was the great tragedy of my life, until--until this present one which--which threatens to end it." "but you are going to face the music. you have said!" "i may--and i may not." levi was silent again. only the low ticking of the dock broke the quiet, and was followed by the rumble of a motor-'bus and the consequent tremor in the room. "at any rate, samuel statham will never act the coward," the millionaire remarked at last, in a soft but distinct voice. "rolfe can help you. where is he--away just at the moment that he's wanted," levi said. "my fault! my fault, levi!" his master declared. "i disbelieved him, and sent him out to servia to show him that i did not credit what he told me." "you were a fool!" said levi, bluntly. he never minced words when his master spoke confidentially. "i know i was. i have already admitted it," exclaimed the financier. "but what puzzles me is that that man outside is really alive and in the flesh. i never dreamed that he would return to face me. he was dead--i could have sworn it." "so you saw him dead--eh?" old statham drew a quick breath, and his face went ashen, for he saw how he had betrayed himself. next instant he had recovered from his embarrassment and, bracing himself with an effort, said: "no--no, of course not. i--i only know what--well, what i've been told. i was misled wilfully by my enemies." levi looked straight into his face with a queer expression of disbelief. statham noticed it, and it unnerved him. he had inadvertently made confession, and levi did not credit his denial. the peril of the situation was complete! chapter ten. shows a woman's peril. several hours had gone by, hours which samuel statham spent, seated in a deep easy-chair near the empty fire grate, reviewing his long and eventful life. with his head buried in his hands, he reflected upon all the past--its tragedy and its prosperity. true, he had grown rich, wealthier than he had ever dreamed, but, ah! at what a cost! the world knew nothing. the world of finance, known in the city, looked upon him as a power to be reckoned with. by a stroke of that stubby, ink-stained pen which lay upon the writing-table he could influence the markets in paris or berlin. his aid and advice were sought by men who were foremost in the country's commerce and politics, and he granted loans to princes and to kingdoms. and yet the tragedy of his own heart was a bitter one, and his secret one that none dreamed. he, like many another world-famous man, had a skeleton in his cupboard. and that day it had seen the light, and the sight of it had caused him to begin the slow and painful process of putting his house in order, prior to quitting it for ever--prior to seeking death by his own hand. for nearly an hour he had been huddled up in the big leather armchair almost immovable. he had scrawled two or three letters, and written the superscription upon their envelopes, and from his writing-table he had taken a bundle of letters tied with a faded blue ribbon. one by one he had read them through, and then, placing them in the grate, he had applied a match and burnt them all. some other business documents followed, as well as an old parchment deed, which he first tried to tear, but at last burned until it was merely twisted tinder. it was now afternoon, and the silence of that house of mystery, wherein no one save charles rolfe ever penetrated, was unbroken. across the soft green carpet lay a bar of warm sunlight that seemed strangely out of place in that sombre apartment, with its despairing owner, while outside the shabby stranger was no longer to be seen. he might be lurking in the vicinity, but levi had an hour ago entered and informed his master that the patient vigil had been relaxed. old sam had dismissed him with a grunt of dissatisfaction. those last hours of his life he wished to spend alone. he had been trying to see some way out of the _cul-de-sac_ in which he found himself, but there was none. that shabby wayfarer--his worst enemy, had found him. years ago he had sworn a terrible vengeance, but for secret reasons, known only to statham himself, he had laughed his threats to scorn. then came his death, and statham was free, free to prosper, become rich and powerful, and use his great wealth for good or for evil as he felt so inclined. he had, however, used it for good. his contributions to charities were many and handsome. among other things, he had built and endowed a wing of the london hospital, for which his majesty signified his intention of conferring a baronetcy upon him. but that honour he declined. to his brother in the city he had said, "i don't wish for any honour, and i'll remain plain sam to the end of my days." there was a reason--a secret reason--why he was unable to receive the distinction. none knew it-- none even dreamed. the papers expressed wonder at the refusal, and people called him a fool. in old broad street men were envious, and laughed in their sleeves. yet if they had known the real reason they would surely have stood aghast. one day, however, his private secretary, young rolfe, had come to him with a strange and improbable tale. his enemy was alive and well, and was, moreover, actually in england! he questioned the young man, and found certain discrepancies in the statement. therefore, shrewd and far-seeing, he refused to believe it, and suspected blackmail to be the ultimate intention. he did not, however, suspect rolfe of any inclination that way. he was both faithful and devoted. five years before, rolfe's father, a man of considerable means who had been interested in his financial undertakings, burnt his fingers badly over a concession given by the persian government and became bankrupt. a year later he died, a ruined man, leaving a son charles and a daughter marion. the latter had been compelled, he understood, to earn her living in a london shop, and the former, who had only recently come down from oxford, he had engaged as his confidential secretary. he had indeed done this because he had felt that charlie's father had made the ruinous speculation upon his advice, and it therefore behoved him to do some little for the dead man's children. few men in the city of london in these modern days are possessors of consciences, and those who have are usually too busy with their own affairs to think of the children of ruined friends. old sam statham was a hard man, it must be admitted. he would drive a bargain to the last fraction of percentage, and in repayment of loans he was relentless sometimes. yet the acts of private charity that he did were many, and he never sought to advertise them. in charles rolfe he had not been disappointed. never once had he disobeyed the orders he had given, and, what was more, never once had he sought to penetrate beyond the door at the head of the staircase which shut off the ground floor from the one above. the first day that rolfe came to attend to his correspondence he had told him that he must never ascend those stairs, and that if he did he would be discharged at a moment's notice. this prohibition struck the young man as curious and lent additional colour to the whispers of mystery concerning the fine fashionable house. a thousand weird suggestions arose within his mind of what was concealed upstairs, yet he was powerless to investigate, and, after a few weeks, grew to regard his master's words as those of an eccentric man whose enormous wealth had rendered a trifle extraordinary at times. old levi was janitor of that green baize door. situated round the corner, no one standing in the hall could see it. therefore its existence was unsuspected. but it was an iron door covered with green baize, and always kept locked. levi kept the key, and to all rolfe's inquisitiveness he was dumb. "the master allows nobody upstairs," was always his reply. "i sleep downstairs because i am not permitted to ascend." what other servants might be there he knew not. levi was the only other person he ever saw. the curtains at the upper windows always looked fresh and smart, and often as he went up park lane at night and glanced up at them, he saw lights in them, showing that they must be inhabited. at first all this puzzled him sorely. he had told marion about it, and also maud petrovitch, both girls being intensely interested in the mystery of the house and the character of the unseen occupants of its upper floors. but as charlie declared that old statham was eccentric in everything, the mystery had gradually worn off and been forgotten. the old man's face had sadly changed since early morning. his countenance now was that of a man in sheer despair. he had looked up the continental bradshaw and had scrawled half a dozen telegrams, addressed to his secretary, now on his way to servia, and these had been taken to the post-office by levi. but it was all in vain. the message to belgrade could not possibly reach rolfe for another three days, and then, alas! it would be too late. before then he would be finished with all earthly things, and the world would denounce him as a coward. yet even that would be preferable to standing and hearing his enemy's denunciation than facing exposure, ridicule, and ruin. "levi was right when he suggested flight," he was murmuring to himself. "yet where can i go? i'm too well-known. my portrait is constantly in the papers, and, save greece, there is no country in which i could obtain sanctuary. again, suppose i got safely to greece, what about the firm's credit? it would be gone. but if i die to-day, before this man returns, they cannot accuse the dead, and the firm, being in a sound financial position, cannot be attacked. no, only by my own death can i save the situation. i must sacrifice myself. there is no help for it! none! i must die!" he gazed wildly around the big old-fashioned room as though his eyes were searching for some means of escape. but there was none. his past had that day risen against him, and he was self-condemned. his chin sank again upon his chest, and his deep-set eyes were fixed upon the soft, dark-green carpet. the marble clock chimed the hour of four, and recalled him to a sense of his surroundings. he stretched himself, sighing deeply. he was wondering, when that shabby watcher, who held his life in his dirty talons, would return. thoughts of the past, tragic and bitter, arose within him, and a muttered imprecation escaped his thin, white lips. he was faced with a problem that even the expenditure of his millions could not solve. he could purchase anything on earth, but he could not buy a few more years of his own life. he envied the man who was poor and struggling, the man with a cheerful wife and loving children, the man who worked and earned and had no far-reaching interests. the wage-earner was to him the ideal life of a man, for he obtained an income without the enormous responsibility consequent upon being a "principal." his vast wealth was but a millstone about his neck. that little leather book, with its brass lock, wherein was recorded his financial position in a nutshell, was lying upon the table. when he had consulted it he had been appalled. he was worth far more than he had ever imagined. and yet, by an irony of fate, the accumulation of that wealth was now to cost him his life! the long bar of sunlight had been moving slowly across the carpet, all the afternoon. old sam statham has risen and crossed again to his writing-table, searching among some papers in a drawer, and finding a silver cigarette case, much tarnished by long neglect. this he opened, and within was displayed one tiny object. it was not a cigarette, but a tiny glass tube with a glass stopper, containing a number of very small white pilules. he was gazing thoughtfully upon these, without removing the tube from its hiding-place, when, of a sudden, the door opened, and levi, his pale face flushed with excitement and half breathless, entered, exclaiming in a low whisper: "rolfe is here! shall i show him in?" "rolfe!" gasped the millionaire in a voice of amazement. "are you serious, levi?" "serious? of course. he has just called and asked if you can see him." "show him in instantly," was statham's answer, as hope became at that instant renewed. "we may find a way out of this difficulty yet--with his aid." "we may," echoed levi, closing the door for a moment behind him, so that the young man might not overhear his words. "we may; but recollect that he is a man in love." "well?" "and he loves that girl maud petrovitch. don't you understand--eh?" asked levi, with an evil flash in his eyes. "ah! i see," replied his master, biting his under lip. "i follow you, levi. it is good that you warned me. leave the girl to me. show him in." "you know what i told you a few days ago--of his friendship with petrovitch," the old servant went on. "recollect that what i said was the truth, and act upon the confidential information i gave you. in this matter you've a difficult task before you, but don't be chicken-hearted and generous, as you are so very often. you're in a tight corner, and you must get out of it somehow, by hook or by crook." "trust me to look after myself," responded the millionaire, with a sudden smile upon his pale, haggard face, for he saw that with his secretary in london he might after all escape, and he had already closed the tarnished cigarette case that contained those pilules by which he had been contemplating ending his stormy existence. "tell him to come in." "but i beg of you to be firm. you're not a fool," urged levi, bending earnestly towards him. "what is a woman's honour as compared with your future? you must sacrifice her--or yourself. there are many women in the world, recollect--but there is only one samuel statham!" chapter eleven. samuel statham makes confession. when rolfe entered old sam's presence he saw that something was amiss. was it possible that his employer knew his secret--the secret of his visit to cromwell road on the previous night? perhaps he did. the suggestion crossed his mind, and he stood breathless for a few seconds. "i thought you had left for servia, rolfe," exclaimed the old man in his thin, weak voice. he had seated himself at the writing-table prior to his secretary's appearance, and had tried to assume a businesslike air. but his face was unusually drawn and haggard. "i missed the train last night," was the young man's reply. "it is useless to leave till to-night, as i can then catch the orient express from paris to-morrow morning. therefore i thought i'd call to see if you have any further instructions." the old man grunted. his keen eyes were fixed upon the other's face. the explanation was an unsatisfactory one. samuel statham, as became a great financier, had a wonderful knack of knowing all that passed. he had his spies and secret agents in every capital, and was always well informed of every financial move in progress. to him, early information often meant profits of many thousands, and that information was indeed paid for generously. in london, too, his spies were ever at work. queer, mysterious persons of both sexes often called there in park lane, and were admitted to private audience of the king of the financial world. rolfe knew them to be his secret agents, and, further, that his employer's knowledge of his own movements was often wider than he had ever dreamed. no man in the whole city of london was more shrewd or more cunning than old sam statham. it was to the interest of statham brothers to be so. indeed, he had once remarked to his secretary that no secret, however carefully kept, was safe from his agents, and that he could discover without difficulty anything he wanted to know. had he discovered the truth regarding the strange disappearance of the doctor and his daughter? "why did you lose the train last night, rolfe?" asked the great financier. "you did not go to charing cross," he added. rolfe held his breath again. yes, as he had feared, his departure had been watched for. "i--well, it was too late, and so i didn't attempt to catch the train." "why too late?" asked statham, reprovingly. "in a matter of business-- and especially of the magnitude of yours at this moment--one should never be behindhand. your arrival in belgrade twenty-four hours late may mean a loss of about twenty thousand to the firm." "i hope not, sir," rolfe exclaimed, quickly. "i trust that the business will go through all right. i--i did my best to catch the train!" "your best! why, you had half a day in which to pack and get to charing cross!" "i quite admit that, but i was prevented." "by what?" asked statham, fixing his eyes upon the young man before him. "by a matter of private business." "yes--a woman! you may as well admit it, rolfe, for i know all about it. you can't deceive me, you know." the other's face went ghastly white, much to statham's surprise. the latter saw that he had unconsciously touched a point which had filled his secretary with either shame or fear, and made a mental note of it. "i don't deny it, sir," he faltered, much confused. he had no idea that his employer had any knowledge of maud. "well--you're an idiot," he said, very plainly. "you'll never get on in the world if you're tied to a woman's shoe strings, depend upon it. girls are the ruin of young men like you. when a man is free, he's his own master, but as soon as he becomes the slave of a pretty face then he's a lost soul both to himself and to those who employ him. take the advice of an old man, rolfe," he added, not unkindly. "cast off the trammels, and be free to go hither and thither. when i was your age, i believed in what men call love. bah! live as long as i have, and watch human nature as i have watched it, and you'll come to the same conclusion as i have arrived at." "and what is that?" asked rolfe, for such conversation was altogether unusual. "that woman is man's ruin always--that the more beautiful the woman the more complete the ruin," he answered, in the hard, unsympathetic way which he sometimes did when he wished to emphasise a point. charlie rolfe was silent. he was familiar with old sam's eccentricities, one of which was that he must never be contradicted. his amazing prosperity had induced an overbearing egotism. it was better to make no reply. at heart the old man was beside himself with delight that his secretary had not left london, but it was his policy never to betray pleasure at anything. he seldom bestowed a single word of praise upon anyone. he was silent when satisfied, and bitterly sarcastic when not pleased. "i do not think, sir, that whatever you may have heard concerning the lady in question is to her detriment," he could not refrain from remarking. "all that i have heard is very favourable, i admit. understand that i say nothing against the lady. what i object to is the principle of a young man being in love. why court unhappiness? you'll meet with sufficient of it in the world, i can assure you. look at me! should i be what i am if i had saddled myself with a woman and her worries of society, frocks, children, petty jealousies, flirtations, and the thousand and one cares and annoyances which make a man's life a burden to him. "no. take my advice, and let those fools who run after trouble go their own way. sentimentalists may write screeds and poets sonnets, but you'll find, my boy, that the only true friend you'll have in life is your own pocket." charlie was not in the humour to be lectured, and more especially upon his passionate devotion to maud. he was annoyed that statham should have found it out, and yet, knowing the wide-reaching sources of information possessed by the old millionaire, it was scarcely to be wondered at. "of course," he admitted, somewhat impatiently, "there is a good deal of truth in your argument, even though it be a rather blunt one. yet are not some men happy with the love of a good wife?" "a few--alas! a very few," statham replied. "think of our greatest men. nearly all of them have had skeletons in their cupboards because of their early infatuations. of some, their domestic unhappiness is well-known. others have, however, hidden it from the world, preferring to suffer than to humiliate themselves or admit their foolishness," he said, with a calm cynicism. "to-day you think me heartless, without sentiment, because you are inexperienced. twenty years hence recollect my words, and you will be fully in accord with me, and probably regret deeply not having followed my advice." with his thin hand he turned over some papers idly, and then, after a moment's pause, his manner changed, and he said, with a good-humoured laugh: "you won't listen to me, i know, rolfe. so what is the use of expounding my theory?" "it is very valuable," the young man declared, deferentially. "i know that you are antagonistic towards women. all london is aware of that." "and they think me eccentric--eh?" he laughed. "well, i do not want them. society i have no use for. it is all too shallow, too ephemeral, and too much make-believe. if i wished to go into society to-morrow, it would welcome me. the door of every house in this neighbourhood would be opened to me. why? because my money is the key by which i can enter. "the most exclusive set would be delighted to come here, eat my dinners, listen to my music, and borrow my money. but who among the whole of that narrow, fast-living little world would care to know me as a poor man? i have known what it is to be poor, rolfe," he went on; "poorer than yourself. the world knows nothing of my past--of the romance of my life. one day, when i am dead, it may perhaps know. but until then i preserve my secret." he was leaning back in his padded chair, staring straight before him, just as he had been an hour ago. "yes," he continued; "i recollect one cold january night, when i passed along the pavement yonder," and jerked his finger in the direction of the street. "i was penniless, hungry, and chilled to the bone. a man in evening-dress was coming from this very house, and i begged from him a few coppers, for i had tasted nothing that day, and further, my poor mother was dying at home--dying of starvation. the man refused, and cursed me for daring to beg charity. i turned upon him and cursed him in return; i vowed that if ever i had money i would one day live in his house. he jeered at me and called me a maniac. "but, strangely enough, my words were prophetic. my fortune turned. i prospered. i am to-day living in the house of the man who cursed me, and that man himself is compelled to beg charity of me! ah, yes!" he exclaimed suddenly, rising from his chair with a sigh. "the world little dreams of what my past has been. only one man knows--the man whom you told me, rolfe, a little time ago, is in england and alive." "what--the man adams?" exclaimed rolfe, in surprise. "yes," replied his employer, in a hoarse, changed voice. "he knows everything." "things that would be detrimental to you?" asked his private secretary slowly. "he is unscrupulous, and would prove certain things that--well, i--i admit to you in strictest confidence, rolfe, that it would be impossible for me to face." charlie stared at him in utter amazement. "then you have satisfied yourself that what i told you is correct?" "i disbelieved you when you told me. but i no longer doubt." "why?" "because i have seen him to-day--seen him with my own eyes. he was standing outside, there against the railings, watching the house." "and did he see you?" "he saw and recognised me." charlie gave vent to a low whistle. he recognised the seriousness of the situation. as private secretary he was in old statham's confidence to a certain extent, but never before had he made such an admission of fear as that he had just done. "where is he now?" "i don't know. gone to prepare his coup for my ruin, most probably," was the old man's response, in a strained unnatural voice. "but listen, rolfe. i have told you to-day what i would tell no other man. in you i have reposed many confidences, because i know you well enough to be confident that you will never betray them." "you honour me, sir, by those words," the young man said. "i endeavour to serve you faithfully as it is my duty. i am not forgetful of all that you have done for my sister and myself." "i know that you are grateful, rolfe," he said, placing his bony hand upon the young man's shoulder. "therefore i seek your aid in this very delicate affair. the man adams has returned from the grave--how, i do not know. so utterly bewildering is it all that i was at first under the belief that my eyes were deceiving me--that some man had been made up to resemble him and to impose upon me. yet there is no imposture. the man whom i know to be dead is here in london, and alive!" "but did you actually see him dead?" asked rolfe, innocently. old statham started quickly at the question. "er--well--no. i mean, i didn't exactly see him dead myself," he faltered. "then how are you so very positive that he died?" "well, there was a funeral, a certificate, and insurance money was, i believe, paid." "that does not prove that he died," remarked rolfe. "i thought i understood you to say distinctly when we spoke of it the other day that you had actually stood beside the dead body of john adams, and that you had satisfied yourself that life was extinct." "no! no!" cried the old man, uneasily, his face blanched. "if i led you to suppose that, i was wrong. i meant to imply that, from information furnished by others, i was under the belief that he had died." charlie rolfe was silent. why had his employer altered his declaration so as to suit the exigencies of the moment? he raised his eyes to old sam's countenance, and saw that it was the face of a man upon whom the shadow of a crime had fallen. chapter twelve. in which a woman's honour is at stake. "john adams has seen you!" exclaimed rolfe, slowly. "therefore the situation is, i understand, one of extreme peril. is that so?" "exactly," responded the millionaire, in a thin, weak voice. "but by your aid i may yet extricate myself." the younger man saw that the other was full of fear. never had he seen his employer so nervous and utterly unstrung. the mystery of it all fascinated him. statham had unwittingly acknowledged having been present at the presumed death of john adams, and that in itself was a very suspicious circumstance. "whatever assistance i can give i am quite ready to render it," he said, little dreaming what dire result would attend that offer. "ah, yes!" cried the old man, thankfully, grasping his secretary's hand. "i knew you would not refuse, rolfe. if you succeed i shall owe my life to you; you understand--my life!" and he looked straight into the young man's face, adding, "and samuel statham never forgets to repay a service rendered." "i look for no repayment," he said. "you have been so very good to my sister and myself that i owe you a deep debt of gratitude." "ah! your sister. where is she now?" "at cunnington's, in oxford street." "oh, yes! i forgot. i wrote to cunnington myself regarding her, didn't i? i hope she's comfortable. if not, tell me. i'm the largest shareholder in that business." "you are very kind," replied the young man. "but she always says she is most comfortable, and all the principals are very kind to her. of course, it was hard for her at first when she commenced to earn her own living. the hours, the confinement, and the rigorous rules were irksome to a girl of her character, always been used as she had to freedom and a country life." "yes," replied the old man rather thoughtfully. "i suppose so. but if she's getting on well, i am quite satisfied. should she have any complaint to make, don't fail to let me know." rolfe thanked him. the old fellow, notwithstanding his eccentricities, was always a generous master. there was a pause, during which the millionaire walked to the window, peered out to see if the shabby watcher had returned, and then came back again to his table. "rolfe," he commenced, as he seated himself, with surprising calmness, "i have spoken more openly to you this afternoon than i have spoken to anyone for many years. first, you must remain in london. just ring them up in the city, and tell them to send sheldon here, and say that he must leave for belgrade to-night. i will see him at seven o'clock." the secretary took up the transmitter of the private telephone line to the offices of statham brothers in old broad street, and in a few moments was delivering the principal's message to the manager. "sheldon will be here at seven for instructions," he said, as he replaced the transmitter. "then sit down, rolfe--and listen," the old man commanded, indicating a chair at the side of the table. the younger man obeyed, and the great financier commenced. "you have promised your help, and also complete secrecy, have you not?" "i shall say nothing," answered the other, at the same time eager to hear some closed page in the old man's history. "rely upon my discretion." he was wondering whether the grey-faced old fellow was aware of the startling events of the previous evening in cromwell road. his spies had told him of maud. they perhaps had discovered that amazing truth of what had occurred in that house, now deserted and empty. was it possible that old statham, being in possession of his secret, did not now fear to repose confidence in him, for he knew that if he were betrayed he could on his part make an exposure that must prove both ruinous and fatal. the crafty old financier was not the person to place himself unreservedly in the hands of any man who could possibly turn his enemy. he had an ulterior motive, without a doubt. but what it was charles rolfe was unable to discover. "the mouth of that man adams must be closed," said the old man, in a slow, deliberate voice, "and you alone are able to accomplish it. do this for me, and i can afford to pay well," and he regarded the young man with a meaning look. was it possible that he suggested foul play. rolfe wondered. was he suggesting that he should lurk in some dark corner and take the life of the shabby wayfarer, who had recently returned to england after a long absence? "it is not a question of payment," rolfe replied. "it is whether any effort of mine can be successful." "yes; i know. i admit, rolfe, that i was a fool. i ought to have listened to you when you first told me of his re-appearance, and i ought to have approached him and purchased his silence. i thought myself shrewd, and my cautiousness has been my undoing." "from the little i know, i fear that the purchase of the fellow's silence is now out of the question. a week ago it could have been effected, but now he has cast all thought of himself to the winds, and his only object is revenge." "revenge upon myself," sighed the old man, his face growing a trifle paler as he foresaw what a terrible vengeance was within the power of that shabby stranger. "ah! i know. he will be relentless. he has every reason to be if what has been told him had been true. a man lied--the man who is dead. therefore the truth--the truth that would save my honour and my life--can never be told," he added, with a desperate look upon his countenance. "then you have been the victim of a liar?" rolfe said. "yes--of a man who, jealous of my prosperity, endeavoured to ruin me by making a false statement. but his reward came quickly. i retaliated with my financial strength, and in a year he was ruined. to recoup himself he committed forgery, was arrested, and six months later died in prison--but without confessing that what he had said concerning me was a foul invention. john adams believed it--and because of that, among other things, is my bitterest enemy." "but is there no way of proving the truth?" asked rolfe, surprised at this story. "none. the fellow put forward in support of his story proofs which he had forged. adams naturally believed they were genuine." "and where are those proofs now?" "probably in adams' possession. he has no doubt hoarded them for use at the moment of his triumph." rolfe did not speak for several moments. "a week ago those proofs might, i believe, have been purchased for a round sum." "could they not be purchased now? from the man's appearance he is penniless." "not so poor as you think. if what i've heard is true, he is in possession of funds. his shabbiness is only assumed. have you any knowledge of a certain man named lyle--a short man slightly deformed." "lyle!" gasped his employer. "do you mean leonard lyle? what do you know of him?" "i saw him in the company of adams. it is he who supplies the latter with money." "lyle!" cried statham, his eyes glaring in amazement. "lyle here--in london?" "he was here a week ago. you know him?" "know him--yes!" answered the old millionaire, hoarsely. "are you certain that he has become adams' friend?" "i saw them together with my own eyes. they were sitting in the cafe royal, in regent street. adams was in evening-dress, and wore an opera-hat. they'd been to the empire together." "why didn't you tell me all this before?" asked statham, in a tone of blank despair. "i--i see now all the difficulties that have arisen. the pair have united to wreak their vengeance upon me, and i am powerless and unprotected." "but who is this man leonard lyle?" inquired the secretary. "a man without a conscience. he was a mining engineer, and is now, i suppose--a short, white-moustached man, with a slightly humped back and a squeaky voice." "the same." "why didn't you tell me this before? if lyle knows adams, the position is doubly dangerous," he exclaimed, in abject dismay. "no," he added, bitterly; "there can be no way out." "i said nothing because you had refused to believe." "you saw them together after you had told me of adams' return, or before?" "after," he replied. "even though you refused to believe me, i continued to remain watchful in your interests and those of the firm. i spent several evenings in watching their movements." "ah! you are loyal to me, i know, rolfe. you shall not regret this. hitherto i have not treated you well, but i will now try and atone for the manner in which i misjudged you. i ask your pardon." "for what?" inquired rolfe, in surprise. "for believing ill of you," was all the old man vouchsafed. "i tried to do my duty as your secretary," was all he said. "your duty. you have done more. you have watched my enemies even though i sneered at your well-meant warning," he said. "but if you have watched, you perhaps know where the pair are in hiding." "lyle lives at the first avenue hotel, in holborn. adams lives in a small furnished flat in addison mansions, close to addison road railway station." "lives there in preference to an hotel because he can go in and out shabby and down-at-heel without attracting comment--eh?" "i suppose so. i had great difficulty in following him to his hiding-place without arousing his suspicions." "does he really mean mischief?" asked the principal of statham brothers, bending slightly towards his secretary. "yes; undoubtedly he does. the pair are here with the intention of bringing ruin upon you and upon the house of statham," was rolfe's quiet reply. "then only you can save me, rolfe," cried the old man, starting up wildly. "how? tell me, and i am ready to act upon your instructions," rolfe said. the millionaire placed his hand upon the young man's shoulder and said: "repeat those words." rolfe did so. "and you will not seek to inquire the reason of a request i may make to you, even though it may sound an extraordinary and perhaps mysterious one?" "i will act as you wish, without desiring to know your motives." the great financier stood looking straight into his secretary's eyes. he was deeply in earnest, for his very life now depended upon the other's assent. how could he put the proposal to the man before him? "then i take that as a promise, rolfe," he said at last. "you will not withdraw. you will swear to assist me at all hazards--to save me from these men." "i swear." "good! then to-day--nay, at this very hour--you must make what no doubt will be to you a great sacrifice." "what do you mean?" asked rolfe, quickly. "i mean," the old man said, in a very slow distinct voice--"i mean that you must first sacrifice the honour of the woman you love--maud petrovitch." "maud petrovitch!" he gasped, utterly mystified. "yes," he answered. "you have promised to save me--you have sworn to assist me, and the sacrifice is imperative! it is her honour--or my death!" chapter thirteen. describes the man from nowhere. late that same night, in the small and rather well-furnished dining-room of a flat close to addison road station, the beetle-browed man known to some as john adams and to others as jean adam was seated in a comfortable armchair smoking a cigarette. he was no longer the shabby, half-famished looking stranger who had been watching outside statham's house in park lane, but rather dandified in his neat dinner jacket, glossy shirt-front, and black tie. adventurer was written all over his face. he was a man whose whole life history had been a romance and who had knocked about in various odd and out-of-the-way corners of the world. a cosmopolitan to the backbone, he, like his friend leonard lyle, whom he was at that moment expecting, hated the trammels of civilised society, and their lives had mostly been spent in places where human life was cheap and where justice was unknown. alone in that small room where the dinner-cloth had been removed and a decanter and glasses had been placed by his one elderly serving-woman, who had now gone for the night, he was muttering to himself as he smoked--murmuring incoherent words that sounded much like threats. it was difficult to recognise in this well-groomed, gentlemanly-looking man, with the diamond in his shirt-front and the sparkling ring upon his finger, the low-looking tramp whose eyes had encountered those of the man whose ruin he now sought to encompass. in half a dozen capitals of the world he was known as jean adam, for he spoke french perfectly, and passed as a french subject, a native of algiers; but in london, new york, and montreal he was known as the wandering and adventurous englishman john adams. whether he was really english was doubtful. true, he spoke english without the slightest trace of accent, yet sometimes in his gesture, when unduly excited, there was unconsciously betrayed his foreign birth. his french was as perfect as his english. he spoke with an accent of the south, and none ever dreamed that he could at the same time speak the pure, unadulterated cockney slang. he had just glanced at his watch, and knit his brows when the electric bell rang, and he rose to admit a short, triangular-faced, queer-looking little old man, whose back was bent and whose body seemed too large for his legs. he, too, was in evening-dress, and carried his overcoat across his arm. "i began to fear, old chap, that you couldn't come," adams exclaimed, as he hung his friend's coat in the narrow hall. "you didn't acknowledge my wire." "i couldn't until too late. i was out," the other explained, in a tone of apology. "well," he asked, with a sigh, as he stretched himself before he seated himself in the proffered chair, "what has happened?" "a lot, my dear fellow. we shall come out on top yet." "be more explicit. what do you mean?" "what i say," was adams' response. "i've seen old statham to-day." "and he's seen you--eh?" "of course he has. and he's scared out of his senses--thinks he's seen a ghost, most likely," he laughed, in triumph. "but he'll find i'm much more than a ghost before he's much older, the canting old blackguard." lyle thought for a second. "the sight of you has forearmed him! it was rather injudicious just at this moment, wasn't it?" "not at all. i meant to give him a surprise. if i'd have gone up to the house, rung the bell, and asked to see him, i should have been refused. he sees absolutely nobody, for there's a mystery connected with the house. nobody has ever been inside." "what!" exclaimed the old hunchbacked mining engineer. "that's interesting! tell me more about it. is it like the haunted house in berkeley square about which people used to talk so much years ago?" "i don't think it's ever been alleged to be haunted," responded adams. "yet there are several weird and amazing stories told of it, and of the grim shadows which overhang it both night and day." "what stories have you heard?" asked his companion, taking a cigarette from the box, for he had suddenly become much interested. "well, it is said that the place is the most gorgeously furnished of any house in that select quarter, and that it is full of art treasures, old silver, miniatures, and antique furniture, for old statham is a well-known collector and is known to have purchased many very fine specimens of antiques during the past few years. they say that, having furnished the place from kitchen to garret in the most costly manner possible, he sought out the old love of his earlier days--a woman who assisted him in the foundation of his fortune, and invited her to inspect the house. they went round it together, and after luncheon he proposed marriage to her. to his chagrin, she declined the honour of becoming the wife of a millionaire." "she was a bit of a fool, i should suppose," remarked the hunchback. "they were fond enough of each other. she was nearly twenty years his junior, and though they had been separated for a good many years, he was still devoted to her. when she refused to marry him, there was a scene. and at last she was compelled to admit the truth--she was the wife of another! a quarter of an hour later she left the house in tears, and from that moment the beautiful mansion, with the exception of two or three rooms, has been closed. he will allow nobody to pass upstairs, and the place remains the same as on that day when all his hopes of happiness were shattered." "but you said there were stories concerning the house," lyle remarked, between the whiffs of his cigarette. "so there are. both yesterday and to-day i've been making inquiries and been told many curious things. a statement, for instance, made to me is to the effect that one night about a month ago the chauffeur of the great lancashire cotton-spinner living a few doors away was seated on the car at two o'clock in the morning, ready to take two of his master's guests down to their home near epsom, when he noticed statham's windows all brilliantly lit. "from the drawing-room above came the sounds of waltz music--a piano excellently played. this struck the man as curious, well knowing the local belief that the upper portion of the house was kept rigorously closed. yet, from all appearances, the old millionaire was that night entertaining guests, which was further proved when a quarter of an hour later the door opened and old levi, the man-servant, came forth. as he did so, a four-wheeled cab, which had been waiting opposite, a little further up the road, drew across, and a few moments later both levi and statham appeared, struggling with a long, narrow black box, which, with the cabman's aid, was put on top of the vehicle. the box much resembled a coffin, and seemed unusually heavy. "so hurried and excited were the men that they took no notice of the motor car, and the cab next moment drove away, the man no doubt having previously received his orders. the music had ceased, and as soon as the cab had departed the lights in the windows were extinguished, and the weird home remained in darkness." "very curious. looks about as though there had been some foul play, doesn't it?" lyle suggested. "that's what the chauffeur suspects. i've spoken with him myself, and he tells me that the box was so like a coffin that the whole incident held him fascinated," adams said. "and, of course, this story getting about, has set other people on the watch. indeed, only last night a very curious affair occurred. it was witnessed by a man who earns his living washing carriages in the mews close by, and who has for years taken an interest in the mysterious home of samuel statham. "he had been washing carriages till very late, and at about half-past two in the morning was going up park lane towards edgware road, where he lives, when his attention was drawn to the fact that as he passed statham's house the front door was slightly ajar. somebody was waiting there for the expected arrival of a stranger, and, hearing the carriage washer's footstep, had opened the door in readiness. there was no light in the hall, and the man's first suspicion was that of burglars about to leave the place. "next instant, however, the reputation for mystery which the place had earned, occurred to him, and he resolved to pass on and watch. this he did, retiring into a doorway a little farther down, and standing in the shadow unobserved he waited. "half an hour passed, but nothing unusual occurred, until just after the clock had struck three, a rather tall, thin man passed quietly along. he was in evening-dress, and wore pumps, for his tread was noiseless. the man describes him as an aristocratic-looking person, and evidently a foreigner. at statham's door he suddenly halted, looked up and down furtively to satisfy himself that he was not being watched, and then slipped inside." "and what then?" inquired lyle, much interested. "a very queer circumstance followed," went on the cosmopolitan. "there was, an hour and a half later, an exact repetition of the scene witnessed by the chauffeur." "what! the black trunk?" "yes. a cab drove up near to the house, and, at signal from levi, came up to the kerb. then the long, heavy box was brought out by the servant and his master, heaved up on to the cab, which drove away in the direction of the marble arch." "infernally suspicious," remarked the hunchback, tossing his cigarette end into the grate. "didn't the washer take note of the number of the cab?" "no. that's the unfortunate part of it. apparently he didn't notice the crawling four-wheeler until he saw levi come forth and give the signal." "and the aristocratic-looking foreigner? could he recognise him again?" "he says he could." "that was last night--eh?" "yes." "there may be some police inquiries regarding a missing foreigner," remarked lyle, thoughtfully. "if so, his information may be valuable. how did you obtain it?" "from his own lips." "then we had better wait, and watch to see if anybody is reported missing. certainly that house is one of mystery." "sam statham is unscrupulous. i know him to my cost," adams remarked. "and so do i," lyle declared. "if what i suspect is true, then we shall make an exposure that will startle and horrify the world." "you mean regarding the foreigner of last night?" "yes. i have a suspicion that i can establish the identity of the foreigner in question--a man who has to-day been missing?" chapter fourteen. reveals a clever conspiracy. "and who was he?" asked adams, quickly. "for the present that is my own affair," the hunchback replied. "suffice it for you to know that we hold samuel statham in the hollow of our hand." "i don't know so much about that," remarked adams, dubiously. "i thought so until this morning." "and why, pray, has your opinion changed?" "because when he came a second time to the window and looked out at me, there was a glance of defiance in his eye that i scarcely lie. he's wealthy and influential--we are not, remember." "knowledge is power. we shall be the victors." "you are too sanguine, my dear fellow," declared the other. "we are angling for big game, and to my idea the bait is not sufficiently attractive." "statham is unscrupulous--so are we. we can prove our story--prove it up to the hilt. dare he face us? that's the question." "i think he dare," adams replied. "you don't know him as well as i do. his whole future now depends upon his bluff, and he knows it. we can ruin both the house of statham brothers and its principal. in the circumstances, it is only natural that he should assume an air of defiance." "which we must combat by firmness. we are associated in this affair, and my advice is not to show any sign of weakness." "exactly. that's the reason i asked you here to-night, lyle--to discuss our next step." the hunchback was silent and thoughtful for a few moments. then he said: "there is but one mode of procedure now, and that is to go to him and tell him our intentions. he'll be frightened, and the rest will be easy." "sam statham is not very easily frightened. you wouldn't be, if you were worth a couple of million pounds." adams remarked, with a dubious shake of the head. "i should be if upon me rested the burden of guilt." "then your suggestion is that i should go and tell him openly my intentions?" "decidedly. the more open you are, the greater will be the old man's terror, and the easier our ultimate task." "he'll refuse to see me." "he goes down to the city sometimes. better call there and present a false card. he won't care to be faced in the vicinity of his managers and clerks. it will show him from the first that the great home of statham is tottering." "and it shall fall!" declared adams, with a triumphant chuckle. "we hold the trump cards, it is true. the only matter to be decided is how we shall play them." "they must be played very carefully, if we are to win." "win?" echoed the other. "why, man, we can't possibly lose." "suppose he died?" "he won't die, i'll take care of that," said adams, with a fierce expression upon his somewhat evil countenance. "no; the old blackguard shall live, and his life shall be rendered a hell of terror and remorse. he made my life so bitter that a thousand times i've longed for death. he taunted me with my misfortunes, ruined me and laughed in my face, jeered at my unhappiness and flaunted his wealth before me when i was penniless. but through all these years i have kept silence, laughing within myself because of his ignorance that i alone held his secret, and that when i chose i could rise and crush him. "he had no suspicion of my knowledge until one blazing day in a foreign city i betrayed myself. i was a fool, i know. but very soon afterwards i repaid the error by death. i died and was buried, so that he then believed himself safe, and has remained in self-satisfied security until this morning, when his gaze met mine through the window. i have risen from the dead," he added, with a short, dry laugh; "risen to avenge myself by his ruin." "and his death," added the hunchback. "don't i tell you he shall not die?" cried adams. "what satisfaction should i have were he to commit suicide? no; i mean to watch his agony, to terrify him and drive him to an existence constantly fearing exposure and arrest. he shall not enjoy a moment's peace of mind, but shall be tortured by conscience and driven mad by terror. i will repay his evil actions towards me and mine a hundredfold." "how can you prevent him escaping you by suicide?" "he'll never do that, for he knows his suicide would mean the ruin of statham brothers, and perhaps the ruin of hundreds of families. the canting old hypocrite would rather do anything nowadays than ruin the poor investor." "yet look at his operations in earlier days! did he not lay the foundation of the house by the exercise of cunning and unscrupulous double-dealing? was it not mainly by his influence that a great war was forced on, and did he not clear, it is declared, more than half a million by sacrificing the lives of thousands? and he actually has the audacity to dole out sums to charities, and contributions to hospitals and convalescent homes!" "the world always looks at a man's present, my dear old chap, never at his past," responded the hunchback. "unfortunately that is so, otherwise the truth would be remembered and the name of statham held up to scorn and universal disgust. yet," adams went on, "i grant you that he is not much worse than others in the same category. the smug frock coat and light waistcoat of the successful city man so very often conceals a black and ungenerous heart." "but if you really make this exposure as you threaten, it will arouse the greatest sensation ever produced in england in modern years," lyle remarked, slowly lighting a fresh cigarette. "i will make it--and more!" he declared, bringing his fist down heavily upon the table. "i have waited all these years for my revenge, and, depend upon it, it will be humiliating and complete." for a few moments neither man spoke. at last lyle said: "i have more than once wondered whether you are not making a mistake in your association with that young man barclay." "max barclay is a fool. he doesn't dream the real game we are playing with him." "no. if he did, he wouldn't have anything to do with us." "i suppose he wouldn't. but the whole thing appears to him such a gilt-edged one that we've fascinated him--and he'll be devilish useful to us in the near future." "you've inquired about that girl, i suppose?" "yes. she's in a drapery shop--at cunnington's, in oxford street, and, funnily enough, is sister of old sam's secretary." "his sister! by jove! we ought to know her--one of us. she might be able to find out something." "no: we must keep away from her at present," adams urged. then, in a curious voice, he added: "we may find it necessary to become her enemy, you know. and if so, she ought not to be personally acquainted with either of us. do you follow me?" "you mean that we may find it necessary to secure max barclay's aid at sacrifice of the girl--eh?" his companion smiled meaningly. "we must be careful how we use barclay," lyle said. "the young man has his eyes open." "i know. i'm well aware of that," adams said, quickly. "he will be of the greatest assistance to us." "if he has no suspicions." "what suspicion can he have?" laughed the other. "all that we've told him he believes to be gospel truth. only the night before last we dined together at romano's, and after an hour at the empire he took me to his club to chat and smoke." "he, of course, believes the story of the railway concession to be genuine," lyle suggested. "let me see, the concession is somewhere in the balkans, isn't it?" "yes; the railroad from nisch, in servia, across northern albania, to san giovanni di medua, on the adriatic. a grand scheme that's been talked of for years, and which the sultan has always prevented by refusing to allow the line to pass through turkish territory. "our story is," added adams, "that his majesty has at last signed an irade granting permission, and that within a month or so the whole concession will be given over to an english group of whom i am the representative. i saw that the scheme appealed to him from the very first. he recognised that there was money in it, for such a line would tap the whole trade of the balkans, and by a junction near the iron gates of the danube, take the trade of roumania, hungary, and south-western russia to the adriatic instead of as at present into the black sea. "for the past week i've met barclay nearly every day. he suggested that, as the railway would be a matter of millions, he should approach old sam statham and ask him to lend us his support." "does he know statham?" "slightly. but i at once declined to allow him to speak about the scheme." "why?" "because old sam, with the aid of his spies and informants in diplomatic circles, could in three days satisfy himself whether our story was true or false. it would have given the whole story away at once. so i made an excuse for continued secrecy." "quite right. we must not court failure by allowing any inquiry to be prematurely made," said lyle. "make the project a secret one, and speak of it with bated breath. hint at diplomatic difficulties between turkey and england, if the truth were known." "that's just what i have done, and he's completely misled. i explained that germany would try and bring pressure upon the sultan to withdraw the irade as soon as it were known that the railway had fallen into british hands. and he believed me implicitly!" "he had no suspicion of whom you really are?" "certainly not. he believes that i've never met statham but that i have the greatest admiration for his financial stability and his excellent personal qualities," adams replied: "he knows me as jean adam, of paris, as they do here in these flats--a man who has extensive business relations in the near east, and therefore well in with the pashas of the sublime porte and the officials of the yildiz. i tell you, lyle, the young fellow believes in me." "because you're such a confoundedly clever actor, adams. you'd deceive the cutest business man in london, with your wonderful documents, your rosy prospectuses, and your tales of fortunes ready to be picked up if only a few thousands are invested. you've thoroughly fascinated young max barclay, who, believing that you've obtained a very valuable concession, is seized with a laudable desire to share the profits and to obtain a lucrative occupation as a director of the company in question." "once he has fallen entirely in our power, the rest will be easy," answered the adventurer. "i mean to have my revenge, and you receive thirty thousand as your share." "but what form is this revenge of yours to take?" the hunchback inquired. "you have never told me that." "it is my own affair," answered adams, leaning back against the mantelshelf. "well, i think between friends there should not be any distrust," lyle remarked. "you don't think i'd give you away, do you? it's to my interest to assist you and obtain the thirty thousand." "and you will, if you stick to me," adams answered. "but i'd like to know your main object." "you know that already." "but only yesterday you told me that you don't want a farthing of old statham's money." "nor do i. his money has a curse upon it--the money filched from the pockets of widows and orphans, money that has been obtained by fraud and misrepresentation," cried adams. "to-day he is respected and lauded on account of his pious air and his philanthropy; yet yesterday he floated rotten concerns and coolly placed hundreds of thousands in his pocket by reason of the glowing promises that he never fulfilled. no!" cried the man, clenching his strong, hard fist; "i don't want a single penny of his money. you, lyle, may have what you want of it--thirty thousand to be the minimum." "you talk as though you contemplated handling his fortune," the other remarked, in some surprise. "when i reveal to him my intentions, his banking account will be at my disposal, depend upon it," adams said. "but i don't want any of his bribes. i shall refuse them. i will have my revenge. it shall be an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. he showed me no mercy--and i will show him none--none. but it is max barclay who will assist me towards that end, and the girl at cunnington's, marion rolfe, who must be made the catspaw." lyle remained thoughtful, his eyes upon the carpet. "yes," he said, slowly, at last. "i quite follow you and divine your intentions. but, remember she's a woman. is it just--is it human?" "human!" echoed the cosmopolitan, removing his cigarette as he shrugged his shoulders with a nonchalant air. "to me it matters nothing, so long as i attain my object. surely you are not chicken-hearted enough to be moved by a woman's tears." "i don't understand you," his friend declared. "no; i suppose you don't," he answered. "and, to be frank with you, lyle, i don't intend at this moment that you shall. my intention is my own affair. i merely foreshadow to you the importation into the affair of a woman who will, through no fault of her own, be compelled to suffer in order to allow me to achieve the object i have in view." the hunchback turned slightly towards the curtained window. he moved quickly in order to conceal an expression upon his face, which, had it been detected by his companion, the startling and amazing events recorded in the following chapters would surely never have occurred. but john adams, standing there in ignorance, was chuckling over the secret of the terrible triumph that was so very soon to be his--a triumph to be secured by the sacrifice of an honest woman! chapter fifteen. more about marion. the following sunday afternoon was warm and bright, perfect for up-river excursions, and, as was their usual habit, max and marion were spending the day together. released from the eternal bustle of oxford street, the girl looked forward with eager anticipation to each saturday afternoon and sunday-- the weekly period of rest and recreation. to the assistant in shops where the "living-in" system pertains, sunday is the one bright interval in an otherwise dull, dreary, and monotonous life, the day when he or she gets away from the weariness of being businesslike, the smell of the "goods," and the keen eye of the buyer or shop-walker, and when one is one's own master for a few happy hours. to those not apprenticed in their youth to shop-life who, being born in a higher status, have been compelled to enter business as a means of livelihood, the long hours are terribly irksome, especially in winter, when artificial light is used nearly the whole day. the work is soul-killing in its monotony and the pay very meagre, therefore customers need hardly be surprised when a tired assistant does not take the trouble to exert herself unduly to satisfy her requirements. in summer, marion loved the river. the air was fresh and healthful, after the vitiated atmosphere of the costume department at cunnington's. usually max brought his little motor-boat from biffen's, at hammersmith bridge, where he kept it, up to kew, and there they would embark in the morning and run up to hampton court, staines, or even windsor, getting their luncheon or tea at one or other of the old riverside inns, and spending a lazy afternoon up some quiet, leafy backwater, where, though so near the metropolis, the king-fishers skimmed the surface of the stream and the water-lilies lay upon their broad, green leaves. those lazy hours spent together were always delightful, therefore, to the devoted pair, a wet sunday was indeed a calamity. on the afternoon in question they had met at kew bridge at four o'clock, and as she sat upon the crimson cushions in the stern, they were ascending the broad thames, the motor running as evenly as a clock, and leaving a small wash in their wake. marion could not meet her lover before, because she had spent the morning with a poor girl who had been a fellow assistant at cunnington's, and was now in guy's hospital. the girl was friendless and in a dangerous condition, therefore marion had given up her morning and taken her some grapes. there were not many people on the river, for pleasure-seekers usually prefer the reaches above richmond. the craft they passed was mostly sailing boats, belonging to the club chiswick, and the inevitable launch of the thames conservancy. in a well-cut gown of plain white cotton, with lace and muslin at the throat, a straw hat of mushroom shape, with a band of pale blue velvet, and a white sunshade over her shoulder, she looked delightfully fresh and cool. he was in navy serge suit and a peaked cap, and in his mouth a pipe. seated sideways in the boat, with the throbbing motor at his feet, he thought he never had seen her looking so chic and indescribably charming. those stiff black dresses, which custom forced her to wear in business, did not suit her soft beauty. but in her river dress she looked delightfully dainty, and he tried to conjure up a vision of what figure she would present in a well-cut evening gown. the latter, however, she did not possess. the shop-assistant has but little need of decollete, and, indeed, its very possession arouses comment among the plainer, more prudish, and more elderly section of the girls in the "house." more than once max had wanted to take her to the stalls of a theatre in an evening gown, but she had always declared that she preferred wearing a light blouse. as a man generally is, he was a blunderer, and she could not well explain how, by the purchase of evening clothes, she would at once debase herself in the eyes of her fellow-assistants. as was well-known, her salary at cunnington's certainly did not allow of such luxuries as theatre gowns, and from the very first she had always declined to accept max's well-meant presents. the only present of his that she had kept was the pretty ring now upon her slim, white hand, a ring set with sapphires and diamonds and inscribed within "from max to marion," with the date. as she leaned back enjoying the fresh air, after the dust and stifling heat of london, she was relating how pleased the poor invalid had been at her visit, and he was listening to her description of her friend's desperate condition. a difficult operation had turned out badly, and the surgeons held out very little hope. not a soul had been to see the poor girl all the week, the nurse had said, for she had no relatives, and all her friends were in business and unable to get out, except on sunday. "i very much fear she won't live to see next sunday," marion was saying, with a sigh, a cloud passing over her bright face. "it is so very sad. she's only twenty, and such a nice girl. her father was a naval officer, but she was left penniless, and had to earn her own living." "like you yourself, dearest," he answered. "ah! how i wish i could take you from that life of drudgery. i can't bear to think of you being compelled to slave as you do, and to wait upon those crotchety old cats, as many of your customers are. it's a shame that you should ever have gone into cunnington's." "mr statham, charlie's employer, holds the controlling interest in our business. it was through him that i got in there. without his influence they would never have taken me, for i had no experience. as a matter of fact," she added, "i'm considered very lucky in obtaining a situation at cunnington's, and mr warner, our buyer, is extremely kind to me." "i know all that; but it's the long hours that most wear you out," he said, "especially in this close, muggy weather." "oh! i'm pretty strong," she declared lightly, her beautiful eyes fixed upon him. "at first i used to feel terribly tired about tea-time, but nowadays i can stand it very much better." "but you really must leave the place," max declared. "charlie should so arrange things that you could leave. his salary from old statham is surely sufficient to enable him to do that!" "yes; but if he keeps me, how can he keep a wife as well?" asked marion. "dear old charlie is awfully good to me. i never want for anything; but he'll marry maud before long, i expect, and then i shall--" "marry me, darling," he exclaimed, concluding her sentence. she blushed slightly and smiled. "ah!" she said, in mock reproof. "that may occur perhaps in the dim future. we'll first see how charlie's marriage turns out--eh?" "no, marion," he cried. "come, that isn't fair! you know how i love you--and you surely recollect your promise to me, don't you?" he asked seriously. "of course i do," she replied. "you dear old boy, you know i'm only joking." he seemed instantly relieved at her words, and steered across to the middlesex banks as they approached brentford dock in order to get the full advantage of the rising tide. "has charlie seen maud of late?" he asked, a few moments later. "i don't know at all. i suppose he's in the east. i haven't seen him since he came to the shop to say good-bye to me." "i wonder if the doctor and his daughter have returned to their own country?" he suggested. "what! have you heard nothing of them?" "nothing," he replied. "i have endeavoured to discover where their furniture was taken, or where they themselves went, but all has been in vain. both they and their belongings have entirely disappeared." the girl did not utter a word. she was leaning back, with her fine eyes fixed straight before her, reflecting deeply. "it is all very extraordinary," she remarked at last. "yes. i only wish, darling, you were at liberty to tell me the whole truth regarding maud, and what she has told you," he said, his gaze fixed upon her pale, beautiful face. "i cannot do that, max," was her prompt answer, "so please do not ask me. i have already told you that in this matter my lips are sealed by a solemn promise--a promise which i cannot break." "i know! yet i somehow cannot help thinking that you could reveal to me some fact which might expose the motive of this strange and unaccountable disappearance," he said. "do you know, i cannot get rid of the suspicion that the doctor, and possibly maud herself, have been victims of foul play. remember that as a politician he had many enemies in his own country. a political career in the balkans is not the peaceful profession it is here at st stephen's. take bulgaria, for instance, and recall the political assassinations of stambuloff, petkoff, and a dozen others. the same in servia and in roumania. the whole of the balkans is permeated by an air of political conspiracy, for there life is indeed cheap, more especially the life of the public man." "what! then you really suspect that both maud and her father have actually been the victims of some political plot?" she asked, regarding him with a strange expression. "well--how can i conjecture otherwise? the doctor would never have left suddenly without sending word to me. have you written to charlie telling him of the sudden disappearance?" "yes. i wrote the same day that you told me, and addressed the letter to the grand hotel, at belgrade." "then he has it by now?" "certainly. i'm expecting a wire from him asking for further particulars. he should have got my letter the day before yesterday, but up to the present i've received no acknowledgment." max did not tell her that her brother had not left london on the night when he was believed to have done so, and that it was more than probable he had never started from charing cross. he kept his own counsel, at the same time wondering what was the real reason why marion so steadfastly refused to tell him the nature of maud's confession. that it had been of a startling nature she had already admitted, therefore he could only suppose that it had some direct connection with the astounding disappearance of both father and daughter. on the other hand, however, he was suspicious of some ingenious plot, because he felt convinced that the doctor would never have effaced himself without giving him confidential news of his whereabouts. "have you written to maud?" he asked, after a fen; moments. "no. i don't know her address." "and you have not seen her?" "no." "but you don't seem in the least alarmed about her disappearance?" "why should i be? i rather expected it," she answered; and it suddenly occurred to him whether, after all, she had been with maud to the concert at queen's hall on the night of the sudden removal. a distinct suspicion seized him that she was concealing from him some fact which she feared to reveal--some fact that concerned herself more than maud. he could see, in her refusal to satisfy him as to the girl's confession, an attempt to mislead and mystify him, and he was just a trifle annoyed thereby. he liked open and honest dealing, and began to wonder whether this pretended promise of loyalty to her friend was not being put forward to hide some secret that was her own! the two girls had, during the past few months, been inseparable. had maud really made a startling confession, or was the girl seated before him, with that strangely uneasy expression upon her beautiful countenance, endeavouring to deceive him? he tried to put such thoughts behind him as unworthy of his devotion to her. but, alas! he could not. mystery was there--mystery that he was determined to elucidate. chapter sixteen. on dangerous ground. in the glorious sundown glinting across the river, and rendering it a rippling flood of gold, max and marion were seated in the long upstairs room of that old-fashioned riparian inn, the "london apprentice," at isleworth, taking their tea at the open window. before them was the green ait, with the broad, tree-fringed river beyond, a quiet, peaceful old-world scene that, amid the rapidly changing metropolitan suburbs, remains the same to-day as it has been for the past couple of centuries or so. they always preferred that quiet, old-fashioned upstairs room--the club-room, it was called--of the "london apprentice," at isleworth, to the lawns and string bands of richmond, the tea-gardens of kew, or the pleasures of eel pie island. that long, silent, old, panelled room with its big bow-window commanding a wide reach of the river towards st margaret's was well suited to their idyllic love. they knew that there they would at least be alone, away from the sunday crowd, and that after tea they could sit at the window and enjoy the calm sundown. the riverside at isleworth does not change. even the electric trams have passed close by it on their way to hampton court from hammersmith but they have not modernised it. the old square-towered church, the row of ancient balconied houses, covered with tea-roses and jasmine, and the ancient waterman's hostelry, the "london apprentice," are just the same to-day as they have ever been in the memory of the oldest inhabitant; and the little square in the centre of the riverside village is as silent and untrodden as in the years when charles ii loved to go there on his barge and dine in that very room at the inn, and when, later, david garrick and pope sang its praises. max and his well-beloved had finished their tea, and, with her hat and gloves off, she was lying back in a lounge chair in the deep bay window, watching the steamer _queen elizabeth_, with its brass band and crowd of excursionists, slowly returning to london. near her he was seated, lazily smoking a cigarette, his eyes upon her in admiration, but still wondering, as he always wondered. the truth concerning maud petrovitch had not been told. he was very fond of the doctor. quiet, well-educated, polished, and pleasant always, he was, though a foreigner, and a servian to boot, the very essence of a gentleman. his dead wife had, no doubt, influenced him towards english ways and english thought, while maud herself--the very replica of his lost wife, he always declared--now held her father beneath her influence as a bright and essentially english girl. the disappearance of the pair was an enigma which, try how he would, he could not solve. his efforts to find rolfe had been unavailing, and marion herself had neither seen nor heard from him. at charlie's chambers his man remained in complete ignorance. his master had left for servia--that was all. max had been trying in vain to lead the conversation again up to the matter over which his mind had become so much exercised; but, with her woman's keen ingenuity, she each time combated his efforts, which, truth to tell, only served to increase his suspicion that her intention was to shield herself behind her friend. why this horrible misgiving had crept upon him he could not tell. he loved her with his whole heart and soul, and daily he deplored that, while he lived in bachelor luxury in artistic chambers, and with every whim satisfied, she was compelled to toil and drudge in a london drapery store. he wished with his whole heart that he could take her out of that soul-killing business life, with all its petty jealousies and its eternal make-believe towards customers, and put her in the companionship of some elderly gentlewoman in rural peace. but he knew her too well. the mere offer she would regard as an insult. a hundred times she had told him that, being compelled to work for her living, she was proud of being able to do so. charlie, her brother, he could not understand. he had just made a remark to that effect, and she had asked--"why? he's awfully good to me, you know. lots of times he sends me unexpectedly five-pound notes, and they come in very useful to a girl like me, you know. i dare say," she laughed, "you spend as much in a single evening when you go out with friends to the theatre and supper at the savoy as i earn in a month." "that's just it," he said. "i can't understand why charlie, in his position, secretary to one of the wealthiest men in england, allows you to slave away in a shop." "he does so because i refuse to leave," was her prompt answer. "i don't care to live on the charity of anybody while i have the capacity to work. my parents were both proud in this respect, and i take after them, i suppose." "that is all to your credit, dearest," he said; "but i am looking forward to the future. i love you, as you well know, and i can't bear to think that you are bound to serve at cunnington's from nine in the morning till seven at night--waiting on a set of old hags who try to choose dresses to make them appear young girls." she laughed, her beautiful face turned towards him. "aren't you rather hard on my sex, max?" she asked. "we all of us try to present ourselves to advantage in order to attract and please." "all except yourself, darling," he said courteously. "you look just as beautiful in your plain black business gown as you do now." "that's really very sweet of you," she said, smiling. then a moment later a serious look overspread her countenance, and she added: "why worry yourself over me, max, dear. i am very happy. i have your love. what more can i want?" "ah! my darling!" he cried, rising and bending till his lips touched hers, "those words of yours fill me with contentment. you are happy because i love you! and i am happy because i have secured your affection! you can never know how deeply i love you--or how completely i am yours. my only thought is of you, my well-beloved; of your present life, and of your future. i have friends--men of the world, who spend their time at clubs, at sport, or at theatres--who scoff at love. i scoff with them sometimes, because there is but one love in all the world for me--yours!" "yes," she said, slowly fixing her eyes upon his, and tenderly stroking his hair. "but sometimes--sometimes i am afraid, max--i--" "afraid!" he echoed. "afraid of what?" "that you cannot trust me." he started. was it not the unconscious truth that she spoke? he had been doubting her all that afternoon. "cannot trust you!" he cried. "what do you mean? how very foolish!" but she shook her head, and a slight sigh escaped her. she seemed to possess some vague intuition that he did not entirely accept her statement regarding maud. yet was it, after all, very surprising, having in view the fact that she had admitted that maud had made confession. it was the truth regarding that admission on the part of the doctor's daughter that he was hoping to elicit. "marion," he said presently, in a low, intense voice, "marion, i love you. if i did not trust you, do you think my affection would be so strong for you as it is?" she paused for a moment before replying. "that all depends," she said. "you might suspect me of double-dealing, and yet love me at the same time." "but i do not doubt you, darling," he assured her, at the same time placing his arm around her slim waist and kissing her upon the lips. "i love you; surely you believe that?" "yes, max, i do," she murmured. "i do--but i--" "but what?" he asked, looking straight into her fine eyes and waiting for her to continue. she averted his gaze, and slowly but firmly disengaged herself from his embrace, while he, on his part, wondered. she was silent, her face pale, and in her eyes a look of sudden fear. "tell me, darling," he whispered. "you have something to say to me--is not that so?" he loved her, he told himself, as truly as any man had ever loved a woman. it was only that one little suspicion that had arisen--the suspicion that she had not been to queen's hall with his friend's daughter. he took her hand lightly in his and raised it courteously to his lips, but she drew it away, crying, "no! no, max! no." "no?" he gasped, staring at her. "what do you mean, marion. tell me what you mean." "i--i mean that--that though we may love each other, perfect trust does not exist between us." "as far as i'm concerned it does," he declared, even though he knew that his words were not exactly the truth. "why have you so suddenly changed towards me, marion? you are my love. i care for no one save yourself. you surely know that--have i not told you so a hundred times? do you still doubt me?" "no, max. i do not doubt you. it is you who doubt me!" "i do not doubt," he repeated. "i have merely made inquiry regarding maud, and the confession which you yourself told me she made to you. surely, in the circumstances, of her extraordinary disappearance, together with her father, it is not strange that i should be unduly interested in her?" "no, not at all strange," she admitted. "i am quite as surprised and interested over maud's disappearance as you are." "not quite so surprised." "because i view the whole affair in the light of what she told me." "did what she tell you in any way concern the doctor?" he asked eagerly. "indirectly it did--not directly." "had you any suspicion that father and daughter intended to suddenly disappear?" "no; but, as i have before told you, i am not surprised." "then they are fugitives, i take it?" he remarked, in a changed tone. "certainly. they were no doubt driven to act as they have done. unless there--there has been a tragedy!" "but the men who removed the furniture must be in some way connected with the doctor's secret," he remarked. "there were several of them." "i know. you have already described to me all that you have discovered. it is very remarkable and very ingenious." "a moment ago you were about to tell me something, marion," he said, fixing his gaze upon hers; "what is it?" "oh!" she answered uneasily. "nothing--nothing, i assure you!" "now, don't prevaricate!" he exclaimed, raising his forefinger in mock reproof. "you wanted to explain something to me. what was it?" she tried to laugh, but it was only a very futile attempt, and it caused increased suspicion to arise within his already overburdened mind. here he was, endeavouring to elucidate the mystery of the disappearance of a friend, yet she could not assist him in the least. his position was sufficiently tantalising, for he was convinced that by her secret knowledge she held the key to the whole situation. usually, women are not so loyal to friends of their own sex as are men. a woman will often "give away" another woman without the least compunction, where a man will be staunch, even though the other may be his enemy. this is a fact well-known to all, yet the reason we may leave aside as immaterial to this curious and complex narrative which i am endeavouring to set down in intelligible form. marion, the woman he loved better than his own life, was assuring him that she had nothing to tell, while he, at the same moment, was convinced by her attitude that she was holding back from him some important fact which it was her duty to explain. she knew how intimate was her lover's friendship with the missing man, and the love borne his daughter by her own brother. if foul play were suspected, was it not her bounden duty to relate all she knew? the alleged confession of maud petrovitch struck him now more than ever as extraordinary. why did marion not openly tell him of her fears or misgivings? why did not she give him at least some idea of the nature of her companion's admissions? on the one hand, he admired her for her loyalty to maud; while, on the other, he was beside himself with chagrin that she persistently held her secret. in that half-hour during which they had sat together in the crimson sundown, her manner seemed to have changed. she had acknowledged her love for him, yet in the same breath she had indicated a gulf between them. he saw in her demeanour a timidity that was quite unusual, and he put it down to guiltiness of her secret. "marion," he said at last, taking her hand firmly in his again, and speaking in earnest, "you said just now that you believed i loved you, but--something. but what? tell me. what is it you wish to say? come, do not deny the truth. remember what we are both to each other. i have no secrets from you--and you have none from me!" she cast her eyes wildly about her, and then they rested upon his. a slight shudder ran through her as he still held her soft, little hand. "i know--i know it is very wrong of me," she faltered, casting her eyes to the floor, as though in shame. "i have no right to hold anything back from you, max, because--because i love you--but--ah!--but you don't understand--it is because i love you so much that i am silent--for fear that you--" and she buried her head upon his shoulder and burst into tears. chapter seventeen. in which a scot becomes anxious. that same sunday evening, at midnight, in a cane chair in the lounge of the central station hotel, in glasgow, charlie rolfe sat idly smoking a cigar. sunday in glasgow is always a dismal day. the weather had been grey and depressing, but he had remained in the hotel, busy with correspondence. he had arrived there on saturday upon some urgent business connected with that huge engineering concern, the clyde and motherwell locomotive works, in which old sam statham held a controlling interest, but as the manager was away till monday, he had been compelled to wait until his return. the matter which he was about to decide involved the gain or loss of some , pounds, and a good deal of latitude old statham had allowed him in his decision. indeed, it was rolfe who practically ran the big business. he reported periodically to statham, and the latter was always satisfied. during the last couple of years, by his clever finance, rolfe had made much larger profits with smaller expenditure, even though his drastic reforms had very nearly caused a strike among the four thousand hands employed. he had spent a most miserable day--a grey day, full of bitter reflection and of mourning over the might-have-beens. the morning he had idled away walking through buchanan street and the other main thoroughfares, where all the shops were closed and where the general aspect was inexpressibly dismal. in the afternoon he had taken a cab and gone for a long drive alone to while away the hours, and now, after dinner, he was concluding one of the most melancholy days of all his life. there were one or two other men in the lounge, keen-faced men of commercial aspect, who were discussing, over their cigars, prices, freights, and other such matters. in the corner was a small party of american men and women, stranded for the day while on their round tour of scotland--the west highlands, the trossachs, loch lomond, stirling castle, the highlands, and the rest--anxious for monday to come, so as to be on the move again. rolfe stretched his legs, and from his corner surveyed the scene through the smoke from his cigar. he tried to be interested in the people about him, but it was impossible. ever and anon the words of old sam statham rang in his ears. if the house of statham--which, after all, seemed to be but a house of cards--was to be saved, it must be saved at the sacrifice of maud petrovitch! why? that question he had asked himself a thousand times that day. the only reply was that the charming half-foreign girl held old statham's secret. but how could she? as far as he knew, they had only met once, years ago, when she was but a child. and statham, the elderly melancholy man who controlled so many interests, whose every action was noted by the city, and whose firm was believed to be as safe as the bank of england, actually asked him to sacrifice her honour. what did he mean? did he suggest that he was to wilfully compromise her in the eyes of the world? "ah, if he knew--if he only knew!" murmured rolfe to himself, his face growing pale and hard-set. "sam statham believes himself clever, and so he is! yet in this game i think i am his equal." and he smoked on in silence, his frowning countenance being an index to his troubled mind. he was reviewing the whole of the curious situation. in a few years he had risen from a harum-scarum youth to be the private secretary, confidant, and frequent adviser to one of the wealthiest men in england. times without number, old sam, sitting in his padded writing-chair in park lane, had commended him for his business acumen and foresight. once, by a simple suggestion, daring though it was, statham had, in a few hours, made ten thousand pounds, and, with many words of praise the dry, old fellow took out his chequebook and drew a cheque as a little present to his clever young secretary. charlie rolfe was however, unscrupulous, as a good many clever men of business are. in the world of commerce the dividing-line between unscrupulousness and what the city knows as smartness is invisible. so marion's brother was dubbed a smart man at statham brothers' and in those big, old-fashioned, and rather gloomy offices he was envied as being "the governor's favourite." charlie intended to get on. he saw other men make money in the city by the exercise of shrewdness and commonsense, and he meant to do the same. the business secrets of old sam statham were all known to him, and he had more than once been half tempted to take into partnership some financier who, armed with the information he could give, could make many a brilliant coup, forestalling even old statham himself. up to the present, however, he had never found anybody he could implicitly trust. of sharks he knew dozens, clever, energetic men, he admitted, but there was not one of these who would not give away their own mother when it came to making a thousand profit. so he was waiting--waiting until he found the man who could "go in" with him and make a fortune. again, he was reflecting upon old sam's appeal to him to save him. "suppose he knew," he murmured again. "suppose--" and his eyes were fixed upon the painted ceiling of the lounge. a moment later he sighed impatiently, saying, "phew! how stifling it is here!" and, rising, took up his hat and went down the stairs and out into the broad street to cool his fevered brain. he was haunted by a recollection--the tragic recollection of that night when the doctor and his daughter had so mysteriously disappeared. "i wonder," he said aloud, at last, "i wonder if max ever dreams the extraordinary truth? yet how can he?--what impressions can he have? he must be puzzled--terribly puzzled, but he can have no clue to what has actually happened!" and then he was again silent, still walking mechanically along the dark half-deserted business street. "but suppose the truth was really known!--suppose it were discovered? what then? ah!" he gasped, staring straight before him, "what then?" for a full hour he wandered the half-deserted streets of central glasgow, till he found himself down by the clyde bank, and then re-traced his steps to the hotel, hardly knowing whither he went, so full was he of the terror which daily, nay, hourly, obsessed him. whether max barclay had actually discovered him or not meant to him his whole future--nay his very life. "i wonder if i could possibly get at the truth through marion?" he thought to himself. "if he really suspects me he might possibly question her with a view of discovering my actual movements on that night. would it be safe to approach her? or would it be safer to boldly face max, and if he makes any remark, to deny it?" usually he was no coward. he believed in facing the music when there was any to face. one of the greatest misfortunes of honest folks is that they are cowards. as he walked on he still muttered to himself-- "hasn't boileau said that all men are fools, and, spite of all their pains, they differ from each other only more or less, i'm a fool--a silly, cowardly ass, scenting danger where there is none. what could max prove after all? no! when i return to london i'll go and face him. the reason i didn't go to servia is proved by statham himself. of excuses i'm never at a loss. it's an awkward position, i admit, but i must wriggle out of it, as i've wriggled before. statham's peril seems to me even greater than my own, and, moreover, he asks me to do something that is impossible. he doesn't know--he never dreams the truth; and, what's more, he must never know. otherwise, i--i must--" and instinctively his hand passed over his hip-pocket, where reposed the handy plated revolver which he always carried. presently he found himself again in front of the central station hotel, and, entering, spent an hour full of anxious reflection prior to turning in. if any had seen him in the silence of that hotel room they would have at once declared him to be a man with a secret, as indeed he was. next morning he rose pale and haggard, surprised at himself when he looked at the mirror; but when, at eleven o'clock, he took his seat in the directors' office at the neat clyde and motherwell locomotive works his face had undergone an entire change. he was the calm, keen business man who, as secretary and agent of the great samuel statham, had power to deal with the huge financial interests involved. the firm had a large contract for building express locomotives for the italian railways, lately taken over by the state, and the first business was to interview the manager and sub-manager, together with the two engineers sent from italy, regarding some details of extra cost of construction. the work of the clyde and motherwell company was always excellent. they turned out locomotives which could well bear comparison with any of the north-western, great northern, or nord of france, both as to finish, power, speed, and smoothness of running. indeed, to railways in every part of the world, from narvik, within the arctic circle, to new zealand, clyde and motherwell engines were running with satisfaction, thanks to the splendid designs of the chief engineer, duncan macgregor, the white-bearded old scot, who at that moment was seated with statham's representative. the conference between the engineers of the italian _ferrovia_ and the managers was over, and old macgregor, who had been engineer for years to cowan and drummond, who owned the works before statham had extended them and turned them into the huge clyde and motherwell works, still remained. he was a broad-speaking highlander, a native of killin, on loch tay, whose services had long ago been coveted by the london and north-western railway company, on account of his constant improvements in express engines, but who always refused, even though offered a larger salary to go across the border and forsake the firm to whom, forty years ago, he had been apprenticed by his father, a small farmer. as a scotsman, he believed in glasgow. it was, in his opinion, the only place where could be built locomotives that would stand the wear and tear of a foreign or colonial line. an engine that was cleaned and looked after like a watch, as they were on the english or scotch main lines, was easily turned out, he was fond of saying; but when it became a question of hauling power, combined with speed and strength to withstand hard wear and neglect, it was a very different matter. managers and sub-managers, secretaries and accountants there might be, gentlemen who wore black coats and went out to dine in evening clothes, but the actual man at the head of affairs at those great works was duncan macgregor--the short, thick-set man, in a shabby suit of grey tweed, who sat there closeted with rolfe. "you wrote to london asking to see me, macgregor," exclaimed the young man. "we're always pleased to hear any suggestions you've got to make, i assure you," said charlie, pleasantly. "have a cigarette?" and he pushed the big box over to the man who sat on the other side of the table. "thank ye, no, mr rolfe, sir. i'm better wanting it," replied macgregor, in his broad tongue. and then, with a preliminary cough, he said "i--i want very badly to speak with mr statham." "whatever you say to me, macgregor, i will tell him." "i want to speak to him ma'sel'." "i'm afraid that's impossible. he sees nobody--except once a week in the city, and then only for two hours." "'e would'na see me--eh?" asked the man, whose designs had brought the firm to the forefront in the trade. "i fear it would be impossible. you would go to london for nothing. i'm his private secretary, you know; and anything that you tell me i shall be pleased to convey to him." "but, mon, i want to see 'im ma'sel'!" "that can't be managed," declared rolfe. "this business is left to mr smale and myself. mr statham controls the financial position, but details are left to me, in conjunction with smale and hamilton. is it concerning the development of the business that you wish to see mr statham?" "no, it ain't. it concerns mr statham himself, privately." rolfe pricked up his ears. "then it's a matter which you do not wish to discuss with me?" he said. "remember that mr statham has no business secrets from me. all his private correspondence passes through my hands." "i know all that, mr rolfe," macgregor answered, with impatience; "but i must, an' i will, see mr statham! i'm coming to london to-morrow to see him." "my dear sir," laughed rolfe, "it's utterly useless! why, mr statham has peers of the realm calling to see him, and he sends out word that he's not at home." "eh! 'e's a big mon, i ken; but when 'e knows ma' bizniss e'll verra soon see me," replied the bearded old fellow, in confidence. "but is your business of such a very private character?" asked rolfe. "aye, it is." "about the projected strike--eh? well, i can tell you at once what his attitude is towards the men, without you going up to london. he told me a few days ago to say that if there was any trouble, he'd close down the works entirely for six months, or a year, if need be. he won't stand any nonsense." "an' starve the poor bairns--eh?" mentioned the old engineer, who had grown white in the service of the firm. "ay, when it was cowan and drummond they wouldna' ha' done that! i remember the strike in ' , an' how they conciliated the men. but it was na' aboot the strike at all i was wanting to see mr statham. it was aboot himself." "himself! what does he concern you? you've never met him. he's never been in glasgow in his life." "whether i've met 'im or no is my own affair, mr rolfe," replied the old fellow, sticking his hairy fist into his jacket pocket. "i want to see 'im now, an' at once. i shall go to the london office an' wait till 'e comes." "and when he comes he'll be far too busy to see you," the secretary declared. "so, my dear man, don't spend money unnecessarily in going up to london, i beg of you." by the old man's attitude rolfe scented that something was amiss, and set himself to discover what it was and report to his master. "is there any real dissatisfaction in the works?" he asked macgregor, after a brief pause. "there was a wee bittie, but it's a' passed away." "then it is not concerning the works that you want to see mr statham?" "nay, mon, not at all." "nor about any new patent?" "nay." rolfe was filled with wonder. the attitude of the old fellow was sphinx-like and yet he seemed confident that the millionaire would see him when he applied for an interview. for a full half-hour they chatted, but canny macgregor told his questioner nothing--nothing more than that he was about to go to london to have a talk with the great financier upon some important matter which closely concerned him. therefore by the west coast evening express, rolfe left glasgow for the south, full of wonder as to what the white-bearded old fellow meant by his covert insinuations and his proud confidence in the millionaire's good offices. there was something there which merited investigation--of that he was convinced. chapter eighteen. the outsider. on the left-hand side of old broad street, city, passing from the royal exchange to liverpool street station, stands a dark and dingy building, with a row of four windows looking upon the street. on a dull day, when the green-shaded lamps are lit within, the passer-by catches glimpses of rows of clerks, seated at desks poring over ledgers. at the counter is a continual coming and going of clerks and messengers, and notes and gold are received in and paid out constantly until the clock strikes four. then the big, old doors are closed, and upon them is seen a brass plate, with the lettering almost worn off by continual polishing, bearing the words "statham brothers." beyond the counter, through a small wicket, is the manager's room-- large, but gloomy, screened from the public view, and lit summer and winter by artificial light. in a corner is a safe for books, and at either end big writing-tables. in that sombre room "deals" representing thousands upon thousands were often made, and through its door, alas! many a man who, finding himself pressed, had gone to the firm for financial aid and been refused, had walked out a bankrupt and ruined. beyond the manager's room was a narrow, dark passage, at the end of which was a door marked "private," and within that private room, punctually at eleven o'clock, three mornings after rolfe's conversation with macgregor, old sam statham took his seat in the shabby writing-chair, from which the stuffing protruded. about the great financier's private room there was nothing palatial. it was so dark that artificial light had to be used always. the desk was an old-fashioned mahogany one of the style of half a century ago, a threadbare carpet, two or three old horsehair chairs, and upon the green-painted wall a big date-calendar such as bankers usually use, while beneath it was a card, printed with old sam's motto:-- "time flies; death urges." that same motto was over every clerk's desk, and, because of it, some wag had dubbed the great financier, "death-head statham." as he sat beneath the lamp at his desk, old sam's appearance was almost as presentable as that of his clerks. levi always smartened his master up on the day he went into the city, compelling him to wear a frock coat, a light waistcoat, a decent pair of trousers, and a proper cravat, instead of the bit of greasy black ribbon which he habitually wore. "and how much have we gained over the pekin business, ben?" mr samuel was asking of the man who, though slightly younger, was an almost exact replica of himself, slightly thinner and taller. benjamin statham, sam's brother, was the working manager of the concern, and one of the smartest financiers in the whole city of london. he was standing with his back to the fireplace, with his hands thrust deep in his trousers-pockets. "ah!" he laughed. "when i first suggested it you wouldn't touch it. didn't owe for chinese business, and all that! you'd actually see the french people go and take the plums right from beneath our noses--and--" "enough, ben. i own i was a little short-sighted in that matter. perhaps the details you sent me were not quite clear. at any rate," he said, "i was mistaken, for you say we've made a profit. how much?" "twelve thousand; and not a cent of hazardous risk." "how did we first hear of the business?" "through the secret channel in paris." "the woman?" "yes." "better send her something." "how much? she's rather hard-up, i hear." "women like her are always hard-up," growled old sam. "leave it to me. i'll get rolfe to send her something to-morrow." "i promised her a couple of hundred. you mustn't send her less, or we shall queer business for the future." "i shall send her five hundred," responded the head of the firm. "she's a very useful woman--and pretty, too, ben--by jove! she is! she called on me in her automobile at the elysee palace about eighteen months ago, and i was much struck by her. she knows almost everybody in paris, and can get any information she wants from her numerous male admirers." "she's well paid--gets a thousand a year from us," ben remarked. "and we sometimes make twenty out of the secret information she obtains for us," laughed old sam. "remember the morocco business, and how she gave us the complete french programme which she got from young delorme, at the quai d'orsay. we were as much in the dark as the newspapers till then, and if we hadn't have got at the french intentions, we should have made a terribly heavy loss. as it was, we left it to others--who went under." "she got an extra five hundred as a present for that," ben pointed out. "and it was worth it." "delorme doesn't know who gave the game away to us. if he did, it would be the worse for her daintiness." "no doubt it would. but she's a fly bird, and as only you and i and rolfe know the truth, she's pretty confident that she'll never be given away." "she's in town--at claridge's--just now, so you need not write her to paris. she asked me to call the night before last, and i went," said ben. "she wanted to get further instructions regarding a matter about which i wrote her. i dined with her." sam grunted as he turned slightly in his chair. "rather undesirable company--eh--ben?" he exclaimed, with some surprise. "suppose you were seen by anyone who knows her? and recollect that all paris knows her. it is scarcely compatible with our standing in the city for you to be seen in her company." "my dear sam, i took very good care not to be seen in her company. i'm not quite a fool. i accepted her invitation with a distinct purpose. i wanted to question her about one of her friends--a man who may in future prove of considerable use to us. he's, as usual, in love with her, and she can twist him inside out." "ah! any man's a fool who allows himself to fall under the fascination of a woman's smiles," remarked the dry-as-dust old millionaire. "we've been wise, ben, to remain bachelors. it's the unmarried who taste the good things of this world." benjamin sighed, but said nothing. he, like sam himself, had had his love-romance years ago, and it still lingered within him, lingered as it does within the heart of every man who has loved a woman that has turned out false and broken her pledge of affection. ben statham's was a sorry story. before his eyes, even now that thirty years had gone, there often arose the vision of a sweet, pale-faced, slim figure in white muslin, girdled with blue; of green meadows, where the cattle stood knee-deep in the rich grass, and of a cool scotch glen where the trees overhung the rippling burn and where the trout darted in the pools. but it had all ended, as many another love-romance has, alas! ended, in the woman forsaking the man who loved her, and in marrying another for his money. three years later her husband--the man whom she had wedded because of his position--was in the bankruptcy court, and six months afterwards he had followed her to her grave. but the sweet recollection of her still remained with ben, and beneath that hard and wizened countenance beat a heart foil of tender memories of a day long since dead. his brother samuel's romance was even more tragic. nobody knew the story save himself, and it had never passed his lips. the society gossips who so often wrote their tittle-tattle about him never dreamed the strange story of the life of the great financier, nor the extraordinary romance that underlay his marvellous success. what a sensation would be produced if they ever learnt the truth! in those days long ago both of them had been poor, and had suffered in consequence. now that they were both wealthy, the bitterness of the past still remained with them. they were discussing another matter, concerning a project for an electric tramway in a spanish city, the concession for which had been brought to them. they both agreed that the thing would not pay, therefore it was dismissed. during their discussion rolfe entered, and, taking his seat at the small table near his master, busied himself with some letters. suddenly benjamin statham exclaimed-- "oh! by the way, there's a queer-looking scot from the clyde and motherwell works who's been hanging about for a couple of days to see you, sam. says he must see you at all coats." "i don't want to see anybody from glasgow," snapped statham. "tell him i'm not here, whoever he is." "he's the old engineer, macgregor," rolfe said. "he mentioned to me when i was in glasgow the other day that he particularly wished to see you, and that he was coming up on purpose. i told him it was a wild-goose chase." "engineer? what does he do? mind the engine--one of the men who threaten to go on strike, i suppose," remarked old sam. "no," laughed rolfe. "he's a little more than engineer. it is he who has designed nearly every locomotive we've turned out." "oh! valuable man--eh? then raise his salary, rolfe, and send him back to glasgow to make a few more engines." "he's waiting outside at the counter now, and won't go away," exclaimed the secretary. "then go to him and say he shall have fifty pounds more a year. i can't be bothered to see the fellow." rolfe rose and went to the outer office, where macgregor stood patiently. he had waited there for best part of two days and, with a scot's tenacity, refused to be put off by any of the clerks. he wanted to see mr samuel statham, "an' i mean to see 'im, mon," he told everybody, his grey beard bristling fiercely as he spoke. he was evidently a man with a grievance. such men came to old broad street sometimes, and on rare occasions mr benjamin saw them. there were hard cases of men ignorant of the ways of business as the city to-day knows it, having been deliberately swindled out of their rights by sharks, concessions filched from their rightful owners, and patents artfully stolen and registered. but old duncan macgregor, with his white beard, was of a different type--the type of honest, hard-working plodder, out of whose brains the great clyde and motherwell works were practically coining money daily. as rolfe advanced to him he said:-- "i'm sorry, macgregor, that mr statham is quite unable to see you to-day. he's engaged three deep. i've told him you wished to see him, and he says that he much appreciates the great services you've rendered to the firm, and that you are to receive a rise of salary of fifty pounds a year, beginning the first of last january." "what!" cried the old man. "what--'e offers me another fifty pounds! 'e's guid an' generous; but i have na' come here for that. i've come to london to see him--ye hear!--to see him--d'ye hear, mr rolfe, an' i must." "but, my dear sir, you can't!" "tell him i don't want his fifty pound," cried the old man so derisively that the clerks looked up from their ledgers. "i must speak to him, an' him alone." "impossible," exclaimed rolfe, impatiently. "why impossible?" asked the old fellow. "when mr statham knows the business i've come upon he won't thank ye for keepin' us apart. d'ye ken that, mon?" and his beard wagged as he spoke. "i know nothing, macgregor, because you've told me nothing," was the other's reply. "well, i tell ye i mean to see him, an' that's sufficient for duncan macgregor." "mr duncan macgregor will, if he continues to create a scene here, find himself discharged from the employ of the clyde and motherwell works," remarked rolfe, drily. "an' duncan macgregor can go to the north-western to-morrow at a bigger rise than the fifty pounds a year. d'ye ken that?" replied the man from glasgow. "then you refuse to accept mr statham's offer to you?" "of course, mon. ye don't think that i come to london a cringin' for more pay, do ye? if i wanted it i could ha' got it from another company years ago," replied the independent old fellow. "no, i must see mr statham. go back an' tell him so. i'm here to see him on a very important matter," and, dropping his voice, he added, "a matter which closely concerns himself." "then tell me its nature." "it's private, sir. until mr statham gives me leave to tell you, i can't." "but he wants to know the nature of the business," answered the secretary, again struck by the old fellow's pertinacity. it was not every man who would decline a rise of a pound a week in his salary. rolfe was puzzled, but he knew old sam well enough to be aware that even if a duke called he would refuse to see him. he only came to the city once a week to discuss matters with his brother ben, and saw no outsider. "i can't tell ye why i want to see mr statham; that's only his business and mine," replied the bearded scot. the clerks were now smiling at rolfe's vain attempts to get rid of him. "will you write it? here--write on this slip of paper," the secretary suggested. the old fellow hesitated. "yes--if you'll let me seal it up in an envelope." rolfe at once assented, and, with considerable care, the old fellow wrote some pencilled lines, folded the paper, sealed it in the envelope, and wrote the superscription. a few moments later, when rolfe handed it to the old millionaire, who was still at his table chatting with his brother, he asked, in the snappish way habitual to him:--"who's this from--eh? why am i bothered?" "from the man macgregor, from glasgow. he won't go away." "then discharge the brute," he replied, and with the note in his hand he finished a remark he had addressed to his brother. at last, mechanically, he opened it, and his eyes fell upon the scribbled words. his jaw dropped. the colour left his cheeks, and, sitting back, he glared straight at rolfe as though he had seen an apparition. for a few moments he seemed too confused to speak. then, when he recovered himself, he said, half apologetically:--"ben, i must see this man alone--a--a private matter. i--i had no idea--i--" "of course, sam," exclaimed his brother, leaving the room. "let me know when he's gone." "rolfe, show him in," the millionaire ordered. the instant his secretary had gone he sprang to his feet, examined his face in the small mirror over the mantelshelf for a moment, and then stood bracing himself up for the interview. chapter nineteen. the man who loved. a few nights later max barclay was seated in the stalls of the empire theatre with marion. they never went to the legitimate theatre because she had no evening-dress. even to be seen in one would have caused comment among her fellow employes at cunnington's. the girls were never very charitable to each other, for in the pernicious system of "living-in" there is no privacy or home life, no sense of responsibility or of freedom. the average london shop girl has but little leisure and little rest. chronically over-tired, she cares little to go out of an evening after the long shop hours, and looks forward to sunday as the day when she can read in bed till noon if she chooses, snooze again in the afternoon, and perhaps go to a cafe in the evening. it was so with marion. the sales were on, and there were "spiffs," or premiums, placed by mr warner upon some out-of-date goods which it was every girl's object to sell and thus earn the commission. so she was working very hard, and already held quite a respectable number of tickets representing "spiffs." in a dark blue skirt, white silk blouse and black hat, she looked extremely pretty and modest as she sat beside her lover in the second row of the stalls, watching the ballet with its tuneful music, clever groupings, and phantasmagoria of colour. she glanced at the watch upon her wrist, and saw that it was nearly ten o'clock. in half an hour she would have to be "in." the bondage of his well-beloved galled max, yet he could say nothing. her life was the same as that of a hundred thousand other girls in london. indeed, was she not far better off that those poor girls who came up from their country homes to serve a year or two's drudgery without payment in order to learn the art and mystery of "serving a customer"--girls who were orphans and without funds, and who very soon found the actual necessity of having a little pocket-money for dress and for something with which to relish the stale bread and butter doled out to them. the public have never yet adequately realised the hardships and tyranny of shop-life, where man is but a mere machine, liable to get the "sack" at a moment's notice, and where woman is but an ill-fed, overworked drudge, liable at any moment to be thrown out penniless upon the great world of london. some day ere long the revelation will come. there are certain big houses in london with pious shareholders and go-to-meeting directors which will earn the opprobrium of the whole british public when the naked truth regarding their female assistants is exposed. in "the trade" it is known, and one day there will arise a man bolder and more fearless than the rest, who will speak the truth, and, moreover, prove it. if in the meantime you want to know the truth concerning shop-life, ask the director of any of the numerous rescue societies in london. what you will be told will, i assure you, open your eyes. the couple of hours max had spent with marion proved delightful ones, as they always were. promenading in the lounge above were many men-about-town whom he knew, and who, seeing him with the modest-looking girl, smiled knowingly. they never guessed the truth--that he loved her and intended to make her his wife. "charlie is back from glasgow," she was saying. "he came to the shop this afternoon to ask if i had seen you, and to explain how the other night he, by a most fortunate circumstance, missed the continental train, for next morning mr statham wanted him to do some very important business, and was delighted to find that he had not left. another man has gone out to the east." "if he wanted to know my movements he might have called at dover street," max remarked thoughtfully, the recollection of that night in cromwell road arising within him. "he seemed very busy, and said he had not a moment to spare. he was probably going north again. they have, he told me, some big order from italy at the locomotive works." "i thought statham couldn't do without him," remarked max. "nowadays, however, he seems always travelling." "he's awfully kind to me--gave me a five-pound note this afternoon." "what did he say about me?" inquired max. "oh! nothing very much. he asked me, among other things, whether i knew where you were on the night of the disappearance of the doctor and his daughter." max started. "and what did you reply?" "that i hadn't the slightest idea. i never saw you that evening," was the girl's frank response. her lover nodded thoughtfully. it was now plain that charlie suspected that he had detected him leaving the house and was endeavouring to either confirm his suspicion or dismiss it. "did he tell you to-day where he was going?" "back to glasgow, i believe--but only for two days." max was seated at the end of the second row of the stalls, and beyond marion were three or four vacant seats. at this juncture their conversation was interrupted by a man in well-cut evening-dress, his crush hat beneath his arms, advancing down the gangway and putting his hand out heartily to max, exclaiming-- "my dear barclay! excuse me, but i want very much a few words with you to-night, on a matter of great importance." then, glancing at marion, he added: "i trust that mademoiselle will forgive this intrusion?" the girl glanced at the new-comer, while her lover, taking the man's hand, said-- "my dear adam, i, too, wanted to see you, and intended to call to-morrow. you are not intruding in the least. here's a seat. allow me to introduce miss rolfe--mr jean adam." the man of double personality bowed again, and passing marion and her lover, seated himself at her side, commencing to chat merrily, and explaining that he had recognised max from the circle above. he had, it appeared, been to dover street an hour before, and max's man had told him where his master was spending the evening. marion rather liked him. max had already told her of this frenchman who spoke english so well, and with whom he was doing business. in his speech he had the air and polish of the true cosmopolitan, and he also possessed a keen sense of humour. presently marion, glancing again at her watch, declared that she must leave. max scarcely ever took her home. he always put her into a cab, and she descended at the corner of the street off oxford street, where cunnington's assistants had their big barrack-like dwelling, and walked home alone. it was her wish to do so, and he respected it. therefore all three rose, and max went outside with her and put her into a cab, promising to meet her on the following evening. in the bustle of leicester square at that hour, he could not kiss her; but as their hands grasped, their eyes met in a glance which both knew was one of trust and mutual affection. and so they parted, max returning to the lounge where the frenchman, jean adam, _alias_ the englishman john adams, awaited him. they had a drink at the american bar, and then promenaded up and down in the gay crowd that nightly assembles in that popular resort. max nodded to one or two men he knew--clubmen and _habitues_ like himself, and then, after the show was over, they took a cab down to the savoy to supper. the gay restaurant, with its crimson carpet and white decorations was crowded. to gustave, who allotted the tables, max was well-known, therefore a table for two in the left-hand corner of the big room--the table he usually occupied--was instantly secured, and the couple who had engaged were moved elsewhere. in the season max had supper there on an average three nights a week, for at the savoy one meets all one's friends, and there is always music, life, and brightness after the theatre, until the licensing regulations cut off the merriment so abruptly. that night was no exception. the place was filled to overflowing with the smart world, together with many american visitors, the latest musical-comedy actresses and their male appendages, country cousins, men whose names were household words, and women whose pasts had appeared in black and white in the newspapers. a strange crowd, surely. half the people were known to each other by sight, if not personally, and the other half were mere onlookers, filled with curiosity when lord this or dolly that were pointed out to them. max and jean adam were seated with a bottle of krug between them when the former exclaimed-- "well, how does our business go?" "that's the reason i wanted to see you to-night," was his companion's reply with just a slight french accent. "i had some news from constantinople to-day--confidential news from the palace," he added in an undertone, bending across the table. "i want you to read it and give your opinion." and producing an envelope and letter on thin paper closely written in french, he handed it across to barclay, as he added: "now what is written there is the bed-rock fact, i know from independent inquiries i have made in an entirely different quarter." between mouthfuls of the perfectly-cooked _filet de sole_ placed before him max read the letter carefully. it was signed "your devoted friend osman," and was evidently from a turkish official at the yildiz kiosk. briefly, it was to the effect that the _irade_ of the sultan for the construction of the railway from nisch in servia to san giovanni di medua, on the adriatic, was in the hands of muhil pasha, one of his majesty's most intimate officials, and had been granted to him for services rendered in the asiatic provinces. muhil had offered to part with it for twelve thousand pounds sterling, and that the agent of a french company had arrived in constantinople in order to treat with him. muhil, however, had no love for the french, since he was ottoman ambassador in paris a few years ago, and got into disgrace there, hence he would be much more ready to sell to an english syndicate. the letter of osman concluded by urging adam to send instructions at once to a certain box at the british post-office in constantinople, and to if possible secure the valuable document which would enable a line of railway to be built which would pay its shareholders enormously. "well," exclaimed max, as he replaced the letter in its envelope, noting the surcharge in black--" piastre"--upon the blue english stamp. "what shall you do?" "do? why we must get the twelve thousand, of course. it's a mere bagatelle compared with the magnitude of the business. i've got some reports in my overcoat pocket which i'll show you after supper. we must get the thing through, my dear barclay. there's a big fortune in it for both of us--a huge fortune. why, for the past ten years every diplomat at the sublime porte has been at work to get it through, but has been unsuccessful. the sultan has always refused to let the line run through turkish territory, fearing lest it should be used for military transport in the event of another war. his majesty is not particularly partial to austria, servia, or bulgaria, you know," he laughed. "and hardly surprising, in view of past events, eh?" exclaimed max, entirely ignorant of the real character of this man, who seemed a smart man of business combined with a genial companion. adam was a past-master in the art of fraud. he did not press the point, but merely went on with his supper, swallowed a glass of champagne, and turned the conversation by admiring the graceful carriage of the head of a girl sitting near with a wreath of forget-me-nots across her fluffy fair hair. "yes," replied max. "the poise of her head is full of grace, but--well, her face is like the carved handle of an umbrella!" whereat his companion laughed heartily. barclay was full of quaint expressions, and of a quiet but biting sarcasm. some of his _bons mots_ had been repeated from month to mouth in the clubs until they became almost popular sayings. he was now in love entirely and devotedly with marion, and no other woman of the thousand who passed before his eyes and smiled into his face had the least attraction for him. a moment later a pretty girl in pink, the honourable eva townley, who was at supper with her mother and same friends, bowed to him and laughed, while another woman, the rather go-ahead wife of a leader at the chancery bar, waved a menu at him. society knew max, and many a woman had set her cap at him, hoping to capture the tall, well-set-up and easy-going young fellow, together with the ease and comfort which his substantial estates would afford. max, however, had done a few years of town life. he had become _blase_ and nauseated. since he had met marion rolfe the quiet, modest, unassuming and hard-working shop-assistant, the _haute monde_ bored him more than ever. he went only where he was compelled, yet he nowadays preferred the cheap italian restaurant and marion's society to the tables of the rich with their ugly women striving to fascinate, and their small-talk of scandal, gossip and cruel innuendo. there is surely no world in the world like that of london--nothing so complex, so tragic, and yet so grimly humorous, so soul-killing, and yet so reckless as our little, lax world of vanity and display that calls itself society, the world which the _nouveau riche_ are ever seeking to enter by the back-door, and which the suburbs rush to see portrayed upon the stage of the theatre. everywhere the manner and morals of mayfair are aped nowadays. mrs browne-smythe, the city clerk's wife of tattling tooting, has her "day," and gives her bridge-parties just as does the duchess of dorsetshire in grosvenor square; and mrs claude greene, the wife of the wholesale butcher, who was once a barmaid near the meat market, and now lives in matrimonial felicity in cliquey clapham, "requests the company of" upon the self-same cards and with the self-same formula as the wife of jimmy james the south african magnate in park lane. max, glad that supper was over, rose and walked with his friend out into the big lounge where the roumanian band were playing weird gipsy melodies, and sat at one of the little tables to smoke and sip grand marnier cordon rouge, being joined a few moments later by a couple of men whom he knew at the club, and who appeared to be at a loose end. at last the lights were turned down as signal that in five minutes it would be closing time, and then rifling, max, ignorant of the ingenious plot, invited his friend adam round to dover street for a final smoke. chapter twenty. explains jean adam's suggestion. over whiskey and soda in barclay's chambers, jean adam pushed his sinister plans a trifle further. he was aware that max had taken the opinion of a man he knew on the stock exchange as to the probable value of the concession for the danube-adriatic railway, and that his reply had been highly favourable. therefore he was confident that such an opportunity of making money by an honest deal max would not let slip. they had known each other several months, and adam, with his engaging manner and courteous bearing, had wormed himself into the younger man's confidence. a dozen times max had been his host, but on each occasion the other took good care to quickly return the hospitality. to max he represented himself as resident in constantinople. a few years ago he had been fortunate enough to obtain a concession from the ottoman government which, being floated in paris, had placed him in a very comfortable position; and he was now about to aim for bigger and more lucrative things. "you see," he was saying as he produced an official report to the foreign office--a pamphlet-like document in a blue paper cover--"here is what our consul in belgrade reported on the scheme two years ago. such a line, he says, would tap nearly half the trade that now goes to odessa, besides giving servia a seaport. it will be the biggest thing in railways for years, depend upon it." max went to the writing-table, where the lamp was burning, and glanced through the paragraphs of the consular report and several other printed documents which his friend handed to him in succession. then adam produced a map, and upon it traced the route of the proposed line. "well," barclay said at last, rising and lighting a cigar. "it all seems pretty plain sailing. i'll go to-morrow and see old statham about it. his secretary, rolfe, is a friend of mine." "no, mr barclay," said the wily adam. "if i were you i would not." "why?" "well, if you do, you'll queer all our plans--both yours and mine," he mused vaguely. "how?" "sam statham has agents in constantinople--agents who could offer muhil double the price immediately, and the ground would be cut from under our feet. statham knows a good thing when he sees it, you bet, and if he knew anything about this he wouldn't stick at a thousand or two." "then he doesn't know?" "at present he can't know. it is a secret between muhil, osman, and myself?" "and what about the french people?" "of course they know; but they're not such fools as to let out the secret," replied adam. "well, what do you suggest?" max asked, taking a pull at the long tumbler. "that we keep the affair strictly to ourselves. once we have the concession in our hands there'll be a hundred men in the city ready to take it up. why, old statham would give us a big profit on it, especially if, as you say, you know his secretary." "that was his secretary's sister whom you met with me to-night," max remarked. "what an extremely pretty girl," exclaimed adam enthusiastically. "think so?" asked barclay with a smile of satisfaction. "why, of course. a face like here isn't seen every day. i was much struck with it when i first noticed you from the circle, and wondered whom she might be. rolfe's her name, is it?" he added with a feigned air of uncertainty. "yes. charlie rolfe is old sam's confidential secretary." "well, afterwards, through him, we might interest sam," remarked adam. "what we have first to do is to get hold of the concession." "but how?" "by buying it." the two men smoked in silence. adam's quick eye saw that the affair was full of attraction for the man he had marked down as victim. "you mean that i should put twelve thousand into it?" he said. "not at all," responded the wily adam at once. "in any case i do not propose that you should put up the whole sum. my idea is that we should put up six thousand each." "and go shares?" "and go shares," repeated adam, knocking the ash from his cigar. "but prior to doing so i think it would be only right for you to go out to constantinople, see muhil, and ascertain the truth of the whole affair. you have only my word for it all--and the letter. i quite admit that they are not sufficient guarantee for you to put down six thousand. you are too good a business man for that." max was flattered by that last sentence. "well," he said smiling, "i really think it would be more satisfactory if i had--well, some confirmation of all these comments." "you can obtain that at once by going out to constantinople," declared adam. "you'll be out and home in ten days, and i'll go with you," he added persuasively. "well, i shall have to consider it," the younger man replied after a brief pause. "there is very little time to consider," adam said. "the french people are at work, and if they raise the purchase price to muhil we shall be compelled to do the same." "but we can get an option, i suppose?" "i have it. but it expires in ten days from to-morrow. after that muhil will make the best terms he can with the french. the latter will have to pay through the nose, no doubt, but they'll get it, without doubt. their embassy is helping them." "and how long can i have to decide?" "to reach constantinople in time we have six days more. we might then take the orient express from paris and just do it. but," he added, "of course if your inclination is against the journey and inquiry i hope you'll allow me to assess it before somebody else. personally," he laughed, "i can't afford to miss this chance of making a fortune. this, remember, is no wild mining speculation: it's solid, bed-rock enterprise. the servians surveyed the line four years ago and got out plans and estimates. there's a printed copy of them at the servian consulate here in london. so it's all cut-and-dried." "well i hope, adam, you'll allow me a little time to reflect. six thousand is a decent sum, you know." "i don't want it until you've been out there and seen muhil, mr barclay," adam declared. "indeed, i refuse to touch it until you have personally satisfied yourself of the _bona fides_ of the scheme. muhil himself must first assure you of the existence of the _irade_, and that it is actually in is possession. then i will put up six thousand if you will put up the balance." "and if it is more than twelve?" "why, we share the increase equally, of course." "very well. so far as it goes it is agreed," said max. "it only remains whether i go out to turkey, or not." "that's all. the sooner you can decide, the better for our plans," adam remarked. "only take good care that old statham does not learn what's in the wind. you know him, i believe?" "yes, slightly. he's a queer old fellow--very eccentric." "so i've heard," said the other, betraying ignorance. what would max barclay have thought if he had witnessed that scene so recently when the millionaire had glanced out of his cosy library and seen the shabby stranger lounging against the railings of the park? what, indeed, would he have thought if he had witnessed old sam's consequent agitation, or overheard his confession to rolfe? but he knew nothing of it all. adam had shown him the best side of his nature--the easy-going and keen money-making cosmopolitan whose manner was so gentlemanly and so very charming. he had not seen the other--the side which samuel statham knew too well. adam, seated there in the big saddle-bag chair, in the full enjoyment of the excellent cigar, knew that with the exercise of a little further ingenuity he would make the first step towards the goal he had in view. he was a man who took counsel of nobody, and even the old hunchback lyle, his closest friend, knew nothing of his object in drawing max barclay, until recently a perfect stranger, into the fatal net spread for him. he smiled within himself as he calmly contemplated his victim through the haze of tobacco smoke. the dock upon the mantelshelf had struck two. he took a final drink, slipped on his coat, and with a merry _bon soir_ and an injunction to make up his mind and wire him at the earliest moment, he shook his friend's hand and went out. max sat alone for a long time, still smoking. in his ignorance he was reflecting that the business seemed a sound one. adam had not asked him to put down money before full inquiry, and had, at the same time, offered to put up half. this latter fact, in itself, showed that his friend had confidence in the scheme. and so, before he turned in that night, he had practically made up his mind to pay a flying visit to the sultan's capital. there could be no harm done, he argued. he had never been in constantinople, and to go there with a resident like adam was in itself an opportunity not to be missed. meanwhile the astute concession-hunter, as he drove to addison road in a cab, was calmly plotting a further step in the direction he was slowly but surely following. his daring and ingenuity knew no bounds. he was a man full of energy and resource, unabashed, undaunted, unscrupulous, and yet to all, even to his most intimate friend, a perfect sphinx. the second step in his progress he took on the evening of the day after. in the afternoon, about four, a shabbily-dressed man called upon him at his flat, and they remained together for ten minutes or so. at half-past eight, as marion was about to enter a 'bus at oxford circus to take her up to hampstead for a blow--a trip she frequently took in the evening when alone--she heard her name uttered, and turning, found max's polite french friend behind her, about to mount on the same conveyance. to avoid him was impossible, therefore they ascended to the top together, he declaring that he was on his way to hampstead. "i'm going there too," she told him, although he already knew it quite well. "have you seen mr barclay to-day?" "not to-day. i have been busy in the city," adam explained. he glanced at her, and could not refrain from noting her neat appearance, dressed as she was in a black skirt, white cotton blouse, and a black hat which suited her beauty admirably. he knew that she was at cunnington's, but, of course, appeared in ignorance of the fact. he was most kind and courteous to her, and so well had he arranged the meeting that she believed it to be entirely an accident. presently, after they had chatted for some time, he sighed, saying-- "in a few days i suppose i must leave london again." "oh! are you going abroad?" "yes, to constantinople. i live there," he said. "in constantinople! how very strange it must be to live among the turks!" "it is a very charming life, i assure you, miss rolfe," he answered. "the turk is always a gentleman, and his country is full of beauty and attraction, even though his capital may be muddy under foot." "oh, well," she said laughing, "i don't think i should care to live there. i should be afraid of them!" "your fears would be quite ungrounded," he declared. "a lady can walk unmolested in the streets of constantinople at any hour of the day or night, which cannot be said, of your london here." then, after a pause, he added-- "i think your friend mr barclay is coming with me." "with you?--to constantinople?" she exclaimed in dismay. "when?" "in two or three days," he replied. "but you mustn't tell him i said so," he went on. "we are going out on business--business that will bring us both a sum of money that will be a fortune to me, if not to mr barclay. we are in partnership over it." "what nature is the business?" "the building of a railroad to the adriatic. we are obtaining permission from the sultan for its construction." "and max--i mean mr barclay--will make a large sum?" she asked with deep interest. "yes, if he decides to go," replied adam; "but i fear very much one thing," and he fixed his dark eyes upon hers. "what do you fear?" "well--how shall i put it, miss rolfe?" he asked. "i--i fear that he will refuse to go because he does not wish to leave london just now." "why not?" "he has an attraction here," the man laughed--"yourself." she coloured slightly. max had probably told this friend that they were lovers. "oh! that's quite foolish. he must go, if it is really in his interests." "exactly," declared adam. "i have all my life been looking for such a chance to make money, and it has at last arrived. he must go." "most certainly. i will urge him strongly." "a word from you, miss rolfe, would decide him--but--well, don't you think it would be best if you did not tell him that we had met. he might not like it if he knew we had discussed his business affairs--eh?" "very well," she said. "i will say nothing. when he speaks to me about the suggested journey i will strongly advise him to go in his own interests." "yes; do. it will be the means of putting many thousands of pounds into both our pockets. the matter is, in fact, entirely in your hands. may i with safety leave it there?" "with perfect safety, mr adam," was her reply. "it is, perhaps, fortunate that we should have met like this to-night." "fortunate!" he echoed. "most fortunate for all of us. if you are really mr barclay's friend you will see that he goes with me." "i am his friend, and he shall go if it is to his interest to do go." "ask him, and he will tell you," was the reply of the man who had lounged in park lane as a shabby stranger, and of whom old sam statham went in such deadly fear. he went with marion to the end of her journey, and then left her in pretence of walking to his destination. but after he had raised his hat to her so politely, and bent over her hand, he turned on his heel muttering to himself-- "you think you are his friend, my poor, silly little girl! no. you will compel him to go with me to the east, and thus become my catspaw-- the tool of jean adam." and giving vent to a short, dry laugh of triumph, he went on his way. chapter twenty one. shows mr statham at home. many a man and many a woman, as they passed up park lane on motor-'buses, in cabs, or on foot, glanced at the white house of samuel statham, and wondered. the mystery concerning it and its owner always attracted them. many were the weird stories afloat concerning it, stories greatly akin to those already told in a previous chapter. men had watched, it was said, and had seen queer goings and comings. but as the matter concerned nobody in particular it merely excited public curiosity. that sam statham was eccentric all the world knew. society gossips in the papers were fond of referring to the millionaire as "the recluse of park lane" when recording some handsome donation to a charitable institution, or expressing a surprise that he was never seen at public functions such as the opening of hospitals or children's homes which he had himself endowed. but the word "eccentric" explained it all. as regards the mansion in park lane they were always silent, for the elastic law of libel is ever before the eyes of the journalist who deals in tittle-tattle. though the stories concerning the millionaire's residence were curious and sometimes sensational--many of them of course invented--yet colour was certainly lent to them by the fact that the old man saw nobody except levi and his secretary, and nobody had ever been known to pass that closed door at the head of the staircase. anyone, however, catching a glimpse of the interior of the hall when passing, saw old levi in black, with his strip of spotless shirt-front, and behind, a wide hall with thick turkey carpet, huge blue antique vases, carved furniture, and several fine pictures, the whole possessing an air of solidity and wealth. beyond, however, was the unknown and the mysterious. in the clubs and over dinner-tables the mystery of that park lane house was often spoken of. men usually shook their heads and said little, but women expressed their opinion freely, and formed all sorts of wild theories. among the men who had always been attracted by the stories afloat were charlie rolfe, because of his close association with the old man, and max barclay, because of his intimate friendship with rolfe. the latter had always been full of suspicion. sam and levi, master and man, were the only two who knew the truth of what lay behind that locked door. and the servant guarded his master's secret well. he was janitor there, and no one passed the threshold into old sam's library without a very good cause, and without the permission of the master himself. a thousand times, as rolfe had gone in and out of the place, he had glanced up the broad, well-carpeted stairs, at the foot of which stood the fine marble aphrodite, holding the great electrolier, and at the head, to the corner out of sight, was the locked door upon which half london had commented. had samuel statham thrown open his house only once, and given a reception, all gossip would be allayed. indeed, as rolfe sat with his master in the library the morning following adam's meeting with marion, he, without telling sam the reason, suggested an entertainment in november. he said that society were wondering he did not seek to make their acquaintance. there were hundreds of people dying to know him. "yes," snapped the old man, glancing around the darkened room, for the morning sun was full upon the house. "i know them. they'd come here, crush and guzzle, eat my dinners, drink my wine, and go away without even remembering my name. oh! i know what the so-called aristocracy we like, never fear. most of them live upon people like myself who are vain-glorious enough to be pleased to number the earl of so-and-so and the countess of slush among their personal friends. "men with wives can't help being drawn into it. the womenfolk like to speak of `dear lady longneck,' slobber over some old titled hag at parting, or find their names in the `court and society' column of the _daily snivel_. it's their nature to be ambitious; but when a man's single, like myself, rolfe, he can please himself. that's why i shut my door in their faces." "of course, you can afford to," the secretary replied, leaning both his elbows on the table and looking straight into his master's face. "few men could do as you do. it would be against their interests." "it may be even against my interests," the old man said thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair, "for i might get a good deal of fun out of watching them trying to squeeze a little money out of me, or worm from me what men call `tips' regarding investments. why, my dear rolfe, once my door is opened to them, my life would no longer be worth living. instead of one secretary i'd want a dozen, and levi would be at the door all day long answering callers. other men who live in this street on either side of me have done it to their cost." "i've heard it said in the clubs that you, with your vast means and huge interests, owe a duty to society," rolfe remarked. "i owe no duty to society," the old fellow declared angrily. "society owes nothing to me, and i owe nothing to it. you know, rolfe, how-- well--how i hate women--and i won't have a pack of chatterboxes about my place. if i was a man with five hundred a year they wouldn't want to know me." "that's very true," rolfe remarked with a slight sigh. "nowadays, when a man has money he is at once called a gentleman. a lady is the wife of a man with money, whatever may have been her past--or her present." the old man laughed. "and there is the `perfect lady,'" he said. "a genus usually associated with the police-court. but you are quite right, rolfe, nowadays, according to our modern code, a poor man cannot be a gentleman. no, as long as i live, the needy aristocracy which calls itself society shall never my threshold. i will remain independent of them, for i have no womankind, and no fish to fry. i don't want a baronetcy, or a peerage. i don't want shooting, or deer-stalking, or yachting, or hunting, or any of those pastimes. i merely want to be left alone here in peace--if it is possible." and he drew a long breath as the ugly recollection of the shabby stranger crossed his mind. rolfe knew well that the old man's objections were because he dare not throw open the mansion. some secret was hidden there which he could not reveal. what was it? why were those brilliant lights sometimes at night in the upper windows? he had seen them himself sometimes as he passed along near midnight on his way to his chambers in jermyn street, and had been sorely puzzled. more than once he had been convinced that somebody lived in the upper floors--somebody who was never seen. yet if that were so, why should there be such secrecy regarding it. the occupant, whoever it was, could easily vacate the place while a reception was held. as he sat there listening to the old man's tirade against the west-end and its ways he felt that there must be some far greater mystery than an unseen tenant. that old sam knew quite well the rumour concerning the house, was evident. keeping secret agents in every capital as he was forced to do--agents, male and female, who knew everything and reported exactly what he wished to know--it was certain that public opinion concerning him was well-known to him. yet, as in a scandal, the man most concerned is always the last to get wind of it. perhaps after all he might be in ignorance of what people were saying, although it was hardly credible that ben, his brother, would not tell him. for craft and cunning few men in london could compare with sam statham, yet at the same time he was just in his judgment and honest in his transactions. the weak and needy he befriended, but woe betide any who endeavoured to mislead him or impose upon his generosity. more than one man had, by receiving a word of good advice from sam statham and the temporary loan of a few thousand as capital, awakened in a week's time to find himself wealthy. one man in particular, now a well-known baronet, had risen in ten years from being a small draper in launceston to his present position with an estate in suffolk and a town house in green street, merely by taking sam statham's advice as to certain investments. it was owing to this fact, and others, that old sam, as he rose from the table and crossed the room to the window, where he pulled aside the blind to look out upon the sunny roadway, said-- "i myself, rolfe, have made one or two so-called gentlemen. but," he added, drawing a deep breath, "let's put all that aside and get on with the letters. i'm expecting that scotch friend of yours, the locomotive designer of glasgow." "oh, macgregor!" remarked the secretary. "he was most pertinacious the other day." "all scots are," replied the old man simply. "let's get on." and returning to the table he took up letter after letter and dictated replies in his sharp, snappy way which, to those who did not know him, would have appeared priggish and uncouth. the reason of macgregor's visit to old broad street had caused rolfe a good deal of curiosity. he recollected how, on the instant his master had read the old engineer's scribbled lines, his face fell. the visitor was at all events not a welcome one. yet, on the other hand, he had seen him without delay, and they had been closeted together for quite a long time. when the bearded scot left, and he had re-entered the millionaire's room, two facts struck him as peculiar. one was that a strong smell of burnt paper and a quantity of black tinder in the empty grate showed that some papers had been burned there, while the other was that old sam was in the act of lighting a cigar, in itself showing a buoyancy of mind. he never smoked when down at the bank, and very seldom when at home. his cigars, too, were of a cheap quality which even his clerks would be ashamed to offer their friends. indeed, while all connected with the house in old broad street possessed an air of solid prosperity, the head of the firm was usually of a penurious and hard-up aspect, as though he had a difficulty in making both ends meet. his smart electric brougham he used only once a week to take him to the city and back again. at other times he strolled about the streets so shabby as to pass unnoticed by those desirous of making his acquaintance and worming themselves into his good graces; or else he would idle in the park where he passed for a lounger who, crowded out by reason of his age, was down on his luck. samuel statham loved the park. often and often he would get into conversation with the flotsam and jetsam of london life--the unemployed, and the men who, in these days of hustle, alas! find themselves too old at forty. the ne'er-do-wells he knew quite well, and they believed him to be one of themselves. but he was ever on the look-out for a deserving case--the starving, despondent man with wife and children hungry at home. he would draw the man's story from him, hear his complaint against unfair treatment, listen attentively to his wrongs, and pretending all the time to have suffered in a similar way himself. usually the man would, in the end, invite him to the home or the lodging-house where his wife and children were, and then, on ascertaining that the case was genuine, he would suddenly reveal himself as the good samaritan. to such men he gave himself out as mr jones, agent of a benevolent society which was nameless, and which did its work without advertisement, and extracted a pledge of secrecy. by such means many a dozen honest, hard-working men, who through no fault of their own had been thrown out of employment, had been "put upon their legs" again and gained work, and yet not one of them ever suspected that the shabby, down-at-heel man jones was actually the millionaire samuel statham, who lived in the white house in fall view of the seat whereon they had first met. even from rolfe he sought to conceal this secret philanthropy, yet the young man had guessed something of it. he had more than once caught him talking to strange men whose pinched faces and trim appearance told the truth. the man whose vast wealth had brought him nothing but isolation and loneliness, delighted in performing these good works, and in rescuing the unfortunate wives and families of the deserving ones who were luckless. he loved to see the brightness overspread those dark, despairing faces, and to hear the heartfelt thanks which he was told to convey to the mythical "society." never but once did he allow a man to suspect that the money he gave came from his own pocket. that single occasion was when, after giving a man whom he believed to be deserving a sovereign, he next evening found him in the park the worse for liquor. he said nothing that night, but a few days later, when he met him, he gave him a piece of his mind which the plausible good-for-nothing would not quickly forget. "such frauds as you," he had said, "prevent people from assisting the deserving poor. i've made inquiry into your story, and found it false from beginning to end. you have no wife, and the four children starving and ill that you described to me do not exist. you live for the most part in the bar of the `star,' off the edgware road, and on the night after i gave you the money you were so drunk that they wouldn't serve you. such men like you," he went on with withering sarcasm, his grey beard bristling as he spoke, and his fist clenched fiercely, "are a disgrace to the human race, for you are a liar, a drunkard, and a blackguard--a man who deserves the death that will, i hope, overtake you--death in the gutter." and he turned upon his heel, leaving the accused man standing staring at him open-mouthed, utterly unable to offer a single word in self-defence. this secret charity was sam statham's only recreation. by it he made many friends whom he had taken out of the slums--friends who were perhaps more devoted and true to him than those to whom he had given financial "tips," and who had made many thousands thereby. in many a modest home was mr jones a welcome guest whenever he called to see how "his friends" were progressing, and many a time had he drunk a humble glass of bitter "sent out" for by his thankful and devoted host who was all unconscious of who his guest really was. the world would have laughed at the idea of a working man standing samuel statham a glass of ale. one case was old sam's particular pride. about eighteen months before, in the park one day, he came across a despairing but well-educated, middle-aged man, who at first was not at all communicative, but whose bearing and manner was that of refinement and culture. three times they met, and it was very evident that the sad-faced man was starving. at last sam offered to "stand him" a meal, and over it the man told a pathetic story, how that he was a fully-qualified medical man in practice in york, but owing to his unfortunate habit of drinking he had lost everything, sold his practice, and had been compelled to leave the city. the proceeds of his practice had soon gone in drink, and now, with all the bitter remorse upon him, he and his wife and two small children were faced with starvation. friends and relations would not assist him because of his intemperance. there was only one way out of it all, he declared--suicide. sam had taken him in hand. he had seen the wife and children, and then explained, as usual, that he was mr jones. small sums he first gave them, and finding that his charity was never abused, and that the doctor withstood the temptation to drink, he had gone to an agency, the address of which he had found in the _lancet_, and bought a comfortable little practice with a furnished house in west norwood, where the doctor and his family were now installed and doing well. in west norwood to-day that doctor is the most popular and the most sought after. his practice is ever increasing, and already he has nearly repaid the whole of the sum which mr jones lent him, and has been compelled to take an assistant. the doctor is still in ignorance, however, for he has never identified mr jones with statham the millionaire. but was it surprising that at his house no guest was more welcome than the man who had rescued him from ruin and from death? truly money, if properly applied, can do much to alleviate the sufferings of the world, and as it is the "root of all evil," so it is also the root of all good. chapter twenty two. tells of the three. "well?" "weel?" asked duncan macgregor, who was seated in an easy attitude in sam statham's library. at the table sat the millionaire himself, while near by, in the enjoyment of a cigar, sat old levi. the latter was still in his garb of service, but his attitude was certainly more like that of his master's intimate friend than that of butler. it was from his thin lips that the query had escaped in response to a fact which the scot had emphasised with his hairy fist. "well," exclaimed statham after a pause, "and what do you suppose should be done, mr--" "macgregor--still duncan macgregor," exclaimed the bearded man, concluding the millionaire's sentence. "that's the verra thing that puzzles me, mon. p'raps we'd best wait a wee bittie an' see." levi dissented. he knew that whatever his position in that strange household, his master always listened to him and took his advice-- sometimes when it involved the risk of many thousands. he was a kind of oracle, for generally when ben came there to consult his brother upon some important point, the old servant remained in the room to hear the discussion and to give his dry but candid opinion. "my own opinion is that we should act at once--without fear. the slightest hesitation now will be our undoing, depend upon it," he said. "ah! mr levi," exclaimed the scot, "i'm a'ways for caution. hasna' our ain bobbie said that facts are chiels that winna ding, and downa be disputed?" "yes; but we've not yet quite established the facts yet, you see," statham said. "why, mon, isn't it as plain as plain can be? what mair d'ye want?" "a good deal," levi chimed in in his squeaky voice. "we can't act on that. it's too shadowy altogether." "i tell ye it isn't!" cried duncan, shaking his clenched fist again. "mr statham is in sair peril, i tell ye he is, an' i've proved it." "mr statham must be allowed to be the best judge of that," levi said, placing his hands together, and holding his cigar between his teeth. "mr statham knows me weel. he knows i'd nae tell him what i didn't ken ma'sel'." the great financier rose thoughtfully and stood with his back to the mantelshelf. "look here, macgregor," he said, fixing his eyes upon the man seated before him. "when you called at the office and was fool enough not to give your proper name you had a difficulty in getting an interview with me. i hadn't any idea till i received your note that--well, that you were in the land of the living. when we met before it was under different circumstances--very different, weren't they?" and the millionaire smiled. "shall i recall to your memory one scene--long ago--a scene that lives in my memory this moment as though the events happened but yesterday. we were both younger, and more active then--you and i--and--" "nae, mr statham. we're better not bearin' it," he protested, holding up his hands. "i jalouse what you're again' to say." "to you, my friend, i owe much," the old man went on. "the place was in a sun-baked south american city, the time was sunset, fierce and blood-red like the deeds of that never-to-be-forgotten day. there was war--a revolution was in progress, and the government forces had been that day driven back into the capital followed by us. i remember you, with that great bullet furrow down your cheek and the blood streaming from it as you fought at my side. i see you bear the scar even now." then, with a quick movement he pulled up his sleeve and showed on his right forearm a great cicatrice, asking: "do you remember how i received this?" "nae, nae, mr statham, enough!" cried the scot. "our days of war are long since past. they'll come again nae mair." "you remember how we followed the troops of hernandez into the capital, shooting and killing as we drove them before us, and how you and i and a few more of the younger bloods made a dash for the palace to secure the president himself. i recollect the wild excitement of those moments. i was tearing along the street shouting and urging on my men, when of a sudden i found myself surrounded by a dozen soldiers of hernandez. i fought for life, though well knowing i was lost. as a prisoner i should be tortured, for they had long sworn to serve me as they had served our friends jose and manuel. this recollection flashed across me, and with my back to the wall i fired my pistol full in a man's face and blew it out of all recognition. a man had raised his rifle and covered me, but next moment i gave him an upward cut with my sword. "at the same instant i felt a sharp twinge upon my right arm, and my sword dropped from my grasp. i was maimed, and stood there at their mercy. a dark-faced, beetle-browed fellow raised his sabre with a fierce spanish oath to cut me down, but in the blood-red sunlight another blade flashed high, and the man sank dying in the dust. "it was you, macgregor--you alone had come to my aid, and four of my attackers fell beneath your blows in that hand-to-hand struggle as you, with your own body placed before mine, fought on, keeping them back and yet without assistance. shall i ever forget those moments, or how near both of us were to death? i was already half-fainting, but you shouted to me to keep courage, and in the end we were discovered by our men and saved. if ever a deed deserved the victoria cross, yours did. you, macgregor--as you now call yourself--saved my life." "an' i'm here, mr statham, to save it again, if ye'll only let me," was the scot's dry reply. "years have gone since that day," the millionaire went on, with a distinct catch in his voice. "i lost sight of you soon afterwards, and heard once that you were in caracas. then there was no further news of you. we drifted apart--our lives lay in opposite directions. yet to you--and to you alone--i owe my present life, for were it not for your aid at that moment i should have been put to the torture in that terrible castle where hernandez did his prisoners to death, and my body given to the rats like others of our friends." "eh, mon, ye really make me blush," laughed macgregor. "so please don't talk of it. that's all over the noo. let the past take care of itsel'. we've got the present to face." "i have never ceased reflecting upon the past," sam declared in a rather low and husky voice. "i never dreamed that the man macgregor, in the employ of the clyde and motherwell works, was the same man to whom i am indebted for my life." "ah! man's a problem that puzzles the devil hissel'," laughed macgregor. "i'd nae ha kenned ye were the statham i knew out there in the old days till i saw the picture of ye in the _glasgie news_ one nicht when i bought it at the corner of polmadie street on me way hame. an' there was a biography of ye--which didn't mention very much. but it was the real sam statham--and sam statham was my friend of long ago." "most extraordinary!" remarked levi, who had been smoking quietly and listening to the conversation. "i had so idea of all this!" "there are many incidents in my career, levi, of which you are unaware," remarked his master drily. "i have no doubt," retorted the servant in a tone quite as dry as that of his master's. this was duncan macgregor's first visit to park lane, and levi did not approve of him. he always looked askance at any friend of mr samuel's of the old days. everybody who had ever known him in the unknown and struggling period, now claimed his acquaintance as his intimate friend, and various and varied were the ruses adopted in order to endeavour to obtain an interview. he suspected this hairy scot--whose bravery in his youth had saved sam's life--of working for his own ends. "this is a strange story of yours, duncan," remarked the millionaire a few moments later, his eyes fixed upon the seated man--"so strange that i should not believe it, but for one thing." "an' what's that?" "other information in my possession goes to prove that your surmise is actually correct, and that your apprehension has foundation. i know that adam is in london. i've seen him!" "an' he's seen you--eh?" cried macgregor, starting up in alarm. "yes, he's seen me." "did he speak to ye?" "no. he watched me through the window from yonder pavement outside." a silence fell in that warm room where the blinds were still down to exclude the sun, a silence unbroken save by the buzzing of the flies and the low, solemn ticking of the clock. at last the scot spoke. "he means mischief. depend on it." "i quite believe he does," statham admitted. "that is why we should act at once," levi chimed in. "and perhaps by a premature move spoil the whole of our chance of victory!" remarked the millionaire, very thoughtfully. "remember that adam holds very strong cards in the game," the butler urged, knocking the ash slowly from his cigar. surely it was a queer, unusual scene, this conference of three! "i have suspected something for some time past, levi," was his master's response. "and i took steps to combat my enemies; but, unfortunately, i was not sufficiently wary, and i failed." "what, mon!" gasped the man from glasgow; "ye don't say ye're at the mercy of those devils?" "i tell you, macgregor, that my position is more insecure than even you believe it to be," was the response, in a low voice, almost of despair. levi and duncan exchanged glances. the millionaire's words were somewhat enigmatical, but the truth was apparent. samuel statham was in fear of some revelation which could be made by that shabby stranger whom he had seen idling at the park railings. "tell me, macgregor. does adam know you?" "no." "you've seen him, and you know him?" "perfectly weel. i kept ma eye on him when he didn't dream that anybody was nigh him." "and what you told me in the city you are prepared to stand by?" the scot put out his big hands, saying: "mr statham, what i've told ye i stick to." "duncan," said the great man, clasping the hand offered him. "you were my friend once--my best friend--and you will be so again." "if ye'll let me be," answered the other warmly. statham could read a man's innermost character at a glance. he was seldom, if ever, mistaken. he looked into macgregor's eyes, and saw truth and friendship there. as levi watched the two men his lip curled slightly. he was a cynic, and did not approve of this outburst of sentimentality on the part of his master. samuel statham, the man of millions and the controller of colossal interests, should, he declared within himself, be above such an exhibition of his own heart. "is it not strange," remarked statham, as though speaking to himself, "that you should actually have been engaged in my works without knowing that it was the head of the firm who was indebted to you for his life?" "ay, the world's only a sma' space, after all," duncan replied. "i was apprenticed to the firm, but soon got sick of a humdrum life. so i went out to south america to try ma fortune, an' we met. after the war i went to caracas, and then back to glasgie to the old firm, where i've been ever since. i thought that when the new company took the place over i'd be discharged as too old. indeed, more than once mr rolfe has hinted at it." "i don't think you'd need fear that, duncan. both you and i recollect scenes set in strong remembrance--scenes that are never to return. i had no idea it was you to whom the creditable work turned out at glasgow was due until rolfe told me all about you," and as he uttered those words a twinge of conscience shot through his mind as he recollected how he had ordered the man to be summarily discharged for daring to seek an interview. and then how, when he had entered his presence, he had handed him something that was far better destroyed. they had indeed destroyed it together. he saw that macgregor had no great love for rolfe, but put it down to the fact that his secretary, being practically in charge of the works, had become out of favour with the men over the question of labour. the scot had said nothing derogatory regarding charlie, but merely expressed surprise that he had not been accorded an interview at once. then he had urged that he had something of importance and of interest to impart. "well, you see, macgregor," replied the millionaire, half apologetically; "the fact is i have to make it a rule to see nobody. of course, to old friends, like yourself, i am always accessible, and delighted to have a chat, but if it were known that i received people, i should be besieged here all day long. i make it a rule not to allow anybody here in my house." "why?" asked the scot, quite unconscious of the gravity of his inquiry. he was in entire ignorance of the strange stories concerning the house wherein he was at that moment. the papers never mentioned them for fear of an action for libel. as far as he had seen there was nothing peculiar or extraordinary about the place. the hall and the library were very handsomely furnished, as befitted the home of one of england's wealthiest men. the fact that levi had been called into conference even was not remarkable, for the reason had already been explained to him briefly, in half-a-dozen words. "but you have your ain circle of good friends here, i suppose?" suggested the scot, as the great man had not replied to his question. "no," replied statham. "nobody comes here--nobody enters my door." "but why?" master and servant exchanged glances. it was a direct question to which it was impossible to give a truthful reply without the revelation of a secret. and so samuel statham lied to his best, humble yet most devoted friend. chapter twenty three. london lovers. nearly three weeks had now passed since the extraordinary disappearance of dr petrovitch and his daughter from the house in cromwell road. the cleverness with which the removal of their household goods had been effected, and the cunning and ingenuity displayed regarding them, showed max barclay plainly that the disappearance had been carefully planned, and that those assisting had been well paid for keeping their secret. and yet, after all, it was quite possible that the men who had removed the furniture from the house were merely hired for the job, and had gone away thinking they had acted quite legitimately. harmer's stores often engage extra hands, and what would have been easier than for the foreman to have paid them, and driven the van with the false name upon it to another part of london. that was, no doubt, what had really been done. max had devoted the greater part of his time to endeavouring to elucidate the mystery, but had failed ignominiously. the statement made by marion concerning what seemed to be some confession of maud's greatly puzzled him. his well-beloved was loyal to her friend, and would not betray her. times without number he had reverted to the question, but she always evaded his questions. only a few evenings before, while they were seated at one of the little tables on the lawn of the welcome club at the earl's court exhibition, of which he was a member, he had again referred to maud, and asked her, in the interests of his inquiry, to give him some idea of what she had stated on that night when they last met. "i really cannot tell you, max," was her reply, as she lifted her eyes to his in the dim light shed by the coloured lamps with which the place was illuminated. "have i not already told you of the promise i gave her? you surely do not wish me to break it! would it be fair, or just? i'm sure you, who are always loyal to a woman, would never wish me to mention what she told me." "of course. if it is anything against her reputation--her honour--then it is certainly best left unsaid," he replied quickly. "only--well, i-- i thought, perhaps, it might give us a clue to the motive of their unaccountable flight." "perhaps it might," she admitted; "and yet i cannot tell you." "does charlie know? would he tell me, do you think?" "i don't think charlie knows. at any rate, she would not tell him. if he does know, it must be through some other source." "and you anticipate that what maud told you had some connection with their sudden disappearance?" he asked, looking steadfastly into the face of the woman he dearly loved. "i've already told you so." "but when you parted from her that night, did you believe that you would not meet her again?" she was silent, looking straight before her at the crowd of idlers circulating around the illuminated bandstand and enjoying the music and the cool air after the stifling london day. at last she spoke, saying in a low, rather strained voice: "i can hardly answer that question. had i suspected anything unusual i think i should have mentioned my apprehension to you." "yes, i feel sure you would have done, dearest," he declared. "i quite see the difficulty of your present position. and you understand, i'm quite sure, how anxious i feel regarding the safety of the doctor, who was such a dear friend of mine." "but why are you so anxious, max?" she asked. "because if--well, if there had not been foul play, i should have heard from the doctor before this!" he said seriously. "foul play?" she gasped, starting forward. "do you suspect some--some tragedy, then?" "yes, marion," was his low, earnest reply. "i do." "but why?" she queried. "remember that the doctor was a diplomat and statesman. in servia politics are very complex, as they are, i'm told, in every young nation. our own english history was a strange and exciting one when we were the present age of servia. the people killed king alexander, it is true; but did we not kill king charles?" "then you think that some political undercurrent is responsible for this disappearance?" he suggested. "that has more than once crossed my mind." "yet would he not have sent word to me in secret?" "no. he might fear spies. you yourself have told me how secret agents swarm in the balkan countries, and that espionage is as bad there as in russia." "but we are in london--not in servia." "there are surely secret agents of the servian opposition party here in london!" she said. "you were telling me something about them once--some facts which the doctor had revealed to you." "yes, i remember," he remarked thoughtfully, feeling that in her argument there was much truth. "yet i have a kind of intuition of the occurrence of some tragedy, marion," he added, recollecting how her brother had stolen in secret from that denuded house. "well, i think, dear, that your fears are quite groundless," she declared. "i know how the affair is worrying you, and how much you respected the dear old doctor. but, if i were you, i would wait in patience. he will surely send you word some day from some remote corner of the earth. suppose he had sailed for india, south america, or south africa, for instance? there would have been no time for him to write to you from his hiding-place." "then he is in hiding--eh?" asked max, eager to seize on any word of, hers that might afford a clue to the strange statement of maud. "he may be." "is that your opinion?" "i suspect as much." "then you do not believe there has been a tragedy?" "i believe only in what i know," replied the girl with wisdom. "and you know there has not been a tragedy?" "ah! no. there you are quite mistaken. i have no knowledge whatsoever." "only surmise?" "only surmise." "based upon what maud told you--eh?" he asked at last, bringing the conversation to the point. "what maud told me has nothing whatever to do with my surmise," was her quick reply. "it is a surmise, pure and simple." "and you have no foundation of fact for it?" "none, dear." max was disappointed. he sat smoking, staring straight before him. at the tables around, beneath the trees, well-dressed people were chatting and laughing in the dim light, while the military band opposite played the newest waltz. but he heard it not. he was only thinking of how he could clear up the mystery of the strange disappearance of his dearest friend. he glanced at the soft face of the sweet girl at his side, that was so full of affection and yet so sphinx-like. she would tell him nothing. again and again she had refused to betray the confidence of her friend. for the thousandth time he reflected upon that curious and startling incident which he had seen with his own eyes in cromwell road, and of the inexplicable discovery he had made. he had not met rolfe. that he should keep away from him was, in itself, suspicious. without a doubt he knew the truth. max wondered whether charlie had told his sister anything--whether he had told her the truth, and the reason of her determination not to speak was not to incriminate him. he knew in what strong affection she held her brother--how she always tried to shield his faults and magnify his virtues. yet was it not only what might be very naturally supposed that she would do? charlie was always very good to her. to him, she owed practically everything. and so he pondered, smoking in silence while the band played and the after-dinner idlers gossiped and flirted on that dimly-lit lawn. he pondered when later on he took her to oxford street by the "tube," and saw her to the corner of the street in which cunnington's barracks were situated, and he pondered as he drove along piccadilly to the traveller's to have a final drink before going home. next morning, about eleven, he was in his pleasant bachelor sitting-room in dover street going over some accounts from his factor up in scotland, when the door opened and charlie rolfe entered, exclaiming in his usual hearty way: "hulloa, max, old chap, how are you?" barclay looked up in utter surprise. the visit was entirely unexpected, and so intimate a friend was rolfe that he always entered unannounced. in a moment, however, he recovered himself. "why, charlie," he exclaimed, motioning him to a low easy-chair on the other side of the fireplace, "you're quite a stranger. where have you been all this long time?" "oh! i thought you knew through marion. i've been up in glasgow. had a lot of worries at the works--labour trouble and all that sort of thing," he replied. "those scotch workmen are utterly incorrigible, but i must say that it's due to agitators from our side of the border." "yes; i saw something in the papers the other day about an impending strike. have a cigar?" and he pushed the box towards his friend. "there would have been a strike if the old man hadn't put his foot down. the men held a meeting and reconsidered their position. it's well for them they did, otherwise i had orders to close down the whole works for six months--or for a year, if need be." "but you'd have lost very heavily, wouldn't you?" "lost? i should rather think so. we should have had to pay damages for breach of contract with the italian railways to the tune of a nice round sum. but what does it matter to the guv'nor. when he takes a stand against what he calls the tyranny of labour he doesn't count the cost." "well," sighed max, looking across at marion's brother, "it's rather nice to be in such a position, and yet--" "and yet it isn't all honey to be in his shoes--eh? no, max, it isn't," he said. "i know more about old sam than most men, and i tell you i'd rather be as i am than stifled by wealth as he is. he's a millionaire in gold, but a pauper in happiness." "i can't help thinking that his unhappiness must, in a great measure, be due to himself," max remarked, wondering why charlie had visited him after this length of time. "i think if i had his money i should try and get some little enjoyment out of it. other wealthy men have yachts, or motor cars, or other hobbies. why doesn't he?" "because he doesn't care for sport. he told me once that in his younger days abroad he was as keen a sportsman as anybody. but now-a-days he's too old for it, and prefers his armchair." "and yet he isn't a very old man, is he?" "sometimes wealth rejuvenates a man, but more often the worry of it ages him prematurely," rolfe remarked. "i only got back from glasgow again last night, and i thought i'd look in and see you. seen marion lately?" "i was with her at earl's court last night. she's all right." then a silence fell between the pair. rolfe lit the cigar he had been slowly twisting between his fingers. max looked furtively into his friend's face, trying to read what secret thought lay behind. charlie, however, preserved his usual easy, nonchalant air as he leaned back in his chair, his weed between his teeth and his hands clasped behind his head. "look here, charlie," max exclaimed at last, in a tone of confidence. "i want to ask you something." the other started visibly, and his cheeks went just a trifle paler. "well, go on, old chap." he laughed uneasily. "what is it?" and then he held his breath. "it's about old statham." "about old statham!" the other echoed, breathing freely again. "yes. do you know that there are going about london a lot of queer stories regarding that house of his in park lane--i mean a lot more stories." "more stories!" laughed the private secretary. "well, what are people saying now?" "oh, all sorts of weird and ridiculous thing." "what is one of them? i'm interested, for they never tell me anything." "because they know you to be connected with the place," max remarked. "well, just now there are about a dozen different tales going the rounds, and all sorts of hints against the old man." "set about by those with whom he has refused to associate--eh?" "probably concocted by spiteful gossips, i should think. some of them bear upon the face of them their own refutation. for instance, i've heard that the reason lights are seen upstairs is because there's a mysterious mrs statham and her family living there in secret. nobody has seen them, and they never go out." "oh! and what reason is given for that?" "because they say she's a turkish woman, and that he still keeps her secluded as she has been ever since a child. the story goes that she's a very beautiful woman, daughter of one of the most powerful pashas in constantinople, who escaped from her mother's harem and got away over the frontier into bulgaria, where statham joined her, and they were married in paris." rolfe laughed aloud. the idea of old sam being an actor in such a love-romance was distinctly amusing. "they call him statham pasha, i suppose! well, really, it is the very latest, just as though there may not be lights upstairs when the old man goes to bed." "of course," said max. "but the fact that the old man refuses to allow anybody in the house has given rise to all these stories. you really ought to tell him." "what shall i tell him? is there any other gossip?" "yes," replied max, looking the secretary straight in the face in suspicion that he knew more about the mysteries of that house than he really did. "there's another strange story, which i heard two or three days ago, to the effect that one night recently a person was seen to go there secretly, being admitted at once. then, after the lapse of an hour or so, old levi came forth, signalled to a four-wheeled cab which was apparently loitering about on the chance of a fare. then from out of the house was carried a long, heavy box, which was placed on the cab and driven away to an unknown destination." "a box!" gasped rolfe in surprise, bending quickly across to the speaker. "what do you mean--what do you suggest?" "well the natural suggestion is that the body of the midnight visitor was within that box?" charlie rolfe did not reply. he sat staring open-mouthed, as though max's story had supplied the missing link in a chain of suspicions which had for a long time existed in his mind--as though he now knew the terrible and astounding truth. chapter twenty four. truth or untruth. the two men exchanged glances, each suspicious of the other. max tried to imagine the motive of his friend's visit, while rolfe, on his part, was undecided as to the extent of the other's knowledge. to come there and boldly face max had cost him a good many qualms. at one moment he felt certain that max suspected, but at the next he laughed at his own fears, and declared himself to be a chicken-hearted fool. and so days had gone on until, unable to stand it further, he had at last resolved to call at dover street. "you're quite a stranger, charlie," max remarked at last. "i haven't seen you since the doctor disappeared so mysteriously." he watched rolfe's face as he spoke, yet save a very slight flush upon the cheeks he was in no way perturbed. "well, i've been away nearly the whole time," was the other's reply. "the whole affair is most curious." "and haven't you seen maud since?" he hesitated slightly, and in that hesitation max detected falsehood. "no," was his reply. "what? and haven't you endeavoured to find out her whereabouts?" cried max, staring at him. "if marion had disappeared, i think i should have left no stone unturned in order to discover the truth." "i have tried to solve the mystery, and failed," was his rather lame response. "but where are they--where can they be? it's most extraordinary that the doctor should not send me word in confidence of their secret hiding-place. i was his most intimate friend." "well," he said. "the fact is that until this moment i believed you were well aware of their whereabouts, but could not, in face of your friendship, betray them." max looked him straight in the face. was he lying? such a statement was, indeed, ingenious, to say the least. yet how, recollecting that he had left the empty house in secret, could he believe that max knew the truth and was concealing it? was it really possible that he was in ignorance? barclay thought. had he gone to cromwell road expecting to find the doctor at home, just as he had done? if he had, then why had he crept out of the place and made his escape so hurriedly? again, he recollected the result of the search in company with the man from harmer's, and the finding of the open safe. somebody had been there after his visit; somebody who had robbed the safe! that person must have been aware of the departure of the doctor. who was it if not the man seated there before him? "well, rolfe," max remarked at last. "you're quite mistaken. i haven't the slightest notion of where they are. i've done my best to try and discover some clue to the direction of their flight, but all in vain. the more i have probed the affair, the more extraordinary and more mystifying has it become." "what have you discovered?" asked charlie quickly. "several strange things. first, i have found that the furniture was removed in vans painted with the name of harmer's stores, but they were not harmer's vans. the household goods were spirited away that night, nobody knows whither." "and with them the doctor and maud." "exactly. but--well, tell me the truth, charlie. have you had no message of whatever sort from maud?" "none," he replied, his face full of pale anxiety. "but, my dear fellow she loved you, did she not? it was impossible for her to conceal it." "yes, i know. that's why i can't make it out at all. i sometimes think that--" "that what?" "well, that there's been foul play, max," he said hoarsely. "you know what the people of those balkan countries are--so many political conspirators in every walk of life. and the doctor was such a prominent politician in servia." was he telling an untruth? if so, he was a marvellous actor. "then you declare that you have received no word from either maud or the doctor." "i have heard nothing from them." "but, charlie," he said slowly, "has it not struck you that marion knows something--that if she liked she could furnish us with a clue to the solution of the mysterious affair?" "yes," he said, his face brightening at once. "how curious! that thought struck me also. she knows something, evidently, but refuses to say a word." "because she is maud's most intimate friend." "yet she ought, merely to set my mind at rest. she knows how fondly i love maud." "what has she told you?" "she's merely urged me to be patient. that's all very well, because i feel sure that if maud were allowed to do so she would write to me." "her father may prevent her. he does not write to me, remember," said max. "i can't understand marion; she is so very mysterious over it all. each time i've seen her i've tried to get the truth from her, but all in vain," rolfe declared. "my own idea is that on the night in question, when they went together to queen's hall, maud told marion something-- something that is a secret." max pondered. his friend's explanation tallied exactly with his own theories; but the point still remained whether or not there had been foul play. "but why doesn't the doctor send me word of his own safety?" asked barclay. "i was with him only a few hours before, smoking and chatting. he surely knew then of his impending flight. it had all been most ingeniously and cleverly arranged." "no doubt. when i knew of it i was absolutely staggered," rolfe said. it was curious, thought his friend, that he did not admit visiting the house after the furniture had been removed. "i thought you left at nine that night to go to belgrade. marion told me you had gone," max remarked. "yes. i had intended to go, but i unfortunately missed my train. the next day the old gentleman sent somebody else, as he wanted me at home to look after affairs up in glasgow." "and how did you first know of maud's disappearance?" asked max, thinking to upset his calm demeanour. "i called at the house," he replied, vouchsafing no further fact. "and after that?" max inquired, recollecting that tell-tale stain upon the woman's bodice. "i made inquiries in a number of likely quarters, without result." "and what's your theory?" max asked, looking him straight in the face, now undecided whether he was lying or not. "theory? well, my dear fellow, i haven't any. i'd like to hear yours. the doctor and his daughter have suddenly disappeared, as though the earth has swallowed them, and they've not left the least trace behind. what do you believe the real truth to be?" "at present i'm unable to form any actual theory," his friend replied. "there has either been foul play, or else they are in hiding because of some act of political vengeance which they fear. that not a word has come from either tends to support the theory of foul play. yet if there has been a secret tragedy, why should the furniture have been made to disappear as well as themselves?" then, after a pause, he fixed his eyes suspiciously upon charlie, and added, "i wonder if the doctor kept any valuables or securities that thieves might covet in his house?" rolfe shrugged his shoulders. mention of that point in no way disturbed him. "i have never heard maud speak of her father having any valuable possessions there," he said simply. "but he may have done so, and a theft may have been committed!" "of course. but the whole affair from beginning to end is most puzzling. i wonder the papers didn't get hold of it. they could have concocted lots of theories if it had become known." "and now, at this lapse of time, the press could not mention it for fear of libel. they'll think that the doctor had done a moonlight flit, instead of paying his rent." "it certainly looks like that," remarked max with a laugh. "but i only wish we could induce marion to tell us all she knows." charlie sighed. "yes," he said. "i only wish she would say something. but she refuses absolutely, and so we're left entirely in the dark." "well, all i can say is, that the doctor would never wilfully leave me in ignorance of his whereabouts, especially at this moment. we have certain business matters together involving a probable gain of a good round sum. therefore, it was surely to his interest to keep me in touch with him!" max declared. the man before him was silent. was it possible that he had misjudged him? was he lying; or had he really gone to cromwell road in search of the doctor and found the house untenanted and empty? "it is a complete mystery," was all that rolfe could say. "do you know, charlie, a curious thought struck me the other day, and i mention it to you in all confidence. it may be absurd--but--well, somehow i can't get it out of my head." "and what is it?" asked his friend with an eagerness just a little unusual. max paused. should he speak? or should he preserve silence? the mystery now held him bewildered. what had become of the dear old doctor and the pretty girl with the tiny wisp of hair straying across her white brow? yes. he would speak the vague impression that had, of late, been uppermost in his mind. "well," he said, "old statham has financial interests in servia, has he not?" "certainly. quite a number. he floated their loan a few years ago." "and has it not struck you then that he and the doctor might be acquainted?" "they were strangers," he exclaimed quickly, darting a strange look across at barclay. max was somewhat surprised at the vehement and decisive nature of charlie's declaration. "and maud never met the old fellow?" "never--to my knowledge." "statham has a number of friends and acquaintances whom you do not know. the doctor may have been one of them." "oh, sam has very few secrets from me. i am his confidential secretary," was the other's rather cold response. "i know--i know. but would it not be to statham's interest to be on friendly terms with such a powerful factor in the servian political world as dr petrovitch?" "well, it might. but you know how independent he is. he never goes into society, and has no personal friends. he's utterly alone in the world--the loneliest man in london." "then let us go a trifle further," said max at last. "answer me one question. is it or is it not, a fact that you were at the house in cromwell road on the night of--of their disappearance?" rolfe's countenance changed in an instant. his lips went white. "why?" he faltered--"what do you mean to imply?--why--?" "because, rolfe," the other said in a hard, determined voice, "because i saw you there--saw you with my own eyes!" chapter twenty five. two men and a woman. the face of charlie rolfe went pale as death. he was in doubt, and uncertain as to how much, or how little, was known by this man who loved his sister. "i saw you there, rolfe, with my own eyes," repeated max, looking straight into his face. he tried to speak. what could he say? for an instant his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. "i--i don't quite understand you," he faltered. "what do you mean?" "simply that i saw you at the doctor's house on the night of their disappearance." "my dear fellow," he laughed, in a moment, perfectly cool, "you must have been mistaken. you actually say you saw me?" "most certainly i did," declared max, his eyes still upon his friend. "then all i can say is that you saw somebody who resembled me. tell me exactly what you did see." max was for a moment silent. he never expected that rolfe would flatly deny his presence there. this very fact had increased his suspicions a hundredfold. "well, the only person i saw, charlie, was you yourself--leaving the house. that's all." "somebody who closely resembled me, i expect." "then you deny having been at the house that evening?" asked max in great surprise. "why, of course i do. you're absolutely mistaken, old chap," was charlie's response. "of course, i can quite see how this must have puzzled you. but what now arises in my mind is whether someone has not endeavoured to personate me. it seems very much as though they have. you say that i left the house. when?" "after the removal. you were in the empty house, which you left secretly." "and you were there also, then?" he asked. "of course. i called, ignorant that they had left." charlie rolfe did not speak for several moments. "well," he exclaimed at last, "it seems that somebody has been impersonating me. i certainly was not there." "why should they impersonate you?" "who knows? is there not mystery in the whole affair?" "but if somebody went there dressed to resemble you, there must have been a motive in their visit," max said. "well, old fellow, as you know, i have kept away from the house of late--at maud's request. she feared that her father did not approve of my too frequent visits." "and so you met her at dusk in the quiet streets about nevern square and the adjacent thoroughfares?" "certainly. i told you so. i made no secret of it to you. why should i?" "then why make a secret about your visit to the house on that particular evening?" "i don't make any secret of it," he protested. "as i've already told you, i was not there." "but you didn't leave charing cross, as you made people believe you had done. you didn't even go to the station," returned max. "certainly i did not." "you had no intention, when you saw marion at cunnington's, of leaving at all. come, admit that." "you are quite right. i did not intend to leave london." "but statham had given you orders to go." "i do not always obey his orders when it is to his own interest that i should disregard them," he replied enigmatically. "then you had a reason for not going to servia?" "i had--a very strong one." "connected with maud petrovitch?" "in no way whatever. it was a purely personal motive." "and you thought fit to disregard statham's injunctions in order to attend to your own private business!" "it was his business, as well as mine," declared charlie, who, after a pause, asked: "now tell me, max, why are you cross-examining me like a criminal lawyer? what do you suspect me of?" "well--shall i be frank?" "certainly. we are old enough friends for that." "then i'm sorry to say, charlie, that i suspect you of telling a lie." "lies are permissible in certain cases--for instance, where a woman's honour is at stake," he replied, fixing his eyes steadily upon those of his friend. "then you admit that what you have just told me is not the truth?" "i admit nothing. i only repeat that i was not in cromwell road on the evening in question." "but my eyes don't deceive me, man! i saw your face, remember." "if it was actually my face, it was not in cromwell road. that's quite certain?" laughed old statham's secretary. "but it was your face." "it was, i repeat, somebody who resembled me," he declared. "but you haven't told me what the person was doing in the empty house." "that's just what i don't know," barclay replied. "i only know this: when i entered that night i saw nothing of a safe let into the wall. but on going there the next day the safe stood revealed, the door was open, and it was empty." "and so you charge me with being a thief!" cried rolfe, his cheek flushing. "not at all. you asked me for the truth, and i've told you." "well, it's evident that you suspect me of sneaking into the house, breaking open the doctor's safe, and taking the contents," he said plainly, annoyed. "the doctor may have returned himself in secret," max replied. "but such could hardly be the case, for the door had been blown open by explosives." "that would have created a noise," charlie remarked quickly. "shows that whoever did it was a blunderer." "exactly. that's just my opinion. what i want to establish is the motive for the secret visit, and who made it." "well, i can assure you that i'm in entire ignorance of the existence of any safe in the doctor's house." "and so was i. it was concealed by the furniture until my second visit, on the following morning." "curious," rolfe said. "very curious indeed. the whole thing is most remarkable--especially how both father and daughter got away without leaving the least trace of their flight." "then you don't anticipate foul play?" max asked quickly. "why should one?" "the doctor had a good many political enemies." "we all have enemies. who has not? but they don't come and murder one and take away one's household goods." "then i am to take it that it was not you i saw at cromwell road, charlie?" asked his friend in deep earnestness, at the same time filled with suspicion. he felt that his eyes could not deceive him. "in all seriousness," was the other's reply. "i was not there. this personation of myself shows that there was some very clever and deeply-laid scheme." "but you've just declared that a falsehood was permissible where a woman's honour was concerned?" "well, and will not every man with a sense of honour towards a woman hold the same opinion? you yourself, max, for instance, are not the man to give a woman away?" "i know! i know--only--" "only what? surely you do not disagree with me!" "in a sense i don't, but i'm anxious to clear up this matter as far as you yourself are concerned." rolfe saw that he had shaken his friend's fixed belief that he had seen him in cromwell road. max was now debating in his mind whether he had not suspected charlie unjustly. it is so easy to suspect, and so difficult to satisfy one's self of the actual truth. the mind is, alas! too apt to receive ill-formed impressions contrary to fact. "it is already cleared up," rolfe answered without hesitation. "i was not there. you were entirely mistaken. besides, my dear chap, why should i go there when i had been particularly asked by maud not to visit the house?" "when did she ask you?" "only the night before. that very fact is, in itself, curious. she urged me that whatever might occur, i was not to go to the house." "then she anticipated something--eh?" "it seems as though she did." "and she told marion something on the night when she and her father disappeared." "i know." "you know what she told her?" "no. marion refuses to tell me, i wish i could induce her to speak. marion knows the truth--that's my firm belief." "and mine also." "the two girls have some secret in common," rolfe said. "can't you get marion to tell you?" "she refuses. i've asked her half a dozen times already." "i wonder why! there must be some reason." "of course there is. she is loyal to her friend. but tell me honestly, charlie. do you know the doctor's whereabouts?" "i tell you honestly that i haven't the slightest idea. the affair is just as great a mystery to me as to you." "but why have you kept away from me till to-day?" barclay asked. "it isn't like you." "well," answered rolfe, with a slight hesitation, "to tell you the truth, because i thought your manner had rather changed towards me of late." "why, my dear fellow, i'm sure it never has." "but you suspected me of being in that house on the night of the disappearance!" "of course, because i saw you." "because you thought you saw me," charlie said, correcting him. "you surely would not misjudge me for that." "no. but your theory regarding falsehoods has, i must admit, caused some suspicion in my mind." "of what?" "well, of prevaricating in order to shield a woman--maud it may be." "i am not shielding her!" he declared. "there is nothing to shield. i love her very dearly indeed, and she loves me devotedly in return. cannot you imagine, max, my perturbed state of mind now that she has disappeared without a word?" "has she sent you no secret message of her safety?" max asked, seriously. "not a word." "and you do not know, then, if she has not met with foul play?" "i don't. that's just it! sometimes--" and he rose from his chair and paced the room in agony of mind. "sometimes--i--i feel as if i shall go mad. i love her--just as you love marion! sometimes i feel assured of her safety--that she and her father have been compelled to disappear for political or other reasons--and then at others a horrible idea haunts me that my love may be dead--the victim of some vile, treacherous plot to take from me all that has made my life worth living!" "stop!" cried max, starting to his feet and facing him. "you love her-- eh?" "better--ah! better than my own life!" he cried in deep earnestness, his troubled face being an index of his mind. "then--then upon her honour--the honour of the woman you love--swear to me that you have spoken the truth!" he looked into his friend's eyes for a moment. then he answered: "i swear, max! i swear by my love for maud that i have spoken the truth!" and barclay stood silent--so puzzled as to be unable to utter a word. chapter twenty six. which puts a serious question. at last max spoke, slowly and with great deliberation. "and you declare yourself as ignorant as i am myself of their whereabouts?" "i do," was rolfe's response. then after a second's hesitation he added in a changed voice: "i really think, max, that you are scarcely treating me fairly in this matter. sorely it is in my interests to discover the whereabouts of maud! i have done my best." "well?" "and i've failed to discover any clue whatever--except one--that--" and he broke off, without finishing his sentence. "what have you discovered? tell me. be frank with me." "i've not yet established whether it is a real clue, or whether a mere false surmise. when i have, i will tell you." "but cannot we join forces in endeavouring to solve the problem?" max suggested, his suspicion of his friend now removed. "that is exactly what i would wish. but how shall we begin? where shall we commence?" asked rolfe. "the truth that it was not you whom i saw leaving the house in cromwell road adds fresh mystery to the already astounding circumstance," max declared. "the man who so closely resembled you was purposely made up to be mistaken for you. there was some strong motive for this. what do you suggest it could be?" "to implicate me! but in what?" the thought of that blood-stained bodice ever haunted max. it was on the tip of his tongue to reveal his discovery to his friend, yet on second thoughts he resolved to at present retain his secret. he had withheld it from the police, therefore he was perfectly justified in withholding it from charlie. the flat denial of the latter regarding his visit to cromwell road caused him deep reflection. he watched his friend's attitude, and was compelled to admit within himself that now, at any rate, he was speaking the truth. "the only reason for the visit of the man whom i must have mistaken for yourself, charlie," he said, "must have been to open that safe." "probably so." then max explained, in detail, the position of the safe, and how he had discovered it being open, and its contents abstracted. "on your first visit, then, the safe was hidden?" "yes. but when i went in the morning it stood revealed, the door blown open by some explosive." "by an enemy of the doctor's," remarked charlie. max did not reply. the doctor's words regarding his friend on the last occasion they had sat together recurred to him at that moment with a queer significance. the doctor certainly did not like rolfe. for what reason? he wondered. why had he taken such a sudden dislike to him? hitherto, they had been quite friendly, ever since the well-remembered meeting at the villa des fleurs, in aix-les-bains, and the doctor had never, to his knowledge, objected to maud's association with the smart young fellow whose keen business instincts had commended him to such a man as old sam statham. the doctor held no doubt, either secret knowledge of something detrimental to rolfe, or else entertained one of those sudden and unaccountable prejudices which some men form, and which they are unable to put behind them. "the one main point we have first to decide, charlie," he said at last, standing at the window and gazing thoughtfully down into the narrow london street, "is whether or not then has been foul play." rolfe made no reply, a circumstance which caused him to turn and look straight into his friend's face. he saw a change there. his countenance was blanched; but whether by fear of the loss of the woman he loved, or by a guilty knowledge, max knew not. "marion can tell us," he answered at last. "but she refuses." "you, her brother, can surely obtain the truth from her?" "not when you, her lover, fail," charlie responded, his brows knit deeply. "but a moment ago you said you had a clue?" "i think i have one. it is only a surmise." "and in what direction does it trend?" "towards foul play," he said hoarsely. "political?" "it may be." "and were both victims of the plot?" "i cannot tell. at present i'm making all the secret inquiries possible--far afield in a continental city. it takes time, care, and patience. as soon as i obtain anything tangible, i will tell you. but first of all, max," he added, "i wish to have your assurance that you no longer suspect me. i am not your enemy--why should you be mine?" "i am not, my dear fellow," declared barclay. "how can i be the enemy of marion's brother? i was only suspicious. you would have been the same in similar circumstances, i'm sure." "probably," laughed charlie. "yet what you've told me about the endeavour to implicate myself in the affair is certainly extraordinary. i don't see any motive." "except that you were known by the conspirators, whoever they are, to be maud's lover." "if so, then they intend, most probably, to bring some false charge against me. and--and--" "and what?" asked max in some surprise. "why, don't you see?" he said hoarsely, staring straight into his friend's face with a horrified expression as a terrible truth arose within him. "don't you see that you yourself, max, would become the principal witness against me!" max stood wondering at the other's sudden anticipation of disaster. what could he dread if this denial of his was the actual truth? again he grew suspicious. "how can i be witness against you if you are innocent of any connection with the affair?" he queried. "because the doctor's enemies have done this, in order to shield themselves." "but if the doctor is really still alive, what have you to fear?" "is he alive? that is the point." "marion gives me to understand that both he and maud are safe," max responded quickly. the other shook his head dubiously, saying: "if she has told you that, then it is exactly contrary to what she has given me to understand." "what? she has expressed a suspicion of foul play?" "yes--more than a suspicion." "well--this is certainly strange," max declared. "marion has all along been trying to allay my fears." "because she feared to upset you, perhaps. with me it is different. she does not mind my feelings." "i'm sure she does, charlie. she's devoted to you. and she ought to be. few brothers would do what you have done." "that's quite outside the question," he said, quickly pacing anxiously up and down the room. "she told me distinctly the other day that her fears were of the worst." "ah! if you could only induce her to tell us what maud confessed to her. it was a confession--a serious and tragic one, i believe." "yes. it was, no doubt; and if she would only speak we could, i believe, quickly get at the truth," rolfe said. "to me it seems incredible that the doctor, your most intimate friend, should not have found some secret manner by which to communicate with you, and assure you of his safety." there was a pause. suddenly max turned to the speaker and exclaimed-- "tell me, charlie. be perfectly frank with me. have you, do you think, at any time recently given some cause for offence to the doctor?" "why do you ask that?" inquired the other in quick surprise. "i have reasons for asking. i'll tell you after you've answered my question." "i don't know," he laughed uneasily. "some men, and especially foreigners, are very easily offended." "but have you offended the doctor?" "perhaps. a man never knows when he gives unintentional offence." "are you aware of having done anything to offend him?" "no, except that maud asked me not to visit there so often, as her father did not approve of it." "did she ever tell you that the doctor had suddenly entertained a dislike of you?" "certainly not. i always believed that he was very friendly disposed towards me. but--well--why do you ask all this?" "i merely ask for information." "of course, but you promised to tell me the reason." "well, the fact is this. on the afternoon prior to their disappearance, the doctor expressed feelings towards you that were not exactly friendly. it seemed to me that he had formed some extraordinary prejudice. fathers do this often towards the men who love their daughters, you know. they are sometimes apt to be over-cautious, with the result that the girl loses a very good chance of marriage," he added. "i've known several similar cases." "well," said charlie thoughtfully, "that's quite new to me. i had flattered myself that the doctor was very well disposed towards me. this is quite a revelation?" "didn't maud ever tell you?" "not a word." "she feared, of course, to hurt your feelings. it was quite natural. she loves you." "if what we fear be true, you should put your words into the past tense, max," was his reply in a hard voice. barclay knew that his friend loved the sweet-faced girl with the stray, unruly wisp of hair which fell always across her white brow and gave her such a piquante appearance. and if he loved her so well, was it possible that he could have been author of, or implicated, in a foul and secret crime? recollection of that dress-bodice with the ugly stain still wet upon it flashed upon him. was it not in itself circumstantial evidence that some terrible crime had been committed? the man before him denied all knowledge of the disappearance of his well-beloved, and yet max, with his own eyes, had seen him slinking from the house! had he spoken the truth, or was he an ingenious liar? such was the problem which max barclay put to himself--a question which was the whole crux of the extraordinary situation. if what rolfe had declared was the truth, then the mystery became an enigma beyond solution. but if, on the other hand, he was now endeavouring to shield himself from the shadow of guilt upon him, then at least one fact was rendered more hideous than the rest. the question was one--and only one. had this man, brother of his own dear marion, sworn falsely upon what he had held to be most sacred--his love for maud? what was the real and actual truth? chapter twenty seven. in the web. it was four o'clock on the following afternoon, dark and threatening outside, precursory of a thunderstorm. in that chair in max's room, where charlie rolfe had sat on the previous morning, was the polished cosmopolitan, jean adam, lazily lolling back, smoking a cigarette. max had lunched over at white's, and just come in to find adam awaiting him. the frenchman had risen and greeted him merrily, took the proffered russian cigarette, and they; had settled themselves to chat. "i've been expecting every day to hear from you," adam exclaimed at last. "when do you propose starting for constantinople?" "well, i've been thinking over the matter, and i've come to the conclusion that just at present it is impossible for me to leave london. i have other interests here." adam stirred uneasily in his chair. this reply filled him with chagrin, yet so clever was he, and such a perfect type of ingenious adventurer, that he never showed the least trace of surprise. "really," he laughed, "that's very unfortunate--for you!" "why, for me?" "well, the missing of such a chance would be unfortunate, even to a rothschild," he said. "there's hundreds of thousands in the deal, if you'll only go out with me. you're not a man of straw. you can afford to risk a thousand or two, just as well as i can--even better." "i would willingly go if it were not for the fact that i find i must remain in london." adam laughed, with just a touch of sarcasm. "ah! the lady! i quite understand, my dear fellow. the charming young lady whom i met with you the other night does not wish you to leave her side--eh? we have all of us been through that stage of amorous ecstasy. i have myself, i know that; and if i may tell you with the frankness of a friend, i've regretted it," he added, holding up his white palms. "all men do not regret i hope to be the exception," remarked max barclay, pensively watching the smoke from his lips rise to the ceiling. "of course. but is it wise to turn one's back upon fortune in this way?" asked adam, in that insidious manner by which he had entrapped many a man. "review the position calmly. here is a project which, by good luck, has fallen into my hands. i want somebody to go shares with me in it. you are my friend, i like you. i know you are an upright man, and i ask you to become my partner in the venture. yet you refuse to do so because--well, merely because a woman's pretty face has attracted you, and you think that you please her by remaining here in london! "is it not rather foolish in your own interests? constantinople is not the pole. a fortnight will suffice for you to get there and back and clinch the bargain. muhil is awaiting us. i had a wire only yesterday. do reconsider the whole question--there's a good fellow." max had said nothing about the meeting with marion. therefore he believed that she had not told her lover. adam was reflecting whether she might not, after all, be a woman to be trusted. this refusal of max's to go out to turkey interfered seriously with the plans he had formed. yet what those plans actually were he had not even told the hunchback. he was a man who took counsel of nobody. his ingenious schemes he evolved in his own brain, and carried them into effect by his own unaided efforts. the past history of jean adam, alias john adams, had been one of amazing ups-and-downs and clever chicanery. he knew that samuel statham held him in awe, and was now playing upon his fears, and gloating over the success which must inevitably be his whenever he thought fit to deal the blow. it would be irresistible and crushing. he held the millionaire in his power. but before he moved forward to strike, he intended that max should be induced to go abroad. and if he went--well, when he thought of his victim's departure his small, near-set eyes gleamed, and about the corners of his mouth there played an expression of evil. "my decision does not require any reconsideration," said the young fellow, after a pause. "i shall remain in london." "and lose the chance of a lifetime--eh?" exclaimed adam, as though perfectly unconcerned. "i have some very important private matters to attend to." "i, too, used to have when i was your age." "they do not concern the lady," max said quickly. "it is purely a personal matter." "of business? why, you'd make as much in an hour over this railway business as you'd make in twenty years here in london," adam declared. "besides, you want a change. come out to the bosphorus. it's charming beside the sweet waters." "all sounds very delightful; but even though i may let the chance of a fortune slip through my fingers, i cannot leave london at present." "but why?" "a purely private matter," was his reply, for he did not wish to tell this man anything concerning the strange disappearance of the doctor and his grave suspicions of charlie rolfe. "i can tell you nothing more than that." "well, i'm sure the lady, if she knew that it was in your interests to go to turkey, would urge you to go," declared adam. "she would never keep you here if she knew that you could pull off such a deal as i have put before you." "she does know." "oh! and what does she say?" "she suggested that i should go with you." "then why not come?" "because, as i've already told you, it is impossible. i am kept in london by something which concerns the welfare of a very dear friend," max answered. "you must put it before somebody else. i suppose the affair cannot wait?" "i don't want to put it before anybody else. if we do business, i want you and i to share the profits." "very good of you, i'm sure; but at present i am quite unable to leave london." max was wondering for the first time why this man was so pressing. if the thing was a really good one--as it undoubtedly was, according to the friend he had consulted in the city--then there could not be any lack of persons ready to go into the venture. was it sheer luck that had led this man adam to offer to take him into it, or had the man some ulterior motive? max barclay was no fool. he had sown his wild oats in london, and knew the ways of men. he had met many a city shark, and had been the poorer in pocket through the meeting. but about this man adam was something which had always fascinated him. the pair had been drawn together by some indescribable but mutual attraction, and the concession by the sultan which must result in great profits was now within his reach. nevertheless, he felt that in the present circumstances it was impossible to leave london. before doing so he was desirous of solving the problem of the disappearance of doctor petrovitch, and clearing up the question of whether or not there had been foul play. rolfe's denial of the previous day had complicated matters even further. he was convinced, now that he had reflected calmly, that his friend was concealing something from him--some fact which had an important bearing upon the astounding affair. was charlie playing a straight game? after long consideration he had come again to the conclusion that he was not! in his ear was the voice of the tempter jean adam. fortune awaited him in that sunlit city of white domes and minarets beside the bosphorus-- the city of veiled women and of mystery he had always hoped to visit. would he not spare fourteen days, travel there, and obtain it? it was a great temptation. the concession for that railway would indeed have been a temptation to any man. did not the late baron hirsch lay the foundation of his huge fortune by a similar irade of his majesty the sultan? the man seated in the deep armchair with the cigarette between his lips looked at his victim through his half-closed eyes, as a snake watches the bird he fascinates. jean adam was an excellent judge of human nature. he had placed there a bait which could not fail to attract, if not to-day, then to-morrow--or the next day. he had gauged max barclay with a precision only given to those who live upon their wits. to every rule there are, of course, exceptions. every man who lives upon his wits is not altogether bad. curious though it may be, there are many adventurers to be met with in every capital in europe, who, though utterly unscrupulous, have in their nature one point of the most scrupulous honour--one point which redeems them from being classed as utter blackguards. many a man, who will stick at nothing where money can be made, is loyal, honest, and upright towards a woman; while another will with one hand swindle the wealthy, and with the other give charity to the poor. few men, indeed, are altogether bad. yet when they are, they are, alas! outsiders indeed. adam was a man who had no compunction where men were concerned, and very little when a woman stood in his way. his own adventures would have made one of the most interesting volumes ever written. full of ingenuity and tact, fearless when it came to facing exposure, and light-hearted whenever the world smiled upon him, he was a marvellous admixture of good fellow and scoundrel. he knew that his clever story had fascinated the man before him, and that it was only a question of time before he would fall into the net so cleverly spread. "when do you anticipate you could go east--that is, providing i can get the matter postponed?" asked adam at last, as he placed his cigarette end in the ash-tray. "i can't give you a date," replied max. "it is quite uncertain. why not go to somebody else?" "i tell you i have no desire to do so, my dear friend," was the frenchman's reply. "i like you. that is why i placed the business before you. i know, of course, there are a thousand men in the city who would only jump at this chance of such a big thing." "then why not go to them?" repeated max, a little surprised and yet a little flattered. "as i have told you, i would rather take you into partnership. we have already decided to do the thing on a sound business basis. indeed, i went to my lawyers only yesterday and gave orders for the agreement to be drawn up between us. you'll receive it to-night or to-morrow." "well," replied max with some hesitation, "if it is to be done, it must be done later. at present i cannot get away. my place is in london." "beside the lady to whom you are so devoted, eh?" the frenchman laughed. max was irritated by the man's veiled sarcasm. "no. because i have a duty to perform towards a friend, and even the temptation of a fortune shall not cause me to neglect it." "a friend. whom?" "the matter is my own affair. it has nothing to do with our business," was max's rather sharp response. "very well," said the other, quite unruffled. "i can only regret. i will wire to-night to muhil pasha, and endeavour to obtain a postponement of the agreement." "as you wish," max said, still angered at this importation of the woman he loved into the discussion. "i may as well say that it is quite immaterial." "to you it may be so. but i am not rich like yourself," the other said. "i have to obtain my income where i can by honest means, and this is a chance which i do not intend to lose. i look to you--i hold you to your promise, barclay--to assist me." "i do not intend to break my promise. i merely say that i cannot go out to turkey at once." "but you will come--you will promise that in a few days--in a week--or when you have finished this mysterious duty to your friend, that you will come with me?" he urged. "come, give me your hand. i don't want to approach anybody else." "well, if you really wish it," max replied, and he gave the tempter his hand in pledge. when, a few seconds later, jean adam turned to light a fresh cigarette there was upon his thin lips a smile--a sinister smile of triumph. max barclay had played dice with the devil, and lost. he had, in his ignorance of the net spread about him, in that moment pledged his own honour. chapter twenty eight. old sam has a visitor. it was past midnight. at eleven o'clock old sam statham had descended from the mysterious upper regions, emerged from the green baize door upon the stairs, which concealed another white-enamelled door--a door of iron, and, passing down to the study, had switched on the electric light, thrown himself wearily into an armchair, and lit a cigar. upon his grey, drawn countenance was a serious apprehensive look, as of a man who anticipated serious trouble, and who was trying in vain to brave himself up to face it. for nearly half an hour he had smoked on alone, now and then muttering to himself, his bony fingers clenched as though anticipating revenge. the big room was so silent at that hour that a pin if dropped might have been heard. only the clock ticked on solemnly, and striking the half-hour upon its silvery bell. the old millionaire who, on passing through that baize-covered door, had locked the inner door so carefully after him, seemed strangely agitated. so apprehensive was he that levi, entering some time afterwards, said in his sharp, brusque manner: "i thought you had retired long ago. what's the matter?" "i have an appointment," snapped his master; "an important one." "rather late, isn't it?" suggested the old servant. "remember that there are spies about. that little affair the other night aroused some curiosity--i'm certain of it." "among a few common passers-by. bah! my dear levi, they don't know anything." "but they may talk! this house has already got a bad name, you know." "well, that's surely not my fault," cried the old man with a fiery flash in his eyes. "it's more your fault for acting so infernally suspiciously and mysteriously. i know quite well what people say of me." "a good deal that's true," declared old levi in open defiance of the man in whose service he had been so long. sam statham grinned. it was a subject which he did not wish to discuss. "you can go to bed, levi. i'll open the door," he said to the man who was his janitor. "who's coming?" inquired levi abruptly. "a friend. i want to talk to him seriously and alone." "what's his name?" "don't be so infernally inquisitive, levi. go to bed, i tell you," he croaked with a commanding wave of the hand. the servant never thwarted his master's wishes. he knew sam statham too well. a strange smile played about the corners of his mouth, and he looked around to see that the whisky, syphons and glasses were on the side table. then with a rather ill-grace said: "very well--good-night," and, bowing, he retired. when the door had closed the old millionaire ground his teeth, muttering: "you must always poke your infernal long nose into my affairs. but this matter i'll keep to myself just for once. i'm tired of your constant interference and advice. ah!" he sighed. "how strange life is! samuel statham, millionaire, they call me. i saw it in the _pall mall_ to-night. rather sam statham, pauper--the pauper of park lane! ah! if the public only knew! if they only knew!" he gasped, halting suddenly and staring wildly about him. "what would be my future--what will it be when my enemies, like a pack of wolves, fall upon me and tear me limb from limb? yes, yes, they'll do that if i am unable to save myself. "but why need i anticipate failure? what does the sacrifice of one woman matter when it will mean the assurance of my future--my salvation from ruin?" he went on, speaking to himself in a low, hoarse voice. "it's a thing i cannot tell levi. he must find it out. he will--one day--when the police inquiries give him the clue," and he snapped his own white fingers nervously and glanced at the clock in apprehension. he threw down his cigar, for it had gone out a long time ago. sam statham's life had been made up of many crises, and one of these he was passing through on that hot, breathless night after the motor-'buses had ceased their roar in park lane and tinkling cab-bells were few and far between. one o'clock, the sound of the gong arousing him. he switched off the light, and, walking to the window, raised one of the slats of the venetian blinds and peered out upon the pavement where so recently he had first recognised that man from the grave--the man jean adam. he stood behind the blue brocade curtains, watching eagerly. the passers-by were few--very few. lower-class london was mostly at margate and ramsgate, while "the west-end" was totally absent, in scotland or at the sea. he was wondering if levi had really gone to bed. or was he lurking there to ascertain who might be the visitor expected? old sam crept noiselessly to the door, and, opening it, peered out. the wide hall was now in darkness. levi had, apparently, obeyed his orders and gone below to bed. and yet, so faithful was he to his trust that nobody could ever enter that house without him being aware of the identity of the visitor. sometimes old sam would regret the brusque manner in which he treated the man who was so entirely devoted to him and who shared so many of his secrets. but the secret of that night he did not intend levi to share. it was his--and should be his alone. and for that person he was waiting to himself open the door to his midnight caller. he was about to close the study door again when he fancied he heard a slight movement in the darkness of the hall. "levi!" he exclaimed angrily. "what are you doing here when i ordered you to retire?" "i'm doing my duty," responded the old servant, advancing out of the shadow. "i do not wish you to go to the door alone, and at night. you do not take sufficient care of your personal safety." "rubbish! i have no fear," he answered as both stood there in the darkness. "yes, but, you are injudicious," declared the old servant. "if not, you would have heeded young rolfe's warning, and your present dangerous position might have been avoided. adams means mischief. you surely can't close your eyes to that!" "i know he does," answered the millionaire in a voice that seemed harsh and hollow. "i know i was a fool." "you took a false step, and can't retrace it. if you had consulted me i would have given you my views upon the situation." "yes, levi. you're far too fond of expounding your view on subjects of which you have no knowledge. your incessant chatter often annoys me," was his master's response. "if i have committed an error, it is my affair--not yours. so go to bed, and leave me alone." "i shall not," was levi's open reply. "i'm master here. i order you to go!" cried sam statham in an angry, commanding tone. "and i refuse. i will not allow you to run any further risk." "what do you anticipate?" his master asked with sarcasm. "are you expecting that my enemies intend to kill me in secret. if so, i can quickly disabuse your mind. it would not be to their interests if i were dead, for they could not then bleed me, as is, no doubt, their intention. i know adams and his friends." "so do i," declared levi. "whatever plot they have formed against you is no doubt clever and ingenious. they are not men to act until every preparation is complete." "then why fear for my personal safety?" asked the millionaire. "i always have this--and i can use it," and he drew from his pocket something which glistened in the darkness--a neat plated revolver. "i fear, because of late you've acted so injudiciously." "through ignorance. i believed myself to be more shrewd than i really am. you see i admit my failing to you, levi. but only to you--to nobody else. the city believes sam statham to possess the keenest mind and sharpest wits of any man between temple bar and aldgate. strange, isn't it, that each one of us earns a reputation for something in which really does not excel?" "you excel in disbelieving everybody," remarked levi outspokenly. "if you believed that there was some little honesty in human nature you might have been spared the present danger." "you mean i'm too suspicious--eh? my experience of life has made me so," he growled. "of the thousand employees i possess, is there a man among them honest? and as for my friends, is there one i can trust-- except ben and yourself, of course?" "what about rolfe?" sam statham hesitated. it was a question put too abruptly--a question not easily decided on the spur of the moment. of course, ever since his failure to go to belgrade, he had entertained some misgivings regarding his secretary. there was more than one point of fact which did not coincide with rolfe's statements. the old man was quickly suspicious, and when he scented mystery, it was always a long time before his doubts were allayed. like every man of great wealth, he had been surrounded by sycophants, who had endeavoured to get rich at his expense. the very men he had helped to fortune had turned round afterwards and abused and libelled him. it was that which had long ago soured him against his fellow men, and aroused in his heart a disbelief in all protestation of honesty and uprightness. levi recognised his master's lack of confidence in rolfe, and it caused him to wonder. hitherto he had been full of praise of the clever and energetic young secretary by whose smart business methods several great concerns in which he had controlling interest had been put into a flourishing condition. but now, quite of a sudden, there was a hesitancy which told too plainly of lack of confidence. was the star of rolfe's prosperity on the wane? if so, levi felt sorry, for he was attached to the young man, whom he felt confident had the interests of his master thoroughly at heart. old levi was a queer fish. he had seldom taken to anybody as he had done to mr rolfe, who happily cracked a joke with him and asked after his rheumatics. "levi," exclaimed statham after a few moments of silence, "is it not absurd for us to chatter here, in the darkness? it's past one. i wish you to go downstairs and leave me alone." "why?" demanded the old retainer. "because i have a strong reason for opening the door myself. i--well i promised that my visitor should be seen by no one except myself. now, do you understand?" levi did not answer for a few moments. "then in that case," he said with reluctance, "i suppose i must do as you wish, only i'm very much against you opening the door yourself. you know that!" and grunting, his dark figure moved along the hall, and he disappeared down the stairs, wishing his master "good-night." statham, having listened to his retreating footsteps, re-entered the library, which was still unlit, and, going again to the window, peered forth into park lane. rain was falling, and the street-lamps cast long lines of light upon the shining pavements. in the faint ray of light that fell across the room from without he bent and looked at his watch. it was half-past one--the hour of the appointment. the old fellow raised both hands to his head and smoothed back his grey hair. then he drew a long sigh, and waited in patience, peering forth in eager expectancy. for another ten minutes he remained almost motionless until at last his ear caught the sound of a footstep coming from the direction of oxford street, and a dark figure, passing the window, stopped beneath the porch. next second he flew along the hall to the door, opening it noiselessly to admit a woman in a black tailor-made gown and motor-cap, her features but half concealed by a thin veil of grey gauze. she crossed the threshold without speaking, for he raised his finger as though to command her silence. then, when he had closed the door behind her and slipped the bolt into its socket, he conducted her along to the dark study, without uttering a word. her attitude and gait was that of fear and hesitancy; as though she already regretted having come there, and would fain make her escape--if escape were possible. chapter twenty nine. in which marion is indiscreet. on entering, old statham switched on the electric light quietly, the soft glow revealing the pale countenance of his guest. the blanched face, with its apprehensive, half-frightened expression, was that of marion rolfe. "well," he said in his thin, rather squeaky voice, after he had closed the door behind her and drawn forward a chair, "you have at last summoned courage to come--eh?" he smiled at her triumphantly. "why have you refused my invitation so many times? my house, i know, bears a reputation for mystery, but i am no ogre, i assure you, miss rolfe." "whispers have come back to me that i am believed by some to be a modern blue beard, or by others a kind of seducer; but i trust you will disbelieve the wild rumours put out by my enemies, and regard me as your friend." she had sunk into the soft depths of the green silk upholstered chair, and, with her motor-veil thrown back, was gazing at the old man, half in fear, half in wonder. to his words she made no response. "i hope the car i sent came for you as arranged?" he said, at once changing the subject. "yes. the man arrived punctually," she answered at last. "but--" "but what?" "i ought never to have come here," she declared uneasily. "i will have to go before mr cunnington to-morrow for being absent all night, and shall certainly be discharged. he will never hear excuse in any case. instant dismissal is the hard and fast rule." "not in your case, miss rolfe," replied the old millionaire. "remember that it is not mr cunnington who controls cunnington's, limited. i have asked you here in order to speak to you in strictest confidence. indeed, i want to take you into my confidence, if you'll allow me. perhaps you will be absent from oxford street a week--perhaps a month. but when you return you will not find the vacancy filled." his cold eyes were fixed upon hers. she found a strange fascination in the old man's glance, for he seemed to fix her and hold her immovable. now, for the first time she experienced what charlie had so often told her, namely, that samuel statham could, when he so desired, exercise an extraordinary power over his fellow men. "absent a month?" she echoed, staring at him. "what do you mean?" "what i say. the car is awaiting you at the marble arch, isn't it?" "i suppose so. the chauffeur put me down there--at your orders, i believe." "i told you to put on a thick coat and motor-veil. i see you have done as i wished. i want you to go on a long journey." she looked at the grey, immovable face before her in sheer astonishment. to this man both her brother charlie and she herself owed their present happiness. and yet he was a man of millions and of mystery. charlie had always been reticent regarding the strange tales concerning the house in which she now found herself, a visitor there under compulsion. max, on the other hand, had often expressed wonder whether or not there was really any substratum of truth. as she sat there she recollected how, only a fortnight before, max had told her the latest queer story regarding the mysterious mansion and its eccentric owner. what would he say if he knew that she had dared to go alone there--that she was seated in the old man's private room? dared! if the truth were told, sam statham had written to her fully half-a-dozen times, asking her to call upon him in secret in the evening when her brother would have left, as he wished to speak with her. each time she had replied making excuses, for within herself she could not imagine upon what business he wished to see her. she had only met him once, on the day her brother took her to the city and asked his master to secure her a berth at cunnington's. the interview only lasted five minutes, and the impression he left upon her was that of a peevish, snappy old man who held all women in abhorrence. "very well, very well, rolfe," he had replied impatiently, "i'll write to cunnington's about your sister. remind me to-morrow." then, turning to her, he had wished her a hasty good-bye, and resumed his writing. he had hardly taken the trouble to look at her. now, for the first time, he was gazing straight into her face, and she thought she detected in his eyes an expression of sadness, combined with kindliness. an expert in the reading of character, however, would have noticed beneath that assumed kindliness was an expression of triumph. he had brought her there against her will. she was there at his bidding, merely because she dare not offend the man to whom both charlie and herself owed their daily bread. for a long time she had held out against all his strongly-expressed desires to see her. his letters had been placed in her hand by a special messenger, and mr warner, "the buyer," had on two occasions witnessed their delivery, and wondered who might be his assistant's correspondent. he never dreamed that it was samuel statham, the man who held the controlling interest in the huge concern. the writer of those letters particularly requested her not to mention the matter to her brother, therefore she more than once thought of consulting max. but statham's instructions was that she should regard the matter as confidential so she had refrained, and at the same time had met all his invitations with steady excuses. at last on the previous day came a tersely worded note, which made it plain that the millionaire would brook no refusal. she was to purchase a motor-cap and veil, and, wearing them, was, at an hour he appointed, to meet a dark red motor car that would be awaiting her at addison road station. in it she was to drive back to the marble arch, where he was to alight and walk along park lane direct to the house, where he himself would admit her in secret. the writer added that she was to ask no questions, and that no reply was needed. he would be expecting her. and so she had come there in utter ignorance of his motive for inviting her, and as she sat before him she became filled with apprehension. hers was, she knew, an adventure of which neither charlie nor max would approve. the clever old man read the girl's mind like an open book, and at once sought to allay her misgivings. "i see," he said, smiling, "that you are not altogether at your ease. you're afraid of what people might say--eh? your fellow-assistants wouldn't approve of you coming to see me at this hour, i suppose. yes," he laughed. "what is considered discreditable among the middle classes is deemed quite admissible in society. but who need know unless you yourself tell them?" "it will be known to-morrow morning that i was absent," she said. "leave that to me. only one person will know--cunnington himself. so make your mind quite easy upon that point, my dear young lady. i can quite understand your hesitation in coming here. it is, of course, only natural. but you must remember in what high esteem i held your father, and how for the sake of his memory i have taken your brother into my service." "before we go further, mr statham," exclaimed the girl, "i would like to take this opportunity of thanking you for all you've done for both of us. had it not been for your generosity i'm sure charlie would never have been in such a position." "ah! you're very fond of your brother, eh?" he asked in his quick, brusque way, leaning back in his armchair and placing his hands together. "yes. he is so very good to me." "and you probably know something of his affairs?" "very little. he doesn't tell me much." "he talks of me sometimes, i suppose?" remarked the old man with a good-humoured smile. "with the greatest admiration always, mr statham. he is devoted to you," she declared. the old man moved uneasily, and gave a sniff of suspicion combined with a low grunt of satisfaction. "he's engaged to some foreign woman, i hear," he said. "you know her, of course." "you mean maud petrovitch. yes, she is my friend." "petrovitch--petrovitch," he repeated, as though in ignorance of the fact. "i've heard that name before. sounds like a russian name." "servian. she is the daughter of doctor petrovitch, the well-known servian statesman." "of course. i recollect now. he's been in the ministry once or twice. i recollect having some dealings with him over the servian loan. he was finance minister then. and so he is in love with her!" he said, reflectively. "if i remember aright, she's the only daughter. his excellency invited me to dine at his house in belgrade one night a few years ago, and i saw her--a very pretty, dark-haired girl; she looked more french than servian." "her mother was english." "ah!" and a dead silence fell, broken only by the low tinkle of a cab-bell outside. "so your brother is in love with the pretty daughter of the ex-minister! what a happy circumstance is youth!" sighed the old man. "and you yourself?" he went on, staring straight at her. "you have a lover also! how can i ask? of course, a beautiful girl like you must have a lover." marion blushed deeply--dropping her eyes from his. she was annoyed that he should make such an outspoken comment, and yet she forgave him, knowing full well what an eccentric person he was. the truth was that the old man now, for the first time, realised how extremely good-looking was the sister of his secretary. he had been told so by mr cunnington on one occasion, but he had heard without paying attention. yet as he now sat with his gaze fastened upon her he saw how uneasy she was, and how anxious to escape from his presence. this rather piqued him. he had a suspicion that her brother might have said something to prejudice him in her estimation; therefore he exerted all his efforts to place her at her ease--efforts which, alas! had but little avail. the silence of that sombre but gorgeous room, the weird mystery of the house itself, and the thin-faced man of millions himself all combined to fill her with some instinctive dread. alone there at that hour, she felt herself completely in that man's power. only three days before she had read a paragraph in "m.a.p." regarding his enormous wealth and his far-reaching power and influence. the writer said that samuel statham was a man who seldom smiled, and whose own secretary scarcely knew him, so aloof did he hold himself from the world. and it was added that he, possessor of millions, preferred hot baked potatoes on a winter's night to the finest dishes which a french chef could contrive. he was a man of simplest tastes, yet strangely erratic in his movements; a man whose foresight in business matters was little short of miraculous, and whose very touch seemed to turn dross to gold. he had declined half-a-dozen invitations to meet royalty at royalty's express wish, and when offered a peerage by the prime minister before the late government went out of office he had respectfully declined the preferred honour. sam statham sneered at society, and turned a cold shoulder to it--a fact which caused society to be all the more eager to know him. marion recollected every word of this as she sat in wonder at the actual motive of her visit. her eyes wandered around the fine room with its beautiful pictures, its priceless pieces of statuary, and its great chinese vases that were loot from the summer palace at pekin. the air of wealth and luxury impressed her, while even the arrangement of the electric lights, placed out of sight behind the book-cases and reflected into the centre of the apartment, was so cunningly devised that the illumination was bright without being glaring. "and so you have a lover in secret--eh?" he laughed, leaning back and regarding her with half-closed eyes. "like every other girl, you dream of marriage and happiness--a shadowy dream, i can assure you. happiness is as tangible as the moonbeams, and love as fleeting as the sunset. but you are young, and will disbelieve me. i don't ask you to heed me, indeed, for i am old and world-weary and soured of life. i only urge upon you to pause, and think deeply, very deeply and earnestly, before you plight your troth to any man. most men are unworthy, and all men are liars." had he brought her there at that unusual hour to deliver a discourse upon the perils of affection? she sat listening to him without uttering a word. but she thought of max--her max, who loved her so dearly and so well--and she laughed within herself at the old man's well-meant warnings. his words were those of a man whose happiness had been wrecked by some woman, vain and worthless. why had he insisted that she should visit him in secret? to her, his motive was a complete enigma, rendered the more complicated by his vigorous denunciation of affection, and all that appertained to it. chapter thirty. the spider's parlour. "what you have told me, miss rolfe, concerning your brother's engagement, interests me greatly," the old fellow said at last. "he is entirely in my confidence, and a most valuable assistant, therefore i, naturally, am very anxious that he should not make an unhappy marriage." "i--i hope that you will not say that i have told you," exclaimed the girl quickly. "i know i ought not to--" "whatever is said between us in this room, miss rolfe, is said in strictest confidence," the millionaire declared. "i have a good many secrets in my keeping, you know. therefore rest assured that whatever you tell me goes no further." "you are against his marriage," she suggested, looking him boldly in the face. "i have not said so. i am only seeking information abort the lady--maud petrovitch, i think you said was her name?" "whatever i can tell you is only in her favour. she was a dear--a very dear friend of mine." "ah! then you have quarrelled--eh?" he said, looking at her sharply. "you said she was your friend--you used the past tense." "i know." "why?" "because,"--and she grew confused--"well, because something has happened." "to interrupt pure friendship?" she did not reply. he had craftily led up the conversation to maud, and was, as he had openly told her, seeking information. he watched the flush upon her cheeks, and the nervous manner in which she picked at her skirt. "and yet, though you are friends no longer, you are in favour of your brother's marriage with the lady? that appears strange. i suppose he loves her. every man loves at his age, and lives to regret it at forty," he added with that touch of biting sarcasm that was never absolutely absent from his remarks. "yes; charlie does love her. i'm convinced of that. and her devotion to him has always been very marked, from the first time they were introduced at aix-les-bains. she has told me how deep is her affection for him." "at aix-les-bains," statham exclaimed in surprise: "i thought doctor petrovitch lived in london?" "and so he did--until recently." "where is he now? i would much like to meet him again." "i do not know. he left london suddenly with his daughter." "your brother would know, of course." "no. he also is unaware of their present whereabouts," she answered quickly, adding: "recollect your promise not to mention the matter to him." "when i make a promise, miss rolfe, i keep it," was his grave response. "only forgive me for saying so, but you appear to be a little evasive regarding the doctor's daughter." "evasive?" she echoed. "i don't understand you, mr statham." "well, you are trying to mislead me," he answered, knitting his brows and looking her straight in the face. "and let me say that when you try to mislead sam statham you have a difficult task." she started at his sudden change of manner, and again became confused. "now," he said, bending forward to her from his chair, "let us understand each other at the outset. you were the most intimate friend of this girl maud who, with her father, suddenly disappeared from london. the facts of their disappearance are already known to me, i may as well tell you that much. they vanished, and took their household goods with them. perhaps they were afraid of anarchists or political enemies, or perhaps the doctor is wanted by the police. who knows? it was a mystery, and as such remains, is not that so?" she nodded. this knowledge of his astounded her. she had believed that the disappearance was only known to the two or three persons who had been the petrovitchs' personal friends. she little dreamed of the many spies in the pay of the great financier, men and women who reported to him any political move at home or abroad which might influence the markets. the world had often believed that sam statham was omnipresent. they knew nothing of his agents, or of their secret visits. "now, miss rolfe, let us advance one step further," the old man said, still keeping his keen gaze upon hers. "if you will kindly carry your mind back to the day of their disappearance, you will remember that you accompanied the doctor's daughter to a concert at queen's hall." "how do you know that?" she cried, starting up from her chair. "how i know it is immaterial," he said firmly. "kindly re-seat yourself." "i will not," she declared boldly. "you are cross-examining me as though i were a criminal. this is outrageous!" "i politely request you to sit down, miss rolfe," he said, never moving a muscle. her beautiful face was flushed with resentment and anger, as, standing erect before him, she faced him in open defiance. "i see no further point in this interview," was her cool reply. "i will go." "i think it would be wiser for you to remain," he responded in a low, determined voice; "wiser for you to answer my questions." "i have already answered them." "i wish to know something further," he said, stirring again in his chair, and waving his hand with a repeated request that she would be re-seated. "i have nothing to conceal," was her reply, attempting to smile. "why should i?" "why, indeed," he said, "i may as well tell you that i have reasons-- very strong business reasons--for elucidating this mystery concerning doctor petrovitch. to me it involves a question of many thousands of pounds. i have considerable interests out in servia, as your brother may have explained to you. i must find the doctor, and the reason i have asked you here to-night is to invoke your aid in assisting me to do so. can i be more explicit?" he looked in her face, but a shrewd observer would have known by the wavering smile at the corners of his mouth that he was not speaking the exact truth. there was some trick or motive underlying it all. though she did not detect this, she was still undecided. anger was aroused within her by his commanding manner. his attitude had changed so suddenly that she had been taken thoroughly aback. "i am afraid, mr statham, that i cannot render you any assistance in discovering the whereabouts of the petrovitchs." "but, my dear young lady!" he cried. "they had servants. surely there is one who could give us some very valuable information." "perhaps so, if he or she could be found," she remarked. "they, no doubt, took every precaution against being followed. as a matter of fact, so great a care has the doctor taken that his most intimate friend in london is in ignorance." "and who is he, pray?" asked the millionaire quickly. "a gentleman named barclay--mr max barclay." "max barclay! i've heard of him. a friend of your brother's, eh? and so he was the doctor's friend?" "they were inseparable, but the doctor left without a word of farewell." "and also the daughter--except to you, miss rolfe," he said, looking at her meaningly. "to me?" "yes," he went on, his keen gaze again upon her. "it is useless to assume ignorance. you know quite well that the doctor's daughter, on the night of their disappearance, made a statement to you--an important statement." "my brother told you that!" she cried. "he has told you everything!" "he has told me nothing," replied the old man coldly. "i only ask whether you deny that she made a statement." the girl hesitated. "she certainly spoke to me," she admitted at last. "i was her most intimate friend, and it was only natural perhaps that she told me what was most uppermost in her mind." "and what was that?" "i regret," she replied, "that i cannot repeat it; mr statham." "what! you refuse to say anything?" "under compulsion--yes," was her firm answer. "i did not know," she added, "that you had invited me here to ply me with questions in this manner." "or you would not have come, eh?" he laughed. "well, my dear young lady, you apparently don't quite realise how very important it is to me to discover doctor petrovitch. i have asked you here in order to beg a favour of you. i may be rough and matter-of-fact, but i trust you will pardon my apparent rudeness." "there is nothing to forgive, mr statham," was her quiet, dignified response. "my reply, quite brief and at the same time unalterable, is that i have nothing to say." "you mean you refuse to tell me?" she nodded. he thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his old grey trousers, and stared down at the carpet. marion rolfe was more difficult to question than he had anticipated. she possessed the same firm, resolute nature of her father and her brother. that maud petrovitch had made a statement to her which possessed a most important bearing upon the serious interests involved, he was absolutely certain. ever since the day following the strange disappearance, certain secret agents of his had been at work, but they had discovered next to nothing. marion rolfe alone was in possession of the actual facts. he knew that full well, and was therefore determined that she should be compelled to speak and explain. "i wish, miss rolfe, that i could impress upon you the extreme importance of this matter to myself personally," he said, assuming an air quite conciliatory in the hope that he might induce her to reveal the truth. "i have begged of you to assist me in a very difficult task--one which, if i fail in accomplishing, will mean an enormous financial revenue. your brother is in my service, while you yourself are also indirectly in my service," he added; "and if, as result of your information, i am able to discover the doctor, i need not tell you that i shall mark your services in an appreciable manner." "you have already been very generous to us both, mr statham, but i think you cannot know much of me if you believe that for sake of reward i will betray the doctor," was her dignified answer. "it is not a question of betrayal," he hastened to reassure her. "it is to his own interest as well as to mine that we should meet. if we do not, it will mean ruin to him." "and if he is dead?" suggested marion. "my own belief is that he is not dead," was the millionaire's reply. "i know more of him and of his past than you imagine. there is every reason why he should live." "and maud--what of her?" he shrugged his shoulders, and replied: "as regards her--you know best. she told you the truth." "yes--and which i will not repeat." "oh! but, my dear young lady, you must! why waste time like this? every day, nay every hour, causes the affair to assume increased gravity. i would have gone to the police long ago, only such a course would have brought the doctor into a criminal dock. i have his interests, as well as my own at heart." "i have given my promise of secrecy, mr statham, and i will not betray it," she repeated, again rising from her chair, anxious to leave the house. "you still refuse!" he cried starting to his feet also, and standing before her. "you still refuse--even to save yourself!" "to save myself!" she exclaimed. "i do not follow you, mr statham." a sinister grin spread over his grey face. "you are perfectly free to leave this place, miss rolfe," he said in a hard, meaning voice, "but first reflect what they will say at cunnington's regarding your visit here to-night!" "you--you will tell them!" she gasped, drawing back from him, pale as death as she realised, for the first time, how she had imperilled her good name, and how completely she was in his power. "i--i believed, mr statham, that you were an honourable man!" "where a man's life is concerned it is not a question of honour," was his reply. "you refuse to assist me--and i refuse to assist you. that is all!" chapter thirty one. "his name!" "not a question of honour, mr statham!" she cried. "is it not a question of my own honour!" and she stood before him, erect and defiant. "my dear young lady," he laughed, "pray calm yourself. let us discuss the matter quietly." "there is nothing to discuss," she exclaimed resentfully, looking straight into the old man's grey face. "you have threatened to divulge the secret of my visit to you to-night if--if i refuse to betray my friend! is such an action honourable? does such a threat against a defenceless woman do you credit?" she asked. "you misunderstand me," he hastened to assure her, realising the mistake he had made. "i understand that you ask me a question," she said. "you wish me to repeat what was told to me in confidence--the secret imparted to me by the girl who was my beat friend!" "yes; i wish to know what maud petrovitch told you," he answered, standing with his thin hands behind his back. "then i regret that i am unable to satisfy your curiosity," was her firm response. "i now realise your motive in inviting me here at this hour to see you in secret. you meant me to compromise myself--to remain away from cunnington's and be punished for my absence--the punishment of dismissal," she went on, her fine eyes flashing in anger at his dastardly tactics. "you know quite well, mr statham, that the world is only too ready to think ill of a woman! you anticipate that i will betray my friend, in order to save myself from calumny and dismissal from the service of the firm. but in that you are mistaken. no word shall pass my lips, and i wish you good-night," she added with serve hauteur, moving towards the door. "no, miss rolfe!" he cried, quickly intercepting her. "surely it is unnecessary to create this scene. i hate scenes. life is really not worth them. you have denounced what you are pleased to call my ungentlemanly tactics. well, i can only say in my defence that samuel statham, although he is not all that he might be, has never acted the blackguard towards a woman, and more especially, towards the daughter of his dear friend." "you have told me that you will refuse to assist me further!" she said. "in other words, you decline to preserve the secret of my visit here, although you made a promise that my absence to-night from cunnington's should not be noted!" "i have given you a promise, miss rolfe, and i shall keep it," was his quiet and serious response. she looked at him with distrust. "you have asked me a question, mr statham--one to which i am not permitted to reply," she said. "why not?" "because--well, because i have made a vow to regard what was told me as strictly in confidence." sam statham pursed his lips. few were the secrets he could not learn when he set his mind upon learning them. in every capital in europe he had his agents, who, at orders from him, set about to discover what he wished to know, whether it be a carefully-guarded diplomatic secret, or whether it concerned the love affair of some royal prince to whom he was making a loan. he knew as much of the internal affairs of various countries as their finance ministers did themselves, and with the private affairs of some of his clients he was as well acquainted as were their own valets. to the possession of sound but secret information much of the old man's success was due. the mysterious men and women who so often came and went to that house all poured into his ear facts they had gathered-- facts which he afterwards duly noted in the locked green-covered book which he kept in the security of his safe. surely the contents of that book would, if published, have created a huge sensation; for there were noted there many ugly incidents in the lives of the men who were most prominent in europe, together, be it said, with facts concerning them that were highly creditable, and sometimes counterbalanced the black pages in their history. and this man of many secrets stood there thwarted by a mere chit of a girl! he regarded her coldly with expressionless eyes. his gaze caused her to shudder. she withdrew from him with instinctive dislike. about this man of millions, whose touch turned everything to gold, there seemed to her something superhuman, something indescribably fearsome. his very gaze seemed to fascinate her, and yet at the same time she regarded him with distrust and horror. she was a fool, she told herself, ever to have listened to his appeal. she ought to have had sense enough to know that by bringing her there at that hour he had some sinister motive. his motive was to wring from her the words of maud petrovitch. suddenly he altered his tactics, and, drawing her chair forward again, said: "let us sit down and talk of something else. you look pale. may i offer you something?" "no, thank you," she replied. it was true that his threatening words a few moments ago had upset her, therefore she was glad to be seated again. he evidently did not intend that she should leave yet. having re-seated himself near his writing-table, he said: "as i explained, i want you, if you will, to go on a journey for me. the car is awaiting you round in deanery street." "a journey? is it far?" "that all depends--if you are prepared to render me this service," he replied. "i am prepared to render you any service, mr statham, that is within my power, and my conscience permits me," she said in a firm voice. "ah, now, that's better. we're beginning to be friends. when you know me, you will not accuse me of ungentlemanly conduct--especially towards a woman. but," he added with a laugh, "i'm a woman hater. i daresay you've heard that about me--eh?" she smiled also. "well--yes. i've heard that you are not exactly a ladies' man. but surely you are not alone in the world in that!" "if all men were like me, miss rolfe," he said, "there wouldn't be much work for the parsons in the matter of marrying." "you've been unfortunate, perhaps, in your female acquaintances," she ventured to suggest. his manner towards her had altered, therefore she was again perfectly at her ease. "yes," he sighed. "you have guessed correctly--unfortunate." and then a dead silence fell, and marion, watching his face, saw that he was reflecting deeply. of a sudden, he looked straight into her face again, and said: "you have a lover, miss rolfe--and you are happy. is not that so?" the girl blushed deeply at this unexpected statement. how could the old man possibly know, unless some of the people at cunnington's had carried tales to him. perhaps mr warner had told mr cunnington, and he had spoken to the millionaire! "i see," he laughed, "that i've spoken the truth. max barclay loves you, doesn't he? he's a friend of your brother's. i know him, and allow me to congratulate you. he's a thoroughly good fellow, and would be better if he'd keep off hazardous speculation." she did not reply. the old man's final sentence impressed her. max's speculations were hazardous. this was news to her. "you don't deny that you love young barclay, do you?" the old man demanded. she hesitated, her cheeks crimsoning. "well, why should i?" she asked. "he is very good to me--very good, indeed." "that's right," he said approvingly. "if i did not think him an honest, upright fellow i should warn you against him. girls in your dependent position, you know, are too frequently victims of men whom the world call gentlemen. you know that, don't you?" "yes," she answered in a low voice. she was impressed by his solicitude on her behalf. in his eyes was a kindly glance, and she began to declare within herself that she had misjudged him. "well," he went on, "when it came to my knowledge that max barclay was paying court to you, and that you were seen together of an evening and on sundays, it gave me great satisfaction. i owe a debt of gratitude to your poor father, miss rolfe, and i am endeavouring to repay it to his children. therefore i admit to you now that more than once i wondered what kind of lover would be yours. i anticipated annoyance, but, on the contrary, i have only the most complete satisfaction." "i am sure, mr statham, it is very kind of you to say this. and surely it is very generous of you to take in interest in charlie and myself." "it is not a matter of kindness, but a matter of duty," he said. "we were talking of barclay. how did you meet him?" "charlie introduced him to me one sunday afternoon in the park." "and he has promised you marriage? tell me frankly." she nodded, again blushing deeply. "then you have my very heartiest wishes for your future happiness," he declared with a pleasant smile. "mind i am told the date, so that i can send you the usual teapot!" whereat they both laughed in chorus. the old man could be charming when he wished. "oh! we shan't be married for a long time yet, i suppose!" marion exclaimed. "max talks of going with a shooting party up the zambesi next spring. they'll be away a full year, i expect." "and you'll be left all alone?" he said in a tone of surprise. "no, i don't think he'll do that. he ought not to leave you alone at cunnington's." "oh, but he's going out to turkey now--in a few days i think. he has some financial business out there. something which will bring him in a very big sum of money." "oh, what's its nature?" asked the old financier, instantly pricking up his ears. "i believe it's a concession from the sultan for the construction of a railway from some place on the servian frontier, across northern albania, down to san giovanni di medua--if i pronounce the name aright-- on the adriatic." "what!" cried statham, starting up. "are you quite certain of this?" "yes; why?" she asked, surprised at the sudden effect her words had produced upon him. "well--well, because this is a surprise to me, miss rolfe," he said. "tell me the details, as far as you know them. has he spoken to you about it?" "yes. he is hesitating to go, not wishing to leave me." "of course. did i not tell you so a moment ago?" he remarked with a smile. "but are you aware that this concession, if the sultan really gives it, is of the greatest importance to the commercial development of the near east? there are big interests involved, and correspondingly big profits. curious that i have not heard anything of the scheme lately! it's a dream that every balkan statesman has had for the past fifteen years--the creating of an outlet for trade to the adriatic; but the sultan could never be induced to allow the line to run through his dominion. he is not too friendly with either bulgaria or servia. i thought i was being kept well informed of all the openings in constantinople where british capital can be employed. yet i haven't heard anything of this long discussed scheme for quite a year." "your informants believe, perhaps, that it would not interest you?" "interest me!" he echoed. "why, they could not successfully carry it through in london without my aid--or, at least, without my consent. whoever is getting the concession--if it is being obtained at all, which i very much doubt--knows full well that in the long run he must come to sam statham. do you happen to know who, besides barclay, is interested in the scheme?" "there is a french gentleman--a friend of max's--who wants him to go to constantinople with him." "what is his name? i may probably know him?" "adam--jean adam." "jean adam!" gasped the old man. "jean adam--a friend of max barclay?" "yes," she answered, staring at him. "why?" "why, girl!" he cried roughly. "don't ask me why? but tell me all about it--tell me at once!" chapter thirty two. man's broken promises. "i know very little of the details," replied the girl. "max could, of course, tell you everything. he introduced me one night to mr adam, who seemed a very polite man." "all bows and smiles, like the average frenchman--eh? oh, yes. i happen to know him. well?" "he seems a most intimate friend of max's." "is he really?" remarked the millionaire. "then max doesn't know as much about him as i do." "what?" asked marion in quick alarm. "isn't he all that he pretends to be?" "no, he isn't. i must see barclay to-morrow--the first thing to-morrow. i wonder if he's put any money into the venture?" "of that i don't know. he only told me that it would mean a big fortune." "so it would--if it were genuine." "then isn't it genuine?" she asked anxiously. "genuine! why, of course not! nothing that jean adam has anything to do with, my dear young lady, is ever genuine. depend upon it that his majesty the sultan will never grant any such concession. he fears bulgaria far too much. if it could have been had, i may tell you at once i should already have had it. there is, as you say, a big thing to be made out of it--a very big thing. but while the sultan lives the line will never be constructed. pachitch, the prime minister of servia, told me so the last time i was in belgrade, and i'm entirely of his opinion." "but what you tell me regarding mr adam surprises me." "ah! you are still young, miss rolfe! you have many surprises yet in store for you," he replied with a light laugh. "do you know adam personally?" "yes." "then beware of him, my girl--beware of him!" he snapped, his grey face darkening in remembrance of certain ugly facts, and in recollection of the sinister face of the shabby lounger against the park railings. "is he such a bad man, then?" sam statham pressed his thin lips together. "he is one of those men without conscience, and without compunction; a man whose plausible tongue would deceive even satan himself." "then he has deceived max--i mean mr barclay," she exclaimed, quickly correcting her slip of the tongue, her cheeks slightly crimsoning at the same time. "without doubt," was the millionaire's reply. "i must see barclay to-morrow, and ascertain what are adam's plans." "he is persuading mr barclay to go to constantinople. i know that because he asked me to use my influence upon him in that direction." "oh, so he has approached you, also, has he? then there is some strong motive for this journey, without a doubt! barclay will be ill-advised if he accepts the invitation. the bait held out is a very tempting one; but when i've seen your gentleman friend he will not be so credulous." "i'm very surprised at what you told me. i thought mr adam quite a nice person--for a foreigner." "no doubt he was nice to you, for he wished to enlist your services to induce your lover to go out to turkey. for what reason?" "how can i tell?" asked the girl. "mr barclay mentioned that the railway concession would mean the commercial development of the balkan states, and that it would be one of the most paying enterprises in europe." "that is admitted on all hands. but as the concession is not granted, and never will be granted, i cannot see what object adam has in inducing your friend to visit constantinople. was he asked to put money into the scheme, do you know?" "mr adam did not wish him to put up any money until he had thoroughly satisfied himself regarding the truth of his statements." statham was silent. "that's distinctly curious," he remarked at last, apparently much puzzled by her statement. "underlying it all is some sinister motive, depend upon it." "you alarm me, mr statham," the girl said, apprehensive of some unexpected evil befalling the man she loved. "it is as well to be forearmed in dealing with jean adam," was the old man's response. "more than one good man owes the ruin of his life's happiness, nay his death, to the craft and cunning of that man, who, under a dozen different aliases, is known in a dozen different capitals of the world." "then he's an adventurer?" "most certainly. tell barclay to come and see me. or better, i will write to him myself. it is well that you've told me this, otherwise--" and he broke off short, without concluding his sentence. the pretty clock chimed the half-hour musically, reminding marion of the unusual hour, and she stirred as if anxious to leave. her handkerchief dropped upon the floor. the old man noticed it, but did not direct her attention to it. "then if you wish it, mr statham, i will say nothing to mr barclay," she remarked. "no. you need say nothing. i will send him a message in the morning. but," he added, looking straight into the girl's beautiful face, "will you not reconsider your decision, miss rolfe?" "my decision! of what?" she asked. "regarding the statement made to you by maud petrovitch. she told you something. what was it? come, tell me. some very great financial interests are involved in the ex-minister's disappearance. your information may save me from very heavy losses. will you not assist me?" "i regret that it is impossible." "have i not even to-night been your friend?" he pointed out. "have i not warned you against the man who is max barclay's secret enemy--and yours--the man jean adam?" "i am very grateful indeed to you," she answered; "and if it were in my power, i would tell you what she told me." "in your power!" he laughed. "why, of course, it is in your power to speak, if you wish?" "maud made a confession to me," she declared, "and i hold it sacred." "a confession!" he exclaimed, regarding her in surprise. "regarding her father, i suppose?" "no; regarding herself." "ah! a confession of a woman's weakness--eh?" "its nature is immaterial," she responded in a firm tone. "i was her most intimate friend, and she confided in me." "and because it concerns her personally, you refuse to divulge it?" "i am a woman, mr statham, and i will not betray anything that reflects upon another woman's honour." "women are not usually so loyal to each other!" he remarked, not without a touch of sarcasm. "you appear to be unlike all the others i have known." "i am no better than anybody else, i suppose," she replied. "every woman must surely possess a sense of what is right and just." "very few of them do," the old man snarled, for woman was a subject upon which he always became bitterly sarcastic. in his younger days he had been essentially a ladies' man, but the closed page in his history had surely been sufficient to sour him against the other sex. the world, had it but known the truth, would not have pondered at sam statham's hatred of society, and more especially the feminine element of it. but, like many another man, he was misjudged because he was compelled to conceal the truth, and was condemned unjustly because it was not permitted to him to make self-defence. how many men--and women, too--live their lives in social ostracism, and perhaps disgrace, because for family or other reasons they are unable to exhibit to the world the truth. many a man, and many a woman, who read these lines, are as grossly misjudged by their fellows as was samuel statham, the millionaire who was a pauper, the man who lived that sad and lonely life in his park lane mansion, daily gathering gold until he became crushed beneath the weight of its awful responsibility, his sole aim and relaxation being the mixing with the submerged workers of the city, and relieving them by secret philanthropy. the sinner assumes the cloak of piety, while too often the denounced and maligned suffer in silence. it was so in samuel statham's case; it is so in more than one case which has come under my own personal observation during the inquiries i made before writing this present narrative of east and west. the old millionaire was surprised at the girl's admission that what the doctor's daughter had told her was a confession. he realised how, in face of the fact that her brother loved maud petrovitch, it was not likely that she would betray her. still, his curiosity was excited. the girl before him knew the truth of the ex-minister's strange disappearance--knew, most probably, his whereabouts. "was the confession made to you by the doctor's daughter of such a private nature that you really cannot divulge it to me?" he asked her, appealingly. "remember, i am not seeking to probe the secrets of a young girl's life, miss rolfe. on the contrary, i am anxious--most anxious--to clear up what is at present a most mysterious and unaccountable occurrence. doctor petrovitch disappeared from london just at a moment when his presence here was, in his own interests, as well as in mine, most required. i need not go into the details," he went on, fixing her with his sunken eyes. "it is sufficient to explain to you that he and i had certain secret negotiations. he came here on many occasions, always in secret--at about this hour. he preferred to visit me in that manner, because of the spies who always haunted him and who reported all his doings to belgrade." "i was not aware that you were on friendly terms," marion remarked. "maud never told me that her father visited you." "because she was in ignorance," statham replied. "the doctor was a diplomatist, remember, and could keep a secret, even from his own daughter. from what i've told you, you can surely gather how extremely anxious i am to know the truth." marion was silent. she realised to the full that financial interests of the millionaire were at stake--that her statement might save huge losses if she betrayed maud, and told this man the truth. he was her friend and benefactor. to him both she and charlie owed everything. without him they would be compelled to face the world, she friendless and practically penniless. the penalty of her silence he had already indicated. by refraining from assisting her, he could to-morrow cast her out of her employment, discredited and disgraced! what would max think? what would he believe? if she remained silent she would preserve maud's honour and charlie's peace of mind. he was devoted to the sweet-faced, half-foreign girl with the stray little wisp of hair across her brow. yet if he knew what she had told him he would hate her--he must hate her. ah! the mere thought of it drove her to a frenzy of despair. she set her teeth, and, with her face pale as death, she rose slowly to go. her brows were knit, her countenance determined. come what might, she would be loyal to her friend. charlie should never know the truth. rather than that she would sacrifice herself--sacrifice her love for max barclay, which was to her the sweetest and most treasured sentiment in all the world. "i have asked you to assist me, miss rolfe," the old man said, in a low, impressive voice, leaning his arm upon the edge of his writing-table and bending towards her. "surely when you know all that it means to me, you will not refuse?" "i refuse to betray my friend," was her firm response, her face white to the lips. "you may act as you think proper, mr statham. you may allow my friends to think ill of me; you may stand aside and see me cast to-morrow at a moment's notice out of cunnington's employ because of my absence to-night, but my lips are closed regarding the confession made to me in confidence. in anything else i am ready to serve you. you have asked me to go upon a journey in your interests--in a motor car that is awaiting me. this i am willing and anxious to do. you are my benefactor, and it is my duty to do what you wish." "it is your duty, miss rolfe, to tell me what i desire to know." "no!" she cried, facing him boldly, her bright eyes flashing defiantly upon him. "it is not my duty to betray my friend--even to you!" "very well," he answered, with a smile upon his thin lips. "it is getting late. they may be wondering at cunnington's. i will see you to the door." and the expression upon his face showed her, alas! too plainly that for her there was no future. the present was already dead, the future--? chapter thirty three. against the rules. "miss rolfe, mr cunnington wants you in the counting-house," exclaimed a youth approaching marion just after ten o'clock the following morning. she had been in the department early, and was busy re-arranging an autumn costume upon a stand, with a ticket bearing the words, "paris model, shillings, pence." the dread words that broke upon her ear caused her young heart to sink within her. as she feared, she was "carpeted." to be absent at night without leave was the "sack" at a moment's notice to any of cunnington's girls. there was no leniency in that respect as in certain other large stores in london which i could name, where the girls are so very badly paid that it is a scandal and disgrace to the smug, church-going shareholders who grow fat upon their dividends. but who among those who bold shares in the big drapery concerns of london, or who among the millions of customers on the look-out for bargains at sales, care a jot for the poor girl-assistant, the drudgery she has to undergo, or the evils she suffers by the iniquitous system of "living-in?" it is a dull, drab life indeed, the life of the london shop, with its fortnight's holiday each year and its constant strain of the telling of untruths in order to sell goods. but the supply of shop labour is always greater than the demand. girls and youths are always coming up from the country in constant streams, "cribbing," as it is called--or on the lookout for a berth--and as soon as a girl loses her freshness, or a man's hair begins to show silver threads, he is thrown out in favour of a youth--from scotland or wales by preference. london, alas! little dreams of the callous heartlessness of employers in the drapery trade. marion knew this. since she had been at cunnington's her eyes had been opened to the scant consideration she need expect. girls who had worked in her department had been discharged merely because, suffering from a cold or from the stress of overwork, they had been absent a couple of days. and all the information vouchsafed them was that the firm could not afford to support invalids. once, indeed, she had sat beside a dying girl in the brompton hospital--a girl to whom the close, vitiated atmosphere of the shop had brought consumption, and she had been sent forth, at a moment's notice, homeless, and to die. and so, when the youth made the announcement, she knit her brows, brushed the hair from her brow, placed down the pincushion in her hand, and followed him through the several shops into another building where mr cunnington's private room was situated. in the outer office of the counting-house several persons, buyers, callers, and others, were waiting audience with the chief. one girl, a saucy, dark-haired assistant in the ribbons, exclaimed: "hullo, rolfe! what are you up for?" marion flushed slightly, and answered: "i--i hardly know." "well, i'm going in for a rise, and if the guv'nor don't give it to me i'm going to westoby's to-morrow. i've got a good crib there. my young man is shop-walker, so i'll get on like a house on fire." "westoby's is a lot better than here," remarked a pale-faced male assistant. "i was there for a sale once. i only wish they'd have kept me." "i've heard that the food is wretched," remarked marion, for the sake of something to say. "it isn't good," declared the young man, "but the girls get lots more freedom. they do as they like almost. old westoby don't care, as long as the business pays. it's a public company, like this, but they do a bit lower-class trade, which means more `spiffs.'" "i haven't made a quid this last three months out of `spiffs'," declared the ribbon-girl. "that's why i want a rise." marion smiled within herself, for beyond the glass partition were quite a dozen girls, all of them young, several quite good-looking, waiting to see if any berths were vacant, and ready that very hour to take the ribbon-girl's place--and hers. every girl who came up to london went first to cunnington's, for the assistants there were declared to be of better class than those of the other drapery houses that jostle each other on the north side of oxford street. marion waited, full of deep anxiety. every detail of that midnight interview with the man who held controlling interest in the huge concern came back to her--his clever attempt to ingratiate himself with her in order to learn maud's secret, and her curt dismissal when she had met his request with point-blank refusal. one by one the applicants for a hearing were received by mr cunnington, again emerging from his room, some dark and angry, and others smiling and happy. at last her turn came, and she walked into the small office with the severe-looking writing-table and the dark blue carpet. the dark-bearded man, by whose enterprise that big business had been built up, turned in his chair and faced her. "miss rolfe!" he exclaimed. "ah! yes," and he referred to a memorandum upon his desk. "you were absent without leave last night, the housekeeper reports. you are aware of rule seventy-three--eh?" "most certainly, sir," was the trembling girl's reply, for this meant to her all her future, and more. it meant max's love. "but i think i ought to explain that--" "i have no time, miss, for explanations. you know the rule. when you were engaged here you signed it, and therefore i suppose you've read it. it states as follows: `any assistant absent after eleven o'clock without previously obtaining signed leave from mr hemmingway or myself will be discharged on the following day.' the firm have, therefore, dispensed with your services. as regards character, miss rolfe, please understand that the firm is silent." "but, mr cunnington," cried the girl, "i was absent at the express request of mr statham. he wished to see me." the head of the firm frowned slightly, answering: "i have no desire to enter into the reasons of your absence. you could easily have asked for leave. if mr statham had wished to see you, he would have sent me a note, no doubt. it was at his request i engaged you, i recollect. therefore, i think that the least said regarding last night the better." "but mr statham promised me he would send you a message this morning," the girl declared in her distress. "parker, has mr statham been on the 'phone this morning?" asked mr cunnington of the young man seated near him. "no, sir," was the prompt reply. "but will you not ask him?" cried the girl. "he promised me he would communicate with you." mr cunnington hesitated for a moment. he reflected that the girl was a _protegee_ of the millionaire. therefore he gave parker orders to ring up the man whose millions controlled the concern. marion waited in breathless anxiousness. the secretary asked for mr statham, and spoke to him, inquiring if he knew anything of miss rolfe's absence from the firm's dormitory on the previous night. "mr statham says, sir," said parker at last, "that he is too busy to be troubled with the affaire of any of cunnington's shop-assistants." the reply filled mr cunnington with suspicion. it showed him plainly that statham had at least no further interest in the girl, and that her discharge would be gratifying. "you hear the reply," he said to her. "that is enough." and he scribbled something upon a piece of paper. "take it to the cashier, and he will pay your wages up to date." "then i am discharged!" asked the girl, crimsoning--"sent out from your establishment without a character?" "by reason of your own action," was the rough reply. "you know the rules. please leave. i am far too busy to argue." "but mr statham wrote asking me to call and see him. i have his letter here." "i have no desire or inclination to enter into mr statham's affairs," cunnington replied. "you are discharged for being absent at night without leave. will you go, miss rolfe?" he asked angrily. "mr cunnington," she said, quite quietly, "you misjudge me entirely. mr statham asked me to call upon him in secret, because he desired me to give him some private information. he promised at the same time to send you word, so that my absence should not be mentioned. you are a man of honour, with daughters of your own," she went on appealingly. "because i refused to betray a friend of mine, a woman, he has refused to stretch forth a hand to save me from the disgrace of this discharge," and tears welled in her fine eyes as she spoke. "it is a matter that does not concern me in the least, miss rolfe, mr statham put you here, and if he wishes for your discharge i have nothing to say in the matter. good morning." and he turned from her and busied himself with the heap of papers on his desk. she did not move. she stood as one turned to stone. therefore he touched the electric button beneath the arm of his chair, and a clerk appeared. "send in mortimer," he said coldly, disregarding the girl's presence. then marion, seeing that all appeal was in vain, turned upon her heel and went out--broken and bitter--a changed woman. mr cunnington turned and watched her disappearing. suddenly, as though half uncertain whether his action might not be criticised by statham, he exclaimed: "call that young lady back!" marion returned, her face full of anger and dignity. "do i really understand you that mr statham invited you to his house?" he asked her. "i mean that you received letters from him?" "yes." the dark-bearded man, alert and businesslike, eyed her critically, and asked: "you have those letters, i presume." "certainly. i have them here," was her reply, as she fumbled in the pocket of her black skirt. "i refused to call upon him, but he pressed me so much that i felt it imperative. he has been so very good to me that i feared to displease him." and she placed several letters upon mr cunnington's desk. "i see they are marked `private,'" he said, with a good deal of curiosity. "have i your permission to glance at them?" "certainly," was the cool reply. "you refuse to hear me, therefore i am compelled to give you proof." the man opened them one after the other, scanned them, and placed them aside. statham's refusal to answer the query upon the telephone was for him all-sufficient. "you had better leave these letters with me, miss rolfe," he said decisively, for he saw that at all hazards he must obtain that correspondence and hand it back to the writer. "but--" "there are no buts," he exclaimed, quickly interrupting her. "had mr statham desired you to remain in our service he would have replied to that effect. come, you are wasting my time. good morning." and a moment later, almost before she was aware of it, marion found herself outside the room, with the door closed behind her. she was no longer in the service of cunnington's. she had been discharged in disgrace. what would charlie say? what explanation could she offer to max? chapter thirty four. the mysterious mademoiselle. the future, nay, the very life, of samuel statham depended, according to his own admission to his secretary, upon the honour of maud petrovitch. the position was, to say the least, strangely incongruous. here was a man whose power and wealth were world-famous, a man whom kings and princes sought to conciliate and load with honours, which he steadfastly refused to accept, dependent for his life upon a woman, little more than a child. charlie rolfe had thought over his master's strange, enigmatical words many times. maud--his maud whom he loved so dearly, and who had so suddenly and mysteriously gone out of his life--was to be sacrificed. why? what did old sam mean when he uttered those words, each of which had burnt indelibly into his soul. "you have promised to save me; you have sworn to assist me, and the sacrifice is imperative?" statham had said. "it is her honour--or my death!" each time he entered the grim portals of the silent house in park lane those fateful words recurred to him. the house of mystery seemed dark and chilly, even on those sunny days of early september, and old levi seemed more sphinx-like and solemn. a dozen times had he been on the point of referring again to the matter, but each time he had refrained, for the millionaire's manner had now changed. he was less anxious, and far more bright and hopeful. the discovery of duncan macgregor seemed to have wrought a great change in him, for the old scot frequently spent the evening there, being telegraphed for from glasgow, ostensibly to discuss business matters. on the day following marion's visit to park lane charlie was in paris, having been sent there overnight upon a pressing message to the branch house in the avenue de l'opera, for statham brothers were as well-known for their stability in france as in england. just before twelve o'clock, as he was issuing from the fine offices of the firm into the street, he stumbled against a rather short but well-dressed girl of about twenty-four. he raised his hat, and in english asked her pardon, whereupon, with a light laugh, she replied in the same tongue. "oh, really no apology is needed, mr rolfe." he glanced at her inquiringly. "i--i really haven't the pleasure of your name," he said, still upon the doorstep of the office. at all events, she was rather good-looking and well-bred, even if her stature was a trifle diminutive. her gown was in excellent taste, too. "my name really doesn't matter," she laughed. "i know you quite well. you are mr charles rolfe, old mr statham's secretary." then, in an instant, the troth flashed across his mind. this girl must be one of old sam's friends--one of his secret agents controlled and paid from the office in old broad street. "you wish to speak to me--eh?" he asked, in a quick, businesslike way. "yes; i do. let us stroll somewhere where we can talk." then after a moment's reflection she added: "the tuileries gardens would be a good place. we might avoid eavesdroppers there." "certainly," he said, and, rather interested in the adventure, he strolled along at her side. she put up her pale blue sunshade, for it was a hot day, and at that hour the avenue was deserted, for the work-girls were not yet out from the numerous ateliers in the neighbourhood, and half paris was away at the spas or at the sea. rolfe knew many of old sam's spies, but had never seen this english girl before. that she was a lady seemed evident by her manner and speech, and that she had something of importance to tell him was plain. she had, no doubt, learned of his flying visit to paris--for he meant to leave for london at four o'clock--and had come to the office in order that he could not escape her. as he walked beside her, a well-set-up figure in dark grey flannel, he cast a furtive glance at the pretty, dark-complexioned face beneath the turquoise sunshade. she looked younger than she was, for her skirts only reached to her ankles, displaying a neat brown shoe tied with large bows. across her brow was just a tiny wisp of stray hair, reminding him forcibly of the sweet countenance of his lost love. he recollected how he used to tease her about that unruly little lock, and how often he used to tenderly brush it back from her eyes. "you live in paris?" he asked as they walked together. "sometimes," was her rather vague reply. "i'm always fond of it, for it is so bright and pleasant after--" and she was on the point of giving him a clue to her place of abode, but stopped her words in time. "after what?" he asked. "after other places," she answered evasively. he glanced at her again, wondering whom she might be. a girl of her age could scarcely act as secret agent in financial matters. her white gown perhaps gave her a more girlish appearance than she otherwise possessed, but there could be no two opinions that she was really good-looking. she had approached him with timidity and modesty, yet in those few minutes of their acquaintance she had already become quite friendly, and they were already laughing together as they crossed the rue de rivoli. "i knew you were in paris, and came here specially to meet you, mr rolfe," she said at last. "i'm afraid you must think me very dreadful to purposely compel you to apologise and speak to me." "not at all. only--well, i think you know you have a rather unfair advantage of me. you ought to give me your name," he urged. "i have my own reasons for not doing so," she laughed. "it is sufficient for you to know that i am your friend." "and a very charming little friend, too," he laughed. "i only wish all my friends were so dainty as yourself." "ah! so you are a flatterer--eh?" she said, reproving him with a smile. "not flattery--but the truth," he declared, filled with curiosity as to whom she might be. why, he wondered, had she sought him? perhaps if he described her at the office they had just left, she might be known there. though out of the season, there was still life and movement in the rue de rivoli, as there always is between the magasins du louvre and the rue castiglione. the tweeds and blouses of the cook's tourists were in evidence as usual, and the little midinette tripped gaily through the throng. at last they entered the gate of the public gardens, which in the afternoons are given over to nurses in white caps and children with air-balls, and, walking some distance, still chatting, presently found a seat in full view of the quai with its traffic and the sluggish seine beyond. then as he seated himself beside her she, with her sunshade held behind her head, threw herself back slightly and laughed saucily in his face, displaying her red lips and even, pearly teeth. "isn't this a rather amusing meeting?" she asked, with tantalising air. "i know you are dying to know who i am. just think. have you never seen me before?" charlie was puzzled--sorely puzzled. he tried to think, but to his knowledge he had never previously set eyes upon the dark-haired little witch before in all his life. "i--well i really don't recollect. you've asked me a riddle, and i've given it up." "but think. have you never seen me before?" "in london?" "no; somewhere else--a long way from here." he shook his head. she was a complete enigma this girl not yet out of her teens. "i must apologise to you, but i do not recollect," he said. "if you refuse to tell me who you are, you can surely give me your christian name." "why?" "well, because--" "because of your natural curiosity!" she declared. "men are always curious. they always want to get at hard facts. half the romance of life is taken away by their desire to go straight to the truth of things. women are fond of a little imagination." was she merely carrying on a mild flirtation with him because of a sheer love of romance? he had heard of girls of her age, overfed upon romantic novels and filled with daydreams, starting out upon adventures similarly perilous. he looked into her eyes, and saw that they danced with tantalising merriment. she was making fun of him! "my curiosity is certainly natural," he said, a little severely, piqued by her superiority. "you have told me that you wish to speak with me in confidence. how can i repose equal confidence in you if you refuse me your name?" "i do not ask you to repose confidence in me, mr rolfe," was her quick response, opening her eyes widely. "i have brought you here to tell you something--something which i know will greatly interest you, more so, indeed, than the question of whom and what i am." "then tell me your christian name, so that i may address you by that." for a moment she did not reply. her gaze was fixed straight before her. the wind stirred the dusty leaves above them, causing them to sigh slightly, while before them along the quai a big cream-coloured automobile sped swiftly, trumpeting loudly. at last she turned to him, and with a smile upon her fresh dimpled cheeks, she said: "my name is a rather unusual one--lorena." "lorena!" he echoed. "what a very pretty name! almost as charming as its owner!" she moved with a gesture of mock impatience, declaring: "you are really too bad, mr rolfe! why do you say these things?" "i only speak the truth. i feel flattered that you should deign to take notice of such an unimportant person as myself." "unimportant!" she cried, again opening her eyes and making a quick gesture which showed foreign residence. "is mr statham's secretary an unimportant man?" "certainly." "but he is of importance to one person at least." "to whom?" for a moment she did not answer. then, she turned her dark eyes full upon his, and replied: "to the woman who loves him!" charlie started perceptibly. what could the girl mean? did she mean that she herself entertained affection for him, or was she merely hinting at what she believed might possibly be the case--that he was beloved. he was more than ever dumbfounded by her attitude. there was something very mysterious about her--a mystery increased by her own sweet, piquante and unconventional manner. in his whole career he had never met with a similar adventure. at one moment he doubted her genuineness, but at the next he reflected how, at the first moment of their meeting, she had been extremely anxious to speak with him alone. her attitude was of one who had some confidential information to impart--something no doubt in the interests of the world-renowned firm of statham brothers. other secret agents of sam statham whom he had seen on their visits to park lane had been mostly men and women advanced in age, for the most part wearing an outward aspect of severe respectability. some were, however, the reverse. one was a well-known dancer at the music-halls of paris and vienna, whose pretty face looked out from postcards in almost every shop on the continent. but the question was, who could be this dainty girl who called herself lorena? "what do you mean by the woman who loves me?" he asked her presently, after a pause. "i don't quite follow you. who does me the great honour of entertaining any affection for me?" "who? can you really ask that?" she said. "ask yourself?" "i have asked myself," he laughed, rather uneasily, meeting her glance and wavering beneath it. "ah! you will not admit the truth, i see," she remarked, raising her finger in shy reproof. "of what?" "that you are beloved--that you are the lover of maud petrovitch!" "maud petrovitch!" he gasped. "you know her? tell me," he cried quickly. "i have told you," she answered. "i have stirred your memory of a fact which you have apparently forgotten, mr rolfe." "forgotten--forgotten maud!" he exclaimed. "i have never for a moment forgotten her. she is lost to me--and you know it. tell me the truth. where is she? _where can i see her_?" but the girl only shook her head slowly in sadness. over her bright, merry face had fallen a sudden gloom, a look of deep regret and dark despair. "where is she?" he demanded, springing up from the seat and facing his companion. but she made no response. she only stared blankly before her at the dark sluggish waters of the seine. chapter thirty five. in which there is another mystery. the girl puzzled him. her attitude was as though she delighted in tantalising him, as if she held knowledge superior to his own. and so she did. she was evidently aware of the whereabouts of maud--his own lost love. he repeated his question, his eyes fixed upon her pale, serious countenance. but she made no response. "why have you brought me here, miss lorena?" he asked. "you told me you had something to tell me." "so i have," she answered, looking up at him again. "i don't know, mr rolfe, what opinion you must have of me, but i hope you will consider my self-introduction permissible under the circumstances." "why, of course," he declared, for truth to tell he was much interested in her. she seemed so charmingly unconventional, not much more than a schoolgirl, and yet with all the delightful sweetness of budding womanhood. "but you have mentioned the name of a woman--a woman who is lost to me." "ah! maud petrovitch," she sighed. "yes. i know. i know all the tragic story." "the tragic story?" he echoed, staring at her. "what do you mean?" "i mean the tragic story of your love," was her slow, distinct reply. "pray forgive me, mr rolfe, for mentioning a subject which must be most painful, but i have only done so to show you that i am aware of the secret of your affection." "then you are a friend of maud?" she nodded, without uttering a word. "where is she? i must see her," he said quickly, with a fierce, anxious look upon his countenance. "this suspense is killing me." she was silent. slowly she turned her fine eyes upon his, looking straight into his face. "you ought surely to know," she said, unflinchingly. "i--i know! why? why do you say that?" "because you know the truth--you know why they so suddenly disappeared." "i know the truth!" he repeated. "indeed i do not. you are speaking in enigmas, just as you yourself are an enigma, miss lorena." her lips relaxed into a smile of incredulity. "why, mr rolfe, do you make a pretence of ignorance, when you are fully aware of the whole of the combination of circumstances which led doctor petrovitch and his daughter to escape from london?" "but, my dear girl!" he cried; "you entirely misjudge me. i am in complete ignorance." "and yet you were present at cromwell road on the night in question!" she said slowly, fixing her eyes calmly upon him. "who are you, miss lorena, that you should make these direct allegations against me?" he cried, staring at her. "i am your friend, mr rolfe, if you will allow me to act as such." "my friend!" he cried. "but you are alleging that i have secret knowledge of the doctor's disappearance--that i make a pretence of ignorance. if i were in possession of the facts, is it feasible that i should be so anxious of the welfare of maud?" "no anxiety is necessary." "then she is alive?" "i believe so." "and well?" "yes, she is quite well. but--" "but what?" he demanded. "speak, lorena. speak, i beg of you." she had hesitated, and he saw by her contracted brow that anxiety had arisen within her mind. "well--she is safe, i believe, up to the present. yet if what i fear be true, she is daily nay, hourly, in peril--in deadliest peril." "peril!" he gasped. "of what?" "of her life. you know that the political organisations of the east are fraught with murder plots. dr petrovitch has opponents--fierce, dastardly opponents, who would hesitate at nothing to encompass his end. they have intrigued to induce the king to place him in disgrace, but at belgrade the petrovitch party are still predominant. it is only in the country--at nisch and pirot--where the opposition is really strong." "you seem to know servia and the complication of servian politics, mademoiselle?" he remarked. "yes, i happen to know something of them. i have made them a study, and i assure you it would be very fascinating if there were not quite so many imprisonments in the awful fortress of belgrade, and secret assassination. but servia is a young country," the girl added, with a philosophic air, "and all young countries must go through the same periods of unrest and internal trouble. at any rate, all parties in servia acknowledge that king peter is a constitutional monarch, and is doing his utmost for the benefit of his people." "you are a partisan of the karageorgevitch?" "i am. i make no secret of it. alexander and draga were mere puppets in the hands of servia's enemies. under king peter the country is once more prosperous, and, after all, political life there is no more fraught with danger than it is in go-ahead bulgaria. did they not kill poor petkoff the other day in the boris garden in sofia? that was a more cruel and dastardly murder than any in servia, for petkoff had only one arm, and was unable to defend himself. the other was shot away at the shipka where he fought for his country against the turk." "how is it you know so much of servia?" charlie inquired, for he found himself listening to the girl's sound arguments with much interest. her views upon the complicated situation in the near east were almost identical with his. "did you ever see petkoff, for instance?" "i knew him well. twice i've dined at his house is sofia. strangely enough, he was with his bosom friend stambuloff when the latter was assassinated, and for years was a marked man. as prince ferdinand's prime minister, which he was at the time he was shot, he introduced many reforms into bulgaria, and was a patriot to the core." he was surprised. who could this girl be who dined with prime ministers, and who was, apparently, behind the scenes of balkan politics? "and you fear lest the same fate should befall maud. why?" he asked. "because the opposition has a motive--a strong motive." "for the secret assassination of the daughter of the man who has made servia what she is!" he exclaimed. "yes. maud is in peril." "and for that reason, i suppose, is living incognito?" "possibly," she answered, not without hesitation. "there is, i believe, a second reason." "what is that?" "i scarcely like to tell you, mr rolfe. we are strangers, you and i." "but do tell me. i am very anxious to know. if she is your friend, she has, no doubt, told you of our love." "well, she wishes to avoid you." "avoid me--why?" "because acquaintance with you increases her peril." "how absurd!" he cried. "how can her love for me affect her father's political opponents in servia?" "i am ignorant of the reasons. i only know the broad facts." "but the doctor had retired from active political life long ago! he told me one day how tired he was of the eternal bickerings of the skuptchina." "of course he had ostensibly retired, but he secretly directed the policy of the present government. in all serious matters king peter still consults him." "and that is why you have brought me into the privacy of these gardens, miss lorena--to tell me this!" he laughed, bending to her and drawing a semi-circle in the gravel with the point of his stick. "no," she replied sharply, with just a little frown of displeasure. "you do not understand me, mr rolfe. have i not said, a few moments ago, that i wanted to be your friend?" "you are a most delightful little friend," was his courteous reply. "ah! i see. you treat me as a child," was her rather impatient reply. "you are not serious." "i am most serious," he declared, with a solemn face. "indeed, i was never more serious in my life than i am at this moment." she burst out laughing--a peal of light, merry, irresponsible, girlish laughter. "and before i met you," she said, "i thought you a most terribly austere person." "so i am--at times. i have to be, miss lorena. i'm secretary to a very serious old gentleman, remember." "yes. and that was the very reason why i threw the convenances to the winds--if there are any in the anglo-french circle in paris--and spoke to you--a perfect stranger." "you spoke because i was mr statham's secretary?" he asked, somewhat puzzled. "yes. i wanted to speak to you privately." "well, nobody can overhear us here," he said glancing around, and noticing only a fat _bonne_ wheeling a puny child in a gaudily-trapped perambulator. "i wanted to speak to you regarding mr statham," she said, after a long pause. "i ascertained you were coming to paris, and waited in order to see you." "why?" he asked, much surprised. the refusal of her name, her determination to conceal her identity, her friendship for maud, and her intimate acquaintance with thing servian, all combined to puzzle him to the verge of distraction. who was she? what was she? the mystery of the doctor and his daughter was an increasing one. his pretended ignorance of certain facts had been unmasked by her in a manner which showed that she was aware of the actual truth. was she really a secret messenger from the girl he loved so devotedly--the girl with whom he had last walked and talked with in the quietness of the london sundown in nevern square? he glanced again at her pretty but mysterious face. she was a lady-- refined, well-educated, with tiny white hands and well-shod feet. there was nothing of the artificial _chic_ of the parisienne about her, but a quiet dignity which seemed almost incongruous in one so young. indeed, he wondered that she was allowed about in the streets of paris alone, without a chaperone. her piquante manner, and her utter disregard of all conventionality, amused him. true, she was older than maud but most possibly her bosom friend. if so, maud was probably in hiding in paris, and this pretty girl had been sent to him as cupid's messenger. "i wanted to see you on a matter which closely concerns mr statham." "anything that concerns mr statham concerns myself, miss lorena," he said. "i am his confidential secretary." "i have ascertained that, otherwise i would not have dared to speak to you. i want to warn you." "of what?" "of a deeply-laid conspiracy to wreck mr statham's life," she said. "there have arisen recently two men who are now determined to lay bare the secret of the millionaire's past, in revenge for some old grievance, real or fancied." "for the purposes of blackmail--eh?" he asked. "every rich man is constantly being subjected to attempted blackmail in some form or other." "no. they have no desire to obtain money. their sole intention is to expose mr statham." "most men who are unsuccessful are eager to denounce the methods of their more fortunate friends," he said, smiling. "mr statham has no fear of exposure, i assure you." the girl looked him straight in the face with a long, steady gaze. "ah! i see?" she exclaimed, after a pause. "you treat me as an enemy, mr rolfe; not as a friend." chapter thirty six. the locked door in park lane. "excuse me, miss lorena, i do not," he declared quickly. "only we have heard so many threats of exposure that to cease to regard them seriously. mr statham's high reputation is sufficient guarantee to the public." "i quite admit that," answered the girl. "it is not the present that is in question, but the past." "in these days of hustle, a man's past matters but little. it is what he is, not what he was, which the public recognise." "personally," she said, "i hold mr statham in highest esteem. i have never met him, it's true, but i have knowledge of certain kind and generous actions on his part, actions which have brought happiness and prosperity to those who have fallen upon misfortune. for that reason i resolved to speak to you and warn you of the plot in progress. do you happen to know a certain mr john adams?" rolfe started, and stared at her. what could she know of the damoclean sword suspended over the house of statham? "well," he answered guardedly, "i once met a man of that name, i think." "recently?" "about a month ago." "you knew nothing of him prior to that?" rolfe hesitated. "well, no," he replied. "he made pretence of being friendly with you." "yes. but to tell you the truth i was somewhat suspicions of him. what do you know of him? tell me." "i happen to be well acquainted with him," the girl responded. "it is he who has arisen like one from the grave, and intends to avenge the wrong which he declares that mr statham had done him." "recently?" "no, years ago, when they were abroad together--and mr statham was still a poor man." charlie rolfe was silent. he knew adams; he knew, too, that evil was intended. he had warned old sam statham, but the latter had not heeded. adams had had the audacity to approach him in confidence, believing that he might be bought over. when he had discovered that the millionaire's secretary was incorruptible, he openly declared his sinister intentions. "i had no idea you were acquainted with adams," he said, still puzzled to know who she was, and what was her motive. "i happen to know certain details of the plot," she answered. "and you will reveal them to me?" he asked in quick anxiety. "upon certain conditions." "and what are they? i am all attention." "the first is that you will not seek to learn the identity of the person who is associated with mr adams in the forthcoming exposure; and the second is that you say nothing to mr statham regarding our secret meeting." "why?" he asked, not quite understanding the reason of her last stipulation. "i thought you wished to warn mr statham?" "no. i warn you. you can take measures of precaution, on mr statham's behalf without making explanation." "mr statham has already seen john adams and recognised him. he is already forewarned." "and he has not taken any steps in self-defence?" she cried quickly. "why need he trouble?" "why, because that man adams has sworn to hound him to self-destruction." rolfe shrugged his shoulders, and replied: "mr statham has really no apprehension of any unpleasantness, miss lorena. it is true that in the old days the two men were friends, and, apparently, they quarrelled. adams was lost for years to all who knew him, and now suddenly reappears to find his old acquaintance wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, and seeks, as many more before him have done, to profit by his former friendship." "or enmity," added the girl, lowering her sunshade a little until for a moment it hid her features. "i do not think you realise the dastardly cunning of the plot in progress. it has not only as its object the ruin of the credit of the house of statham brothers, but the creation of a scandal which mr samuel statham will not dare to face. he must either fly the country, or commit suicide." "well?" "the latter is expected by the two men who have combined and are now perfecting their ingenious conspiracy. it is believed by them that he will take his own life." charlie rolfe reflected for a moment. he recollected old sam's terrible agitation on the day when he recognised john adams leaning against the railings of the park. of late, the great financier had betrayed signs of unusual nervousness, and had complained several times of insomnia. to his secretary knowledge he had spent two nights that very week in walking the streets of london from midnight until dawn, ostensibly to do charitable actions to the homeless, but in reality because his mind was becoming unbalanced by the constant strain of not knowing from one moment to another when adams would deal his staggering blow. had there been any question of blackmail, the aid of solicitors and of scotland yard could have been invoked. but there had been no threat beyond the statement made openly to rolfe by the man who intended to encompass the ruin of the eccentric millionaire and philanthropist. "i think, miss lorena, that we need have no fear of mr statham doing anything rash," he said. "but why is it hoped that he will prefer to take his life rather than face any exposure?" "because they will profit by his death--profit to an enormous degree." "but how can adams profit? he has had no dealings with mr statham of late." "not adams, but his friend. the latter will become wealthy." "and may i not know his name?" "no. that is the stipulation which i make. for the present it is sufficient that you should be made aware of the broad lines of the plot, and that its main object is the death of samuel statham." "and you wish me to tell him all this?" "certainly, only without explaining that i was your informant." "why do you wish to conceal the fact, miss lorena?" he asked. "surely he would be only too delighted to be able to thank you for your warning?" she shook her head, saying: "if it were known that i had exposed their plans it would place me in peril. they are determined and relentless men, who would willingly sacrifice a woman in order to gain their ends, which in this case is a large fortune." "and you will not tell me the name of adams's associate in the matter?" "no. i--i cannot do that. please do not ask me," she answered hurriedly. rolfe was again silent for a few moments. at last he asked: "cannot you tell me something of the past relations between adams and statham? you seem to know all the details of the strange affair." "adams makes certain serious allegations which he can substantiate. there is a certain witness whom mr statham believes to be dead, but who is still alive, and is now in england." "a witness--of what?" asked rolfe quickly. "of the crime which adams alleges." "crime--what crime?" ejaculated the young man in surprise, staring at his pretty companion. "some serious offence, but of what nature i am not permitted to explain to you." "why not, miss lorena? you must! remember that mr statham is in ignorance of this--i mean that adams intends to charge him with a crime. surely the position is most serious! i imagined that adams's charges were criticism of mr statham's methods of finance." "finance does not enter into it at all," said the girl. "the delegation is a secret crime by which the millionaire laid the foundation of his fortune; a crime committed abroad, and of which there are two witnesses still living, men who were, until a few weeks ago, believed to be dead. "but you tell me that adams's associate will, if mr statham commits suicide, profit to an enormous amount. will you not explain? if this is so, why have they not attempted to levy blackmail? if the charge has foundation--which i do not for one moment believe--then surely mr statham would be prepared to make payment and hush up the affair? he would not be human if he refused." "the pair are fully alive to the danger of any attempt to procure money by promise of secrecy," she replied. "they have already fully considered the matter, and arrived at the conclusion that to compel mr statham to take his own life is the wiser and easier course." "you seem to be in their confidence, miss lorena?" he said, gazing at the pretty girl at his side. "yes, i am. that is why i am unable to reveal to you the name of adams's companion," she replied. "all i can tell you is that the intention is to make against him a terrible charge of which they possess evidence which is, apparently, overwhelming." "then you know the charge it is intended to bring against him--eh?" "yes," was her prompt answer. "to me it seems outrageous, incomprehensible--and yet--" "well?" "and yet, if it is really true, it would account to a very great degree for mr statham's eccentricity of which i've so often read in the papers. no one enters his house in park lane. is not that so?" "he is shy, and does not care for strangers," was rolfe's response. "but it said in the paper only a week ago that nobody has ever been upstairs in that house except himself. there is a door on the stairs, they say, which is always kept locked and bolted." "and if that is so?" "well--have you ever been upstairs, mr rolfe. tell me; i'm very anxious to know." "i make no secret of it," was his reply, smiling the while. "i have never been upstairs. entrance there is forbidden." "even to you--his confidential secretary?" "yes, even to me." "and yet there are signs of the upstairs' rooms being occupied," she remarked. "i have seen lights there myself, as i've passed the house. i was along park lane late one evening last week." "so you have been recently in london?" "london is my home. i am only here on a visit," was her reply. "and ascertaining you were coming here, i resolved to see you." "and has this serious allegation which adams intends to bring any connection with the mystery concerning the mansion?" "yes. it has." "in what way?" she paused, as though uncertain whether or not to tell the truth. "because," she said at last, "because i firmly believe, from facts known to me, that confirmation of the truth of adams's charge will be discovered beyond that locked door!" chapter thirty seven. max barclay is inquisitive. "miss rolfe has left the firm's employ, sir." "left--left cunnington's?" gasped max barclay, staring open-mouthed at mr warner, the buyer. "yes, sir. she left suddenly yesterday morning," repeated the dapper little man with the pen behind his ear. "but this is most extraordinary--to leave at a moment's notice! i thought she was so very comfortable here. she always spoke so kindly of you, and for the consideration with which you always treated her." "it was very kind of her, i'm sure," replied the buyer; "but it is the rule here--a moment's notice on either side." "but why? why has she left?" warner hesitated. he, of course, knew the truth, but he was not anxious to speak it. "some little misunderstanding, i think." "with you?" "oh, dear no. she was called down to the counting-house yesterday morning, and she did not return." "then she's been discharged--eh?" asked max in a hard voice. "i believe so, sir. at least, it would appear so." "and are they in the habit of discharging assistants in this manner-- throwing them out of a home and out of employment at a moment's notice? is mr cunnington himself aware of it?" "it would be mr cunnington himself who discharged her," was the buyer's answer. "no other person has authority either to engage or discharge." "but there must be a reason for her dismissal!" exclaimed max. "certainly. but only mr cunnington knows that." "can i see him?" "well, at this hour he's generally very busy indeed; but if you go down to the counting-house in the next building, and ask for him, he may give you a moment." "thank you, mr warner," barclay said, a little abruptly, and, turning on his heel, left the department. "she hasn't told him evidently," remarked one girl-assistant to the other. "i'm sorry rolfie's gone. she wasn't half a bad sort. she was old warner's favourite, too, or her young gentleman would never have been allowed to talk to her in the shop. if you or i had had a young man to come and see us as she had, we'd have been fired out long ago." "i wonder who her young man really is," remarked the second girl, watching him as he strode out, a lithe figure in a well-cut suit of grey tweeds. "well, he's a thorough gentleman, just like her brother," remarked her companion. "i saw him in his motor-boat up at hampton the sunday before last. he's completely gone on her. i wonder what'll happen now. i don't think much of the new girl; do you? does her hair awfully badly." unconscious of the criticism he had evoked, max barclay descended the stairs, passed through the long shops--crowded as they always were in the afternoon--into the adjoining building, and sought audience of the titular head of the great firm. after waiting for some time in an outer office he was shown in. the moment he asked his question mr cunnington grasped the situation. "i very much regret, sir, that it is not my habit to give information to a second party concerning the dismissal of any of my assistants. if the young lady applies for her character, she is perfectly entitled to have it." "but i apply for her character," said max promptly. "you are not an employer, sir. she has not applied to you for a situation." "no; but i may surely know the reason she has left your service?" max pointed out. "her brother, who is abroad just now, is my most intimate friend." mr cunnington stroked his dark beard thoughtfully, but shook his head, saying: "i much regret, mr barclay, that i am unable to give you the information you seek. would it not be better to ask the young lady herself?" "but she has left, and i have no idea of her address!" exclaimed barclay. "can you furnish me with it?" the head of cunnington's, limited, took up the telephone receiver and asked for a certain mr hughes, of whom he made inquiry if miss rolfe had left her address. there was a wait of a few moments, then mr cunnington turned and said: "the young lady left no address. she was asked, but refused to give one." max's heart sank within him. she had been dismissed at an instant's notice, and was lost to him. he turned upon mr cunnington in quick anger and said: "so i am to understand that you refuse me all information concerning her?" "i merely adhere to my rule, sir. any dismissal of my assistants is a matter between myself and the person dismissed. i am not called upon to give details or reasons to outsiders. i regret that i am very busy, and must wish you good afternoon." max barclay bit his lip. he did not like the brisk, business-ike air of the man. "i shall call upon mr statham, whom i happen to know," he said. "and i shall invoke his aid." "you are perfectly at liberty to do just as you like, my dear sir. even mr statham exercises no authority over the assistants in this establishment. it is my own department and i brook no interference." max did not reply, but left the office and strode out into oxford street, pushing past the crowd of women around the huge shop-windows admiring the feminine finery there displayed so temptingly. marion--his marion--had disappeared. she had been dismissed--in disgrace evidently; probably for some petty fault or for breaking one of the hundred rules by which every assistant was bound. he had always heard mr cunnington spoken of as a most lenient, and even generous, employer, yet his treatment of marion had been anything but just or humane. when he thought of it his blood boiled. charlie was away, he knew. he had telephoned to his rooms that very morning, but his man had replied that his master had left hurriedly for the continent--for paris, he thought. at the corner of bond street he halted, and glanced at his watch. should he try and find charlie by telegraph or should he take the bull by the horns and go and see old sam statham. his well-beloved had disappeared. would the old financier assist him to discover the truth? he was well aware that for a comparative stranger to be deceived in that big house in park lane was exceptional. old levi had his orders, and few among the many callers ever placed their foot over the carefully-guarded threshold. still, he resolved to make the attempt, and, with that object, jumped into a taxi-cab which happened at the moment to be passing. alighting at the house, he presented his card to old levi, who opened the door, and asked the favour of a few moments' conversation with mr statham? the old servant scrutinised the card closely, and took stock of the visitor, who, noticing his hesitation, added: "mr statham will remember me, i believe." levi asked him into the hall, with a dissatisfied grunt, and disappeared, to return a few moments later, and usher the visitor into the presence of the millionaire. old samuel, who had been dozing over a newspaper in the his easy-chair near the fireplace, rose, and, through his spectacles, regarded his visitor with some suspicion. the blinds were drawn, shading the room from the afternoon sun, therefore max found the place was in comparative darkness after the glare outside. in a few moments, however, when his eyes grew accustomed to the semi-darkness, he saw the old fellow wave his hand in the direction of a chair, saying: "i'm very glad you called, mr barclay--very glad. indeed, curiously enough, i intended to write to you only yesterday upon a business matter, but i was too busy." barclay seated himself, full of surprise that the great financier should wish to consult him upon any business matter. "well, mr statham," he said, "i may as well tell you at once that i am here to seek your kind assistance and help in a purely personal matter-- a matter which closely concerns my own happiness." statham pricked up his ears. he knew what was coming. marion rolfe had told him of her visit there. "well?" he asked coldly, in a changed manner. "you possibly are unaware that i am engaged to be married to marion rolfe, the sister of your secretary, a young lady in whom you were kind enough to take an interest am obtain for her a situation at cunnington's." the old man nodded, his countenance sphinx-like. "the lady in question has been dismissed by mr cunnington at a moment's notice, and he refuses to tell me the reason of his very remarkable action. i want you to be good enough to obtain a response for me." "and where is the young lady?" asked the wary statham. "nobody knows. she would leave no address." "then you are unaware of her whereabouts?" "she has disappeared." "extraordinary!" the old fellow remarked, reflecting deeply for a moment. "yes. i cannot imagine why, in the circumstances, she has not written to me," max declared, the expression upon his face betraying his deep distress. "it is certainly somewhat strange," the old man agreed. "girls at cunnington's are not often discharged in that manner. cunnington himself is always most lenient. have you seen him?" "yes; and he absolutely refuses any information." "in that case, mr barclay, i don't see very well how i can assist you. the management and organisation of the concern are left to him, as managing director. i really cannot interfere." "but was it not through you that marion, without previous experience or apprenticeship, was engaged there?" "yes; i have some recollection of sending a line of recommendation to cunnington," was the millionaire's response. "but, of course, my interest ended there. my secretary asked me to write the note, and i did so." "then you really cannot obtain for me the information i desire?" "but why are you so inquisitive--eh?" snapped the old man. "surely the lady will tell you the reason of her dismissal!" "i don't know where she is." "a fact which is--well--rather curious--shall we designate it?" the old man remarked meaningly. "you mean to imply that her instant dismissal has cast a slur upon her character, and that she fears to meet me lest she be compelled to tell me the truth?" he said slowly as the suggestion dawned upon him. "ah! i see. you refuse to help me, mr statham, because--because i love her." and his face became pale, hard-set, and determined. chapter thirty eight. friend or foe? the two men were silent for some moments. statham was watching his visitor's face. to him it was, at least, satisfactory to know that marion had disappeared, fearing to let her lover know the reason of her sudden dismissal lest he should misjudge her. truth to tell, he had anticipated that she would have gone straight to barclay and told him the truth. within himself he acknowledged that he had played the poor girl a scoundrelly trick, but consoled himself with the thought that when a man's life was at stake, as his was, any mode of escape became justifiable. at last the old man stirred in his chair, and, turning to max, said: "please understand plainly it is not because i refuse to help you, but because it is not within my province to dictate to cunnington replies regarding his assistants." "but you hold a controlling interest in the firm," declared the other. "that may be so, but i have nothing to do with the details of organisation," he replied. "no, mr barclay, let us end this matter with an expression of my regret at being unable to assist you. perhaps, however, i may be able to do so in another direction." "in another direction!" he echoed. "how?" "in a small matter of business." max barclay was both surprised and interested. he knew quite well that statham could if he wished, give him previous knowledge that would enable him to make a considerable coup. ignorance of marion's visit to the old man or the cause of her dismissal allowed him to regard the millionaire with feelings of friendliness, and to reflect that, after all, he had no power to dictate to cunnington. "you know, mr barclay," he said, "i frequently obtain confidential knowledge of what is transpiring in the world of finance. the other day it came to my ears, through a source it is unnecessary to mention, that the adriatic railway concession has been placed before you." max opened his eyes. he believed that not a soul except the man who had joined him in partnership was aware of this. the information must have come from constantinople, he thought. "that is true," he admitted. "a big thing!" remarked the old man in his croaking voice. "a very big thing indeed--means prosperity to the balkan countries. but pardon me if i ask one or two questions. do not think i have any intention of going behind your back, or attempting to upset your plans. i merely ask for information, because, as perhaps you know, there is but one man in london who could float such a thing, and it is myself." "i know, mr statham, that we shall be compelled to come to you when we have the concession all in order." "you will," he said with a smile. "but can you, without injury to yourself, tell me who is your associate in this business?" "a frenchman--mr jean adam, of constantinople." statham's face never moved a muscle. of this he was already quite well aware. "an old friend of yours, i suppose?" "not--not exactly an old friend. i met him for the first time about a month or so ago," responded max. "and what do you know of him?" "nothing much except that i believe him to be a man of the highest integrity and the possessor of many friends interested in high finance." "oh! and what causes you to believe that?" "well, we first met in paris, where, having mooted the idea of a partnership, he introduced me to several well-known people, among them baron tellier, who arranged the match monopoly of turkey, and herr hengelmann, of frankfort, whom, no doubt, you know as the concessionaire of the german railway from the bosphorus to bagdad." the old man gave vent to a dissatisfied grant. "both men stand very high in the financial world, do they not?" max asked. "well--they did," replied old sam, smiling. "did? what, have they gone under?" "no. only hengelmann has been in his coffin fully two years, and the baron died at nice last winter." "what?" cried max, starting forward. "i repeat what i say, mr barclay. your friend adam has been indulging in a pretty fiction." "are you sure? are you quite sure they are dead?" "most certainly. i was staying in the same hotel at nice when the baron died, and i followed him to the grave. he was a great friend of mine." max barclay sat stunned. until that moment he had believed in jean adam and his plausible tales, but he now saw how very cleverly he had been deceived and imposed upon. "you're surprised," he laughed. "but you must remember that you can get a decent suit of gentlemanly clothes for five pounds, and visiting-cards are only two shillings a hundred. people so often overlook those two important facts in life. thousands of men can put off their identity with their clothes." "but adam--do you happen to know him?" max asked. "if you do, it will surely be a very friendly act to tell me the truth." "well," replied the elder man with some hesitancy, "i may as well tell you at once that the sultan has never given any concession for the railway from nisch to san giovanni di medua to cross turkish territory-- and will never give it. he fears bulgaria and servia too much, for he never knows what power may be behind them. and, after all, who can blame him? why should he open his gates to an enemy? albania is always in unrest, for in the north the christians predominate, and there is bound to be trouble ere long." "then you believe that the whole thing is a fiction?" "most certainly it is. if there was any idea of the sultan giving an irade, i should most certainly know of it. i have good agents in constantinople. no. take it from me that the concession will never be given. it is not to turkey's interest to allow the development of servia and bulgaria, therefore your friend's pretty tale is all a fairy story." "then why is he pressing me to go out to constantinople?" max asked. statham shrugged his shoulders, indicative of ignorance. "perhaps he thinks you will plank down money?" he suggested. "he wants nothing until i myself am satisfied with the _bona fides_ of the business." "stuff on his part, most likely. he's a past-master of the art." "how well do you know him?" "sufficiently well to have nothing to do with him." "then that accounts for his refusal to allow me to confide in you," said barclay. "i see the reason now." "of course, act just as you think fit. only recollect that what i've told you is bed-rock fact. the man who calls himself adam is a person to be avoided." "have you had dealings with him?" "just once--and they had a very unpleasant result." he reflected upon certain remarks and criticisms which the frenchman had uttered concerning statham and his normal methods. in the light of what he now knew, he saw that the two men were enemies. it seemed as though one man wished to tell him something, and yet was hesitant. "have you put any money into the scheme?" the millionaire asked. "not yet." "then don't. tell him to take it somewhere else. better still, tell him to bring it to me. you need not, however, say that it is i who warned you. leave him in the dark in that direction. he's a clever fellow--extraordinarily clever. who is with him now?" "well, he has a friend named lyle--a mining engineer." "leonard lyle--a hunchback?" asked statham quickly. the millionaire's countenance went a trifle paler, and about the corners of his thin lips was a hard expression. to him, the seriousness of the conspiracy was only too apparent. those two men intended that he should be driven to take his own life--to die an ignominious death. "you've spoken to this man lyle?" he asked in as steady a voice as he could. "once or twice. he seems to possess a very intimate knowledge of servia, bulgaria, and european turkey. is he an adventurer like adam?" "not exactly," was the rather ambiguous reply. "but his association with adam shows plainly that fraud is intended." "but why does he want me to go post-haste out to turkey?" queried max, who had risen from his chair in the excitement of this sudden revelation which caused his brilliant scheme to vanish into thin air. "to induce confidence, i expect he would have introduced you to some men wearing fezzes, and declared them to be pashas high in favour at the yildiz kiosk. then before you left constantinople he would have held you to your bargain to put money into the thing. oh! never fear, you would have fallen a victim in one way or another. so it's best that you should know the character of the two men with whom you are dealing. take my advice; treat them with caution, but refuse to stir from london. they will, no doubt, use every persuasion to induce you to go, but your best course is to hear all their arguments, watch the gradual development of their scheme, and inform me of it. will you do it?" "will my information assist you in any way, mr statham?" "yes, it will--very materially," the old man answered. "i have revealed to you the truth, and i ask you, in return, to render me this little assistance. what i desire to know, is their movements daily, and how they intend to act." "towards whom?" "towards myself." "then they are associated against you, you believe?" "i suspect them to be," the old man replied. "i know them to be my enemies. they are, like thousands of other men, jealous of my success, and believe they have a grievance against me--one that is entirely unfounded." "and if i do this will you assist me to obtain knowledge of the reason why marion rolfe has been dismissed?" asked max eagerly. the old man hesitated, but only for a second. it was easy enough to give him a letter to cunnington, and afterwards to telephone to oxford street instructions to the head of the firm to refuse a reply. so, consenting, he took a sheet of note-paper, and scribbled a few lines of request to mr cunnington, which he handed to max, saying: "there, i hope that will have the desired effect, mr barclay. on your part, remember, you will keep in with adam and lyle, and give me all the information you can gather. i know how to repay a friendly service rendered to me, so you are, no doubt, well aware. you will be welcome here at any hour. i shall tell levi to admit you." "that's a bargain," the younger man asserted. "when will rolfe return?" "to-morrow, or next day. he's in paris. shall i tell him you wish to see him?" "please." "but say nothing regarding adam or his friend. our compact is a strictly private one, remember." and then max, grasping the hands of the man whom he believed was his friend, placed the note in his pocket and went out into the blazing hot september afternoon. as he disappeared along the pavement the old millionaire watched him unseen from behind the blind. "to the friendship of that man--that man whom i have wronged--i shall owe my life," he murmured aloud. and then, crossing to the telephone on his table, he asked for mr cunnington. chapter thirty nine. the city of unrest. ten days had passed since charlie had met the mysterious lorena in paris. to both charlie and max--though now separated by the breadth of europe-- they had been breathless, anxious, never-to-be-forgotten days. the ominous words of lorena ever recurred to him. apparently the girl knew far more than she had told him, and her declaration that confirmation of adams's charges would be found beyond that white-enamelled door in park lane gripped his senses. he could think of nothing else. she had left him in the rue de rivoli, outside the gardens, refusing her address or any further account of herself. she had warned him--that was, she said, all-sufficient. he blamed himself a thousand times for not having followed her; for not having sought some further information concerning the peril of old sam statham. yet the afternoon following, just as he was about to drive from the grand hotel to the gare du nord, to return to london, one of the clerks from old broad street had arrived, bearing a letter from the head of the firm, giving him instructions to proceed to servia at once and transact certain business with the government regarding certain copper concessions in the district of kaopanik. the deal meant the introduction of a considerable amount of british capital into servia, and had support from his majesty king peter downwards. indeed, all were in favour save the opposition in the skuptchina, or parliament, a set of unruly peasants who opposed every measure the pashitch government put forward. the business brooked no delay. therefore charlie, that same night, entered the orient express, that train of dusty _wagons-lit_ which runs three times a week between paris and constantinople, and three days later arrived in belgrade, the servian capital. he was no stranger in that rather pleasant town, perched high up at the junction of the save with the broad danube. the passport officer at semlin station recognised him, and gave him a _visa_ at once, and on alighting at belgrade the little ferret-eyed man idling outside the station did not follow him, for he knew him by sight and was well aware that the grand hotel was his destination. there are more spies in belgrade than in any other city in europe. so much foreign intrigue is ever in progress that the servian authorities are compelled to support a whole army of secret agents to watch and report. hence it is that the stranger, from the moment he sets foot in belgrade to the moment he leaves it, is watched, and his every movement noted and reported. yet all is so well managed that the foreigner is never aware of the close surveillance upon him, and belgrade is as gay a town in the matter of entertaining and general freedom as, well, as any other you may choose to name. during the days when, owing to the unfortunate events which terminated the reign of the half-imbecile king alexander and the designing woman who became his queen, when england had suspended diplomatic negotiations, the great stakes held in the country by statham brothers were in a somewhat precarious condition. for two years servian finance had been in anything but a flourishing condition, but now, under the rule of king peter, who had done his very utmost to reinstate his country in its former flourishing position, the confidence of europe had been restored, and statham brothers were ready to make further investments. in charles rolfe the great millionaire had the most perfect confidence. the letter he had sent him to paris was clear and explicit in its instructions. if the concessions were confirmed by the prime minister pashitch and the council, a million dinars (or francs) were already deposited in the national bank of servia, and could be drawn at an hour's notice upon charlie's signature. so he drove to the grand, the hotel with its great garish cafe, its restaurant where the sterlet is perhaps more delicious than at the hermitage in moscow, and its excellent tzigane band. it was evening, so he ate a light meal, and, fagged out by the journey, retired early. he tried to sleep, but could not. the noise and clatter of the cafe below, the weird strains of the gipsy music, the rattle of the cabs over the cobbles, all combined to prevent slumber. and, over all, was the vivid recollection of that rather handsome girl who had called herself lorena, and who had declared that the reason of statham's peril lay behind the door which he always kept so carefully secured. the hours passed slowly. he thought far more of maud petrovitch, and of what lorena had told him, than of the business he had to transact on the morrow. he was there, in the city where doctor petrovitch had been worshipped almost as a demi-god, where the people cheered lustily as he drove out, and where he was called "the servian patriot." where was the statesman now? what was the actual truth of that sadden disappearance? why had not maud written? sorely she might at least have trusted him with her secret! the noise below had died away, and he knew that it must be two o'clock in the morning, the hour when the cafe closed. presently there came a rap at his door, and the night-porter handed him a telegram. he tore it open mechanically, expecting it to be in cipher from old sam, but instead saw the signature "max." scanning it eagerly, he held his breath. the news it contained staggered him. it stated that his sister marion had been discharged from cunnington's, and her whereabouts were unknown. "have seen statham, but cannot discover where your sister has gone. can you suggest any friend she may have gone to visit? what shall i do? am distracted. wire immediately." marion left cunnington's! discharged, the telegram said. was it possible, he thought, that old sam would allow her discharge. he was certain he would not. he was his sister's friend, as he was his own. max's telegram added further to the burden of mystery upon him. what could it all mean? marion has evidently left cunnington's and disappeared! he tried to think to whom she would go in her distress. there was her aunt anne at wimborne, her cousin lucy who had married the bank manager at hereford, and there was her old schoolfellow mary craven who had only recently married pelham, the manager of an insurance company in moorgate street. those three addresses he wrote on a telegraph form, urging max to make inquiry and report progress. this he despatched, and again threw himself down, full of dark forebodings. if marion had really been discharged, she was in some disgrace. what could it possibly be? that it was something which she dared not face was proved by the fact that she had not confided in max. she knew maud's place of concealment, without a doubt; therefore, what more natural than she should have joined her? the whole affair was a complete enigma, rendered the more tantalising by the distance which now separated him from london. next morning he rose, took his coffee, and went out along the broad central boulevard, gay and lively in the sunlight, thronged by well-dressed ladies and smart officers in uniforms on the russian model--as bright and pleasant a scene as can be witnessed anywhere outside paris. up the hill, past the royal palace, he went. in the royal garden, separated from the roadway by high iron railings, the band of the guards were playing, and over the palace floated the royal standard, showing that his majesty was in residence. adjoining the palace was a large square castellated building, painted white, and into this he turned, saluted by the gendarmes on duty. ascending a broad flight of steps, he passed through the swing doors, presented his card, and was shown into the large antechamber of the president of the council of ministers, the strongest man in servia, monsieur nicholas pashitch. the long windows commanded a wide view of the tows and of the broad danube shining in the morning sun, while upon the walls of the sombre apartment with its floor of polished oak and antique furniture covered with crimson plush, was a portrait of king peter and several full length paintings of dead and gone statesmen. "his excellency is engaged for a few moments with the turkish minister," exclaimed a frock-coated secretary in french. "but he will give m'sieur audience almost immediately. his excellency was going to pirot, but has remained in order to see you. he received your telegram from budapest." and so charlie rolfe remained, gazing out of the window upon the quaint eastern town, watching the phantasmagoria of life up and down its principal thoroughfare. a company of infantry, headed by their band, marched past, hot and dusty, on their return from the early morning manoeuvres which the king had attended, as was his daily habit; and as it passed out of his sight the long doors opened, and he was ushered into the adjoining room, the private cabinet of his excellency the premier, an elderly, pleasant-faced old gentleman with a long grey beard, who rose from his big writing-table to greet his visitor. the meeting was a most cordial one, his excellency inquiring after the health of his old personal friend mr statham. then, at the prime minister's invitation, charlie seated himself, and explained the nature of his mission. monsieur pashitch heard him with interest to the end. then he said: "only yesterday his majesty expressed to me his desire that we should attract british capital into servia, therefore all that you tell me is most gratifying to us. mr statham, on his last visit here, had audience of his majesty--on the occasion of the loan--and i think they found themselves perfectly in accord. the development of the kaopanik has long been desired, and i will this afternoon inform his majesty of your visit and your proposals." charlie then produced certain documents, reports of two celebrated mining engineers who had been sent out to kaopanik by statham brothers, and these they discussed for a long time. presently rolfe said: "by the way, your excellency, have you heard of late anything from doctor petrovitch?" "petrovitch!" exclaimed the old statesman, starting quickly. "petrovitch? no!" he almost snapped. "he has been living in england quite recently, but of late--well, of late i've lost sight of him. i know," he went on, "that you and he had some little difference of opinion upon the customs war with austria." "yes, we did," remarked the grey-bearded old gentleman, with a smile. "we differed upon one point. afterwards, however, i found that my ideas were unsound, and i admitted it in the skuptchina. i heard that petrovitch was in london. the king invited him to come to belgrade about six months ago, as he wished to consult him in private, but he declined the invitation." "why?" "i think he feared on account of a political conspiracy which is known to have been formed against him. as you know, the opposition are his bitter opponents." "and they are opponents of his majesty also," rolfe remarked. "exactly--a fact which for the peace of servia is most unfortunate." "then you have no idea where i could find the doctor?" "not the least. but--" and he paused, thinking for a moment. "well?" "if i remember aright my wife told me that she had met his daughter maud at dinner at the british legation one night recently." "then she's here--in belgrade!" rolfe cried. "i'm not quite certain. i did not pay much attention to what she told me. i was preoccupied with other things. but i will ask her, and let you know. or you might ask the wife of the british minister. you know her, of course?" "yes," rolfe answered, excitedly. "i will call upon her this afternoon. i'm sure i'm very much indebted to your excellency for this information." and his spirits rose again at the thought that his sweet-faced well-beloved was safe and well, and that, in all probability, she was actually in that city. chapter forty. gives a clue. that afternoon, at as early an hour as he decently could, he called at the british legation, the big white mansion in the centre of the town. both sir charles harrison, the minister, and his charming wife were well-known to him, for more than once he had been invited to dine on previous visits to belgrade. the minister was out, but lady harrison received him in the big drawing-room on the first floor, a handsome apartment filled with exquisite japanese furniture and bric-a-brac, for, prior to his appointment to belgrade, the minister had been secretary of the british embassy in tokio. the first greetings over, charlie explained the object of his call. whereupon the minister's wife replied: "i think mr pashitch is mistaken, mr rolfe. i haven't seen maud petrovitch for quite a year. she was on a visit to her aunt, madame constantinovitch, about a year ago, and used to come here very often." charlie's hopes fell again. "perhaps the minister-president has made a mistake. it may have been at some other house madame pashitch met the doctor's daughter," he said. "well, if she were in belgrade she surely would come to see me. all her friends come to me on thursdays, as you know," replied the minister's wife, as the man brought in tea--with lemon--in the russian style. he glanced around the handsome room, and recollected the brilliant receptions at which he had been present. the british legation was one of the finest mansions in belgrade, and sir charles gave weekly dinners to the diplomatic corps and his personal friends. he and his wife entertained largely, to keep up the prestige of great britain amid that seething area of intrigue, political conspiracy, and general unrest. within a small room off the drawing-room, which was sir charles' private den, many a diplomatic secret had been brewed, and many an important matter affecting the best interests of servia had been decided. surely the post of belgrade was one of the most difficult in the whole range of british diplomacy abroad. before charlie rose to go sir charles entered, a middle-aged, merry, easy-going man, who greeted him cheerily, saying:-- "hullo, rolfe! who'd have thought of seeing you here? and how is mr statham? when will he buy us all up to-day?" rolfe briefly explained the nature of his mission to the ex-president, and then, after a few minutes' chat, followed his host into the smaller room for a cigarette and chat. eventually rolfe, lying back in an easy-chair, said: "do you know, sir charles, a very curious thing has happened recently in london?" "oh, i see by the papers that lots of curious things have happened," was the diplomat's reply, as he smiled upon his guest. "oh, yes; i know. but this is a serious matter. doctor petrovitch and his daughter maud have disappeared." sir charles raised his eyebrows, and was in a moment serious. "disappeared! there's been nothing about it in the papers." "no; it is being kept dark. the police haven't been stirred about it. it was only a sudden removal from cromwell road, but both father, daughter, and household furniture disappeared." "how? in what manner did the furniture disappear?" rolfe explained, while sir charles sat listening open-mouthed. "extraordinary!" he ejaculated, when the younger man concluded. "what can be the reason of it. petrovitch is an old and dear friend of mine. why, i knew him years ago when i was attache here. he often wrote to me. the last letter i had was from london about four months ago." "and he's my friend also." "yes; i know," was the other's reply. "it was whispered, rolfe, that you were in love with the pretty maud--eh?" "i don't deny it?" "why should you, if you love her." "but she's disappeared--without a word." "and you are in search of her? most natural. well, i'll make inquiries and ascertain if she's been in belgrade. i don't believe she has, or we should certainly have seen something of her. my wife is very fond of her, you know." "i fear there's been foul play?" rolfe remarked. the minister shrugged his shoulders. "it's curious, to say the least, isn't it?" he observed. there, in confidence, charlie told the minister of marion's friendship with maud, of the strange and mysterious confession on the night of the disappearance, and her steadfast refusal to betray the girl's secret. sir charles paused and reflected. "political intrigue is at the bottom of this--depend upon it, rolfe," he said at last. "petrovitch has enemies here, unscrupulous enemies, who would not hesitate to attempt his life. they fear that if he returns to power as the king had invited him, they will find themselves prisoners in the fortress--and that means death, as you know. when the doctor acts, he acts boldly for the benefit of his country. he would make a clean sweep of his enemies once and for all." "then you think they've anticipated this, and killed him in secret?" cried rolfe. "it is, i fear, quite possible," was the diplomat's reply. "what causes you to believe this?" "i possess secret knowledge." "of a plot against him?" "he was fully aware of it himself. that is why he lived in england," the minister replied. "but, surely, if he knew this, he might have taken steps for his self-protection!" rolfe exclaimed. "the fact that his furniture was spirited away to some unknown place makes it almost appear as though he was in accord with the conspirators." "no; i think not. the conspirators removed his furniture in order to prevent undue inquiries as to the doctor's disappearance. the emptying of the house may have been one to make it appear to the police that the doctor had suddenly removed--perhaps to avoid his creditors." rolfe shook his head. his opinion hardly coincided with that of the british diplomat. besides, max barclay's story of having seen a man there closely resembling him wanted explanation. with what motive had an unknown man represented him on the night in question? "maud petrovitch has never written to you?" asked harrison. "not a line." the minister pursed his lips. "well," he said, "i'm perfectly sure if she's been in belgrade she would certainly have come to see us. my wife used to have frequent letters from her in london." "i have not told lady harrison the reason of my inquiry--or any of the facts," rolfe said. "i thought i would leave it to you to tell her if you think proper. up to the present, the doctor's disappearance has been kept secret between my friend max barclay, who was the doctor's most intimate chum in london, and myself." "at present i shall not tell my wife," declared the diplomat. he was a man of secrets, and knew how to keep one. "who is max barclay?" asked the minister, after a pause. rolfe explained, but said nothing regarding his engagement to his sister marion. to it all sir charles listened attentively, without comment. at last, after a long silence, he said: "well, look here, rolfe. a sudden thought has occurred to me. i think it possible that to-morrow, in a certain quarter, i shall be able to make a confidential inquiry regarding the whereabouts of the doctor. all that you've told me interests me exceedingly, because i have all along believed that very shortly petrovitch was returning to power and join forces with pashitch." "but didn't they quarrel a short time ago?" rolfe remarked. "oh, a mere trifle. it was nothing. the austrian press made a great stir about it, as they always do. all news from servia emanates from the factory across the river yonder, at semlin. if the journalists dared to put foot on, servian soil they'd soon find themselves under arrest, i can tell you. no, the broad lines of policy of both petrovitch and pashitch are identical. they intend to develop the country by the introduction of foreign capital. the king himself told me so at an audience i had a month ago. he then told me, in confidence, that he had invited the doctor to return and rejoin the ministry. that is why i firmly believe that the poor doctor, one of the best and most straightforward statesmen in europe, has fallen a victim to his enemies." "then you will set to work to discover what is known among the opposition?" urged the young man. "i promise you i will. but, of course, in strictest confidence," was the minister's reply. "petrovitch is my friend, as well as yours. i know only too well of the bitter enmity towards him in some quarters, especially among the partisans of the late king and a certain section of the opposition in the skuptchina. mention of his name there causes cheers from the government benches, but howls from the enemies of law and order. there was, some three years ago, a dastardly plot against his life, as you know." "no, i don't know it. i have never heard about it," was rolfe's reply. "ah! he never speaks about it, of course," sir charles said, reflectively. "while driving out at topschieder with his little orphan niece, of whom he was very fond, a bomb was thrown at the carriage. the poor child was blown to atoms, the horses were maimed, the carriage smashed to matchwood, and the coachman so injure that he died within an hour. the doctor alone escaped with nothing more serious than a cut across the cheek. but that terrible death of his dead sister's child was a terrible blow to him, and he has not been since in belgrade. because of that, i expect, he has hesitated to obey the king's command to return to office." "awful! i never knew of that. maud has never told me," said rolfe. "what blackguards to kill an innocent child! was the man who threw the bomb caught?" "yes. and the conspiracy was revealed by me activity of the secret police. they made a report to the minister of justice, who showed it to me in confidence." "then you actually know who threw the explosive?" "i know also who was responsible for the dastardly conspiracy--who aided and abetted it, and who furnished the assassins with money and promised a big reward if they encompassed the doctor's death!" said the minister, slowly and seriously. "you do! who?" cried rolfe. "it was someone well-known to you," was his reply. "the inquiries made by the servian secret police led them far afield from belgrade. they traced the conspiracy to its source--a source which would amaze you, as it would stagger the world. and if i am not much mistaken, rolfe, this second plot has been formed and carried out by the same person whose first plot failed!" "a person i know?" gasped the young man. chapter forty one. the gateway of the east. the diplomat would say nothing more. when pressed by charlie rolfe he said that it was a surmise. until the truth was proved he refused to speak more plainly. "you declare that the plot by which an innocent child died was formed by a friend of mine!" the younger man exclaimed. "i tell you that such is my firm belief," sir charles repeated. "to-morrow i will endeavour to discover whether the same influence that caused the explosion of the bomb at topschieder is responsible for the doctor's disappearance." "but cannot you be more explicit?" asked rolfe. "who is the assassin-- the murderer of children?" "at present i can say no more than what i have already told you," was the diplomat's grave response. "you believe that the same motive has led to the doctor's disappearance as was the cause of the bomb outrage at topschieder?" "i do." "then much depends upon the doctor's death?" "very much. his enemies would reap a large profit." "his enemies in the skuptchina, you mean?" "those--and others." "he had private enemies also--secret ones that were even more dangerous than the blatant political orators." "then private vengeance was the cause?" "no--not exactly; at least, i think not," sir charles replied. "but please ask no more. i will tell you the truth when i have established it." "i wish i could discover where maud is. surely it is strange that the prime minister's wife should have said she met her lately here, in belgrade." "maud petrovitch is not in servia. i am certain of that point." "why?" "because her father would never allow her to return here after that tragedy at topschieder." "the assassin--the man who threw the bomb. where is he?" "in the fortress--condemned to a life sentence," the diplomat answered. "he was caught while running away from the scene--a raw peasant from valjevo, hired evidently to hurl the bomb. he was subjected to a searching examination, but would never reveal by whom he was employed. he was tried and condemned to solitary confinement, which he now is undergoing. you know the horrors of the fortress here, on the danube, with its subterranean cells--eh?" "i've heard of them," responded the younger man. "but even that fate is too humane for a man who would deliberately kill an innocent child!" "a life sentence in the fortress is scarcely humane," the british minister remarked grimly. "no one has ever entered some of those underground dungeons built by the turks centuries ago. their horrors can only be surmised. to all outsiders, who have wished to inspect the place, the minister of justice has refused admission." "then the assassin has only received his deserts." "the person who formed the plot and used the ignorant peasant as his cat's-paw should be there too--or even instead of him," declared sir charles angrily. "the peasant suffers, while the real culprit gets off scot-free and unknown." "then he is still unknown?" exclaimed rolfe in surprise. "save to perhaps three persons, of whom i am one." "and also the man who threw the bomb!" "i have heard that the solitary confinement in a dark cell already worked its effect upon him. he is hopelessly insane." rolfe drew a long breath, and glanced around the cosy room with its long row of well-filled book-cases, its big writing-table, and its smaller tables filled with japanese bric-a-brac, of which sir charles was an ardent collector. in the silence that fell the footman tapped at the door and presented a card. then rolfe, declaring that he must go, rose, gripped the grey-haired minister's hand, and extracting from him a promise to tell the truth as soon as he had established it, followed the smart english footman down the stairs. that night, as he sat amid the clatter and music of the brilliantly lit grand cafe, he reflected deeply on all that had been told him, wondering who was the friend who had been responsible for the outrage, which had induced the doctor to forsake his native land never to return. servia was a country of intrigue and unrest, as is every young country. he looked around the tables at the gay crowd of smart officers with their ribbons and crosses upon their breasts and their well-dressed womenkind, and wondered whether any fresh conspiracy was in progress. the rule of king peter--maligned though that monarch had been--had brought beneficent reforms to servia. and yet there was an opposition who never ceased to hurl hard epithets against him, and to charge him with taking part in a plot, of the true meaning of which he certainly had had no knowledge. belgrade is a city in which plots against the monarchy are hinted at and whispered in the corners of drawing-rooms, where diplomacy is a mass of intrigue, a city of spies and sycophants, of concession-hunters and political cliques. gay, pleasant, and easy-going, with its fine boulevard, its pretty kalamegdan garden, and its spick-and-span new streets, it is different to any other capital of europe; more full of tragedy, more full of plot and counter-plot. austria is there ever seeking by her swarm of secret agents to stir up strife and to organise demonstrations against the reigning dynasty. germany is there seeking influence and making promises, while bulgaria is ever watchful; turkey is silent and spectral, and great britain looks on neutral, but noting every move of the deep diplomatic juggling of the powers. at night amid the clatter, the laughter, and the gipsy music of the grand cafe, with its billiard tables in the centre and its restaurant adjoining, the stranger would never dream of its close proximity to the tragedy of a throne. just as the bright lights and calm, moonlit sea throw a glamour over that plague spot monte carlo, until the visitor believes that no evil can lurk in that terrestrial paradise, so in belgrade is everything so pleasant, so happy, so careless that the stranger would never dream that the whole city sits ever upon the edge of a volcano, and that the red flag of revolt is ready at any, moment to be hoisted. charlie rolfe knew belgrade, and knew the tragedy that underlay its brightness. what greater tragedy could there be than the death of the innocent child blown to atoms by the bomb? who could be the culprit whom sir charles had told him was his "friend." he had known the doctor well, but not intimately as max barclay had done. curious that max had told him nothing concerning that tragic incident which had caused the servian statesman and patriot to turn his back upon his beloved country and live in studious seclusion in england. max had told him many things, but had never mentioned that subject. was max barclay the "friend" to whom sir charles had referred. was it really possible? he held his breath, contemplating the end of his half-smoked cigar and wondering. it was a strange suspicion. of late, ever since max had charged him with having been present at cromwell road on the night of the disappearance, he had somehow held aloof from the man to whom marion was so devoted. and now? even she had disappeared! what could it mean? did max barclay really know how and why marion had disappeared, and for motives of his own was making a mystery? the message from barclay worried him. marion was missing. why had she left cunnington's? she must have left of her own accord, he felt confident. she would never be discharged. sam statham would never, for a moment, allow that. a tall man with a fair, pointed beard approached him, raised his hat, and gripped his hand. it was drukovitch, the director of the national theatre, and a friend of his. the new-comer seated himself at the table, and the waiter brought a tiny glass of "slivovitza," or plum gin, that liqueur so dear to the servian palate. drukovitch was one of the best-known and most popular men in belgrade; a thorough-going cosmopolitan, and a man of the world. sometimes he went to london, and whenever there charlie entertained him at his club, or they went to the theatre and supped at the savoy. as they chatted, rolfe explaining that he was in servia upon financial matters as usual, drukovitch nodded to the officers and civilians whom he knew, many of them famous for the part they had played in the recent _coup d'etat_. some of them, indeed, wore the white-enamelled cross, which decoration marked them as partisans of the dynasty of the karageorge. and meanwhile the orchestra were playing the popular waltz from "the merry widow," the air haunting everybody and everyone. that night there was a court hall at the palace, and the forthcoming event was upon everyone's lips. there was seldom any entertainment at the new konak, for his majesty led a very quiet life, the almost ascetic life of a soldier--riding out at dawn, attending to duties of state during the day, and retiring early. perhaps the most maligned man in all europe, king peter of servia was, nevertheless, known to those intimate around the throne to be a most conscientious ruler, fully aware of all his responsibilities, and striving ever to pacify the various political factions, sustaining the prestige of servia abroad, and ameliorating the condition of his people at home. the truth regarding king peter had never been written. of libels and vile calumnies there had been volumes, but no journalist had ever dared to put into print the real facts of king peter's innocence of any connivance at the dastardly murder of alexander and draga. those who knew the real facts admired king peter as a man and fearless patriot, but those who gathered their information from sensational newspapers and scurrilous books emanating from austria believed every lie that the back-stairs scribes chose to write. drukovitch was one of the men who knew the truth, and many a time he had explained them to his friend, who, in turn, had told old sam statham, the hard-headed misanthrope whose prejudices were so strong, and yet the chords of whose heart-strings were so readily touched. sam had lent money to servia--huge sums. and why? because he knew his majesty personally, and had heard from his own lips the story of his tragic difficulties and his high aspirations. once, indeed, in that silent study in park lane he had been reading a confidential report from belgrade, predicting a black outlook, when he turned to his secretary and said: "rolfe. there will be trouble in servia. but even though i may lose the million sterling i have loaned it will not trouble me. i have tried to assist an honest man who is at the same time a philanthropist and a king." charlie rolfe recollected these words at that moment as he sat amid the noise and chatter of the cafe, where, above every other sound, rose the sweet, tuneful strains of the waltz that had within the past few weeks gripped all europe. there was something bizarre, something incongruous with it all. he was thinking of his lost love--his sweet-faced maud with the unruly wisp of hair straying across her white brow. where was she? ay, where was she? chapter forty two. advances a theory. next day, and the next, charlie called upon the british minister, but could obtain no further information. sir charles had failed to establish his suspicion, and therefore declined to say anything further. rolfe, on his part, had learned from drukovitch the full details of the dastardly attempt upon the doctor's life at topschieder, and how the little child had been blown to atoms. the escape of petrovitch had been little short of miraculous, and it was now whispered that the conspiracy had no political significance, but was an act of private vengeance. whatever its motive might have been, it had had the desired effect of preventing the doctor from returning to servia. in various quarters rolfe made diligent inquiry, and established without a doubt that maud petrovitch had within the past ten days or so been in belgrade. a young officer of the king's guard, a lieutenant yankovitch, had seen her in the zar duschanowa uliza. he described her as wearing a white serge gown and a big black hat. she was walking with a short, elderly, grey-haired woman, undoubtedly a foreigner--english or american. he was marching with his company, or would have stopped and spoken to her. another person discovered by drukovitch was a domestic who had once been in the doctor's service. she declared that early one morning when going from her home to the house in the krunska where she was now employed, she met her young mistress maud with the same elderly woman--a woman rather shabbily-dressed. the pair were passing the russian legation, and she stopped and spoke. the young lady had told her that she was only on a flying visit to belgrade, and that she was leaving again on the morrow. to the servant's inquiries regarding the doctor his daughter was silent, as though she did not wish to mention her father. according to the servant's description. mademoiselle maud looked very wan and pale, as though she had passed many sleepless nights full of anxiety and dread. the prime minister's wife had no recollection of telling her husband about meeting the doctor's daughter. somebody else must have mentioned it to the grey-bearded statesman, who, full of the cares of office, had forgotten who it had been. a third person who had seen maud, however, was one of the agents of secret police on duty at the railway station. it was this man's work to watch arriving passengers, and detail agents to watch any suspected to be foreign spies. according to his report, made to the chief of police, mademoiselle petrovitch arrived in belgrade late one night with an elderly englishwoman and a tall, thin man, probably a german. they hired a cab and drove out to an address near the botanical gardens, on the opposite side of the city. recognising who she was, he did not instruct an agent to follow her. the two ladies returned to the railway station four days later and left again by the orient express for budapest. the officials of the international express, in passing through servia, are compelled to furnish to the secret police the names and nationalities of all passengers travelling. when the train arrives in belgrade the commissario is always handed the list, which is filed for reference. upon the list on that particular day was shown the names of mademoiselle maud pavlovitch, of belgrade, and mrs wood, of london. the girl had only slightly disguised her name. these results of charlie's inquiry showed quite plainly that his well-beloved was alive, and that she had been in servia with some secret object. the police were unaware of the exact address near the botanical gardens where the couple stayed. it is only within their province to watch suspected foreigners. of servians they take no account. therefore, beyond the facts already stated, rolfe could discover nothing. day after day he remained in belgrade, sometimes spending the afternoon by going for a trip across the danube to that dull and rather uninteresting frontier town of hungary, semlin, and always hoping to be able to discover something further--some clue to the strange disappearance of the doctor, or the real reason why his maud was so determined to hold aloof from him. thrice he received wild telegrams from max barclay, asking for information as to where he might best seek news of marion. news of her? her brother was just as staggered by her disappearance as was her lover. he telegraphed that she might perhaps be at the house of an old servant of their fathers at boston, in lincolnshire. but next day came a report despatched from boston that the good man and his wife had heard nothing of their late master's daughter. again to bridlington he sent max, to some friends there; but from that place came a similar response. marion was, like maud, in hiding! but why? in the bright morning sunshine he strolled the streets, which were so full of quaint and interesting types. there in belgrade, the gateway of the east, one saw the servian peasant in his high boots, his white shirt worn outside his trousers, and his round, high cap of astrakhan. the better-class peasant wore his brown homespun, while the women with the gay coloured kerchiefs on their heads wore their heavy silver girdles and their ornaments reminiscent of the turkish occupation. big, burly men in scarlet waistbands and fur caps, women in pretty peasant costumes from the distant provinces, officers gay with ribbons and crosses, and ladies in gowns and hats that spoke mutely of bond street and the rue de la paix; all were seen in the ever moving panorama of that cosmopolitan little capital where east meets west. the financial business which charlie had come there to transact had already been concluded, to the mutual satisfaction of his excellency the prime minister and of the grey-faced old misanthrope seated in the silent room in park lane. many cables in cipher had been exchanged, and charlie had placed his signature to half a dozen documents, which in due course would be countersigned with old sam's scrawly calligraphy. the stake of statham brothers in servia represented considerably over one million sterling, and nobody had been more conscious of old sam's readiness to assist in the development of the country's rich resources than his majesty the king. upon a side table in statham's study in park lane was a big autographed portrait in a silver frame, which king peter had given him at his last audience. therefore it was with feelings of gratification that charlie heard from the minister-president's lips the verbal message which the king had sent--a message of thanks to mr rolfe for doing all that he had done to arrive at a satisfactory arrangement whereby with english capital servia's wealth was to be exploited and work provided for her industrial population. though he knew that maud petrovitch was no longer in belgrade, yet he still lingered on at the grand hotel amid all its clatter, its hustle, and its music. truth to tell, he earnestly desired to obtain the truth from sir charles harrison. for that dastardly attempt at topschieder a friend of his was responsible! it was the identity of the friend in question that he was deeply anxious to establish, so that in future he would know whom to doubt and whom to trust. was max barclay really his friend? hour upon hour he reflected upon that problem. he recollected incidents which, in his present state of mind, filled him with misgivings. why had he openly charged him with having been present at the house in cromwell road after the disappearance of the doctor and his daughter? indeed, had he not practically charged him with opening the doctor's safe and abstracting its contents? he had not made the charge directly, it was true, but his remarks had certainly been made in a spirit of antagonistic suspicion. a long letter from max explained the sudden disappearance of marion from cunnington's, and begged him to give all information regarding any likely quarter where the girl had sought refuge. it was now plain enough to charlie that his sister had been discharged from the establishment in oxford street--and in disgrace! in what disgrace? when he read the letter in his room at the hotel, he crushed it in his hand with an imprecation upon his lips. cunnington should answer to him for this indignity. he would compel the fellow to tell him the truth. his sister's honour was at stake. disgraced by her sudden discharge, she had disappeared. she had, no doubt, been ashamed to face the man who loved her, ashamed, too, to write to her brother. instead, she preferred to go away and efface herself, as, alas! so many london shop-girls have done before her. charlie rolfe knew the cruelty practised by many a shop-keeper in london in discharging their female employees at a moment's notice. for a man it matters little. perhaps, indeed, it is best for both parties. but for a helpless girl without friends, without money, and without home to be cast suddenly upon the great world of london, filled as it is with lures and temptations, is a grave sin which no tradesman ought to commit. and yet there are to-day in london and its suburbs hundreds of smug, top-hatted, frock-coated tradesmen, who, though pillars of their chapels and churches and stalking round the aisles with their plush collecting-bags on sundays, will on six days in the week cast forth any poor girl in their employ without a grain of sympathy or compunction merely because she may break a rule, or even because she does not lie to customers sufficiently well to induce them to make purchases. the general public are ignorant of the tyranny of shop-life in london. there have been strikes--strikes quickly suppressed because, by lifting his finger the employer is overwhelmed with assistants glad to live on a mere bread and butter wage--and those strikes have been treated humorously by the evening papers. ah! the tragedy of it all. charles rolfe, though secretary and trusted factotum of a millionaire, knew it all. his sister had been in a snug "billet," one from which he had fondly believed she could never have been dislodged. but the hard, bitter truth was now apparent. even his own brotherly protection had availed her nothing. she had been consigned to disgrace. it was with such bitter thoughts he resolved to return to london. he went to the telegraph office and sent a long message to sam statham, explanatory of what had occurred, and beseeching his intervention with cunnington. through the night he waited, but received no response. then he went round in the morning to bid sir charles adieu. "well, rolfe!" exclaimed the representative of the british government; "i'm sorry you're off so quickly. my wife was asking you to dine to-morrow night--usual weekly dinner, you know." "and have you discovered nothing regarding petrovitch?" asked charlie quickly. "well," replied the diplomat, after a moment's hesitation, "to tell the truth, i have." "you have!" gasped the young man eagerly. "what?" the other knit his brows, and was for a moment silent. "something--something!" he said, "that is astounding. i--i cannot give it credence. it is all too amazing--too tragic--too utterly incomprehensible." chapter forty three. the lost beloved. weeks had dragged by. to max barclay they had been weeks of keen anxiety and unceasing search to discover traces of his lost beloved. once, and only once, had he seen jean adam, against whom sam statham had warned him. he had met the man of brilliant financial ideas by appointment at lunch at the savoy, and had told him plainly that he had reconsidered the whole matter of the turkish concession, and had decided to have nothing to do with it. his excuse was lack of funds at that moment. to the old millionaire he owed a good deal for giving him the "tip" regarding the plausible anglo-frenchman. adam, alias adams, received max's decision without the alteration of a muscle of his face. he was a perfect actor, and betrayed no sign of surprise or of chagrin. "well, my dear fellow," he remarked, raising his glass of brauneberger and contemplating it before placing it to his lips; "you're losing the chance of a lifetime. if baron hirsch had been alive he wouldn't have allowed such a thing to slip. when old statham knows of it he'll move heaven and earth to come in." max was silent. he did not allow his companion to know that statham had been responsible for his refusal to join in the project. "i'm sorry, too," he said. "but just now i'm rather pressed. i was hard hit last week over those siberians." "but the money required is a mere bagatelle. i have mine ready." "i regret," answered max, "but my decision is final." "very well, my dear fellow," replied adam lightly. "i don't want to persuade you. there are a thousand men in the city who'll be ready to put up money to-morrow morning." and the pair finished their luncheon and parted, adam, of course, entirely unsuspicious of the part statham had played in upsetting his deeply-laid plans. to every address which marion's brother had furnished he had gone at post-haste, only to draw blank every time. charlie had, at statham's instructions, gone first to constantinople, then to odessa and batoum, after which he had returned direct to london. in odessa he had been met by a special messenger from the london office bearing a number of documents, and his business in that city had occupied him nearly a fortnight. therefore it was early in october when, arriving by the evening train at charing cross from paris, he took a cab straight to park lane. in greeting him, old sam was rather curious in his manner, he thought. there was a lack of cordiality. usually, when he came off a long journey, the old fellow ordered levi to bring the decanter of whisky and a syphon. but on this occasion the head of the great financial house merely sat in his chair at his desk and heard his secretary's report without even suggesting that he might be fagged by his rush across europe. rolfe related, briefly and plainly, the various points upon which he had failed, and those upon which he had been successful. some of his decisions had brought many thousands of pounds into the already overflowing coffers of statham brothers, and yet the old man made no sign. he heard all without any comment save now and then a grunt of satisfaction. the younger man could not disguise from himself the fact that the millionaire was not himself. his face was paler and more transparent, while the green-shaded electric lamp shed upon it a hue that was unreal and ghastly. old levi, too, as he flitted in and out like a white-breasted shadow, seemed to regard him with unusual suspicion and distrust. what could it all mean? he looked from one to the other in puzzled surprise. he was unaware that only on the previous night a thin, dark, bearded man had been ushered into that very room and had sat for two hours with the great financier. his countenance, his gestures, the cut of his clothes, all showed plainly that he was not english. besides, the consultation was in french, a language which old sam knew fairly well. that man was a spy, and he was from belgrade. from the moment charlie rolfe had descended at the station to the moment he had left it, secret observation had been kept upon his movements. and to furnish the report to his master the spy had travelled from servia to london. samuel statham trusted nobody. even his most confidential assistant was spied upon, and his own reports compared with those of a spy's. more than once, as charlie rolfe, all unconscious of the surveillance upon him, related what had occurred in king peter's capital, the old man smiled--in disbelief. this the younger man could not understand. he was in ignorance of the great conspiracy in progress, or of the millionaire's ulterior motives. the old man's face was sphinx-like, as it ever was--a countenance in which no single trait was visible, neither was there human joy or human sympathy. it was the face of a statue--the face of a man whose greed and avarice had rendered him pitiless. and yet, strangely enough, this very man was, to charlie's knowledge, a philanthropist in secret, giving away thousands yearly to the deserving poor without any thought of laudatory comment of either press or public. samuel statham was not well; of that charlie felt assured. he noticed the slight trembling of the thin white hands, the fixed, anxious look in his eyes, the curl of the thin grey lips, all of which caused him anxiety. in his ignorance he had grown to be greatly fond of the eccentric old man who pulled so many of the financial wires of europe and whose word could cause the stock markets to fluctuate. a scribbled word of his that night would be felt in wall street on the morrow, whilst the pulses of the bourse of berlin, paris, and vienna were ready at any moment to respond instantly to the transactions of statham brothers, often so gigantic as to cause a sensation. presently sam statham commenced his cross-questioning regarding the exact situation in belgrade, the attitude of the minister-president, and the strength of the opposition in that wooden shed-like parliament-house, the skuptchina, of whom he had seen, and what information he had gathered regarding the tariff-war with austria. to all the questions charlie replied in a manner which showed him to be perfectly alive to all the requirements of the firm. to those in old broad street, city, secret information regarding the future policy of servia means the gain or loss of many thousands, and though during his sojourn in the city of the white fortress his mind had been so perturbed over his own private affairs, he had certainly not neglected those of the great firm who employed him. the old man gave little sign of approbation, and after nearly an hour suddenly dismissed him abruptly, saying: "very well. you're tired, i expect. you'd better go to dinner. i'll see you in the morning." "there's another matter i wanted to speak to you about," charlie said, still remaining in his chair, watching the old fellow as he turned towards his desk and drew some papers on to his blotting-pad. "eh? what?" asked the old fellow sharply, turning again to the other. "you did very well in odessa. i was very pleased to receive that last cable from you. souvaroff grew frightened evidently--afraid i should withdraw and let the whole business go into air." and he chuckled to himself in delight at how he had worsted a powerful russian banker who was his enemy. "it was not of that i wish to speak," remarked rolfe quietly. "it was with regard to my sister marion." the old fellow started uneasily at his secretary's words. "eh? your sister?" he said. "what about her?" "she's left cunnington's," charlie said. "according to what i hear, she's been discharged in some disgrace." "ah! yes," was the old man's response, as though recalling the fact. "i've heard so. your friend barclay came to see me, and told me some long story about her. i wrote to cunnington, but i haven't seen any reply from him. it may have gone to the office." "my sister has left oxford street--and hidden herself, in disgrace. we can't find her." "then if you can't find her, rolfe, i don't see how i can assist you," remarked the elder man. "girls entertain strange fancies, you know-- especially the sentimental-minded. been reading novels, perhaps--eh? was she given to that?" "the girls at cunnington's have little time for reading," he said, piqued at statham's careless manner. hitherto he had believed that the old man was genuinely interested in her, but he now saw that her future was to him nothing. he was too much occupied in piling up wealth to trouble his head over a girl's distress, even though that girl might be the sister of the man who by his acute business foresight often won for him thousands in a single day. charlie rose, full of suppressed anger. he did not notice the look of anxiety and shame upon the old man's face, for his head was bowed beneath the lamplight as he pretended to fumble with his papers. "perhaps your sister was tired of the place--too much hard work. thought to better herself." "my sister was, like myself, much indebted to you, mr statham," was rolfe's reply. "if she has been discharged in disgrace, it is, i feel confident, through no fault of her own. therefore, i beg of you, to ask fit. cunnington to make full inquiry." "what is the use? it is cunnington himself who engages the hands and discharges them," replied statham evasively. "i can't interfere." "but," rolfe argued, "for the sake of my sister's good name you will surely do me this one small favour?" "i have already seen barclay, who says he's engaged to her. call on him, and he'll explain what i have already said and the inquiry i have already made," replied the old man in growing impatience. "but weeks have gone by, and you've received no reply from cunnington. he does not usually treat you with such discourtesy." "i can only think that he acted as his own judgment directed him," the millionaire replied. "you know how strict the rules are that govern shop-assistants, and i suppose he could not favour your sister any more than the others." "marion wanted no favours," he declared. "she never asked one of anybody at oxford street. she only desires justice and troth--and i mean to have them for her." "then go and see cunnington for yourself," snapped the old man. "i've done all i can do. if your sister chooses to go away and hide herself, how can i help it?" "but she was sent away?" cried rolfe in anger. "sent away in disgrace, and i intend to discover what charge there is against her--and the truth concerning it?" "dear me, rolfe!" snapped the old man impatiently. "do go home, for heaven's sake. you're tired and hungry--consequently out of temper." "yes," he cried, "i am out of temper because you refuse to render my sister justice! but she shall have it--she shall?" and he stalked out of the room and closed the door noisily behind him. then, after the door had closed, old sam raised his head, and his eyes followed the young man. in them was a look such as was seldom seen there--a look of double cunning which spoke mutely of false and double-dealing. chapter forty four. tells of a determination. entering his chambers in jermyn street half an hour later, rolfe was met by the faithful green, to whom he gave orders to "ring up" mr barclay at dover street. then he went along to his room to wash and dress. a few moments later green came in, saying: "mr barclay left town five days ago, sir. he's up at kilmaronock." his master made no reply for some moments. then at last he said: "pack my suit-case, and 'phone to euston to reserve me a seat to perth on the ten-five to-morrow morning." "yes, sir." "and to everybody except my sister, if she calls, you don't know where i've gone--you understand?" "perfectly, sir." and the man set about packing up his master's traps. "you may as well put in a dinner-coat max may have friends," rolfe said. "very well, sir." his master dressed quickly and went alone to the club for a late dinner. most of his friends were away shooting, therefore he idled alone for an hour over the paper and then returned to his chambers. next morning he scribbled a hasty note to mr statham, making an excuse for his sudden absence, and directly after ten was seated in the scotch express travelling out of london. at eight that evening he stepped out upon the big, dark station at perth, sent a telegram to the crown inn at kilmaronock village for a "machine," as a fly is called, and then took the slow branch line that runs by crieff and skirts loch earn to the head of glen ogle, where lay the old castle and fine shooting of which max barclay was possessor. a drive of three miles on the road beside loch voil brought him to the lodge-gates, and then another mile up through the park he came to the great portico of the castle. it was nearly midnight. lights were still in the billiard-room of the fine old castellated mansion, which max's father had modernised and rendered so comfortable, and when charlie rang, burton, the butler, could not suppress an exclamation of surprise. in a few moments, however, charlie burst into the room where max and five other men were playing "snooker" before retiring. the host's surprise was great, but the visitor received a hearty welcome, and an hour later, when the guests had gone to their rooms, the two friends stood alone together in the long old-fashioned drawing-room which, without a woman's artistic hand to keep things in order, was rapidly going to decay. a big wood fire blazed cheerfully in the wide old-fashioned grate, for october evenings in the highlands are damp and chill, and as the two men stood before it they looked at one another, both hesitating to speak. across charlie's mind flashed those suspicions which had oppressed him in belgrade. was the man before him his enemy or his friend? "well," he blurted forth, "i've come straight up to see you, max. i only arrived home last night. i want to see you concerning marion." his companion's lips hardened. "marion!" he exclaimed. "i have done all i can. i've left no effort untried. i have sought the aid of the best confidential inquiry agency in london, and all to no avail. she's disappeared--as completely as maud has done!" "yes, i know," replied her brother, thrusting his hands deep into the trousers-pockets of his blue serge travelling-suit. "i've seen statham." "and so have i. he wrote to cunnington's, but the latter has not replied. i saw cunnington myself." "and what did he say?" "the fellow refused to say anything," he replied in a hard tone. silence again fell between the pair. the long, old-fashioned room, with its blue china, its chintz coverings, its grand piano, and its bowls of autumn roses, though full of quaint charm, was weird and unsuited to the home of a bachelor. indeed, kilmaronock was a white elephant to max. he received a fair rental from the farms on the estate, but he never went near the place except for sport for six weeks or so each autumn. the old place possessed some bitter memories for him, for his mother had died there quite suddenly of heart disease on the night of a large dinner-party. he was only eighteen then, but he remembered it too well. it was that tragic memory which had caused him to abandon the place except when he invited a few of his friends to shoot over the estate. "let's go into my own room to talk," he suggested. "it's more cosy there." as a man hates all drawing-rooms, so did max barclay detest his. it was for him full of recollections of his dear dead mother. and so they passed along the corridor to max's own little den in the east wing of the house, a pleasant little room overlooking the deep shady glen from whence rose the constant music of the ever-rippling burn. as charlie sank into the big armchair near the fire max pushed the cigar-box towards him. then he seated himself, saying: "now, old fellow, what are we to do? marion must be found." "she must. but you've failed, you say?" "utterly," he sighed. "she was discharged from cunnington's-- disgraced!" "why?" max shrugged his shoulders. both men knew well that the reason of the girl's disappearance was the shame of her dismissal. both men knew also that by lifting his finger sam statham could have reinstated her--or could at least have had inquiry made as to the truth of what had really occurred. but he had refused. therefore both were indignant and angry. during the next half-hour they discussed the matter fully and seriously, and were agreed upon one main point, that statham had acted against them both in refusing his aid to clear the unfortunate girl. "whatever fault she has committed," declared max, "the truth should be told. i went to him acknowledging my love for her and beseeching his aid. and yet he has refused." "then let us combine, max, in trying to discover the truth," her brother suggested. "marion shall not be cast aside into oblivion by these drapery capitalists who gain fat profits upon the labour and lives of women." "you may imperil your position with statham if you act without discretion," remarked max warningly. "i shall do nothing without full consideration, depend upon it. statham refused his assistance, therefore we must act for ourselves." "how? where shall we begin?" asked max. his friend raised his palms in a gesture of bewilderment. "look here, charlie," said the other in a confidential tone. "has it not occurred to you that there may be a method in old statham's eccentricity regarding that house of his. now tell me, what do you know of its interior? let's be frank with each other. you have lost both your sister and the woman you adored, while i have lost marion, my well-beloved. let us act together. during these past weeks i've been thinking deeply regarding the mystery of that house in park lane." "so have i, many times. i only know the ground floor and basement. i have never ascended the stairs, through that white-enamelled iron door concealed by the one of green baize." "where does old levi sleep?" "in a room at the back of the kitchen--when he sleeps at all. he's like a watch-dog, on the alert always for the slightest sound." max paused for a moment before making any further remark. then he said in a quiet voice: "there are some very queer stories afloat concerning that place, charlie." "i know. i've heard them--about mysterious people who enter there at night--and don't come forth again. but i don't believe them. old sam has earned a reputation for being eccentric, and his enemies have tacked on all sorts of sensational fictions." "but i've heard lately from half a dozen sources most extraordinary stories. up at the moretouns' at inversnaid the night before last, they were talking of it at dinner. they were unaware that i knew statham." "just as the gossips are unaware that the persons who come and go so mysteriously at the park lane mansion are secret agents of the great financier," rolfe said. "of course it would not do to say so openly, but that's who they are. the allegation that they don't come forth again is, i feel confident, mere embroidery to the tale." "but," exclaimed max with some hesitation, "has it not ever occurred to you somewhat curious that, so deeply involved in servian finance, statham has never sought to solve the mystery of the doctor's disappearance? remember, they knew each other. the doctor, when he was in power at belgrade, was probably the old man's cat's-paw. is it not therefore surprising that he has never expressed a desire to seek out the truth?" rolfe held his breath as a new and terrible suspicion arose within him. he had never regarded the affair in that light. was it possible that his master knew well all the circumstances which had led the doctor to disappear in that manner so extraordinary? had he really had a hand in it? was he the "friend" of whom sir charles had spoken in belgrade? but no! he would not believe such a thing. sam statham was always honest in his dealings--or, at least, as honest as any millionaire can ever be. the man who habitually deals in colossal sums must now and then, of necessity ruin his opponents and wreck the homes of honest men. and strange it is that the world is ever ungrateful. if a very wealthy man gave every penny of his profits to the poor he would only be dubbed a fool or an idiot for his philanthropy. he recollected that afternoon when, at work in old sam's room, he had mentioned the doctor's sudden departure, and how deftly the old man had turned the conversation into a different channel. until two days ago he would hear no word nor believe any ill against the man who had befriended him. but the man's refusal to assist him to discover the truth concerning the charge against marion or to order her to be reinstated had turned his heart. he was now sam statham's enemy, as before he had been his friend. the two men seated together discussed the matter carefully and seriously for the greater part of the night, and when they parted to go to their rooms they took each other's hands in solemn compact. "we will investigate that house, rolfe," max declared; "and we'll lay bare the mystery it conceals!" chapter forty five. the impending blow. four nights later max and charlie alighted from the scotch express at euston on their return to london to make investigation. next morning rolfe went as usual to park lane, and spent some hours attending to the old man's correspondence. the excuse charlie made for his absence was that he had been away in an endeavour to find his sister, whereat the millionaire merely grunted in dissatisfaction. both charlie and max were full of sorrow and anxiety on marion's behalf. what had befallen her they dreaded to guess. she had left oxford street, and from that moment had been swallowed in the bustling vortex of our great cruel london, the city where money alone is power and where gold can purchase everything, even to the death of one's enemy. perhaps the poor girl had met with some charitable woman who had taken her in and given her shelter; but more probable, alas! she was wandering hungry and homeless, afraid to face the shame of the dastardly charge against her--the charge that to neither her brother nor her lover none would name. that morning charlie wrote on, mechanically, speaking little, with the old man seated near him sucking the stump of a cheap cigar. his mind was too full of the action he was about to execute--an action which in other circumstances would have indeed been culpable. both he and his friend had carefully considered all ways and means by which they might enter those premises. to get in would be difficult. old levi bolted the heavy front door each night at eleven, and then retired to his room in the basement, where he slept with one ear and his door open to catch the slightest sound. and even though they obtained access to the hall and study there was the locked iron door at the head of the staircase--the door through which they must pass if their investigation of the house was to be made. that morning he made excuse to leave the old man seated in his study, saying that he wanted to speak to levi and give him a message for one of the clerks from old broad street. outside in the hall he sprang noiselessly up the stairs, and, pulling open the baize-covered door, swiftly examined the great iron fireproof door so carefully concealed and secured. his heart failed when he recognised the impossibility of passing beyond. the door was enamelled white like the panelling up the stairs, only over the small keyhole was a flap of shining brass bearing the name of a well-known safe-maker. at imminent peril of discovery by levi, who often shuffled in noiseless slippers of felt, he lifted the flap and peered eagerly beyond. he could, however, see nothing. the hole did not penetrate the door. then, fearing that he might be discovered, he slipped downstairs again, and went to examine the front door. the bolts were long and heavy, and the chain was evidently in use every night. in the kitchen he found levi, preparing his master's frugal meal, which usually consisted of a small chop, a piece of stale bread, and one glass of light claret. his visit below gave him an opportunity of examining the fastenings of the windows. they were all patent ones, and, besides, the whole were protected from burglars by iron bars. patent fastenings were also upon the windows of the study, looking forth upon park lane, while often at night the heavy oaken shutters were closed and barred. he had never before noticed how every precaution had been taken to exclude the unwelcome intruders. through the whole morning his brain was actively at work to discover some means by which an entry might be effected, but there seemed none. the secret, whatever it might be, was certainly well guarded. he went across to the club to lunch, and returned again at three o'clock. about four he rose, asking old sam, who was seated writing, for a document from the safe, the key of which was upon his watch-guard. the millionaire took out his watch and chain and handed them to his secretary, as he so often did, while the latter, crossing the room, opened the safe and fumbled about among some papers in one of the drawers. then he re-locked the safe, handed back the watch and chain, and re-seated himself at the table. those few brief moments had been all-sufficient, for upon the bunch was the latch-key of the front door, an impression of which he had taken with the wax he had already prepared. the duplicate key could, he knew, be filed out of the handle of an old spoon, and such was his intention. he had hoped to find upon the bunch the key to the iron door on the stairs, but it was not among them. he knew each key by sight. the old man evidently kept it in a safer place--some place where the hand of none other might be placed upon it. where did he keep it? its hiding-place must be somewhere handy, charlie reflected, for at least half a dozen times a day the old man passed that iron barrier which shut off the upper part of the mansion. he wondered where he could find that key, but remained wondering. that evening he took the impression of the latchkey to dover street, and with max's help tried to fashion a key to that pattern, but though they tried for hours it was in vain. so they gave it up. next day max took train to birmingham, and handed the impression to a locksmith he chanced to know. the latter, having looked at it, shook his head, and said: "this impression is no use, sir. it's what they call a paracentric lock, and you must have impressions of both sides, as well as the exact width back and front before i can make you a duplicate." the man showed how the impressions should be taken. max, of course, concocting a story as to why it was wanted, and then back to london he travelled that same night to consult with his friend. the outcome of this was that two days later complete impressions were taken of the small latchkey, and within three days came the duplicate by post. max bought two electric torches, two pairs of felt slippers, a piece of thin but very strong rope, screwdriver, chisel, and other implements, until he had a full burglar's equipment. the preparations were exciting during the next few days, yet when they came down to bed-rock fact there was that locked door which stood between them and the truth. charlie's object in obtaining a duplicate latchkey was to enter noiselessly one night shortly before eleven, and secrete, themselves somewhere until levi bolted the door and retired. they must take their chance of making any discovery they could. both were well aware of levi's vigilance, and his quickness of hearing. therefore they would be compelled to work without noise, and also to guard against any hidden electric burglar alarms which might be secreted in the sashes of windows or in lintels of doors. investigation by charlie had not revealed the existence of any of these terrors to thieves; yet so many were the precautions against intruders that the least suspected contrivance for their detection was to be expected. nearly a fortnight passed before all arrangements were complete for the nocturnal tour of investigation. daily rolfe, though attentive to his duties as the old man's secretary, was always on the alert to discover the existence of that key to the iron door. by all manner of devices he endeavoured to compel statham to unwittingly reveal its whereabouts. he made pretence of mistaking various keys to deed boxes and nests of drawers, in order that the old man should produce other keys. but he was too wary, and never once did he fall into the trap. yet often he left the study, passed up the stain, and through the door swiftly, until the younger man began to suspect that it might be opened by means of some secret spring. standing below, he could not obtain sight of the old fellow as he opened the door, and to follow him half-way up was too dangerous a proceeding. he had risked a good deal, but he dare not risk the old man's wrath in that. still that he passed the door quickly and without hindrance was plainly shown. he had a key secreted somewhere--a key which, when applied, turned quickly, with ease and without noise, to admit the owner of the great mansion to the apartments where his secret was so successfully hidden. sometimes he would descend pale, haggard, and agitated, his hand upon his heart, as though to recover his breath. at others he was flushed and angry, like a man who had a moment before taken part in a heated discussion which had ended in a serious difference. charlie watched all this, and wondered. what secret could possibly be hidden in those upper storeys that were at times so brilliantly lit? each evening he called on max at dover street, and with closed door, so that the man should not hear, they discussed the situation. of jean adam nothing further had been seen. neither had the hunchback engineer, leonard lyle, been at all it evidence. ever since max had given the frenchman his decision not to go to constantinople adam had held aloof from him. they had parted perfectly good friends, but max could detect the bitter chagrin that his reply had caused. one evening as the two sat together charlie related his curious experience of the short, dark, good-looking girl who had met him in paris and talked so strangely of maud in the tuileries gardens. max sat smoking his cigar listening to every word. "curious--very curious!" he ejaculated. "didn't she tall you her name?" "she gave it as lorena." "lorena!" gasped the other, starting up. "lorena--why, it must have been lorena lyle--old lyle's daughter?" "his daughter! i never knew he had one." "no; perhaps not. he doesn't often speak of her, i believe. i saw her once, not long ago." "they have quarrelled--father and daughter!" exclaimed rolfe. "and that accounts for her exposure of the plot against statham to compel him to commit suicide rather than to face exposure. remember, she would not betray who was adam's associate in the matter. because it is her own father, without a doubt." "she alleged that statham committed a secret crime, by which he laid the foundation of his great fortune," max remembered. "and, further, that confirmation of the charge brought by adam will be found beyond that locked door?" "yes," said his companion, in a hollow voice; "i see it all. the girl wishes to exclude her father from the business. yet she knows more than she has told me." "no doubt. she probably knew maud also, for she has lived for years-- indeed, nearly all her life--in belgrade," barclay remarked. "she quarrelled with her father, and went on the stage as a dancer in the opera at vienna. she is now in paris in the same capacity. if i remember aright she was here at covent garden last season. they say she has great talent and that she's now being trained in paris for the part of _premiere danseuse_." "she alleged that there still live two witnesses of statham's crime, whatever it was," charlie went on. "and they are probably adam and her hunchback father--both men who have lived the life of the wilds beyond the fringe of civilisation--both men who are as unscrupulous as they are adventurous." "but from all i knew of lyle he was a most highly respectable person. in belgrade they still speak of him with greatest respect." "leonard lyle in belgrade, my dear chap, may have been a very different person to leonard lyle in other countries, you know," was his friend's reply. "but why has his daughter given me this warning, at the same time taking care to conceal her identity." "she was a short, dark-haired girl, rather good-looking, except that her top teeth protruded a little; about nineteen or so--eh?" "exactly." "and depend upon it that she has warned you at maud's request, in order that you may be forearmed against the blow which the pair are going to strike." "and which we--you and i, max--are going to assist--eh?" added the other, grimly. chapter forty six. to learn the truth. the mystery by which old sam statham sometimes passed beyond that white-enamelled door was inexplicable. whenever he left the library to ascend the stairs, charlie rolfe stole quietly out behind him, and listened. sometimes he distinctly heard the key in the lock; at others it sounded as though the closed door yielded to his touch and swung aside for him to pass beyond. it closed always with a thud, as though felt had been placed upon it to prevent any metallic clang. while charlie watched the great financier's every movement, max was unceasing in his inquiries regarding marion. advertisements had men published in the "personal" columns of various newspapers, and the private inquiry agents whose aid he had sought had been unremitting in their vigilance. the whole affair from beginning to end now showed the existence of some powerful hand which had directed and rendered the mystery beyond solution. the strange re-appearance of jean adam and leonard lyle had been followed quickly by the extraordinary flight of doctor petrovitch and maud. the latter had only an hour before she had disappeared into space made some remarkable confession to marion--a confession which might or might not save samuel statham from an ignominious death. but the girl had preserved the secret of the confession confided to her by her friend, and, preferring shame and misjudgment, she in turn had disappeared, whither no one knew. the two men, brother and lover, who had now united their forces to solve the problem and at the same time ascertain for themselves what the secret of the house in park lane really was, were at their wits' ends. their inquiries and their efforts always led them into a _cul-de-sac_. at every turn they seemed foiled and baffled. and was it surprising when it was considered the power of samuel statham and the means at his command for the preservation of a secret? charlie felt that he was being watched hourly by one or other of those spies who sometimes gave such valuable information to the head of the firm. some of these secret agents of statham he knew by sight, but there were others unseen and unknown. even though max and his friend were able to enter unheard and secrete themselves before the place was locked up by old levi, yet there was that white door barring their passage to the mystery beyond. many times they discussed the possibilities, and each time hesitated. charlie was sorely puzzled regarding the key of the iron door. sometimes it was undoubtedly used, sometimes not. at last one evening, after both men had dined at the st james's, of which max was a member, they resolved upon a bold move. charlie suggested it, and the other was at once ready and eager. so after max had been round to his rooms to put on a suit of dark tweeds, he went to charlie's chambers where the various implements were produced and laid upon the table. it was then nearly ten o'clock. rolfe, having sent green to the other end of jermyn street out of the way, drew out the whisky decanter from the tantalus stand, poured out two "pegs" with soda, and drank: "success to the elucidation of old statham's secret." then, carefully stowing the various articles in their pockets, they slipped down into the street and were out of sight before the inquisitive green had returned. arrived in park lane, after a hasty walk, they strolled slowly along by the park railings past the house. all was in darkness save the hall, where the electric lamp showed above the fanlight. old sam was probably in his study, smoking his last cigar, for the shutters were that night closed, as they sometimes were. the shutters of the basement were also closed behind their iron bars, while at the upstairs windows all the blinds were carefully drawn. indeed, the exterior of the house presented nothing unusual. it was the same as any other mansion in park lane. yet there were many who on going up and down the thoroughfare afoot or on the motor-'buses jerked their thumbs at it and whispered. the house had earned a reputation for mystery. sam statham was a mystery in himself, and of his house many weird things were alleged. thrice the pair passed and repassed. at the corner of deanery street stood a constable, and while he remained there it was injudicious to attempt an entry with a latchkey. so they strolled back in the direction of the fountain, conversing in undertones. max glanced at his watch, and found that it wanted a quarter to eleven. at last they crossed the road and passed the door. all seemed quiet. at that moment the only object in sight was a receding motor-'bus showing its red tail-light. not a soul was on the pavement. "all clear!" cried charlie, scarce above a whisper, as he slipped up the two or three steps, followed by his companion. that moment was an exciting one. next second, however, the key was in the latch, and without a sound the wards of the lock were lifted. in another moment the pair stood within the brightly-lit hall, and the door was closed noiselessly behind them. standing there, within a few yards of the door of the library, where from the smell of tobacco smoke it was evident that old sam was taking his ease, they were in imminent risk of discovery. besides, levi had a habit of moving without sound in his old felt slippers, and might at any moment appear up the stairs from the lower regions. instinctively charlie glanced upstairs towards the locked door. but next second he motioned his companion to follow, and stole on tiptoe over the thick turkey carpets past the millionaire's door and on into a kind of small conservatory which lay behind the hall and was in darkness. though leading from the room behind the library, it was a fairly good spot as a place of hiding, yet so vigilant was old levi that the chances were he would come in there poking about ere he retired to rest. the two men stood together behind a bank of what had once been greenhouse plants, but all of them had died by neglect and want of water long ago. the range of pots and dried stalks still remained, forming an effectual barrier behind which they could conceal themselves. through the long french window of the room adjoining the light shone, and charlie, slowly creeping forward, peered within. then he whispered to his friend, and both men bent to see what was transpiring. the scene was unusual. a full view of the library could be obtained from where they stood in the darkness. in the room two of the big armchairs had been pulled up, with a small coffee table between them. on one side was old sam, lazily smoking one of his big cigars, while on the other was levi, lying back, his legs stretched out, smoking with perfect equanimity and equally with his master. upon the table was a decanter of whisky and two glasses, and, judging from the amused countenances of both men, sam had been relating to levi something which struck the other as humorous. it was curious, to say the least, that levi, the humble, even cringing, servant should place himself upon an equality with his master. that he was devoted to old sam, charlie knew well, but this friendship he had never suspected. there was a hidden reason for it all, without a doubt. the two intruders watched with bated breath, neither daring to make a sound. they saw levi, his cigar stuck in the side of his mouth, lean back and thrust his hands deep into his trousers-pockets, uttering some words which they could not catch. his manner had changed, and so had sam's. from gay the pair had suddenly grown grave. upon the millionaire's brow was a dark shadow, such as charlie, who knew him intimately in all his moods, had seldom seen there. levi was speaking quickly, his attitude changed, as though giving serious advice, to which his master listened with knit brows and deep attention. then, with a suddenness that caused the two watchers to start, the electric bell at the hall-door sounded. in an instant levi tossed his cigar into the fire, whipped off his glass from the table, and in a single instant became the grave family servant again, as with a quick gesture of his hand he left the room to answer the summons at the door. in a few moments he returned, closing the door quickly after him, so that whoever was in the hall could not overhear what was said. approaching his master he made some announcement in a whisper, whereat the millionaire clenched his fist, and struck violently in the air. levi urged calmness; that was evident from his manner. then sam, with a resigned air, shrugged his shoulders, paced the room in quick agitation, and turned upon his servant with his eyes flashing with anger. again levi placed his thin hand on the old man's arm which calmed him into almost instant submission. then the grave-faced old servant went out, and an instant later ushered in a woman, all in black--a woman who, in instant, both max and charlie recognised. they both stood watching, breathless--rooted to the spot. the mystery, as they afterwards discovered, was even greater than they had ever anticipated. it was beyond human credence. chapter forty seven. contains more mystery. the old-fashioned, ill-cut gown of black stuff and the rather unbecoming big black hat gave sam's visitor an appearance of being older than she really was. a spotted veil concealed her features, but as she entered the room she raised it quickly. the face revealed was the soft, sweet countenance of maud petrovitch. charlie gripped his companion's arm and gave vent to an exclamation of amazement as he stood peering forth open-mouthed. as the girl entered the old man turned fiercely upon her and uttered some inquiry. what it was the watchers could not distinguish, for thick plate glass stood between the conservatory and the library. yet whatever he said or however caustic and bitter his manner, the young girl stood defiant. her chin was raised, her eyes flashed upon him, and her gloved hand was outstretched in a gesture of calm denunciation as she replied with some words that caused the old fellow to draw back in surprise and confusion. the door had closed, for levi had left the pair together. max wondered whether the old servant would now come and search the back premises prior to locking up. if so, they might easily be discovered. those felt-soled boots of old levi struck fear into their hearts. charlie was, however, too occupied in watching the old man and the girl at that moment to think of any danger of detection. his well-beloved stood pale, beautiful, and yet defiant before the man who a moment before had shaken his fist and clenched his teeth on hearing of her demand to see him. the words she had uttered had caused an instant change in his manner. his sudden anger had been succeeded by fear. whatever she had said was evidently straight to the point. for a moment he regarded her in silence, then over his grey face came a crafty smile as with mock courtesy he offered her a chair, still remaining standing himself. she leaned her elbow on the arm of the chair, and, bending towards him, was speaking again, uttering slow, decisive words, each of which seemed to bite into his very soul. his countenance again changed; from mock humour it became hard, drawn, almost haggard. charlie, who knew the old man in every mood, had never witnessed such an expression upon his face. beneath it all, however, he detected a look of unrelenting, almost fiendish revenge. he longed to rush forward and grasp his loved one in his arms, but max, seeing his agitation, laid his hand firmly upon his shoulder. "let us watch in patience, charlie," he urged. "we may learn something interesting." maud had altered but little since that afternoon when, in the haze of the red london sunset, charlie had last walked with her in nevern square. she was, perhaps, a trifle pinched in the cheeks, but the sweet dimples were still there, and the little wisp of hair still strayed across her white brow. her gown, however, seemed shabby and ill-fitting. perhaps she had borrowed it in order to come there in garments by which she would not be recognised. for a young girl to make a visit at that late hour was, to say the least, somewhat unusual. both men standing in the shadow behind the thick glass longed to hear what the pair were saying. it was tantalising to be so near the disclosure of a secret--indeed, to have it enacted before one's eyes-- and yet be debarred from learning the truth. max examined the door, hoping to open it ever so slightly, but to his chagrin he found it locked and bolted. old levi had already prepared to retire before they had made their surreptitious entrance there. that he had at last found maud again was to both a source of immense gratification. at last the truth of the doctor's strange disappearance would now be known. but what connection could old statham have with the affair? charlie recollected what sir charles harrison had told him in belgrade-- that the bomb outrage by which a poor innocent child had lost her life had been planned by one of his friends. he had suspected max. but in the light of maud's secret visit to statham, he now held the last-named in distinct suspicion. was it part of the millionaire's cunning policy in servia to rid the country of its greatest statesman? no. that was impossible. the doctor and statham had been friends. when petrovitch was in power they had worked hand-in-glove, with the result that the millionaire had lent money to the servian government upon very second-class security. unrest in servia would, charlie was well aware, mean loss to statham brothers of perhaps a million sterling. it was therefore to the interest of the firm that the present government should remain in power, and that the country should be allowed to develop and progress peacefully. he tried to put behind him that increasing suspicion that old sam was the "friend" to whom the diplomat had so mysteriously referred. and yet as he watched every movement, every gesture of the pair within that long room where the lights were so artistically shaded--the room wherein deals involving the loss or gain of hundreds of thousands of pounds were decided--he saw that the girl remained still defiant, and that the man stood vanquished by her slow, deliberate accusation. old sam's bony fingers were twitching--a sign of suppressed wrath which his secretary knew well. he held his thin lower lip between his yellow teeth, and standing with his back to the fireplace, he now and then cast a supercilious smile upon the pretty girl who had come there in defiance of the convenances--in defiance, evidently, of his own imperious commands. samuel statham at that moment was not the hard-faced old benefactor who haunted the seats in the park and gave so much money anonymously to the deserving among the "submerged tenth." he was a man fighting for his honour, his reputation, his gold--nay, his very life. he was a man whose keen wit was now pitted against that of a clear, level-headed girl--one who had right and justice on her side. was it possible, charlie thought, that his well-beloved knew the old man's secret--that secret which, before he would face its exposure, he would prefer the grave itself? he watched maud and noted how balanced was her beautiful countenance, and yet how calm and how determined she was. when the old man spoke she listened with attention, but her replies, brief and pointed, were always made with a gesture and expression of triumph, as of one who knew the naked and astounding truth. "what can it all mean?" whispered max. "why is she here? how tantalising it is that we cannot catch a single word she is uttering!" "the door's bolted," charlie said in a tone of chagrin. "we can only watch. see!--she's evidently telling him some home truths that are the reverse of palatable. he looks as though he could kill her!" "he'd better not attempt it," remarked max grimly, and they both stood again in silence, peering forward in breathless eagerness. for fully ten minutes longer the old man and the young girl were in heated discussion. sometimes statham spoke quickly and angrily, with that caustic assertiveness that most people found so overbearing. of a sudden both watchers were aware of a slow, stealthy movement behind them--a shuffling of feet it seemed. it was old levi, on his tour of inspection to reassure himself that all was secure. in an instant both intruders drew back into the deep shadow behind a high stand upon which stood choice plants in tiers, or rather the dried-up pots which had once contained them. they were only just in time, for old levi, peering forth into the semi-darkness as he stood in the doorway leading from the hall, searched around. then, finding all quiet and detecting nobody, he closed the door and locked it. they were thus locked out by both doors! to re-enter the house would be difficult. it was a contingency for which they had not been prepared. still, they were too interested in watching the pair within to think much of the contretemps that had occurred. old levi had shuffled away, and was waiting, no doubt, to usher out the dainty little visitor before returning to the regions below. maud, however, showed no sign of haste to leave. comfortably ensconced in her chair, with her veil thrown back, she sat facing him, and replying without hesitation to his allegations. the sinister expression upon the old man's face told its own tale. his impatient bearing and quick gesture showed his eagerness to get rid of her. but she, on her part, seemed to have no intention of leaving just yet. she was speaking, her gloved finger raised to emphasise her words--hard words, which, from the expression upon her face seemed full of bitter sarcasm and reproach. of a sudden he turned upon the girl with a fierceness which took her by surprise. he uttered a few words, which she answered quickly. then, striking his hands into the pockets of his trousers, he bent towards her with an evil grin upon his grey face and made some remarks which caused in her a quick change of attitude. she rose from her chair, her face aflame with anger, and, taking a couple of paces towards him, replied with a vehemence which neither of the unseen onlookers suspected. the battle of words continued. he was making some allegations, the truth of which she was denying. this girl, not yet out of her teens, was defiant of the man whose life had been one long struggle to grow rich, and whose gigantic wealth was now crushing the very soul from his body. surely they were an incongruous pair. his defiance of her was only a half-hearted one. his sarcasm had irritated her, and now, alleging something, which was a lie, he had goaded her into all the fierce ebullition of anger which a woman, however calm and level-headed she may be, cannot at times restrain. "i wonder what the old blackguard has said?" whispered max to the man at his side. "it seems as though he has made some charge against her." "or against her father," max suggested. "you suspected me of being privy to the doctor's disappearance, max," charlie said, still in a whisper. "you said that you saw me at cromwell road that night. are you still of that opinion?" "no," responded his friend. "there was a plot--a cleverly devised plot. someone went there dressed exactly like you." "but you say you saw his face." "so i did. and i could have sworn it was you." "it is that conspiracy which we have to fathom," charlie said. "at least, we have established the fact that maud is alive. and having found maud, we may also find marion. possibly she went to her into safe hiding from us." "more than possible, i think." but while they were whispering something occurred which made them both start. the girl, crimson with anger, suddenly dived her hand into her dress pocket, and, taking out a bundle of paper, flung it at the man before her. they saw, to their amazement, that it was a bunch of crisp banknotes. she had cast it at his feet in open defiance. perhaps the money was the price of her silence--money he had sent to her or to her father to purchase secrecy! the old man gave a glance at the notes crushed into a bundle and lying upon the carpet, and then, turning to her, snapped his bony finger and thumb in defiance, and laughed in her face--a grim, evil laugh, which charlie knew from experience meant retaliation and bitter vengeance. chapter forty eight. not counting the cost. the girl turned to leave, but the old man placed himself between her and the door. she stamped her little foot angrily in command to be allowed to pass. he saw her determination, and hesitated. then he seemed to commence to argue, to place before her the probable result of her action in casting aside the money, but she would hear nothing. her mind seemed fully made up. she had spoken her last word, and wished to leave him. he saw in her decision an attitude antagonistic to himself. he was in deadly peril. though his wealth could command all that was good and all that was bad, though it placed him above his fellow men and rendered him immune from much, yet it could not ensure her goodwill. both max and charlie realised plainly that maud was in possession of some great secret, and that she had refused a bribe of silence. this man who had believed that his money could purchase anything had discovered, to his dismay, that it could not seal her lips. he saw himself facing an imminent peril, and was undecided how to act. he argued. but she would not listen. he appealed. but she only smiled and shook her head. her mind was made up. she had decided to refuse the money. he picked it from the floor and handed it to her again, but she would not take it in her hand. then he crossed to his writing-table, took out his chequebook and scribbled a cheque--one for a large amount in all probability. tearing it from its counterfoil, he gave it to her. but with an expression of defiance she tore it into four and cast it upon the floor with a gesture of disgust. and in triumph, before he could prevent her, she opened the door, and disappeared from the room. "we must follow her?" whispered charlie eagerly. "but, my dear fellow, we can't! we're locked in!" rolfe, realising the truth that they were prevented from overtaking his well-beloved, for whom they had been so long in active search, and that she must again dip from them into oblivion, gave vent to a forcible expression of despair. "let's remain here," urged max. "we may learn something else." "the old man will go to bed," was charlie's response. "and we will follow and explore above." "how?" asked rolfe. "that remains to be seen. we must, in this case, act discreetly, and trust to luck." "but maud? i must see her." "that's impossible at present. you have seen her--that's enough for to-night. to-morrow we may discover something further--or even to-night." both men, scarce daring to breathe, were watching old sam. after the girl had gone, he placed his hand upon his heart, and, with face white and haggard, he sank into his writing-chair. he had collapsed as though he had received a sudden blow. levi entered hurriedly a few moments later, and, finding his master leaning forward upon his table muttering to himself, tried to rouse him. a glance at his face showed that he had collapsed. levi therefore rushed across the room, poured out some brandy from the tantalus, and compelled the old man to swallow it. this, after a few moments, revived him. the faithful servant, however, stood by in wonderment. he seemed puzzled as to what had occurred. but the fragments of the torn cheque scattered upon the carpet showed defiance on the part of the visitor whom he had just shown out into the night. levi stooped as far as his rheumatism would allow, and slowly, very slowly, gathered up the torn pieces of paper and placed them in the basket, his eyes the whole time upon his master. straightening himself again, he spoke, making inquiry as to what had occurred. but his master, with a wave of his hand, commanded his silence. then, sinking back in his chair, he remained, staring straight before him like a man in a dream. he seemed peering into the future-- and he saw only exposure and ruin! hands and teeth were clenched, for he realised that he had taken a false step. he had misjudged his own power and influence. he had believed that a good and truthful woman could be purchased, as he might purchase any other thing or chattel. she had cast his gold into his face. she had insulted him, for she had spoken a truth which he could not deny. indeed, that slim, pale-faced girl, scarce more than a child, held over him power supreme--power for life, or for death. the scene within that room was a strange one. old levi, standing statuesque at his master's side, uttered some words. but the millionaire was silent. he only raised his grey head and sat staring at the great painting opposite--staring like a man peering into the grim unknown. the door that divided the watchers from the watched prevented the words from being overheard. the thickness of its glass prevented the truth being known to the two men standing breathless behind it. had it been ordinary glass they would no doubt have overheard the conversation between the old man and his fair visitor. the anger of both men had been aroused by statham's attitude towards the girl. even charlie, faithful and devoted as he had been to the millionaire, had now become fiercely antagonistic, for he had seen by the old man's countenance that some terrible revenge was intended upon the girl he loved so dearly. levi bent and placed his hand tenderly upon his master's shoulder. but statham shook him off, and, straightening himself, staggered to his feet and paced the room in a frenzy of despair. charlie recollected his agitation after the unexpected discovery of jean adam lounging outside the park railings. this repetition of his apprehension showed him to be in terror of exposure and denunciation. maud, so slim, sweet-faced, and innocent, had defied him. she held him, the man whose power in every european capital was recognised and feared, in the hollow of her hand. why? ay, to that question there was no answer. they had witnessed the scene, but they had caught no sound of one single word. at last levi succeeded in calming his master. he mixed him another brandy and soda and handed it to him. the old man seized it with unsteady hand, and tossed it off at a single gulp. then he walked slowly from the room, followed by levi. an instant later the old servant turned the switch, and the room, and with it the neglected conservatory, were plunged in darkness. the two intruders listened. voices sounded, and then died away. a moment later they heard a thud, and knew that the old man had passed beyond the white-enamelled door and had closed it behind him. for another few minutes they remained in silence, then max whispered: "what shall we do?" "we must get out of here," answered his friend promptly. "we're caught like a rat in a trap. to open either of the doors leading into the house is impossible. we must try and make our exit by the back," and, groping his way, he moved to the door, which opened on to a small, paved backyard. but it had been secured. levi, indeed, kept it always locked, and the key was not there. "to break this open will create a noise, and arouse somebody," max remarked. "well, we must get out at all hazards. we can't stay here till morning and court discovery," rolfe argued. "if we only had a little light we might see what we're doing. by jove! you've got a pocket-lamp, max. where is it?" "is it safe yet to show a light?" barclay asked dubiously. "it may be seen from outside, you know!" "it can't. there's a blank wall opposite." "but will not the reflection be seen by levi from below?" asked max. rolfe saw that, after all, there was some danger of detection, and admitted it. "then let's wait a bit," his companion whispered. "by patience we may be able to escape without detection. don't let us act indiscreetly." so the pair, leaning against one of the stands of dead flowers, waited in silence, their ears strained to catch every sound. the moments seemed hours, until at last, all being quiet, max, at his friend's suggestion pressed the electric button of the little hand-lamp and showed a light upon the door. it was half of glass, with strong lock and double bolts. to escape meant to break away a hole large enough for a man's body to pass. max suggested that they might find the key hanging somewhere upon a nail, as conservatory keys are often kept, in that manner. but though they searched the whole place, treading lightly as they went, they were unable to discover it. "levi keeps it upon his bunch, i expect," charlie remarked. "i've never seen this door open in my life." "that's why the flowers are all dead, perhaps," max remarked grimly with a low laugh. "flowers! old sam declared that they were no use to him, therefore he forbade levi to give them any water, and they all died. the old man isn't fond of flowers. says they're only useful at weddings and funerals." "there won't be many at his obsequies!" laughed max beneath his breath, as he made another examination of the door. both agreed that to open it was impossible, while to break out the glass was far too risky a proceeding, for some of it must fall upon the paving outside. rain had begun to fall, pattering heavily upon the glass roof above; and as they were both searching about blindly for some other mode of egress max suddenly exclaimed: "why, look here!" and pointed to a portion of the glass side of the conservatory which had opened outwardly upon a hinge, but which had been securely screwed up. "excellent!" cried charlie, realising that an exit lay there, and, quickly drawing from his pocket a serviceable-looking screwdriver, set to work upon the screws. they were long, and hard to withdraw, but ten minutes later all six of them were taken out, and, pushing back the movable frame upon its hinges, they found themselves outside in the narrow backyard. once free, max turned his face upwards to the dark windows of the first floor of the mysterious mansion, saying: "we must get up there, charlie, somehow or other. i'm not going from this place until i've learnt its secret." "no," responded his friend. "neither am i." chapter forty nine. what lay behind the door. above the dome-shaped roof of the conservatory was a row of four long dark windows, and still above them two further storeys. on the second storey in the centre of the house was a high window covered with wire network, evidently a staircase window of stained glass. the whole place was in darkness, as were the houses on either side, while at rear of them rose a blank wall, the back of one of the houses in park street. the only light showing was in the basement--a faint glimmer behind the green holland blinds, which showed the presence of levi in the lower regions. "he sleeps in the front," remarked charlie. "i expect, however, he keeps this on all night." "where does old sam sleep?" "that i don't know. we'll have to discover." the windows above the conservatory were their objective, but to ascend there was full of peril, for, even though they could climb up, one false step and they would come crashing through the glass roof. this would mean both serious personal injury as well as instant discovery. in the whispered consultation that followed, both recognised the danger, but both were equally determined to risk it. they had plenty of time. the night was still young, therefore there was no need for haste. they made careful examination as far as they could in the very faint light. max was afraid to flash his electric lamp too often lest the attention of any neighbour might be attracted and an alarm of "burglars" given. neither knew whether a servant might not be looking out upon the night. the house they desired to enter had earned a reputation as a house of mystery, therefore it was more than likely that some watchful eye of a curious neighbour, master or servant, was kept upon the rear of the premises. at last, max, who was the more athletic and nimble of the two, decided that the only way by which to reach the roof of the conservatory was by the spouting at the side. the ascent was a difficult one, but he resolved to attempt it. taking a small coil of thin but very strong rope which charlie produced from the capacious pocket of the shooting-jacket he wore for that purpose, he mounted upon his friend's shoulders, and then climbed slowly up, with an agility which surprised his friend. once upon the roof he made fast the rope to one of the iron stays of the spouting, and let it down to charlie, who a few moments later swarmed up it and stood on the edge of the glass roof beside his companion. their position there was one of greatest peril. they stood together upon the narrow edging of lead by which the glass roof was joined to the wall of the house. they moved slowly and gingerly, for it was quite uncertain whether it would bear their weight. besides, there was nothing to grasp by which to relieve their weight, for above them rose the wall sheer to the ledges of the row of windows, too high for them to reach. a step in the wrong direction, and down they must come with a crash into the neglected conservatory. max could hear his own heart beating. the risk was greater than he had ever anticipated. yet so greatly was their curiosity now aroused that nothing could brook their attempt to learn the secret that dark mysterious house contained. they stood together, not daring to move. at a short distance away was a thin iron support running into the wall--part of the framework of the roof--and towards that max crept carefully, until at last he reached it and stood in a safer position. the weight of both men caused the curved roof to give slightly, and more than once they heard sharp noises where the glass, fitting too tightly, cracked across by the undue pressure. neither spoke. max was eagerly searching for some means by which to reach one of the windows above. in his ascent there he had torn his coat, and a great strip of it was hanging. he had left his hat below, and the light rain was falling upon his uncovered head. slowly he crept forward from iron to iron until he reached the opposite side of the big glass roof, and there found, as he had hoped, another iron rain-spout which led straight up past the end window, to the roof of the house. back he came to his companion in order to obtain the rope, and then, with it bulging in his pocket, he stole along and ascended the second pipe as he had done the first. this proceeding was, however, far more dangerous, for to fall with the glass beneath him meant almost certain death. charlie watched his form ascending in the darkness, scarce daring to breathe. slowly he went up, until, on a level with the window, he halted. around the ledge, six inches above, was an iron bar let into the wall in order to prevent flowerpots from being blown down upon the conservatory roof. this iron proved max's salvation, for gripping it he steadied himself while he secured the rope to the spout as he had previously done on the first ascent. then, with a firm grip upon the strong bar, and his knee upon the stone ledge, he tried the window. it was fastened. the green holland blind was drawn, but as far as he could ascertain the shutters were not closed. from his pocket he drew a glazier's putty-knife, and, inserting it between the sashes, worked quietly until his heart gave a bound of satisfaction at feeling the latch slowly give. a second later it went back with a sharp snap, and the window was free! he lifted the sash, pushed the blind aside, and crept within. then leaning forth he whispered to charlie to follow. up the latter came by means of the rope as quickly as he was able, and a few moments later both men stood within the room. by its sound, and by the fact that it was carpetless, they knew it was devoid of furniture. max flashed on the light, and the truth was at once made plain. the apartment was square and of fair size, but within was not a single thing; was perfectly empty. in a second a thought occurred to charlie. "if the door's locked on the outside we're done!" he gasped. they both crossed to the door in an instant, and max placed his hand upon it. the handle turned slowly, and the door yielded. by great good fortune it was not locked. creeping noiselessly outside, they found themselves upon a big square landing above half a dozen broad stairs. below them was the white-enamelled iron door, which opened only to its owner and which no person had been known to pass. the landing and stairs were thickly-carpeted, just as they were below the door. but about the place was the close musty smell of a house that for years had remained closed and neglected. from the landing were three other doors beside the one at which they stood, all of them closed. charlie took his bearings, and, pointing to the door farthest away from them, whispered: "that's the drawing-room, no doubt. and that's the door of the room adjoining. i expect it's a big room opening from back to front like all drawing-rooms in these houses." "awkward if it proves to be the old man's bedroom," max replied, with a laugh. "we must risk that. my own belief is that he sleeps up on the next floor. these are all reception-rooms, without a doubt," was charlie's answer. it was strange, after all the time he had been in the old man's employ, that this should be the first occasion he should explore the house. those moments of pitch darkness were exciting ones. they resolved to enter the door furthest away, the door which they believed led to the drawing-room, and together they moved noiselessly across with that purpose. the key was in the lock. without noise max turned it, and slowly pushed open the door. both entered, holding their breath and fearing to make the slightest sound, for they knew not whether old sam was asleep there. for a full ten minutes they paused listening for sounds of breathing in the pitch darkness. but there were none, only the beating of their own hearts. then, with charlie's whispered consent, max pressed the button of the pocket-lamp, and it shed a streak of light across to the opposite wall of the big apartment. what was revealed held them aghast and amazed. "this is indeed strange?" gasped charlie. "what can it be?" max was turning the light from side to side of the room, examining every corner. what they saw had held them both speechless. charlie saw an electric switch near his hand, and touched it. in an instant the great room was flooded with light, revealing a scene, curious, unusual, extraordinary. there was no thick carpet or upholstered furniture; no painted ceiling or pictures upon the walls; no cabinet or bric-a-brac, or grand piano, or palms, or anything connected with drawing-room furniture. instead, the two intruders found themselves inside a peasant's cottage in some far-off country--a house, it seemed, with quaint furniture painted and carved. before them was an old-fashioned oak press, black with smoke and age, and along the wall a row of shining cooking utensils of copper. in the centre was a long old table, with big high-backed wooden chairs; at the side a high brick stove. the men stepped within and gazed around, bewildered. at one end was a small square window, where beyond lay a snow-clad scene, lit by the moon's rays--a cleverly contrived piece of scenery, showing the white road winding into the distance lined on each side by the dark forest of firs. the scene was intended to be russian, without a doubt, for over the stove a holy ikon hung against the wall, a small painted head surrounded by a square of highly burnished gold. every object was quaintly shaped and foreign. in one corner stood an old spinning-wheel with the flax upon it, while in another was an old-fashioned gun. a couple of wolves' skins were spread upon the floor, while upon the cleanly-scrubbed table showed a large brown stain--it might be of coffee, or it might be of blood! the walls had been whitewashed, and across the ceiling, once gilt and adorned, no doubt, ran blackened beams in exact imitation, it seemed, of some house in the far east of russia beyond the volga. upon a side table lay a big, rather thin book, bearing upon its black, greasy cover the imperial russian arms--the double-headed eagle. charlie opened it, and found it ruled like an attendance book, with careful entries in russian in various hands. neither could read the language, therefore it was to them unintelligible. by the stove was a low wooden settle, upon which lay a man's fur cap and big sheepskin winter coat, as though the owner of the place had just risen and left. "what can this possibly mean?" asked max, gazing around in sheer wonderment. to this query, however, charlie could venture no suggestion. they stood amid surroundings that were to both a complete mystery. charlie touched the switch when, lo! the lights in the room were extinguished, and only a line of white brilliance as that of the full moon entering the window from the snow-covered land beyond, fell across the silent place full upon the table which bore that ugly dark brown stain. both men stood motionless and wondering, fascinated by the extraordinary and striking effect. was that stain shown so vividly beneath the white moonbeams actually the stain of blood? chapter fifty. face to face. that a park lane drawing-room should be transformed into the interior of a log-built house of the russian steppe was surely unsuspected by any of those who passed up and down that renowned thoroughfare every day. the popular idea associated that long row of millionaires' houses facing hyde park with luxuriant saloons, priceless paintings, old persian carpets, and exquisite furniture. who would believe that behind those windows with their well-kept curtains, and _brise-brise_ of silk and lace, was a room arranged with such care, with the snowy road and moonlight shown beyond the false window? "with what object, i wonder, is all this?" asked charlie, speaking in an undertone, as though to himself. there was something weird and uncanny about the scene with that white streak of brilliance falling like a bar across the place, an indescribable something which made it plain that all had been arranged with some evil design by the old man. no second glance was needed to show that every bit of furniture, and every article in the place was genuine. they were no stage properties, but real things, brought from some far-distant spot in eastern russia. but with what motive? ay, that was the question! they had turned, and were about to withdraw from the place, max leading the way, when suddenly he halted, for his quick ears caught some sound. it was a curious, low, whirring noise, followed almost instantly by a swift swish close to him, so near, indeed, that it caused a current of air in his face as some object passed him from above. at the same moment the noise of mechanism ceased. for a few seconds both intruders hesitated. charlie asked breathlessly what it could be, whereupon his friend turned on the light, and the truth stood revealed. by an ace he had escaped with his life! at the door, in order to prevent the egress of any intruder, a cunning but dastardly mechanical device had been placed. a long iron lever, to which was attached a keen-edged japanese cutlass, had come forth from its hiding-place in the lintel of the door, and, descending with terrific force, had only just escaped cutting max down. both men saw the means by which old statham guarded the secret of that room, and shuddered. to enter was easy, but it was intended that he who entered might not emerge alive. apparently one of the floor boards just within the door was loose, and, being trodden upon, the weight released the spring or mechanism, and the razor-edged cutlass shot forth with murderous force. "by jove!" gasped charlie. "i had no idea the old man set traps for the unwary. we'd better be careful!" "yes. that was indeed a narrow escape!" whispered max. "it would have been certain death. let's get out of it." the steel lever was down, the point of the cutlass touching the floor. therefore they were both compelled to step over the death-trap in order to leave the remarkable apartment. then with careful hands charlie tried the next door. it was locked. brief examination showed it to be the door of the back drawing-room, which had been thrown into the larger room with the mysterious purpose of constructing that striking rural interior. so they crossed to the third door, on the opposite side of the landing, and, with greatest caution lest another pitfall should lurk there, opened it. that night of investigation was full of surprises. the instant max flashed on his light the pair drew back with low exclamations of horror. the small apartment was unfurnished. it contained only one object-- gruesome and unexpected. in the centre of the place, upon the black trestles, stood a coffin of polished oak with shining electro handles and fittings. the lid, they noticed, was screwed down. was it possible that it contained an unburied corpse. did that white-enamelled door upon the stairs conceal from the world the evidence of a crime? for a moment both men stood in that bare, uncarpeted room, rooted to the spot. the secret of sam statham stood revealed. then with a sudden effort charlie crept forward, nearer the coffin, and read upon its plate the words, plainly engraved: jean adam. aged . then adam had been entrapped there--and had lost his life! both men started as the tragic truth dawned upon them. adam was old sam's most bitter enemy. he was dead--in his coffin--yet the millionaire had, up to the present, been unable to dispose of the remains. there was no medical certificate, therefore burial was impossible. the weird stories which both men had heard of nocturnal visitors to that house who had never been seen to emerge, and of long boxes like coffins which more than one person said they had seen being brought out and loaded upon four-wheeled cabs all now flashed across their minds. of a verity that house was a house of grim shadows, for murder was committed there. men entered alive, and left it dead. max stood by the coffin of the man who had so cleverly sought to entice him away to constantinople with stories of easily obtained wealth, and remained there breathless in wonder. he recollected sam's words, and saw in them a bitter hatred of the franco-english adventurer. had he carried this hatred to the extreme limit--that of secret assassination? charlie, on his part, stood silent also. he knew well that upon the death of adam depended the future prosperity of his master. he was well aware, alas! that adam, having suddenly reappeared, had vowed a terrible and crushing vengeance upon the head of the great firm of statham brothers. but old sam, with his usual crafty forethought and innate cunning, had forestalled him. the adventurer had been done to death, and was already in his coffin! in his cool audacity old sam had actually prepared the lead-lined coffin with its plate ready inscribed! its secret arrival at night had evidently been witnessed, and had given rise to strange and embellished stories. the last occasion max had seen adam was one night three weeks before when, dining with two other men in the gallery of the trocadero restaurant, he had seen him below seated with a rather young and good-looking lady in an evening-dress of black net. the pair were laughing together, and it struck him that the companion of the adventurer might be french. he had afterwards discovered that she was lorena lyle, daughter of the old hunchback engineer who was his partner in certain ventures. "the girl who met me in paris and gave me warning!" rolfe exclaimed. "yes, the same. they dined together that night and hurried out to get to the theatre." "and you've never seen him since?" "no. ten days ago, i wrote to the national liberal club giving him an appointment, but he never kept it." "because he was lying here, i suppose," remarked charlie with bated breath, adding: "this, max, is all utterly incomprehensible. how dare the old man do such a thing?" "he's been driven into a corner, and as long as he preserves his secret he will still remain a power in the land." "but his secret is out--we have laid it bare." "at risk of our lives--eh?" remarked max, shuddering again as he recollected his own narrow escape of a few minutes before. they stood before the mortal remains of the man who had sworn vengeance upon statham, neither of them speaking. presently, however, charlie proposed that they should make further investigation on the floor above. closing the door of the death-chamber, they stole noiselessly up the wide, thickly-carpeted staircase to the next landing, where four white doors opened. which they should enter first they were undecided. they were faced by a serious problem. in either of those four chambers the old millionaire might be asleep. to enter might awaken him. this they had no desire to do. they expected to be able to open the iron door from within and pass down the stairs into the hall, and so into the street without detection. that was their intention. to return by the way they had come would be impossible. together they consulted in low whispers, and, both agreed, charlie very carefully turned the handle of the door nearest them. it yielded, and they crept forward and within. at first max feared to show his light, yet as they found no carpet beneath their feet, and as they felt a vague sense of space in the darkness, he became bolder, and pressed the button of his little lamp. it was, like the other apartments, entirely devoid of furniture! the upper part of those premises, believed by the world to be filled with costly furniture and magnificent antiques, seemed empty. charlie was amazed. he had heard many romantic stories of why the old man never allowed a stranger to ascend the stairs, but he had never dreamed that the fine mansion was unfurnished. the next room they examined was similar in character, rather larger, with two long windows overlooking the park. they were, however, carefully curtained, and the blinds were down. beyond a rusty old fender before the fireplace and a roll of old carpet in a corner, it, however, contained nothing. they passed to the third apartment, likewise a front room, and max slowly turned the door-handle. in the darkness they stepped within, and again finding it uncarpeted, he shone his light across the place. next instant the pair drew back, for sitting up upon a low, iron camp bedstead, glaring at them with eyes haggard and terrified, was old sam statham himself. the room was bare save an old painted washstand and chest of drawers, dirty, uncarpeted, and neglected. the low, narrow bed was covered by an old blue and white counterpane, but its occupant sat glaring at the intruders, too terrified to speak. in the darkness he probably could not recognise who it was. the electric light blinded him. next second, however, he touched the switch near his hand, and the wretched room became illuminated, revealing the two intruders. he tried to speak, but his lips refused to articulate. the old man's tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. he knew that his carefully-guarded secret was out! chapter fifty one. describes another surprise. "to what, pray, do i owe this intrusion?" demanded the old man fiercely, rising from his bed, and standing erect and defiant before them. "to your own guilt, mr statham," was max barclay's quiet but distinct response. "my guilt?" gasped the old man. "of what crime am i guilty?" "that's best known to yourself," answered the younger man. "but i think, now that we've investigated your house and discovered your death-trap, we will bid you good-night." "you've--you've found it--eh?" gasped the old fellow, pale as death. "yes; and, furthermore, we know how maud petrovitch had cast your money at your feet, and defied you." "i--i must explain," he cried, as in frantic eagerness he put on his clothes. "don't leave me. come below, and--and'll tell you." the pair remained in the wretchedly uncomfortable room, while the old man finished dressing. then all three descended, the millionaire walking first. they passed the door of the room where stood the coffin, and by touching a spring the iron door opened, and they descended to the library. the noise wakened old levi, who appeared at the head of the back stairs, full of surprise. a reassuring word from his master, however, caused him to at once retire again. within the library old sam switched on the light, and invited both his unwelcome visitors to be seated. then, standing before them, he said: "i presume, gentlemen, that your curiosity led you to break into my house?" max barclay nodded. "i can understand you acting thus, sir; but i cannot understand rolfe, who knows me so well and who has served me so faithfully." "and, in return, how have i been served?" asked charlie, bitterly. "my poor sister has been turned adrift, and you have refused to lift a finger to reinstate her." "i admit that on the face of it, rolfe, i have been hard and cruel," declared the old man. "but when you know the truth you will not, perhaps, think so unkindly of me as at this moment." the old fellow was perfectly calm. all his fear had vanished, and he now stood his old and usual self, full of quiet assurance. "well," rolfe said, "perhaps you will tell us the truth. why, for instance, did maud petrovitch visit you to-night?" "she came upon her own initiative. she wished to ask me a question." "which you refused to answer." "it was not judicious for me to tell her what she desized to know--not at present, at least." "but now that we are here together, in confidence you will, no doubt, allow us to know where she and her father are in hiding," charlie asked, breathlessly. "certainly, if you will promise not to communicate with them or call upon them without my consent." "we promise," declared max. "then they are living in strictest seclusion at fordham cottage, arundel, in sussex." "but you have quarrelled with maud?" charlie remarked, at the same time remembering that closed coffin in the room above. "upon one point only--a very small and unimportant one," responded the old man. "where is my sister?" "unfortunately, i have no knowledge of where she is at present." "but you have just assured me that when i know the truth i shall not regard you so harshly," rolfe exclaimed. "and i repeat it," statham said. the old man's attitude amazed them both. he was perfectly calm and quite unperturbed by the grim discoveries they had made. "you mean that you refuse to tell me anything concerning my sister?" charlie asked, seriously. "for the present--yes." "why not now? why forbid us also from seeking the doctor and his daughter?" "for reasons of my own. i am expecting a visitor." max laughed sarcastically. the reason put forward seemed too absurd. "ah! you don't believe it!" cried the old fellow. "but you will see. your curiosity has, no doubt, led you to misjudge me. it was only to have been expected. i ought to have guarded my secret better." neither man spoke. both had their eyes fixed upon the grey face of the old millionaire before them. they recollected his despair before he had retired to rest, and remembered, too, the tender care of his faithful levi. the clock chimed the half-hour--half-past three in the morning. the night had been fraught by so many surprises that neither charlie nor his friend could believe in the grim reality of it all. they never suspected that that fine mansion was practically unfurnished, or that its millionaire owner practically lived the life of a pauper. had not charlie been well aware of his master's shrewdness in his business and clearness in his financial operations, he would have believed it all due to an unbalanced brain. but there was no madness in samuel statham. he was as sane as they were. all his eccentricity was evidently directed towards one purpose. as he stood there he practically told them so. "you misjudge me!" said he, his grey face relaxing in a smile. "you think me mad--eh? well, you are not alone in that. a good many people believe the same of me. i am gratified to think they believe it. it is my intention that they should." "but, mr statham, we have asked you a question to which you have refused to answer. we wish to know what has become of marion rolfe." "you were engaged to her--eh? yes, i know," responded the old man. "for that very reason i refuse to tell you. i can only reassure you, however, that you need experience no anxiety." "but i do. i love her!" "then i am very sorry, your mind must still continue to be exercised. at present i cannot tell you anything." "why?" "have i not already told you? i am expecting a visitor." it was all the satisfaction they could obtain. charlie longed for an opportunity to refer to the gruesome object in that locked room upstairs. the man who had so suddenly reappeared and sworn vengeance upon the great financier was dead--fallen a victim, no doubt, to the old man's clever cunning. he had, without doubt, been enticed there to his death. the secret reason of the white-enamelled door at the top of the stairs was now quite plain. in that house was a terrible death-trap, as deadly as it was unexpected. they held knowledge of the truth. how would the old man act? contrary to their expectations, he remained quite indifferent. he even offered them a drink, which they refused. his refusal to tell them anything regarding marion and his treatment of maud had incensed them, and they both were bitterly antagonistic towards him. he was, no doubt, playing a huge game of bluff. his disregard of their discoveries was in order to lessen their importance, and his story of a visitor told to gain time. probably he intended to make good his escape. both were expecting every moment that his coolness would break down, and that he would suggest that they kept silence as to what lay concealed on the floor above. indeed, they were not mistaken, for of a sudden he turned to them, and in rather strained voice said: "now, gentlemen, i admit that you have discovered my secret; that my position is--well--a disagreeable one, to say the least. is there any real reason why you should divulge it--at least for the present?" charlie shrugged his shoulders, and max at the same time realised that a deadly fear was creeping back upon the old man, whose enormous wealth had stifled all human feeling from his soul. "i merely ask your indulgence," said the old man, in a low, eager tone. "for how long?" "for a day--maybe for a week--or perhaps a month. i cannot tell." "that means that we preserve the secret indefinitely?" "until the arrival of my visitor." "ah! the visitor!" repeated max, with a grin of disbelief. "when do you expect the visit?" "i have expected it during many months," was the millionaire's brief reply. "and you can tell us nothing more? is not your story a somewhat lame one?" "very--i quite admit it. but i can only assure you of its truth." "it is not often you speak the truth, mr statham, is it?" asked max, pointedly. "i suppose i am like many another man," was his reply. "i only speak it when obliged!" as he uttered those words there sounded in the hall the loud electric bell of the front door. it was rung twice, whereupon old sam drew himself up in an instant in an attitude of alertness. "the visitor!" he gasped, raising his bony finger. "the long-expected caller!" the two rings were evidently a pre-arranged signal. they heard old levi shuffling outside. the door opened, and he stood expectant, looking at his master, but uttering no word. "gentlemen," exclaimed old sam. "if you will permit me, i will go and receive my visitor. may i ask you to remain here until i return to you--return to answer any inquiries you may be pleased to put to me?" the old fellow was quite calm again. he seemed to have braced himself up to meet his visitor, whoever he or she might be. it was one of his secret agents, charlie thought, without a doubt. both men consented, and old sam withdrew with levi. "please remain here. i ask you both to respect my wishes," he said, and going out, closed the door behind him. the two men listened with strained ears. they heard the sound of footsteps outside, but as far as they could distinguish, no word was spoken. whether the mysterious visitor was male or female they could not ascertain. for several moments they stood at the door, listening. then max, unable to resist his own curiosity, opened the door slightly, and peered into the hall. but only levi was there, his back turned towards the door. his master and his visitor had ascended the stairs together, passing the iron door which now stood open for the first time. max beckoned charlie, who, looking outside into the hall, saw levi standing with both hands pressed to his brow in an attitude of wildest despair. his agitation was evidently for his master's safety. a visitor at a quarter to four in the morning was unusual, to say the least. who could it be? levi turned, and as he did so max closed the door noiselessly, for he did not wish the faithful old servant to discover him as an eavesdropper. fully ten minutes elapsed, when of a sudden the sharp crack of a pistol-shot echoed through the empty upstairs rooms. it caused both men to start, so unexpected was it. for a second they hesitated; then opening the door, they both dashed up the forbidden stain. chapter fifty two. contains a complete revelation. a complete surprise awaited them. the door of the small room on the first floor stood open, and within the light was switched on. upon the threshold they both paused, dumbfounded by the scene before them. just as they had left it, the coffin stood upon its trestles, but lying on the floor beside was the body of the man whose name it bore upon its plate--the man jean adam! in his nerveless grasp was a big service revolver, while the small round hole in his white temple told its own tale--a tale of sudden denunciation and of suicide. the dead man wore evening-dress. on his white shirt-front was an ugly crimson splash, while his fast-glazing eyes, still open, stared blankly into space. at the opposite wall, leaning against it for support, was old sam statham, his countenance blanched, his jaw set, unable to utter a word. the sudden unexpectedness of the tragedy had appalled him. he stood speechless. he could only point to the inanimate form upon the floor. max lifted the body and sought eagerly for signs of life. there were, however, none. the bullet had penetrated his brain, causing instant death. sam statham's enemy--the man whom they had presumed was already in his coffin was dead! yet what was the meaning of it all? the whole affair was a complete enigma. why had jean adam, the adventurer who had lived by his wits for years and the hero of a thousand thrilling adventures, taken his own life beside his own coffin? rolfe and barclay turned away from the gruesome scene, and in silence descended the stairs, where, standing back in the shadow, trembling like an aspen, stood old levi. as they passed down, the servant entered the room to join his master, with whispered words of awe. then, at the millionaire's suggestion, when he descended to them five minutes later, charlie went forth into park lane, and, walking hastily towards the fountain, found a constable, whom he informed of the tragedy. as he went back to the house with the policeman at his side, he wondered whether, after all, he had not misjudged old sam. in any case, there was a great and complete mystery which must now be elucidated. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ just outside the little old town of arundel in rural sussex at the top of the steep hill which leads on to the high road to chichester, a road rendered dusty in summer and muddy in winter by the constant succession of motor cars which tear along it, stands fordham cottage, a small unpretentious redbrick house, surrounded by a pretty garden, and divided from the road by a high old wall clothed completely by ivy. it was three o'clock in the afternoon. within the neat old-fashioned front parlour--for the owners of the house were two prim maiden ladies--stood rolfe and barclay, together with the grey-haired, grey-bearded man who, having rented the place furnished, was living there in complete seclusion--doctor michael petrovitch. they were in earnest conversation, but charlie kept his eyes upon the window, as though in expectation of the arrival of someone. the autumn day was fine and dry, and maud, returning from london by the first train, which had arrived at half-past six that morning, had, after luncheon, gone out upon her cycle as was her daily habit. her lover, anxious and impatient, scarcely heeded what the doctor was explaining to max. for the past hour both men had been describing in brief what had occurred since the ex-minister's disappearance from cromwell road, relating practically what has already been chronicled in the preceding chapters. they had told him of adam's threats, of the warning given to charlie by lorena lyle, of adam's endeavour to entice max to constantinople and of statham's evident terror of adam's vengeance. to it all the grave grey-bearded statesman had listened attentively. only when they described their secret visit to the house in park lane, and the extraordinary discoveries they had made there, did their hearer evince surprise. then, knitting his brows, he nodded as though he understood. and when they told him of adam's suicide, he drew a deep breath of apparent relief. "that man," he said, in a low, distinct voice, with scarce a trace of accent--"that man was my enemy, as well as statham's. it was he who, in order to further his speculative financial schemes, paid an assassin to throw a bomb at my carriage--the bomb that killed the poor little child! he was an adventurer who had filched money from widows and orphans--a scoundrel, and an assassin. the assassin, when in the fortress at belgrade, confessed to the identity of his employer. but in the meantime he disappeared--to south america, it is believed. prior to the attempt upon me, lyle, the mining engineer, was his cat's-paw, as he has ever since been--a good fellow at heart, but weak and at the same time adventurous. once or twice they made big profits out of concessions for copper mining obtained from my predecessor in office. when adam found that i refused to participate in business that was a fraud upon the public in paris and london, he plotted to get rid of me. fortunately he did not succeed; but when the truth was exposed to the servian government that he was the real assassin, certain valuable concessions were at once withdrawn from him, and he was thereby ruined. he vowed vengeance upon me, and also upon statham--to whom the concessions had been transferred--a terrible vengeance. but soon afterwards he disappeared, and we heard, upon what seemed to be good authority, that he was dead. he had been shot in a drunken brawl in caracas." "and then he suddenly turned up again--eh?" max remarked. "yes; and for that reason mr statham suggested that i and my daughter maud should disappear to some place to which he could not trace us. statham defied his threats, but at the same time thought that if we disappeared in such a manner that the police would not seek us, it would be a wise step. for that reason i arranged that the furniture, as well as ourselves, should disappear, in order to make it appear that we had suddenly removed, and also to prevent the police searching too inquisitively for `missing persons.' had they done this, our hiding-place would soon have been discovered. i disappeared more for maud's sake, than for my own. i knew the desperate character of the man, and the mad vengeance within his villainous heart." "but statham also feared him," remarked charlie, recollecting the occasion when his employer had betrayed such terror. "yes. the exact facts i do not know. he will tell you himself," answered the ex-minister. "maud was in london last night, and called upon statham," max remarked. "she called in secret lest she might be seen and followed by adam," her father replied. "she went there to return to statham a sum of money he had sent her." "for what?" "he wished to know the whereabouts of lorena lyle, who had been her schoolfellow in belgrade. statham, i fear, intended, in some way, to avenge himself upon lyle--and on his daughter more especially--on account of his association with his enemy. the girl is in london, and he wished to know where she was living." "and the money which she returned was given her in order, to induce her to divulge?" the doctor nodded in the affirmative, adding: "you see that statham, surrounded by unscrupulous enemies as he has been, was bound to act always for his own protection. he has been misjudged--by you--by everybody. i, who know him more intimately, perhaps, than anyone save his own brother levi, assure you that it is so." "his brother levi!" cried charlie. "of course, levi, who poses as his servant, is his brother. they have been inseparable always, from the early days when sam statham was a mining prospector and concession-hunter--the days before fortune smiled upon the three statham brothers, and they were able to open the doors of the offices in old broad street. the romance of old sam's life is the romance of the great firm." "he treated my sister badly," declared charlie. "for that i can never forgive him." "no; there you are wrong. it is true that he would not allow her to be reinstated at cunnington's, and, on the face of it, treated her unjustly. but he had a motive. true, she refused to betray to him something which my daughter had told her in confidence. for that refusal he allowed her to be dismissed from her situation; but on the following day he sent her down to me here to remain in concealment." "why?" "because of that man adam. he had been attracted by her good looks, and had begun to pester her with his attentions. statham knew this from the report of one who had watched her in secret. therefore, by sending her here into hiding, he was acting in her best interests." "then she is here?" cried max, anxiously, his face suddenly brightening. "yes. see! here she comes--with maud!" and as both men turned quickly to the window they saw the two laughing girls, flushed by their ride, wheeling their cycles up the path from the road. next moment both men dashed outside, and both girls, utterly amazed and breathless, found themselves suddenly in the arms of their lovers. the doctor looked on, smiling, and in silence. he saw the lips of both girls covered with the hot fervent kisses of good and honest men. he heard their whispered words, and then he turned away. those long black days of suspicion and despair were at an end. the mystery of it all was now being rapidly solved, and both girls within that little parlour wept tears of joy upon the shoulders of the men whom they had chosen as their husbands. the happiness of four young hearts was complete. the grim shadow had lifted, and upon them now fell at last the bright sunshine of life and of love. the self-effacement of that little household was at an end. freed from the bondage of silence, the truth was at last told. maud, with her own lips, explained to charlie the confession she had made to marion on the night of their disappearance. she had told her how the man adam, whom she had known in belgrade, had followed her several times in the neighbourhood of earl's court, had spoken to her, and had declared his love for her. she never suspected that he had been her father's enemy-- the man who had been the instigator of the dastardly outrage--until on the previous evening, her father had, in confidence, told her the truth, and added that, because of his re-appearance, they had to fly. she dared not tell him they had met, but she had made marion her confidante. it was the story of the bomb outrage that had held marion horrified. charlie, when he had listened open-mouthed to the explanation of his well-beloved, cried: "the assassin! and he dared to speak to you of love!" "he is dead, dearest," answered the girl, quietly stroking his hair from his brow. "let us forgive him--and forget." for answer he took her again in his arms, and kissed her tenderly upon the lips. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ three days later. the coroner's jury had returned a verdict of "suicide while of unsound mind," and the body of jean adam had, with the undertaker's assistance, been buried in highgate cemetery in the actual coffin which had been so long prepared for him. it was surely a weird revenge of old sam's. but the whole occurrence was a grim and terrible repayment of an old debt. in the fading twilight of the wet and gloomy day on which the dead man's body was, without a single follower, committed to the grave, rolfe and barclay were seated with the millionaire in the familiar library in park lane. old sam had been making explanations similar to those made by the doctor down at arundel. suddenly he said, looking from one to the other: "and now i have to apologise to you both. in arranging the disappearance of my dear friend the doctor, i contrived to mislead you, in order to add mystery to the occurrence. i knew, rolfe, you lost your train at charing cross that night; that you did not wish to be seen off by your sister marion because you had--in my interests--quarrelled with adam and had made murderous threats against him--perhaps unwisely. these threats, however, you believed adam had told to barclay, hence your fear of the last-named later on. i arranged that a man should be present at cromwell road in clothes resembling your own, that a garment should be placed in the house with a bloodstain upon it, and that the doctor's safe should be blown open as though thieves had visited the place after the removal of the furniture. i knew from the doctor that you, barclay, would go there that evening, and my object was to puzzle and mislead you, at the same time believing that, having suspicions of your friend rolfe, you would not go to the police. again, in order to test rolfe's devotion to myself, i suggested that the honour of the woman he loved, if sacrificed, could save me. i made this suggestion in order to put rolfe off the scent." "then it was all your own doing?" max cried, in surprise. "entirely," was the old man's response. "in the interests of myself, as well as of both of you. adam believed that you were aware of his secret intentions, therefore he was plotting to entice you to turkey--a country where you might have disappeared with ease. that was undoubtedly his object." for a few moments he paused; then, clearing his throat, the old man said, in a distinct voice: "the other night you were no doubt both surprised to find my drawing-room transposed into the interior of a russian house. well, it was done with a distinct purpose--to defeat my enemy. he, with his friend and accomplice lyle, had made a false charge against me--a charge supported by the perjured evidence of the hunchback--a charge of having in the old days, years ago, murdered a woman--the woman who was my wife." a shadow of pain crossed the old man's brow at what seemed a bitter remembrance. then, after a moment's pause, he went on: "she was worthless! ah! yes, i admit that. but i swear i am innocent of the charge they brought against me. she was killed in caracas in a brutal manner, but by whom i could never discover. after her death i left south america. adam and his friend dropped their foul charge against me, and i lost sight of them for years. later on, i was prospecting in the timan mountains, in northern russia, within the arctic circle, a wild snow-covered country outside the edge of civilisation. both gold and emeralds had been discovered along the ishma valley, and there had been a rush there. among the many adventurous spirits attracted thither was jean adam, with his attendant _alter ego_ lyle. we met again. it was in winter, and we were in a state of semi-starvation, all three of us. not a word was said regarding the charge they had made against me. both were without means, and both down on their luck. for a fortnight we remained together, then, finding things hopeless resolved to struggle back to civilisation at the nearest little russian village, a miserable little place called ust ussa, four hundred and fifty versts south. on the way we all three nearly succumbed to the intense cold and want of food. at last, however, late one night we came across a lonely house in a clearing in the pine forest on the outskirts of the village which was our goal. sinking with fatigue, we begged shelter of the white-bearded old man who lived there. he took us in, gave us food, and allowed us to sleep. i was drowsy and slept heavily. it was late when i awoke--when i awoke to find lying beside the table opposite me the old man stone dead, stabbed to the heart! the place had been ransacked; the old man's hoard of money--for there are no banks there--had been found, and my two companions were missing. they had gone--no one knew whither! what could i do? to remain, would mean to be accused of the crime, and probably sent to siberia. well, i reflected for a moment. then i took some food, stole out, and made my way again into the snow-covered wilderness. ah! the recollection of it all is still upon me, though years have since elapsed." "and then?" asked max, when he found tongue. "since then i and my brothers levi and ben have abandoned the old life, but i have ever since been determined to avenge the brutal murder of that poor old peasant. i made a vow not to enjoy the luxuries which my money brought me until my conscience had been cleared and the assassin brought to justice. hence, i have lived in the desolation attendant upon pauperism. i have been the pauper of park lane. seven years ago i sent an agent to the place, and purchased all the interior of the house. then, when i came to live here, i had the drawing-room fitted as you see it, and have since awaited my opportunity. the other night, as you know, jean adam came to renew his false charge against me, and i took him upstairs and ushered him suddenly into the scene of his crime. ah! his terror was horrible to witness: he trembled from head to foot. he saw the hangman's rope around his neck. then i took him into the next room, and showed him in silence what i had prepared for him. he read his own name inscribed there, and with a curse upon his lips, drew his revolver and put an end to his life." both his hearers remained in silence. it had surely been a just vengeance--blood for blood! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ a year has now passed. marion is now the wife of max barclay, and the pair spend the greater part of their time at the beautiful old castle kilmaronock, up in perthshire, for in her perfect happiness she prefers a healthy out-door life to that of london. rolfe, who is still confidential secretary to mr samuel statham, has married maud, and has abandoned his bachelor chambers in jermyn street for a pretty little house in curzon street, where he is quite near to the mansion in park lane. doctor petrovitch has returned to servia at the invitation of the king, and is expected every day to accept the portfolio of prime minister. old duncan macgregor has been promoted to be general manager of the great clyde and motherwell locomotive works; while levi acts as servant to his brother, their secret still being kept, and the position of statham brothers in the city is to-day higher than it has ever been. as regards the park lane mansion, with the red-striped sun-blinds--the house you know well, without doubt--there is now no further mystery concerning it. the rumours regarding its beautiful interior, and the sounds of piano-playing were all of course, the outcome of gossip. the truth, however, is now common knowledge, and society during the past nine months or so has been amazed to see painters, decorators, and upholsterers so busily at work. it is evident that old sam intends to entertain largely during this coming season. the house is now exquisitely furnished from top to bottom. he no longer sleeps on his little camp bed, or dines off a chump chop cooked over a gas-stove by old levi. the dark shadow has now been lifted from his life. in fact, he no longer lives in the squalor of an empty house as "the pauper of park lane." the end. domain material generously made available by the google books library project (http://books.google.com/) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through the the google books library project. see http://books.google.com/books?id=aagdaaaamaaj&printsec=titlepage the city of numbered days by francis lynde illustrated by arthur e. becher charles scribner's sons new york copyright, , by charles scribner's sons published august, to my wife [illustration: "what would i do? a number of things." _page _] contents i. the heptaderm ii. j. wesley croesus iii. sands of pactolus iv. a fire of little sticks v. symptomatic vi. mirapolis vii. the speedway viii. table stakes ix. bedlam x. epochal xi. the feast of hurrahs xii. quicksands xiii. flood tide xiv. the abyss xv. the setting of the ebb xvi. the man on the bank xvii. the circean cup xviii. love's crucible xix. the sunset gun xx. the terror illustrations "what would i do? a number of things" _frontispiece_ brouillard had to look twice before he could attempt to classify her, and even then she baffled him "it's all gone, little girl; it's all gone!" brouillard got between the city of numbered days i the heptaderm it was not characteristic of brouillard--the brouillard grislow knew best--that he should suffer the purely technical talk of dams and reservoirs, bed-rock anchorages, and the latest word in concrete structural processes to languish and should drift into personal reminiscences over their first evening camp-fire in the niquoia. because the personalities were gratefully varying the monotonies, and also because he had a jocose respect for the unusual, grislow was careful not to discourage the drift. there had been a benumbing surfeit of the technical talk dating from the day and hour when the orders had come from washington giving brouillard his step up and directing him to advance with his squad of reclamation-service pioneers upon the new work in the western timanyonis. but, apart from this, the reminiscences had an experimental value. grislow's one unamiable leaning manifested itself in a zest for cleverly turning the hidden facets of the human polygon up to the light; and if the facets chose to turn themselves of their own accord, as in brouillard's case, why, so much the better. "as you were saying?" he prompted, stretching himself luxuriously upon the fragrant banking of freshly clipped spruce tips, with his feet to the blaze and his hands locked under his head. he felt that brouillard was merely responding to the subtle influences of time, place, and encompassments and took no shame for being an analytical rather than a sympathetic listener. the hundred-odd men of the pioneer party, relaxing after the day-long march over the mountains, were smoking, yarning, or playing cards around the dozen or more camp-fires. the evening, with a half-grown moon silvering the inverted bowl of a firmament which seemed to shut down, lid-like, upon the mountain rim of the high-walled valley, was witchingly enchanting; and, to add the final touch, there was comradely isolation, anson, griffith, and leshington, the three other members of the engineering staff, having gone to burn candles in the headquarters tent over blue-prints and field-notes. "i was saying that the present-day world slant is sanely skeptical--as it should be," brouillard went on at the end of the thoughtful pause. "being modern and reasonably sophisticated, we can smile at the signs and omens of the ages that had to get along without laboratories and testing plants. just the same, every man has his little atavistic streak, if you can hit upon it. for example, you may throw flip-flaps and call it rank superstition if you like, but i have never been able to get rid of the notion that birthdays are like the equinoxes--turning-points in the small, self-centred system which we call life." "poodle-dogs!" snorted the one whose attitude was both jocose and analytical, stuffing more of the spruce branches under his head to keep the pipe ashes from falling into his eyes. "i know; being my peculiar weakness instead of your own, it's tommy-rot to you," brouillard rejoined good-naturedly. "as i said a few minutes ago, i am only burbling to hear the sound of my own voice. but the bottoming fact remains. you give a screw twist to a child's mind, and if the mind of the man doesn't exhibit the same helical curve----" "suppose you climb down out of the high-browed altitudes and give it a plain, every-day name?" grumbled the staff authority on watersheds. "it's casting pearls before swine, but you're a pretty good sort of swine, grizzy. if you'll promise to keep your feet out of the trough, i'll tell you. away back in the porringer period, in which we are all like the pin-feathered dicky-birds, open-mouthed for anything anybody may drop into us, some one fed me with the number seven." "succulent morsel!" chuckled grislow. "did it agree with you?" brouillard sat back from the fire and clasped his hands over his bent knees. he was of a type rare enough to be noteworthy in a race which has drawn so heavily upon the anglo-saxon and teutonic stocks for its build and coloring: a well-knit figure of a man, rather under than over the normal stature, but bulging athletically in the loose-fitting khaki of the engineer; dark of skin, even where the sun had not burned its rich mahogany into the olive, and owning a face which, with the upcurled mustaches, the brooding black eyes, and the pure gallic outline of brow and jaw, might have served as a model for a vierge study of a fighting _franc-tireur_. "i don't remember how early in the game the thing began," he resumed, ignoring grislow's joking interruption, "but away back in the dimmest dawnings the number seven began to have a curious significance for me. from my earliest recollections things have been constantly associating themselves with seven or some multiple of it. you don't believe it, of course; but it is true." "which means that you have been sitting up and taking notice when the coincidences hit, and have forgotten the millions of times when they didn't," scoffed the listener. "probably," was the ready admission. "we all do that. but there is one set of 'coincidences,' as you call them, that can't be so easily turned down. back in the pin-feather time that i mentioned somebody handed me a fact--the discovery of the physiologists about the waste and replacement that goes on in the human organism, bringing around a complete cellular change about once in every seven years. are you asleep?" "not yet; go on," said the hydrographer. "it was a long time ago, and i was only a little tad; but i surrounded the idea and took it in literally, in the sense of a sudden and sort of magical change coming at the end of each seven-year period and bound to occur at those particular fixed times. the notion stuck to me like a cockle-bur, and sometimes i wonder if it isn't still sticking." "bugs!" ranted grislow, in good-natured ridicule, and brouillard laughed. "that is what i say to myself, murray, every time the fatal period rolls around. and yet----" "there isn't any 'and yet,'" cut in the scoffer derisively. "this is merely your night for being batty. 'fatal period'--suffering humanity!" "no, hold on: let me tell you, murray--i'd like to get it out of my system if i can. up to my seventh birthday i was a sickly child, puny and only about half alive. i recollect, as if it were only yesterday, how the neighbor women used to come in and condole with my mother, ignoring me, of course, as if i hadn't any ears. i can remember old aunt hetty parsons saying, time and again: 'no, mis' brouillard; you'll never raise that boy the longest day you live!'" "i'm waiting for the 'and yet,'" put in grislow, sitting up to relight his pipe with a blazing splinter from the fire. "it came--the change, i mean--when i was seven years old. that was the year of our removal to vincennes from the country village where i was born. since that time i haven't known what it means to be sick or even ailing." "bully old change!" applauded grislow. "is that all?" "no. what the second period spent on my body it took out of my mind. i grew stouter and stronger every year and became more and more the stupidest blockhead that ever thumbed a school-book. i simply couldn't learn, murray. my mother made excuses for me, as mothers will, but my father was in despair. he was an educated man, and i can imagine that my unconquerable doltishness went near to breaking his heart." "you are safely over that stage of it now, at all events," said the hydrographer in exaggerated sarcasm. "any man who can stare into the fire and think out fetching little imaginations like these you are handing me----" "sometimes i wish they were only imaginings, grizzy. but let me finish. i was fourteen to a day when i squeezed through the final grammar grade; think of it--fourteen years old and still with the women teachers! i found out afterward that i got my dubiously given passport to the high school chiefly because my father was one of the best-known and best-loved men in the old home town. perhaps it wasn't the magic seven that built me all over new that summer; perhaps it was only the change in schools and teachers. but from that year on, all the hard things were too easy. it was as if somebody or something had suddenly opened a closed door in my brain and let the daylight into all the dark corners at once." grislow sat up and finished for him. "yes; and since that time you have staved your way through the university, and butted into the reclamation service, and played skittles with every other man's chances of promotion until you have come out at the top of the heap in the construction division, all of which you're much too modest to brag about. but, say; we've skipped one of the seven-year flag-stations. what happened when you were twenty-one--or were you too busy just then chasing the elusive engineering degree to take notice?" brouillard was staring out over the loom of the dozen camp-fires--out and across the valley at the massive bulk of mount chigringo rising like a huge barrier dark to the sky-line save for a single pin-prick of yellow light fixing the position of a solitary miner's cabin half-way between the valley level and the summit. when he spoke again the hydrographer had been given time to shave another pipe charge of tobacco from his pocket plug and to fill and light the brier. "when i was twenty-one my father died, and"--he stopped short and then went on in a tone which was more than half apologetic--"i don't mind telling you, grislow; you're not the kind to pass it on where it would hurt. at twenty-one i was left with a back load that i am carrying to this good day; that i shall probably go on carrying through life." grislow walked around the fire, kicked two or three of the charred log ends into the blaze, and growled when the resulting smoke rose up to choke and blind him. "forget it, victor," he said in blunt retraction. "i thought it was merely a little splashing match and i didn't mean to back you out into deep water. i know something about the load business myself; i'm trying to put a couple of kid brothers through college, right now." "are you?" said brouillard half-absently; and then, as one who would not be selfishly indifferent: "that is fine. i wish i were going to have something as substantial as that to show for my wood sawing." "won't you?" "not in a thousand years, murray." "in less than a hundredth part of that time you'll be at the top of the reclamation-service pay-roll--won't that help out?" "no; not appreciably." grislow gave it up at that and went back to the original contention. "we're dodging the main issue," he said. "what is the active principle of your 'sevens'--or haven't you figured it out?" "change," was the prompt rejoinder; "always something different--radically different." "and what started you off into the memory woods, particularly, to-night?" "a small recurrence of the coincidences. it began with that hopelessly unreliable little clock that anson persists in carrying around with him wherever he goes. while you were up on the hill cutting your spruce tips anson pulled out and said he was going to unpack his camp kit. he went over to his tent and lighted up, and a few minutes afterward i heard the clock strike--seven. i looked at my watch and saw that it lacked a few minutes of eight, and the inference was that anson had set the clock wrong, as he commonly does. just as i was comfortably forgetting the significant reminder the clock went off again, striking slowly, as if the mechanism were nearly run down." "another seven?" queried grislow, growing interested in spite of a keen desire to lapse into ridicule again. "no; it struck four. i didn't imagine it, murray; i counted: one--two--three--four." "well?" was the bantering comment. "you couldn't conjure an omen out of that, could you? you say there was a light in the tent--i suppose anson was there tinkering with his little tin god of a timepiece. it's a habit of his." "that was the natural inference; but i was curious enough to go and look. when i lifted the flap the tent was empty. the clock was ticking away on anson's soap-box dressing-case, with a lighted candle beside it, and for a crazy half second i had a shock, murray--the minute-hand was pointing to four and the hour-hand to seven!" "still i don't see the miraculous significance," said the hydrographer. "don't you? it was only another of the coincidences, of course. while i stood staring at the clock anson came in with griffith's tool kit. 'i've got to tinker her again,' he said. 'she's got so she keeps pacific time with one hand and eastern with the other.' then i understood that he had been tinkering it and had merely gone over to griffith's tent for the tools." "well," said grislow again, "what of it? the clock struck seven, you say; but it also struck four." brouillard's smile tilted his curling mustaches to the sardonic angle. "the combination was what called the turn, grizzy. to-day happens to be my twenty-eighth birthday--the end of the fourth cycle of seven." "by george!" ejaculated the hydrographer in mock perturbation, sitting up so suddenly that he dropped his pipe into the ashes of the fire. "in that case, according to what seems to be the well-established custom, something is due to fall in right now!" "i have been looking for it all day," returned brouillard calmly, "which is considerably more ridiculous than anything else i have owned to, you will say. let it go at that. we'll talk about something real if you'd rather--that auxiliary reservoir supply from the apache basin, for example. were the field-notes in when you left washington?" and from the abrupt break, the technicalities came to their own again; were still holding the centre of the stage after the groups around the mess fires had melted away into the bunk shelters and tents, and the fires themselves had died down into chastened pools of incandescence edged each with its beach line of silvered ashes. it was murray grislow who finally rang the curtain call on the prolonged shop-talk. "say, man! do you know that it is after ten o'clock?" he demanded, holding the face of his watch down to the glow of the dying embers. "you may sit here all night, if you like, but it's me for the blankets and a few lines of 'tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy'--now, what in the name of a guilty conscience is _that_?" as it chanced, they were both facing toward the lower end of the valley when the quotation-breaking apparition flashed into view. in the deepest of the shadows at the mouth of the gorge, where the torrenting niquoia straightened itself momentarily before entering upon its plunging race through the mountain barrier, a beam of white light flickered unsteadily for a fraction of a second. then it became a luminous pencil to trace a zigzag line up the winding course of the river, across to the foot-hill spur where the camp of the reclamation-service vanguard was pitched, and so on around to the base of chigringo. for certain other seconds it remained quiescent, glowing balefully like the eye of some fabled monster searching for its prey. then it was gone. grislow's comment took the form of a half-startled exclamation. "by jove! wouldn't that give you a fit of the creepies?--this far from civilization and a dynamo?" "it wasn't an electric," returned brouillard thoughtfully, apparently taking grislow's suggestion literally. "it was an acetylene." "supposing it was--what's the difference? aren't we just as far from a carbide shop as we are from the dynamo? what are you calling it?" "your guess is as good as mine," was the half-absent reply. brouillard was still staring fixedly at the distant gulf of blackness where the mysterious light had appeared and disappeared. "then i'll make it and go to bed," said the hydrographer, rising and stretching his arms over his head. "if it had come a couple of hours ago we should have called it the 'spot-light,' turned on to mark the end of your fourth act and the beginning, auspicious or otherwise, of the fifth. maybe it is, anyway; maybe the property-man was asleep or drunk and forgot to turn it on at the spectacular instant. how will that do?" brouillard had got upon his feet and was buttoning his many-pocketed shooting-coat. "it will do to put you into the balaam saddle-beast class, grizzy," he said, almost morosely. then he added: "i'm going to take a little hike down yonder for investigative purposes. want to come along?" but the mapper of watersheds was yawning sleepily. "not on your tintype," he refused. "i'm going to 'cork it orf in me 'ammick.' wake me up when you come back and tell me what the fifth act is going to do to you. the more i think of it the more i'm convinced that it _was_ the spot-light, a little overdue, after all." and he turned away chuckling. it was only a short mile from the camp on the inward slopes of the eastern foot-hills to the mouth of the outlet gorge, across which brouillard could already see, in mental prevision, the great gray wall of the projected niquoia dam--his future work--curving majestically from the broken shoulder of chigringo to the opposing steeps of jack's mountain. the half-grown moon, tilting now toward the sky-line of the western barrier, was leaving the canyon portal in deepest gloom. as brouillard swung along he kept a watchful eye upon the gorge shadows, half expecting a return of the mysterious apparition. but when he finally reached the canyon portal and began to seek for the trail which roughly paralleled the left bank of the stream the mystery was still unexplained. from its upper portal in the valley's throat to the point where the river debouches among the low sand-hills of the buckskin desert the canyon of the niquoia measures little more than a mile as the bird flies, though its crookings through the barrier mountains fairly double the distance. beginning as a broken ravine at the valley outlet, the gorge narrows in its lower third to a cliff-walled raceway for the torrent, and the trail, leaving the bank of the stream, climbs the forested slope of a boundary spur to descend abruptly to the water's edge again at the desert gateway, where the niquoia, leaping joyously from the last of its many hamperings, becomes a placid river of the plain. picking his way judiciously because the trail was new to him, brouillard came in due time to the descending path among the spruces and scrub-pines leading to the western outlook upon the desert swales and sand-hills. at the canyon portal, where the forest thinned away and left him standing at the head of the final descending plunge in the trail, he found himself looking down upon the explanation of the curious apparition. none the less, what he saw was in itself rather inexplicable. in the first desert looping of the river a camp-fire of piñon knots was blazing cheerfully, and beside it, with a picnic hamper for a table, sat a supper party of three--two men and a woman--in enveloping dust-coats, and a third man in chauffeur leather serving the sitters. back of the group, and with its detachable search-light missing, stood a huge touring-car to account for the picnic hamper, the dust-coats, the man in leather, and, doubtless, for the apparitional eye which had appeared and disappeared at the mouth of the upper gorge. also it accounted, in a purely physical sense, for the presence of the picnickers, though the whim which had led them to cross the desolate buckskin desert for the dubious pleasure of making an all-night bivouac on its eastern edge was not so readily apparent. being himself a bedouin of the desert, brouillard's first impulse was hospitable. but when he remarked the ample proportions of the great touring-car and remembered the newness and rawness of his temporary camp he quickly decided that the young woman member of the party would probably fare better where she was. this being the case, the young engineer saw no reason why he should intrude upon the group at the cheerful camp-fire. on the contrary, he began speedily to find good and sufficient reasons why he should not. that the real restraining motive was a sudden attack of desert shyness he would not have admitted. but the fact remained. good red blood with its quickenings of courage and self-reliance, and a manful ability to do and dare, are the desert's gifts; but the penalty the desert exacts in return for them is evenly proportioned. four years in the reclamation service had made the good-looking young chief of construction a man-queller of quality. but each year of isolation had done something toward weakening the social ties. a loosened pebble turned the scale. when a bit of the coarse-grained sandstone of the trail rolled under brouillard's foot and went clattering down to plunge into the stream the man in chauffeur leather reached for the search-light lantern and directed its beam upon the canyon portal. but by that time brouillard had sought the shelter of the scrub-pines and was retracing his steps up the shoulder of the mountain. ii j. wesley croesus measured even by the rather exacting standards of the mining and cattle country, brouillard was not what the west calls "jumpy." four years of field-work, government or other, count for something; and the man who has proved powder-shy in any stage of his grapple with the land of short notice is customarily a dead man. in spite of his training, however, the young chief of construction, making an early morning exploration of the site for the new dam at the mouth of the outlet gorge while the rank and file of the pioneer force were building the permanent camp half-way between the foot-hills and the river, winced handsomely when the shock of a distance-muffled explosion trembled upon the crisp morning air, coming, as it seemed, from some point near the lower end of the canyon. the dull rumble of the explosion and the little start for which it was accountable were disconcerting in more ways than one. as an industry captain busy with the preliminaries of what promised to be one of the greatest of the modern salvages of the waste places, brouillard had been assuring himself that his work was large enough to fill all his horizons. but the detonating crash reminded him forcibly that the presence of the touring party was asserting itself as a disturbing element and that the incident of its discovery the night before had been dividing time pretty equally with his verification of the locating engineer's blue-print mappings and field-notes. this was the first thought, and it was pointedly irritating. but the rebound flung him quickly over into the field of the common humanities. the explosion was too heavy to figure as a gun-shot; and, besides, it was the closed season for game. therefore, it must have been an accident of some sort--possibly the blowing up of the automobile. brouillard had once seen the gasolene tank of a motor-car take fire and go up like a pyrotechnic set piece in a sham battle. between this and a hurried weighting of the sheaf of blue-prints with his field-glass preparatory to a first-aid dash down the outlet gorge, there was no appreciable interval. but the humane impulse doubled back upon itself tumultuously when he came to his outlook halting place of the night before. there had been no accident. the big touring-car, yellow with the dust of the buckskin, stood intact on the sand flat where it had been backed and turned and headed toward the desert. wading in the shallows of the river with a linen dust robe for a seine, the two younger men of the party were gathering the choicest of the dead mountain trout with which the eddy was thickly dotted. coming toward him on the upward trail and climbing laboriously to gain the easier path among the pines, were the two remaining members of the party--an elderly, pudgy, stockily built man with a gray face, stiff gray mustaches and sandy-gray eyes to match, and the young woman, booted, gauntleted, veiled, and bulked into shapelessness by her touring coat, and yet triumphing exuberantly over all of these handicaps in an ebullient excess of captivating beauty and attractiveness. being a fisherman of mark and a true sportsman, brouillard had a sudden rush of blood to the anger cells when he realized that the alarm which had brought him two hard-breathing miles out of his way had been the discharge of a stick of dynamite thrown into the niquoia for the fish-killing purpose. in his code the dynamiting of a stream figured as a high crime. but the two on the trail had come up, and his protest was forestalled by the elderly man with the gray face and the sandy-gray eyes, whose explosive "ha!" was as much a measure of his breathlessness as of his surprise. "i was just telling van bruce that his thundering fish cartridge would raise the neighbors," the trail climber went on with a stout man's chuckle. and then: "you're one of the reclamation engineers? great work the government is undertaking here--fine opportunity to demonstrate the lifting power of aggregated capital backed by science and energy and a whole heap of initiative. it's a high honor to be connected with it, and that's a fact. you _are_ connected with it, aren't you?" brouillard's nod was for the man, but his words were for the young woman whose beauty refused to be quenched by the touring handicaps. "yes, i am in charge of it," he said. "ha!" said the stout man, and this time the exclamation was purely approbative. "chief engineer, eh? that's fine, _fine_! you're young, and you've climbed pretty fast. but that's the way with you young men nowadays; you begin where we older fellows leave off. i'm glad we met you. my name is cortwright--j. wesley cortwright, of chicago. and yours is----?" brouillard named himself in one word. strangers usually found him bluntly unresponsive to anything like effusiveness, but he was finding it curiously difficult to resist the good-natured heartiness which seemed to exude from the talkative gentleman, overlaying him like the honeydew on the leaves in a droughty forest. if mr. j. wesley cortwright's surprise on hearing the brouillard surname was not genuine it was at least an excellent imitation. "well, well, well--you don't say! not of the brouillards of knox county, indiana?--but, of course, you must be. there is only the one family that i ever heard of, and it is mighty good, old _voyageur_ stock, too, dating 'way back to the revolutionary war, and further. i've bought hogs of the farmer brouillards hundreds of times when i was in the packing business, and i want to tell you that no finer animals ever came into the chicago market." "yes?" said brouillard, driving the word in edgewise. "i am sorry to say that i don't know many of the farmers. our branch of the family settled near vincennes, and my father was on the bench, when he wasn't in politics." "what? not judge antoine! why, my dear young man! do you know that i once had the pleasure of introducing your good father to my bankers in chicago? it was years ago, at a time when he was interested in floating a bond issue for some growing industry down on the wabash. and to think that away out here in this howling wilderness, a thousand miles from nowhere, as you might say, i should meet his son!" brouillard laughed and fell headlong into the pit of triteness. "the world isn't so very big when you come to surround it properly, mr. cortwright," he asserted. "that's a fact; and we're doing our level best nowadays to make and keep it little," buzzed the portly man cheerfully, with a wave of one pudgy arm toward the automobile. "it's about a hundred and twenty miles from this to el gato, on the grand canyon, isn't it, mr. brouillard? well, we did it in five hours yesterday afternoon, and we could have cut an hour out of that if rickert hadn't mistaken the way across the buckskin. not that it made any special difference. we expected to spend one night out and came prepared." brouillard admitted that the touring feat kept even pace with the quickening spirit of the age; but he did not add that the motive for the feat was not quite so apparent as it might be. this mystery, however, was immediately brushed aside by mr. cortwright, speaking in his character of universal ouster of mysteries. "you are wondering what fool notion chased us away out here in the desert when we had a comfortable hotel to stop at," he rattled on. "i'll tell you, mr. brouillard--in confidence. it was curiosity--raw, country curiosity. the papers and magazines have been full of this buckskin reclamation scheme, and we wanted to see the place where all the wonderful miracles were going to get themselves wrought out. have you got time to 'put us next'?" brouillard, as the son of the man who had been introduced to the chicago money gods in his hour of need, could scarcely do less than to take the time. the project, he explained, contemplated the building of a high dam across the upper end of the niquoia canyon and the converting of the inland valley above into a great storage reservoir. from this reservoir a series of distributing canals would lead the water out upon the arid lands of the buckskin and the miracle would be a fact accomplished. "sure, sure!" said the cheerful querist, feeling in the pockets of the automobile coat for a cigar. at the match-striking instant he remembered a thing neglected. "by george! you'll have to excuse me, mr. brouillard; i'm always forgetting the little social dewdabs. let me present you to my daughter genevieve. gene, shake hands with the son of my good old friend judge antoine brouillard, of vincennes." it was rather awkwardly done, and somehow brouillard could not help fancying that mr. cortwright could have done it better; that the roughly informal introduction was only one of the component parts of a studied brusquerie which mr. cortwright could put on and off at will, like a well-worn working coat. but when the unquenchable beauty stripped her gauntlet and gave him her hand, with a dazzling smile and a word of acknowledgment which was not borrowed from her father's effusive vocabulary, he straightway fell into another pit of triteness and his saving first impressions of mr. j. wesley cortwright's character began to fade. "i'm immensely interested," was miss cortwright's comment on the outlining of the reclamation project. "do you mean to say that real farms with green things growing on them can be made out of that frightful desert we drove over yesterday afternoon?" brouillard smiled and plunged fatuously. "oh, yes; the farms are already there. nature made them, you know; she merely forgot to arrange for their watering." he was going on to tell about the exhaustive experiments the department of agriculture experts had been making upon the buckskin soils when the gentleman whose name had once figured upon countless thousands of lard packages cut in. "do you know what i'm thinking about, mr. brouillard? i'm saying it over soft and slow to myself that no young man in this world ever had such a magnificent fighting chance as you have right here," he averred, the sandy-gray eyes growing suddenly alert and shrewd. "if you don't come out of this with money enough to buy in all those bonds your father was placing that time in chicago--but of course you will." "i'm afraid i don't quite understand what you mean, mr. cortwright," said brouillard, with some inner monitor warning him that it would be better not to understand. the portly gentleman became suddenly facetious. "hear him, gene," he chuckled, sharing the joke with his daughter; "he says he doesn't understand!" then to brouillard: "say, young man; you don't mean to tell me that your father's son needs a guardian, do you? you know exactly where these canals are going to run and all the choice spots they are going to irrigate; what's to prevent your getting in ahead of the rush and taking up a dozen or so of those prime quarter-sections--homesteads, town sites, and the like? lack of money? why, bless your soul, there are plenty of us who would fall all over ourselves running to back a proposition like that--any god's quantity of us who would fairly throw the working capital at you! for that matter, i don't know but i'd undertake to finance you alone." brouillard's first impulse sprang full-grown out of honest anger. that any man who had known his father should make such a proposal to that father's son was a bald insult to the father's memory. but the calmer second thought turned wrath into amused tolerance. the costly touring-car, the idle, time-killing jaunt in the desert, the dynamiting of the river for the sake of taking a few fish--all these were the indices of a point of view limited strictly by a successful market for hog products. why should he go out of his way to quarrel with it on high moral grounds? "you forget that i am first of all the government's hired man, mr. cortwright," he demurred. "my job of dam building will be fully big enough and strenuous enough to keep me busy. aside from that, i fancy the department heads would take it rather hard if we fellows in the field went plum picking." "let them!" retorted the potential backer of profitable side issues. "what's the odds if you go to it and bring back the money? i tell you, mr. brouillard, money--bunched money--is what talks. a good, healthy bank balance makes so much noise that you can't hear the knockers. if the washington crowd had your chance--but never mind, that's your business and none of mine, and you'll take it as it's meant, as a good-natured hint to your father's son. how far is it up to where you are going to build your dam?" brouillard gave the distance, and mr. cortwright measured the visible trail grades with a deprecatory eye. "do you think my daughter could walk it?" he asked. miss genevieve answered for herself: "of course i can walk it; can't i, mr. brouillard?" "i'll be glad to show you the way if you care to try," brouillard offered; and the tentative invitation was promptly accepted. the transfer of view-points from the lower end of the canyon to the upper was effected without incident, save at its beginning, when the father would have called down to the young man who had waded ashore and was drying himself before the camp-fire. "van bruce won't care to go," the daughter hastened to say; and brouillard, whose gift it was to be able to pick out and identify the human derelict at long range, understood perfectly well the reason for the young woman's hasty interruption. one result of the successfully marketed lard packages was very plainly evident in the dissipated face and hangdog attitude of the marketer's son. conversation flagged, even to the discouragement of a voluble money king, on the climb from the buckskin level to that of the reservoir valley. the trail was narrow, and brouillard unconsciously set a pace which was almost inhospitable for a stockily built man whose tendency was toward increasing waist measures. but when they reached the pine-tree of the anchored blue-prints at the upper portal, mr. cortwright recovered his breath sufficiently to gasp his appreciation of the prospect and its possibilities. "why, good goodness, mr. brouillard, it's practically all done for you!" he wheezed, taking in the level, mountain-enclosed valley with an appraisive eye-sweep. "van bruce and the chauffeur came up here last night, with one of the car lamps for a lantern, but of course they couldn't bring back any idea of the place. what will you do?--build your dam right here and take out your canal through the canyon? is that the plan?" brouillard nodded and went a little further into details, showing how the inward-arching barrier would be anchored into the two opposing mountain buttresses. "and the structure itself--how high is it to be?" "two hundred feet above the spillway apron foot." the lard millionaire twisted his short, fat neck and guessed the distance up the precipitous slopes of chigringo and jack's mountain. "that will be a whale of a chunk of masonry," he said. then, with business-like directness: "what will you build it of?--concrete?" "yes; concrete and steel." "then you are going to need portland cement--a whole world of it. where will you get it? and how will you get it here?" brouillard smiled inwardly at the pork packer's suddenly awakened interest in the technical ways and means. his four years in the desert had taken him out of touch with a money-making world, and this momentary contact with one of its successful devotees was illuminating. he had a growing conviction that the sordid atmosphere which appeared to be as the breath of life to mr. j. wesley cortwright would presently begin to make things taste coppery, but the inextinguishable charm of the veiled princess was a compensation. it was partly for the sake of seeing her with the veil abolished that he recovered the paper-weighting field-glass and gave it to her, showing her how to focus it upon the upper reaches of the valley. "we are in luck on the cement proposition," he told the eager money-maker. "we shall probably manufacture our own supply right here on the ground. there is plenty of limestone and an excellent shale in those hills just beyond our camp; and for burning fuel there is a fairly good vein of bituminous coal underlying that farther range at the head of the valley." "h'm," said the millionaire; "a cement plant, eh? there's money in that anywhere on the face of the globe, just now. and over here, where there is no transportation--gad! if you only had somebody to sell cement to, you could ask your own price. the materials have all been tested, i suppose?" "oh, yes; we've had experts in here for more than a year. the material is all right." "and your labor?" "on the dam, you mean? one advantage of concrete work is that it does not require any great proportion of skilled labor, the crushing, mixing, and placing all being done by machinery. we shall work all the indians we can get from the navajo reservation, forty-odd miles south of here; for the remainder we shall import men from the states, bringing them in over the timanyoni high line--the trail from quesado on the red butte western. at least, that is what we shall do for the present. later on, the railroad will probably build an extension up the barking dog and over war arrow pass." mr. cortwright's calculating eye roved once more over the attractive prospect. "fuel for your power plant?--wood i take it?" he surmised; and then: "oh, i forgot; you say you have coal." "yes; there is coal, of a sort; good enough for the cement kilns. but we sha'n't burn it for power. neither shall we burn the timber, which can be put to much better use in building and in false- and form-work. there are no finer lumber forests this side of the sierras. for power we shall utilize the river. there is another small canyon at the head of the valley where a temporary dam can be built which will deliver power enough to run anything--an entire manufacturing city, if we had one." mr. cortwright made a clucking noise with his tongue and blew his cheeks out like a swimmer gasping for breath. "julius cæsar!" he exploded. "you stand there and tell me calmly that the government has all these resources coopered up here in a barrel?--that nobody is going to get a chance to make any money out of them? it's a crime, mr. brouillard; that's just what it is--a crime!" "no; i didn't say that. the resources just happen to be here and we shall turn them to good account. but if there were any feasible transportation facilities i doubt if we should make use of these native raw materials. it is the policy of the department to go into the market like any other buyer where it can. but here there are no sellers, or, rather, no way in which the sellers can reach us." "no sellers and no chance for a man to get the thin edge of a wedge in anywhere," lamented the money-maker despairingly. then his eye lighted upon the graybeard dump of a solitary mine high up on the face of mount chigringo. "what's that up there?" he demanded. "it is a mine," said brouillard, showing miss cortwright how to adjust the field-glass for the shorter distance. "two men named massingale, father and son, are working it, i'm told." and then again to miss genevieve: "that is their cabin--on the trail a little to the right of the tunnel opening." "i see it quite plainly," she returned. "two people are just leaving it to ride down the path--a man and a woman, i think, though the woman--if it is a woman--is riding on a man's saddle." brouillard's eyebrows went up in a little arch of surprise. harding, the topographical engineer who had made all the preliminary surveys and had spent the better part of the former summer in the niquoia, had reported on the massingales, father and son, and his report had conveyed a hint of possible antagonism on the part of the mine owners to the government project. but there had been no mention of a woman. "the massingale mine, eh?" broke in the appraiser of values crisply. "they showed us some ore specimens from that property while we were stopping over in red butte. it's rich--good and plenty rich--if they have the quantity. and somebody told me they had the quantity, too; only it was too far from the railroad--couldn't jack-freight it profitably over the timanyonis." "in which case it is one of many," brouillard said, taking refuge in the generalities. but mr. cortwright was not to be so easily diverted from the pointed particulars--the particulars having to do with the pursuit of the market trail. "i'm beginning to get my feet on bottom, brouillard," he said, dropping the courtesy prefix and shoving his fat hands deep into the pockets of the dust-coat. "there's a business proposition here, and it looks mighty good to me. that was a mere nursery notion i gave you a while back--about picking up homesteads and town sites in the buckskin. the big thing is right here. i tell you, i can smell money in this valley of yours--scads of it." brouillard laughed. "it is only the fragrance of future reclamation-service appropriations," he suggested. "there will be a good bit of money spent here before the buckskin desert gets its maiden wetting." "i don't mean that at all," was the impatient rejoinder. "let me show you: you are going to have a population of some sort, if it's only the population that your big job will bring here. that's the basis. then you're going to need material by the train load, not the raw stuff, which you say is right here on the ground, but the manufactured article--cement, lumber, and steel. you can ship this material in over the range at prices that will be pretty nearly prohibitory, or, as you suggest, it can be manufactured right here on the spot." "the cement and the lumber can be produced here, but not the steel," brouillard corrected. "that's where you're off," snapped the millionaire. "there are fine ore beds in the hophras and a pretty good quality of coking coal. ten or twelve miles of a narrow-gauge railroad would dump the pig metal into the upper end of your valley, and there you are. with a small reduction plant you could tell the big steel people to go hang." brouillard admitted the postulate without prejudice to a keen and growing wonder. how did it happen that this chicago money king had taken the trouble to inform himself so accurately in regard to the natural resources of the niquoia region? had he not expressly declared that the object of the desert automobile trip was mere tourist curiosity? given a little time, the engineer would have cornered the inquiry, making it yield some sort of a reasonable answer; but mr. cortwright was galloping on again. "there you are, then, with the three prime requisites in raw material: cement stock, timber, and pig metal. fuel you've got, you say, and if it isn't good enough, your dummy railroad can supply you from the hophra mines. best of all, you've got power to burn--and that's the key to any manufacturing proposition. well and good. now, you know, and i know, that the government doesn't care to go into the manufacturing business when it can help it. isn't that so?" "unquestionably. but this is a case of can't-help-it," brouillard argued. "you couldn't begin to interest private capital in any of these industries you speak of." "why not?" was the curt demand. "because of their impermanence--their dependence upon a market which will quit definitely when the dam is completed. what you are suggesting predicates a good, busy little city in this valley, behind the dam--since there is no other feasible place for it--and it would be strictly a city of numbered days. when the dam is completed and the spillway gates are closed, the niqoyastcàdje and everything in it will go down under two hundred feet of water." "the--what?" queried miss cortwright, lowering the glass with which she had been following the progress of the two riders down the buckskin trail from the high-pitched mine on chigringo. "the niqoyastcàdje--'place-where-they-came-up,'" said brouillard, elucidating for her. "that is the navajo name for this valley. the indians have a legend that this is the spot where their tribal ancestors came up from the underworld. our map makers shortened it to 'niquoia' and the cow-men of the buckskin foot-hills have cut that to 'nick-wire.'" this bit of explanatory place lore was entirely lost upon mr. j. wesley cortwright. he was chewing the ends of his short mustaches and scowling thoughtfully out upon the possible site of the future industrial city of the plain. "say, brouillard," he cut in, "you get me the right to build that power dam, and give me the contracts for what material you'd rather buy than make, and i'll be switched if i don't take a shot at this drowning proposition myself. i tell you, it looks pretty good to me. what do you say?" "i'll say what i said a few minutes ago," laughed the young chief of construction--"that i'm only a hired man. you'll have to go a good few rounds higher up on the authority ladder to close a deal like that. i'm not sure it wouldn't require an act of congress." "well, by george, we might get even that if we have to," was the optimistic assertion. "you think about it." "i guess it isn't my think," said brouillard, still inclined to take the retired pork packer's suggestion as the mere ravings of a money-mad promoter. "as the government engineer in charge of this work, i couldn't afford to be identified even as a friendly intermediary in any such scheme as the one you are proposing." "of course, i suppose not," agreed the would-be promoter, sucking his under lip in a way ominously familiar to his antagonists in the wheat pit. then he glanced at his watch and changed the subject abruptly. "we'll have to be straggling back to the chug-wagon. much obliged to you, mr. brouillard. will you come down and see us off?" brouillard said "yes," for miss cortwright's sake, and took the field-glass she was returning to put it back upon the sheaf of blue-prints. she saw what he did with it and made instant acknowledgments. "it was good of you to neglect your work for us," she said, smiling level-eyed at him when he straightened up. he was frank enough to tell the truth--or part of it. "it was the dynamite that called me off. doesn't your brother know that it is illegal to shoot a trout stream?" she waited until her father was out of ear-shot on the gorge trail before she answered: "he ought to know that it is caddish and unsportsmanlike. i didn't know what he and rickert were doing or i should have stopped them." "in that event we shouldn't have met, and you would have missed your chance of seeing the niqoyastcàdje and the site of the city that isn't to be--the city of numbered days," he jested, adding, less lightly: "you wouldn't have missed very much." "no?" she countered with a bright return of the alluring smile which he had first seen through the filmy gauze of the automobile veil. "do you want me to say that i should have missed a great deal? you may consider it said if you wish." he made no reply to the bit of persiflage, and a little later felt the inward warmth of an upflash of resentment directed not at his companion but at himself for having been momentarily tempted to take the persiflage seriously. the temptation was another of the consequences of the four years of isolation which had cut him off from the world of women no less completely than from the world of money-getting. but it was rather humiliating, none the less. "what have i done to make you forget how to talk?" she wished to know, five minutes further on, when his silence was promising to outlast the canyon passage. "you? nothing at all," he hastened to say. then he took the first step in the fatal road of attempting to account for himself. "but i have forgotten, just the same. it has been years since i have had a chance to talk to a woman. do you wonder that i have lost the knack?" "how dreadful!" she laughed. and afterward, with a return to the half-serious mood which had threatened to reopen the door so lately slammed in the face of temptation: "perhaps we shall come back to niqo--niqoy--i simply _can't_ say it without sneezing--and then you might relearn some of the things you have forgotten. wouldn't that be delightful?" this time he chose to ignore utterly the voice of the inward monitor, which was assuring him coldly that young women of miss cortwright's world plane were constrained by the accepted rules of their kind to play the game in season and out of season, and his half-laughing reply was at once a defiance and a counter-challenge. "i dare you to come!" he said brazenly. "haven't you heard how the men of the desert camps kill each other for the chance to pick up a lady's handkerchief?" they were at the final descent in the trail, with the buckskin blanknesses showing hotly beyond the curtaining of pines, and there was space only for a flash of the beautiful eyes and a beckoning word. "in that case, i hope you know how to shoot straight, mr. brouillard," she said quizzically; and then they passed at a step from romance to the crude realities. the realities were basing themselves upon the advent of two new-comers, riding down the chigringo trail to the ford which had been the scene of the fish slaughtering; a sunburnt young man in goatskin "shaps," flannel shirt and a flapping stetson, and a girl whose face reminded brouillard of one of the madonnas, whose name and painter he strove vainly to recall. ten seconds farther along the horses of the pair were sniffing suspiciously at the automobile, and the young man under the flapping hat was telling van bruce cortwright what he thought of cartridge fishermen in general, and of this present cartridge fisherman in particular. "which the same, being translated into buckskin english, hollers like this," he concluded. "don't you tote any more fish ca'tridges into this here rese'vation; not no more, whatsoever. who says so? well, if anybody should ask, you might say it was tig smith, foreman o' the tri'-circ' outfit. no, i ain't no game warden, but what i say goes as she lays. _savez?_" the chauffeur was adjusting something under the upturned bonnet of the touring-car and thus hiding his grin. mr. cortwright, who had maintained his lead on the descent to the desert level, was trying to come between his sullen-faced son and the irate cattleman, money in hand. brouillard walked his companion down to the car and helped her to a seat in the tonneau. she repaid him with a nod and a smile, and when he saw that the crudities were not troubling her he stepped aside and unconsciously fell to comparing the two--the girl on horseback and his walking mate of the canyon passage. they had little enough in common, apart from their descent from eve, he decided--and the decision itself was subconscious. the millionaire's daughter was a warm blonde, beautiful, queenly, a finished product of civilization and high-priced culture; a woman of the world, standing but a single remove from the generation of quick money-getting and yet able to make the money take its proper place as a means to an end. and the girl on horseback? brouillard had to look twice before he could attempt to classify her, and even then she baffled him. a rather slight figure, suggestive of the flexible strength of a silken cord; a face winsome rather than beautiful; coils and masses of copper-brown hair escaping under the jaunty cow-boy hat; eyes ... it was her eyes that made brouillard look the third time: they were blue, with a hint of violet in them; he made sure of this when she turned her head and met his gaze fearlessly and with a certain calm serenity that made him feel suddenly uncomfortable and half embarrassed. nevertheless, he would not look aside; and he caught himself wondering if her cow-boy lover--he had already jumped to the sentimental conclusion--had ever been able to look into those steadfast eyes and trifle with the truth. so far the young chief of construction had travelled on the road reflective while the fish-slaughtering matter was getting itself threshed out at the river's edge. when it was finally settled--not by the tender of money that mr. cortwright had made--the man smith and his pretty riding mate galloped through the ford and disappeared among the barren hills, and the chauffeur was at liberty to start the motor. "_au revoir_, mr. brouillard," said the princess, as the big car righted itself for the southward flight into the desert. then, when the wheels began to churn in the loose sand of the halting place, she leaned out to give him a woman's leave-taking. "if i were you i shouldn't fall in love with the calm-eyed goddess who rides like a man. mr. tri'-circ' smith might object, you know; and you haven't yet told me whether or not you can shoot straight." there was something almost heart-warming in the bit of parting badinage; something to make the young engineer feel figuratively for the knife with which he had resolutely cut around himself to the dividing of all hindrances, sentimental or other, on a certain wretched day years before when he had shouldered his life back-load. [illustration: brouillard had to look twice before he could attempt to classify her, and even then she baffled him.] but the warmth might have given place to a disconcerting chill if he could have heard mr. j. wesley cortwright's remark to his seat companion, made when the canyon portal of the niquoia and the man climbing the path beside it were hazy mirage distortions in the backward distances. "he isn't going to be the dead easy mark i hoped to find in the son of the old bankrupt hair-splitter, genie, girl. but he'll come down and hook himself all right if the bait is well covered with his particular brand of sugar. don't you forget it." iii sands of pactolus if victor brouillard had been disposed to speculate curiously upon the possibilities suggested by mr. j. wesley cortwright on the occasion of the capitalist's brief visit to the niquoia, or had been tempted to dwell sentimentally upon the idyllic crossing of orbits--miss genevieve's and his own--on the desert's rim, there was little leisure for either indulgence during the strenuous early summer weeks which followed the cortwright invasion. popular belief to the contrary notwithstanding, it is not precisely true that all government undertakings are dilatory industrial imitations, designed, primarily, to promote the even-handed cutting of some appropriation pie, and, secondarily, to provide easy sinecures for placemen and political heelers. holding no brief for the government, one may still say without fear of contradiction that _laissez-faire_ has seldom been justly charged against the reclamation service. fairly confronting his problem, brouillard did not find himself hampered by departmental inertia. while he was rapidly organizing his force for the constructive attack, the equipment and preliminary material for the building of the great dam were piling up by the train load on the side-tracks at quesado; and at once the man- and beast-killing task of rushing the excavating outfit of machinery, teams, scrapers, rock-drilling installations, steam-shovels, and the like, over the war arrow trail was begun. during the weeks which followed, the same trail, and a little later that from the navajo reservation on the south, were strung with ant-like processions of laborers pouring into the shut-in valley at the foot of mount chigringo. almost as if by magic a populous camp of tents, shelter shacks, and indian tepees sprang up in the level bed-bottom of the future lake; camp-fires gave place to mess kitchens; the commissary became a busy department store stocked with everything that thrifty or thriftless labor might wish to purchase; and daily the great foundation scorings in the buttressing shoulders of jack's mountain and chigringo grew deeper and wider under the churning of the air-drills, the crashings of the dynamite, and the rattle and chug of the steam-shovels. magically, too, the life of the isolated working camp sprang into being. from the beginning its speech was a curious polyglot; the hissings and bubblings of the melting-pot out of which a new citizenry is poured. poles and slovaks, men from the slopes of the carpathians, the terraces of the apennines, and the passes of the balkans; scandinavians from the pineries of the north, and a colony of railroad-grading greeks, fresh from the building of a great transcontinental line; all these and more were spilled into the melting-pot, and a new babel resulted. only the indians held aloof. careful from the first for these wards of the nation, brouillard had made laws of draconian severity. the navajos were isolated upon a small reservation of their own on the jack's mountain side of the niquoia, a full half mile from the many-tongued camp in the open valley; and for the man caught "boot-legging" among the indians there were penalties swift and merciless. it was after the huge task of foundation digging was well under way and the work of constructing the small power dam in the upper canyon had been begun that the young chief of construction, busy with a thousand details, had his first forcible reminder of the continued existence of mr. j. wesley cortwright. it came in the form of a communication from washington, forwarded by special post-rider service from quesado, and it called a halt upon the up-river power project. in accordance with its settled policy, the reclamation service would refrain, in the niquoia as elsewhere, from entering into competition with private citizens; would do nothing to discourage the investment of private capital. a company had been formed to take over the power production and to establish a plant for the manufacture of cement, and brouillard was instructed to govern himself accordingly. for his information, the department letter-writer went on to say, it was to be understood that the company was duly organized under the provisions of an act of congress; that it had bound itself to furnish power and material at prices satisfactory to the service; and that the relations between it and the government field-staff on the ground were to be entirely friendly. "it's a graft--a pull-down with a profit in it for some bunch of money leeches a little higher up!" was the young chief's angry comment when he had given grislow the letter to read. "without knowing any more of the details than that letter gives, i'd be willing to bet a month's pay that this is the fine italian hand of mr. j. wesley cortwright!" grislow's eyebrows went up in doubtful interrogation. "ought i to know the gentleman?" he queried mildly. "i don't seem to recall the name." brouillard got up from his desk to go and stand at one of the little square windows of the log-built office quarters. for some reason which he had not taken the trouble to define, even to himself, he had carefully refrained from telling the hydrographer anything about the early morning meeting with the automobilists at the edge of the desert basin; of that and of the subsequent visit of two of them to the site of the dam. "no; you don't know him," he said, turning back to the worker at the mapping table. "it was his motor party that was camping at the buckskin ford the night we broke in here--the night when we saw the search-light." "and you met him? i thought you told me you merely went down and took a look--didn't butt in?" "i didn't--that night. but the next morning----" the hydrographer's smile was a jocose grimace. "i recollect now; you said that one of the motorists was a young woman." brouillard resented the implication irritably. "don't be an ass, murray," he snapped; and then he went on, with the frown of impatience still wrinkling between his eyes. "the young woman was the daughter. there was a cub of a son, and he fired a stick of dynamite in the river to kill a mess of trout. i heard the explosion and thought it might be the gasolene tank of the car." "naturally," said grislow guilelessly. "and, quite as naturally, you went down to see. i'm not sure that i shouldn't have done it myself." "of course you would," was the touchy retort. "when i got there and found out what had happened, i meant to make a second drop-out; but cortwright and his daughter were coming up the trail, and he hailed me. after that i couldn't do less than the decent thing. they wanted to see the valley, and i showed them the way in. cortwright is the multimillionaire pork packer of chicago, and he went up into the air like a lunatic over the money-making chances there were going to be in this job. i didn't pay much attention to his chortlings at the time. it didn't seem remotely credible that anybody with real money to invest would plant it in the bottom of the niquoia reservoir." "but now you think he is going to make his bluff good?" "that looks very much like it," said brouillard sourly, pointing to the letter from washington. "that scheme is going to change the whole face of nature for us up here, grislow. it will spell trouble right from the jump." "oh, i don't know," was the deprecatory rejoinder. "it will relieve us of a lot of side-issue industries--cut 'em out and bury 'em, so far as we are concerned." "that part of it is all right, of course; but it won't end there; not by a hundred miles. we've started in here to be a law to ourselves--as we've got to be to handle this mixed multitude of brigands and ditch diggers. but when this new company gets on the ground it will be different. there will be pull-hauling and scrapping and liquor selling, and we can't go in and straighten things out with a club as we do now. jobson says in that letter that the relations have got to be friendly! i'll bet anything you like that i'll have to go and read the riot act to those people before they've been twenty-four hours on their job!" grislow was trying the point of his mapping-pen on his thumb nail. "curious that this particular fly should drop into your pot of ointment on your birthday, wasn't it?" he remarked. "o suffering jehu!" gritted brouillard ragefully. "are you never going to forget that senseless bit of twaddle?" "you're not giving me a chance to forget it," said the map-maker soberly. "you told me that night that the seven-year characteristic was change; and you're a changed man, victor, if ever there was one. moreover, it began that very night--or the next morning." "oh, damn!" "certainly, if you wish it. but that is only another proof of what i am saying. it's getting on your nerves now. do you know what the men have named you? they call you 'hell's-fire.' that has come to be your word when you light into them for something they've done or haven't done. no longer ago than this morning you were swearing at griffith, as if you'd forgotten that the boy is only a year out of college and can't be supposed to know as much as leshington or anson. where is your sense of humor?" brouillard laughed, if only to prove that his sense of humor was still unimpaired. "they are a fearful lot of dubs, grizzy," he said, meaning the laborers; "the worst we've ever drawn, and that is saying a good deal. three drunken brawls last night, and a man killed in haley's place. and i can't keep liquor out of the camp to save my soul--not if i should sit up nights to invent new regulations. the navajos are the best of the bunch and we've managed to keep the fire from spreading over on their side of the niquoia, thus far. but if the whiskey ever gets hold in the tepees, we'll have orders to shoot chief nicagee's people back to their reservation in a holy minute." grislow nodded. "niqoyastcàdje--'place-where-they-came-up.' it will be 'place-where-they-go-down' if the tin-horns and boot-leggers get an inning." "we'll all go to the devil on a toboggan-slide and there is the order for it," declared the chief morosely, again indicating the letter from washington. "that means more human scum--a new town--an element that we can neither chase out nor control. cortwright and his associates, whoever they are, won't care a rotten hang. they'll be here to sweat money out of the job; to sweat it in any and every way that offers, and to do it quick. all of which is bad enough, you'd say, murray; but it isn't the worst of it. i've just run up against another thing that is threatening to raise merry hell in this valley." "i know," said the hydrographer slowly. "you've been having a _séance_ with steve massingale. leshington told me about it." "what did he tell you?" brouillard demanded half-angrily. "oh, nothing much; nothing to make you hot at him. he happened to be in the other room when massingale was here, and the door was open. he said he gathered the notion that the young sorehead was trying to bully you." "he was," was the brittle admission. "see here, grizzy." the thing to be seen was a small buckskin bag which, when opened, gave up a paper packet folded like a medicine powder. the paper contained a spoonful of dust and pellets of metal of a dull yellow lustre. the hydrographer drew a long breath and fingered the nuggets. "gold--placer gold!" he exclaimed, and brouillard nodded and went on to tell how he had come by the bag and its contents. "massingale had an axe to grind, of course. you may remember that harding talked loosely about the massingale opposition to the building of the dam. there was nothing in it. the opposition was purely personal and it was directed against harding himself, with amy massingale for the exciting cause." "that girl?--the elemental brute!" grislow broke in warmly. he knew the miner's daughter fairly well by this time and, in common with every other man on the staff, not excepting the staff's chief, would have fought for her in any cause. brouillard nodded. "i don't know what harding did, but smith, the triangle-circle foreman, tells me that steve was on the war-path; he told harding when he left, last summer, that if he ever came back to the niquoia, he'd come to stay--and stay dead." "i never did like harding's sex attitude any too well," was the hydrographer's definitive comment; and brouillard went back to the matter of the morning's _séance_ and its golden outcome. "that is only a little side issue. steve massingale came to me this morning with a proposal that was about as cold-blooded as a slap in the face. naturally, for good business reasons of their own, the massingales want to see the railroad built over war arrow pass and into the niquoia. in some way steve has found out that i stand in pretty well with president ford and the pacific southwestern people. his first break was to offer to incorporate the 'little susan' and to give me a block of the stock if i'd pull ford's leg on the extension proposition." "well?" queried grislow. "the railroad over war arrow pass would be the biggest thing that ever happened for our job here. if it did nothing else, it would make us independent of these boomers that are coming in to sell us material at their own prices." "exactly. but my hands are tied; and, besides, massingale's offer was a rank bribe. you can imagine what i told him--that i could neither accept stock in his mine nor say anything to influence the railroad people; that my position as chief engineer for the government cut me out both ways. then he began to bully and pulled the club on me." again grislow's smile was jocose. "you haven't been tumbling into the ditch with leshington and griffith and the rest of us and making love to the little sister, have you?" he jested. "don't be a fool if you can help it," was the curt rejoinder. "and don't give yourself leave to say things like that about amy massingale. she is too good and sweet and clean-hearted to be dragged into this mix-up, even by implication. do you get that, murray?" "oh, yes; it's only another way of saying that i'm one of the fools. go on with the stephen end of it." "well, when i turned him down, young massingale began to bluster and to say that i'd have to boost the railroad deal, whether i wanted to or not. i told him he couldn't prove it, and he said he would show me, if i'd take half an hour's walk up the valley with him. i humored him, more to get quit of him than for any other reason, and on the way past the camp he borrowed a frying-pan at one of the cook shacks. you know that long, narrow sand-bar in the river just below the mouth of the upper canyon?" grislow nodded. "that is where we went for the proof. massingale dipped up a panful of the bar sand, which he asked me to wash out for myself. i did it, and you have the results there in that paper. that bar is comparatively rich placer dirt." "good lord!" ejaculated the map-maker. "comparatively rich, you say?--and you washed this spoonful out of a single pan?" "keep your head," said brouillard coolly. "massingale explained that i had happened to make a ten-strike; that the bar wasn't any such bonanza as that first result would indicate. i proved that, too, by washing some more of it without getting any more than a few 'colors.' but the fact remains: it's placer ground." it was at this point that the larger aspect of the fact launched itself upon the hydrographer. "a gold strike!" he gasped. "and we--we're planning to drown it under two hundred feet of a lake!" brouillard's laugh was harsh. "don't let the fever get hold of you, grislow. don't forget that we are here to carry out the plans of the reclamation service--which are more far-reaching and of a good bit greater consequence than a dozen placer-mines. not that it didn't make me grab for hand-holds for a minute or two, mind you. i wasn't quite as cold about it as i'm asking you to be, and i guess massingale had calculated pretty carefully on the dramatic effect of his little shock. anyway, he drove the peg down good and hard. if i would jump in and pull every possible string to hurry the railroad over the range, and keep on pulling them, the secret of the placer bar would remain a secret. otherwise he, stephen massingale, would give it away, publish it, advertise it to the world. you know what that would mean for us, murray." "my lord! i should say so! we'd have boomtown-on-the-pike right now, with all the variations! every white man in the camp would chuck his job in the hollow half of a minute and go to gravel washing!" "that's it precisely," brouillard acquiesced gloomily. "massingale is a young tough, but he is shrewd enough, when he is sober. he had me dead to rights, and he knew it. 'you don't want any gold camp starting up here in the bottom of your reservoir,' he said; and i had to admit it." grislow had found a magnifying-glass in the drawer of the mapping table, and he was holding it in focus over the small collection of grain gold and nuggets. in the midst of the eager examination he looked up suddenly to say: "hold on a minute. why is steve proposing to give this thing away? why isn't he working the bar himself?" "he explained that phase of it, after a fashion--said that placer-mining was always more or less of a gamble and that they had a sure thing of it in the 'little susan.' of course, if the thing had to be given away, he and his father would avail themselves of their rights as discoverers and take their chance with the crowd for the sake of the ready money they might get out of it. otherwise they'd be content to let it alone and stick to their legitimate business, which is quartz-mining." "and to do that successfully they've got to have the railroad. say, victor, i'm beginning to acquire a great and growing respect for mr. stephen massingale. this field is too small for him; altogether too small. he ought to get a job with some of the malefactors of great wealth. how did you settle it finally?" "massingale was too shrewd to try to push me over the edge while there seemed to be a fairly good chance that i would walk over of my own accord. he told me to take a week or two and think about it. we dropped the matter by common consent after we left the bar in the quadjenàï bend, and on the way down the valley massingale pitched in a bit of information out of what seemed to be sheer good-will. it seems that he and his father have done a lot of test drilling up and down the side of chigringo at one time and another, and he told me that there is a bed of micaceous shale under our south anchorage, cautioning me not to let the excavation stop until we had gone through it." "well! that was pretty decent of him." "yes; and it shows that harding was lying when he said that the massingales were opposing the reclamation project. they are frankly in favor of it. irrigation in the buckskin means population; and population will bring the railroad, sooner or later. in the matter of hurrying the track-laying, massingale is only adopting modern business methods. he has a club and he is using it." grislow was biting the end of his penholder thoughtfully. "what are you going to do about it, victor?" he asked at length. "we can't stand for any more chaos than the gods have already doped out for us, can we?" brouillard took another long minute at the office window before he said: "what would you do if you were in my place, murray?" but at this the map-maker put up his hands as if to ward off a blow. "no, you don't!" he laughed. "i can at least refuse to be that kind of a fool. go and hunt you a professional conscience keeper; i went out of that business for keeps in my sophomore year. but i'll venture a small prophecy: we'll have the railroad--and you'll pull for it. and then, whether massingale tells or doesn't tell, the golden secret will leak out. and after that, the deluge." iv a fire of little sticks two days after the arrival of the letter from washington announcing the approaching invasion of private capital, brouillard, returning from a horseback trip into the buckskin, where anson and griffith were setting grade stakes for the canal diggers, found a visitor awaiting him in the camp headquarters office. one glance at the thick-bodied, heavy-faced man chewing an extinct cigar while he made himself comfortable in the only approach to a lounging chair that the office afforded was sufficient to awaken an alert antagonism. quick to found friendships or enmities upon the intuitive first impression, brouillard's acknowledgment was curt and business-brusque when the big man introduced himself without taking the trouble to get out of his chair. "my name is hosford and i represent the niquoia improvement company as its manager and resident engineer," said the lounger, shifting the dead cigar from one corner of his hard-bitted mouth to the other. "you're brillard, the government man, i take it?" "brouillard, if you please," was the crisp correction. and then with a careful effacement of the final saving trace of hospitality in tone or manner: "what can we do for you, mr. hosford?" "a good many things, first and last. i'm two or three days ahead of my outfit, and you can put me up somewhere until i get a camp of my own. you've got some sort of an engineers' mess, i take it?" "we have," said brouillard briefly. with anson and griffith absent on the field-work, there were two vacancies in the staff mess. moreover, the law of the desert prescribes that not even an enemy shall be refused bread and bed. "you'll make yourself at home with us, of course," he added, and he tried to say it without making it sound too much like a challenge. "all right; so much for that part of it," said the self-invited guest. "now for the business end of the deal--why don't you sit down?" brouillard planted himself behind his desk and began to fill his blackened office pipe, coldly refusing hosford's tender of a cigar. "you were speaking of the business matter," he suggested bluntly. "yes. i'd like to go over your plans for the power dam in the upper canyon. if they look good to me i'll adopt them." brouillard paused to light his pipe before he replied. "perhaps we'd better clear away the underbrush before we begin on the standing timber, mr. hosford," he said, when the tobacco was glowing militantly in the pipe bowl. "have you been given to understand that this office is in any sense a tail to your improvement company's kite?" "i haven't been 'given to understand' anything," was the gruff rejoinder. "our company has acquired certain rights in this valley, and i'm taking it for granted that you've had the situation doped out to you. it won't be worth your while to quarrel with us, mr. brouillard." "i am very far from wishing to quarrel with anybody," said brouillard, but his tone belied the words. "at the same time, if you think that we are going to do your engineering work, or any part of it, for you, you are pretty severely mistaken. our own job is fully big enough to keep us busy." "you're off," said the big man coolly. "somebody has bungled in giving you the dope. you want to keep your job, don't you?" "that is neither here nor there. what we are discussing at present is the department's attitude toward your enterprise. i shall be exceeding my instructions if i make that attitude friendly to the detriment of my own work." the new resident manager sat back in his chair and chewed his cigar reflectively, staring up at the log beaming of the office ceiling. when he began again he did not seem to think it worth while to shift his gaze from the abstractions. "you're just like all the other government men i've ever had to do business with, brouillard; pig-headed, obstinate, blind as bats to their own interests. i didn't especially want to begin by knocking you into line, but i guess it'll have to be done. in the first place, let me tell you that there are all kinds of big money behind this little sky-rocket of ours here in the niquoia: ten millions, twenty millions, thirty millions, if they're needed." brouillard shook his head. "i can't count beyond a hundred, mr. hosford." "all right; then i'll get you on the other side. suppose i should tell you that practically all of your bosses are in with us; what then?" "your stockholders' listings concern me even less than your capitalization. we are miles apart yet." again the representative of niquoia improvement took time to shift the extinct cigar. "i guess the best way to get you is to send a little wire to washington," he said reflectively. "how does that strike you?" "i haven't the slightest interest in what you may do or fail to do," said brouillard. "at the same time, as i have already said, i don't wish to quarrel with you or with your company." "ah! that touched you, didn't it?" "not in the sense you are imagining; no. send your wire if you like. you may have the use of the government telegraph. the office is in the second shack north of this." "still you say you don't want to scrap?" "certainly not. as you have intimated, we shall have to do business together as buyer and seller. i merely wished to make it plain that the reclamation service doesn't put its engineering department at the disposal of the niquoia improvement company." "but you have made the plans for this power plant, haven't you?" "yes; and they are the property of the department. if you want them, i'll turn them over to you upon a proper order from headquarters." "that's a little more like it. where did you say i'd find your wire office?" brouillard gave the information a second time, and as hosford went out, grislow came in and took his place at the mapping table. "glad you got back in time to save my life," he remarked pointedly, with a sly glance at his chief. "he's been ploughing furrows up and down my little potato patch all day." "humph! digging for information, i suppose?" grunted brouillard. "just that; and he's been getting it, too. not out of me, particularly, but out of everybody. also, he was willing to impart a little. we're in for the time of our lives, victor." "i know it," was the crabbed rejoinder. "you don't know the tenth part of it," asserted the hydrographer slowly. "it's a modest name, 'the niquoia improvement company,' but it is going to be like charity--covering a multitude of sins. do you know what that plank-faced organizer has got up his sleeve? he is going to build us a neat, up-to-date little city right here in the middle of our midst. if i hadn't made him believe that i was only a draughtsman, he would have had me out with a transit, running the lines for the streets." "a city?--in this reservoir bottom? i guess not. he was only stringing you to kill time, grizzy." "don't you fool yourself!" exclaimed the map-maker. "he's got the plans in his grip. we're going to be on a little reservation set apart for us by the grace of god and the kindness of these promoters. the remainder of the valley is laid off into cute little squares and streets, with everything named and numbered, ready to be listed in the brokers' offices. you may not be aware of it, but this palatial office building of ours fronts on chigringo avenue." "stuff!" said brouillard. "what has all this bubble blowing got to do with the building of a temporary power dam and the setting up of a couple of cement kilns?" grislow laid his pen aside and whirled around on his working-stool. "don't you make any easy-going mistake, victor," he said earnestly. "the cement and power proposition is only a side issue. these new people are going to take over the sawmills, open up quarries, build a stub railroad to the hophra mines, grade a practicable stage road over the range to quesado, and put on a fast-mule freight line to serve until the railroad builds in. wouldn't that set your teeth on edge?" "i can't believe it, murray. it's a leaf out of the book of bedlam! take a fair shot at it and see where the bullet lands: this entire crazy fake is built upon one solitary, lonesome fact--the fact that we're here, with a job on our hands big enough to create an active, present-moment market for labor and material. there is absolutely nothing else behind the bubble blowing; if we were not here the niquoia improvement company would never have been heard of!" grislow laughed. "your arguing that twice two makes four doesn't change the iridescent hue of the bubble," he volunteered. "if big money has seen a chance to skin somebody, the mere fact that the end of the world is due to come along down the pike some day isn't going to cut any obstructing figure. we'll all be buying and selling corner lots in hosford's new city before we're a month older. don't you believe it?" "i'll believe it when i see it," was brouillard's reply; and with this the matter rested for the moment. it was later in the day, an hour or so after the serving of the hearty supper in the engineers' mess tent, that brouillard was given to see another and still less tolerable side of his temporary guest. hosford had come into the office to plant himself solidly in the makeshift easy-chair for the smoking of a big, black, after-supper cigar. "i've been looking over your rules and regulations, brouillard," he began, after an interval of silence which brouillard had been careful not to break. "you're making a capital mistake in trying to transplant the old connecticut blue laws out here. your working-men ought to have the right to spend their money in any way that suits 'em." brouillard was pointedly occupying himself at his desk, but he looked up long enough to say: "whiskey, you mean?" "that and other things. they tell me that you don't allow any open gambling, or any women here outside of the families of the workmen." "we don't," was the short rejoinder. "that won't hold water after we get things fairly in motion." "it will have to hold water, so far as we are concerned, if i have to build a stockade around the camp," snapped brouillard. hosford's heavy face wrinkled itself in a mirthless smile. "you're nutty," he remarked. "when i find a man bearing down hard on all the little vices, it always makes me wonder what's the name of the corking big one he is trying to cover up." since there was obviously no peaceful reply to be made to this, brouillard bent lower over his work and said nothing. at every fresh step in the forced acquaintance the new-comer was painstakingly developing new antagonisms. sooner or later, brouillard knew, it would come to an open rupture, but he was hoping that the actual hostilities could be postponed until after hosford had worn out his temporary welcome as a guest in the engineers' mess. for a time the big man in the easy-chair smoked on in silence. then he began again: "say, brouillard, i saw one little girl to-day that didn't belong to your workmen's-family outfit, and she's a peach; came riding down the trail with her brother from that mine up on the south mountain--massingale's, isn't it? by jove! she fairly made my mouth water!" inasmuch as no man can read field-notes when the page has suddenly become a red blur, brouillard looked up. "you are my guest, in a way, mr. hosford; for that reason i can't very well tell you what i think of you." so much he was able to say quietly. then the control mechanism burned out in a flash of fiery rage and he cursed the guest fluently and comprehensively, winding up with a crude and savage threat of dissection and dismemberment if he should ever venture so much as to name miss massingale again in the threatener's hearing. hosford sat up slowly, and his big face turned darkly red. "well, i'll be damned!" he broke out. "so you're _that_ kind of a fire-eater, are you? lord, lord! i didn't suppose anything like that ever happened outside of the ten-cent shockers. wake up, man; this is the twentieth century we're living in. don't look at me that way!" but the wave of insane wrath was already subsiding, and brouillard, half ashamed of the momentary lapse into savagery, was once more scowling down at the pages of his note-book. further along, when the succeeding silence had been undisturbed for five full minutes, he began to realize that the hot brouillard temper, which he had heretofore been able to keep within prudent bounds, had latterly been growing more and more rebellious. he could no longer be sure of what he would say or do under sudden provocation. true, he argued, the provocation in the present instance had been sufficiently maddening; but there had been other upflashings of the murderous inner fire with less to excuse them. hosford finished his cigar, and when he tossed the butt out through the opened window, brouillard hoped he was going. but the promoter-manager made no move other than to take a fresh cigar from his pocket case and light it. brouillard worked on silently, ignoring the big figure in the easy-chair by the window, and striving to regain his lost equilibrium. to have shown hosford the weakness of the control barriers was bad enough, but to have pointed out the exact spot at which they were most easily assailable was worse. he thought it would be singular if hosford should not remember how and where to strike when the real conflict should begin, and he was properly humiliated by the reflection that he had rashly given the enemy an advantage. he was calling hosford "the enemy" now and making no ameliorating reservations. that the plans of the boomers would speedily breed chaos, and bring the blight of disorder and lawlessness upon the niquoia project and everything connected with it, he made no manner of doubt. how was he to hold a camp of several hundred men in decent subjection if the temptations and allurements of a boomers' city were to be brought in and set down within arm's reach of the work on the dam? it seemed blankly incredible that the department heads in washington should sanction such an invasion if they knew the full meaning of it. the "if" gave him an idea. what if the boomers were taking an unauthorized ell for their authorized inch? he had taken a telegraph pad from the desk stationery rack and was composing his message of inquiry when the door opened and quinlan, the operator, came in with a communication fresh from the washington wire. the message was an indirect reply to hosford's telegraphed appeal to the higher powers. brouillard read it, stuck it upon the file, and took a roll of blue-prints from the bottom drawer of his desk. "here are the drawings for your power installation, mr. hosford," he said, handing the roll to the man in the chair. and a little later he went out to smoke a pipe in the open air, leaving the message of inquiry unwritten. v symptomatic for some few minutes after the gray-bearded, absent-eyed old man who had been working at the mine forge had disappeared in the depths of the tunnel upon finishing his job of drill pointing, the two on the cabin porch made no attempt to resume the talk which had been broken by the blacksmithing. but when the rumbling thunder of the ore-car which the elder massingale was pushing ahead of him into the mine had died away in the subterranean distances brouillard began again. "i do get your point of view--sometimes," he said. "or perhaps it would be nearer the truth to say that i have had it now and then in times past. civilization, or what stands for it, does have a way of shrinking into littleness, not to say cheapness, when one can get the proper perspective. and your life up here on chigringo has given you the needful detached point of view." the trouble shadows in the eyes of the young woman who was sitting in the fish-net hammock gave place to a smile of gentle derision. "do you call _that_ civilization?" she demanded, indicating the straggling new town spreading itself, map-like, in the valley below. "i suppose it is--one form of it. at least it is civilization in the making. everything has to have some sort of a beginning." miss massingale acquiesced in a little uptilt of her perfectly rounded chin. "just the same, you don't pretend to say that you are enjoying it," she said in manifest deprecation. "oh, i don't know. my work is down there, and a camp is a necessary factor in it. you'd say that the more civilized the surroundings become, the less need there would be for me to sit up nights to keep the lid on. that would be the reasonable conclusion, wouldn't it?" "if you were really trying to make the fact fit the theory--which you are not--it would be a sheer, self-centred eye-shutting to all the greater things that may be involved," she continued. "don't you ever get beyond that?" "i did at first. when i learned a few weeks ago that the boomers had taken hold of us in earnest and that we were due to acquire a real town with all the trimmings, i was righteously hot. apart from the added trouble a wide-open town would be likely to give us in maintaining order in the camp, it seemed so crudely unnecessary to start a pigeon-plucking match at this distance from wall street." "but now," she queried--"now, i suppose, you have become reconciled?" "i am growing more philosophical, let us say. there are just about so many pigeons to be plucked, anyway; they'd moult if they weren't plucked. and it may as well be done here as on the stock exchange, when you come to think of it." "i like you least when you talk that way," said the young woman in the hammock, with open-eyed frankness. "do you do it as other men do?--just to hear how it sounds?" brouillard, sitting on the top step of the porch, leaned his head against the porch post and laughed. "you know too much--a lot too much for a person of your tender years," he asserted. "which names one more of the charming collection of contradictions which your father or mother or somebody had the temerity to label 'amy,' sweetest and most seraphic of diminutives." "if you don't like my name--" she began, and then she went off at another tangent. "please tell me why i am a 'collection of contradictions.' tig never says anything like that to me." "'tig,'" said brouillard, "'tig' smith. speaking of names, i've often wondered how on earth our breezy friend of the tri'-circ' ever got such a handle as that." "it's his own name--or a part of it. his father was a country preacher back in tennessee, and i imagine he had the smith feeling that the surname wasn't very distinctive. so he named the poor boy tiglath-pileser. just the same, it is not to laugh," she went on in friendly loyalty. "tig can't help his name, and, anyway, he's the vastest possible improvement on those old assyrian gentlemen who were the first to wear it." brouillard's gaze went past the shapely little figure in the string hammock to lose itself in the far timanyoni distances. "you are a bundle of surprises," he said, letting the musing thought slip into speech. "what can you possibly know about the assyrians?" she made a funny little grimace at him. "it was 'contradictions' a moment ago and now it is 'surprises.' which reminds me, you haven't told me why i am a 'collection.'" "i think you know well enough," he retorted. "the first time i saw you--down at the nick-wire ford with tig, you remember--i tried to recall which madonna it is that has your mouth and eyes." "well, did you succeed in placing the lady?" "no. somehow, i haven't cared to since i've come to know you. you're different--always different, and then--oh, well, comparisons are such hopelessly inadequate things, anyway," he finished lamely. "you are not getting on very well with the 'contradictions,'" she demurred. "oh, i can catalogue them if you push me to it. one minute you are the madonna lady that i can't recall, calm, reposeful, truthful, and all that, you know--so truthful that those childlike eyes of yours would make a stuttering imbecile of the man who should come to you with a lie in his mouth." "and the next minute?" she prompted. "the next minute you are a witch, laughing at the man's little weaknesses, putting your finger on them as accurately as if you could read his soul, holding them up to your ridicule and--what's much worse--to his own. at such times your insight, or whatever you choose to call it, is enough to give a man a fit of 'seeing things.'" her laugh was like a school-girl's, light-hearted, ringing, deliciously unrestrained. "what a picture!" she commented. and then: "i can draw a better one of you, monsieur victor de brouillard." "do it," he dared. "it'll hurt your vanity." "i haven't any." "oh, but you have! don't you know that it is only the very vainest people who say that?" "never mind; go on and draw your picture." "even if it should give you another attack of the 'seeing things'?" "yes; i'll chance even that." "very well, then: once upon a time--it was a good while ago, i'm afraid--you were a very upright young man, and your uprightness made you just a little bit austere--for yourself, if not for others. at that time you were busy whittling out heroic little ideals and making idols of them; and i am quite sure you were spelling duty with a capital 'd' and that you would have been properly horrified if a sister of yours had permitted an unchaperoned acquaintance like--well, like ours." "go on," he said, neither affirming nor denying. "also, at that time you thought that a man's work in the world was the biggest thing that ever existed, the largest possible order that could be given, and the work and everything about it had to be transparently honest and openly aboveboard. you would cheerfully have died for a principle in those days, and you would have allowed the enemy to cut you up into cunning little inch cubes before you would have admitted that any pigeon was ever made to be plucked." he was smiling mirthlessly, with the black mustaches taking the sardonic upcurve. "then what happened?" "one of two things, or maybe both of them. you were pushed out into the life race with some sort of a handicap. i don't know what it was--or is. is that true?" "yes." "then i'll hazard the other guess. you discovered that there were women in the world and that there was something in you, or about you, that was sufficiently attractive to make them sit up and be nice to you. for some reason--perhaps it was the handicap--you thought you'd be safer in the unwomaned wilderness and so you came out here to the 'wild and woolly.' but even here you're not safe. there is a passable trail over war arrow pass and at a pinch an automobile can cross the buckskin." when she stopped he nodded gravely. "it is all true enough. you haven't added anything more than a graceful little touch here and there. who has been telling you all these things about me?" she clapped her hands in delighted self-applause. "you don't deny them?" "i wouldn't be so impolite." in the turning of a leaf her mood changed and the wide-open, fearless eyes were challenging him soberly. "you _can't_ deny them." he tried to break away from the level-eyed, accusing gaze--tried and found it impossible. "i asked you who has been gossiping about me; not grizzy?" "no, not murray grislow; it was the man you think you know best in all the world--who is also the one you probably know the least--yourself." "good heavens! am i really such a transparent egoist as all that?" "all men are egoists," she answered calmly. "in some the ego is sound and clear-eyed and strong; in others it is weak--in the same way that passion is weak; it will sacrifice all it has or hopes to have in some sudden fury of self-assertion." she sat up and put her hands to her hair, and he was free to look away, down upon the great ditch where the endless chain of concrete buckets linked itself to the overhead carrier like a string of mechanical insects, each with its pinch of material to add to the deep and wide-spread foundations of the dam. across the river a group of hidden sawmills sent their raucous song like the high-pitched shrilling of distant locusts to tremble upon the still air of the afternoon. in the middle distance the camp-town city, growing now by leaps and bounds, spread its roughly indicated streets over the valley level, the yellow shingled roofs of the new structures figuring as patches of vivid paint under the slanting rays of the sun. far away to the right the dark-green liftings of the quadjenàï hills cut across from mountain to river; at the foot of the ridge the tall chimney-stacks of the new cement plant were rising, and from the quarries beyond the plant the dull thunder of the blasts drifted up to the chigringo heights like a sign from the mysterious underworld of navajo legend. this was not brouillard's first visit to the cabin on the massingale claim by many. in the earliest stages of the valley activities smith, the buckskin cattleman, had been amy massingale's escort to the reclamation camp--"just a couple o' lookers," in smith's phrase--and the unconventional altitudes had done the rest. from that day forward the young woman had hospitably opened her door to brouillard and his assistants, and any member of the corps, from leshington the morose, who commonly came to sit in solemn silence on the porch step, to griffith, who had lost his youthful heart to miss massingale on his first visit, was welcome. of the five original members of the staff and the three later additions to it, in the persons of the paymaster, the cost-keeper, and young altwein, who had come in as grislow's field assistant, brouillard was the one who climbed oftenest up the mountain-side trail from the camp--a trail which was becoming by this time quite well defined. he knew he went oftener than any of the others, and yet he felt that he knew amy massingale less intimately and was far and away more hopelessly entangled than--well, than grislow, for example, whose visits to the mine cabin came next in the scale of frequency and whose ready wit and gentle cynicism were his passports in any company. for himself, brouillard had not been pointedly analytical as yet. from the moment when amy and smith had reined up at the door of his office shack and he had welcomed them both, it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to fall under the spell of enchantment. he knew next to nothing of the young woman's life story; he had not cared to know. it had not occurred to him to wonder how the daughter of a man who drilled and shot the holes in his own mine should have the gifts and belongings--when she chose to display them--of a woman of a much wider world. it was enough for him that she was piquantly attractive in any character and that he found her marvellously stimulating and uplifting. on the days when the devil of moroseness and irritability possessed and maddened him he could climb to the cabin on high chigringo and find sanity. it was a keen joy to be with her, and up to the present this had sufficed. "egoism is merely another name for the expression of a vital need," he said, after the divagating pause, defining the word more for his own satisfaction than in self-defense. "you may put it in that way if you please," she returned gravely. "what is your need?" he stated it concisely. "money--a lot of it." "how singular!" she laughed. "i need money, too--a lot of it." "you?" "yes, i." "what would you do with it? buy corner lots in niqoyastcàdjeburg?" "no, indeed; i'd buy a farm in the blue-grass--two of them, maybe." "what an ambition for a girl! have you ever been in the blue-grass country?" she got out of the hammock and came to lean, with her hands behind her, against the opposite porch post. "that was meant to humiliate me, and i sha'n't forget it. you know well enough that i have never been east of the mississippi." "i didn't know it. you never tell me anything about yourself." again the mood shutter clicked and her smile was the calm mask of discerning wisdom. "persons with well-developed egos don't care to listen to folk-stories," she rejoined, evading the tentative invitation openly. "but tell me, what would you do with your pot of rainbow gold--if you should find it?" brouillard rose and straightened himself with his arms over his head like an athlete testing his muscles for the record-breaking event. "what would i do? a number of things. but first of all, i think, i'd buy the privilege of telling some woman that i love her." this time her laugh was frankly disparaging. "as if you could!" she said, with a lip curl that set his blood afire--"as if any woman worth while would care two pins for your wretched pot of gold!" "oh, i didn't mean it quite that way," he hastened to explain. "i said: 'buy the privilege.' if you knew the conditions you would understand me when i say that the money must come first." she was silent for so long a time that he looked at his watch and thought of going. but at the deciding instant she held him with a low-spoken question. "does it date back to the handicap? you needn't tell me if you don't want to." "it does. and there is no reason why i shouldn't tell you the simple fact. when my father died he left me a debt--a debt of honor; and it must be paid. until it is paid--but i am sure you understand." "quite fully," she responded quickly, and now there was no trace of levity in the sweetly serious tone. "is it much?--so much that you can't----" he nodded and sat down again on the porch step. "yes, it is big enough to go in a class by itself--in round numbers, a hundred thousand dollars." "horrors!" she gasped. "and you are carrying that millstone? must you carry it?" "if you knew the circumstances you would be the first to say that i must carry it, and go on carrying it to the end of the chapter." "but--but you'll _never_ be free!" "not on a government salary," he admitted. "as a matter of fact, it takes more than half of the salary to pay the premiums on--pshaw! i'm boring you shamelessly for the sake of proving up on my definition of the eternal ego. you ought not to have encouraged me. it's quite hopeless--the handicap business--unless some good angel should come along with a miracle or two. let's drop it." she was looking beyond him and her voice was quick with womanly sympathy when she said: "if you could drop it--but you can't. and it changes everything for you, distorts everything, colors your entire life. it's heart-breaking!" this was dangerous ground for him and he knew it. sympathy applied to a rankling wound may figure either as the healing oil or the maddening wine. it was the one thing he had hitherto avoided, resolutely, half-fearfully, as a good general going into battle marches around a kennel of sleeping dogs. but now the under-depths were stirring to a new awakening. in the ardor of young manhood he had taken up the vicarious burden dutifully, and at that time his renunciation of the things that other men strove for seemed the lightest of the many fetterings. but now love for a woman was threatening to make the renunciation too grievous to be borne. "how did you know?" he queried curiously. "it does change things; it has changed them fiercely in the past few weeks. we smile at the old fable of a man selling his soul for a ready-money consideration, but there are times when i'd sell anything i've got, save one, for a chance at the freedom that other men have--and don't value." "what is the one thing you wouldn't sell?" she questioned, and brouillard chose to discover a gently quickened interest in the clear-seeing eyes. "my love for the--for some woman. i'm saving that, you know. it is the only capital i'll have when the big debt is paid." "do you want me to be frivolous or serious?" she asked, looking down at him with the grimacing little smile that always reminded him of a caress. "a little while ago you said 'some woman,' and now you say it again, making it cautiously impersonal. that is nice of you--not to particularize; but i have been wondering whether she is or isn't worth the effort--and the reservation you make. because it is all in that, you know. you can do and be what you want to do and be if you only want to hard enough." he looked up quickly. "do you really believe that? what about a man's natural limitations?" "poof!" she said, blowing the word away as if it were a bit of thistle-down. "it is only the woman's limitations that count, not the man's. the only question is this: is the one only and incomparable she worth the effort? would you give a hundred thousand dollars for the privilege of being able to say to her: 'come, dear, let's go and get married'?" he was looking down, chiefly because he dared not look up, when he answered soberly: "she is worth it many times over; her price is above rubies. money, much or little, wouldn't be in it." "that is better--much better. now we may go on to the ways and means; they are all in the man, not in the things, 'not none whatsoever,' as tig would say. let me show you what i mean. three times within my recollection my father has been worth considerably more than you owe, and three time she has--well, it's gone. and now he is going to make good again when the railroad comes." brouillard got up, thrust his hands into the pockets of his working-coat, and faced about as if he had suddenly remembered that he was wasting the government's time. "i must be going back down the hill," he said. and then, without warning: "what if i should tell you that the railroad is not coming to the niquoia, amy?" to his utter amazement the blue eyes filled suddenly. but the owner of the eyes was winking the tears away and laughing before he could put the amazement into words. "you shouldn't hit out like that when one isn't looking; it's wicked," she protested. "besides, the railroad _is_ coming; it's got to come." "it is still undecided," he told her mechanically. "mr. ford is coming over with the engineers to have a conference on the ground with--with the cortwright people. i am expecting him any day." "the cortwright people want the road, don't they?" she asked. "yes, indeed; they are turning heaven and earth over to get it." "and the government?" "the department is holding entirely aloof, as it should. every one in the reclamation service knows that no good can possibly come of any effort to force the region ahead of its normal and natural development. and, besides, none of us here in the valley want to help blow the cortwright bubble any bigger than it has to be." "then you will advise against the building of the extension?" instead of answering her question he asked one of his own. "what does it mean to you--to you, personally, and apart from the money your father might make out of it, amy?" she hesitated a moment and then met the shrewd scrutiny of his gaze with open candor. "the money is only a means to an end--as yours will be. you know very well what i meant when i told you that three times we have been obliged to come back to the mountains to--to try again. i dreaded the coming of your camp; i dread a thousand times more the other changes that are coming--the temptations that a mushroom city will offer. this time father has promised me that when he can make his stake he will go back to kentucky and settle down; and he will keep his promise. more than that, stevie has promised me that he will go, too, if he can have a stock-farm and raise fine horses--his one healthy ambition. now you know it all." he reached up from the lower step where he was standing and took her hand. "yes; and i know more than that: i know that you are a mighty brave little girl and that your load is heavier than mine--worlds heavier. but you're going to win out; if not to-day or to-morrow, why, then, the day after. it's written in the book." she returned his hand-grip of encouragement impulsively and smiled down upon him through quick-springing tears. "you'll win out, too, victor, because it's in you to do it. i'm sure of it--i _know_ it. there is only one thing that scares me." "name it," he said. "i'm taking everything that comes to-day--from you." "you are a strong man; you have a reserve of strength that is greater than most men's full gift; you can cut and slash your way to the thing you really want, and nothing can stop you. but--you'll forgive me for being plain, won't you?--there is a little, just the least little, bit of desperation in the present point of view, and----" "say it," he commanded when she hesitated. "i hardly know how to say it. it's just a little shudder--inside, you know--as you might have when you see a railroad train rushing down the mountain and think what would happen if one single, inconsequent wheel should climb the rail. there were ideals in the beginning; you admitted it, didn't you? and they are not as distinct now as they used to be. you didn't say that, but i know.... stand them up again, victor; don't let them fall down in the dust or in the--in the mud. it's got to be clean money, you know; the money that is going to give you the chance to say: 'come, girl, let's go and get married.' you won't forget that, will you?" he relinquished the hand of encouragement because he dared not hold it any longer, and turned away to stare absently at the timbered tunnel mouth whence a faint clinking of hammer upon steel issued with monotonous regularity. "i wish you hadn't said that, amy--about the ideals." "why shouldn't i say it? i _had_ to say it." "i can't afford to play with too many fine distinctions. i have accepted the one great handicap. i may owe it to myself--and to some others--not to take on any more." "i don't know what you mean now," she said simply. "perhaps it is just as well that you don't. let's talk about something else; about the railroad. i told you that president ford is coming over to have a wrestle with the cortwright people, but i didn't tell you that he has already had his talk with mr. cortwright in person--in chicago. he hasn't decided; he won't decide until he has looked the ground over and had a chance to confer with me." she bridged all the gaps with swift intuition. "he means to give you the casting vote? he will build the extension if you advise it?" "it is something like that, i fancy; yes." "and you think--you feel----" "it is a matter of absolute indifference to me, officially. but in any event, ford would ask for nothing more than a friendly opinion." "then it will lie in your hand to make us rich or to keep us poor," she laughed. "be a good god-in-the-car, please, and your petitioners will ever pray." then, with an instant return to seriousness: "but you mustn't think of that--of course, you won't--with so many other and greater things to consider." "on the contrary, i shall think very pointedly of that; pointedly and regretfully--because your brother has made it practically impossible for me to help." "my brother?" with a little gasp. "yes. he offered to buy my vote with a block of 'little susan' stock. that wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't talked about it--told other people what he was going to do. but he did that, as well." he felt rather than saw that she had turned quickly to face the porch post, that she was hiding her face in the crooking of an arm. it melted him at once. "don't cry; i was a brute to say such a thing as that to you," he began, but she stopped him. "no," she denied bravely. "the truth may hurt--it _does_ hurt awfully; but it can't be brutal. and you are right. stevie _has_ made it impossible." an awkward little silence supervened and once more brouillard dragged his watch from its pocket. "i'm like the awkward country boy," he said with quizzical humor. "i really must go and i don't know how to break away." then he went back to the closed topic. "i guess the other thing was brutal, too--what i said about your brother's having made it impossible. other things being equal----" again she stopped him. "when mr. ford comes, you must forget what stevie said and what i have said. good-by." * * * * * an hour later, when the afternoon shadow of jack's mountain was lying all across the shut-in valley and pointing like the angle of a huge gnomon to the quadjenàï hills, brouillard was closeted in his log-built office quarters with a big, fair-faced man, whose rough tweeds and unbrushed, soft hat proclaimed him fresh from the dust-dry reaches of the quesado trail. "it is your own opinion that i want, victor," the fair-faced man was saying, "not the government engineer's. can we make the road pay if we bring it here? that is a question which you can answer better than any other living man. you are here on the ground and you've been here from the first." "you've had it out with cortwright?" brouillard asked. and then: "where is he now? in chicago?" "no. he is on his way to the niquoia, coming over in his car from el gato. says he made it that way once before and is willing to bet that it is easier than climbing war arrow. but never mind j. wesley. you are the man i came to see." "i can give you the facts," was the quiet rejoinder. "while the cortwright boom lasts there will be plenty of incoming business--and some outgoing. when the bubble bursts--as it will have to when the dam is completed, if it doesn't before--you'll quit until the buckskin fills up with settlers who can give you crops to move. that is the situation in a nutshell, all but one little item. there is a mine up on chigringo--massingale's--with a good few thousand tons of pay ore on the dump. where there is one mine there may be more, later on; and i don't suppose that even such crazy boomers as the cortwright crowd will care to put in a gold reduction plant. so you would have the ore to haul to the red butte smelters." a smile wrinkled at the corners of the big man's eyes. "you are dodging the issue, victor, and you know it," he objected. "what i want is your personal notion. if you were the executive committee of the pacific southwestern, would you, or would you not, build the extension? that's the point i'm trying to make." brouillard got up and went to the window. the gnomon shadow of jack's mountain had spread over the entire valley, and its southern limb had crept up chigringo until its sharply defined line was resting upon the massingale cabin. when he turned back to the man at the desk he was frowning thoughtfully, and his eyes were the eyes of one who sees only the clearly etched lines of a picture which obscures all outward and visual objects ... the picture he saw was of a sweet-faced young woman, laughing through her tears and saying: "besides, the railroad _is_ coming; it's _got_ to come." "if you put it that way," he said to the man who was waiting, "if you insist on pulling my private opinion out by the roots, you may have it. _i'd_ build the extension." vi mirapolis during the strenuous weeks when camp niquoia's straggling street was acquiring plank sidewalks and getting itself transformed into chigringo avenue, with a double row of false-fronted "emporiums" to supplant the shack shelters, monsieur poudrecaulx bongras, late of the san francisco tenderloin, opened the camp's first counter-grill. finding monsieur's name impossible in both halves of it, the camp grinned and rechristened him "poodles." later, discovering his dual gift of past mastership in potato frying and coffee making, the camp gave him vogue. out of the vogue sprang in swift succession a café with side-tables, a restaurant with private dining-rooms, and presently a commodious hotel, where the food was excellent, the appointments luxurious, and where jack--clothed and in his right mind and with money in his hand--was as good as his master. it was in one of bongras's private dining-rooms that mr. j. wesley cortwright was entertaining brouillard, with miss genevieve to make a harmonizing third at the circular table up to the removal of the cloth and the serving of the cigars and a second cold bottle. the little dinner had been a gustatory triumph; miss genevieve had added the charm of lightness at moments when her father threatened to let the money clink become painfully audible; and the cigars were gold-banded. nevertheless, when miss cortwright had gone up-stairs, and the waiter would have refilled his glass, brouillard shook his head. if the millionaire saw the refusal he was too wise to remark it. altogether, brouillard was finding his first impressions of mr. cortwright readjusting themselves with somewhat confusing rapidity. it was not that there was any change in the man. charactering the genial host like a bachelor of hospitality, he was still the frank, outspoken money-maker, hot upon the trail of the nimble dollar. yet there was a change of some kind. brouillard had marked it on the day, a fortnight earlier, when (after assuring himself morosely that he would not) he had gone down to the lower canyon portal to see the cortwright touring-car finish its second race across the desert from el gato. "of course, i was quite prepared to have you stand off and throw stones at our little cob house of a venture, brouillard," the host allowed at the lighting of the gold-banded cigars. "you're the government engineer and the builder of the big dam; it's only natural that your horizons should be filled with government-report pictures and half-tones of what's going to be when you get your dam done. but you can't build your dam in one day, or in two, and the interval is ours. i tell you, we're going to make mirapolis a buzz-hummer while the daylight lasts. don't you forget that." "'mirapolis'?" queried brouillard. "is that the new name?" cortwright laughed and nodded. "it's gene's name--'miracle city.' fits like the glove on a pretty girl's arm, doesn't it?" "it does. but the miracle is that there should be any money daring enough to invest itself in the niquoia." "there you go again, with your ingrained engineering ideas that to be profitable a scheme must necessarily have rock-bottom foundations and a time-defying superstructure," chuckled the host. "why, bless your workaday heart, brouillard, nothing is permanent in this shuffling, growing, progressive world of ours--absolutely nothing. some of the biggest and costliest buildings in new york and chicago are built on ground leases. our ground lease will merely be a little shorter in the factor of time." "so much shorter that the parallel won't hold," argued brouillard. "the parallel does hold; that is precisely the point. every ground-lease investment is a gamble. the investor simply bets that he can make the turn within the time limit." "yes; but a long term of years----" "there you are," cut in the financier. "now you've got it down to the hard-pan basis: long time, small profits and a slow return; short time, big profits and a quick return. you've eaten here before; what do you pay bongras for a reasonably good dinner?" brouillard laughed. "oh, poodles. he cinches us, all right; four or five times as much as it's worth--or would cost anywhere else." "that's it. he knows he has to make good on all these little luxuries he gives you--cash in every day, as you might say, and come out whole before you stop the creek and drown him. let me tell you something, brouillard; san francisco brags about being the cheapest city in the country; they'll tell you over there that you can buy more for your money than you can anywhere else on earth. well, mirapolis is going to take the trophy at the other end of the speedway. when we get in motion we're going to have alaska faded to a frazzle on prices--and you'll see everybody paying them joyfully." "and in the end somebody, or the final series of somebodies, will be left to hold the bag," finished brouillard. "that's a future. what is it the good book says? 'let us eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die.' that's philosophy, and it's good business, too. not that i'm admitting your pessimistic conclusions for a single minute; don't mistake me on that point. there needn't be any bag holders, brouillard. let me put it in a nutshell: we're building a cement plant, and we shall sell you the output--at a good, round price, i promise you, but still at a lower figure than you're paying for the imported article now, or than you will pay even after the railroad gets in. when our government orders are filled we can afford to wreck the plant for what it will bring as junk. we'll be out of it whole, with a nice little profit." "that is only one instance," objected the guest. "well, bongras, here, is one more," laughed the host. "he gets a piece of his investment back every time anybody looks over his _menu_ card. and our power plant is another. you made your little kick on that to washington--you thought the government ought to control its own power. that was all right, from your point of view, but we beat you to it. now the reclamation service gets all the power it needs at a nominal price, and we're going to sell enough more to make us all feel happy." "sell it? to whom?" mr. cortwright leaned back in his chair and the sandy-gray eyes seemed to be searching the inner recesses of the querying soul. "that's inside information, but i don't mind taking you in on it," he said between leisurely puffs at his cigar. "we've just concluded a few contracts: one with massingale--he's going to put in power drills, electric ore-cars, and a modern equipment generally and shove the development of the 'little susan'; one with a new mining syndicate which will begin operations at once on half a dozen prospects on jack's mountain; and one with a lumber combination that has just taken over the sawmills, and will install others, with a planing-mill and sash factory." brouillard nodded. the gray eyes were slowly hypnotizing him. "but that isn't all," continued the promoter. "we are about to reincorporate the power plant as the niquoia electric power, lighting, and traction company. within a fortnight we'll be lighting mirapolis, and within a month after the railroad gets in we'll be operating trolley-cars." the enthusiast paused to let the information sink in, also to note the effect upon the subject. the noting was apparently satisfactory, since he went on with the steady assurance of one who sees his way clearly. "that brings us down to business, brouillard. i don't mind admitting that i had an object in asking you to dine with me this evening. it's this: we feel that in the reorganization of the power company the government, which will always be the largest consumer, should be represented in some effective way; that its interests should be carefully safeguarded. it is not so easy as it might seem. we can't exactly make the government a stockholder." "no," said brouillard mechanically. the under-depths were stirring again, heaving as if from a mighty ground-swell that threatened a tidal wave of overturnings. "we discussed that phase of it in the directors' meeting this morning," continued the hypnotist smoothly, "and i made a suggestion which, as president of the company, i was immediately authorized to carry out. what we need, and what the government needs, is a man right here on the ground who will be absolutely loyal to the government's interests and who can be, at the same time, broad enough and honorable enough to be fair to us." brouillard roused himself by a palpable effort. "you have found your man, mr. cortwright?" a genial smile twinkled in the little gray eyes. "i didn't have very far to go. you see, i knew your father and i'm not afraid to trust his son. we are going to make you the government director, with full power to investigate and to act. and we're not going to be mean about it, either. the capital stock of the company is ten millions, with shares of a par value of one hundred dollars each, full paid and non-assessable. don't gasp; we'll cut a nice little melon on that capitalization every thirty days, or my name isn't cortwright." "but i have no money to invest," was the only form the younger man's protest took. "we don't need your money," cut in the financier with curt good nature. "what we do need is a consulting engineer, a man who, while he is one of us and identified with us, will see to it that we're not tempted to gouge our good uncle samuel. it will be no sinecure, i warn you. we're all pretty keen after the dollar, and you'll have to hold us down good and hard. of course, a director and a consulting officer must be a stockholder, but we'll take care of that." brouillard smoked in silence for a full minute before he said: "you know as well as i do, mr. cortwright, that it is an unwritten law of the service that a civilian employee of the government shall not engage in any other business." "no, i don't," was the blunt reply. "that rule may be good enough to apply to senators and representatives--and it ought to; outside jobs for them might influence legislation. but in your case it would not only be unjust to apply it; it would be absurd and contradictory. supposing your father had left you a hundred thousand dollars to invest instead of a debt of that amount--you see, i know what a load your keen sense of honor is making you carry--suppose you had this money to invest, would your position in the reclamation service compel you to lock it up in a safety vault?" "certainly not. but----" "very good. your objection to taking part in our project would be that a man can't be strictly impartial when he has a stake in the game; some men couldn't, mr. brouillard, but you can; you know you can, and i know it. otherwise you wouldn't be putting half of your salary and more into life-insurance premiums to secure a debt that isn't even constructively yours." "yes; but if the department should learn that i am a stockholder in a company from which it buys its power----" "there wouldn't be a word said--not one single word. they know you in washington, brouillard, better, perhaps, than you think they do. they know you would exact a square deal for the department even if it cost you personal money. but this is all academic. the practical facts are that you'll come in as consulting engineer and that you'll hold us strictly up to the mark on the government power contract. it's your duty and part of your job as chief of construction. and we'll leave the money consideration entirely out of it if you like. you'll get a stock-certificate, which you may keep or tear up and throw into the waste-basket, just as you please. if you keep it and want to realize on it at any time before you begin to put the finishing forms on the dam, i'll do this: i'll agree to market it for you at par. now let's quit and go and find gene. she'll think we've tippled ourselves under the table." "one moment," said brouillard. "you have a way of taking a man off his feet, mr. cortwright; a rather pleasant way i'm bound to admit. but in this thing which you are proposing there are issues involved which----" "you want time to think it over? take it, man; take all the time you need. there's no special hurry." brouillard felt that in accepting the condition he was potentially committing himself. it was a measure of the distance he had already travelled that he interposed a purely personal obstacle. "i couldn't serve as your engineer, mr. cortwright, not even in a consulting capacity. call it prejudice or anything you please, but i simply couldn't do business in an associate relation with your man hosford." cortwright had risen, and he took his guest confidentially by the buttonhole. "do you know, brouillard, hosford gets on my nerves, too? don't let that influence you. we'll let hosford go. we needed him at first to sort of knock things into shape; it takes a man of his calibre in the early stages of a project like ours, you know. but he has outlived his usefulness and we'll drop him. let's go up-stairs." it was quite late in the evening when brouillard, a little light-headed from an after-dinner hour of purely social wit-matching with miss genevieve, passed out through the café of the metropole on his way to his quarters. there were a few late diners at the tables, and bongras, smug and complacent in evening regalia, was waddling about among them like a glorified head waiter, his stiffly roached hair and napoleonic mustaches striving for a dignity and fierceness which was cruelly negatived by a round, full-fed face and an obese little body. "ze dinnare--she was h-all right, m'sieu' brouillard?" he inquired, holding the engineer for a moment at the street door. "as right as the price you're going to charge mr. cortwright for it," joked brouillard. "_sacré!_" swore the amiable one, spreading his hands, "if you could h-only know 'ow eet is cost to bring dose dinnare on dis place! two dollare de 'undred pounds dat mule-freightare is charge me for bringing dose chip-pest wine from quesado! sommtime ve get de railroad, _n'est-ce pas_, m'sieu' brouillard? den ve make dose dinnare moz risson-able." "yes, you will!" brouillard scoffed jocosely. "you'll be adding something then for the uniqueness--for the benefit of the tourists. it'll be a great ad, 'the hotel metropole, the delmonico's of the lake bottom. sit in and dine with us before the heavens open and the floods come.'" "i'll been wanting to h-ask you," whispered the frenchman with a quick-flung glance for the diners at the nearest of the tables, "doze flood--when she is coming, m'sieu' brouillard?" "when we get the dam completed." "you'll bet money h-on dat?--h-all de money you got?" "it's a sure thing, if that's what you're driving at. you can bet on it if you want to." "i make my bet on de price of de dinnare," smiled bongras. "_mais_, i like to know for sure." "why should you doubt it?" "_moi_, i don't doubt nottings; i make de grass to be cut w'ile de sun is shine. but i'll been hearing somebody say dat maybe-so dis town she grow so fas' and so beeg dat de gover'ment is not going drown her." "who said that?" "i don't know; it is _bruit_--what you call rumaire. you hear it h-on de avenue, in de café, h-anyw'eres you go." brouillard laughed again, this time with his hand on the door-latch. "don't lower your prices on the strength of any such rumor as that, poodles. the dam will be built, and the niquoia will be turned into a lake, with the hotel metropole comfortably anchored in the deepest part of it--that is, if it doesn't get gay enough to float." "dat's juz what i'll been thinking," smiled the little man, and he sped the parting guest with a bow that would have graced the antechamber of a _louis le grand_. out in the crisp night air, with the stars shining clear in the velvet sky and the vast bulks of the ramparting mountains to give solidity and definiteness to the scheme of things, brouillard was a little better able to get his feet upon the stable earth. but the major impulse was still levitant, almost exultant. when all was said, it was mr. cortwright's rose-colored view of the immediate future that persisted. "mirapolis!" it was certainly a name to conjure with; an inspiration on the part of the young woman who had chosen it. brouillard saw the projected streets pointing away into the four quarters of the night. it asked for little effort of the imagination to picture them as the streets of a city--lighted, paved, and busy with traffic. would the miracle be wrought? and if it should be, was there any possibility that in time the building of the great dam and the reclamation of the buckskin desert would become secondary in importance to the preservation of mirapolis? it seemed highly incredible; before the little dinner and the social evening brouillard would have said it was blankly impossible. but it is only fools and dead men who cannot admit a changing angle in the point of view. at first brouillard laid it to the champagne, forgetting that he had permitted but a single refilling of his glass. not then, nor for many days, did he suspect that it was his first deep draught of a far headier wine that sent the blood laughing through his veins as he strode down chigringo avenue to his darkened office quarters--the wine of the vintner whose name is graft. vii the speedway it was in the days after he had found on his desk a long envelope enclosing a certificate for a thousand shares of stock in the niquoia electric power, lighting, and traction company that brouillard began to lose his nickname of "hell's-fire" among his workmen, with the promise of attaining, in due time, to the more affectionate title of "the little big boss." at the envelope-opening moment, however, he was threatened with an attack of heart failure. that mr. cortwright and his fellow promoters should make a present of one hundred thousand dollars of the capital stock of the reorganized company to a mere government watch-dog who could presumably neither help nor hinder in the money-making plans of the close corporation, was scarcely believable. but a hastily sought interview with the company's president cleared the air of all the incredibilities. "why, my dear brouillard! what in sam hill do you take us for?" was the genial retort when the young engineer had made his deprecatory protest. "did you think we were going to cut the melon and hand you out a piece of the rind? not so, my dear boy; we are not built on any such narrow-gauge lines. but seriously, we're getting you at a bargain-counter price. one of the things we're up against is the building of another dam higher in the canyon for an auxiliary plant. in taking you in, we've retained the best dam builder in the country to tell us where and how to build it." "that won't go, mr. cortwright," laughed brouillard, finding the great man's humor pleasantly infectious. "you know you can hire engineers by the dozen at the usual rates." "all right, blot that out; say that i wanted to do the right thing by the son of good old judge antoine; just imagine, for the sake of argument, that i wanted to pose as the long-lost uncle of the fairy-stories to a fine young fellow who hasn't been able to draw a full breath since his father died. you can do it now, victor, my boy. any old time the trusteeship debt your father didn't really owe gets too heavy, you can unload on me and wipe it out. isn't it worth something to realize that?" "i guess it will be, if i am ever able to get down to the solid fact of realizing it. but i can't earn a hundred thousand dollars of the company's stock, mr. cortwright." "of course you can. that's what we are willing to pay for a good, reliable government brake. it's going to be your business to see to it that the reclamation service gets exactly what its contract calls for, kilowatt for kilowatt." "i'd do that, anyhow, as chief of construction on the dam." "you mean you would try to do it. as an officer of the power company, you can do it; as an official kicker on the outside, you couldn't feaze us a particle. what? you'd put us out of business? not much, you wouldn't; we'd play politics with you and get a man for your job who wouldn't kick." "well," said the inheritor of sudden wealth, still matching the promoter's mood, "you won't get me fired now, that's one comfort. when will you want my expert opinion on your auxiliary dam?" "on _our_ dam, you mean. oh, any time soon; say to-morrow or friday--or saturday if that hurries you too much. we sha'n't want to go to work on it before monday." being himself an exponent of the modern theory that the way to do things is to do them now, brouillard accepted the hurry order without comment. celerity, swiftness of accomplishment that was almost magical, had become the mirapolitan order of the day. plans conceived over-night leaped to their expositions in things done as if the determination to do them had been all that was necessary to their realization. "you shall have the report to-morrow," said the newly created consulting engineer, "but you can't go to work monday. the labor market is empty, and i'm taking it for granted that you're not going to stampede my shovellers and concrete men." "oh, no," conceded the city builder, "we sha'n't do that. you'll admit--in your capacity of government watch-dog--that we have played fair in that game. we have imported every workman we've needed, and we shall import more. that's one thing none of us can afford to do--bull the labor market. and it won't be necessary; we have a train load of italians and bulgarians on the way to quesado to-day, and they ought to be here by monday." "you are a wonder, mr. cortwright," was brouillard's tribute to the worker of modern miracles, and he went his way to ride to the upper end of the valley for the exploring purpose. on the monday, as president cortwright had so confidently predicted, the train load of laborers had marched in over the war arrow trail and the work on the auxiliary power dam was begun. on the tuesday a small army of linemen arrived to set the poles and to string the wires for the lighting of the town. on the wednesday there were fresh accessions to the army of builders, and the freighters on the quesado trail reported a steady stream of artisans pouring in to rush the city making. on the thursday the grading and paving of chigringo avenue was begun, and, true to his promise, mr. cortwright was leaving a right of way in the street for the future trolley tracks. and it was during this eventful week that the distant thunder of the dynamite brought the welcome tidings of the pushing of the railroad grade over the mountain barrier. also--but this was an item of minor importance--it was on the saturday of this week that the second tier of forms was erected on the great dam and the stripped first section of the massive gray foot-wall of concrete raised itself in mute but eloquent protest against the feverish activities of the miracle-workers. if the protest were a threat, it was far removed. many things might happen before the gray wall should rise high enough to cast its shadow, and the shadow of the coming end, over the miraculous city of the plain. it was brouillard himself who put this thought into words on the sunday when he and grislow were looking over the work of form raising and finding it good. "catching you, too, is it, victor?" queried the hydrographer, dropping easily into his attitude of affable cynicism. "i thought it would. but tell me, what are some of the things that may happen?" "it's easy to predict two of them: some people will make a pot of money and some will lose out." grislow nodded. "of course you don't take any stock in the rumor that the government will call a halt?" "you wouldn't suppose it could be possible." "no. yet the rumor persists. hosford hinted to me the other day that there might be a congressional investigation a little further along to determine whether the true _pro bono publico_ lay in the reclamation of a piece of yellow desert or in the preservation of an exceedingly promising and rapidly growing young city." "hosford is almost as good a boomer as mr. cortwright. everybody knows that." "yes. i guess mirapolis will have to grow a good bit more before congress can be made to take notice," was the hydrographer's dictum. "isn't that your notion?" brouillard was shaking his head slowly. "i don't pretend to have opinions any more, grizzy. i'm living from day to day. if the tail should get big enough to wag the dog----" they were in the middle of the high staging upon which the puddlers worked while filling the forms and grislow stopped short. "what's come over you, lately, victor? i won't say you're half-hearted, but you're certainly not the same driver you were a few weeks ago, before the men quit calling you 'hell's-fire.'" brouillard smiled grimly. "it's going to be a long job, grizzy. perhaps i saw that i couldn't hope to keep keyed up to concert pitch all the way through. call it that, anyway. i've promised to motor miss cortwright to the upper dam this afternoon, and it's time to go and do it." it was not until they were climbing down from the staging at the jack's mountain approach that grislow acquired the ultimate courage of his convictions. "going motoring, you said--with miss genevieve. that's another change. i'm beginning to believe in your seven-year hypothesis. you are no longer a woman-hater." "i never was one. there isn't any such thing." "you used to make believe there was and you posed that way last summer. think i don't remember how you were always ranting about the dignity of a man's work and quoting kipling at me? now you've taken to mixing and mingling like a social reformer." "well, what of it?" half-absently. "oh, nothing; only it's interesting from a purely academic point of view. i've been wondering how far you are responsible; how much you really do, yourself, and how much is done for you." brouillard's laugh was skeptical. "that's another leaf out of your psychological book, i suppose. it's rot." "is it so? but the fact remains." "what fact?" "the fact that your subconscious self has got hold of the pilot-wheel; that your reasoning self is asleep, or taking a vacation, or something of that sort." "oh, bally! there are times when you make me feel as if i had eaten too much dinner, grizzy! this is one of them. put it in words; get it out of your system." "it needs only three words: you are hypnotized." "that is what you say; it is up to you to prove it," scoffed brouillard. "i could easily prove it to the part of you that is off on a vacation. a month ago this city-building fake looked as crazy to you as it still does to those of us who haven't been invited to sit down and take a hand in mr. cortwright's little game. you hooted at it, preached a little about the gross immorality of it, swore a good bit about the effect it was going to have on our working force. it was a crazy object-lesson in modern greed, and all that." "well?" "now you seem to have gone over to the other side. you hobnob with cortwright and do office work for him. you know his fake is a fake; and yet i overheard you boosting it the other night in poodles's dining-room to a tableful of money maniacs as if cortwright were giving you a rake-off." brouillard stiffened himself with a jerk as he paced beside his accuser, but he kept his temper. "you're an old friend, grizzy, and a mighty good one--as i have had occasion to prove. it is your privilege to ease your mind. is that all?" "no. you are letting genevieve cortwright make a fool of you. if you were only half sane you'd see that she is a confirmed trophy hunter. why, she even gets down to young griffith--and uses him to dig out information about you. she----" "hold on, murray; there's a limit, and you'll bear with me if i say that you are working up to it now." brouillard's jaw was set and the lines between his eyes were deepening. "i don't know what you are driving at, but you'd better call it off. i can take care of myself." "if i thought you could--if i only thought you could," said grislow musingly. "but the indications all lean the other way. it would be all right if you wanted to marry her and she wanted you to; but you don't--and she doesn't. and, besides, there's amy; you owe her something, don't you?--or don't you? you needn't grit your teeth that way. you are only getting a part of what is coming to you. 'faithful are the wounds of a friend,' you know." "yes. and when the psalmist had admitted that, he immediately asked the lord not to let their precious balms break his head. you're all right, grizzy, but i'll pull through." then, with a determined wrenching aside of the subject: "are you going up on chigringo this afternoon?" "i thought i would--yes. what shall i tell miss massingale when she asks about you?" "you will probably tell her the first idiotic thing that comes into the back part of your head. and if you tell her anything pifflous about me i'll lay for you some dark night with a pick handle." grislow laughed reminiscently. "she won't ask," he said. "why not?" "because the last time she did it i told her your scalp was dangling at miss genevieve's belt." they had reached the door of the log-built quarters and brouillard spun the jester around with a shoulder grip that was only half playful. "if i believed you said any such thing as that i'd murder you!" he exploded. "perhaps you'll go and tell her that--you red-headed blastoderm!" "sure," said the blastoderm, and they went apart, each to his dunnage kit. viii table stakes there were a dozen business blocks under construction in mirapolis, with a proportional number of dwellings and suburban villas at various stages in the race toward completion, when it began to dawn upon the collective consciousness of a daily increasing citizenry that something was missing. garner, the real-estate plunger from kansas city, first gave the missing quantity its name. the distant thunder of the blasts heralding the approach of the railroad had ceased between two days. there was no panic; there was only the psychoplasmic moment for one. thus far there had been no waning of the fever of enthusiasm, no slackening of the furious pace in the race for growth, and, in a way, no lack of business. with money plentiful and credit unimpaired, with an army of workmen to spend its weekly wage, and a still larger army of government employees to pour a monthly flood into the strictly limited pool of circulation, traffic throve, and in token thereof the saloons and dance-halls never closed. up to the period of the silenced dynamite thunderings new industries were projected daily, and investors, tolled in over the high mountain trails or across the buckskin in dust-encrusted automobiles by methods best known to a gray-mustached adept in the art of promotion, thronged the lobby of the hotel metropole and bought and sold mirapolis "corners" or "insides" on a steadily ascending scale of prices. not yet had the time arrived for selling before sunset that which had been bought since sunrise. on the contrary, a strange mania for holding on, for permanency, seemed to have become epidemic. many of the working-men were securing homes on the instalment plan. a good few of the villas could boast parquetry floors and tiled bath-rooms. one coterie of chicagoans refused an advance of fifty per cent on a quarter square of business earth and the next day decided to build a six-storied office-building, with a ground-floor corner for the niquoia national bank, commodious suites for the city offices of the power company, the cement company, the lumber syndicate, and the water company, and an entire floor to be set apart for the government engineers and accountants. and it was quite in harmony with the spirit of the moment that the building should be planned with modern conveniences and that the chosen building material should be nothing less permanent than monolithic concrete. in harmony with the same spirit was the enterprise which cut great gashes across the shoulder of jack's mountain in the search for precious metal. here the newly incorporated buckskin gold mining and milling company had discarded the old and slow method of prospecting with pick and shovel, and power-driven machines ploughed deep furrows to bed-rock across and back until the face of the mountain was zigzagged and scarred like a veteran of many battles. in keeping, again, was the energy with which mr. cortwright and his municipal colleagues laid water-mains, strung electric wires, drove the paving contractors, and pushed the trolley-line to the stage at which it lacked only the rails and the cars awaiting shipment by the railroad. under other conditions it is conceivable that an impatient committee of construction would have had the rails freighted in across the desert, would have had the cars taken to pieces and shipped by mule-train express from quesado. but with the railroad grade already in sight on the bare shoulders of the hophra hills and the thunder-blasts playing the presto march of promise the committee could afford to wait. this was the situation on the day when garner, sharp-eared listener at the keyhole of opportunity, missing the dynamite rumblings, sent a cipher wire of inquiry to the east, got a "rush" reply, and began warily to unload his mirapolitan holdings. being a man of business, he ducked to cover first and talked afterward; but by the time his hint had grown to rumor size mr. cortwright had sent for brouillard. "pull up a chair and have a cigar," said the great man when brouillard had penetrated to the nerve-centre of the mirapolitan activities in the metropole suite and the two stenographers had been curtly dismissed. "have you heard the talk of the street? there is a rumor that the railroad grading has been stopped." brouillard, busy with the work of setting the third series of forms on his great wall, had heard nothing. "i've noticed that they haven't been blasting for two or three days. but that may mean nothing more than a delayed shipment of dynamite," was his rejoinder. "it looks bad--devilish bad." the promoter was planted heavily in his pivot-chair, and the sandy-gray eyes dwindled to pin-points. "three days ago the blasting stopped, and garner--you know him, the little kansas city shark across the street--got busy with the wire. the next thing we knew he was unloading, quietly and without making any fuss about it, but at prices that would have set us afire if he'd had enough stuff in his pack to amount to anything." brouillard tried to remember that he was the reclamation service construction chief, that the pricking of the mirapolitan bubble early or late concerned him not at all,--tried it and failed. "i am afraid you are right," he said thoughtfully. "we've had a good many applications from men hunting work in the past two days, more than would be accounted for by the usual drift from the railroad camps." "you saw president ford after i did; what did he say when he was over here?" "he said very little to me," replied brouillard guardedly. "from that little i gathered that the members of his executive committee were not unanimously in favor of building the extension." "well, we are up against it, that's all. read that," and the promoter handed a telegram across the desk. the wire was from chicago, was signed "ackerman," and was still damp from the receiving operator's copying-press. it read: "work on p. s-w.'s buckskin extension has been suspended for the present. reason assigned, shrinkage in securities and uncertainty of business outlook in niquoia." brouillard's first emotion was that of the engineer and the economist. "what a bunch of blanked fools!" he broke out. "they've spent a clean million as it stands, and they are figuring to leave it tied up and idle!" mr. cortwright's frown figured as a fleshly mask of irritability. "i'm not losing any sleep over the p. s-w. treasury. it's our own basket of eggs here that i'm worrying about. let it once get out that the railroad people don't believe in the future of mirapolis and we're done." brouillard's retort was the expression of an upflash of sanity. "mirapolis has no future; it has only an exceedingly precarious present." for a moment the sandy-gray eyes became inscrutable. then the mask of irritation slid aside, revealing the face which mr. j. wesley cortwright ordinarily presented to his world--the face of imperturbable good nature. "you're right, brouillard; mirapolis is only a good joke, after all. sometimes i get bamfoozled into the idea that it isn't--that it's the real thing. that's bad for the nerves. but about this railroad fizzle; i don't relish the notion of having our little joke sprung on us before we're ready to laugh, do you? what do you think?" brouillard shook himself as one who casts a burden. "it is not my turn to think, mr. cortwright." "oh, yes, it is; very pointedly. you're one of us, to a certain extent; and if you were not you would still be interested. a smash just now would hamper the reclamation service like the mischief; the entire works shut down; no cement, no lumber, no power; everything tied up in the courts until the last creditor quits taking appeals. oh, no, brouillard; you don't want to see the end of the world come before it's due." it was the consulting engineer of the power company rather than the reclamation service chief who rose and went to the window to look down upon the morning briskness of chigringo avenue. and it was the man who saw one hundred thousand dollars, the price of freedom, slipping away from him who turned after a minute or two of the absent street gazing and said: "what do you want me to do, mr. cortwright? i did put my shoulder to the wheel when ford was here. i told him if i were in his place i'd take the long chance and build the extension." "did you?--and before you had a stake in the game? that was a white man's boost, right! have another cigar. they're 'poodles's pride,' and they're not half bad when you get used to the near-havana filler. think you could manage to get ford on the wire and encourage him a little more?" "it isn't ford; it is the new york bankers. you can read that between the lines in your man ackerman's telegram." the stocky gentleman in the pivot-chair thrust out his jaw and tilted his freshly lighted cigar to the aggressive angle. "say, brouillard, we've got to throw a fresh piece of bait into the cage, something that will make the railroad crowd sit up and take notice. by george, if those gold hunters up on jack's mountain would only stumble across something big enough to advertise----" brouillard started as if the wishful musing had been a blow. like a hot wave from a furnace mouth it swept over him--the sudden realization that the means, the one all-powerful, earth-moving lever the promoter was so anxiously seeking, lay in his hands. "the buckskin people, yes," he said, making talk as the rifleman digs a pit to hold his own on the firing-line. "if they should happen to uncover a gold reef just now it would simplify matters immensely for mirapolis, wouldn't it? the railroad would come on, then, without a shadow of doubt. all the bankers in new york couldn't hold it back." now came mr. cortwright's turn to get up and walk the floor, and he took it, tramping solidly back and forth in the clear space behind the table-topped desk. it was not until he had extended the meditative stump-and-go to one of the windows that he stopped short and came out of the inventive trance with a jerk. "come here," he called curtly, with a quick finger crook for the engineer, and when brouillard joined him: "can you size up that little caucus over yonder?" the "caucus" was a knot of excited men blocking the sidewalk in front of garner's real-estate office on the opposite side of the street. the purpose of the excited ones was not difficult to divine. they were all trying to crowd into the kansas city man's place of business at once. "it looks like a run on a bank," said brouillard. "it is," was the crisp reply. "garner has beaten everybody else to the home plate, but he couldn't keep his mouth shut. he's been talking, and every man in that mob is a potential panic breeder. that thing has got to be nipped in the bud, right now!" "yes," brouillard agreed. he was still wrestling with his own besetment--the prompting which involved a deliberate plunge where up to the present crisis he had been merely wading in the shallows. a little thing stung him alive to the imperative call of the moment--the sight of amy massingale walking down the street with tig smith, the triangle-circle foreman. it was of the death of her hopes that he was thinking when he said coolly: "you have sized it up precisely, mr. cortwright; that is a panic in the making, and the bubble won't stand for very much pricking. give me a free hand with your check-book for a few minutes and i'll try to stop it." it spoke volumes for the millionaire promoter's quick discernment and decision that he asked no questions. "do it," he snapped. "i'll cover you for whatever it takes. don't wait; that crowd is getting bigger every minute." brouillard ran down-stairs and across the street. it was no part of his intention to stop and speak to amy massingale and the ranchman, but he did it, and even walked a little way with them before he turned back to elbow his way through the sidewalk throng and into garner's dingy little office. "you are selling mirapolis holdings short to-day, garner?" he asked when he had pushed through the crowd to the speculator's desk. and when garner laughed and said there were no takers he placed his order promptly. "you may bid in for me, at yesterday's prices, anything within the city limits--not options, you understand, but the real thing. bring your papers over to my office after banking hours and we'll close for whatever you've been able to pick up." he said it quietly, but there could be no privacy at such a time and in such a place. "what's that, mr. brouillard?" demanded one in the counter jam. "you're giving garner a blank card to buy for your account? say, that's plenty good enough for me. garner, cancel my order to sell, will you? when the chief engineer of the government water-works believes in mirapolis futures and bets his money on 'em, i'm not selling." the excitement was already dying down and the crowd was melting away from garner's sidewalk when brouillard rejoined mr. cortwright in the second-floor room across the street. "well, it's done," he announced shortly, adding: "it's only a stop-gap. to make the bluff good, you've got to have the railroad." "that's the talk," said the promoter, relighting the cigar which the few minutes of crucial suspense had extinguished. and then, without warning: "you're carrying something up your sleeve, brouillard. what is it?" "it is the one thing you need, mr. cortwright. if i could get my own consent to use it i could bring the railroad here in spite of those new yorkers who seem to have an attack of cold feet." mr. j. wesley cortwright's hesitation was so brief as to be almost imperceptible. "i suppose that is your way of saying that your share in the table stakes isn't big enough. all right; the game can't stop in the middle of a bet. how much is it going to cost us to stay in?" "the cost isn't precisely in the kind of figures that you understand best, mr. cortwright. and as to my share in the profits ... well, we needn't mince matters; you may remember that you were at some considerable pains to ascertain my price before you made the original bid--and the bid was accepted. you've just been given a proof that i'm trying to earn my money. no other man in mirapolis could have served your turn over there at garner's as i did a few minutes ago. you know that." "good lord, man, i'm not kicking! but we are all in the same boat. if the railroad work doesn't start up again within the next few days we are all due to go to pot. if you've got the odd ace up your sleeve and don't play it, you stand to lose out with the rest of us." the door was open into the anteroom where the stenographers' desks were, and brouillard was staring gloomily into the farther vacancies. "i wonder if you know how little i care?" he said half musingly. then, with sudden vehemence: "it is altogether a question of motive with me, mr. cortwright; of a motive which you couldn't understand in a thousand years. if that motive prevails, you get your railroad and a little longer lease of life. if it doesn't, mirapolis will go to the devil some few weeks or months ahead of its schedule--and i'll take my punishment with the remainder of the fools--and the knaves." he was on his feet and moving toward the door of exit when the promoter got his breath. "here, hold on, brouillard--for heaven's sake, don't go off and leave it up in the air that way!" he protested. but the corridor door had opened and closed and brouillard was gone. two hours later mirapolis the frenetic had a new thrill, a shock so electrifying that the rumor of the railroad's halting decision sank into insignificance and was forgotten. the suddenly evoked excitement focussed in a crowd besieging the window of the principal jewelry shop--focussed more definitely upon a square of white paper in the window in the centre of which was displayed a little heap of virgin gold in small nuggets and coarse grains. while the crowds in the street were still struggling and fighting to get near enough to read the labelling placard, the _daily spot-light_ came out with an extra which was all head-lines, the telegraph-wires to the east were buzzing, and the town had gone mad. the gold specimen--so said the placard and the news extra--had been washed from one of the bars in the niquoia. by three o'clock the madness had culminated in the complete stoppage of all work among the town builders and on the great dam as well, and gold-crazed mobs were frantically digging and panning on every bar in the river from the valley outlet to the power dam five miles away. ix bedlam it was between two and three o'clock in the afternoon of the day in which mirapolis went placer mad when word came to the reclamation-service headquarters that the power was cut off and that there were no longer men enough at the mixers and on the forms to keep the work going if the power should come on again. handley, the new fourth assistant, brought the news, dropping heavily into a chair and shoving his hat to the back of his head to mop his seamed and sun-browned face. "why the devil didn't you fellows turn out?" he demanded savagely of leshington, anson, and grislow, who were lounging in the office and very pointedly waiting for the lightning to strike. "gassman and i have done everything but commit cold-blooded murder to hold the men on the job. where's the boss?" nobody knew, and grislow, at least, was visibly disturbed at the question. it was anson who seemed to have the latest information about brouillard. "he came in about eleven o'clock, rummaged for a minute or two in that drawer you've got your foot on, grizzy, and then went out again. anybody seen him since?" there was a silence to answer the query, and the hydrographer righted his chair abruptly and closed the opened drawer he had been utilizing for a foot-rest. he had a long memory for trifles, and at the mention of the drawer a disquieting picture had flashed itself upon the mental screen. there were two figures in the picture, brouillard and himself, and brouillard was tossing the little buckskin sack of gold nuggets into the drawer, where it had lain undisturbed ever since--until now. moreover, grislow's news of brouillard, if he had seen fit to publish it, was later than anson's. at one o'clock, or thereabout, the chief had come into the mapping room for a glance at the letters on his desk. one of the letters--a note in a square envelope--he had thrust into his pocket before going out. "it looks as if the chief had gone with the crowd," said leshington when the silence had grown almost portentous, "though that wouldn't be like him. has anybody found out yet who touched off the gold-mounted sky-rocket?" grislow came out of his brown study with a start. "levy won't tell who gave him those nuggets to put in his window. i tried him. all he will say is that the man who left the sample is perfectly reliable and that he dictated the exact wording of the placard that did the business." "i saw harlan, of the _spot-light_, half an hour ago," cut in anson. "he's plumb raving crazy, like everybody else, but there is something faintly resembling method in his madness. he figures it that we government people are out of a job permanently; that with the discovery of these placers--or, rather, with the practically certain rediscovery of them by the mob--mirapolis will jump to the front rank as a gold camp, and the reclamation service will have to call a halt on the buckskin project." leshington's long, plain-song face grew wooden. "you say 'practically certain.' the question is: will they be rediscovered? bet any of you a box of poodles's flor de near havanas that it's some new kind of a flip-flap invented by j. wesley and his boomers. what do you say?" "good lord!" growled handley. "they didn't need any new stunts. they had the world by the ear, as it was." "that's all right," returned leshington; "maybe they didn't. i heard a thing or two over at bongras's last night that set me guessing. there was a piece of gossip coming up the pike about the railroad pulling out of the game, or, rather, that it had already pulled out." once more silence fell upon the group in the mapping room, and this time it was grislow who broke it. "i suppose harlan is getting ready to exploit the new sensation right?" he suggested, and anson nodded. "you can trust harlan for that. he's got the valley wire subsidized, and he is waiting for the first man to come in with the news of the sure thing and the location of it. when he gets the facts he'll touch off the fireworks, and the world will be invited to take a running jump for the new tonopah." then, with sudden anxiety: "i wish to goodness brouillard would turn up and get busy on his job. it's something hideous to be stranded this way in the thick of a storm!" "it's time somebody was getting busy," snarled handley. "there are a hundred tons of fresh concrete lying in the forms, just as they were dumped--with no puddlers--to say nothing of half as much more freezing to solid rock right now in the mixers and on the telphers." grislow got up and reached for his coat and hat. "i'm going out to hunt for the boss," he said, "and you fellows had better do the same. if this is one of cortwright's flip-flaps, and brouillard happened to be in the way, i wouldn't put it beyond j. wesley to work some kind of a disappearing racket on the human obstacle." the suggestion was carried out immediately by the three to whom it was made, but for a reason of his own the hydrographer contrived to be the last to leave the mapping room. when he found himself alone he returned hastily to the desk and pulled out the drawer of portents, rummaging in it until he was fully convinced that the little buckskin bag of nuggets was gone. then, instead of following the others, he took a field-glass from its case on the wall and went to the south window to focus it upon the massingale cabin, standing out clear-cut and distinct in the afternoon sunlight on its high, shelf-like bench. the powerful glass brought out two figures on the cabin porch, a woman and a man. the woman was standing and the man was sitting on the step. grislow lowered the glass and slid the telescoping sun tubes home with a snap. "good god!" he mused, "it's unbelievable! he deliberately turns this thing loose on us down here and then takes an afternoon off to go and make love to a girl! he's crazy; it's the seven-year devil he talks about. and nobody can help him; nobody--unless amy can. lord, lord!" x epochal at the other extremity of the trajectory of grislow's telltale field-glass brouillard was sunning himself luxuriously on the porch step at the massingale house and making up for lost time--counting all time lost when it spelled absence from the woman he loved. but miss massingale was in a charmingly frivolous frame of mind. "that is the fourth different excuse you have invented for cutting me out of your visiting list, not counting the repetitions," she gibed, when he had finally fallen back upon the time demands of his work to account for his late neglect of her. "if i wanted to be hateful i might insist that you haven't given the true reason yet." "perhaps i will give it before i go," he parried. "but just now i'd much rather talk about something else. tell me about yourself. what have you been doing all these days when i haven't been able to keep tab on you?" "flirting--flirting desperately with tig, with lord falkland, with mr. anson, and mr. grislow, and that nice boy of yours, herbert griffith, and with--no, _not_ with mr. leshington; he scares me--makes a face like a wooden image and says: 'little girl, you need a mother--or a husband; i haven't made up my mind which.' when he _does_ make up his mind i'm going to shriek and run away." "who is lord falkland?" demanded brouillard, ignoring the rank and file. "o-o-h! haven't you met him? he is tig's boss. he isn't a real lord; he is only a 'younger son.' but we call him lord falkland because he has no sense of humor and is always trying to explain. 'beg pawdon, my _deah_ miss massingale, but i'm _not_ lord falkland, don't y' know. the--er--title goes with the--er--entail. i'm only the honorable pawcy grammont penbawthy trevawnnion.'" her mimicry of the englishman was delicious, and brouillard laughed like a man without a care in the world. "where does the honorable all-the-rest keep himself?" he wished to know. "he stays out at the ranch in the buckskin with tig and the range-riders most of the time, i think. it's his ranch, you know, and he is immensely proud of it. he never tires of telling me about the cattle on a thousand hills, or the thousand cattle on one hill, i forget which it is." "and you flirt with this--this alphabetical monstrosity!" he protested reproachfully. "honestly, victor, i don't; that was only an amiable little figure of speech. you simply _can't_ flirt with a somebody who is almost as brilliant as a lump of cornish tin ore and, oh, ever so many times as dense." "exit lord falkland, who isn't lord falkland," said brouillard. "now tell me about the 'little susan'; is the blue-grass farm looming up comfortably on the eastern edge of things?" in a twinkling her frivolous mood vanished. "oh, we are prosperous, desperately prosperous. we have power drills, and electric ore-cars, and a crib, and a chute, and a hoist, and an aerial tramway down to the place where the railroad yard is going to be--all the improvements you can see and a lot more that you can't see. and our pay-roll--it fairly frightens me when i make it up on the saturdays." "i see," he nodded. "all going out and nothing coming in. but the money is all here, safely stacked up in the ore bins. you'll get it all out when the railroad comes." "that is another thing--a thing i haven't dared tell father and stevie. when i was in mirapolis this morning i heard that the railroad wasn't coming, after all; or, rather, tig had heard it and he told me. we were digging for facts when you met us on chigringo avenue--trying to find out if the rumor were true." "did you find out?" he asked. "not positively. that is why i left the note at your office begging you to come up if you could spare the time. i felt sure you would know." "it means a great deal to you, doesn't it?" he said evasively. "it means everything--a thousand times more now than it did before." his quick glance up into the suddenly sobered eyes of the girl standing on the step above him was a voiceless query and she answered it. "we had no working capital, as i think you must have known. once a month father or stevie would make up a few pack-saddle loads of the richest ore and freight them over the mountains to red butte. that was how we got along. but when you sent me word by tig that the railroad company had decided to build the extension, there was--there was--a chance----" "yes," he encouraged. "a chance that the day of little things was past and the day of big things was come. mr. cortwright and some of his associates had been trying to buy an interest in the 'little susan.' father let them in on some sort of a stock arrangement that i don't understand and then made himself personally responsible for a dreadful lot of borrowed money." "borrowed of mr. cortwright?" queried brouillard. "no; of the bank. neither stevie nor i knew about it until after it was done, and even then father wouldn't explain. he has been like a man out of his mind since mr. cortwright got hold of him--everything is rose-colored; we are going to be immensely rich the minute the railroad builds its track to the mine dump. the ore is growing richer every day--which is true--and the railroad will let us into the smelters with train loads of it. he is crazy to build more cribs and put on night shifts of miners. but you see how it all depends upon the railroad." "not so much upon the railroad now as upon some other things," said brouillard enigmatically. "you say your father has borrowed of the bank--is mr. cortwright mixed up in the loan in any way?" "yes; he arranged it in some way for father--i don't know just how. all i know is that father is responsible, and that if the railroad doesn't come he will lose everything." brouillard gave a low whistle. "i don't wonder that the quitting rumor made you nervous." "it was, and is, positively terrifying. father has taken one of the new houses in town and we are to move down next week in spite of all i can do or say. that means more expense and more temptations. i can't tell you how i hate and dread mirapolis. it isn't like any other place i have ever known; it is cynical, vicious, wicked!" "it is," he agreed soberly. "it couldn't well be otherwise. you tell a dozen men they've got a certain definite time to live, and the chances are that two or three of them will begin to prepare to get ready to be sorry for their sins. the other nine or ten will speed up and burn the candle right down into the socket. we shall see worse things in mirapolis before we see better. but i think i can lift one of your burdens. what you heard in town this morning is a fact: the railroad people have stopped work on the buckskin extension. don't faint--they are going to begin again right away." "oh!" she gasped. "are you sure? how _can_ you be sure?" "i've given the order," he said gravely. "an order they can't disregard. let's go back a bit and i'll explain. do you remember my telling you that your brother had tried to bribe me to use my influence with mr. ford?" "as if i should ever be able to forget it!" she protested. "well, that wasn't all that he did--he threatened me--took me to one of the bars in the niquoia, and let me prove for myself that it was tolerably rich placer ground. the threat was a curious one. if i'd say the right thing to president ford, well and good; if not, your brother would disarrange things for the government by giving away the secret of the gold placers. it was ingenious, and effective. to turn the valley into a placer camp would be to disorganize our working force, temporarily at least, and in the end it might even stop or definitely postpone the building of the dam." she was listening eagerly, but there was a nameless fear in the steadfast eyes--a shadow which he either missed or disregarded. "naturally, i saw, or thought i saw, a good reason why he should hesitate to carry out his threat," brouillard went on. "the placer find, with whatever profit might be got out of it, was his only so long as he kept the secret. but he covered that point at once; he said that the 'little susan'--with the railroad--was worth more to him and to your father than a chance at the placer-diggings. the ore dump with its known values was a sure thing, while the sluice mining was always a gamble." "and you--you believed all this?" she asked faintly. "i was compelled to believe it. he let me pan out the proof for myself; a heaping spoonful of nuggets and grain gold in a few panfuls of the sand. it pretty nearly turned my head, amy; would have turned it, i'm afraid, if steve hadn't explained that the bar, as a whole, wouldn't run as rich as the sample." "it is dreadful--dreadful!" she murmured. "you believed him, and for that reason you used your influence with mr. ford?" "no." "but you did advise mr. ford to build the extension?" "yes." "believing that it was for the best interests of the railroad to come here?" "no; doubting it very much, indeed." "then why did you do it? i _must_ know; it is my right to know." he got up and took her in his arms, and she suffered him. "a few days ago, little girl, i couldn't have told you. but now i can. i am a free man--or i can be whenever i choose to say the word. you ask me why i pulled for the railroad; i did it for love's sake." she was pushing him away, and the great horror in her eyes was unmistakable now. "oh!" she panted, "is love a thing to be cheapened like that--to be sinned for?" "why, amy, girl! what do you mean? i don't understand----" "that is it, victor; _you don't understand_. you deliberately sacrificed your convictions; you have admitted it. and you did it in the sacred name of love! and your freedom--how have you made a hundred thousand dollars in these few weeks? oh, victor, is it clean money?" he was abashed, confounded; and at the bottom of the tangle of conflicting emotions there was a dull glow of resentment. "the 'sacrifice,' as you call it, was made for you," he said, ignoring her question about the money. "i merely told mr. ford what i should do if the decision lay wholly with me. that is what he asked for--my personal opinion. and he got it." "yes; but when you gave it ... did you say: 'mr. ford, there is a girl up at the "little susan" mine on chigringo mountain who needs your railroad to help her out of her troubles. because i love the girl'----" "of course i didn't say any such suicidal thing as that! but it is too late to raise the question of culpability in the matter of giving ford what he asked for. i did it, as i say--for love of you, amy; and now i have done a much more serious thing--for the same good reason." "tell me," she said, with a quick catching of her breath. "your brother put a weapon in my hands, and i have used it. there was one sure way to make the railroad people get busy again. they couldn't sit still if all the world were trying to get to a new gold camp, to which they already have a line graded and nearly ready for the steel." "and you have----?" he nodded. "i had levy put the spoonful of nuggets in his window, with a placard stating that it was taken out of a bar in the niquoia. when i left the office to come up here the whole town was blocking the street in front of levy's." she had retreated to take her former position, leaning against the porch post, with her hands behind her, and she had grown suddenly calm. "you did this deliberately, victor, weighing all the consequences? mirapolis is already a city of frenzied knaves and dupes; did you realize that you were taking the chance of turning it into a wicked pandemonium? oh, i can't believe you did!" "don't look at me that way, amy," he pleaded. then he went on, with curious little pauses between the words: "perhaps i didn't think--didn't care; you wanted something--and i wanted to give it to you. that was all--as god hears me, it was all. there was another thing that might have weighed, but i didn't let it weigh; i stood to lose the money that will set me free--i could have lost it without wincing--i told cortwright so. you believe that, amy? it will break my heart if you don't believe it." she shook her head sadly. "you have thrown down another of the ideals, and this time it was mine. you don't understand, and i can't make you understand--that is the keen misery of it. if this ruthless thing you tried to do had succeeded, i should be the most wretched woman in the world." "if it had succeeded? it has succeeded. didn't i say just now that the town was crazy with excitement when i left to come up here?" the girl was shaking her head again. "god sometimes saves us in spite of ourselves," she said gravely. "the excitement will die out. there are no placers in the niquoia. the bars have been prospected again and again." "they have been?----" brouillard turned on his heel and choked back the sudden malediction that rose to his lips. she had called mirapolis a city of knaves and dupes; surely, he himself was the simplest of the dupes. "i see--after so long a time," he went on. "your brother merely 'salted' a few shovelfuls of sand for my especial benefit. great heavens, but i was an easy mark!" "don't!" she cried, and the tears in her voice cut him to the heart--"don't make it harder for me than it has to be. i have told you only what i've heard my father say, time and again: that there is no gold in the niquoia river. and you mustn't ask me to despise my brother. he fights his way to his ends without caring much for the consequences to others; but tell me--haven't you been doing the same thing?" "i have," he confessed stubbornly. "my love isn't measured by a fear of consequences--to myself or others." "that is the hopeless part of it," she returned drearily. "yet you condone in your brother what you condemn in me," he complained. "my brother is my brother; and you are--let me tell you something, victor: god helping me, i shall be no man's evil genius, and yours least of all. you broke down the barriers a few minutes ago and you know what is in my heart. but i can take it out of my heart if the man who put it there is not true to himself." brouillard was silent for a little space, and when he spoke again it was as one awaking from a troubled dream. "i know what you would do and say; you would take me by the hand and tell me to come up higher.... there was a time, amy, when you wouldn't have had to say it twice--a time when the best there was in me would have leaped to climb to any height you pointed to. the time is past, and i can't recall it, try as i may; there is a change; it goes back to that day when i first saw you--down at the lower ford in the desert's edge. i loved you then, though i wouldn't admit it even to myself. but that wasn't the change; it was something different. do you believe in freiborg's theory of the multiple personality? i saw his book in your hammock one day when i was up here." "no," she said quite definitely. "i am i, and i am always i. for the purposes of the comedy we call life, we play many parts, perhaps; but back of the part-playing there is always the same soul person, i think--and believe." "i know; that is common sense and sanity. and yet freiborg's speculations are most plausible. he merely carries the idea of the dual personality--the doctor jekyll and mr. hyde notion--a step farther along. you may remember how he compares the human being to a ship changing commanders at every port. one captain makes her a merchantman; another makes her a tramp; a third turns her into a slaver or a pirate; under a fourth she becomes a derelict." "that is a terribly dangerous theory, if you take it seriously," was her comment. "i don't want to take it seriously. but facts are stubborn things. i am not the same man i was a few years or even a few months ago. i have lost something; i have not the same promptings; things that i used to loathe no longer shock me. new and unsuspected pitfalls open for me every day. for example, i am not naturally hot-headed--or rather, i should say, i am quick-tempered but have always been able to control myself. yet in the past few months i have learned what it means to fly into a rage that fairly makes me see red. and there is no cause. nothing different has broken into my life save the best of all things--a great love. and you tell me that the love is unworthy." "no, i didn't say that; i only meant that you had misconceived it. love is the truest, finest thing we know. it can never be the tool of evil, much less the hand that guides the tool. given a free field, it always makes for the wider horizons, the higher planes of thought and action; it may even breathe new life into the benumbed conscience. i don't say that it can't be dragged down and trampled in the dust and the mire; it can be, and then there is nothing more pitiful in a world of misconceptions." again a silence came and sat between them; and, as before, it was the man who broke it. "you lead me to a conclusion that i refuse to accept, amy; that i am dominated by some influence which is stronger than love." "you are," she said simply. "what is it?" "environment." "that is the most humiliating thing you have said to-day. is a man a mere bit of driftwood, to be tossed about in the froth of any wave that happens to come along, as freiborg says he is?" "not always; perhaps not often. and never, i think, in the best part of him--the soul ego. yet there is a mighty power in the wave, in the mere drift. however much others may be deluded, i am sure you can see mirapolis in its true light. it is frankly, baldly, the money-making scheme of a few unscrupulous men. it has no future--it can have none. and because it is what it is, the very air you breathe down there is poisoned. the taint is in the blood. mr. cortwright and his fellow bandits call it the 'miracle city,' but the poor wretches on lower chigringo avenue laugh and call it gomorrah." "just at the present moment it is a city of fools--and i, the king of the fools, have made it so," said brouillard gloomily. from his seat on the porch step he was frowning down upon the outspread scene in the valley, where the triangular shadow of jack's mountain was creeping slowly across to the foot of chigringo. something in the measured eye-sweep brought him to his feet with a hasty exclamation: "good lord! the machinery has stopped! they've knocked off work on the dam!" "why not?" she said. "did you imagine that your workmen were any less human than other people?" "no, of course not; that is, i--but i haven't any time to go into that now. is your telephone line up here in operation?" "no, not yet." "then i must burn the wind getting down there. by jove! if those unspeakable idiots have gone off and left the concrete to freeze wherever it happens to be----" "one moment," she pleaded, while he was reaching for his hat. "this new madness will have spent itself by nightfall--it must. and yet i have the queerest shivery feeling, as if something dreadful were going to happen. can't you contrive to get word to me, some way--after it is all over? i wish you could." "i'll do it," he promised. "i'll come up after supper." "no, don't do that. you will be needed at the dam. there will be trouble, with a town full of disappointed gold-hunters, and liquor to be had. wait a minute." she ran into the house and came out with two little paper-covered cylinders with fuses projecting. "take these, they are bengal lights--some of the fireworks that tig bought in red butte for the fourth. light the blue one when you are ready to send me my message of cheer. i shall be watching for it." "and the other?" he asked. "it is a red light, the signal of war and tumults and danger. if you light it, i shall know----" he nodded, dropped the paper cylinders into his pocket, and a moment later was racing down the trail to take his place at the helm of the abandoned ship of the industries. there was need for a commander; for a cool head to bring order out of chaos, and for the rare faculty which is able to accomplish herculean tasks with whatever means lie at hand. brouillard descended upon his disheartened subordinates like a whirlwind of invincible energy, electrifying everybody into instant action. gassman was told off to bring the indians, who alone were loyally indifferent to the gold craze, down from the crushers. anson was despatched to impress the waiters and bell-boys from the metropole; leshington was sent to the shops and the bank to turn out the clerks; grislow and handley were ordered to take charge of the makeshift concrete handlers as fast as they materialized, squadding them and driving the work of wreck clearing for every man and minute they could command, with gassman and bender to act as foremen. for himself, brouillard reserved the most hazardous of the recruiting expedients. the lower avenue had already become a double rank of dives, saloons, and gambling dens; here, if anywhere in the craze-depopulated town, men might be found, and for once in their lives they should be shown how other men earned money. "shove it for every minute of daylight there is left," he ordered, snapping out his commands to his staff while he was filling the magazine of his winchester. "puddle what material there is in the forms, dump the telpher buckets where they stand, and clean out the mixers; that's the size of the job, and it's got to be done. jump to it, grizzy, you and handley, and we'll try to fill your gangs the best way we can. leshington, don't you take any refusal from the shopkeepers and the bank people; if they kick, you tell them that not another dollar of government money will be spent in this town--we'll run a free commissary first. anson, you make bongras turn out every man in his feeding place; he'll do it. griffith, you chase mr. cortwright, and don't quit till you find him. tell him from me that we've got to have every man he can give us, at whatever cost." "you'll be up on the stagings yourself, won't you?" asked grislow, struggling into his working-coat. "after a bit. i'm going down to the lower avenue to turn out the crooks and diamond wearers. it's time they were learning how to earn an honest dollar." "you'll get yourself killed up," grumbled leshington. "work is the one thing you won't get out of that crowd." "watch me," rasped the chief, and he was gone as soon as he had said it. strange things and strenuous happened in the lower end of the niquoia valley during the few hours of daylight that remained. first, climbing nervously to the puddlers' staging on the great dam, and led by near-napoleon poodles himself, came the metropole quota of waiters, scullions, cooks, and porters, willing but skilless. after them, and herded by leshington, came a dapper crew of office men and clerks to snatch up the puddling spades and to soil their clothes and blister their hands in emptying the concrete buckets. mr. cortwright's contribution came as a dropping fire; a handful of tree-cutters from the sawmills, a few men picked up here and there in the deserted town, an automobile load of power-company employees shot down from the generating plant at racing speed. last, but by no means least in numbers, came the human derelicts from the lower avenue; men in frock-coats; men in cow-boy jeans taking it as a huge joke; men with foreign faces and lowering brows and with strange oaths in their mouths; and behind the motley throng and marshalling it to a quickstep, brouillard and tig smith. it was hot work and heavy for the strangely assorted crew, and brouillard drove it to the limit, bribing, cajoling, or threatening, patrolling the long line of staging to encourage the awkward puddlers, or side-stepping swiftly to the mixers to bring back a detachment of skulkers at the rifle's muzzle. and by nightfall the thing was done, with the loss reduced to a minimum and the makeshift laborers dropping out in squads and groups, some laughing, some swearing, and all too weary and toil-worn to be dangerous. "give us a job if we come back to-morrow, mr. brouillard?" called out the king of the gamblers in passing; and the cry was taken up by others in grim jest. "thus endeth the first lesson," said grislow, when the engineering corps was reassembling at the headquarters preparatory to a descent upon the supper-table. but brouillard was dumb and haggard, and when he had hung rifle and cartridge-belt on their pegs behind his desk, he went out, leaving unbroken the silence which had greeted his entrance. "the boss is taking it pretty hard," said young griffith to no one in particular, and it was leshington who took him up savagely and invited him to hold his tongue. "the least said is the soonest mended--at a funeral," was the form the first assistant's rebuke took. "you take my advice and don't mess or meddle with the chief until he's had time to work this thing out of his system." brouillard was working it out in his own way, tramping the streets, hanging on the outskirts of arguing groups of newsmongers, or listening to the bonanza talk of the loungers in the metropole lobby. soon after dark the gold-seekers began to drop in, by twos and threes and in squads, all with the same story of disappointment. by nine o'clock the town was full of them, and since the liquor was flowing freely across many bars, the mutterings of disappointment soon swelled to a thunder roar of drunken rage, with the unknown exhibitor of the specimen nuggets for its object. from threats of vengeance upon the man who had hoaxed an entire town to a frenzied search for the man was but a step, and when brouillard finally left the metropole and crossed over to his office quarters, the mob was hunting riotously for the jeweller levy and promising to hang him--when found--to the nearest wire pole if he should not confess the name and standing of his gold-bug. the shouts of the mob were ringing in brouillard's ears when he strode dejectedly into the deserted map room, and the cries were rising with a new note and in fresher frenzies a little later when grislow came in. the hydrographer's blue eyes were hard and his voice had a tang of bitterness in it when he said: "well, you've done it. three men have just come in with a double handful of nuggets, and mirapolis makes its bow to the world at large as the newest and richest of the gold camps." brouillard had been humped over his desk, and he sprang up with a cry like that of a wounded animal. "it can't be; grizzy, i tell you it can't be! steve massingale planted that gold that i washed out--played me for a fool to get me to work for the railroad. i didn't know it until--until----" "until amy massingale told you about it this afternoon," cut in the map-maker shrewdly. "that's all right. the bar steve took you to was barren enough; they tell me that every cubic foot of it has been washed over in dish pans and skillets in the past few hours. but you know the big bend opposite the quadjenàï hills; the river has built that bend out of its own washings, and the bulletin over at the _spot-light_ office says that the entire peninsula is one huge bank of gold-bearing gravel." at the word brouillard staggered as from the impact of a bullet. then he crossed the room slowly, groping his way toward the peg where the coat he had worn in the afternoon was hanging. grislow saw him take something out of the pocket of the coat, and the next moment the door opened and closed and the hydrographer was left alone. having been planned before there was a city to be considered, the government buildings enclosed three sides of a small open square, facing toward the great dam. in the middle of this open space brouillard stopped, kicked up a little mound of earth, and stood the two paper cylinders on it, side by side. the tempered glow from the city electrics made a soft twilight in the little plaza; he could see the wrapper colors of the two signal-fires quite well. a sharp attack of indecision had prompted him to place both of them on the tiny mound. with the match in his hand, he was still undecided. amy massingale's words came back to him as he hesitated: "light the blue one when you are ready to send me my message of cheer...." on the lips of another woman the words might have taken a materialistic meaning; the miraculous gold discovery would bring the railroad, and the railroad would rescue the massingale mine and restore the massingale fortunes. he looked up at the dark bulk of chigringo, unrelieved even by the tiny fleck of lamplight which he had so often called his guiding star. "take me out of your mind and heart and say which you will have, little girl," he whispered, sending the words out into the void of night. but only the din and clamor of a city gone wild with enthusiasm came to answer him. somewhere on the avenue a band was playing; men were shouting themselves hoarse in excitement, and above the shouting came the staccato crackling of pistols and guns fired in air. he struck the match and stooped over the blue cylinder. "this is your message of cheer, whether you take it that way or not," he went on, whispering again to the silent void. but when the fuse of the blue light was fairly fizzing, he suddenly pinched it out and held the match to the other. * * * * * up on the high bench of the great mountain amy massingale was pacing to and fro on the puncheon-floored porch of the home cabin. her father had gone to bed, and somewhere down among the electric lights starring the valley her brother was mingling with the excited mobs whose shoutings and gun-firings floated up, distance-softened, on the still, thin air of the summer night. though there was no pause in the monotonous pacing back and forth, the girl's gaze never wandered far from a dark area in the western edge of the town--the semicircle cut into the dotting lights and marking the site of the government reservation. it was when a tiny stream of sparks shot up in the centre of the dark area that she stopped and held her breath. then, when a blinding flare followed to prick out the headquarters, the commissary, and the mess house, she sank in a despairing little heap on the floor, with her face hidden in her hands and the quick sobs shaking her like an ague chill. it was brouillard's signal, but it was not the signal of peace; it was the blood-red token of revolution and strife and turmoil. xi the feast of hurrahs mirapolis the marvellous was a hustling, roaring, wide-open mining-camp of twenty thousand souls by the time the railroad, straining every nerve and crowding three shifts into the twenty-four-hour day, pushed its rails along the foot-hill bench of chigringo, tossed up its temporary station buildings, and signalled its opening for business by running a mammoth excursion from the cities of the immediate east. busy as it was, the city took time to celebrate fittingly the event which linked it to the outer world. by proclamation mayor cortwright declared a holiday. there were lavish displays of bunting, an impromptu trades parade, speeches from the plaza band-stand, free lunches and free liquor--a day of boisterous, hilarious triumphings, with, incidentally, much buying and selling and many transfers of the precious "front foot" or choice "corner." yielding to pressure, which was no less imperative from below than from above, brouillard had consented to suspend work on the great dam during the day of triumphs, and the reclamation-service force, smaller now than at any time since the beginning of the undertaking, went to swell the crowds in chigringo avenue. of the engineering staff grislow alone held aloof. early in the morning he trudged away with rod and trout-basket for the upper waters of the niquoia and was seen no more. but the other members of the staff, following the example set by the chief, took part in the hilarities, serving on committees, conducting crowds of sightseers through the government reservation and up to the mixers and stagings, and otherwise identifying themselves so closely with the civic celebration as to give the impression, often commented upon by the visitors, that the building of the great dam figured only as another expression of the mirapolitan activities. for himself, brouillard vaguely envied grislow the solitudes of the upper niquoia. but mr. cortwright had been inexorable. it was right and fitting that the chief executive of the reclamation service should have a part in the rejoicings, and brouillard found himself discomfortingly emphasized as chairman of the civic reception committee. expostulation was useless. mr. cortwright insisted genially, and miss genevieve added her word. and there had been only grislow to smile cynically when the printed programmes appeared with the chief of the buckskin reclamation project down for an address on "modern city building." it was after his part of the speechmaking, and while the plaza crowds were still bellowing their approval of the modest forensic effort, that he went to sit beside miss cortwright in the temporary grand-stand, mopping his face and otherwise exhibiting the after effects of the unfamiliar strain. "i didn't know you could be so convincing," was miss genevieve's comment. "it was splendid! nobody will ever believe that you are going to go on building your dam and threatening to drown us, after this." "what did i say?" queried brouillard, having, at the moment, only the haziest possible idea of what he had said. "as if you didn't know!" she laughed. "you congratulated everybody: us mirapolitans upon our near-city, the miners on their gold output, the manufacturers on their display in the parade, the railroad on its energy and progressive spirit, and the visitors on their perspicuity and good sense in coming to see the latest of the seven wonders of the modern world. and the funny thing about it is that you didn't say a single word about the niquoia dam." "didn't i? that shows how completely your father has converted me, how helplessly i am carried along on the torrent of events." "but you are not," she said accusingly. "deep down in your inner consciousness you don't believe a little bit in mirapolis. you are only playing the game with the rest of us, mr. brouillard. sometimes i am puzzled to know why." brouillard's smile was rather grim. "your father would probably tell you that i have a stake in the game--as everybody else has." "not mr. grislow?" she said, laying her finger inerrantly upon the single exception. "no, not grizzy; i forgot him." "doesn't he want to make money?" she asked, with exactly the proper shade of disinterest. "no; yes, i guess he does, too. but he is--er--well, i suppose you might call him a man of one idea." "meaning that he is too uncompromisingly honest to be one of us? i think you are right." gorman, mr. cortwright's ablest trumpeter in the real-estate booming, was holding the plaza crowd spellbound with his enthusiastic periods, rising upon his toes and lifting his hands in angel gestures to high heaven in confirmation of his prophetic outlining of the mirapolitan future. in the middle distance, and backgrounding the buildings on the opposite side of the plaza, rose the false work of the great dam--a standing forest of sawed timbers, whose afternoon shadows were already pointing like a many-fingered fate toward the city of the plain. but, though the face of the speaker was toward the shadowing forest, his words ignored it. "the snow-capped timanyonis," "the mighty chigringo," and "the golden-veined slopes of jack's mountain" all came in for eulogistic mention; but the massive wall of concrete, with its bristling parapet of timbers, had no part in the orator's flamboyant descriptive. brouillard broke the spell of the grandiloquent rantings, and came back to what miss genevieve was saying. "yes, murray is stubbornly honest," he agreed; adding: "he is too good for this world, or rather for this little cross-section of pandemonium named mirapolis." "which, inasmuch as we are making mirapolis what it is, is more than can be said for most of us," laughed miss cortwright. then, with a purposeful changing of the subject: "where is miss massingale? as the original 'daughter of the niquoia' she ought to have a place on the band-stand." "she was with tig smith and lord falkland when the parade formed," rejoined the engineer. "i saw them on the balcony of the metropole." "since you are the chairman of the reception committee, i think you ought to go and find her," said miss genevieve pointedly, so pointedly that brouillard rose laughing and said: "thank you for telling me; whom shall i send to take my place here?" "oh, anybody--lord falkland will do. by the way, did you know that he _is_ lord falkland now? his elder brother died a few weeks ago." "no, i hadn't heard it. i should think he would want to go home." "he does. but he, too, has contracted mirapolitis. he has been investing any number of pounds sterling. if you find him send him to me. i want to see how the real, simon-pure american brand of oratory affects a british title." brouillard went, not altogether unwillingly. loving amy massingale with a passion which, however blind it might be on the side of the higher moralities, was still keen-sighted enough to assure him that every plunge he made in the mirapolitan whirlpool was sweeping him farther away from her; he found himself drifting irresistibly into the inner circle of attraction of which genevieve cortwright was the centre. whether miss cortwright's influence was for good or for evil, in his own case, or was entirely disinterested, he could never quite determine. there were times, like this present instant of blatant rejoicings, when she was brightly cynical, flinging a mocking jest at all things mirapolitan. but at other times he had a haunting conviction that she was at heart her father's open-eyed ally and abettor, taking up as she might the burden of filial loyalty thrown down by her brother van bruce, who, in his short summer of mirapolitan citizenship, had been illustrating all the various methods by which a spoiled son of fortune may go to the dogs. brouillard faced the impossible brother and the almost equally impossible father when he thought of genevieve cortwright. but latterly the barriers on that side had been crumbling more and more. once, and once only, had he mentioned the trusteeship debt to genevieve, and on that occasion she had laughed lightly at what she had called his strained sense of honor. the laugh had come at a critical moment. it was in the height of the madness following the discovery of the placers, in an hour when brouillard would have given his right hand to undo the love-prompted disloyalty to his service, that cortwright, whose finger was on everybody's pulse, had offered to buy in the thousand shares of power company's stock at par. brouillard had seen freedom in a stroke of the millionaire's pen; but it was a distinct downward step that by this time he was coming to look upon the payment of his father's honor debt as a hard necessity. he meant to pay it, but there was room for the grim determination that the payment should forever sever him from the handicapped past. he had transferred the stock, minus a single share to cover his official standing on the power company's board, to cortwright and had received the millionaire's check in payment. it was in the evening of the same eventful day, he remembered, that genevieve cortwright had laughed, and the letter, which was already written to the treasurer of a certain indianapolis trust company, was not mailed. instead of mailing it he had opened an account at the niquoia national, and the ninety-nine thousand nine hundred dollars had since grown by speculative accretions to the rounded first eighth of a million which all financiers agree in calling the stepping-stone to fortune. he had regarded this money--was still regarding it--as a loan; his lever with which to pry out something which he could really call his own. but more and more possession and use were dulling the keen edge of accountability and there were moments of insight when the grim irony of taking the price of honor to pay an honor debt forced itself upon him. at such moments he plunged more recklessly, in one of them taking stock in a gold-dredge company which was to wash nuggets by the wholesale out of the quadjenàï bend, in another buying yet other options in the newest suburb of mirapolis. what was to come of all this he would not suffer himself to inquire; but two results were thrusting themselves into the foreground. every added step in the way he had chosen was taking him farther from the ideals of an ennobling love and nearer to a possibility which precluded all ideals. notwithstanding grislow's characterization of her as a trophy hunter, genevieve cortwright was, after all, a woman, and as a woman she was to be won. with the naïve conceit of a man who has broken into the heart of one woman, brouillard admitted no insurmountable obstacles other than those which the hard condition of being himself madly in love with another woman might interpose; and there were times when, to the least worthy part of him, the possibility was alluring. miss cortwright's distinctive beauty, her keen and ready wit, the assurance that she would never press the ideals beyond the purely conventional limits; in the course of time these might happily smother the masterful passion which had thus far been only a blind force driving him to do evil that good might ensue. some such duel of motives was fighting itself to an indecisive conclusion in the young engineer's thoughts when he plunged into the sidewalk throngs in search of the englishman, and it was not until after he had found falkland and had delivered miss genevieve's summons that the duel paused and immediate and more disquieting impressions began to record themselves. with the waning of the day of celebrations the temper of the street throngs was changing. it is only the people of the latinized cities who can take the carnival spirit lightly; in other blood liberty grows to license and the thin veneer of civilized restraints quickly disappears. from early dawn the saloons and dives had been adding fuel to the flames, and light-heartedness and good-natured horse-play were giving way to sardonic humor and brutality. in the short faring through the crowded street from the plaza to the metropole corner brouillard saw and heard things to make his blood boil. women, those who were not a part of the unrestrained mob, were disappearing from the streets, and it was well for them if they could find shelter near at hand. twice before he reached bongras's café entrance the engineer shouldered his way to the rescue of some badgered nucleus of excursionists, and in each instance there were frightened women to be hurriedly spirited away to the nearest place of seclusion and safety. it was in front of bongras's that brouillard came upon the reverend hugh castner, the hot-hearted young zealot who had been flung into mirapolis on the crest of the tidal wave of mining excitement. though hosford--who had not been effaced, as mr. cortwright had promised he should be--and the men of his clique called the young missionary a meddlesome visionary, he stood in the stature of a man, and lower chigringo avenue loved him and swore by him; and sent for him now and then when some poor soul, hastily summoned, was to be eased off into eternity. when brouillard caught sight of him castner was looking out over the seething street caldron from his commanding height of six feet of athletic man stature, his strong face a mask of bitter humiliation and concern. "brouillard, this is simply hideous!" he exclaimed. "if this devils' carnival goes on until nightfall we shall have a revival of the old roman saturnalia at its worst!" then, with a swift blow at the heart of the matter: "you're the man i've been wanting to see; you are pretty close in with the cortwright junta--is it true that free whiskey has been dealt out to the crowd over the bar in the niquoia building?" brouillard said that he did not know, which was true, and that he could not believe it possible, which was not true. "the cortwright people are as anxious to have the celebration pass off peaceably as even you can be," he assured the young missionary, trying to buttress the thing which was not true. "when riot comes in at the door, business flies out at the window; and, after all, this feast of hurrahs is merely another bid for business." but castner was shaking his head. "i can't answer for mr. cortwright personally. he and handley and schermerhorn and a few of the others seem to stand for respectability of a sort. but, mr. brouillard, i want to tell you this: somebody in authority is grafting upon the vice of this community, not only to-day but all the time." "the community is certainly vicious enough to warrant any charge you can make," admitted brouillard. then he changed the topic abruptly. "have you seen miss massingale since noon?" "yes; i saw her with smith, the cattleman, at the other end of the avenue about an hour ago." "heavens!" gritted the engineer. "didn't smith know better than to take her down there at such a time as this?" the young missionary was frowning thoughtfully. "i think it was the other way about. her brother has been drinking again, and i took it for granted that she and smith were looking for him." brouillard buttoned his coat and pulled his soft hat over his eyes. "i'm going to look for her," he said. "will you come along?" castner nodded, and together they put their shoulders to the crowd. the slow progress northward was nearly a battle. the excursion trains returning to red butte and brewster were scheduled to leave early, and the stream of blatant, uproarious humanity was setting strongly toward the temporary railroad station. again and again the engineer and his companion had to intervene by word and blow to protect the helpless in the half-drunken, gibe-flinging crush, and in these sallies castner bore his part like a man, expostulating first and hitting out afterward in a fashion that left no doubt in the mind of his antagonist of the moment. so, struggling, they came finally to the open square of the plaza. here the speechmaking was concluded and the crowd was thinning a little. there was a clamorous demonstration of some sort going on around the band-stand, but they left it behind and pushed on into the less noisy but more dangerous region of the lower avenue. in one of the saloons, as they passed, a sudden crackling of pistol-shots began, and a mob of terrorized reclamation-service workmen poured into the street, sweeping all obstacles before it in a mad rush for safety. "it was little less than a crime to turn your laborers loose on the town on such an occasion as this," said castner, dealing out his words as frankly and openly as he did his blows. brouillard shrugged. "if i hadn't given them the day they would have taken it without leave. you'll have to pass the responsibility on to some one higher up." the militant one accepted the challenge promptly. "it lies ultimately at the door of those whose insatiate greed has built this new gomorrah in the shadow of your dam." he wheeled suddenly and flung a long arm toward the half-finished structure filling the gap between the western shoulders of chigringo and jack's mountain. "there stands the proof of god's wisdom in hiding the future from mankind, mr. brouillard. because a little section of humanity here behind that great wall knows the end of its hopes, and the manner and time of that end, it becomes demon-ridden, irreclaimable!" at another time the engineer might have felt the force of the tersely eloquent summing up of the accusation against the mirapolitan attitude. but now he was looking anxiously for amy massingale or her escort, or both of them. "surely smith wouldn't let her stay down here a minute longer than it took to get her away," he said impatiently as a pair of drunken cornishmen reeled out of haley's place and usurped the sidewalk. "where was it you saw them, castner?" "they were in front of 'pegleg john's', in the next block. miss massingale was waiting for smith, who was just coming out of pegleg's den shaking his head. i put two and two together and guessed they were looking for stephen." "if they went there miss amy had her reasons. let's try it," said brouillard, and he was half-way across the street when castner overtook him. there was a dance-hall next door to pegleg john's barrel-house and gambling rooms, and, though the daylight was still strong enough to make the electrics garishly unnecessary, the orgy was in full swing, the raucous clanging of a piano and the shuffle and stamp of many feet drowning the monotonous cries of the sidewalk "barker," who was inviting all and sundry to enter and join the dancers. castner would have stopped to question the "barker"--was, in fact, trying to make himself heard--when the sharp crash of a pistol-shot dominated the clamor of the piano and the stamping feet. brouillard made a quick dash for the open door of the neighboring barrel-house, and castner was so good a second that they burst in as one man. the dingy interior of pegleg john's, which was merely a barrel-lined vestibule leading to the gambling rooms beyond, staged a tragedy. a handsome young giant, out of whose face sudden agony had driven the brooding passion of intoxication, lay, loose-flung, on the sawdust-covered floor, with amy massingale kneeling in stricken, tearless misery beside him. almost within arm's-reach van bruce cortwright, the slayer, was wrestling stubbornly with tig smith and the fat-armed barkeeper, who were trying to disarm him, his heavy face a mask of irresponsible rage and his lips bubbling imprecations. "turn me loose," he gritted. "i'll fix him so he won't give the governor's snap away! he'll pipe the story of the coronida grant off to the papers?--not if i kill him till he's too dead to bury, i guess." castner ignored the wrestling three and dropped quickly on his knees beside stephen massingale, bracing the misery-stricken girl with the needed word of hope and directing her in low tones how to help him search for the wound. but brouillard hurled himself with an oath upon young cortwright, and it was he, and neither the cattleman nor the fat-armed barkeeper, who wrenched the weapon out of cortwright's grasp and with it menaced the babbling murderer into silence. xii quicksands a short week after the reclamation service headquarters had been moved from the log-built offices on the government reservation to the commodious and airy suite on the sixth floor of the niquoia building brouillard received the summons which he had been expecting ever since the night of rioting and lawlessness which had marked the close of the railroad celebration. "mr. cortwright would like to see you in his rooms at the metropole," was the message the office boy brought, and brouillard closed his desk with a snap and followed the boy to bongras's. the shrewd-eyed tyrant of mirapolis was in his shirt-sleeves, busily dictating to two stenographers alternately, when the engineer entered the third room of the series; but the work was suspended and the stenographers were sent away as soon as brouillard was announced. "well," was the millionaire's greeting, "you waited to be sent for, didn't you?" "why not?" said brouillard shortly. "i have my work to do and you have yours." "and the two jobs are at opposite ends of the string, you'd say. never mind; we can't afford to throw each other down, and just now you can tell me a few things that i want to know. how is young massingale getting along?" "as well as could be expected. carruthers--the doctor--says he is out of danger." "h'm. it has been handed in to me two or three times lately that the old man is out gunning for van bruce or for me. any truth in that?" "i think not. massingale is a kentuckian, and i fancy he is quite capable of potting either one or both of you for the attack on his son. but so far he has done nothing--has hardly left steve's bedside." mr. j. wesley cortwright flung himself back in his luxurious swing chair and clasped his pudgy hands over the top of his head where the reddish-gray hair was thinning reluctantly. "i've been putting it off to see which way the cat was going to jump," he admitted. "if young massingale is out of danger, it is time to get action. what was the quarrel about, between him and van bruce?" "why do you ask me?" queried brouillard. "because you are pretty thick with the massingales, and you probably know," was the blunt accounting for the question. "it occurs to me that your son would be a better source of information," said brouillard, still evading. "van bruce has told me all he remembers--which isn't much, owing to his own beastly condition at the time. he says young massingale was threatening something--something in connection with the coronida grant--and that he got the insane idea into his head that the only way to stop the threat was by killing massingale." the sandy-gray eyes of the millionaire promoter were shifting while he spoke, but brouillard fixed and held them before he said: "why should massingale threaten your son, mr. cortwright?" "i don't know," denied the promoter, and he said it without flinching a hair's-breadth. "then i can tell you," was the equally steady rejoinder. "some time ago you lent david massingale, through the bank, a pretty large sum of money for development expenses on the 'little susan,' taking a mortgage on everything in sight to cover the loan." "i did." "massingale's obligation was in short-time, bankable paper, which he expected to take up when the railroad should come in and give him a market for the ore which he has already taken out of the mine." "yes." "but when the railroad was an assured fact he learned that the red butte smelters wouldn't take his ore, giving some technical reason which he knew to be a mere excuse." mr. cortwright nodded. "so far you might be reading it out of a book." "in consequence of these successive happenings, david massingale finds himself in a fair way to become a broken man by the simplest of commercial processes. the bank holds his notes, which will presently have to be paid. if he can't pay, the bank comes back on you as his indorser, and you fall back on your mortgage and take the mine. isn't that about the size of it?" "it is exactly the size of it." brouillard laughed quietly. "and yet you said a moment ago that you didn't know why young massingale should threaten your son." "and i don't know yet," blustered the magnate. "is it my fault that massingale can't pay his debts?" the engineer had stopped laughing when he said definitely and decidedly: "it is." it was the promoter's turn to laugh. "what sort of a bug have you got in your cosmos this morning, brouillard? why, man, you're crazy!" brouillard rose and relighted his cigar. "if that is your last word, mr. cortwright, i may as well go back to my office. you don't need me." "oh, hold on; don't go off in a huff. you're too thin-skinned for any common kind of use. i was only trying you to see how far you'd carry it. let it stand. assume, for the sake of argument, that i _do_ want the 'little susan' and that i've got a good friend or two in the red butte smelters who will help me get it. now, then, does that stand the band-wagon upon its wheels again?" brouillard's black eyes were snapping, but his voice was quite steady when he said: "thank you; now we shall go on better. you want the 'little susan,' and massingale naturally thinks you're taking an unfair advantage of him to get it. quite as naturally he is going to make reprisals if he can. that brings us down to the mention of the coronida grant and stephen massingale's threat--which your son can't remember." "right-o," said mr. cortwright, still with predetermined geniality. "what was the threat?" "i don't know, but the guessing list is open to everybody. there was once a grant of many square miles of mountain and desert somewhere in this region made to one don estacio de montarriba coronida. like those of most of the great spanish land grants, the boundaries of this one were loosely described and----" mr. cortwright held up a fat hand. "i know what you're going to say. but we went into all that at washington before we ever invested a single dollar in this valley. as you may or may not know, the reclamation service bureau tried to choke us off. but when it came down to brass tacks, they lacked a witness. we may be in the bed of your proposed lake, but we're safely on coronida land." "so you say," said brouillard quietly, "and on the strength of that you have been guaranteeing titles." "oh, no," protested the millionaire. "we have merely referred purchasers to the record. there is a clause in every deed." "but you have caused it to be believed that your title was good, that the government's claim to the land will not hold." "it won't hold if we're on coronida land." "ah! just there is where massingale comes in, i imagine. he has spent twenty years or more in this region, and he knows every landmark in it. what if he should be able to put a lighted match to your pile of kindling, mr. cortwright?" the promoter pulled himself erect with a grip on either arm of the chair. "brouillard, do you know what you are talking about?" he demanded. "no; it is only a guess. but as matters stand--with your son indictable for an attempted murder ... if i were you, mr. cortwright, i believe i'd give david massingale a chance to pay those notes at the bank." "and let him blackmail me? not in a month of sundays, brouillard! let him sell his ore and pay the notes if he can. if he can't, i'll take the mine." "all right," said the visitor placably. "you asked, and i've answered. now let's come to something more vital to both of us. there is a pretty persistent rumor on the street that you and your associates succeeded in getting a resolution through both houses of congress at the last session, appointing a committee to investigate this coronida claim right here on the ground. nobody seems to have any definite details, and it possibly hasn't occurred to any one that congress hasn't been in session since mirapolis was born. but that doesn't matter. the committee is coming: you have engaged rooms for it here in bongras's. you are expecting the private-car special next week." "well?" said the magnate. "you're a pretty good kindergartner. but what of it?" "oh, nothing. only i think you might have taken me in on the little side play. what if i had gone about town contradicting the rumor?" "why should you? it's true. the congressional party will be here next week, and nobody has made any secret of it." "still, i might have been taken in," persisted brouillard suavely. "you'll surely want to give me my instructions a little beforehand, won't you? just think how easily things might get tangled. suppose i should say to somebody--to garner, for example--that the town was hugely mistaken; that no congressional committee had ever been appointed; that these gentlemen who are about to visit us are mere complaisant friends of yours, coming as your guests, on a junketing trip at your expense. wouldn't that be rather awkward?" the mayor of mirapolis brought his hands together, fist in palm, and for a flitting instant the young engineer saw in the face of the father the same expression that he had seen in the face of the son when van bruce cortwright was struggling for a second chance to kill a man. "damn you!" said the magnate savagely; "you always know too much! you're bargaining with me!" "well, you have bargained with me, first, last, and all the time," was the cool retort. "on each occasion i have had my price, and you have paid it. now you are going to pay it again. shall i go over to the _spot-light_ office and tell harlan what i know?" "you can't bluff me that way, brouillard, and you ought to sense it by this time. do you suppose i don't know how you are fixed?--that you've got money--money that you used to say you owed somebody else--tied up in mirapolis investments?" brouillard rose and buttoned his coat. "there is one weak link in your chain, mr. cortwright," he said evenly; "you don't know men. put on your coat and come over to harlan's office with me. it will take just about two minutes to satisfy you that i'm not bluffing." for a moment it appeared that the offer was to be accepted. but when he had one arm in a coat sleeve, brouillard's antagonist in the game of hardihood changed his tactics. "forget it," he growled morosely. "what do you want this time?" "i want you to send a wire to red butte telling the smelter people that you will be glad to have them handle the 'little susan' ore." "and if i do?" "if you do, two things otherwise due to happen adversely will go over to your side of the market. i'll agree to keep out of the way of the sham washington delegation, and i think i can promise that harlan won't make a scare-head of the facts concerning the coronida land titles." mr. cortwright thrust the other arm into the remaining coat sleeve and scowled. but the rebound to the norm of brusque good-nature came almost immediately. "you are improving wonderfully, brouillard, and that's no joke. i have a large respect for a man who can outbid me in my own corner. you ought to be in business--and you will be, some time. i'll send the wire, but i warn you in advance that i can't make the smelter people take massingale's ore if they don't want to. all i can do is to give the old man a free field." "that is all he will ask--all i'll ask, except one small personal favor: don't rub your masquerading washington delegation into me too hard. a fine quality of non-interference is about all you are buying from me, and----" the interruption came in the form of a tap at the door opening into the hotel corridor, and brouillard, at a sign from the master of the precincts, turned the knob. it was miss genevieve who entered, bringing the sweet breeziness and audacity of youth and beauty and health with her. "how fortunate!" she exclaimed, with the charming smile that accorded so perfectly with her fresh, early-morning radiance. and while the hand of greeting still lay in brouillard's: "i have just been up to your office, and they told me they hadn't the smallest idea where you could be found. are you going to be _very_ busy this afternoon?" brouillard gave the required denial, and she explained her quest of him. there was to be an auto party to the newly opened casino at the upper power dam. would he go, if he might have the post of honor behind the pilot-wheel of the new sixty-horse, seven-passenger flyer? _please!_ mr. cortwright leaned heavily upon his desk while the asking and answering went on, and the shrewd, gray eyes were busy. when his daughter went out and brouillard was about to follow her, the genial web spinner stopped him. "tell me one thing, brouillard: what is your stake in the massingale game? are you a silent partner in the 'little susan'?" "no." "then why are you so anxious to make old david a rich man at my expense? are you going to marry the girl?" the engineer did not resent the question as he would have resented it a few weeks earlier. instead he smiled and said: "a little while ago, mr. cortwright, i told you that you didn't know men; now i'll add that you don't know women." "i know gene," said the web spinner cryptically, and this was the word that brouillard took with him when he went back to his offices in the niquoia building. xiii flood tide public opinion, skilfully formed upon models fashioned in mayor cortwright's municipal laboratory, dealt handsomely with the little group of widely heralded visitors--the "congressional committee"--penetrating to the wonder city, not by special train, to be sure, but still with creditable circumstance in president ford's private car "nadia," attached to the regular express from brewster. for example, when it was whispered about, some days before the auspicious arrival, that the visiting lawmakers wished for no public demonstration of welcome, it was resolved, both in the city council and in the commercial club, that the wish should be rigidly respected. later, when there filtered out from the same secret source of information a hint to the effect that the committee of investigation, for the better forming of an unbiassed opinion, desired to be regarded merely as a body of representative citizens and the guests of mayor cortwright, and not as national legislators, this desire, too, was respected; and even harlan, itching to his finger-tips for something definite to print in the _spot-light_, denied himself the bare, journalistic, bread-and-butter necessity of interviewing the lawmakers. safeguarded, then, by the loyal incuriosity of an entire city, the visitors went about freely, were fêted, dined, banqueted, and entertained as distinguished citizens of the greater america; were personally conducted over the government work, and were autoed to the quadjenàï placers, to the upper valley, and to the canal diggers' camps in the buckskin, all without prejudice to the official incognito which it was understood they wished to preserve. hence, after the farewell banquet at the commercial club, at which even the toasts had ignored the official mission of mayor cortwright's guests, when the "nadia," reprovisioned and tastefully draped with the national colors, was coupled to the outgoing train in the chigringo yards, tingling curiosity still restrained itself, said nothing and did nothing until the train had stormed out on the beginning of its steep climb to war arrow pass. then the barriers went down. in less than half an hour after the departure of the visitors, the _spot-light_ office was besieged by eager tip hunters, and the metropole café and lobby were thronged and buzzing like the compartments of an anxious beehive. harlan stood the pressure at the newspaper office as long as he could. then he slipped out the back way and prevailed upon bongras to smuggle him up to mr. cortwright's rooms. here there was another anxious deputation in waiting, but harlan's card was honored at once. "news!" gasped the editor, when he had broken into the privacies. "they're about to mob us over at the office, and the town will go crazy if it can't be given at least a hint of what the committee's report is likely to be. i tell you, mr. cortwright, it's panic, or the biggest boom we ever dreamed of!" "sit down, harlan," said the great man calmly, pushing the open box of cigars across the desk to the editor; "sit down and get a fresh grip on your nerves. there will be no panic; of that you can be absolutely certain. but, on the other hand, we mustn't kick the fat into the fire when everything is going our way. naturally, i am under bonds to keep my mouth shut until after the committee has made its report. i can't even give you the hint you want. but i will say this--and you can put it in an interview if you like: i'm not refusing anything in the shape of mirapolis realty at ruling prices. that's all i can say at present." harlan was hustled out, as he had been hustled in, half dazed and wholly in despair. there was a light in brouillard's office on the sixth floor of the niquoia building, and thither he went, hoping against hope, for latterly the chief of the reclamation service had been more than usually reticent. "what do you know, brouillard?" was the form his demand took when, finding that the elevator had stopped, he had dragged himself up the five flights of stairs. "i'm up against it good and hard if i can't print something in to-morrow's paper." "go to cortwright," suggested the engineer. "he's your man." "just come from him, and i couldn't get a thing there except his admission that he is buying instead of selling." "well, what more do you want? haven't you any imagination?" "plenty of it, and, by gad, i'm going to use it unless you put it to sleep! tell me a few correlative things, brouillard, and i'll make a noise like going away. is it true that you've had orders from washington within the past few days to cut your force on the dam one half?" the engineer was playing with the paper-knife, absently marking little circles and ellipses on his desk blotter, and the ash on his cigar grew a full quarter of an inch before he replied: "not for publication, harlan, i'm sorry to say." "but you have the order?" "yes." "do you know the reason why it was given?" "i do." "is it a good reason?" "it is a very excellent reason, indeed." "does the order cover more than the work on the dam?" "yes; it extends to the canal diggers in the buckskin." "good. then i'll ask only one more question, and if you answer it at all i know you'll tell me the truth: are you, individually, buying or selling on the real estate exchange? take your time, brouillard, but, for god's sake, don't turn me down." brouillard did take time, plenty of it. over and over the point of the paper-knife traced the creased circles and ellipses, and the ash on the slowly burning cigar grew longer. harlan was a student of men, but his present excitement was against him. otherwise he could not have stared so long and so intently at brouillard's face without reading therein the record of the soul struggle his final question had evoked. and if he had read, he would have interpreted differently the quick flinging down of the paper-cutter, and the sudden hardening of the jaw muscles when brouillard spoke. "i'm buying, harlan; when i sell it is only to buy again." the newspaper man rose and held out his hand. "you're a man and a brother, brouillard, and i'm your friend for life. with only a fraction of your chance at inside information, i've stayed on the up-hill side, straight through, myself. and i'll tell you why. i've banked on you. i've said to myself that it was safe for me to wade around in the edges if you could plunge out in the sure-enough swimming-hole. i'm going to stay until you give me the high sign to crawl out on the bank. is that asking too much?" "no. if the time ever comes when i have anything to say, i'll say it to you. but don't lose sight of the 'if,' and don't lean too hard on me. i'm a mighty uncertain quantity these days, harlan, and that's the truest thing i've told you since you butted in. good-night." mirapolis awoke to a full sense of its opportunities on the morning following the departure of its distinguished guests. though the _spot-light_ was unable to say anything conclusively definite, harlan had made the most of what he had; and, trickling in from a dozen independent sources, as it seemed, came jubilant confirmation of the _spot-light's_ optimistic editorials. in such a crisis all men are liars. now that the visiting delegation was gone, there were scores of witnesses willing to testify that the honorable tom, dick, or harry had dropped the life-giving word; and though each fictionist knew that his own story was a fabrication, it was only human to believe that of the man with whom he exchanged the whispered confidence. to the lies and the exaggerations was presently added a most convincing truth. by ten o'clock it was the talk of the lobbies, the club, and the exchanges that the reclamation service was already abandoning the work on the great dam. one half of the workmen were to be discharged at once, and doubtless the other half would follow as soon as the orders could come from washington. appealed to by a mob of anxious inquirers, brouillard did not deny the fact of the discharges, and thereupon the city went mad in a furor of speculative excitement in comparison with which the orgy of the gold discoverers paled into insignificance. "curb" exchanges sprang into being in the metropole lobby, in the court of the niquoia building, and at a dozen street corners on the avenue. word went to the placers, and by noon the miners had left their sluice-boxes and were pouring into town to buy options at prices that would have staggered the wildest plunger otherwhere, or at any other time. brouillard closed his desk at one o'clock and went to fight his way through the street pandemonium to bongras's. at a table in the rear room he found david massingale, his long, white beard tucked into the closely buttoned miner's coat to be out of the way of the flying knife and fork, while he gave a lifelike imitation of a man begrudging every second of time wasted in stopping the hunger gap. brouillard took the opposite chair and was grimly amused at the length of time that elapsed before massingale realized his presence. "pity a man has to stop to eat on a day like this, isn't it, mr. massingale?" he laughed; and then: "i wouldn't hurry. there's another day coming; or if there isn't, we'll all be in the same boat. how is steve?" massingale nodded. "the boy's comin' along all right now; he allows to be out in another week 'r two." then the inevitable question: "they're sayin' on the street that you're lettin' out half o' your men--that so?" brouillard laughed again. "i've heard it so often that i've come to believe it myself," he admitted, adding: "yes, it's true." after which he asked a question of his own: "have you been doing something in real estate this morning, mr. massingale?" "all i could," mumbled the old man between mouthfuls. "but i cayn't do much. if it ain't one thing, it's another. 'bout as soon as i got that tangle with the red butte smelter straightened out, the railroad hit me." "how was that?" queried brouillard, with quickening interest coming alive at a bound. "same old song, no cars; try and get 'em to-morruh, and to-morruh it'll be next day, and next day it'll be the day after. looks like they don't _want_ to haul any freight _out_ o' here." "i see," said brouillard, and truly he saw much more than david massingale did. then: "no shipments means no money for you, and more delay; and delay happens to be the one thing you can't stand. when do those notes of yours fall due?" "huh?" said massingale. he was a close-mouthed man, by breeding and by habit, and he was quite sure he had never mentioned the "little susan" entanglement to the young engineer. brouillard became more explicit. "the notes covering your indebtedness to the bank for the money you've been putting into development work and improvements--i asked when they would become due." the old man's heavy white eyebrows bent themselves in a perplexed frown. "amy hadn't ort to talk so much," he objected. "business is business." brouillard's smile was a tacit denial of the implication. "you forget that there were several other parties to the transaction and that any man's business is every man's in this crazy town," he suggested. "but you haven't answered my question about the due date. i didn't ask it out of idle curiosity, i assure you." massingale was troubled, and his fine old face showed it plainly. "i ain't much of a man to holler when i've set the woods afire myself," he answered slowly. "but i don't know why i shouldn't yip a little to you if i feel like it. to-day is the last day on them notes, and i'd about made up my mind that i was goin' up the spout on a sure thing for the fourth time since i hit the mount'ins, when this here new excitement broke out." "go on," said brouillard. "i saw a chance--about a one-to-a-hundred shot. i'd been to see hardwick at the bank, and he gave me the ultimaytum good and cold; if i couldn't lift the paper, the bank'd have to go back on my indorser, john wes. i had a little over five thousand left out o' the borray, and i took it and broke for the real estate exchange. been there for three solid hours, turnin' my little stake over like a flapjack on a hot griddle; but it ain't any use, i cayn't turn it fast enough, 'r often enough, betwixt now and three o'clock." one of bongras's rear-room luxuries was a portable telephone for every group of tables. brouillard made a sign to the waiter, and the desk set was brought to him. if david massingale recognized the number asked for, he paid no attention; and, since a man may spend his life digging holes in the ground and still retain the instincts of a gentleman--if he happens to have been born with them--he was equally oblivious to the disjointed half of the telephone conversation he might have listened to. "hello! is that boyer--niquoia national?... this is brouillard. can you give me my present figure?... not more than that?... oh, yes; you say the hillman check is in; i had overlooked it. all right, thank you." when the waiter had removed the desk set, the engineer leaned toward his table companion: "mr. massingale, i'm going to ask you to tell me frankly what kind of a deal it was you made with cortwright and the bank people." "it was the biggest tom-fool razzle that any livin' live man out of a lunatic 'sylum ever went into," confessed the prisoner of fate. "i was to stock the 'susan' for half a million--oh, she's worth it, every dollar of it; you might say the ore's in sight for it right now"--this in deference to brouillard's brow-lifting of surprise. "they was to put in a hundred thousand cash, and i was to put in the mine and the ore on the dump, just as she stood." the engineer nodded and massingale went on. "i was to have two thirds of the stock and they was to have one third. the hundred thousand for development we'd get at the bank, on my notes, because i was president and the biggest stockholder, with john wes. as indorser. then, to protect the bank accordin' to law, they said, we'd put the whole bunch o' stock--mine and their'n--into escrow in the hands of judge williams. when the notes was paid, the judge'd hand the stock back to us." "just a moment," interrupted brouillard. "did you sign those notes personally, or as president of the new company?" "that's where they laid for me," said the old man shamefacedly. "we made the money turn before we _was_ a company--while we was waitin' for the charter." "of course," commented brouillard. "and they rushed you into it on the plea of saving time. but you say the stock was to be released when the notes were paid--what was to happen if they were not paid?" "right there is where john wes.'s ten-dollar-a-bottle sody-pop stuff we was soppin' up must 'a' foolished me plumb silly; i don't just rightly recollect _what_ the judge was to do with the stock if i fell down. i know it was talked all 'round robin hood's barn, up one side and down the other, and they made it look like i couldn't slip up if i tried to. and they made the borray at the bank look fair enough, too." "well, why wasn't it fair?" brouillard wanted to know. "why, sufferin' moses! don't you see? it hadn't ort to 've been needed. _they_ was to put in a hundred thousand, and they wasn't doin' it. it figgered out this-a-way in the talk: they said, what's the use o' takin' the money out o' one pocket and puttin' it into the other? let the bank carry the development loan and let the mine pay it. then we could even up when it come to the dividends." "so it amounts to this: you have given them a clean third of the 'susan' for the mere privilege of borrowing one hundred thousand dollars on your own paper. and if you don't pay, you lose the remaining two thirds as well." "that's about the way it stacks up to a sober man. looks like i needed a janitor to look after my upper story, don't it? and i reckon mebby i do." "one thing more," pressed the relentless querist. "did you really handle the hundred-thousand-dollar development fund yourself, mr. massingale?" "well, no; not exactly. ten thousand dollars of what they called a 'contingent fund' was put in my name; but the treasurer handled most of it--nachurly, we bein' a stock company." "who is your treasurer?" "feller with just one share o' stock--parker jackson." "humph! cortwright's private secretary. and he has spent ninety thousand dollars on the 'little susan' in sixty days? not much! what has your pay-roll been?" "'bout five hundred a week." "that is to say between three and four thousand dollars for the two months--call it five thousand. now, let's see--" brouillard took out his pencil and began to make figures on the back of the _menu_ card. he knew the equipment of the "little susan," and his specialty was the making of estimates. hence he was able to say, after a minute or two of figuring: "thirty thousand dollars will amply cover your new equipment: power drills, electric transfers, and the cheap telpherage plant. have you ever seen any vouchers for the money spent?" "no. had i ort to?" "well, rather--as president of the company." massingale tucked the long white beard still farther into the buttoned coat. "i been tellin' you i need a mule-driver to knock a little sense into me," he offered. "it's a bad business any way you attack it," said brouillard after a reflective pause. "what you have really got for yourself out of the deal is the ten-thousand-dollar deposit to your personal account, and nothing more; and they'll probably try to make you a debtor for that. taking that amount and a fair estimate of the company's expenditures to date--say thirty-five thousand in round numbers, which is fairly chargeable to the company's assets as a whole--they still owe you about fifty-five thousand of the original hundred thousand they were to put in. if there were time--but you say this is the last day?" "the last half o' the last day," massingale amended. "i was going to say, if there were time, this thing wouldn't stand the light of day for a minute, mr. massingale. they wouldn't go within a hundred miles of a court of law with it. can't you get an extension on the notes?--but of course you can't; that is just the one thing cortwright doesn't want you to have--more time." "no; you bet he don't." "that being the case, there is no help for it; you'll have to take your medicine and pay the notes. do that, take an iron-clad receipt from the bank--i'll write it out for you--and get the stock released. after that, we'll give them a whirl for the thirty-three and a third per cent they have practically stolen from you." the old man's face, remindful now of his daughter's, was a picture of dismayed incertitude. "i reckon you're forgettin' that i hain't got money enough to lift one edge o' them notes," he said gently. brouillard had found a piece of blank paper in his pocket and was rapidly writing the "iron-clad" receipt. "no, i hadn't forgotten. i have something over a hundred thousand dollars lying idle in the bank. you'll take it and pay the notes." it was a bolt out of a clear sky for the old man tottering on the brink of his fourth pit of disaster, and he evinced his emotion--and the tense strain of keyed-up nerves--by dropping his lifted coffee-cup with a crash into his plate. the little accident was helpful in its way,--it made a diversion,--and by the time the wreck was repaired speech was possible. "are you--are you _plumb_ sure you can spare it?" asked the debtor huskily. and then: "i cayn't seem to sort o' surround it--all in a bunch, that way. i knowed j. wesley had me down; knowed it in less 'n a week after he sprung his trap. he wanted the 'little sue,' wanted it worse 'n a little yaller dog ever wanted his supper. do you know why? i can tell you. after you get your dam done, and every dollar of the make-believe money this cussed town's built on has gone to the bottom o' the dead sea, the 'susan' will still be joggin' along, forty dollars to the ton. it's the only piece o' real money in this whole blamed free-for-all, and j. wes. knows it." brouillard looked at his watch. "when you're through we'll go around to the bank and fix it up. there's no hurry. i've got to ride down to the buckskin camps, but i don't care to start much before two." massingale nodded, but his appetite was gone, and speech with it, the one grateful outburst having apparently drained the well. but after they had made their way through the excited sidewalk exchanges to the bank, and brouillard had written his check, the old man suddenly found his voice again. "you say you're goin' down to the buckskin right away? how 'm i goin' to secure you for this?" "we can talk about that later on, after i come back. the thing to do now is to get those notes cancelled and that stock released before bank-closing time." still david massingale, with the miraculously sent bit of rescue paper in his hand, hesitated. "there's one other thing--and i've got to spit it out before it's everlastedly too late. see here, victor brouillard--amy likes you--thinks a heap of you; a plumb blind man could see that. but say, that little girl o' mine has just natchurly _got_ to have a free hand when it comes to pairin' up, and she won't never have if she finds out about this. you ain't allowin' to use it on her, victor?" brouillard laughed. "i'll make a hedging bet and break even with you, mr. massingale," he said. "that check is drawn to my order, and i have indorsed it. let me have it again and i'll get the cash for you. in that way only the two of us need know anything about the transaction; and if i promise to keep the secret from miss amy, you must promise to keep it from mr. j. wesley cortwright. will you saw it off with me that way?--until you've made the turn on the ore sales?" david massingale shook hands on it with more gratitude, colored this time with a hearty imprecation. "dad burn you, victor brouillard, you're a man--ever' single mill-run of you!" he burst out. but brouillard shook his head gravely. "no, mr. massingale, i'm the little yellow dog you mentioned a while back," he asserted, and then he went to get the money. the check cashed and the transfer of the money made, brouillard did not wait to see massingale astonish the niquoia national cashier. nor did he remark the curious change that came into the old man's face at the pocketing of the thick sheaf of bank-notes. but he added a word of comment and another of advice before leaving the bank. "the day fits us like a glove," was the comment. "with all the money that is changing hands in the street, hardwick won't wonder at your sudden raise or at my check." then he put in the word of warning: "i suppose you'll be dabbling a little in mirapolis options after you get this note business out of the way? it's all right--i'd probably do it myself if i didn't have to leave town. but just one word in your ear, mr. massingale: buy and _sell--don't hold_. that's all. good-by, and good luck to you." left alone in the small retiring room of the bank where the business had been transacted, david massingale took the sheaf of bank-notes from his pocket with trembling hands, fondling it as a miser might. the bills were in large denominations, and they were new and stiff. he thumbed the end of the thick packet as one runs the leaves of a book, and the flying succession of big figures seemed to dazzle him. there was an outer door to the customers' room giving upon the side street; it was the one through which brouillard had passed. twice the old man made as if he would turn toward the door of egress, and the light in his gray-blue eyes was the rekindling flame of a passion long denied. but in the end he thrust the tempting sheaf back into the inner pocket and went resolutely to the cashier's counter window. expecting to have to do with hardwick, the brusque and business-like cashier, massingale was jarred a little aside from his own predetermined attitude by finding schermerhorn, the president, sitting at the cashier's desk. but from the banker's first word the change seemed to be altogether for the better. "how are you, mr. massingale? glad to see you. how is the boy getting along? first rate, i hope?" massingale was looking from side to side, like a gray old hawk disappointed in its swoop. it would have been some satisfaction to buffet the exacting hardwick with the fistful of money. but with schermerhorn the note lifting would figure as a mere bit of routine. "i've come to take up them notes o' mine with john wes.'s name on 'em," massingale began, pulling out the thick sheaf of redemption money. "oh, yes; let me see; are they due to-day?" said the president, running over the note portfolio. massingale nodded. "h'm, yes, here they are. brought the cash, did you? the 'little susan' has begun to pan out, has it? i didn't know you had commenced shipping ore yet." "we haven't." david massingale made the admission and regretted it in one and the same breath. "you've borrowed to meet these notes?" queried the president, looking up quickly. "that won't do, mr. massingale; that won't do at all. we can't afford to lose an old customer that way. what's the matter with our money? doesn't it look good to you any more?" massingale stammered out something about cashier hardwick's peremptory demand of a few hours earlier, but he was not permitted to finish. "of course, that is all right from hardwick's point of view. he was merely looking out for the maturing paper. how much more time will you need to enable you to get returns from your shipments? sixty days? all right, you needn't make out new notes; i'll indorse the extension on the back of these, and i'll undertake to get cortwright's approval myself. no; not a word, mr. massingale. as long as you're borrowing, you must be loyal and borrow of us. good afternoon. come again when we can help you out." david massingale turned away, dazed and confused beyond the power of speech. when the mists of astoundment cleared he found himself in the street with the thick wad of bank-notes still in his pocket. suddenly, out of the limbo into which two years of laborious discipline and self-denial had pushed it stalked the demon of the ruling passion, mighty, overpowering, unconquerable. the familiar street sights danced before massingale's eyes, and there was a drumming in his ears like the fall of many waters. but above the clamor rose the insistent voice of the tempter, and the voice was at once a command and an entreaty, a gnawing hunger and a parching thirst. "by gash! i'd like to try that old system o' mine jest one more time!" he muttered. "all it takes is money enough to foller it up and _stay_. and i've _got_ the money. besides, didn't brouillard say i was to get an extension if i could?" he grabbed at his coat to be sure that the packet was still there, took two steps toward the bank, stopped, turned as if in the grasp of an invisible but irresistible captor, and moved away, like a man walking in his sleep, toward the lower avenue. it was the doorway of haley's place, the monte carlo of the niquoia, that finally halted him. here the struggle was so fierce that the bartender, who knew him, named it sickness and led the stricken one to a card-table in the public bar-room and fetched him a drink. a single swallow of whiskey turned the scale. massingale rose, tossed a coin to the bar, and passed quickly to the rear, where a pair of baize doors opened silently and engulfed him. xiv the abyss it was at early candle-lighting in the evening of the day of renewed and unbridled speculation in mirapolis "front feet" that brouillard, riding the piebald range pony on which he had been making an inspection round of the nearer buckskin ditchers' camps, topped the hill in the new, high-pitched road over the chigringo shoulder and looked down upon the valley electrics. the immediate return to mirapolis was no part of the plan he had struck out when he had closed his office in the niquoia building at one o'clock and had gone over to bongras's to fall into the chance encounter with david massingale. he had intended making a complete round of all the ditch camps, a ride which would have taken at least three days, and after parting from massingale at the bank he had left town at once, taking the new road which began on the bench of the railroad yard. but almost immediately a singular thing had happened. before he had gone a mile a strange reluctance had begun to beset him. at first it was merely a haunting feeling of loss, as if he had left something behind, forgetting when he should have remembered; a thing of sufficient importance to make him turn and ride back if he could only recall what it was. farther along the feeling became a vague premonition of impending disaster, growing with every added mile of the buckskin gallopings until, at overton's camp, a few miles short of the triangle-circle ranch headquarters, he had yielded and had set out for the return. if the curious premonition had been a drag on the outward journey it became a spur to quicken the eastward faring. even the piebald pony seemed to share the urgency, needing only a loose rein and an encouraging word. across the yellow sands of the desert, through the lower ford of the niquoia, and up the outlet gorge the willing little horse tossed the miles to the rear, and at the hill-topping moment, when the electric lights spread themselves in the valley foreground like stars set to illuminate the chess-board squares of the wonder city, a record gallop had been made from overton's. brouillard let the pony set its own pace on the down-hill lap to the finish, and it was fast enough to have jolted fresh road weariness into a less seasoned rider than the young engineer. most curiously, the premonition with its nagging urgency seemed to vanish completely as soon as the city's streets were under hoof. brouillard left the horse at the reservation stables, freshened himself at his rooms in the niquoia building, and went to the metropole to eat his dinner, all without any recurrence of the singular symptoms. further, when he found himself at a table with murray grislow as his _vis-à-vis_, and had invented a plausible excuse for his sudden return, he was able to enjoy his dinner with a healthy wayfarer's appetite and to talk over the events of the exciting day with the hydrographer with few or none of the abstracted mental digressions. afterward, however, the symptoms returned, manifesting themselves this time in the form of a vague and undefined restlessness. the buzzing throngs in the metropole café and lobby annoyed him, and even grislow's quiet sarcasm as applied to the day's bubble-blowing failed to clear the air. at the club there was the same atmosphere of unrest; an exacerbating overcharge of the suppressed activities impatiently waiting for another day of excitement and opportunity. corner lots and the astounding prices they had commanded filled the air in the lounge, the billiard room, and the buffet, and after a few minutes brouillard turned his back on the hubbub and sought the quiet of the darkened building on the opposite side of the street. he was alone in his office on the sixth floor and was trying, half absently, to submerge himself in a sea of desk-work when the disturbing over-thought suddenly climaxed in an occurrence bordering on the supernatural. as distinctly as if she were present and at his elbow, he heard, or seemed to hear, amy massingale say: "victor, you said you would come if i needed you: i need you now." without a moment's hesitation he got up and made ready to go out. skeptical to the derisive degree of other men's superstitions, it did not occur to him to doubt the reality of the mysterious summons, or to question in any way his own broad admission of the supernatural in the prompt obedience. the massingale town house was one of a row of stuccoed villas fronting on the main residence street, which beyond the city limits became the highroad to the quadjenàï bend and the upper valley. brouillard took a cab at the metropole, dismissed it at the villa gate, and walked briskly up the path to the house, which was dark save for one lighted room on the second floor--the room in which stephen massingale was recovering from the effects of van bruce cortwright's pistol-shot. amy massingale was on the porch--waiting for him, as he fully believed until her greeting sufficiently proved her surprise at seeing him. "you, victor?" she said, coming quickly to meet him. "murray grislow said you had gone down to the buckskin camps and wouldn't be back for two or three days!" "grizzy told the truth--as it stood a few hours ago," he admitted. "but i changed my mind and came back. how is steve this evening?" "he is quite comfortable, more comfortable than he has been at all since the wound began to heal. i have been reading him to sleep, and when the night nurse came i ran down to get a breath of fresh air in the open." "no, you didn't come down for that reason," brouillard amended gravely. "you came to meet me." "did i?" she asked. "what makes you think that?" "i don't think; i _know_. you called me, and i heard you and came at once." "how absurd!" she protested. "i knew, or thought i knew, that you were miles away, over in the buckskin; and how could i call you?" brouillard pulled out his watch and scanned its face by the light of the roadway electric. "it is exactly twenty minutes since i left my office. what were you doing twenty minutes ago?" "as if i could tell! i don't believe i have looked at a clock or a watch all evening. after stevie had his supper i read to him--one of the creepy kipling stories that he is so fond of. you would say that 'bimi' would be just about the last thing in the world to put anybody to sleep, wouldn't you? but stevie dropped off, and i think i must have lost myself for a minute or two, because the next thing i knew the nurse was in the room." "i know what happened," said brouillard, speaking as soberly as if he were stating a mathematical certainty. "you left that room up-stairs and came to me. i didn't see you, but i heard you as plainly as i can hear you now. you spoke to me and called me by name." "what did i say? can you remember the words?" "indeed i can. the room was perfectly still, and i was working at my desk. suddenly, and without any warning, i heard your voice saying: 'victor, you said you would come if i needed you: i need you now.'" she shook her head, laughing lightly. "you have been overwrought about something, or maybe you are just plain tired. i didn't say or even think anything like that; or if i did, it must have been the other i, or one of the others, that herr freiborg writes about--and i don't believe in. this i that you are talking to doesn't remember anything about it." "you are standing me off," he declared. "you are in trouble of some sort, and you are trying to hide it from me." "no, not exactly trouble; only a little worry." "all right, call it worry if you like and share it with me. what is it?" "i think you know without being told--or you will know when i say that to-day was the day when the big debt to the bank became due. i am afraid we have finally lost the 'little susan.' that is one of the worries and the other i've been trying to call silly. i don't know what has become of father--as if he weren't old enough to go and come without telling me every move he makes!" "your father isn't at home?" gasped brouillard. "no; he hasn't been here since nine o'clock this morning. murray grislow saw him going into the metropole about one o'clock, but nobody that i have been able to reach by 'phone seems to have seen him after that." "i can bring the record down to two o'clock," was the quick reply. "he ate with me at bongras's, and afterward i walked with him as far as the bank. and i can cure part of the first worry--all of it, in fact; he had the money to take up the cortwright notes, and when i left him he was on his way to hardwick's window to do it." "_he had the money?_ where did he get it?" brouillard put his back against a porch post, a change of position which kept the light of the street electric from shining squarely upon his face. "it has been another of the get-rich-quick days in mirapolis," he said evasively. "somebody told me that the corner opposite poodles's was bought and sold three times within a single hour and that each time the price was doubled." "and you are trying to tell me that father made a hundred thousand dollars just in those few hours by buying and selling mirapolis lots? you don't know him, victor. he is totally lacking the trading gift. he has often said that he couldn't stand on a street corner and sell twenty-dollar gold pieces at nineteen dollars apiece--nobody would buy of him." "nevertheless, i am telling you that he had the money to take up those notes," brouillard insisted. "i saw it in his hands." she left him abruptly and began to pace back and forth on the porch, with her hands behind her, an imitative trait unconsciously copying her father in his moments of stress. when she stopped she stood fairly in the beam of the street light. the violet eyes were misty, and in the low voice there was a note of deeper trouble. "you say you saw the money in father's hands; tell me, victor, did you see him pay it into the bank?" "why, no; not the final detail. but, as i say, when i left him he was on his way to hardwick's window." again she turned away, but this time it was to dart into the house. a minute later she had rejoined him, and the minute had sufficed for the donning of a coat and the pinning on of the quaint cow-boy riding-hat. "i must go and find him," she said with quiet resolution. "will you go with me, victor? perhaps that is why i--the subconscious i--called you a little while ago. let's not wait for the quadjenàï car. i'd rather walk, and we'll save time." they set out together, walking rapidly townward, and there was no word to go with the brisk footing. brouillard respected his companion's silence. that the thing unspeakable, or at least unspoken, was something more than a woman's undefined fears was obvious; but until she should see fit to tell him what it was, he would not question her. from the moment of outsetting the young woman's purpose seemed clearly defined. by the shortest way she indicated the course to the avenue, and at the metropole corner she turned unhesitatingly to the northward--toward the region of degradation. as was to be expected after the day of frantic speculation and quick money changing, the lower avenue was ablaze with light, the sidewalks were passes of peril, and the saloons and dives were reaping a rich harvest. luckily, brouillard was well known, and his position as chief of the great army of government workmen purchased something like immunity for himself and his companion. but more than once he was on the point of begging the young woman to turn back for her own sake. the quest ended unerringly at the door of haley's place, and when david massingale's daughter made as if she would go in, brouillard protested quickly. "no, amy," he said firmly. "you mustn't go in there. let me take you around to the metropole, and then i'll come back alone." "i have been in worse places," she returned in low tones. and then, with her voice breaking tremulously: "be my good friend just a little longer, victor!" he took her arm and walked her into the garishly lighted bar-room, bracing himself militantly for what might happen. but nothing happened. dissipation of the western variety seldom sinks below the level of a certain rude gallantry, quick to recognize the good and pure in womankind. instantly a hush fell upon the place. the quartets at the card-tables held their hands, and a group of men drinking at the bar put down their glasses. one, a tri'-circ' cow-boy with his back turned, let slip an oath, and in a single swift motion his nearest comrade garroted him with a hairy arm, strangling him to silence. [illustration: "it's all gone, little girl; it's all gone!"] as if guided by the same unerring instinct which had made her choose haley's out of a dozen similar hells, amy massingale led brouillard swiftly to the green baize doors at the rear of the bar-room. at her touch the swinging doors gave inward, and her goal was reached. three faro games, each with its inlaid table, its impassive dealer, its armed "lookout," and its ring of silent players, lay beyond the baize doors. at the nearest of the tables there was a stir, and the dealer stopped running the cards. somebody said, "let him get out," and then an old man, bearded, white-haired, wild-eyed, and haggard almost beyond recognition, pushed his chair away from the table and stumbled to his feet, his hands clutching the air like those of a swimmer sinking for the last time. with a low cry the girl darted across the intervening space to clasp the staggering old man in her arms and draw him away. brouillard stood aside as they came slowly toward the doors which he was holding open for them. he saw the distorted face-mask of a soul in torment and heard the mumbling repetition of the despairing words, "it's all gone, little girl; it's all gone!" and then he removed himself quickly beyond the range of the staring, unseeing eyes. for in the lightning flash of revealment he realized that once again the good he would have done had turned to hideous evil in the doing, and that this time the sword thrust of the blind-passion impulse had gone straight to the heart of love itself. xv the setting of the ebb contrary to the most sanguine expectations of the speculators--contrary, perhaps, even to those of mr. j. wesley cortwright--the upward surge in mirapolis values, following the visit of the "distinguished citizens," proved to be more than a tidal wave: it was a series of them. the time was fully ripe for the breaking down of the final barriers of prudence and common-place sanity. day after day the "curb" markets were reopened, with prices mounting skyward; and when the news of how fortunes could be made in a day in the miracle city of the niquoia got abroad in the press despatches there was a fresh influx of mad money hunters from the east, and the merry game of buying and selling that which, inferentially at least, had no legal existence, went on with ever-increasing activity and an utterly reckless disregard of values considered as a basis for future returns on the investment. now, if never before, the croaker was wrathfully shouted down and silenced. no one admitted, or seemed to admit, the possible impermanence of the city. so far from it, the boast was made openly that mirapolis had fairly out-stripped the reclamation service in the race for supremacy, and that among the first acts passed by congress on its reassembling would be one definitely annulling the buckskin desert project, or, at any rate, so much of it as might be threatening the existence of the great gold camp in the niquoia valley. to the observer, anxious or casual, there appeared to be reasonable grounds for the optimistic assertion. it was an indubitable fact that brouillard's force had been cut down, first to one half, and later to barely enough men to keep the crushers and mixers moving and to add fresh layers of concrete to the huge wall of sufficient quantities to prevent the material--in technical phrase--from "dying." true, in the new furor of buying and selling and booming it was not remarked that the discharged government employees uniformly disappeared from the city and the valley as soon as they were stricken from the time rolls. true, also, was the fact that brouillard said nothing for publication, and little otherwise, regarding the successive reductions in his working force. but in such periods of insanity it is only the favorable indications which are marked and emphasized. the work on the great dam was languishing visibly, as every one could see. the navajos had been sent home to their reservation, the tepees were gone, and two thirds of the camp shacks were empty. past these material facts, plainly to be seen and weighed and measured by any who would take the time to consider them, there was a strictly human argument which was even more significant. it was known to everybody in the frenzied marketplace that brouillard himself was, according to his means, one of the most reckless of the plungers, buying, borrowing, and buying again as if the future held no threat of a possible _débâcle_. it was an object-lesson for the timid. those who did not themselves know certainly argued that there must be a few who did know, and among these few the chief of the reclamation service must be in the very foremost rank. "you just keep your eye on brouillard and steer your own boat accordingly," was the way editor harlan put it to one of the timid ones. "he knows it all, backward and forward, and from the middle both ways; you can bet your final dollar on that. and you mustn't expect him to talk. in his position he can't talk; one of the things he is drawing his salary for is to keep his mouth shut. besides, what a man may say doesn't necessarily count for much. it is what he does." thus harlan, speaking, as it were, in his capacity of a public dispenser of the facts. but for himself he was admitting a growing curiosity about the disappearing workmen, and this curiosity broke ground one evening when he chanced to meet brouillard at the club. "somebody was telling me that you let out another batch of your buckskin ditch diggers to-day, brouillard," he began. and then, without any bush beating, the critical question was fired point-blank: "what becomes of all these fellows you are dropping? they don't stay in town or go to the mines--not one of them." "don't they?" said brouillard with discouraging brevity. "you know mighty well they don't. and they don't even drift out like other people; they go in bunches." "anything else remarkable up your sleeve?" was the careless query. "yes; conlan, the railroad ticket agent, started to tell me yesterday that they were going out on government transportation--that they didn't buy tickets like ordinary folks; started to tell me, i say, because he immediately took it back and fell all over himself trying to renege." "you are a born gossip, harlan, but i suppose you can't help it. did no one ever tell you that a part of the government contract with these laborers includes transportation back to civilization when they are discharged?" "no, not by a jugful!" retorted the newspaper man. "and you're not telling me so now. for some purpose of your own you are asking me to believe it without being told. i refuse. this is the closed season, and the fish are not biting." brouillard laughed easily. "you are trying mighty hard to make a mountain out of a mole-hill. you say the men clear out when they are discharged--isn't that about what you'd do if you were out of a job?" "not with such unfailing unanimity if there were several hundred of me. mirapolis isn't such an infernally good place to go away from--not yet." brouillard's smile matched the easy-going laugh which had been its forerunner. "you are a most persistent gadfly, harlan. if i tell you one small, trifling, and safely uninflammable fact, can i trust you not to turn it into a house afire in the columns of the _spot-light_?" "you know well enough you can!" was the eager protest. "when have i ever bleated when i should have kept still?" "well, then, the fact is this: the men leaving the niquoia are not discharged from the service. they are merely transferred to the escalante project, which the department is trying to push through to completion before the northern winter sets in and freezes the concrete in the mixers." "ah!" said harlan with a quick indrawing of his breath. "that brings on more talk--about a thousand miles of it, doesn't it?" "for example?" suggested the engineer. "to put it baldly, is the government really quitting on the niquoia project, or is it merely transferring its force from a job that can wait to one that can't wait?" brouillard smiled again. "you see," he said; "it is second nature for you pencil-pushers to try to make two facts grow where only one grew before. honestly, now, harlan, what do you think about it yourself? you don't need any kindergartner of a construction man to help you solve a little problem like that, do you?" "i'm doing a little sum in simple equations," was the thoughtful answer--"putting this bit of information which you have just given me against what i have been believing to be a pretty straight tip from washington." "what is your tip?" "it's this: that congress does really propose to interfere in behalf of mirapolis." "how can any one predict that when congress is not in session?" "the tip asserts that the string-pulling is all done. it will be a quiet bit of special legislation smuggled through, i suppose, like the bills for private relief. all it will need will be the recommendation and backing of a handful of western members and senators. nobody else is very vitally interested, outside of your own department, and there are always plenty of clubs at hand for killing off department opposition--threats of cutting down the appropriations and so on. properly engineered, the mirapolis bill will go through like a greased pig under a gate. you know it will." "you say nobody else is vitally interested--that's a mistake big enough to be called a crime," said brouillard with emphasis. "the reclamation of the buckskin desert is a matter of moment to the entire nation. its failure would be a public disaster." harlan laughed derisively. "you are talking through your hat now--the salaried government engineer's hat. let your topographers go out and find some other stream to dam up. let them hunt up some other desert to reclaim. the supply of arid lands isn't exhausted yet by a good bit." brouillard appeared to be silenced even if he were not fully convinced. after a time, however, he dropped in another query. "how straight is your tip, harlan?" "so straight that i'd print it in to-morrow's _spot-light_ if i wasn't afraid of queering the deal by being too previous. the necessary backing has been secured, and the bill is already prepared. if you don't believe it, ask your own big bosses in washington." "you are certain that your information didn't originate right here in mirapolis--in mr. cortwright's office, to locate it more exactly?" "it didn't; it came from a purely personal source and direct from washington." "and the source couldn't possibly have become contaminated by the cortwright germs?" harlan's smile was the face-wrinkling of seasoned wisdom. "you are pushing me too hard," he protested. "i know that there are wheels within wheels. you'd say it would be a foxy move to have the local newspaper in mirapolis get such a tip from a strictly unprejudiced source. i'll have to admit that myself." brouillard looked at his watch and reached for his hat. "it's all right, harlan," he said at the leave-taking. "believe as much as you like, but take my advice in just one small matter. don't buy mirapolis dirt to hold; buy it to sell--and sell the minute you see your profit. i told you i'd give you a pointer if i didn't forget; you've got it." for the better part of a fortnight the tidal waves of prosperity, as evinced by increasing speculative values, kept on rolling in, each one apparently a little higher than its immediate predecessor. then the flood began to subside, though so slowly that at first it was only by a careful comparison of the daily transfers that the recession could be measured. causes and consequences extraneous to the city itself contributed to the almost imperceptible reactionary tendency. for one, the buckskin mining and milling company reluctantly abandoned its pastime of ploughing barren furrows on jack's mountain, and a little later went into liquidation, as the phrase ran, though the eastern bondholders probably called it bankruptcy. about the same time the great cement plant, deprived of the government market by the slackening of the work on the dam, reduced its output to less than one fourth of its full capacity. most portentous of all, perhaps, was the rumor that the placers at quadjenàï were beginning to show signs of exhaustion. it was even whispered about that the two huge gold dredges recently installed were not paying the expenses of operating them. quite naturally, the pulse of the wonder city beat sensitive to all these depressive rumors and incidents, responding slowly at first but a little later in accelerated throbbings which could no longer be ignored by the most optimistic bidder at the "curb" exchanges. still there was no panic. as the activities in local sales fell off and the mirapolitans themselves were no longer crowding the curbs or standing in line at the real estate offices for their turn at the listings, the prudent ones, with mr. cortwright and his chosen associates far in advance of the field, were placing mirapolis holdings temptingly on view in distant markets; placing them and selling them with a blazonry of advertising worthy of the envy of those who have called themselves the suburb builders of greater new york. it was after this invasion of the distant market was fully in train that cortwright once more sent for brouillard, receiving the engineer this time in the newest offices of the power company, on the many-times-bought-and-sold corner opposite bongras's. "hello, brouillard!" said the magnate jocosely, indicating a chair and the never-absent open box of cigars in the same gesture. "you're getting to be as much of a stranger as a man might wish his worst enemy to be. gene says you are neglecting her shamefully, but she seems to be making a pretty good jack-at-a-pinch of the english lord." "you sent for me?" brouillard broke in tersely. more and more he was coming to acknowledge a dull rage when he heard the call of his master. "yes. what about the dam? is your work going to start up again? or is it going off for good?" brouillard bit his lip to keep back the exclamation of astoundment that the blunt inquiry threatened to evoke. to assume that mr. cortwright did not know all there was to be known was to credit the incredible. "i told you a good while ago that i was only the government's hired man," he replied. "you doubtless have much better information than any i can give you." "you can tell me what your orders are--that's what i want to know." the young chief of construction frowned first, then he laughed. "what has given you the impression that you own me, mr. cortwright? i have often wondered." "well, i might say that i have made you what you are, and----" "that's true; the truest thing you ever said," snapped brouillard. "and, i was going to add, i can unmake you just as easily. but i don't want to be savage with you. all i'm asking is a little information first, and a little judicious help afterward. what are your orders from the department?" brouillard got up and stood over the stocky man in the office chair, with the black eyes blazing. "mr. cortwright, i said a moment ago that you have made me what i am, and you have. i am infinitely a worse man than you are, because i know better and you don't. it is no excuse for me that i have had a motive which i haven't explained to you, because, as i once told you, you couldn't understand it in a thousand years. the evil has been done and the consequences, to you, to me, and to every one in this cursed valley are certain. facing them as i am obliged to face them, i am telling you--but what's the use? you can't make a tool of me any longer--that's all. you must cook your meat over your own fire. i'm out of it." "i can smash you," said the man in the chair, quite without heat. "no, you can't even do that," was the equally cool retort. "no man's fate is in another man's hands. if you choose to set in motion the machinery which will grind me to a small-sized villain of the county-jail variety, it is i myself who will furnish every foot-pound of the power that is applied." he was moving toward the door, but cortwright stopped him. "one more word before you go, brouillard. it is to be war between us from this on?" "i don't say that: it would be awkward for miss genevieve. let it be armed neutrality if you like. don't interfere with me and i won't interfere with you." "ah!" said the millionaire. "now you have brought it around to the point i was trying to reach. you don't want to have anything more to do with me, but you are not quite ready to cash in and pull out of the game. how much money have you got?" the cool impudence of the question brought a dull flush to the younger man's face, but he would give the enemy no advantage in the matter of superior self-control. "that is scarcely a fair question--even between armed neutrals," he objected. "why do you want to know?" "i'm asking because you have just proposed the non-interference policy, and i'd like to know how fairly you mean to live up to it. a little while back you interfered in a small business matter of mine very pointedly. what became of the one hundred thousand dollars you gave old david massingale?" "how do you know i gave him a hundred thousand dollars?" "that's dead easy," laughed the man in the pivot chair, once more the genial buccaneer. "you drew a check for that amount and cashed it, and a few minutes later massingale, whose account had been drawn down to nothing, bobs up at schermerhorn's window with exactly the same amount in loose cash. what did he do with it--gamble it?" "that is his own affair," brouillard countered briefly. "well, the future--next month's future--is my affair. if you've got money enough to interfere again--don't. you'll lose it, the same as you did before. and perhaps i sha'n't take the second interference as good-naturedly as i did the first." "is that all you have to say?" brouillard asked impatiently. "not quite. i don't believe you were altogether in earnest a minute ago when you expressed your desire to call it all off. you don't want the mirapolis well to go dry right now, not one bit more than i do." "i have been trying pretty hard to make you understand that it is a matter of utter indifference to me." "but you haven't succeeded very well; it isn't at all a matter of indifference to you," the magnate insisted persuasively. "as things are shaping themselves up at the present speaking, you stand to lose, not only the hundred thousand you squandered on old david, but all you've made besides. i keep in touch--it's my business to keep in touch. you've been buying bargains and you are holding them--for the simple reason that with the present slowing-down tendency in the saddle you can't sell and make any money." "well?" "i've got a proposition to make that ought to look good to you. what we need just now in this town is a little more activity--something doing. you can relieve the situation if you feel like it." "how?" "if i tell you, you mustn't go and use it against me. that would be a low-down welcher's trick. but you won't. see here, your bureau at washington is pretty well scared up over the prospect here. it is known in the capital that when congress convenes there is going to be a dead-open-and-shut fight to kill this buckskin reclamation project. very well; the way for you fellows to win out is to hurry--finish your dam and finish it quick, before congress or anybody else can get action." for a single instant brouillard was puzzled. then he began to understand. "go on," he said. "what i was going to suggest is this: you prod your people at washington with a hot wire; tell 'em now's the time to strike and strike hard. they'll see the point, and if you ask for an increase of a thousand men you'll get it. make it two thousand, just for the dramatic effect. we'll work right along with you and make things hum again. we'll start up the cement plant, and i don't know but what we might give the buckskin m. & m. folks a small hypodermic that would keep 'em alive while we are taking a few snapshot pictures of mirapolis on the jump again." "let me get it straight," said brouillard, putting his back against the door. "you fully believe you've got us down; that eventually, and before the water is turned on, congress will pass a bill killing the niquoia project. but in the meantime, to make things lively, you'd like to have the reclamation service go ahead and spend another million or so in wages that can be turned loose in mirapolis. is that it?" "you've surrounded it very neatly," laughed the promoter. "once, some little time ago, i might have felt the necessity of convincing your scruples, but you've cut away all that foolishness. it's a little tough on our good old uncle samuel, i'll admit, but it'll be only a pin-prick or so in comparison to the money that is thrown away every time congress passes an appropriation bill. and, putting it upon the dead practical basis, brouillard, it's your one and only salvation--personally, i mean. you've _got_ to unload or go broke, and you can't unload on a falling market. you think about it and then get quick action with the wire. there is no time to lose." brouillard was looking past cortwright and out through the plate-glass window which commanded a view of the great dam and its network of forms and stagings. "it is a gambler's bet and a rather desperate one," he said slowly. "you stand to win all or to lose all in making it, mr. cortwright. the town is balancing on the knife-edge of a panic at this moment. would it go up, or down, with a sudden resumption of work on the dam?" "the careless thinker would say that it would yell 'fire!' and go up into the air so far that it could never climb down," was the prompt reply. "but we'll have the medicine dropper handy. in the first place, everybody can afford to stay and boost while uncle sam is spending his million or so right here in the middle of things. nobody will want to pull out and leave that cow unmilked. in the second place, we've got a mighty good antidote to use in any sure-enough case of hydrophobia your quick dam building may start." "you could let it leak out that, in spite of all the hurrah and rush on the dam, congress is really going to interfere before we are ready to turn the water on," said brouillard musingly and as if it were only his thought slipping into unconscious speech. "precisely. we could make that prop hold if you were actually putting the top course on your wall and making preparations to drop the stop-gate in your spillway." "i see," was the rejoinder, and it was made in the same half-absent monotone. "but while we are still on the knife-blade edge ... a little push.... mr. cortwright, if there were one solitary righteous man left in mirapolis----" "there isn't," chuckled the promoter, turning back to his desk while the engineer was groping for the door-knob--"at least, nobody with that particular brand of righteousness backed by the needful inside information. you go ahead and do your part and we'll do the rest." xvi the man on the bank brouillard, walking out of mr. cortwright's new offices with his thoughts afar, wondered if it were by pure coincidence that he found castner apparently waiting for him on the sidewalk. "once more you are just the man i have been wanting to see," the young missionary began, promptly making use of the chance meeting. "may i break in with a bit of bad news?" "there is no such thing as good news in this god-forsaken valley, castner. what's your grief?" "there is trouble threatening for the cortwrights. stephen massingale is out and about again, and i was told this morning that he was filling himself up with bad whiskey and looking for the man who shot him." brouillard nodded unsympathetically. "you will find that there is always likely to be a second chapter in a book of that sort--if the first one isn't conclusive." "but there mustn't be this time," castner insisted warmly. "we must stop it; it is our business to stop it." "your business, maybe; it falls right in your line, doesn't it?" "no more in mine than in yours," was the quick retort. "am i my brother's keeper?" said the engineer pointlessly, catching step with the long-legged stride of the athletic young shepherd of souls. "not if you claim kinship with cain, who was the originator of that very badly outworn query," came the answer shot-like. then: "what has come over you lately, brouillard? you are a friend of the massingales; i've had good proof of that. why don't you care?" "great heavens, castner, i do care! but if you had a cut finger you wouldn't go to a man in hell to get it tied up, would you?" "you mean that i have brought my cut finger to you?" "yes, i meant that, and the rest of it, too. i'm no fit company for a decent man to-day, castner. you'd better edge off and leave me alone." castner did not take the blunt intimation. for the little distance intervening between the power company's new offices and the niquoia building he tramped beside the young engineer in silence. but at the entrance to the niquoia he would have gone his way if brouillard had not said abruptly: "i gave you fair warning; i'm not looking for a chance to play the good samaritan to anybody--not even to stephen massingale, much less van bruce cortwright. the reason is because i have a pretty decent back-load of my own to carry. come up to my rooms if you can spare a few minutes. i want to talk to a man who hasn't parted with his soul for a money equivalent--if there is such a man left in this bottomless pit of a town." castner accepted the implied challenge soberly, and together they ascended to brouillard's offices. once behind the closed door, brouillard struck out viciously. "you fellows claim to hold the keys of the conscience shop; suppose you open up and dole out a little of the precious commodity to me, castner. is it ever justifiable to do evil that good may come?" "no." there was no hesitation in the denial. brouillard's laugh was harshly derisive. "i thought you'd say that. no qualifications asked for, no judicial weighing of the pros and cons--the evil of the evil, or the goodness of the good--just a plain, bigoted 'no.'" castner ran a hand through his thick shock of dark hair and looked away from the scoffer. "extenuating circumstances--is that what you mean? there are no such things in the court of conscience--the enlightened conscience. right is right and wrong is wrong. there is no middle ground of accommodation between the two. you know that as well as i do, brouillard." "well, then, how about the choice between two evils? you'll admit that there are times----" castner was shaking his head. "that is a lying proverb. no man is ever compelled to make that choice. he only thinks he is." "that is all you know about it!" was the bitter retort. "what can you, or any man who sets himself apart as you do, know about the troubles and besetments of ordinary people? you sit on the bank of the river and see the water go by; what do you know about the agonies of the fellow who is fighting for breath and life out in the middle of the stream?" "that is a fallacy, too," was the calm reply. "i am a man as other men, brouillard. my coat makes no difference, as you have allowed at other times when we have been thrown together. moreover, nobody sits on the bank in these days. what are your two evils?" brouillard tilted back in his chair and pointedly ignored the direct question. "theories," he said half contemptuously. "and they never fit. see here, castner; suppose it was clearly your duty, as a man and a christian and to subserve some good end, to plant a thousand pounds of dynamite in the basement of this building and fire it. would you do it?" "the case isn't supposable." "there you are!" brouillard broke out impatiently. "i told you you were sitting on the bank. the case is not only supposable; it exists as an actual fact. and the building the man ought to blow to high heaven contains not only a number of measurably innocent people but one in particular for whose life and happiness the man would barter his immortal soul--if he has one." the young missionary left his chair and began to walk back and forth on his side of the office desk. "you want counsel and you are not willing to buy it with the coin of confidence," he said at length, adding: "it is just as well, perhaps. i doubt very much if i am the person to give it to you." "why do you doubt it? isn't it a part of your job?" "not always. i am not your conscience keeper, brouillard. don't misunderstand me. i may have lived a year or so longer than you have, but you have lived more--a great deal more. that fact might be set aside, but there is another: in the life of every man there is some one person who knows, who understands, whose word for that man is the one only fitting word of inspiration. that is what i mean when i say that i am not your conscience keeper. do i make it clear?" "granting your premises--yes. go on." "i will. we'll paste that leaf down and turn another. though i can't counsel you, i can still be your faithful accuser. you have committed a great sin, brouillard, and you are still committing it. if you haven't been the leader in the mad scramble for riches here in this abandoned city, you have been only a step behind the leaders. and you were the one man who should have been like cæsar's wife, the one whose example counted for most." brouillard got up and thrust out his hand across the desk. "you are a man, castner--and that is better than being a priest," he asserted soberly. "i'll take back all the spiteful things i've been saying. i'm down under the hoofs of the horses, and it's only human nature to want to pull somebody else down. you are one of the few men in mirapolis whose presence has been a blessing instead of a curse--who hasn't had a purely selfish greed to satisfy." again castner shook his head. "there hasn't been much that i could do. brouillard, it is simply dreadful--the hard, reckless, half-demoniac spirit of this place! there is nothing to appeal to; there is no room or time for anything but the mad money chase or the still madder dissipation in which the poor wretches seek to forget. i can only try here and there to drag some poor soul out of the fire at the last moment, and it makes me sick--sick at heart!" "you mustn't look at it that way," said brouillard, suddenly turning comforter. "you have been doing good work and a lot of it--more than any three ordinary men could stand up under. i haven't got beyond seeing and appreciating, castner; truly i have not. and i'll say this: if i had only half your courage... but it's no use, i'm in too deep. i can't see any farther ahead than a man born blind. there is one end for which i have been striving from the very first, and it is still unattained. i'm past help now. i have reached a point at which i'd pull the whole world down in ruins to see that end accomplished." the young missionary took another turn up and down the room and then came back to the desk for his hat. at the leave-taking he said the only helpful word he could think of. "go to your confessor, brouillard--your real confessor--and go all the more readily if that one happens to be a good woman--whom you love and trust. they often see more clearly than we do--the good women. try it; and let me help where a man can help." for a long hour after castner went away brouillard sat at his desk, fighting as those fight who see the cause lost, and who know they only make the ruin more complete by struggling on. cortwright's guess had found its mark. he was loaded to break with "front feet" and options and "corners." in the latest speculative period he had bought and mortgaged and bought again, plunging recklessly with the sole object of wringing another hundred thousand out of the drying sponge against the time when david massingale should need it. there seemed to be no other hope. it had become plainly evident after a little time that cortwright's extorted promise to lift the smelting embargo from the "little susan" ore had been kept only in the letter; that he had removed one obstacle only to interpose another. the new obstacle was in the transportation field. protests and beseechings, letters to traffic officials, and telegrams to railroad headquarters were of no avail. in spite of all that had been done, there was never an ore-car to come over the range at war arrow, and the side-track to the mine was as yet uncompleted. brouillard had seen little of massingale, but that little had shown him that the old miner was in despair. it was this hopeless situation which had made brouillard bend his back to a second lifting of the "little susan's" enormous burden. at first the undertaking seemed easily possible. but with the drying of the speculative sponge it became increasingly difficult. more and more he had been compelled to buy and hold, until now the bare attempt to unload would have started the panic which was only waiting for some hedging seller to fire the train. sitting in the silence of the sixth-floor office he saw that cortwright had shown him the one way out. beyond doubt, the resumption in full force of the work on the dam would galvanize new life into mirapolis, temporarily, at least. after that, a cautious selling campaign, conducted under cover through the brokers, might save the day for david massingale. but the cost--the heaping dishonor, the disloyalty of putting his service into the breach and wrecking and ruining to gain the one personal end.... the sweat stood out in great drops on his forehead when he finally drew a pad of telegraph blanks under his hand and began to write a message. painstakingly he composed it, referring often to the notes in his field-book, and printing the words neatly in his accurate, clearly defined handwriting. when it was finished he translated it laboriously into the department code. but after the copy was made and signed he did not ring at once for a messenger. instead, he put the two, the original and the cipher, under a paper-weight and sat glooming at them, as if they had been his own death-warrant--was still so sitting when a light tap at the door was followed by a soft swishing of silken skirts, a faint odor of crushed violets, and genevieve cortwright stood beside him. xvii the circean cup while one might count ten the silence of the upper room remained unbroken, and neither the man nor the woman spoke. it was not the first time by many that genevieve cortwright had come to stand beside the engineer's desk, holding him with smiling eyes and a charming audacity while she laid her commands upon him for the afternoon's motoring or the evening's bridge party or what other social diversion she might have in view. but now there was a difference. brouillard felt it instinctively--and in the momentary silence saw it in a certain hard brilliance of the beautiful eyes, in the curving of the ripe lips, half scornful, half pathetic, though the pathos may have been only a touch of self-pity born of the knowledge that the world of the luxury-lapped has so little to offer once the cold finger of satiety has been laid upon the throbbing pulse of fruition. "you have been quarrelling with father again," she said, with an abruptness that was altogether foreign to her habitual attitude toward him. "i have come to try to make peace. won't you ask me to sit down?" he recalled himself with a start from his abstracted study of the faultless contour of cheek and chin and rounded throat and placed a chair for her, apologizing for the momentary aberration and slipping easily from apology into explanation. "it was good of you to try to bring the wine and oil," he said. "but it was scarcely a quarrel; the king doesn't quarrel with his subjects." "now you are making impossible all the things i came to say," she protested, with a note of earnestness in her voice that he had rarely heard. "tell me what it was about." "i am afraid it wouldn't interest you in the least," he returned evasively. "i suppose you are punishing me now for the 'giddy butterfly' pose which you once said was mine. isn't there a possibility, just the least little shadow of a possibility, that i don't deserve to be punished?" he had sat down facing her and his thought was quite alien to the words when he tried again. "you wouldn't understand. it was merely a disagreement in a matter of--a matter of business." "perhaps i can understand more than you give me credit for," she countered, with an upflash of the captivating eyes. "perhaps i can be hurt where you have been thinking that the armor of frivolity, or ignorance, or indifference is the thickest." "no, you wouldn't be hurt," he denied, in sober finality. "how can you tell? can you read minds and hearts as you do your maps and drawings? must i be set down as hopelessly and irreclaimably frivolous just because i have chosen to laugh when possibly another woman might have cried?" "oh, no," he denied again. then he tried to meet her fairly on the new ground. "you mustn't accuse yourself. you are of your own world and you can't very well help being of it. besides, it is a pleasant world." "but an exceedingly shallow one, you would say. but why not, mr. brouillard? what do we get out of life more than the day's dole of--well, of whatever we care most for? i suppose one ought to be properly shocked at the big electric sign monsieur bongras has put up over the entrance to his café; 'let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die.' he meant it as a cynical gibe at the expense of mirapolis, of course; but do you know it appeals to me--it makes me think." "i'm listening," said brouillard. "convert me if you can." "oh, i don't know how to say it, or perhaps even how to think it. but when i see monsieur bongras's cynical little fling i wonder if it isn't the real philosophy, after all. why should we be always looking forward and striving and trying foolishly to climb to some high plane where the air is sure to be so rare that we couldn't possibly breathe it?" brouillard's smile was a mere eye-lifting of grave reminiscence when he said: "some of us have quit looking forward--quit trying to climb--and that without even the poor hope of reaping the reward that poodles's quotation offers." miss cortwright left her chair and began to make an aimless circuit of the room, passing the blue-prints on the walls in slow review, and coming finally to the window looking out over the city and across to the gray, timber-crowned wall of the mighty structure spanning the gap between the niquoia's two sentinel mountains. "you haven't told me yet what your disagreement with father was about," she reminded him at length; and before he could speak: "you needn't, because i know. you have been getting in his way--financially, and he has been getting in your way--ethically. you are both in the wrong." "yes?" said brouillard, neither agreeing nor denying. "yes. father thinks too much of making money--a great deal too much; and you----" "well?" he prompted, when the pause threatened to become a break. "i am waiting to hear my indictment." "you puzzle me," she acknowledged frankly. "at first i thought you were going to be a thirsty money hunter like all the others. and--and i couldn't quite understand why you should be. now i know, or partly know. you had an object that was different from that of the others. you wanted to buy some one thing--not everything, as most people do. but there is something missing, and that is what puzzles me. i don't know what it is that you want to buy." "there have been two things," he broke in. "one of them you know, because i spoke of it to you long ago. the other----" "the other is connected in some way with the massingales; so much i have been able to gather from what father said." "since you know part, you may know all," he went on. "david massingale owes your father--technically, at least--one hundred thousand dollars, which he can't pay; which your father isn't going to let him pay, if he can help it. and if massingale doesn't pay he will lose his mine." "you interested yourself? would you mind telling me just why?" she asked. "that is one of the things you couldn't understand." she turned a calmly smiling face toward him. "oh, you are mistaken, greatly mistaken. i can understand it very well, indeed. you are in love with david massingale's daughter." once more he neither denied nor affirmed, and she had turned to face the window again when she went on in the same unmoved tone: "it was fine. i can appreciate such devotion even if i can't fully sympathize with it. everybody should be in love like that--once. every woman demands that kind of love--once. but afterward, you know--if one should be content to take the good the gods provide...." when she began again at the end of the eloquent little pause there was a new note in her voice, a note soothingly suggestive of swaying poppies in sunlit fields, of ease and peace and the ideal heights receding, of rose-strewn paths pleasant to the feet of the weary wayfarer. "why shouldn't we take to-day, the only day we can be sure of having, and use and enjoy it while it is ours? money?--there is money enough in the world, god knows; enough and to spare for anything that is worth the buying. i have money, if that is all--money of my own. and, if i should ask him, father would give me the 'little susan' outright, to do with it as i pleased." brouillard was leaning back in his chair studying her faultless profile as she talked, and the full meaning of what she was saying did not come to him at once. but when it did he sprang up and went to stand beside her. and all the honesty and manhood the evil days had spared went into what he said to her. "i was a coward a moment ago, miss genevieve, when you spoke of the motive which had prompted me to help david massingale. but you knew and you said the words for me. when you love as i do you will understand that there is an ecstasy in the very madness of it that is more precious than all the joys of a gold-mounted paradise without it. i must go on as i have begun." "you will marry her?" she asked softly. "there has never been any hope of that, i think; not from the very beginning. while i remained an honest man there was the insurmountable obstacle i once told you of--the honor debt my father left me. and when i became a thief and a grafter for love's sake i put myself out of the running, definitely and hopelessly." "has she told you so?" "not in so many words; there was no need. there can be no fellowship between light and darkness." miss cortwright's beautiful eyes mirrored well-bred incredulity, and there was the faintest possible suggestion of lenient scorn in her smile. "what a pedestal you have built for her!" she said. "has it never occurred to you that she may be just a woman--like other women? tell me, mr. brouillard, have you asked her to marry you?" "you know very well that i haven't." "then, if you value your peace of mind, don't. she would probably say 'yes' and you would be miserable forever after. ideals are exceedingly fragile things, you know. they are made to be looked up to, not handled." "possibly they are," he said, as one who would rather concede than dispute. the reaction was setting in, bringing a discomforting conviction that he had opened the door of an inner sanctuary to unsympathetic eyes. followed a little pause, which was threatening to become awkward when miss cortwright broke it and went back to the beginning of things. "i came to tender my good offices in the--the disagreement, as you call it, between you and father. can't you be complaisant for once, in a way, mr. brouillard?" brouillard's laugh came because it was summoned, but there was no mirth in it. "i have never been anything else but complaisant in the little set-tos with your father, miss genevieve. he has always carried too many guns for me. you may tell him that i am acting upon his suggestion, if you please--that the telegram to washington is written. he will understand." "and about this massingale affair--you will not interfere again?" brouillard's jaw muscles began to set in the fighting lines. "does he make that a command?" he asked. "oh, i fancy not; at least, i didn't hear him say anything like that. i am merely speaking as your friend. you will not be allowed to do as you wish to do. i know my father better than you do, mr. brouillard." "what he has done, and what he proposes to do, in massingale's affair, is little short of highway robbery, miss genevieve." "from your point of view, you mean. he will call it 'business' and cite you a thousand precedents in every-day life. but let it go. i've talked so much about business that i'm tired. let me see, what was the other thing i came up here for?--oh, yes, i remember now. we are making up a party to motor down to the tri'-circ' ranch for a cow-boy supper with lord falkland. there is a place in our car for you, and i know sophie schermerhorn would be delighted if you should call her up and tell her you are going." she had turned toward the door and he went to open it for her. "i am afraid i shall have to offer my regrets to you, and to miss schermerhorn as well, if she needs them," he said, with the proper outward show of disappointment. "is it business?" she laughed. "yes, it is business." "good-by, then. i'm sorry you have to work so hard. if miss massingale were only rich--but i forgot, the ideals would still be in the way. no, don't come to the elevator. i can at least do that much for myself, if i am a 'giddy butterfly.'" after she had gone brouillard went back to the window and stood with his hands behind him looking out at the great dam with its stagings and runways almost deserted. but when the westering sun was beginning to emphasize the staging timbers whose shadow fingers would presently be reaching out toward the city he went around to his chair and sat down to take the washington telegram from beneath its paper-weight. nothing vital, nothing in any manner changeful of the hard conditions, had happened since he had signed his name to the cipher at the end of the former struggle. notwithstanding, the struggle was instantly renewed, and once more he found himself battling hopelessly with the undertow in the tide-way of indecision. xviii love's crucible for half an hour after the motor-cars of the falkland supper party had rolled away from the side entrance of the hotel metropole, brouillard sat at his desk in the empty office with the momentous telegram before him, searching blindly for some alternative to the final act of treachery which would be consummated in the sending of the wire. since, by reason of cortwright's tamperings with the smelter people and the railroad, the "little susan" had become a locked treasure vault, the engineer, acting upon his own initiative, had tried the law. as soon as he had ascertained that david massingale had been given sixty days longer to live, solely because the buccaneers chose to take his mine rather than his money, brouillard had submitted the facts in the case to a trusted lawyer friend in the east. this hope had pulled in two like a frayed cord. massingale must pay the bank or lose all. until he had obtained possession of the promissory notes there would be no crevice in which to drive any legal wedge. and even then, unless some pressure could be brought to bear upon the grafters to make them disgorge, there was no chance of massingale's recovering more than his allotted two thirds of the stock; in other words, he would still stand committed to the agreement by which he had bound himself to make the grafters a present, in fee simple, of one third of his mine. brouillard had written one more letter to the lawyer. in it he had asked how david massingale could be unassailably reinstated in his rights as the sole owner of the "little susan." the answer had come promptly and it was explicit. "only by the repayment of such sums as had been actually expended in the reorganization and on the betterments--for the modernizing machinery and improvements--and the voluntary surrender, by the other parties to the agreement, of the stock in dispute," the lawyer had written; and brouillard had smiled at the thought of cortwright voluntarily surrendering anything which was once well within the grasp of his pudgy hands. failing to start the legal wedge, brouillard had dipped--also without consulting massingale--into the matter of land titles. the "little susan" was legally patented under the land laws, and massingale's title, if the mine were located upon government land, was without a flaw. but on a former reclamation project brouillard had been brought in contact with some of the curious title litigation growing out of the old spanish grants; and in at least one instance he had seen a government patent invalidated thereby. as a man in reasonably close touch with his superiors in washington, the chief of construction knew that there was a spanish-grant involvement which had at one time threatened to at least delay the niquoia project. how it had been settled finally he did not know; but after the legal failure he had written to a man--a college classmate of his own--in the bureau of land statistics, asking for data which would enable him to locate exactly the niquoia-touching boundaries of the great coronida grant. to this letter no reply had as yet been received. brouillard had cause to know with what slowness a simple matter of information can ooze out of a department bureau. the letter--which, after all, might contain nothing helpful--lingered on the way, and the crisis, the turning-point beyond which there could be no redemption in a revival of the speculative craze, had arrived. brouillard took up the draught of the washington telegram and read it over. he was cooler now, and he saw that it was only as it came from the hand of a traitor, who could and would deliberately wreck the train of events it might set in motion, that it became a betrayal. writing as the commanding officer in the field, he had restated the facts--facts doubtless well known in the department--the probability that congress would intervene and the hold the opposition was gaining by the suspension of the work on the dam. if the work could be pushed energetically and at once, there was a possibility that the opposition would become discouraged and voluntarily withdraw. would the department place the men and the means instantly at his disposal? "if i were the honest man i am supposed to be, that is precisely the message i ought to send," he mused reflectively. "it is only as the crooked devil in possession of me will drive me to nullify the effort and make it of no effect that it becomes a crime; that and the fact that i can never be sure that the cortwright gang hasn't the inside track and will not win out in spite of all efforts. that is the touchstone of the whole degrading business. i'm afraid cortwright has the inside track. if i could only get a little clear-sighted daylight on the damnable tangle!" obeying a sudden impulse, he thrust the two copies of the telegram under the paper-weight again, sprang up, put on his hat, and left the building. a few minutes later he was on the porch of the stuccoed villa in the quadjenàï road and was saying gravely to the young woman who had been reading in the hammock: "you are staying too closely at home. get your coat and hat and walk with me up to the 'little susan.' it will do you good." the afternoon was waning and the sun, dipping to the horizon, hung like a huge golden ball over the yellow immensities of the distant buckskin as they topped the final ascent in the steep trail and went to sit on the steps of the deserted home cabin at the mine. for a time neither spoke, and the stillness of the air contributed something to the high-mountain silence, which was almost oppressive. work had been stopped in the mine at the end of the previous week, massingale declaring, morosely, that until he knew whose ore he was digging he would dig no more. presumably there was a watchman, but if so he was invisible to the two on the cabin step, and the high view-point was theirs alone. "how did you know that i have been wanting to come up here once more before everything is changed?" said the girl at length, patting the roughly hewn log step as if it were a sentient thing to feel the caress. "i didn't know it," brouillard denied. "i only knew that i wanted to get out of gomorrah for a little while, to come up here with you and get the reek of the pit out of my nostrils." "i know," she rejoined, with the quick comprehension which never failed him. "it is good to be out of it, to be up here where we can look down upon it and see it in its true perspective--as a mere little impertinent blot on the landscape. it's only that, after all, victor. see how the great dam--your work--overshadows it." "that is one of the things i hoped i might be able to see if i came here with you," he returned slowly. "but i can't get your point of view, amy. i shall never be able to get it again." "you did have it once," she asserted. "or rather, you had a better one of your own. has gomorrah changed it?" "no, not gomorrah. i could shut the waste-gates and drown the place to-morrow for all that mirapolis, or anything in it, means to me. but something has changed the point of view for me past mending, since that first day when we sat here together and looked down upon the beginnings of the reclamation construction camp--before gomorrah was ever thought of." "i know," she said again. "but that dreadful city is responsible. it has robbed us all, victor; but you more than any, i'm afraid." "no," he objected. "mirapolis has been only a means to an end. the thing that has changed my point of view--my entire life--is love, as i have told you once before." "oh, no," she protested gently, rising to take her old place, with her back to the porch post and her hands behind her. and then, still more gently: "that is almost like sacrilege, victor, for love is sacred." "i can't help it. love has made a great scoundrel of me, amy; a criminal, if man's laws were as closely meshed as god's." "i can't believe that," she dissented loyally. "it is true. i have betrayed my trust. cortwright will make good in all of his despicable schemes. congress will intervene and the niquoia project will be abandoned." "no," she insisted. "take a good, deep breath of this pure, clean, high-mountain air and think again. mirapolis is dying, even now, though nobody dares admit it. but it is. tig smith hears everything, and he told father last night that the rumor about the quadjenàï placers is true. they are worked out, and already the men have begun to move up the river in search of new ground. tig said that in another week there wouldn't be a dozen sluice-boxes working." "i have known about the quadjenàï failure for the past two weeks," brouillard put in. "for at least that length of time the two steam dredges have been handling absolutely barren gravel, and the men in charge of them have had orders to go on dredging and say nothing. mirapolis is no longer a gold camp; but, nevertheless, it will boom again--long enough to let mr. j. wesley cortwright and his fellow buccaneers loot it and get away." "how can you know that?" she asked curiously. "i know it because i am going to bring it to pass." "you?" "yes, i. it is the final act in the play. and my part in this act is the judas part--as it has been in the others." she was looking down at him with wide-open eyes. "if any one else had said that of you ... but i can't believe it! i know you, victor; i think i must have known you in the other world--the one before this--and there we climbed the heights, in the clear sunlight, together." "there was one thing you didn't learn about me--in that other world you speak of," he said, falling in with her allegory. "you didn't discover that i could become a wretched cheat and a traitor for love of you. perhaps it wasn't necessary--there." "tell me," she begged briefly; and, since he was staring fixedly at the scored slopes of jack's mountain, he did not see that she caught her lip between her teeth to stop its trembling. "part of it you know: how i did what i could to bring the railroad, and how your brother's teaspoonful of nuggets was made to work a devil's miracle to hurry things along when the railroad work was stopped. but that wasn't the worst. as you know, i had a debt to pay before i could say: 'come, little girl, let's go and get married.' so i became a stockholder in cortwright's power company, knowing perfectly well when i consented that the hundred thousand dollars' worth of stock he gave me was a bribe--the price of my silence and non-interference with his greedy schemes." "but you didn't mean to keep it; you knew you _couldn't_ keep it!" she broke in; and now he did not need to look to know that her lips were trembling piteously. "i did keep it. and when the time was fully ripe i sold it back to cortwright, or, rather, i suppose, sold it through him to some one of his wretched gulls. i meant to pay my father's debt with the money. i had the letter written and ready to mail. then the tempter whispered that there was no hurry, that i might at least keep the money long enough to make it earn something for myself. also, it struck me that this same devil was laughing at the spectacle of a man so completely lost to a decent sense of the fitness of things as to be planning to pay an honor debt with graft money. and so i kept it for a while." she dropped quickly on the step beside him and a sympathetic hand crept into his. "you kept it until the unhappy day when you gave it to my father, and he--and he threw it away." she was crying softly, but his attempt to comfort her was almost mechanical. "don't cry about the money. it had the devil's thumb-prints on it, and he merely claimed his own and got it." then he went on as one determined to leave nothing untold. "cortwright had bought me, and i served him as only a man in my position could serve him. i became a promoter, a 'booster,' with the others. there have been times when a word from me would have pricked the bubble. i haven't said the word; i am not saying it now. if i should say it i'd lose at a single stroke all that i have been fighting for. and i am not a good loser, amy." for once the keen, apprehending perception failed. "i don't understand," she said, speaking as if she were groping in thick darkness. "i mean i don't understand the motive that could----" he turned to her in dumb astonishment. "i thought i had been making it plain as i went along. there has been but the one motive--a mad passion to give, give, never counting the cost. love, as it has come to me, seems to have neither conscience nor any scruples. nothing is too precious to be dragged to the sacrifice. you wanted something--you needed it--therefore it must be purchased for you. and the curious part of the besetment is that i have known all along that i was killing your love for me. if it wasn't quite dead before, it will die now--now that i have told you how i am flinging the last vestiges of uprightness and honor to the winds." "but how?" she queried. "you haven't told me." "you said a few minutes ago that mirapolis is dying. that is true; and it is dying a little too soon to suit the purposes of the cortwright gang. it must be revived, and i am to revive it by persuading the department to rush the work on the dam. you would say that this would only hasten the death of the city. but the plot provides for all the contingencies. mirapolis needs the money that would be spent here in the rushing of the government work. that was the real life-blood of the boom at first, and it could be made to serve again. am i making it plain?" she nodded in speechless disheartenment, and he went on: "with the dam completed before congress could intervene, mirapolis would, of course, be quite dead and ready for its funeral. but if the cortwright people industriously insist that the spending of another million or two of government money is only another plum for the city and its merchants and industries, that, notwithstanding the renewed activities, the work will still stop short of completion and the city will be saved by legislative enactment, the innocent sheep may be made to bleed again and the wolves will escape." she shuddered and drew a little apart from him on the log step. "but your part in this horrible plot, victor?" she asked. "it is as simple as it is despicable. in the first place, i am to set the situation before the department in such a light as to make it clearly a matter of public policy to take advantage of the present mirapolitan crisis by pushing the work vigorously to a conclusion. after thus turning on the spigot of plenty, i am expected to crowd the pay-rolls and at the same time to hold back on the actual progress of the work. that is all--except that i am to keep my mouth shut." "but you can't, you _can't_!" she cried. then, in a passionate outburst: "if you should do such a thing as that, it wouldn't kill my love--i can't say that any more; but it would kill me--i shouldn't want to live!" he looked around at her curiously, as if he were holding her at arm's length. "shall i do what you would have me do, amy? or shall i do what is best for you?" the opposing queries were as impersonal as the arm's-length gaze. "perhaps i might be able to patch up the ideals and stand them on their feet again--and you would pay the penalty all your life in poverty and privation, in hopes wrecked and ruined, and i with my hands tied. that is one horn of the dilemma, and the other is ... let me tell you, amy, it is worse than your worst fears. they will strip your father of the last thing he has on earth and bring him out in debt to them. there is one chance, and only one, so far as i can see. let me go on as i have begun and i can pull him out." the tears had burned out of the steadfast eyes which were resting, with the shining soul looking out through them, upon the crimsoning snow peaks of the distant timanyonis. "how little you know the real love!" she said slowly. "it neither weighs nor measures, nor needs to; it writes its own law in the heart, and that law can make no compromise with evil. it has but one requirement--the best good of the beloved. if the way to that end lies through sacrifice--if it asks for the life itself--so let it be. if you knew this, victor, you would know that i would gladly lose all--the mine, my father's chance of his reward for the years of toil, even my brother's better chance for reformation--and count myself happy in having found a love that was too great to do evil that good might come." he got up stiffly and helped her to her feet and together they stood looking down upon the city of the plain, lying now under the curved, sunset shadow cast by the mighty, inbending sweep of the great dam. "i don't know," he said after a time. "once, as i told you a few weeks ago, the best there was in me would have leaped up to climb the heights with you. but i've gone far since the going began. i am not sure that i could find my way back if i should try. let's go down. i mustn't keep you out on the mountain after dark. i haven't happened to meet her, but i suppose there is a mrs. grundy, even in gomorrah." she acquiesced in silence and they made the descent of the steep trail and walked across in the growing dusk from the foot of chigringo to the stuccoed villa in the suburb, misers of speech, since there were no deeper depths to which the spoken word could plunge. but at the villa steps brouillard took the girl in his arms and kissed her. "put me out of your mind and heart if you can," he said tenderly, repeating the words which he had once sent across the distances to her in another moment of despair, and before she could answer he was gone. * * * * * monsieur poudrecaulx bongras, rotund, smiling, and roached and waxed to a broad burlesque of second-empire fierceness, looked in vain among his dinner guests that evening for the chief of the reclamation service, and brouillard's absence held a small disappointment for the frenchman. rumor, the rumor which was never quiet and which could never be traced conclusively to its source, was again busy with exciting hints of a new era of prosperity about to dawn, and bongras had hoped to drop his own little plummet of inquiry into the reclamation service chief. the chance did not materialize. the lights in a certain upper office in the niquoia building were still turned on long after m. poudrecaulx had given up the hope of the deep-sea sounding for that night. some time after the lobby crowd had melted, and before the lower avenue had begun to order small-hour suppers of bongras, the two high windows in the niquoia building went dark and a few minutes later the man who had spent half the night tramping the floor or sitting with his head in his hands at the desk in the upper room came out of the street archway and walked briskly to the telegraph office across the plaza. "how is the line to-night, sanford--pretty clear?" he asked of the night manager, killing time while the sleepy night receiving clerk was making his third attempt to count the words in the closely written, two-page government cipher. "nothing doing; a little a. p. stuff drizzling in now and then," said the manager; adding: "but that's like the poor--always with us." "all right; there is no particular rush about this matter of mine, just so it is sure to be in the secretary's hands at the opening of business in the morning. but be careful that it goes straight--you'd better have it checked back before it is put on the through wire from denver." "sure, mr. brouillard. what you say in this little old shack goes as it lays. we'll look out and not bull your message. good-night." xix the sunset gun notwithstanding the preliminary rumors which bongras and many others had sought so anxiously to verify, the mirapolitan awakening to a realization that once more the tide had turned to bring new billows of prosperity tumbling into the valley of the niquoia came with a sudden and triumphant shock. the first of the quickening waves fell upon the government reservation. between sunrise and nightfall, on a day when the cloud of depression had grown black with panic threatenings, the apathy which had lately characterized the work on the great dam disappeared as if by magic. the city found its bill-boards posted with loud calls for labor; the idle mixers were put in commission; the quarries and crushers began to thunder again; and the stagings once more shook and trembled under the feet of a busy army of puddlers. while the revival was as yet only in the embryonic period, fresh labor began to come in gangs and in car loads and presently by special trains. swarming colonies of greeks, italians, and bulgarians were dumped upon the city through the gate of the railroad station, and once more chigringo avenue at night became a cheerful midway answering to the speech of all nations. change, revivification, reanimation instantly became the new order of the day; and again mirapolis flung itself joyously into the fray, reaping where it had not sown and sowing only where the quickest crop could be gathered. for now the dullest of the reapers saw that the government work was really the mirapolitan breath of life. neither the quickening of the city's industries nor the restarting of the gold dredges in the quadjenàï canals, the reopening of the real estate exchange nor the buckskin company's sudden resumption of the profitless prospecting on jack's mountain served to obscure the principal fact--that without the money the reclamation service was disbursing the new prosperity structure would collapse like a house of cards. this new and never-mentioned conviction wrought an eager change in men and in methods. credit vanished and spot cash was tacitly acknowledged to be the only way to do business in a live community. fortunes changed hands swiftly, as before, but now there was little bargaining and, with hot haste for the foreword, little time for it. to the western motto of "go to it and get the money" was added: "and don't come back without it." it was said with a laugh, but behind the laugh there was a menace. among the individual transformations wrought by the new conditions, the young chief of the reclamation service afforded the most striking example. from the morning when he had summarily cancelled the lease for the offices in the niquoia building and had returned his headquarters to the old log buildings on the government reservation and thence had issued his first series of orders for the resumption of full-force work on the dam and canals, those who had known him best discovered that they had not known him at all. even to grislow and the men of his staff he was curt, crisply mandatory, almost brutal. for one and all there was rarely anything beyond the shot-like sentence: "drive it, men; drive it; that's what you're here for--_drive it_!" the time he took to eat his hurried meals at bongras's could be measured in minutes, and what hours he gave to sleep no man knew, since he was the last to leave the headquarters at night and the first on the work in the morning. twice, after the renewed activities on the great wall had become a well-ordered race against time, and the concrete was pouring into the high forms in steady streams from the ranked batteries of mixers, mr. cortwright had sent for brouillard, and on each occasion the messenger had gone back with the brief word: "too busy during working hours." and when a third messenger came to inquire what mr. brouillard's working hours were, the equally blunt answer returned was: "all the time." in the face of such discouragements mr. cortwright was constrained to pocket his dignity as mayor, as the potentate of the exchanges, and as the unquestionable master of the surly young industry captain who refused to come when he was called, and to go in person. choosing the evening hour when he had been assured that he was likely to find brouillard alone and at work, he crossed the boundaries of the sacred reservation and made his way to the door of the log-built mapping room. "i came around to see what is eating you these days," was the pudgy tyrant's greeting for the young man sitting under the shaded desk lamp. "why don't you drop in once in a while and give me the run of things?" "i gave your clerk the reason," said brouillard laconically. "i'm too busy." "the devil you are!" snapped the great man, finding the only arm chair in the room and dropping heavily into it. "since when?" "since the first time you sent for me--and before." mr. cortwright recovered his working geniality only with a palpable effort. "see here, brouillard, you know you never make any money by being short with me. let's drop it and get down to business. what i wanted to say is that you are overdoing it; you are putting on too much steam. you've brought the boom, all right, but at the pace you're setting it won't last long enough. are you catching on?" "i'm listening," was the non-committal reply. "well, enough's enough, and too much of a good thing scalds the hog before you're ready to dress it and cut it up. it's all right for you to run men in here by the train load and scatter 'em out over your scaffolding--the more the merrier, and it's good for the town--but you needn't sweat the last shovelful of hurry out of them the way you're doing. it won't do to get your job finished too soon." "before congress convenes, you mean?" suggested brouillard. "that's just what i mean. string it out. make it last." brouillard sat back in his pivot chair and began to play with the paper-knife. "and if i don't choose to 'string it out'--if i even confess that i am straining every nerve to do this thing that you don't want me to do--what then, mr. cortwright?" the quiet retort jolted the stocky man in the arm chair as if it had been a blow. but he recovered quickly. "i've been looking for that," he said with a nervous twinkling of the little gray eyes. "you've no business being out of business, brouillard. if you'd quit puddling sand and cement and little rocks together and strike your gait right in ten years you'd be the richest man this side of the mountains. i'll be open-handed with you: this time you've got us where we can't wiggle. we've _got_ to have more time. how much is it going to cost us?" brouillard shook his head slowly. "odd as it may seem to you, i'm out of your market this time, mr. cortwright--quite out of it." "oh, no, you're not. you've got property to sell--a good bit of it. we can turn it for you at a figure that will----" "no; you are mistaken," was the quick reply. "i have no property in mirapolis. i am merely a squatter on government land, like every one else in the niquoia valley." "for heaven's sake!" the promoter burst out. "what's got into you? don't you go around trying to stand that corpse on its feet; it's a dead one, i tell you! the coronida titles are all right!" "there are no coronida titles. you have known it all along, and i know it--now. i have it straight from the bureau of land statistics, in a letter from a man who knows. the nearest boundary of the old spanish grant is latigo peak, ten miles south of chigringo. the department knows this and is prepared to prove it. and in the very beginning you and your associates were warned that you could not acquire homestead or other rights in the niquoia." "let it go!" snapped the gray-eyed king of the pack. "we've got to get out alive and we're going to get out alive. what's your price?" "i have answered that question once, but i'll make it a little plainer if you wish. it is beyond your reach; if you should turn your money-coining soul into cash you couldn't pay it this time, mr. cortwright." "that's guff--boy-talk--play-ranting! you want something--is it that damned massingale business again? i don't own the railroad, but if you think i do, i'll sign anything you want to write to the traffic people. let massingale sell his ore and get the money for it. he'll go gamble it as he did yours." brouillard looked up under the shaded electric globe and his handsome face wrinkled in a sour smile. "you are ready to let go, are you?" he said. "you are too late. mr. ford returned from europe a week ago, and i have a wire saying that to-night's through freight from brewster is chiefly made up of empty ore-cars for the 'little susan.'" the sandy-gray eyes blinked at this, but mr. cortwright was of those who die hard. "what i said still holds good. massingale or his son, or both of them, will gamble the money. and if they don't, we've got 'em tied up in a hard knot on the stock proposition." "i was coming to that," said brouillard quietly. "for a long time you have been telling me what i should do and i have done it. now i'll take my turn. you must notify your associates that the 'little susan' deal is off. there will be a called meeting of the directors here in this room to-morrow evening at eight o'clock, and----" "who calls it?" interrupted the tyrant. "the president." "president nothing!" was the snorted comment. "an old, drunken gambler who hasn't got sense enough to go in when it rains! say, brouillard, i'll cut that pie so there'll be enough to go around the table. just leave massingale out of it and make up your mind that you're going to sit in with us. we've bought the mine and paid for it. i've got the stock put away where it's safe. massingale can't touch a share of it, or vote it, either." brouillard shook his head. "you are stubbornly hard to convince, mr. cortwright, but i'll try one more time. you will come here to-morrow evening, with your confederates in the deal, prepared to take the money you have actually spent in betterments and prepared to release the stock. if you fail to do so you will get nothing. is that explicit enough?" "you're crazy!" shouted the promoter. "you talk as if there wasn't any law in this country!" "there isn't--for such men as you; you and your kind put yourselves above the law. but that is neither here nor there. you don't want to go into court with this conspiracy which you have cooked up to beat david massingale out of his property. it's the last thing on earth you want to do. so you'd better do the other thing--while you can." mr. cortwright sat back in his chair, and once more brouillard saw in the sandy-gray eyes the look which had been in the son's eyes when the derelict fought for freedom to finish killing stephen massingale. "it's a pretty dangerous thing to try to hold a man up unless you've got the drop on him, brouillard," he said significantly. "i've got you covered from my pocket; i've had you covered that way ever since you began to buck and rear on me a couple of months ago. one little wire word to washington fixes you for good and all. if i say the word, you'll stay on your job just as long as it will take another man to get here to supersede you." brouillard laughed. "the pocket drop is never very safe, mr. cortwright. you are likely to lose too much time feeling for the proper range. then, too, you can never be sure that you won't miss. also, your assumption that i'm taking an unarmed man's chance is wrong. i can kill you before you can pull the trigger of the pocket gun you speak of--kill you so dead that you won't need anything but a coroner's jury and a coffin. how long would it take you to get action in the washington matter, do you think?" "i've told you; you'd have just about a week longer to live, at the furthest." "i can better that," was the cool reply. "i have asked you to do a certain thing to-morrow night. if you don't do it, the _spot-light_ will print, on the following morning, that letter i spoke of--the letter from my friend in the bureau of land statistics. when that letter is printed everybody in mirapolis will know that you and your accomplices are plain swindlers, amenable to the criminal law, and from that moment there will never be another real-estate transfer in the niquoia valley." the promoter rose slowly out of his chair and stood leaning heavily with his fat hands, palms downward, on the flat-topped desk. his cheeks were puffed out and the bitten mustaches bristled like the whiskers of a gray old leader of the timber-wolves. "brouillard," he grated huskily, "does this mean that you're breaking with us, once for all?" "it means more than that; it means that i have reached a point at which i am ashamed to admit that there was ever anything to break." "then listen: you've helped this thing along as much as, or more than, anybody else in this town; and there are men right here in mirapolis--plenty of 'em--who will kill you like a rat in a hole if you go back on them as you are threatening to. don't you know that?" the younger man was balancing the paper-cutter across his finger. "that is the least of my worries," he answered, speaking slowly. "i am all sorts of a moral coward, i suppose; i've proved that often enough in the past few months, god knows. but i'm not the other kind, mr. cortwright." "then i'll take a hand!" snarled the tyrant at bay. "i'll spend a million dollars, if i have to, blacklisting you from one end of this country to the other! i'll fix it so you'll never build anything bigger than a hog-pen again as long as you live! i'll publish your record wherever there is a newspaper to print it!" he pounded on the desk with his fist--"i'll do it--money can do it! more than that, you'll never get a smell of that chigringo mine--you nor dave massingale!" brouillard tossed the paper-knife into a half-opened drawer and squared himself at the blotting-pad. "that is your challenge, is it?" he said curtly. "so be it. start your machinery. you will doubtless get me, not because you have money, but because for a time i was weak enough and wicked enough to climb down and stand on your level. but if you don't hurry, mr. cortwright, i'll get you first. are you going? one thing more--and it's a kindness; get your son out of town before this massingale matter comes up for adjustment. it will be safer." "is that all you have to say?" "pretty nearly all, except to tell you that your time is growing short, and you and those who are in with you had better begin to set your houses in order. if you'll come over here at eight o'clock to-morrow night prepared to do the square thing by david massingale, i'll withhold the publication of that letter which will stamp you and your associates as criminals before the law; but that is the only concession i shall make." "you've got to make at least one more!" stormed the outgoing magnate. "you don't have to set any dates or anything of that kind for your damned drowning act!" "in justice to a good many people who are measurably innocent, i shall have to do that very thing," returned the engineer firmly. "the notice will appear in to-morrow's _spot-light_." it was the final straw in the stocky promoter's crushing wrath burden. his fat face turned purple, and for a second or two he clawed the air, gasping for breath. brouillard sat back in his chair, waiting for the volcanic upheaval. but it did not come. when he had regained a measure of self-control, mr. cortwright turned slowly and went out without a word, stumbling over the threshold and slamming the door heavily as he disappeared. for a time after the promoter's wordless departure brouillard sat at his desk writing steadily. when the last of the memorandum sheets was filled he found his hat and street coat and left the office. ten minutes later he had penetrated to the dusty den on the second floor of the _spot-light_ office where harlan was grinding copy for his paper. brouillard took a chair at the desk end and laid the sheets of pencilled government paper under the editor's eyes. harlan's lean, fine-lined face was a study in changing emotions as he read. but at the end there was an aggrieved look in his eyes, mirroring the poignant regret of a newsman who has found a priceless story which he dares not use. "it's ripping," he sighed, "the biggest piece of fireworks a poor devil of a newspaper man ever had a chance to touch off. but, of course, i can't print it." "why 'of course'?" "for the same reason that a sane man doesn't peek down the muzzle of a loaded gun when he is monkeying with the trigger. i want to live a little while longer." brouillard looked relieved. "i thought, perhaps, it was on account of your investments," he said. "not at the present writing," amended harlan with a grin. "i got a case of cold feet when we had that little let-up a while back, and when the market opened i cleaned up and sent the sure-enough little round dollars home to ohio." "and still you won't print this?" "i'd like to; you don't know how much i'd like to. but they'd hang me and sack the shop. i shouldn't blame 'em. if what you have said here ever gets into cold type, it's good-by mirapolis. why, brouillard, the whole united states would rise up and tell us to get off the map. you've made us look like thirty cents trying to block the wheels of a million dollars--and that is about the real size of it, i guess." "then it is your opinion that if this were printed it would do the business?" "there isn't the slightest doubt about it." "thank you, harlan, that is what i wanted to find out--if i had made it strong enough. it'll be printed. i'll put it on the wires to the associated press. i was merely giving you the first hack at it." "gee--gosh! hold on a minute!" exclaimed the newsman, jumping up and snapping his fingers. "if i weren't such a dod-gasted coward! let me run in a few 'it is alleged's', and i'll chance it." "no; it goes as it lies. there are no allegations. it is merely a string of cold facts, as you very well know. print it if you like, and i'll see to it that they don't hang you or loot the office. i have two hundred of the safest men on my force under arms to-night, and we'll take care of you. i'm in this thing for blood, harlan, and when i get through, this little obstruction in the way of progress that cortwright and his crowd planned, and that you and i and a lot of other fools and knaves helped to build, will be cooling itself under two hundred feet of water." "good lord!" said the editor, still unable to compass the barbaric suddenness of it. then he ran his eye over the scratch sheets again. "does this formal notice that the waste-gates will be closed three weeks from to-morrow go as it stands?" he inquired. "it does. i have the department's authority. you know as well as i do that unless a fixed day is set there will be no move made. we are all trespassers here, and we've been warned off. that's all there is to it. and if we can't get our little belongings up into the hills in three weeks it's our loss; we had no business bringing them here." the editor looked up with the light of a new discovery in his eyes. "you say 'we' and 'our.' that reminds me; garner told me no longer ago than this afternoon that you are on record for something like a hundred thousand dollars' worth of choice mirapolis front feet. how about that?" brouillard's smile was quite heart-whole. "i've kept my salary in a separate pocket, harlan. besides that--well, i came here with nothing and i shall go away with nothing. the rest of it was all stage money." "say--by hen!" ejaculated the owner of the _spot-light_. then, smiting the desk: "you ought to let me print that. i'd run it in red head-lines across the top of the front page. but, of course, you won't.... well, here goes for the fireworks and a chance of a soaped rope." and he pushed the bell button for the copy boy. late as it was when he left the _spot-light_ office, brouillard waited on the corner for a quadjenàï car, and, catching one, he was presently whisked out to the ornate villa in the eastern suburb. there was a light in the hall and another in a room to the rear, and it was amy who answered his touch of the bell-push. "no, i can't stay," he said, when she asked him in. "but i had to come, if it was only for a minute. the deed is done. i've had my next-to-the-last round-up with mr. j. wesley cortwright, and to-morrow's _spot-light_ will fire the sunset gun for mirapolis. is your father here?" "no. he and stevie are up at the mine. i am looking for them on every car." "when they come, tell your father it's time to hike. are you all packed?" she nodded. "everything is ready." "all right. three of my teams will be here by midnight, at the latest. the drivers and helpers will be good men and you can trust them. don't let anything interfere with your getting safely up to the mountain to-night. there'll be warm times in gomorrah from this on and i want a free hand--which i shouldn't have with you here." "oh, i'm glad, glad!--and i'm just as scared as i can be!" she gasped with true feminine inconsistency. "they will single you out first; what if i am sending you to your death, victor! oh, please don't go and break my heart the other way across by getting killed!" he drew a deep breath and laughed. "you don't know how good it sounds to hear you say that--and say it in that way. i sha'n't be reckless. but i'm going to bring j. wesley and his crowd to book--they've got to go, and they've got to turn the 'little susan' loose." "they will never do that," she said sadly. "i'll make them; you wait and see." she looked up with the violet eyes kindling. "i told you once that you could do anything you wanted to--if you only wanted to hard enough. i believed it then; i believe it now." "no," he denied with a smile that was half sorrowful, "i can't make two hills without a valley between them. i've chased down the back track like a little man,--for love's sake, amy,--and i've burned all the bridges behind me as i ran; namely, the sham deeds to the pieces of reservoir bottom i'd been buying. but when it is all over i shall be just where i was when we began--exactly one hundred thousand dollars short of being able to say: 'come, girl, let's go and get married.'" "but father owes you a hundred thousand dollars," she said quickly. "not in a hundred thousand years, o most inconsistent of women! didn't we agree that that money was poisoned? it was the purchase price of an immortal soul, and i wouldn't touch it with a pair of tongs. that is why your father couldn't use it; it belonged to the devil and the devil wanted it back." "father won't take that view of it," she protested. "then you'll have to help me to bully him, that's all. but i must go and relieve grizzy, who is doing guard duty at the mixers.... tell your father--no, that isn't what i meant to say, it's this--" and his arms went suddenly across the hundred-thousand-dollar chasm. * * * * * a little deeper in the night, when he was tramping back through the sleeping town and up to the mixers on the high bench of jack's mountain, brouillard knew well enough that he was walking over a thin-crusted crater of volcanic possibilities. but to a man in the seventh heaven of love acknowledged without shame, and equally without shame returned,--nay, with the first passionate kiss of the love still tingling on his lips,--volcanic possibilities, or even the volcanoes themselves, figure lightly, indeed. xx the terror in the yellowstone national park there is an apparently bottomless pit which can be instantly transformed into a spouting, roaring vesuvius of boiling water by the simple expedient of dropping a bar of soap into it. the _spot-light_ went to press at three o'clock. by the earliest graying of dawn, and long before the sun had shown itself above the eastern timanyonis, brouillard's bar of soap was melting and the mirapolitan under-depths were beginning to heave. like wild-fire, the news spread from lip to lip and street to street, and by sunrise the geyser was retching and vomiting, belching débris of cries and maledictions, and pouring excited and riotous crowds into chigringo avenue. most naturally, the _spot-light_ office was the first point of attack, and harlan suffered loss, though it was inconsiderable. at the battering down of the doors the angry mob found itself confronting the young reclamation service chief and four members of his staff, all armed. brouillard spoke briefly and to the point. "i am the man who wrote that article you've been reading, and mr. harlan printed it as a matter of news. if you have anything to say to me you know where to find me. now, move on and let mr. harlan's property alone or somebody will get hurt." nobody stayed to press the argument at the moment. an early-morning mob is proverbially incoherent and incohesive; and, besides, loaded winchesters in the hands of five determined men are apt to have an eloquence which is more or less convincing. but with the opening of business the geyser spouted again. the exchanges were mobbed by eager sellers, each frenzied struggler hoping against hope that he might find some one simple enough to buy. at ten o'clock the bank closed--"temporarily," the placard notice said. but there were plenty to believe that it would never open again. by noon the trading panic had exhausted itself a little, though the lobby and café of the metropole were crowded, and anxious groups quickly formed around any nucleus of rumor or gossip in the streets. between one and two o'clock, while brouillard, leshington, and anson were hastily eating a luncheon sent over to the mapping room from bongras's, harlan drifted in. "spill your news," commanded leshington gruffly. "what's doing, and who's doing it?" "nobody, and nothing much," said harlan, answering the two queries as one. "the town is falling apart like a bunch of sand and the get-away has set in. two full trains went east this forenoon, and two more are scheduled for this afternoon if the railroad people can get the cars here." "'good-by, little girl, good-by,'" hummed grislow, entering in time to hear the report of the flight. but leshington was shaking his big head moodily. "laugh about it if you can, but it's no joke," he growled. "when the froth is blown away and the bubbles quit rising, there are going to be some mighty bitter settlings left in the bottom of the stein." "you're right, leshington," said harlan, gravely. "what we're seeing now is only the shocked surprise of it--as when a man says 'ouch!' before he realizes that the dog which has bitten him has a well-developed case of rabies. we'll come to the hydrophobic stage later on." by nightfall of this first day the editor's ominous prophecy seemed about to reach its fulfilment. the avenue was crowded again and the din and clamor was the roar of a mob infuriated. brouillard and leshington had just returned from posting a company of the workmen guard at the mixers and crushers, when grislow, who had been scouting on the avenue, came in. "harmless enough, yet," he reported. "it's only some more of the get-away that harlan was describing. just the same, it's something awful. people are fairly climbing over one another on the road up the hill to the station--with no possible hope of getting a train before some time to-morrow. teamsters are charging twenty-five dollars a load for moving stuff that won't find cars for a week, and they're scarce at the price." leshington, who was not normally a profane man, opened his mouth and said things. "if the cortwright crowd had one man in it with a single idea beyond saving his own miserable stake!" he stormed. "what are the spellbinders doing, grizzy?" the hydrographer grinned. "cortwright and a chosen few left this afternoon, hotfoot, for washington, to get the government to interfere. that's the story they'd like to have the people believe. but the fact is, they ran away from judge lynch." "yes; i think i see 'em coming back--not!" snorted the first assistant. then to brouillard: "that puts it up to us from this out. is there anything we can do?" brouillard shook his head. "i don't want to stop the retreat. i've heard from president ford. the entire western division will hustle the business of emptying the town, and the quicker it is done the sooner it will be over." for a tumultuous week the flight from the doomed city went on, and the overtaxed single-track railroad wrought miracles of transportation. not until the second week did the idea of material salvage take root, but, once started, it grew like jonah's gourd. hundreds of wrecking crews were formed. plants were emptied, and the machinery was shipped as it stood. houses and business blocks were gutted of everything that could be carried off and crowded into freight-cars. and, most wonderful of all, cars were found and furnished almost as fast as they could be loaded. but the second week was not without incidents of another sort. twice brouillard had been shot at--once in the dark as he was entering the mapping room, and again in broad day when he was crossing the avenue to bongras's. the second attempt was made by the broker garner, whom excitement or loss, or both, had driven crazy. the young engineer did nothing in either case save to see to it that garner was sent to his friends in kansas city. but when, two nights later, an attempt was made to dynamite the great dam, he covered the bill-boards with warning posters. outsiders found within the reclamation service picket-lines after dark would be held as intentional criminals and dealt with accordingly. "it begins to look a little better," said anson on the day in the third week when the army of government laborers began to strip the final forms from the top of the great wall which now united the two mountain shoulders and completely overshadowed and dominated the dismantled town. "if the avenue would only take its hunch and go, the agony would be over." but brouillard was dubious. the avenue, more particularly the lower avenue, constituted the dregs. bongras, whom brouillard had promised to indemnify, stayed; some of the shopkeepers stayed for the chance of squeezing the final trading dollar out of the government employees; the saloon-keepers stayed to a man, and the dives were still running full blast--chiefly now on the wages of the government force. "it will be worse before it is better," was the young chiefs prediction, and the foreboding verified itself that night. looting of a more or less brazen sort had been going on from the first, and by nine o'clock of the night of prediction a loosely organized mob of drink-maddened terrorists was drifting from street to street, and there were violence and incendiarism to follow. though the property destruction mattered little, the anarchy it was breeding had to be controlled. brouillard and leshington got out their reserve force and did what they could to restore some semblance of order. it was little enough; and by ten o'clock the amateur policing of the city had reduced itself to a double guarding of the dam and the machinery, and a cordoning of the metropole, the reclamation service buildings, and the _spot-light_ office. for harlan, the dash of sporting blood in his veins asserting itself, still stayed on and continued to issue his paper. "i said i wanted to be in at the death, and for a few minutes to-night i thought i was going to be," he told brouillard, when the engineer had posted his guards and had climbed the stair to the editorial office. then he asked a question: "when is this little hell-on-earth going to be finally extinguished, victor?" instead of answering, brouillard put a question of his own: "did you know that cortwright and schermerhorn and judge williams came back this evening, harlan?" "i did," said the newspaper man. "they are registered at the metropole as large as life. and miss genevieve and lord falkland and cortwright's ugly duckling of a son came with them. what's up?" "that is what i'd like to know. there's a bunch of strangers at the metropole, too, a sheriff's posse, poodles thinks; at least, there is a deputy from red butte with the crowd." harlan tilted back in his chair and scanned the ceiling reflectively. "this thing is getting on my nerve, old man. i wish we could clean the slate and all go home." "it is going to be cleaned. notices will be posted to-morrow warning everybody that the waste-gates will be closed promptly on the date advertised." "when is it? things have been revolving too rapidly to let me remember such a trivial item as a date." "it is the day after to-morrow, at noon." the owner of the _spot-light_ nodded. "let her go, gallagher. i've got everything on skids, even the presses. _au revoir_--or perhaps one should say, _au reservoir_." fresh shoutings and a crackling of pistols arose in the direction of the plaza, and brouillard got up and went to a window. the red glow of other house burnings loomed against the sombre background of jack's mountain. "senseless savages!" he muttered, and then went back to the editor. "i don't like this cortwright reappearance, harlan. i wish i knew what it means." "let's see," said the newsman thoughtfully; "what is there worth taking that they didn't take in the _sauve qui peut_? by jove--say! did old david massingale get out of j. wesley's clutches before the lightning struck?" "i wish i could say 'yes', and be sure of it," was the sober reply. "you knew about the thieving stock deal, or what you didn't know i told you. well, i had massingale, as president, call a meeting of directors--which never met. afterward, acting under legal advice, he went on working the mine, and he's been working it ever since, shipping a good bit of ore now and then, when he could squeeze it in between the get-away trains. of course, there is bound to be a future of some sort; but that is the present condition of affairs." "how about those notes in the bank? wasn't massingale personally involved in some way?" brouillard bounded out of his chair as if the question had been a point-blank pistol-shot. "great heavens!" he exclaimed. "to-day's the day! in the hustle i had forgotten it, and i'll bet old david has--if he hasn't simply ignored it. that accounts for the reunion at the metropole!" "don't worry," said harlan easily. "the bank has gone, vanished, shut up shop. at the end of the ends, i suppose, they can make david pay; but they can't very well cinch him for not meeting his notes on the dot." "massingale doesn't really owe them anything that he can't pay," brouillard asserted. "by wiring and writing and digging up figures, we found that the capitalizing stockholders, otherwise j. wesley cortwright, and possibly schermerhorn, have actually invested fifty-two thousand dollars, or, rather, that amount of massingale's loan has been expended in equipment and pay-rolls. three weeks ago the old man got the smelter superintendent over here from red butte, and arranged for an advance of fifty-two thousand dollars on the ore in stock, the money to be paid when the first train of ore-cars should be on the way in. it was paid promptly in new york exchange, and massingale indorsed the draft over to me to be used in the directors' meeting, which was never held." "well?" said the editor. brouillard took a pacing turn up the long, narrow room, and when he came back he said: "i guess i'm only half reformed, after all, harlan. i'd give a year or so out of my natural life if i had a grip on cortwright that would enable me to go across to bongras's and choke a little justice out of him." "go over and flash massingale's fifty-two thousand dollars at 'em. they'll turn loose. i'll bet a yellow cur worth fifteen cents that they're wishing there was a train out of this little section of sheol right now. hear that!" the crash of an explosion rattled the windows, and the red loom on the jack's mountain side of the town leaped up and became a momentary glare. the fell spirit of destruction, of objectless wreck and ruin, was abroad, and brouillard turned to the stairway door. "i'll have to be making the rounds again," he said. "the greeks and italians are too excitable to stand much of this. take care of yourself; i'll leave grif and a dozen of the trusties to look after the shop." when he reached the sidewalk the upper avenue was practically deserted. but in the eastern residence district, and well around to the north, new storm-centres were marked by the increasing number of fires. brouillard stopped and faced toward the distant and invisible timanyonis. a chill autumn breeze was sweeping down from the heights and the blockading wall of the great dam turned it into eddies and dust-pillared whirls dancing in the empty street. young griffith sauntered up with his winchester in the hollow of his arm. "anything new?" he asked. "no," said brouillard. "i was just thinking that a little wind would go a long way to-night, with these crazy house-burners loose on the town." then he turned and walked rapidly to the government headquarters, passed the sentry at the door of the mapping room; and out of the fire-proof vault where the drawings and blue-print duplicates were kept took a small tin despatch-box. he had opened the box and had transferred a slip of paper from it to the leather-covered pocket field book which served him for a wallet, when there was a stir at the door and castner hurried in, looking less the clergyman than the hard-working peace-officer. "more bedlam," he announced. "i want gassman or handley and twenty or thirty good men. the mob has gone from wrecking and burning to murdering. 'pegleg' john was beaten to death in front of his saloon a few minutes ago. it is working this way. there were three fires in the plaza as i came through." "see grislow at the commissary and tell him i sent you," said the chief. "i'd go with you, but i'm due at the metropole." "good. then miss amy got word to you? i was just about to deliver her message." "miss massingale? where is she, and what was the message?" demanded brouillard. "then you haven't heard? the 'little susan' is in the hands of a sheriff's posse, and david massingale is under arrest on some trumped-up charge--selling ore for his individual account, or something of that sort. miss amy didn't go into particulars, but she told me that she had heard the sheriff say it was a penitentiary offence." "but where is she now?" stormed brouillard. "over at the hotel. i supposed you knew; you said you were going there." brouillard snatched up the despatch-box and flung it into the fire-proof. while he was locking the door castner went in search of grislow, and when brouillard faced about, another man stood in the missionary's place by the mapping table. it was mr. j. wesley cortwright. the gray-faced promoter had lost something of his old-time jaunty assurance, and he was evidently well shaken and unnerved by the sights and sounds of the night of terror. the sandy-gray eyes advertised it as well as the fat hands, which would not keep still. "i didn't think i'd have to ask a favor of you again, brouillard, but needs must when the devil drives," he began, with an attempted assumption of the former manner. "we didn't know--the newspapers didn't tell us anything about this frightful state of affairs, and----" brouillard had suddenly lost his desire to hurry. "sit down, mr. cortwright," he said. "i was just coming over to see you--to congratulate you and mr. schermerhorn on your return to mirapolis. we have certainly missed the mayor, not to mention the president of the common council." "of course--yes," was the hurried rejoinder. "but that's all over. you said you'd get us, and you did. i don't bear malice. if you had given me one more day i'd have got you; the stuff that would have broken your neck with the washington people was all written and ready to put on the wires. but that's past and gone, and the next thing is something else. there is a lot of money and securities locked up in the niquoia bank vault. we've come to clean up, and we brought a few peace officers along from red butte for a guard. the miserable scoundrels are scared stiff; they won't stir out of the hotel. bongras tells me you've got your force organized and armed--can't you lend us fifty or a hundred huskies to keep the mob off while we open that bank vault?" brouillard's black eyes snapped, and the blood danced in his veins. the opportunity for which he would have bartered ormus treasure had come to him--was begging him to use it. "i certainly can," he admitted, answering the eager question and emphasizing the potentiality. "but will you? that's the point. we'll make it worth your while. for god's sake, don't say no, brouillard! there's pretty well up to a million in that vault, counting odds and ends and left-overs. schermerhorn oughtn't to have left it. i thought he had sense enough to stay and see it taken care of. but now----" "but now the mob is very likely to wreck the building and dynamite the vault, you were going to say. i think it is more than likely, mr. cortwright, and i wonder that it hasn't been done before this. it would have been done if the rioters had had any idea that you'd left anything worth taking. and it would probably wreck you and mr. schermerhorn if it should get hold of you; you've both been burned in effigy half a dozen times since you ran away." "oh, good lord!" shuddered the magnate. "make it two hundred of your men, and let's hurry. you won't turn us down on this, brouillard?" "no. it is no part of our duty to go and keep the mob off while you save your stealings, but we'll do it. and from the noise they are making down that way, i think you are wise in suggesting haste. but first there is a question of common justice to be settled. an hour ago, or such a matter, you sent a part of your sheriff's posse up to seize the 'little susan' and to arrest david massingale----" "it's--it's a lie!" stammered cortwright. "somebody has been trying to backcap me to you!" brouillard looked up, frowning. "you are a good bit older man than i am, mr. cortwright, and i sha'n't punch your head. but you'll know why i ought to when i tell you that my informant is miss amy massingale. what have you done with old david?" the man who had lost his knack of bluffing came down and stayed down. "he--he's over at the hotel," he stammered. "under guard?" "well--y-yes." brouillard pointed to the telephone on the wall. "go and call up your crowd and get it here. tell judge williams to bring the stock he is holding, and schermerhorn to bring the massingale notes, and your man jackson to bring the stock-book. we'll have that directors' meeting that was called, and wasn't held, three weeks ago." "oh, good heavens!" protested the millionaire, "put it off--for god's sake, put it off! it will be wasting time that may be worth a thousand dollars a minute!" "you are wasting some of the thousand-dollar minutes right now," was the cool reply, and the engineer turned to his desk and squared himself as if he were going to work on a bunch of foremen's reports. it was a crude little expedient, but it sufficed. cortwright tramped to the 'phone and cursed and swore at it until he had his man at the other end of the wire. the man was the lawyer, as it appeared, and cortwright abused him spitefully. "you've balled it--balled it beautifully!" he shouted. "come over here to brouillard's office and bring schermerhorn and the stock and the notes and jackson and the secretary's books and massingale and your infernal self! get a move, and get it quick! we stand to lose the whole loaf because you had to butt in and sweep up the crumbs first!" when the procession arrived, as it did in an incredibly short time, brouillard laid down the law. "we don't need these," he said curtly, indicating the two deputies who came to bring david massingale. and when they were gone: "now, gentlemen, get to work and do business, and the less time you waste the better chance there will be for your bank salvage. three requirements i make: you will turn over the stock, putting mr. massingale in possession of his mine, without encumbrance; you will cancel and surrender his notes to the bank; and you will give him a document, signed by all of you, acknowledging the payment in full of all claims, past or pending. while you are straightening things out, i'll ring up the yards and rally your guard." cortwright turned on the lawyer. "you hear what brouillard says; fix it, and do it suddenly." it was done almost before brouillard had made leshington, in charge at the yards, understand what was wanted. "now a note to your man at the mine to make him let go without putting us to the trouble of throwing him over the dump," said the engineer, when he had looked over the stock transfers, examined the cancelled notes, and read and witnessed the signatures on the receipt in full. cortwright nodded to the lawyer, and when williams began to write again the king of the promoters turned upon brouillard with a savage sneer. "once more you've had your price," he snarled bitterly. "you and the old man have bilked us out of what we spent on the mine. but we'll call it an even break if you'll hurry that gang of huskies." "we'll call it an even break when it is one," retorted brouillard; and after he had gathered up the papers he took the new york check from his pocketbook, indorsed it, and handed it to cortwright. "that is what was spent out of the hundred thousand dollars you had mr. massingale charged with, as nearly as we can ascertain. take it and take care of it; it's real money." he had turned again to the telephone to hurry leshington, had rung the call, and was chuckling grimly over the collapse of the four men at the end of the mapping table as they fingered the slip of money paper. suddenly it was borne in upon him that there was trouble of some sort at the door--there were curses, a blow, a mad rush; then.... it was stephen massingale who had fought his way past the door-guarding sentry and stood blinking at the group at the far end of the mapping board. "you're the houn' dog i'm lookin' for!" he raged, singling out cortwright when the dazzle of the electrics permitted him to see. "you'll rob an old man first, and then call him a thief and set the sheriff on him, will you----?" massingale's pistol was dropping to the firing level when brouillard flung away the telephone ear-piece and got between. afterward there was a crash like a collision of worlds, a whirling, dancing medley of colored lights fading to gray and then to darkness, and the engineer went down with the avenger of wrongs tightly locked in his arms. * * * * * after the period of darkness had passed and brouillard opened his eyes again upon the world of things as they are, he had a confused idea that he had overslept shamefully and that the indulgence had given him a bad headache. the next thought was that the headache was responsible for a set of singular hallucinations. his blanket bunk in the sleeping shack seemed to have transformed itself into a white bed with pillows and snowy sheets, and the bed was drawn up beside an open window through which he could look out, or seem to look out, upon a vast sea dimpling in the breeze and reflecting the sunshine so brightly that it made his headache a darting agony. when he turned his face to escape the blinding glare of the sun on the sea the hallucinations became soothingly comforting, not to say ecstatic. some one was sitting on the edge of the bed; a cool hand was laid on his forehead; and when he could again see straight he found himself looking up into a pair of violet eyes in which the tears were trembling. [illustration: brouillard got between.] "you are amy--and this is that other world you used to talk about, isn't it?" he asked feebly. the cool hand slipped from his forehead to his lips, as if to warn him that he must not talk, and he went through the motions of kissing it. when it was withdrawn he broke the silent prohibition promptly. "the way to keep me from talking is to do it all yourself; what happened to me last night?" she shook her head sorrowfully. "the 'last night' you mean was three weeks ago. stevie was trying to shoot mr. cortwright in your office and you got between them. do you remember that?" "perfectly," he said. "but it still seems as if it were only last night. where am i now?--not that it makes any difference, so long as i'm with you." "you are at home--our home; at the 'little susan.' mr. leshington had the men carry you up here, and mr. ford ran a special train all the way from denver with the doctors. stevie's bullet struck you in the head, and--and we all thought you were going to die." "i'm not," he asserted, in feebly desperate determination. "i'm going to live and get to work and earn a hundred thousand dollars, so i can say: 'come, little girl----'" again the restraining hand was laid upon his lips, and again he went through the motions of kissing it. "you _mustn't_ talk!" she insisted. "you said you'd let me." and when he made the sign of acquiescence, she went on: "at first the doctors wouldn't give us any hope at all; they said you might live, but you'd--you'd never--never remember--never have your reason again. but yesterday----" "please!" he pleaded. "that's more than enough about me. i want to know what happened." "that night, you mean? all the things that you had planned for. father got the mine back, and mr. leshington and the others got the riot quelled after about half of the city was burned." "but cortwright and schermerhorn--i promised them----" "mr. leshington carried out your promise and helped them get the money out of the bank vault before the mob sacked the niquoia building and dynamited it. but at the hotel they were arrested on the order of the bank examiner, and everything was taken away from them. we haven't heard yet what is going to be done with them." "and gomorrah?" he asked. she slipped an arm under his shoulders and raised him so he could look out upon the mountain-girt sea dimpling under the morning breeze. "there is where it was," she said soberly, "where it was, and is not, and never will be again, thank god! mr. leshington waited until everybody had escaped, and then he shut the waste-way gates." brouillard sank back upon the pillows of comfort and closed his eyes. "then it's all up to me and the hundred thousand," he whispered. "and i'll get it ... honestly, this time." the violet eyes were smiling when he looked into them again. "is she--the one incomparable she--worth it, victor?" "her price is above rubies, as i told you once a long time ago." "you wouldn't let pride--a false pride--stand in the way of her happiness?" "i haven't any; her love has made me very humble and--and good, amy, dear. don't laugh: it's the only word; i'm just hungering and thirsting after righteousness enough to be half-way worthy of her." "then i'll tell you something else that has happened. father and stevie have reorganized the 'little susan' mining company, dividing the stock into four equal parts--one for each of us. you must take your share, victor. it will break father's heart if you don't. he says you got it back for him after it was hopelessly lost, and that is true." he had closed his eyes again, and what he said seemed totally irrelevant. "'and after the man had climbed the fourth mountain through all its seven stages, he saw a bright light, and it blinded him so that he stumbled and fell, and a great darkness rose up to make the light seem far beyond his reach. then the light came near, and he saw that it was love, and that the darkness was in his own soul.' ... kiss me, amy, girl, and then go and tell your father that he is a simple-hearted old spendthrift, and i love him. and if you could wire castner, and tell him to bring a license along----" "o boy--foolish boy!" she said. "wait: when you are well and strong again...." but she did not make him wait for the first of the askings; and after a healing silence had fallen to show the needlessness of speech between those who have come through darkness into light, he fell asleep again, perhaps to dream that the quieting hand upon his forehead was the touch of love, angel of the bright and shining way, summoning him to rise up and go forward as a soul set free to meet the dawning day of fruition. the end * * * * * books by francis lynde published by charles scribner's sons the city of numbered days. illus. mo _net_ $ . the honorable senator sage-brush. mo _net_ $ . scientific sprague. illus. mo _net_ $ . the price. mo _net_ $ . the taming of red butte western. illus. mo _net_ $ . the king of arcadia. illus. mo _net_ $ . a romance in transit. mo _net_ . [illustration: albert ballin] albert ballin by bernhard huldermann _translated from the german by w. j. eggers, m.a. (london)_ [illustration: decoration] cassell and company, limited london, new york, toronto and melbourne to the memory of albert ballin in true veneration and heartfelt gratitude "_he was a man; take him for all in all, i shall not look upon his like again._" shakespeare, _hamlet_ (_act i, scene _). preface my principal reason for publishing the information contained in this volume is to keep alive the memory of albert ballin. i particularly desire to show what was his share in bringing about the economic advance of germany during the golden age of the empire's modern history, and to relate how he--unsuccessfully, alas!--strove to prevent the proud structure which he had helped to raise, from falling to ruin in the time of his country's distress. i believe that much that concerns the latter aspect of his work will be new to most readers. in spite of all that has been said and written concerning the political activities which ballin displayed (and is alleged to have displayed) both before and during the war, their object--and, more important still, their intimate connexion with his economic activities--is scarcely known. eminently successful though ballin had been in creating an atmosphere of mutual understanding between the various nations in the economic sphere, his attempts to reconcile the contending ambitions of those same nations where politics were concerned ended in failure. and yet it is impossible to understand his failure in one respect without first understanding his success in the other; indeed, the connexion between the two sides of his work forms the key to the character of the man and to the historical significance of his achievements. it is possible that this volume may shed some new light on the causes of germany's collapse; this idea, at any rate, was before my mind when i decided upon publication. frederick the great somewhere remarked that, to the great loss of mankind, the experiences gained by one generation are always useless to the next, and that each generation is fated to make its own mistakes. if this is true, it is nevertheless to be hoped that germany, considering the magnitude of the disaster that has overtaken her, will not allow the spirit of resignation implied by this remark to determine her actions in the present case. in thus submitting to the public the information contained in this book, i am carrying out the behest of the deceased, who asked me to collect his papers, and to make whatever use i thought fit of them. moreover, the fact that i had the privilege of being his collaborator for more than ten years gives me perhaps a special right to undertake this task. my best thanks are due to director a. storm for supplying me with material illustrative of ballin's early career; to chief inspector emil f. kirchheim for assistance with the technical details, and to professor francke, who was on intimate terms of friendship with ballin during a number of years, for information concerning many matters relative to ballin's personal character. my constant endeavour has been to describe persons and events _sine ira et studio_, and to refrain from stating as a fact anything for which no documentary evidence is available. the author. _october, ._ contents chapter page . morris and co. . general representative of the carr line . head of the packetfahrt's passenger department . the pool . the morgan trust . the expansion of the hamburg-amerika linie . the technical reorganization of the hamburg-amerika linie . politics . the kaiser . the war . personal characteristics extract annotated by william ii index albert ballin chapter i morris and co. albert ballin was a native of hamburg. before the large modern harbour basins of the city were built, practically all the vessels which frequented the port of hamburg took up their berths along the northern shore of the elbe close to the western part of the town. a long road, flanked on one side by houses of ancient architecture, extended--and still extends--parallel to this predecessor of the modern harbour. during its length the road goes under different names, and the house in which ballin was born and brought up stood in that portion known as steinhöft. a seaport growing in importance from year to year is always a scene of busy life, and the early days which the boy ballin spent in his father's house and its interesting surroundings near the river's edge left an indelible impression on his plastic mind. those were the times when the private residence and the business premises of the merchant and of the shipping man were still under the same roof; when a short walk of a few minutes enabled the shipowner to reach his vessel, and when the relations between him and the captain were still dominated by that feeling of personal friendship and personal trust the disappearance of which no man has ever more regretted than albert ballin. throughout his life he never failed to look upon as ideal that era when every detail referring to the ship and to her management was still a matter of personal concern to her owner. he traced all his later successes back to the stimulating influence of those times; and if it is remembered how enormous was then the capacity for work, and how great the love of it for its own sake, it must be admitted that this estimate was no exaggeration. true, it is beyond doubt that the everyday surroundings in which his boyhood was spent, and the impressions gained from them, powerfully influenced his imagination both as boy and growing youth. it may, however, also be regarded as certain that the element of heredity was largely instrumental in moulding his character. ballin belonged to an old jewish family, members of which--as is proved by ancient tombstones and other evidence--lived at frankfort-on-main centuries ago. later on we find traces of them in paris, and still later in central and north germany, and in denmark. documents dating from the seventeenth century show that the ballins at that time were already among the well-to-do and respected families of hamburg and altona. some of the earliest members of the family that can be traced were distinguished for their learning and for the high reputation they enjoyed among their co-religionists; others, in later times, were remarkable for their artistic gifts which secured for them the favour of several kings of france. those branches of the family which had settled in germany and denmark were prominent again for their learning and also for their business-like qualities. the intelligence and the artistic imagination which characterized albert ballin may be said to be due to hereditary influences. his versatile mind, the infallible discernment he exercised in dealing with his fellow-men, his artistic tastes, and his high appreciation of what was beautiful--all these are qualities which may furnish the key to his successes as a man of business. his sense of beauty especially made him extremely fastidious in all that concerned his personal surroundings, and was reflected in the children of his imagination, the large and beautifully appointed passenger steamers. ballin always disliked publicity. when the literary bureau of his company requested him to supply some personal information concerning himself, he bluntly refused to do so. hence there are but few publications available dealing with his life and work which may claim to be called authentic. nevertheless--or perhaps for that very reason--quite a number of legends have sprung up regarding his early years. it is related, for instance, that he received a sound business training first in his father's business and later during his stay in england. the actual facts are anything but romantic. being the youngest of seven brothers and sisters, he was treated with especial tenderness and affection by his mother, so much so, in fact, that he grew up rather a delicate boy and was subject to all sorts of maladies and constitutional weaknesses. he was educated, as was usual at that time, at one of the private day-schools of his native city. in those days, when hamburg did not yet possess a university of her own, and when the facilities which she provided for the intellectual needs of her citizens were deplorably inadequate for the purpose, visitors from the other parts of germany could never understand why that section of the population which appreciated the value of a complete course of higher education--especially an education grounded on a classical foundation--was so extremely small. the average hamburg business man certainly did not belong to that small section; and the result was that a number of private schools sprang up which qualified their pupils for the examination entitling them to one year's--instead of three years'--military service, and provided them with a general education which--without any reflection on their principals--it can only be said would not bear comparison with that, for instance, which was looked upon as essential by the members of the higher grades of the prussian civil service. fortunately, the last few decades have brought about a great improvement in this respect, just as they have revolutionized the average citizen's appreciation of intellectual culture and refinement. albert ballin did not stand out prominently for his achievements at school, and he did not shine through his industry and application to his studies. in later life he successfully made up for the deficiencies of his school education by taking private lessons, especially in practical mathematics and english, in which language he was able to converse with remarkable fluency. his favourite pastime in his early years was music, and his performances on the 'cello, for instance, are said to have been quite excellent. none of his friends during his later years can furnish authoritative evidence on this point, as at that time he no longer had the leisure to devote himself to this hobby. apart from music, he was a great lover of literature, especially of books on _belles lettres_, history, and politics. thanks to his prodigious memory, he thus was able to accumulate vast stores of knowledge. during his extended travels on the business of his company he gained a first-hand knowledge of foreign countries, and thus learned to understand the essential characteristics of foreign peoples as well as their customs and manners, which a mere study of books would never have given him. so he became indeed a man of true culture and refinement. he excelled as a speaker and as a writer; although when he occasionally helped his adopted daughter with her german composition, his work did not always meet with the approval of the teacher, and was once even returned with the remark, "newspaper german." in , at the age of seventeen, ballin lost his father. the business, which was carried on under the firm of morris and co., was an emigration agency, and its work consisted in booking emigrants for the transatlantic steamship lines on a commission basis. office premises and dwelling accommodation were both--as already indicated--located in the same building, so that a sharp distinction between business matters and household affairs was often quite impossible, and the children acquired practical knowledge of everything connected with the business at an early age. this was especially so in the case of young albert, who loved to do his home lessons in the office rooms. history does not divulge whether he did so because he was interested in the affairs of the office, or whether he obtained there some valuable assistance. the whole primitiveness of those days is illustrated by the following episode which ballin once related to us in his own humorous way. the family possessed--a rare thing in our modern days--a treasure of a servant who, apart from doing all the hard work, was the good genius of the home, and who had grown old as the children grew up. "augusta" had not yet read the modern books and pamphlets on women's rights, and she was content to go out once a year, when she spent the day with her people at barmbeck, a suburb of hamburg. one day, when the young head of morris and co. was discussing some important business matters with some friends in his private office, the door was suddenly thrust open, and the "treasure" appeared on the scene and said: "adjüs ook albert, ick gah hüt ut!" ("good-bye, albert, i am going out to-day!") it was the occasion of her annual holiday. the firm of morris and co., of which ballin's father had been one of the original founders in , had never been particularly successful up to the time of his death. albert, the youngest son, who was born on august th, , joined the business when his father died. he had then just finished his studies at school. the one partner who had remained a member of the firm after ballin's death left in , and in albert ballin became a partner himself. the task of providing for his widowed mother and such of his brothers and sisters as were still dependent on his help then devolved on him, and he succeeded in doing this in a very short time. he applied himself to his work with the greatest diligence, and he became a shining example to the few assistants employed by the firm. on the days of the departure of the steamers the work of the office lasted until far into the night, as was usually the case in hamburg in former years. an incident which took place in those early days proves that the work carried on by morris and co. met with the approval of their employers. one day the head of one of the foreign lines for which the firm was doing business paid a personal visit to hamburg to see what his agents were doing. on entering the office young albert received him. he said he wanted to see mr. ballin, and when the youthful owner replied that he was mr. ballin the visitor answered: "it is not you i want to see, young man, but the head of the firm." the misunderstanding was soon cleared up, and when ballin anxiously asked if the visitor had come to complain about anything connected with the business, the reply was given that such was by no means the case, and that the conduct of the business was considered much more satisfactory than before. to arrive at a proper understanding of the conditions ruling in hamburg at the end of the 'seventies, it is necessary to remember that the shipping business was still in its infancy, and that it was far from occupying the prominent position which it gained in later years and which it has only lost again since the war. the present time, which also is characterized by the prevalence of foreign companies and foreign-owned tonnage in the shipping business of hamburg, bears a strong likeness to that period which lies now half a century back. the "hamburg-amerikanische packetfahrt-actien-gesellschaft," although only running a few services to north and central america, was even then the most important shipping company domiciled in hamburg; but it counted for very little as an international factor, especially as it had just passed through a fierce struggle against its competitor, the adler line, which had greatly weakened it and had caused it to fall behind other lines with regard to the status of its ships. of the other hamburg lines which became important in later times, some did not then exist at all, and others were just passing through the most critical period of their infancy. the competitors of the packetfahrt in the emigrant traffic were the north german lloyd, of bremen; the holland-america line, of rotterdam, and the red star line, of antwerp. apart from the direct traffic from hamburg to new york, there was also the so-called indirect emigrant traffic _via_ england, which for the most part was in the hands of the british lines. the passengers booked by the agents of the latter were first conveyed from hamburg to a british port, and thence, by a different boat, to the united states. it was the time before the industrialization of germany had commenced, when there was not sufficient employment going round for the country's increasing population. the result was that large numbers of the inhabitants had to emigrate to foreign countries. that period lasted until the 'nineties, by which time the growth of industries required the services of all who could work. simultaneously, however, with the decrease of emigration from germany, that from southern europe, austria-hungary, and the slavonic countries was assuming huge proportions, although the beginnings of this latter were already quite noticeable in the 'seventies and 'eighties. this foreign emigrant traffic was the mainstay of the business carried on by the emigration agencies of the type of morris and co., whereas the german emigrants formed the backbone of the business on which the german steamship lines relied for their passenger traffic. either the companies themselves or their agencies were in possession of the necessary government licences entitling them to carry on the emigration business. the agencies of the foreign lines, on the other hand, either held no such licence at all, or only one which was restricted to certain german federal states or prussian provinces--such, for instance, as morris and co. possessed for the two mecklenburgs and for schleswig-holstein. this circumstance naturally compelled them to tap foreign districts rather than parts of germany; and since the german lines, in order to keep down their competition, refused to carry the passengers they had booked, they were obliged to work in conjunction with foreign ones. they generally provided the berths which the sub-agencies required for their clientèle, and sometimes they would book berths on their own account, afterwards placing them at the disposal of the agencies. they were the connecting link between the shipping companies and the emigrants, and the former had no dealings whatever with the latter until these were on board their steamers. the hamburg emigration agents had therefore also to provide accommodation for the intending emigrants during their stay in hamburg and to find the means for conveying them to the british port in question. a number of taverns and hostelries in the parts near the harbour catered specially for such emigrants, and the various agents found plenty of scope for a display of their respective business capacities. a talent for organization, for instance, and skill in dealing with the emigrants, could be the means of gaining great successes. this was the sphere in which the youthful albert ballin gave the first proofs of his abilities and intelligence. within a few years of his entering the firm the latter acquired a prominent position in the "indirect" emigration service _via_ england, a position which brought its chief into personal contact with the firm of richardson, spence and co., of liverpool, who were the general representatives for great britain of the american line (one of the lines to whose emigration traffic morris and co. attended in hamburg), and especially with the head of that firm, mr. wilding. an intimate personal friendship sprang up between these two men which lasted a lifetime. these close relations gave him an excellent opportunity for studying the business methods of the british shipping firms, and led to the establishment of valuable personal intercourse with some other leading shipping people in england. thus it may be said that ballin's connexions with england, strengthened as they were by several short visits to that country, were of great practical use to him and that, in a sense, they furnished him with such business training as until then he had lacked. how successfully the new chief of morris and co. operated the business may be gauged from the fact that, a few years after his advent, the firm had secured one-third of the volume of the "indirect" emigration traffic _via_ england. at that time, in the early 'eighties, a period of grave economic depression in the united states was succeeded by a trade boom of considerable magnitude. such a transition from bad business to good was always preceded by the sale of a large number of "pre-paids," i.e. steerage tickets which were bought and paid for by people in the united states and sent by them to those among their friends or relatives in europe who, without possessing the necessary money, wished to emigrate to the states. a few months after the booking of these "pre-paids" a strong current of emigration always set in, and the time just referred to proved to be no exception to the rule. the number of steerage passengers leaving hamburg for new york increased from , in to , in , and , in . it was quite impossible for the biggest hamburg shipping company--the packetfahrt--to carry successfully this huge number of emigrants. and even if this had been possible, the packetfahrt would not have undertaken it, because it intentionally ignored the stream of non-german emigrants. besides, the company had neglected for years to adapt its vessels to the needs of the times, and had allowed its competitors to gain so much that even the north german lloyd, a much younger undertaking, had far outstripped it. the latter, under its eminent chairman, mr. lohmann, had not only outclassed the packetfahrt by the establishment of its service of fast steamers--"bremen-new york in days"--which was worked with admirable regularity and punctuality, but had also increased the volume of its fleet to such an extent that, in , of the transatlantic steamers flying the german flag belonged to this company, whereas the packetfahrt possessed only. for all these reasons it would have been useless for morris and co. to suggest to the packetfahrt that they should secure for it a large increase in its emigrant traffic; and even if they had tried to extend their influence by working in co-operation with the packetfahrt, such an attempt would doubtless have provoked the liveliest opposition on the part of the firm of august bolten, the owner of which was one of the founders of the packetfahrt, and which, because they were acting as general agents for the north american cargo and passenger business, exercised a powerful influence over the management of the packetfahrt. the firm of august bolten, moreover, had, like the line they represented, always consistently refused to have any dealings with the emigrant agencies. ballin, knowing that the next few years would lead to a considerable increase in the emigrant traffic, therefore approached a newly established hamburg shipping firm--which intended to run a cargo service from hamburg to new york--with the proposal that it should also take up the steerage business. his british friends, when they were informed of this step, expressed the apprehension lest their own business with his firm should suffer from it, but ballin had no difficulty in allaying their fears. chapter ii general representative of the carr line the new shipping line for which morris and co. contracted to act as general passenger agents was the privately owned firm of mr. edward carr. the agreement concluded between the two firms shows distinct traces of ballin's enterprising spirit and of the largeness of his outlook. morris and co. undertook to book for the two steamships of the carr line then building, viz. the _australia_ and the _america_, as many passengers as they could carry, and guaranteed to pay the owners a passage price of marks per head, all the necessary expenses and commissions, including those connected with the dispatch of the passengers, to be paid by morris and co. the steerage rate charged by the packetfahrt at that time was marks. it was agreed that, if this rate should be increased, a corresponding increase should be made in the rates of the carr line. the number of trips to be performed by each steamer should be about eight or nine per annum. if a third boat were added to the service, the agreement entered into should be extended so as to cover this boat as well. for every passenger short of the total capacity of each steamer morris and co. were to pay a compensation of marks, if no arrangements had been made for the accommodation of the passenger, and marks in case such accommodation had been arranged. it was expected that each boat would carry from to passengers. the actual number carried, however, turned out to be slightly less, and amounted to when the first steamer left hamburg on june th, . morris and co. also undertook to hand over to the carr line all the through cargo they could secure. from the very start the work done by ballin seems to have met with the unqualified approval of the carr line people; because the latter waived their claim to the compensation due to them for the sixty passengers short of the total number which were to be carried on the first trip, as morris and co. could prove that these passengers had failed to arrive, although the firm had been advised from denmark that they were to come. on how small a scale the firm's business was conducted may be gauged from the circumstance that the whole staff consisted of nine employees only, who were paid salaries aggregating , marks. in one essential feature the service of the new line differed from those of its old-established competitors. the _australia_ and the _america_ were ordinary cargo boats, but, in addition to a moderate amount of cargo, they also carried steerage passengers. they thus had not much in common with the usual passenger steamers by which both cabin and steerage passengers were carried. the advantage of the new type to the emigrants was that it gave them much more space than was at their disposal on the older boats. whereas on the cabin steamers they were practically confined to a very small part of the boat, the carr line steamers made no restriction whatever as to their movements on board; all the available space, especially on deck, was thrown open to them. this type was not entirely a novelty, the sailing vessels of the older period used for the emigrant traffic being run on similar lines. the advantages accruing to the owners from their new type of steamers were obvious. the arrangements for the accommodation and provisioning of the emigrants, compared with what was needed in the case of cabin passengers, were of the simplest kind, and thus the cost price of the steamers was considerably less than that of vessels of the usual type. this also meant a saving in the wages bill, as it led to a reduction in the number of hands on board; and since the speed of the new boats was also less than that of the older ones, the working expenses were reduced in proportion. the financial results of the service, therefore, were better, in spite of the low rates charged to the steeragers, than those obtainable by running cabin steamers with steerage accommodation, and than those obtainable by running cargo steamers without any passenger accommodation. the new line soon made itself felt as a serious competitor to the packetfahrt, especially so as by its fleet had increased from two to five steamers. the lower steerage rates charged by the carr line led to a general decrease of rates in the new york service, which was not confined to the lines running their services from hamburg. the passage prices charged from the various ports are naturally closely related to each other, because each port tries to attract as much traffic as possible to itself, and this can only be brought about by a carefully thought-out differentiation. the struggle between the various lines involved which had started in hamburg quickly extended to other seaports and affected a great many lines in addition to those of hamburg. the rate-cutting process began in may, . in the following october the packetfahrt and the lloyd had reduced their rates to and in june, , to marks, whilst the british lines in february, , charged so little as s. the carr line, of course, had to follow suit. it not only did so, but in proportion reduced its own rates even more than the other lines. the rates were even lower in practice than they appeared to be, owing to the constantly growing commissions payable to the agents. the agents of the competing lines, by publishing controversial articles in the newspapers, soon took the general public into their confidence; and in order to prevent such publicity being given as to their internal affairs, the managements of the various steamship lines entered into some sort of mutual contact. the worst result of the rate-slashing was that the agreements which the older lines had concluded amongst themselves for the maintenance of remunerative prices soon became unworkable. first those relating to the westbound rates had to go down before the new competitor; and in , when this competition had really commenced to make itself appreciably felt, the packetfahrt found itself compelled to declare its withdrawal from the new york continental conference by which the eastbound rate had been fixed at $ for the passage from new york to the continent, a rate which was so high that the carr line found it easy to go below it. the packetfahrt made great efforts to hold its own against the newcomer, but, as the following figures show, its success was but slight. in the packetfahrt carried , passengers on voyages, against , passengers carried on voyages by the carr line, so that the traffic secured by the latter amounted to about per cent. of that of the former. the figures for show that , passengers were carried by the packetfahrt on voyages, against , steeragers on voyages by the carr line. if the figures relative to the direct and the indirect emigrant traffic from hamburg are studied, it will be seen that a considerable decrease had taken place in the volume of the latter kind within a very few years, thus leading to an improvement in the position of the german lines as compared with that of their british competitors. these figures are as follows: _number of emigrants carried_ _packetfahrt_ _carr line_ _via british ports_ , -- , , , , , , , , , , , , , at the same time the packetfahrt, in order to prevent french competition from becoming too dangerous on the havre-new york route, had to reduce its rates from havre, and a little later it had to do likewise with regard to the eastbound freight rates and the steerage rates. the keen competition going on between the lines concerned had led to a lowering of the eastbound rate to hamburg from $ to $ ; and as the commission payable to the agents had gone up to $ , the net rate amounted to $ only. at last the shareholders of the packetfahrt became restless, and at the annual general meeting held in one of their representatives moved that the board of the company should be asked to enter into an agreement with the competing firm of edward carr. the motion, however, was lost; and the further proposal that a pool should be established among the hamburg emigrant agents fared no better. it was clear that the rate-war, which continued for a long period, would considerably affect the prosperity of the carr line in common with the other shipping companies. this circumstance prompted the proposal of edward carr, when the discussions were renewed in the spring of , to carry them on upon a different basis altogether. he proposed, in fact, that the carr line itself should be purchased by the packetfahrt. in the course of the ensuing negotiations albert ballin, as the representative of edward carr, who was absent from hamburg for a time, played a prominent part. the packetfahrt, in the meantime, had received advices from its new york office to the effect that the latter had reconsidered its attitude towards the claims of the carr line, that it looked upon a successful termination of the struggle against this line as hopeless, and that it therefore recommended the granting of the differential rates which formed the obstacle to peace. nevertheless, it was not until july, , that, at a conference held in hamburg, an agreement was concluded by the packetfahrt, the lloyd, the carr line, the dutch, belgian, and french lines, and the representative of the british lines. all these companies bound themselves to raise their rates to marks, except that the carr line should be entitled to fix theirs at marks. thus the latter had at length received the recognition of its claim to a differentiation, and of its right to exist side by side with the older company, although its steamers were not of an equal quality with those of the latter. an agreement was also concluded by which the rates of commission due to the hamburg emigrant agents were fixed, and at the continued negotiations with the other lines albert ballin, from that time onward, in his capacity of representative of the carr line, was looked upon as on an equal footing with the representatives of the other lines. the principal subject of the discussions was the question of eliminating, as far as possible, british influence from the emigrant traffic _via_ hamburg. the competition of the british was, naturally, very detrimental to the business of all the continental, but more especially the german lines, because the interests of the respective sides were utterly at variance with each other. the firm foundations of the business transacted by the british lines were laid in england, and the continental business was merely a source of additional profit; but to the german lines it was the mainstay of their existence, and to make it pay was of vital importance to them. the german lines, therefore, did not rest until, as the result of the continued negotiations among the continental companies, it was agreed that the uniform rates just fixed should not apply to the traffic which was carried on by the two hamburg lines from that city. towards the end of the first object aimed at by this step was realized: the conclusion of an agreement between the two hamburg lines and the representatives of the british lines settling the rates and the commissions; but apart from this, no changes of fundamental importance were made in this business until after albert ballin, under an agreement proposed by the packetfahrt, had entered the service of the packetfahrt, as head of their passenger department. an important exception, however, was the amalgamation suddenly announced in march, , of the carr line and the union line, which latter company was operated by rob. m. sloman and co., of hamburg. the fact of this amalgamation considerably weakened the position of the packetfahrt in its dealings with the carr line, because it gave additional strength to the latter. the details of the five years' agreement between ballin and the packetfahrt were approved by the board of trustees of that company about the middle of may, . it was stipulated that, in conformity with the pool agreement concluded between the two lines on may nd, the packetfahrt should appoint mr. albert ballin sole and responsible head of its north american passenger department (westbound as well as eastbound services); that his work should include the booking of steeragers for the union company's steamers (which, in accordance with the pool agreement, the packetfahrt had taken over), that he should appoint and dismiss the clerks employed by his department; that he should fix their salaries and commissions; that he should sign passage agreements on behalf of the company, and that he should issue the necessary instructions to the agents and officers of the company. all letters and other documents were to be signed "by proxy of the hamburg-amerikanische packetfahrt-actien-gesellschaft," and he was required annually to submit to the directors a draft estimate of the expenses of his department. on how modest a scale the whole arrangement was drawn up may be inferred from the figures given in the first year's draft estimate, viz. salaries, , marks; advertisements, , marks; posters and printed matter, , marks; travelling expenses, , marks; postage and telegrams, , marks; extras and sundries, , marks. equally modest was the remuneration of the new head who was to receive a fixed salary of , marks per annum, plus a commission under the pool agreement, allowing the inference that the total annual income of the newly appointed head of the department would work out at something like , marks, which goes to show that the company had a high opinion of his capacity for attracting traffic to its services. the conclusion of this agreement meant that the packetfahrt henceforth took entire control of its passenger business--which, until then, had been looked after by the firm of aug. bolten--and that a passenger department had to be specially created. thus an important step forward was made which could only be undertaken by the firm because such a well-qualified man as ballin happened to be at their service just then. if the course of the negotiations between the packetfahrt and the carr line had not already shown it, this agreement would prove without a shadow of doubt that the then head of morris and co. had, at the age of twenty-nine, and after twelve years of practical work, gained the premier position in the emigrant business of his native city and also a leading one in the general european emigrant business which in itself is one of the most important branches of the shipping trade. the correspondence between edward carr and ballin furnishes no indication that the latter himself had insisted upon his being taken over by the packetfahrt or that he had worked with this object. chapter iii head of the packetfahrt's passenger department on may st, , albert ballin first took part in a joint meeting of the board of trustees and the board of directors of the packetfahrt. on this occasion two proposals were put forward by him: one, to provide new premises for the work connected with the booking of passengers at an annual rent of , marks; the other, to start a direct service from stettin to new york _via_ gothenburg. this latter proposal was prompted by the desire to reduce the influence of the british lines competing for the hamburg business. such a reduction could only be brought about if it were proved to the british lines that their position was by no means unassailable. the scandinavian emigrant business to the united states which for long had been a source of great profit to the british, lent itself admirably to such purposes. ballin's proposal was agreed to by the company's management, with the result that in july, , a pool agreement was concluded between the packetfahrt (on behalf of a stettin line of steamers) and the danish thingvalla line. steamers now began to call at gothenburg and christiansand on their voyages from stettin to the united states. the new line was known as the "scandia line"; and in later years, when a similar object was aimed at, it was called into existence once more. the aim was not to establish a new steamer service for its own sake, but rather to create an object for compensation which, in the negotiations with the british lines, could be given up again in exchange for concessions on the part of the latter regarding the hamburg business. if this plan failed, ballin had another one mapped out: he threatened to attack the british in their own country by carrying steerage passengers either from liverpool _via_ havre, or from plymouth _via_ hamburg. people in england laughed at this idea. "surely," they said, "no british emigrant will travel on a german vessel." the british lines replied to ballin's threat by declaring that they would again reduce to s. their rates from hamburg to new york _via_ a british port. however, the negotiations which ballin entered into with them in england during the month of september, , soon cleared the air, and led to the conclusion of an agreement towards the end of the year. the packetfahrt promised to withdraw its scandia line, and the british lines, in return, agreed to raise their steerage rates from hamburg to marks gross, and those from liverpool, glasgow, and london to £ s. net. a clearing house which should be under the management of a representative of the british lines, and which was also to include the business done by the bremen agents of the latter, was to be set up in hamburg. this clearing house was kept on until other and more far-reaching agreements with the british lines made its continued existence superfluous. the arrangements which ballin made with the agents represented in the clearing house show his skill in his dealings with other people. the whole agreement, especially the fixing of the terms governing the share to be assigned to the agents--which amounted to per cent, of the hamburg business--was principally aimed at the realization of as high a rate as possible. this policy proved to be a great success. another step forward was that the packetfahrt now consented to accept passengers booked by the agents, thus reversing their previous policy of ignoring them altogether. the agreement with the british lines also provided that the union line should raise its rates to marks, the packetfahrt to marks, and the lloyd those charged for its services to baltimore and new york to and marks respectively. henceforward both competing groups were equally interested in obtaining as high a rate as possible. the practical working of the agreement did not fail to give satisfaction, and the continental lines could, undisturbed by external interference, put their own house in order. a few years later, in , the british lines complained that they did not succeed in getting the percentage of business to which they were entitled. negotiations were carried on at liverpool, during which ballin was present. he pointed out that, considering the whole continental position, the british lines would be ill-advised to withdraw from the agreement, and he stated that he would be prepared to guarantee them their share ( per cent.) of the hamburg business. the outcome was that the british lines declared themselves satisfied with these new stipulations. a few years later, when the british lines joined the continental pool, the hamburg agreement ceased to be necessary, and in the clearing house was abolished. the new emigration law of --due to the exertions of the north german lloyd and the packetfahrt--strengthened the position of the lines running direct services from german ports. another step forward was the increase of the passage rates which was agreed upon after negotiations had taken place at antwerp and in england, and after the german, dutch, and belgian lines had had a conference at cologne. contact was also established with the chief french line concerned. the improvement, however, was merely temporary. the termination of the struggle for the hamburg business did not mean that all the differences between all the transatlantic lines had been settled. on the contrary, all the parties concerned gradually realized that it would be necessary to institute quite different arrangements; something to ensure a fairer distribution of the traffic and a greater consolidation of their common interests. a proposal to gain these advantages by the establishment of a pool was submitted by the representative of the red star line at a conference held in the autumn of , and a memorandum written by ballin, likewise dating from , took up the same idea; but an agreement was not concluded until the close of . that, in spite of ballin's advocacy, five years had to elapse before this agreement became perfect is perhaps to some extent due to the fact that ballin--who at that time, after all, was only the head of the passenger department of his company--could not always speak with its full authority where his own personal views were concerned. moreover, the influence of his company was by no means very considerable in those early days. the only passenger boat of any importance which the company possessed in the early 'eighties, before ballin had entered its services, was the _hammonia_, and she was anything but a success. she was inferior both as regards her efficiency and her equipment. at last, however, ballin's desire to raise the prestige of the company triumphed, and the building of several fast boats was definitely decided upon. in addition to a comparatively large number of passengers--especially those of the first cabin--they were to carry a moderate amount of cargo. in size they were subject to the restrictions imposed upon them by the shortcomings of the technical knowledge of that time, and by the absence of the necessary improvements in the fairway of the lower elbe. speed, after all, was the main consideration; and it was the struggle for the blue riband of the atlantic which kept the attention of the travelling public riveted on these boats. a statement giving details of the financial results obtained by the first four of the new fast steamers which were entered into the service of the company between and showed that the earnings up to and including the year did not even cover the working expenses, and that those up to were not sufficient to allow for an interest of per cent, on the average book values of the steamers. it must be remembered, however, that the first of these two periods included the disastrous season of - , when hamburg was visited by an epidemic of cholera. and a different light is shed on the matter also if we further remember that depreciation had been allowed for on a generous scale, no less than per cent, of the cost price plus the expenditure incurred through an enlargement of the _auguste victoria_, the oldest of the boats, having been deducted on that account. the packetfahrt, like all the other german shipping companies, has always been very liberal in making ample provision for depreciation. when, therefore, these steamers were sold again at the time of the spanish-american and russo-japanese wars, a considerable profit was realized on the transactions which enabled the company to replace them by a very high-grade type of vessel (the _deutschland_, _amerika_, and _kaiserin auguste victoria_). it must be admitted in this connexion that perhaps no shipowner has ever been more favoured by fortune than ballin where the sale of such difficult objects as obsolete express steamers was concerned. the value which these boats had in relation to the prestige of the company was very considerable; for, as ballin expressed it to me one day: "the possession of the old express steamers of the packetfahrt certainly proved to be something like a white elephant; but just consider how greatly they have enhanced the prestige of the company." they attracted thousands of passengers to the line, and acted as feeders to its other services. the orders for the first two of these steamers were given towards the close of to the vulkan yard, at stettin, and to the firm of laird respectively, at a price of £ , each, and the boats were to be completed early in . they were the first twin-screw steamers, and were provided with the system of "forced draught" for the engines. this system had just been introduced in british yards, and ballin's attention had been drawn to it by his friend wilding, who was always ready to give him valuable advice on technical matters. in order to find the means for the construction of these and of some other boats, the general meeting of the shareholders, held on october th, , voted a capital increase of , , marks and the issue of , , marks of debentures. knowing that an improvement of the services was the great need of the time, ballin, since the time of joining the company, had done all he could to make the latter a paying concern again, and in this he succeeded. for the year a dividend of per cent. was paid, and thus it became possible to sanction an increase of the joint-stock capital. further foundations for later successes were laid by the reform of the organization and of the technical services of the company. his work in connexion with the carr line had taught the youthful head of the passenger department that careful attention to the material comfort of the steerage passengers could be of great benefit to the company. he continued along lines such as these, and at his suggestion the steerage accommodation on two of the packetfahrt's steamers was equipped with electric light, and provided with some single berths as well. this latter provision was extended still further during the succeeding year. in addition to the fast steamers, some ordinary ones were also ordered to be built. in two steamers were ordered for the company's west indies service, and shortly afterwards eight units of the union line were bought at a price of , , marks. all these new orders and purchases of steamers led to the joint-stock capital being raised from to million marks. two more boats were laid down in the stettin vulkan yard, and a third with the firm of laird. the express steamer then building at the vulkan yard was named _auguste victoria_ in honour of the young empress. during the summer months of ballin, together with mr. johannes witt, one of the members of the board of trustees, went to new york in order to discuss with the agents a reorganization of the new york representation, which was looked after by edward beck and kunhardt. in consequence of the negotiations which ballin carried on to that end, the agents undertook to submit their business for the company to the control of an officer specially appointed by the packetfahrt. this small beginning led, in later years, to the establishment in new york of the company's direct representation under its own management. when ballin joined the packetfahrt, he did not strictly confine his attention to matters connected with the passenger services. when, for instance, the head of the freight department was prevented from attending a meeting called by the board of trustees, ballin put forward a proposal for raising the rates on certain cargo. it was therefore only but fit acknowledgment of his many-sided talents, and recognition that his energetic character had been the guiding spirit in the company's affairs, that the board of trustees appointed ballin in a member of the board of directors after two years with the packetfahrt. this appointment really filled a long-felt gap. chapter four the pool the term "pool" may be defined in a variety of ways, but, generally speaking, the root idea underlying its meaning is always the same, both in its application to business and to betting. a pool, in brief, is a combination of a number of business concerns for their own mutual interests, all partners having previously agreed upon certain principles as to the distribution of the common profits. in other words, it is a community of interests concluded upon the basis of dividing the profits realized in a certain ratio. i have been unable to discover when and where this kind of combination was first used in actual practice. before the transatlantic steamship companies did so, the big trunk lines of the united states railway system are said to have used it in connexion with the westbound emigrant traffic, and possibly for other purposes also. when ballin wrote his memorandum of february th, , the steamship lines must already have been familiar with the meaning of the term, for the memorandum refers to it as something well known. ballin begins by stating that the "conference of the northern european lines" might be looked upon as having ceased to exist, seeing that two parties were represented on it whose claims were diametrically opposed to each other. whereas the north german lloyd insisted on the right to lower its rates, the red star line claimed that these rates should be raised, so that it might obtain a better differential rate for itself. a reconciliation of these mutually contradictory views, the memorandum went on to say, appeared to be impossible, unless all parties agreed upon an understanding which would radically alter the relations then existing between their respective interests; and a way leading out of the _impasse_ would be found by adopting the pooling system proposed by the representative of the red star line. if we take the number of steeragers carried to new york from to by the six lines concerned as a basis, the respective percentages of the total traffic are as follows: _percentage_ north german lloyd · north german lloyd (baltimore line) · packetfahrt · union line · red star line · holland american line · it was, however, justly pointed out at a meeting of the conference that the amount of tonnage must also be taken into account in laying down the principles which were to govern the distribution of the profits. the average figures of such tonnage employed by the six lines during the same period were: _tons_ _percentage_ north german lloyd , · north german lloyd (baltimore line) , · packetfahrt , · union line , · red star line , · holland american line , · ------- ----- total tonnage , the average of both sets of percentage figures worked out as follows: _percentage_ north german lloyd · north german lloyd (baltimore line) · packetfahrt · - / union line · red star line · - / holland american line · "it would be necessary," the memorandum continued, "to calculate each company's share annually on the basis of the average figures obtained for the five years immediately preceding, so that, for instance, the calculation for would be based on the figures for the five years from to ; that for on those for the period from to , and so on. uniform passage rates and uniform rates of commission would have to be agreed upon. to those lines which, like the north german lloyd, maintained a service which was run by fast steamers exclusively, would have to be conceded the right to charge in their separate accounts passage money up to marks in excess of the normal rates, seeing that their expenses were heavier than those of the other lines. those companies, however, claiming differential rates below the general ones agreed upon would have to make up the difference themselves, which was not to exceed the amount of marks--i.e. they would have to contribute to the common pool a sum equal to the general rate without deduction." the two cardinal principles lying at the root of this proposal were ( ) the assigning to each line of a definite percentage of the total traffic on the basis of the average figures ascertained for a definite period of time, and ( ) the possibility of further grading these percentages by taking into account the amount of tonnage which each line placed at the disposal of the joint undertaking. this latter provision--which was known during the early stages of the movement as the tonnage clause--was intended to prevent any single line from stagnation, and to give scope to the spirit of enterprise. the tonnage clause was not maintained for the whole time during which the pool agreement was in force. it was afterwards abolished at the instance of the north german lloyd. this event led, in the long run, to the last big crisis which the pool had to pass through by the notice of withdrawal given by the hamburg-amerika linie. when this company proposed to considerably enlarge its steerage accommodation through the addition to its service of the three big boats of the _imperator_ class, it demanded a corresponding increase of its percentage figure, and, when this claim fell through owing to the opposition of the north german lloyd, it gave formal notice of its withdrawal from the pool. precautions taken to counteract this led to negotiations which had to be discontinued when the war broke out. nevertheless, the pool, which was first proposed in , and which came into existence in , did a great deal of good. more than once, however, the agreement ceased to be effective for a time, and this was especially the case on the occasion of the struggle with the cunard line which followed upon the establishment of the morgan trust in . the secretary of the pool was heinrich peters, the former head of the passenger department of the lloyd. the choice of mr. peters is probably not unconnected with the fact that it was he who, at a moment when the negotiations for establishing a pool had reached a critical stage, appeared on the scene with a clearly-defined proposal, so that he, with justice, has been described as "the father of the pool." shortly before his death in the summer of mr. peters wrote to me concerning his proposal and the circumstances of its adoption:-- "the history of the events leading up to the creation of the 'north atlantic steamship lines association,'" he wrote in his letter, "was not without complications. so much so that after the conference at cologne, at which it had been found impossible to come to an understanding, i went to bed feeling very worried about the future. shortly afterwards--i don't know whether i was half awake or dreaming--the outline of the plan which was afterwards adopted stood out clearly before my mind's eye, its main features being that each line should be granted a fixed percentage of the traffic on the basis of 'moore's statistics' (reports issued periodically and showing the number of passengers landed in new york at regular intervals), and that the principle of compensation should be applied to adjust differences. when i was fully awake i found this plan so obviously right that, in order not to let it slip my memory, i jotted down a note concerning it on my bedside table. next morning, when ballin, reuchlin (of the holland american line), strasser (of the red star line), and myself met again in the smoking-room of the hotel du nord, i told them of my inspiration, and my plan was looked upon by them with so much favour that ballin said to me: 'well now, peters, you have discovered the philosopher's stone.' we then left, previously agreeing amongst ourselves that we would think the matter over at our leisure, and that we should refrain from taking any steps leading to a conflict, at least for the time being. on my return to bremen i went straight to lohmann (who was director general of the lloyd at that time), but he immediately threw a wet blanket over my enthusiasm. his objection was that such an agreement would interfere with the progressive development of the lloyd. a few days later a meeting of the board of trustees was held at which i entered into the details of my proposal; but i am sorry to say that my oratorical gifts were not sufficient to defend it against the objections that were raised, nor to prevent its rejection. i can hardly imagine what the representatives of the other lines must have felt on hearing that it was the lloyd itself which refused to accept the proposal which had been put forward by its own delegate, although the share allotted to it was very generous. thus the struggle went on for another eighteen months, and it was not until january, , that the principal lines concerned definitely concluded a pool agreement closely resembling the draft agreement i had originally proposed. "the north atlantic steamship lines association was originally intended to remain in existence for the period of five years; but as it was recognized by all parties that it was necessarily a step in the dark, people had become so doubtful as to the wisdom of what they had done that a clause was added to the effect that it could be cancelled after the first six months provided a fortnight's notice was given by any partner to it. nevertheless, the agreement successfully weathered a severe crisis during the very first year of its existence, when the disastrous cholera epidemic paralysed the hamburg trade and shipping." that this account is correct is confirmed by the minutes of the cologne meeting of february th, . the british lines definitely declined in march, , to join the pool. thus the plan finally agreed upon in was subscribed to by the continental lines alone, with the exception of the french line. in contrast with previous proposals, the eastbound traffic was also to be parcelled out by the lines forming the pool. this so-called north atlantic steamship lines association, the backbone of the later and greater pool, was built up on the following percentages: _westbound_ _eastbound_ _traffic_ (_p.c._) _traffic_ (_p.c._) north german lloyd · · packetfahrt (including the union line) · · red star line · · holland american line · · these percentages were subject to the effect of the tonnage clause by which it was provided that per cent. of the tonnage (expressed in gross registered tons) which any line should possess at any time in excess of that possessed in should entitle such line to an increase of its percentage. it has already been stated that mr. heinrich peters was appointed secretary of the pool. he, in compliance with the provision that the secretariat should be domiciled at a "neutral" place, chose the small university town of jena for his residence. thus this town, so famous in the literary annals of germany, became, for more than twenty years, the centre of an international organization with which few, if any, other places could vie in importance, especially since the four lines which had just concluded the original pool were joined, in course of time, by the british lines, the french line, the austrian line, and some scandinavian and russian lines as well. later on a special pool was set up for the mediterranean business which, in addition to the german, british, and austro-hungarian lines, also comprised the french mediterranean, the italian, and the greek lines, as well as one spanish line. the business of all these lines was centred at jena. of considerable importance to the smooth working of the pool was the court of arbitration attached to its organization. on account of the prominent position occupied by the german companies, german law was agreed to as binding for the decisions, and since at the time when the pool was founded, germany did not possess a uniform code of civil law for all parts of the empire, the law ruling at cologne was recognized to be applicable to such purposes. cologne was the city at which the establishment of the pool was decided upon, and there all the important meetings that became necessary in course of time were held. the chairman of the cologne association of solicitors was nominated president of the arbitration court, but later on this office devolved on president hansen, a member of the supreme court for the hanseatic cities, who filled his post for a long term of years--surely a proof of the confidence and esteem with which he was honoured by all parties concerned. numerous awards issued by him, and still more numerous resolutions adopted at the many conferences, have supplemented the original pool agreement, thus forming the nucleus of a real code of legislation affecting all matters dealing with the pool in which a large number of capable men drawn from the legal profession and from the world of business have collaborated. the knowledge of these regulations gradually developed into a science of its own, and each line had to possess one or more specialists who were experts in these questions among the members of its staff. i am sure they will unanimously agree that albert ballin surpassed them all in his knowledge of the intricate details. his wonderful memory enabled him, after a lapse of more than twenty years, to recall every phase in the history of the pool, so that he acquired an unrivalled mastery in the conduct of pool conferences. this is abundantly borne out by the fact that in , when negotiations were started in london for the establishment of a general pool--i.e. one comprising the whole of northern europe, including great britain--ballin, at the proposal of the british lines, was selected chairman of the conference which, after several critical phases had been passed through, led to a complete success and an all-round understanding. in the normal development of business was greatly handicapped by the terrible epidemic of cholera then raging in hamburg. for a time the united states completely closed her doors to all emigrants from the continent, and it was not until the following year that conditions became normal again. nevertheless ballin, in order to extend the various understandings between the northern european lines, took an important step, even before the close of , by falling back upon a measure which he had already once employed in . his object was to make the british lines more favourably inclined towards an understanding, and to this end he attacked them once more in the scandinavian business. the actual occasion which led to the conflict was that the british lines, owing to differences of opinion among themselves, had given notice of withdrawal from the hamburg agreement and from the hamburg clearing house. this gave the packetfahrt a free hand against its british competitors, and enabled it to carry as many as , scandinavian passengers via hamburg in . the position of the packetfahrt during the ensuing rate war was considerably improved by the agreement which it had concluded with the hamburg agents of the british lines, who, although their principals had declared their withdrawal from the pool, undertook to maintain the rate which had been jointly agreed upon by both parties. some time had to elapse before this move had its desired effect on the british lines. early in they declared themselves ready to come to an understanding with the continental lines on condition that they were granted per cent. of the continental traffic (in they had been offered per cent.), and that the packetfahrt was to discontinue its scandia line. this general readiness of the british companies, however, did not preclude the hostility of some of their number against any such agreement, and so the proposal fell through. the proposed understanding came to grief owing to the refusal of the cunard line to join a continental pool at the very moment when the negotiations with the british lines had, after a great deal of trouble, led to a preliminary understanding with them. a letter which ballin received from an english friend in january, , shows how difficult it was to make the british come round to the idea of a pool. in this letter it was said that the time was not ripe then for successfully persuading the british lines to join any pool or any other form of understanding which would necessitate agreement on a large number of details. all that could be expected to be done at the time, the writer continued, was a rate agreement of the simplest possible kind, and he thought that if such an understanding were agreed to and loyally carried out, that would be an important step forward towards arriving at a general agreement of much wider scope. to such vague agreements, however, the continental lines objected on principle, and the opposition of the cunard line made it impossible to agree upon anything more definite. thus the struggle was chiefly waged against this line. the continental lines were assisted by the american line, which had sailings from british ports, and with the management of which ballin had been on very friendly terms ever since the time when he, as the owner of the firm of morris and co., had worked for it. after the conflict had been going on for several months, it terminated with a victory of the continental lines. thus the road was at last clear for an attempt to make the whole north atlantic business pay. the first step in that direction was the conclusion, in , of an agreement concerning the cabin business. the packetfahrt's annual report for that year states that the results obtained through the carrying of cabin passengers could only be described as exceedingly unfavourable, considering that the huge working expenses connected with that kind of business had to be taken into account. nevertheless, this traffic, which had reached a total of more than , passengers during the preceding year, could be made a source of great profit to the companies if they could be persuaded to act in unison. the agreement then concluded was at first restricted to the fixing of the rates on a uniform scale. both these agreements--the one dealing with the steerage and the one dealing with the cabin business--were concluded, in , for three years in the first instance. in may, , discussions were opened in london, at which ballin presided, with a view to extending the period of their duration, and these proceedings, after a time, led to a successful conclusion, but in june, ballin again presiding, the desired understanding was reached. a few weeks later an agreement concerning the second cabin rates was also arrived at, and towards the close of the year negotiations were started with a view to the extension of the steerage agreement. in the pool was extended to run for a further period of five years, under percentages: _westbound_ _eastbound_ _traffic_ (_p.c._) _traffic_ (_p.c._) north german lloyd · · packetfahrt · · red star line · · holland american line · · to the packetfahrt these new percentages meant a step forward, although the omission of the tonnage clause was a decided hindrance to its further progress. the next important event in the development of the relations between the transatlantic lines was the establishment of the so-called morgan trust and the conclusion of a "community of interest" agreement between it and the german lines. chapter v the morgan trust speaking generally, the transatlantic shipping business may be said to consist of three great branches, viz. the cargo, the steerage, and the cabin business. the pool agreements that were concluded between the interested companies covered only the cargo business and the steerage traffic. the condition which alone makes it possible for the owners to work the shipping business on remunerative lines is that all needless waste of material must be strictly banned. the great advantage which was secured by concluding the pool agreement was that it satisfied this condition during the more than twenty years of its existence, to the mutual profit of the associated lines. each company knew that the addition of new steamers to its fleet would only pay if part of a carefully considered plan, and if, in course of time, such an increase of tonnage would give it a claim to an increase of the percentage of traffic allotted to its services. much less satisfactory was the state of things with regard to the third branch of the shipping business, viz. the cabin traffic. a regular "cabin pool," with a _pro rata_ distribution of the traffic, was never established, although the idea had frequently been discussed. all that was achieved was an agreement as to the fares charged by each company which were to be graded according to the quality of the boats it employed in its services. owing to the absence of any more far-reaching understandings, and to the competition between the various companies--each of which was constantly trying to outdo its competitors as regards the speed and comfort of its boats, in order to attract to its own services as many passengers as possible--the number of first-class boats increased out of all proportion to the actual requirements, and frequent and regular services were maintained by each line throughout the year. there was hardly a day on which first-class steamers did not enter upon voyages across the atlantic from either side, and the result was that the boats were fully booked during the season only, i.e. in the spring and early part of summer on their east-bound, and in the latter part of summer and in the autumn on their westbound, voyages. during the remaining months a number of berths were empty, and the fares obtainable were correspondingly unprofitable. ballin, in , estimated the unnecessary expenditure to which the companies were put in any single year owing to this unbusinesslike state of affairs at not less then million marks. the desire to do away with conditions such as these by extending the pool agreement so as to develop it into a community-of-interest agreement of comprehensive scope was one of the two principal reasons leading to the formation of the morgan trust. the other reason was the wish to bring about a system of co-operation between the european and the american interests. this desire was prompted by the recognition of the cardinal importance to the transatlantic shipping companies of the economic conditions ruling in the united states. the cargo business depended very largely on the importation of european goods into the united states, and on the exportation of american agricultural produce to europe which varied from season to season according to the size of the crop and to the consuming capacity of europe. the steerage business, of course, relied in the main on the capacity of the united states for absorbing european immigrants, which capacity, though fluctuating, was practically unlimited. the degree of prosperity of the cabin business, however, was determined by the number of people who travelled from the states to europe, either on business, or on pleasure, or to recuperate their health at some european watering-place, at the riviera, etc. social customs and the attractions which the paris houses of fashion exercised on the american ladies also formed a considerable factor which had to be relied on for a prosperous season. in the transatlantic shipping business, in fact, america is pre-eminently the giving, and europe the receiving, partner. thus it was natural to realize the advisability of entering into direct relations with american business men. to the packetfahrt, and especially to ballin, credit is due for having attempted before anybody else to give practical shape to this idea. his efforts in this direction date far back to the early years of his business career. we possess evidence of this in the form of a letter which he wrote in to mr. b. n. baker, who was at the head of one of the few big american shipping companies, the atlantic transport company, the headquarters of which were at baltimore, and which ran its services chiefly to great britain. mr. baker was a personal friend of ballin's. the letter was written after some direct discussions had taken place between the two men, and its contents were as follows:-- "i replied a few days ago officially to your valued favour of the th ult. to the effect that in consonance with your expressed suggestion one of the directors will proceed to new york in september with a view to conferring with you about the matter at issue. "having in the meantime made it a point to go more fully into your communication, i find that the opinions which i have been able to form on your propositions meet your expressed views to a much larger extent than you will probably have supposed. i have not yet had an opportunity of talking the matter over with my colleagues, and i therefore do not know how far they will be prepared to fall in with my views. but in order to enable me to frame and bring forward my ideas more forcibly here, i think it useful to write to you this strictly confidential letter, requesting you to inform me--if feasible by cable--what you think of the following project: "( ) you take charge of our new york agency for the freight, and also for the passage business, etc. "( ) you engage those of our officials now attached to our new york branch whom we may desire to retain in the business. "( ) you take over half of our baltimore line in the manner that each party provides two suitable steamers fitted for the transport of emigrants. to this end i propose you should purchase at their cost price the two steamers which are in course of construction in hamburg at present for our baltimore line ( feet length, feet beam, feet moulded, steerage feet, carrying , tons on feet and about steeragers, guaranteed to steam knots, ready in october this year), and we to provide two similar steamers for this service. the earnings to be divided under a pool system. "( ) your concern takes up one million dollars of our shares with the obligation not to sell them so long as you control our american business. i may remark that just at present our shares are obtainable cheaply in consequence of the general depression prevailing in the european money market, and further, owing to the fact that only a small dividend is expected on account of the very poor return freight ruling from north america. i think you would be able to take the shares out of the market at an average of about per cent. above par. we have paid in the last years since we concluded the pool with the union line, viz. in per cent., per cent., - / per cent., per cent., per cent. in the way of dividends, and during this time we wrote off for depreciation and added to the reserve funds about per cent. "the position of our company is an excellent one, our fleet consisting of modern ships (average age only about five years), and the book values of them being very low. "i should be obliged to you for thinking the matter over and informing me--if possible by cable--if you would be prepared to enter into negotiations on this basis. i myself start from the assumption that it might be good policy for our company to obtain in the states a centre of interest and a position similar to that held by the red star line and the inman lines in view of their connexion with the pennsylvania railroad, etc. it further strikes me that if this project is brought into effect one of your concern should become a member of our board. i should thank you to return me this letter which, as i think it right expressly to point out to you, contains only what are purely my individual ideas." it may be assumed that the writing of this letter was prompted not only by the packetfahrt's desire to strengthen its position in the united states, but also by its wish to obtain a foothold in great britain. this would enable it to exercise greater pressure on the competing british lines, which--indirectly, at least--still did a considerable portion of the continental business. ballin's suggestion did not lead to any practical result at the time, but was taken up again eight years later, in , on the advice of mr. (now lord) pirrie, of messrs. harland and wolff, of belfast. important interests, partly of a financial character, linked his firm to british transatlantic shipping; and his special reason for taking up ballin's proposal was to prevent an alliance between mr. baker's atlantic transport company and the british leyland line, a scheme which was pushed forward from another quarter. he induced mr. baker to come to europe so that the matter might be discussed directly. the attractiveness of the idea to ballin was still further enhanced by the circumstance that the atlantic transport line also controlled the national line which maintained a service between new york and london, and was, indeed, the decisive factor on the new york-london route. ballin, accordingly, after obtaining permission from the board of trustees, went to london, where he met mr. baker and mr. pirrie. it soon became clear, however, that the board of trustees did not wish to sanction such far-reaching changes. when ballin cabled the details of the scheme to hamburg, it was seen that million marks--half the amount in shares of the packetfahrt--would be needed to carry it through. thus the discussions had to be broken off; but the attitude which the board had taken up was very much resented by ballin. subsequent negotiations which were entered into in the early part of in hamburg at the suggestion of mr. baker also failed to secure agreement, and shortly afterwards the american company was bought up by the leyland line. at the same time a movement was being set on foot in the united states which aimed at a strengthening of the american mercantile marine by means of government subsidies. this circumstance suggested to mr. baker the possibility of setting up an american shipping concern consisting of the combined leyland and atlantic transport company lines together with the british white star line, which was to profit by the expected legislation concerning shipping subsidies. neither the latter idea, however, nor mr. baker's project assumed practical shape; but the atlantic transport-leyland concern was enlarged by the addition of a number of other british lines, viz. the national line, the wilson-furness-leyland line, and the west indian and pacific line, all of which were managed by the owner of the leyland line, mr. ellerman, the well-known british shipping man of german descent. the tonnage represented by these combined interests amounted to half a million tons, and the new combine was looked upon as an undesirable competitor, by both the packetfahrt and the british lines. the dissatisfaction felt by the latter showed itself, among other things, in their refusal to come to any mutual understanding regarding the passenger business. in the end, mr. baker himself was so little pleased with the way things turned out in practice that he severed his connexion with the other lines shortly afterwards, and once more the question became urgent whether it would be advisable for the packetfahrt--either alone, or in conjunction with the white star line and the firm of messrs. harland and wolff--to purchase the atlantic transport line. that was the time when mr. pierpont morgan's endeavours to create the combine, which has since then become known as the morgan trust, first attracted public attention. ballin's notes give an exhaustive description of the course of the negotiations which lasted nearly eighteen months and were entered into in order to take precautions against the danger threatening from america, whilst at the same time they aimed at some understanding with mr. morgan, because the opportunity thus presented of setting up an all-embracing organization promoting the interests of all the transatlantic steamship concerns seemed too good to be lost. ballin's notes for august, , contain the following entry: "the grave economic depression from which germany is suffering is assuming a more dangerous character every day. it is now spreading to other countries as well, and only the united states seem to have escaped so far. in addition to our other misfortunes, there is the unsatisfactory maize-crop in the states which, together with the other factors, has demoralized the whole freight business within an incredibly short space of time. for a concern of the huge size of our own such a situation is fraught with the greatest danger, and our position is made still worse by another circumstance. in the states, a country whose natural resources are wellnigh inexhaustible, and whose enterprising population has immensely increased its wealth, the creation of trusts is an event of everyday occurrence. the banker, pierpont morgan--a man of whom it is said that he combines the possession of an enormous fortune with an intelligence which is simply astounding--has already created the steel trust, the biggest combination the world has ever seen, and he has now set about to lay the foundations for an american mercantile marine." a short report on the position then existing which ballin made for prince henckell-donnersmarck, who had himself called into being some big industrial combinations, is of interest even now, although the situation has entirely changed. but if we want to understand the position as it then was we must try to appreciate the views held at that time, and this the report helps us to do. ballin had been referred to prince henckell-donnersmarck by the kaiser, who had a high opinion of the latter's business abilities, and who had watched with lively interest the american shipping projects from the start, because he anticipated that they would produce an adverse effect on the future development of the german shipping companies. the report is given below:-- "in about per cent. of the united states sea-borne trade was still carried by vessels flying the american flag. by this percentage had gone down to per cent., and it has shown a constant decrease ever since. in it had dwindled down to per cent., and in to as low a figure as per cent. during recent years this falling off, which is a corollary of the customs policy pursued by the united states, has given rise to a number of legislative measures intended to promote the interests of american shipping by the granting of government subsidies. no practical steps of importance, however, have been taken so far; all that has been done is that subsidies have been granted to run a north atlantic mail service maintained by means of four steamers, but no success worth mentioning has been achieved until now. "quite recently the well-known american banker, mr. j. pierpont morgan, conjointly with some other big american capitalists, has taken an interest in the plan. the following facts have become known so far in connexion with his efforts: "morgan has acquired the leyland line, of liverpool, which, according to the latest register, owns a fleet of vessels, totalling , gross register tons. this purchase includes the west india and pacific line, which was absorbed into the leyland line as recently as a twelvemonth ago. the mediterranean service formerly carried on by the leyland line has not been acquired by morgan. he has, however, added the atlantic transport company. morgan's evident intention is to form a big american shipping trust, and i have received absolutely reliable information to the effect that the american line and the red star line are also going to join the combine. the shares of the two last-named lines are already for the most part in american hands, and both companies are being managed from new york. both lines together own steamers representing , tons. "a correct estimate of the size of the undertaking can only be formed if the steamers now building for the various companies, and those that have been added to their fleets since the publication of the register from which the above figures are taken, are also taken into account. these vessels represent a total tonnage of about , tons, so that the new american concern would possess a fleet representing , gross register tons. the corresponding figures for the hamburg-amerika linie and for the lloyd, including steamers building, are , and , tons respectively. "the proper method of rightly appreciating the importance of the american coalition is to restrict the comparison, as far as the two german companies are concerned, to the amount of tonnage which they employ in their services to and from united states ports. if this is borne in mind, we arrive at the following figures: german lines-- , g.r.t.; american concern--about , g.r.t. these figures show that, as regards the amount of tonnage employed, the morgan trust is superior to the two german companies on the north atlantic route. it can also challenge comparison with the regular british lines--grand total, , g.r.t. "in all the steps he has taken, morgan, no doubt, has been guided by his confidence in his ability to enforce the passing of a subsidy act by congress in favour of his undertaking. so long as he does not succeed in these efforts of his he will, of course, be obliged to operate the lines of which he has secured control under foreign flags. up to the present only four steamers of the american line, viz. the _new york_, _philadelphia_, _st. louis_, and _st. paul_, are flying the united states flag, whereas the remaining vessels of the american line, and those of the leyland, the west india and pacific, the american transport, the national, and the furness-boston lines, are sailing under the british, and those of the red star line under the belgian flag. "the organization which mr. morgan either has created, or is creating, is not in itself a danger to the two german shipping companies; neither can it be said that the government subsidies--provided they do not exceed an amount that is justified by the conditions actually existing--are in themselves detrimental to the german interests. the real danger, however, threatens from the amalgamation of the american railway interests with those of american shipping. "it is no secret that morgan is pursuing his far-reaching plans as the head of a syndicate which comprises a number of the most important and most enterprising business men in the united states, and that the railway interests are particularly well represented in it. morgan himself, during his stay in london a few months ago, stated to some british shipping men that, according to his estimates, nearly per cent. of the goods which are shipped to europe from the north atlantic ports are carried to the latter by the railroads on through bills of lading, and that their further transport is entrusted to foreign shipping companies. he and his friends, morgan added, did not see any reason why the railroad companies should leave it to foreign-owned companies to carry those american goods across the atlantic. it would be much more logical to bring about an amalgamation of the american railroad and shipping interests for the purpose of securing the whole profits for american capital. "this projected combination of the railroad and sea-borne traffic is, as i have pointed out, a great source of danger to the foreign shipping companies, as it will expose them to the possibility of finding their supplies from the united states _hinterland_ cut off. this latter traffic is indispensable to the remunerative working of our north american services, and it is quite likely that morgan's statement that they amount to about per cent. of the total sea-borne traffic is essentially correct." the negotiations which ballin carried on in this connexion are described as follows in his notes:-- "when i was in london in july ( ), i had an opportunity of discussing this american business with mr. pirrie. pirrie had already informed me some time ago that he would like to talk to me on this subject, but he had never indicated until then that morgan had actually instructed him to discuss matters with me. a second meeting took place at which ismay (the chairman of the white star line) was present in addition to pirrie and myself, and it was agreed that pirrie should go to new york and find out from morgan himself what were his plans regarding the white star line and the hamburg-amerika linie. "shortly after pirrie's return from the states i went to london to talk things over with him. he had already sent me a wire to say that he had also asked mr. wilding to take part in our meeting; and this circumstance induced me to call on mr. wilding when i passed through southampton _en route_ for london. what he told me filled me with as much concern as surprise. he informed me that the syndicate intended to acquire the white star line, but that, owing to my relations with the kaiser, the acquisition of the hamburg-amerika linie was not contemplated. morgan, he further told me, was willing to work on the most friendly terms with us, as far as this could be done without endangering the interests of the syndicate; but the fact was that the biggest american railroad companies had already approached the syndicate, and that they had offered terms of co-operation which were practically identical with a combination between themselves and the syndicate. "in the course of the discussions then proceeding between pirrie, wilding, and myself the situation changed to our advantage, and i was successful in seeing my own proposals accepted, the essence of which was that, on the one hand, our independence should be respected, that the nationality of our company should not be interfered with, and that no american members should be added to our board of trustees; whilst, on the other hand, a fairly close contact was to be established between the two concerns, and competition between them was to be eliminated." the draft agreement, which was discussed at these meetings in london (and which was considerably altered later on), provided that it should run for ten years, and that a mutual interchange of shares between the two concerns should be effected, the amount of shares thus exchanged to represent a value of million marks (equivalent to per cent. of the joint-stock capital of the hamburg-amerika linie). mutual participation was provided for in case of any future increase in the capital of either company; but the american concern was prohibited from purchasing any additional shares of the hamburg-amerika linie. the voting rights for the hamburg shares should be assigned to ballin for life, and those for the american shares to morgan on the same terms. instead of actually parting with its shares, the hamburg company was to have the option of paying their equivalent in steamers. the agreement emphasized that, whilst recognizing the desirability of as far-reaching a financial participation as possible, ballin did not believe that, with due regard to german public opinion and to the wishes of the imperial government, he was justified in recommending an interchange of shares exceeding the amount agreed upon. the american concern was prohibited from calling at any german ports, and the hamburg company agreed not to run any services to such european ports as were served by the other party. a pool agreement covering the cabin business was entered into; and with respect to the steerage and cargo business it was agreed that the existing understandings should be maintained until they expired, and that afterwards a special understanding should be concluded between both contracting parties. immediately after ballin's return to hamburg the board of trustees unanimously expressed its agreement in principle with the proposals. "for my own part," ballin says in his notes on these matters, "i declared that i could only regard the practical execution of these proposals as possible if they receive the unequivocal assent of the kaiser and of the imperial chancellor. next evening i was surprised to receive two telegrams, one from the lord chamberlain's office, and one from the kaiser, commanding my presence on the following day for dinner at the hubertusstock hunting lodge of the kaiser, where i was invited to stay until the afternoon of the second day following. i left for berlin on the same evening, october th ( ); and, together with the chancellor, i continued my journey the following day to eberswalde. at that town a special carriage conveyed us to hubertusstock, where we arrived after a two-hours' drive, and where i was privileged to spend two unforgettable days in most intimate intercourse with the kaiser. the chancellor had previously informed me that the kaiser did not like the terms of the agreement, because metternich had told him that the americans would have the right to acquire million marks' worth of our shares. during an after-dinner walk with the kaiser, on which we were accompanied by the chancellor and the kaiser's a.d.c., captain v. grumme, i explained the whole proposals in detail. i pointed out to the kaiser that whereas the british lines engaged in the north atlantic business were simply absorbed by the trust, the proposed agreement would leave the independence of the german lines intact. this made the kaiser inquire what was to become of the north german lloyd, and i had to promise that i would see to it that the lloyd would not be exposed to any immediate danger arising out of our agreement, and that it would be given an opportunity of becoming a partner to it as well. the kaiser then wanted to see the actual text of the agreement as drafted in london. when i produced it from my pocket we entered the room adjacent to the entrance of the lodge, which happened to be the small bedroom of captain v. grumme; and there a meeting, which lasted several hours, was held, the kaiser reading out aloud every article of the agreement, and discussing every single item. the kaiser himself was sitting on captain v. grumme's bed; the chancellor and myself occupied the only two chairs available in the room, the captain comfortably seating himself on a table. the outcome of the proceedings was that the kaiser declared himself completely satisfied with the proposals, only commissioning me, as i have explained, to look after the interests of the north german lloyd. "on the afternoon of the following day, after lunch, the chancellor and i returned to berlin, this giving me a chance of discussing with the former--as i had previously done with the kaiser--every question of importance. on october th i arrived back in hamburg." the negotiations with the north german lloyd which ballin had undertaken to enter upon proved to be very difficult, the director general of that company, dr. wiegand, not sharing ballin's views with respect to the american danger and the significance of the american combination. after ballin, however, had explained the proposals in detail, the lloyd people altered their previously held opinion, and in the subsequent london discussions, which were resumed in november, the president of the lloyd, mr. plate, also took part. nevertheless, it was found impossible to agree definitely there and then, and a further discussion between the two directors general took place at potsdam on november th, both of them having been invited to dinner by the kaiser, who was sitting between the two gentlemen at the table. ballin's suggestion that he and dr. wiegand should proceed to new york in order to ascertain whether the shipping companies and the american railroads had actually entered into a combination, was heartily seconded by the kaiser, and was agreed to by dr. wiegand. the lloyd people, however, were still afraid that the proposed understanding would jeopardize the independence of the german lines; but ballin, by giving detailed explanations of the points connected with the financial provisions, succeeded in removing these fears, and the board of trustees of the lloyd expressed themselves satisfied with these explanations. they insisted upon the omission of the clauses dealing with the financial participation, but agreed to the proposals in every other respect. the arrangements for such mutual exchange of shares were thereupon dropped in the final drafting of the agreement, and were replaced by a mutual participation in the distribution of dividends, the american concern guaranteeing the german lines a dividend of per cent., and only claiming a share in a dividend exceeding that figure. this change owed its origin to a proposal put forward by mr. v. hansemann, the director of the disconto-gesellschaft, who had taken an active interest in the development of the whole matter. in the course of the negotiations the lloyd made a further proposal by which it was intended to safeguard the german national character of the two great shipping companies. it was suggested that a corporation--somewhat similar to the preussische seehandlung--should be set up by the imperial government with the assistance of some privately owned capital. this corporation should purchase such a part of the shares of each company as would defeat any attempts at destroying their national character. ballin, however, to whom any kind of government interference in shipping matters was anathema, would have nothing to do with this plan, and thus it fell through. ballin thereupon having informed the kaiser in kiel on board the battleship _kaiser wilhelm ii_ regarding the progress of the negotiations, a further meeting with the lloyd people took place early in december, which led to a complete agreement among the two german companies as to the final proposals to be submitted to the american group; and shortly afterwards, at a meeting held at cologne, agreement was also secured with mr. pirrie. the final discussions took place in new york early in february, ballin and mr. tietgens, the chairman of the board of directors, acting on behalf of the hamburg-amerika linie, and president plate and dr. wiegand on that of the lloyd. meanwhile, morgan's negotiations with the white star line and other british companies had also led to a successful termination. concerning the new york meetings we find an interesting entry in ballin's diary: "in the afternoon of february th, , messrs. griscom, widener, wilding, and battle, and two sons of mr. griscom met us in conference. various suggestions were put forward in the course of the proceedings which necessitated further deliberations in private between ourselves and the bremen gentlemen, and it was agreed to convene a second general meeting at the private office of mr. griscom on the th floor of the empire building. this meeting was held in the forenoon of the following day, and a complete agreement was arrived at concerning the more important of the questions that were still open. i took up the position that the combine would only be able to make the utmost possible use of its power if we succeeded in securing control of the cunard and holland american lines. i was glad to find that mr. morgan shared my view. he authorized me to negotiate on his behalf with director van den toorn, the representative of the holland american line, and after a series of meetings a preliminary agreement was reached giving morgan the option of purchasing per cent. of the shares of the holland american line. morgan undertook to negotiate with the cunard line through the intermediary of some british friends. it has been settled that, if the control of the two companies in question is secured to the combine, one half of it should be exercised by the american group, and the other half should be divided between the lloyd and ourselves. this arrangement will assure the german lines of a far-reaching influence on the future development of affairs. "on the following thursday the agreements, which were meanwhile ready in print, were signed. we addressed a joint telegram to the kaiser, informing him of the definite conclusion of the agreement, to which he sent me an exceedingly gracious reply. the kaiser's telegram was dispatched from hubertusstock, and its text was as follows: "'ballin, director general of the hamburg-amerika linie, new york. have received your joint message with sincere satisfaction. am especially pleased that it reached me in the same place where the outlines gained form and substance in october last. you must be grateful to st. hubertus. he seems to know something about shipping as well. in recognition of your untiring efforts and of the success of your labours i confer upon you the second class of my order of the red eagle with the crown. remember me to henry.--wilhelm i.r.' "morgan gave a dinner in our honour at his private residence which abounds in treasures of art of all descriptions, and the other gentlemen also entertained us with lavish hospitality. tietgens and i returned the compliment by giving a dinner at the holland house which was of special interest because it was attended not only by the partners of morgan, but also by mr. jacob schiff, of messrs. kuhn, loeb & co., who had been morgan's opponents in the conflict concerning the northern pacific. during the following week the lloyd provided a big dinner on board the _kronprinz wilhelm_ for about invited guests. "prince henry of prussia was one of the passengers of the _kronprinz wilhelm_ which, owing to the inclemency of the weather, arrived in new york one day behind her scheduled time. on the day of her arrival--sunday, february rd--i had dinner on board the _hohenzollern_. we also took part in a number of other celebrations in honour of the prince. especially memorable and of extraordinary sumptuousness was the lunch at which mr. morgan presided, and at which one hundred captains of industry--leading american business men from all parts of the states--were present. on the evening of the same day the press dinner took place which , newspaper men had arranged in honour of the prince. mr. schiff introduced me to mr. harriman, the chairman of the union pacific, with whom i entered into discussions concerning our participation in the san francisco-far east business." at the request of the american group the publication of the agreement was delayed for some time, because it was thought desirable to wait for the final issue of the congress debates on the subsidies bill. a report which ballin, after some further discussion with morgan and his london friends had taken place, made for the german embassy in london, describes the situation as it appeared in april, . it runs as follows: "( ) acquisition of the joint control of the cunard line by the two german companies and the american syndicate. on this subject discussions have taken place with lord inverclyde, the chairman of the cunard line. neither lord inverclyde nor any of the other representatives of british shipping interests objected in any way to the proposed transaction for reasons connected with the national interest. he said, indeed, that he thought the syndicate should not content itself with purchasing per cent. of the shares, but that it should rather absorb the whole company instead. the purchase price he named appeared to me somewhat excessive; but he has already hinted that he would be prepared to recommend to his company to accept a lower offer, and it is most likely that the negotiations will lead to a successful issue, unless the british government should pull itself together at the eleventh hour. "( ) public announcement of the formation of the combine. whereas until quite recently the american gentlemen maintained that it would be advisable to wait for the conclusion of the negotiations going on at washington with respect to the proposed subsidy legislation, mr. morgan now shares my view that it is not desirable to do so any longer, but that it would be wiser to proceed without any regard to the intentions of washington. the combine, therefore--unless unexpected obstacles should intervene--will make its public appearance within a few weeks. "( ) the british admiralty. an agreement exists between the british admiralty and the white star line conceding to the former the right of pre-emption of the three express steamers _oceanic, teutonic,_ and _majestic._ this agreement also provides that the white star line, against an annual subsidy from the government, must place these boats at the disposal of the admiralty in case of war. the first lord has now asked mr. ismay whether there is any truth in the report that he wants to sell the white star line; and when he was told that such was the case, he declared that, this being so, he would be compelled to exercise his right of pre-emption. "it would be extremely awkward in the interests of the combine if the three vessels had to be placed at the service of the admiralty, especially as it is probable that they would be employed in competition with the combine. therefore a compromise has been effected in such a form that mr. morgan is to take over the agreement on behalf of the combine for the three years it has still to run. this means that the steamers will continue to fly the british flag for the present, and that they must be placed at the disposition of the admiralty in case of war. the admiralty suggested an extension of the terms of the agreement for a further period of three years; but it was content to withdraw its suggestion when mr. morgan declined to accept it. the agreement does not cover any of the other boats of the line which are the biggest cargo steamers flying the union jack, and consequently no obligations have been incurred with respect to these. "( ) text of the public announcement. a memorandum is in course of preparation fixing the text of the announcement by which the public is to be made acquainted with the formation of the combine. in compliance with the wishes emanating from prominent british quarters, the whole transaction will be represented in the light of a big anglo-american 'community of interest' agreement; and the fact that it virtually cedes to the united states the control of the north atlantic shipping business will be kept in the background, as far as it is possible to do so." the first semi-official announcement dealing with the combine was published on april th by the british press, and at an extraordinary general meeting of the hamburg-amerika linie on may th, the public was given some carefully prepared information about the german-american agreement. at that meeting dr. diederich hahn, the well-known chairman of the _bund der landwirte_ (agrarian league), rose, to everybody's surprise, to inquire if it was the case that the national interests, and especially the agricultural interests of germany, would be adversely affected by the agreement. the ensuing discussion showed ballin at his best. he allayed dr. hahn's fears lest the american influence in the combination would be so strong as to eliminate the german influence altogether by convincing him that the whole agreement was built up on a basis of parity, and that the german interests would not be jeopardized in any way. the argument that the close connexion established between the trust and the american railroad companies would lead to germany being flooded with american agricultural produce he parried by pointing out that the interests of the american railroads did not so much require an increased volume of exports, but rather of imports, because a great disproportion existed between their eastbound and their westbound traffic, the former by far exceeding the latter, so that a further increase in the amount of goods carried from the western part of the country to the atlantic seaports would only make matters worse from the point of remunerative working of their lines. what ballin thought of the system of government subsidies in aid of shipping matters is concisely expressed by his remarks in a speech which he made on the occasion of the trial trip of the s.s. _blücher_, when he said: "if it were announced to me to-day that the government subsidies had been stolen overnight, i should heave a sigh of relief, only thinking what a pity it was that it had not been done long ago." in great britain the news that some big british shipping companies had been purchased by the american concern caused a great deal of public excitement. in ballin's diary we find the following entry under date of june th: "in england, in consequence of the national excitement, a very awkward situation has arisen. sir alfred jones and sir christopher furness know how to make use of this excitement as an opportunity for shouldering the british nation with the burden which the excessive tonnage owned by their companies represents to them in these days of depression. king edward has also evinced an exceedingly keen interest in these matters of late, which goes to show that what makes people in england feel most uncomfortable is not the passing of the various shipping companies into american hands, but the fact that the german companies have done so well over the deal. mr. morgan has had an interview with some of the british cabinet ministers at which he declared his readiness to give the government additional facilities as regards the supply of auxiliary cruisers. we are hopeful that such concessions will take the wind out of the sails of those who wish to create a counter-combination subsidized by grants-in-aid from the government." an outcome of the german-american arrangements was that morgan and his friends were invited by the kaiser to take part in the festivities connected with the kiel week. the american gentlemen were treated with marked attention by the kaiser, and extended their visit so as to include hamburg and berlin as well. at a conference of the transatlantic lines held in december, , at cologne, ballin put forward once more his suggestion that a cabin pool should be established. the proposal, however, fell through owing to the opposition from the cunard line. the depression in the freight business which had set in in , and which was still very pronounced towards the close of , seriously affected the prospects of the transatlantic shipping companies, especially those combined in the morgan trust, who were the owners of a huge amount of tonnage used in the cargo business, and whose sphere of action was restricted to the north atlantic route. "experience now shows," ballin wrote in his notes, "that we were doing the right thing when we entered into the alliance with the trust. if we had not done this, the latter would doubtless have tried to invade the german market in order to keep its many idle ships going." meanwhile the cunard line had concluded an agreement with the british government by which the government bound itself to advance to the company the funds for the building of its two mammoth express liners, the _mauretania_ and the _lusitania_, while at the same time granting it a subsidy sufficient to provide for the payment of the interest on and for the redemption of the loan advanced by the government for the building of the vessels. further difficulties seemed to be ahead owing to the aggressive measures proposed by the canadian pacific company, which was already advertising a service from antwerp to canada. to ward off the danger threatening from this quarter, ballin proceeded to new york to take up negotiations with sir thomas shaughnessy, the president of the canadian pacific. he went there on behalf of all the continental shipping companies concerned, and the results he arrived at were so satisfactory to both parties that ballin corresponded henceforth on terms of close personal friendship with sir thomas, who was one of the leading experts on railway matters anywhere. these friendly relations were very helpful to ballin afterwards when he was engaged in difficult negotiations with other representatives of sir thomas's company, and never failed to ensure a successful understanding being arrived at. on the occasion of this trip to america ballin had some interesting--or, as he puts it, "rather exciting"--discussions with morgan and his friends. he severely criticized the management of the affairs of the trust, and tried to make morgan understand that nothing short of a radical improvement--i.e. a change of the leading personages--would put matters right. "morgan," he writes, "finds it impossible to get the right men to take their places, and he held out to me the most alluring prospects if i myself should feel inclined to go to new york as president of the trust, even if only for a year or two; but i refused his offer, chiefly on account of my relations with the kaiser." ballin's suggestions, nevertheless, led to a change in the management of the trust. this was decided upon at meetings held in london, where ballin stayed for a time on his way back to hamburg. mr. pirrie also took part in these meetings. in the meantime the relations between the cunard line and the other transatlantic shipping companies had become very critical. the hungarian government, for some time past, had shown a desire to derive a greater benefit from the considerable emigrant traffic of the country--a desire which was shared by important private quarters as well. the idea was to divert the stream of emigrants to fiume--instead of allowing them to cross the national frontiers uncontrolled--and to carry them from that port to the united states by direct steamers. ballin had repeatedly urged that the lines which were working together under the pool agreement should fall in with these wishes of the hungarian government; but his proposals were not acted upon, mainly owing to the opposition of the north german lloyd, which company carried the biggest share of the hungarian emigrants. to the great surprise of the pool lines it was announced in the early part of that the hungarian government was about to conclude an agreement with the cunard line--the only big transatlantic shipping company which had remained outside the trust--by which it was provided that the cunard line was to run fortnightly services from fiume, and by which the hungarian government was to bind itself to prevent--by means of closing the frontiers or any other suitable methods--emigrants from choosing any other routes leading out of the country. such an agreement would deprive the pool lines of the whole of their hungarian emigrant business. discussions between ballin and the representatives of the cunard line only elicited the statement on the part of the latter that it had no power any longer to retrace its steps. an episode which took place in the course of these discussions is of special interest now, as it enables us to understand why the amalgamation of the cunard line with the morgan trust never took place. ballin asked lord inverclyde why the attitude of the cunard line had been so aggressive throughout. the reply was that the morgan trust, and not the cunard line, was the aggressor, because morgan's aim was to crush it. when ballin interposed that this had never been intended by the trust--that the trust, indeed, had attempted to include the cunard line within the combination, that lord inverclyde himself had also made a proposal towards that end, and that the project had only come to grief on account of the strong feeling of british public opinion against it--lord inverclyde answered that, far from this being the case, the trust had never replied to his proposal, and that he had not even received an acknowledgment of his last letter. in a letter to mr. boas, the general representative of his company in new york, in which he described the general situation, ballin stated that the statement of lord inverclyde was indeed quite correct. the hungarian situation became still more complicated after the receipt of some information that reached ballin from vienna to the effect that the austrian government intended to imitate the example set by the hungarian government by running a service from trieste. after prolonged discussions the austrian government also undertook not to grant an emigration licence to the cunard line so long as the struggle between the two competing concerns was not settled. thereupon this struggle of the pool lines--both the continental and the british ones--against the cunard line was started in real earnest, not only for the british but also for the scandinavian and the fiume business. after some time negotiations for an agreement were opened in london in july on the initiative and with the assistance of mr. balfour, who was then president of the board of trade. these, however, led to no result, and a basis for a compromise was not found until august, , when renewed negotiations took place at frankfort-on-main. a definite understanding was reached towards the close of the same year, and then at last this struggle, which was really one of the indirect consequences of the establishment of the morgan trust, came to an end. looked upon from a purely business point of view, the morgan trust--or, to call it by its real name, the "international mercantile marine company," which in pool slang, was simply spoken of as the "immco lines"--was doubtless a failure. only the world war, yielding, as it did, formerly unheard-of profits to the shipping business of the neutral and the allied countries, brought about a financial improvement, but it is still too early to predict whether this improvement will be permanent. the reasons why the undertaking was bound to be unremunerative before the outbreak of the war are not far to seek, and include the initial failure of its promoters to secure the adhesion of the cunard line--a failure which, as is shown by ballin's notes, was to a large extent due to the hesitating policy of the hamburg company. to make business as remunerative as possible was the very object for which the trust was formed, but the more economical working which was the means to reach this end could not be realized while such an essential factor as the cunard line not only remained an outsider, but even became a formidable competitor. it can hardly be doubted that the adhesion of the cunard line to the morgan trust--or, in other words, the formation of a combine including all the important transatlantic lines without exception--would have brought about such a development of the pool idea as would have led to a much closer linking-up of the financial interests of the individual partners than could be achieved under a pool agreement. under such a "community of interest" agreement, every inducement to needless competition could be eliminated, and replaced by a system of mutual participation in the net profits of each line. this was the ideal at which ballin, taught by many years of experience, was aiming. over and over again the pool lines had an opportunity of finding out that it paid them better to come to a friendly understanding, even if it entailed a small sacrifice, than to put up a fight against a new competitor. sometimes, indeed, an understanding was made desirable owing to political considerations. however, the number of participants ultimately grew so large that ballin sarcastically remarked: "sooner or later the pool will have to learn how to get along without us," and he never again abandoned his plan of having it replaced by closely-knit community of interest agreements which would be worked under a centralized management, and therefore produce much better results. in other branches of his activities--e.g. in his agreements with the other hamburg companies and in the one with the booth line, which was engaged in the service to northern brazil, he succeeded in developing the existing understandings into actual community of interest agreements, and it seems that these have given all-round satisfaction. the negotiations between himself and the north german lloyd shortly before the outbreak of the war were carried on with the same object. throughout the endless vicissitudes in the history of the pool the formation of the morgan trust decidedly stands out as the most interesting and most dramatic episode. at the present time the position of the german steamship companies in those days seems even more imposing than it appeared to the contemporary observer. to-day we can hardly imagine that some big british lines should, one after the other, be offered for purchase first to some german, and then to the american concerns. such a thing was only possible because at that time british shipping enterprise was more interested in the employment of tramp steamers than in the working of regular services, the shipowners believing that greater profits could be obtained by the former method. the result was a noticeable lack of leading men fully qualified to speak with authority on questions relating to the regular business, whereas in germany such men were not wanting. the transatlantic business threatened, in fact, to become more and more the prerogative of the german-american combination. to-day, of course, it is no longer possible to say with certainty whether the cunard line could have been induced to join that combination, if the right moment had not been missed. the great danger with which british shipping was threatened at that time, and the great success which the german lines achieved, not only stirred british public opinion to its depths, but also acted as a powerful stimulus on the shipping firms themselves. this caused a pronounced revival of regular line shipping, which went so far that tramp shipping became less and less important, and which ultimately led to a concentration of the former within the framework of a few large organizations which exercise a correspondingly strong influence on present-day british shipping in general. these organizations differ from the big german companies by the circumstance that they represent close financial amalgamations and that they have not, like the german companies, grown up slowly and step for step with the expanding volume of transatlantic traffic. chapter vi the expansion of the hamburg-amerika linie the principal work which fell to ballin's share during the period immediately following his nomination in on the board of his company was that connected with the introduction of the fast steamers and the resulting expansion of the passenger business. offices were established in berlin, dresden, and frankfort-on-main in , and arrangements were made with the hamburg-south american s.s. co., the german east africa line, and the hansa line--the latter running a service to canada--by which these companies entrusted the management of their own passenger business to the packetfahrt. thus, step by step, the passenger department developed into an organization the importance of which grew from year to year. the expansion of the passenger business also necessitated an enlargement of the facilities for the dispatch of the company's steamers. this work had been effected until then at the northern bank of the main elbe, but in it was transferred to the amerika-kai which was newly built at the southern bank; and when the normal depth of the fairway of the elbe was no longer sufficient to enable the fast steamers of considerable draught to come up to the city, it was decided to dispatch them from brunshausen, a small place situated much lower down the elbe. in the long run, however, it proved very inconvenient to manage the passenger dispatch from there, and the construction of special port facilities at cuxhaven owned by the company was taken in hand. the accommodation at the amerika-kai, although it was enlarged as early as , was soon found to be inadequate, so that it was resolved to provide new accommodation at the petersen-kai, situated on the northern bank of the elbe, and this project was carried out in . the number of services run by the company was augmented in those early years by the establishment of a line to baltimore and another to philadelphia. in a new line starting from new york was opened to venezuelan and colombian ports. the north atlantic services were considerably enlarged in , when the company took over the hansa line. the desire to find remunerative employment for the fast steamers during the dead season of the north atlantic passenger business prompted the decision to enter these boats into a service from new york to the mediterranean during the winter months. the same desire, however, also gave rise to one of the most original ideas carried into practice through ballin's enterprise, i.e. the institution of pleasure trips and tourist cruises. it may perhaps be of interest to point out in this connexion that, about half a century earlier, another hamburg shipping man had thought of specially fitting out a vessel for an extended cruise of that kind. i do not know whether this plan was carried out at the time, and whether ballin was indebted to his predecessor for the whole idea; in any case, the following advertisement which appeared in the _leipziger illustrierte zeitung,_ and which i reprint for curiosity's sake, was found among his papers. "an opportunity for taking part in a voyage round the world "the undersigned hamburg shipowner proposes to equip one of his large sailing vessels for a cruise round the world, to start this summer, during which the passengers will be able to visit the following cities and countries, viz. lisbon, madeira, teneriffe, cap verde islands, rio de janeiro, rio de la plata, falklands islands, valparaiso, and all the intermediate ports of call on the pacific coast of south america as far as guayaquil (for quito), the marquesas islands, friendly islands (otaheite), and other island groups in the pacific, china (choosan, hongkong, canton, macao, whampoa), manilla, singapore, ceylon, Île de france or madagascar, the cape of good hope, st. helena, ascension island, the azores, and back to hamburg. "the cruise is not intended for business purposes of any kind; but the whole equipment and accommodation of the vessel, the time spent at the various ports of call, and the details of the whole cruise, are to be arranged with the sole object of promoting the safety, the comfort, the entertainment, and the instruction of the passengers. "admission will be strictly confined to persons of unblemished repute and of good education, those possessing a scientific education receiving preference. "the members of the expedition may confidently look forward to a pleasant and successful voyage. a first-class ship, an experienced and well-educated captain, a specially selected crew, and a qualified physician are sufficient guarantees to ensure a complete success. "the fare for the whole voyage is so low that it only represents a very slight addition to the ordinary cost of living incurred on shore. in return, the passenger will have many opportunities of acquiring a first-hand knowledge of the wonders of the world, of the beautiful scenery of the remotest countries, and of the manners and customs of many different nations. during the whole voyage he will be surrounded by the utmost comfort, and will enjoy the company of numerous persons of culture and refinement. the sea air will be of immeasurable benefit to his health, and the experience which he is sure to gain will remain a source of pleasure to him for the rest of his life. "full particulars may be had on application to the undersigned, and a stamped envelope for reply should be enclosed. "rob. m. sloman, "_hamburg, january_, . _shipowner in hamburg._" ballin's idea of running a series of pleasure cruises did not meet with much support on the part of his associates; the public, however, took it up with enthusiasm from the very start. early in ballin himself took part in the first trip to the far east on board the express steamer _auguste victoria_. organized pleasure trips on a small scale were by no means an entire novelty in germany at that time; the carl stangen tourist office in berlin, for instance, regularly arranged such excursions, including some to the far east, for a limited number of participants. to do so, however, for as many as persons, as ballin did, was something unheard-of until then, and necessitated a great deal of painstaking preparation. among other things, the itinerary of the intended cruise, owing to the size and the draught of the steamer used, had to be carefully worked out in detail, and arrangements had to be made beforehand for the hotel accommodation and for the conveyance of passengers during the more extended excursions on shore. all these matters gave plenty of scope to the organizing talents of the youthful director, and he passed the test with great credit. the first far eastern cruise proved so great a success that it was repeated in . in the following year it started from new york, surely a proof that the company's reputation for such cruises was securely established not in germany alone, but in the states as well. meanwhile, however, hamburg had been visited by a terrible catastrophe which enormously interfered with the smooth working of the company's express steamer services. this was the cholera epidemic during the summer of . it lasted several weeks, and thousands of inhabitants fell victims to it. those who were staying in hamburg in that summer will never forget the horrors of the time. in the countries of northern europe violent epidemics were practically unknown, and the scourge of cholera especially had always been successfully combated at the eastern frontier of germany, so that the alarm which spread over the whole country, and which led to the vigorous enforcement of the most drastic measures for isolating the rest of germany from hamburg, may easily be comprehended, however ludicrous those measures in some instances might appear. there are no two opinions as to the damage they inflicted on the commerce and traffic of the city. the severest quarantine, of course, was instituted in the united states, and the passenger services to and from hamburg ceased to be run altogether, so that the transatlantic lines decided to temporarily suspend the steerage pool agreement they had just concluded. the packetfahrt, in order not to stop its fast steamer services completely, first transferred them to southampton, and afterwards to wilhelmshaven, thus abstaining from dispatching these boats to and from hamburg. the steerage traffic had to be discarded entirely, after an attempt to maintain it, with stettin as its home port, had failed. financially this epidemic and its direct consequences brought the company almost to the verge of collapse, and the packetfahrt had to stop altogether the payment of dividends for , , and . business was resumed in , but at first it was very slow. every means were tried to induce the united states to rescind her isolation measures. an american doctor was appointed in hamburg; disinfection was carried out on a large scale; with great energy the city set herself to prevent the recurrence of a similar disaster. the packetfahrt, in conjunction with the authorities, designed the plans for building the emigrants' halls situated at the outskirts of the city, which are unique of their kind and are still looked upon as exemplary. these plans owe their origin to the extremely talented hamburg architect, mr. thielen, whose early death is greatly to be regretted. an important innovation was the establishment of regular medical control and medical treatment for the emigrants from the east of europe on their reaching the german frontier, a measure which was decided upon and taken in hand by the prussian government. the expansion of the packetfahrt's business, of course, was most adversely affected by the epidemic and its after-effects; and several years of consolidation were needed before the latter could be overcome. consequently, hardly any new services were opened during the years immediately following upon the epidemic. an important step forward, which greatly strengthened the earning capacities of the company's resources, was taken in , when the building orders for the steamers of the "p" class were given. these vessels were of large size but of moderate speed. they were extremely seaworthy, and were capable of accommodating a great many passengers, especially steeragers, as well as of carrying large quantities of cargo. the number of services run by the company was added to in by a line from new york to italy, and in the following year by one from italy to the river plate. pool agreements were concluded with the lloyd and the allan line with respect to the first-named route, and with the italian steamship companies with respect to the other. the agreement with the italians, however, did not become operative until a few years afterwards. in the packetfahrt celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of its existence--an event in which large sections of the public took a keen interest. perhaps the most noteworthy among the immense number of letters of congratulation which the company received on that occasion is the one sent by the chairman of the cunard line, of which the verbatim text is given below. it was addressed to one of the directors in reply to an invitation to attend the celebrations in person. "it is with great regret i have to announce my inability to join with you in celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of the foundation of your company, to be held on board your s.s. _auguste victoria_. "i the more regret this as i have the greatest possible admiration of the skill and enterprise which has directed the fortunes of your company, especially in recent years. "you were the first to give the travelling public the convenience of a speedy and reliable transit between the two great continents of the world by initiating a regular service of twin-screw steamers of high speed and unexceptionable accommodation. "you also set the shipping world the example of the great economy possible in the transit of the world's commodities in vessels of greatly increased capacity and proportionate economy, which other nations have been quick to follow and adopt to their great advantage. "your company had furthermore met a felt want in giving most luxurious and well-appointed accommodation for visiting scenes, both new and old, of world-wide interest, and making such journeyings, hitherto beset with anxiety and difficulty, as easy of accomplishment as the ordinary railway journey at home. "you have succeeded in this, not through any adventitious aids, such as government subsidies, but by anticipating and then meeting the wants of the travelling and commercial public; and no one, be his nationality what it was, can, in the face of such facts, abstain from offering his meed of praise to the foresight, acumen, and ability that have accomplished such great results in such a comparatively small time as the management and direction of the hamburg-american packet company. "i would venture, therefore, to thus congratulate you and your colleagues, and whilst reiterating my regret at being prevented from doing so at your forthcoming meeting, allow me the expression of the wish that such meeting may be a happy and satisfactory one, and that a new era of, if possible, increased success to the hamburg-american packet company may take date from it." towards the latter end of the 'nineties, at last, a big expansion of the company's activities set in. in the hamburg-calcutta line was purchased, but the service was discontinued, the steamers thus acquired being used for other purposes. shortly before the close of the same year a suggestion was put forward by some hamburg firms that were engaged in doing business with the far east that the packetfahrt should run a service to that part of the world. just then the steamship companies engaged in the far eastern trade were on the point of coming to a rate agreement among themselves; and the management of the packetfahrt which, owing to the offer held out to it by hamburg, antwerp, and london firms, could hope to rely on finding a sure basis for its far eastern business, did not consider it wise to let the favourable opportunity slip. quick decision and rapid action, before the proposed agreement of the interested lines had become an accomplished fact, were necessary; because, once the gates were closed, an outsider would find it difficult to gain admission to the ring. hence the negotiations with a view to the packetfahrt joining in the far eastern business, which had only been started during the second half of december, , came to a close very soon; and in the early days of january, , the packetfahrt advertised its intention of running monthly sailings to penang, singapore, hongkong, shanghai, yokohama, and hiogo. six cargo steamers of , tons burden were entered into the new service; and simultaneously an announcement was made to the effect that large fast passenger boats would be added to it as soon as the need for these should make itself felt. the participation in the far eastern business, and the consequent taking over of competing lines or the establishment of joint services with them, was not the only important event of the year as far as the development of the packetfahrt is concerned. in the spring of that same year an agreement was made with the philadelphia shipping company--which, in its turn, had an agreement with the pennsylvania railroad company--by which the packetfahrt undertook to run a regular service of cargo steamers between hamburg and philadelphia. an event of still greater importance, however, was the outbreak of war between the united states and spain which also took place in that year. the spanish government desired to strengthen the fighting power of its navy by the addition of several auxiliary cruisers; and even some time before the war broke out an offer reached the packetfahrt through the intermediary of a third party to purchase its two express steamers, _columbia_ and _normannia_, which were among the fastest ocean-liners afloat. before accepting this offer, the packetfahrt, in order to avoid the reproach of having committed a breach of neutrality, first offered these two steamers to the united states government; but on its refusal to buy them, they were sold to the british firm acting on behalf of the spanish government, and re-sold to the latter. as the packetfahrt had allowed a high rate of depreciation on the two boats, their book-value stood at a very low figure; and the considerable profit thus realized enabled it to acquire new vessels for the extension of its passenger services. meanwhile a new express steamer, the _kaiser wilhelm der grösse_, had been added to the fleet of the north german lloyd. ballin, having made a voyage on board this vessel to new york, reported to the trustees of his company that he considered her a splendid achievement. owing to the heavy working expenses, however, she would not, he thought, prove a great success from a financial point of view. he held that the remunerativeness of express steamers was negatived by the heavy working expenses and, as early as , had projected the construction of two steamers of very large proportions, but of less speed. this, however, was not carried out. instead, the packetfahrt decided to build a vessel which was to be bigger and faster still than the _kaiser wilhelm der grösse_. the new liner was built by the stettin vulkan yard, and completed in . she was the _deutschland_, the famous ocean greyhound, a great improvement in size and equipment, and she held the blue riband of the atlantic for a number of years. about the same time, the express service to new york had been supplemented by the inauguration of an additional passenger service on the same route, which proved a great success in every way. the steamers employed were the combined passenger and cargo boats of moderate speed of the "p" class referred to above; and, their working expenses being very low, they could carry the cargo at very low rates, so that they proved of great service to the rapidly expanding interchange of goods between germany and the united states. their great size made it necessary to accelerate their loading and discharging facilities as much as possible. this necessity, among other things, led to the introduction of grain elevators which resulted in a great saving of time, as the grain was henceforth no longer discharged in sacks, but loose. the company also decided to take the loading and discharging of all its vessels into its own hands. to accelerate the dispatch of steamers to the utmost possible extent, it was decided in to enlarge once again the company's harbour facilities, and an agreement was concluded with the hamburg government providing for the construction of large harbour basins with the necessary quays, sheds, etc., in the district of kuhwärder on the southern banks of the elbe. it was typical of ballin's policy of the geographical distribution of risks and of the far-sighted views he held concerning the international character of the shipping business that he attempted at the end of the 'nineties to gain an extended footing abroad for the company's activities. the packetfahrt therefore ordered the building of two passenger boats in italian yards, and it was arranged that these vessels should fly either the german or the italian flag. in the end, however, a separate italian shipping company, the italia, was set up, which was to devote itself more particularly to the river plate trade. when the financial results of the new enterprise failed to come up to expectations, the shares were sold to italian financiers in . the closing years of the nineteenth and the opening years of the twentieth century represented a period of extraordinary prosperity to shipping business all over the world--a prosperity which was caused by the outbreak of the south african war in . an enormous amount of tonnage was required to carry the british troops, their equipment, horses, etc., to south africa, and the circumstance that this tonnage temporarily ceased to be available for the needs of ordinary traffic considerably stiffened the freight rates. the favourable results thus obtained greatly stimulated the spirit of enterprise animating the shipping companies everywhere. about the same time the business of the company experienced a notable expansion in another direction. a fierce rate war was in progress between the hamburg-south american s.s. co. and the firm of a. c. de freitas & co., and neither party seemed to be able to get the better of the other. as early as ballin, on behalf of the hamburg-south american s.s. co., had carried on some negotiations with the firm of de freitas with the object of bringing about an amalgamation of the two companies with respect to their services to southern brazil. in he had done so again in compliance with the special request of mr. carl laeisz, the chairman of the former company, and in he did so for the third time, but in this case on his own initiative. no practical results, however, were reached, and as ballin was desirous of seeing an end being put to the hopeless struggle between the two rival firms, he took up those negotiations for the fourth time in , hoping to acquire the de freitas line for his own company. he was successful, and an expert was nominated to fix the market value of the fourteen steamers that were to change hands. as the valuation took place at a time when the shipping business was in an exceedingly flourishing state, the price which he fixed worked out at so high an average per ton as was never again paid before the outbreak of the war. the valuer told me that he himself considered the price very high, so that he felt in duty bound to draw ballin's attention to it beforehand. ballin tersely replied: "i know, but i want the business," thus making it perfectly clear that he attached more than ordinary importance to the deal. as soon as the purchase of the de freitas lines had become an accomplished fact, arrangements were made with the hamburg-south american s.s. company, which provided for a joint service to south america, a service which was still further extended when the packetfahrt bought up a british line trading from antwerp to the plate, thus also securing a footing at antwerp in connexion with its south american business. the necessity for taking such a step grew in proportion as antwerp acquired an increasing importance owing to the increasing german export business. perhaps there is no country which can be served by the seaports of so many foreign countries as germany. several mediterranean ports attract to themselves a portion of the south german trade; antwerp and some of the french ports possess splendid railway connexion with southern and western germany, and both antwerp and rotterdam are in a position to avail themselves of the highway of the rhine as an excellent means of communication with the whole german hinterland. finally, it must be remembered that the scandinavian seaports are also to a certain extent competing for the german business, especially for the trade with the hinterland of the baltic ports of germany. all this goes to show that the countries surrounding germany which have for centuries striven to exercise a kind of political hegemony over germany--or, rather, generally speaking, over central europe--are not without plenty of facilities enabling them to try to capture large portions of the carrying trade of these parts of europe. this danger of a never-ending economic struggle which would not benefit any of the competing rivals was the real reason underlying ballin's policy of compromise. he clearly recognized that any other course of action would tend to make permanent the existing chaos ruling in the realm of ocean shipping. in this struggle for the carrying trade to and from central europe the port of antwerp occupied a position all by itself. the more the countries beyond the sea were opened up by the construction of new railways and the establishment of industrial undertakings, and the more orders the manufacturers in the central european countries received in consequence of the growing demand, the greater became the value of antwerp to the shipping companies in every country. in this respect the early years of the twentieth century witnessed an extraordinary development, which, in its turn, benefited the world's carrying trade to an ever-increasing extent. never before had so much european capital been invested in overseas countries. again, as a result of the spanish war the political and economic influence of the united states had enormously expanded in the west indian islands, whilst, at the same time, the monroe doctrine was being applied more and more thoroughly and systematically. consequently the attention of the american investors was also increasingly drawn towards those same countries. in central america new railway lines were constructed by british and american capital, including some right across the country from the atlantic to the pacific, thus considerably facilitating trade with the pacific coast of america. other lines were built in brazil and in the argentine, and harbour and dock facilities were constructed in nearly all the more important south american ports. french and belgian capital shared in these undertakings, and some german capital was also employed for the same purpose. the trans-andine railway was completed, and numerous industrial works were added to the existing ones. the great economic advance was not exclusively restricted to south america; it extended to the far east, to the great british dominions beyond the sea, especially to canada and australia, and--after the close of the south african war--to africa also. russia built the great trans-siberian railway, and germany commenced to exploit the resources of her colonies. as a result of all these activities the iron and steel manufacturers were overwhelmed with export orders. this applies particularly to the german iron and steel manufacturers, whose leading organization, the stahlwerks-verband, largely favoured the route _via_ antwerp, because it was the cheapest, to the great detriment of the german ports. thus the german shipowners were compelled to follow the traffic, and the importance of antwerp increased from year to year. the hamburg-amerika linie met this development by opening a special branch office for dealing with the antwerp business. in , a year before the hamburg-amerika linie established itself in the services to brazil and the river plate, a line had been started by the company to northern brazil and the amazon river. the conflict with the booth line which resulted from this step was amicably settled in through negotiations conducted by ballin. later on, indeed, the relations between the two companies became very cordial, and even led to the conclusion of a far-reaching community of interest agreement, the booth line being represented in hamburg by the hamburg-amerika linie, and the latter in brazil by the british company. an agreement of such kind was only feasible when a particularly strong feeling of mutual trust existed between the two contracting partners, and ballin repeatedly declared that he looked upon this agreement with the booth line as the most satisfactory of all he had concluded. in the west indian business was extended by opening a passenger service to mexico, and another noteworthy event which took place during the same year was the conclusion of an agreement with the big german iron works in the rhenish-westphalian district by which the hamburg-amerika linie undertook to ship to emden the swedish iron ore needed by them from the ports of narvik and lulea. two special steamers were ordered to be exclusively used for this service. henceforth emden began to play an important part in connexion with the german ore supply, and the real prosperity of that port dated from that time. early in ballin decided to embark on a trip round the world. he thought it desirable to do so in order to acquire a first-hand knowledge of the far eastern situation, which had become of special interest to the country owing to the acquisition by germany of tsingtau, and to the unrest in china. his special object was to study the questions that had become urgent in connexion with the organization of the passenger service of which the packetfahrt, in consequence of the agreement with the lloyd, had just become a partner. there was, in addition, the project of starting a pacific service, which engaged his attention. all these important details could only be properly attended to on the spot. it became necessary to acquire a business footing in the various ports concerned, to organize the coast transport services which were to act as feeders to the main line, etc. besides, the packetfahrt, and the lloyd as well, had special reasons for being interested in far eastern affairs, as both companies had been entrusted with troop transports and the transport of equipment needed for the german contingent during the troubles in china. during his far eastern trip ballin wrote detailed accounts dealing with the business matters he attended to, and also describing his personal impressions of persons and things in general, the former kind addressed to the board of his company, the latter to his mother. these letters are full of interest; they present a more faithful description of his character as a man, and as a man of business, than could be given in any other way. i shall therefore quote a few extracts from the comprehensive reports, commencing with those he wrote to his mother:-- "_on board the i.m.s._ '_kiautschou_' "_january th, ._ "the weather was cold and windy when we arrived late at night outside port said, and midnight was well past when we had taken up the pilot and were making our way into the port. the intense cold had caused me to leave the navigating bridge; and as i did not think it likely that our agent would arrive on board with his telegrams until the next morning, i had followed the example of my wife and of nearly all the other passengers and had gone to bed. however, if we had thought that we should be able to sleep, we soon found out our mistake. the steamer had scarcely taken up her moorings when several hundreds of dusky natives, wildly screaming and gesticulating, and making a noise that almost rent the skies, invaded her in order to fill her bunkers with the tons of coal that had been ordered. perhaps there is no place anywhere where the bunkers are filled more rapidly than at port said, and certainly none where this is done to the accompaniment of a more deafening noise. just imagine a horde of natives wildly screaming at the top of their voices, and add to this the noise produced by the coal incessantly shot into the bunkers, and the shouting of the men in command going on along with it. you will easily understand that it was impossible for anyone to go to sleep under conditions such as these.... after trying for several hours, i gave up the attempt, and, on entering the drawing-room, i found that willy-nilly (but, as wippchen would have said, more nilly than willy) practically all the other passengers had done the same thing. there i was also informed that those who were in the know had not even made an attempt to go to sleep, but had gone ashore at a.m. port said is a typical brigands' den, and relies for its prosperity on the mail packets calling there. the shops, the taverns, the music-halls, and the gambling places are all organized on lines in accordance with the needs of modern traffic. so it was not surprising to see that the proprietors of these more or less inviting places of entertainment had brightly lit up their premises, and hospitably opened their doors despite the unearthly hour, being quite willing to try and entice the unwary passengers into their clutches." "_between_ aden _and_ colombo. "_january th_, . " ... we did not stop long at aden; and as the quarantine regulations for all vessels arriving from port said were very strict, it became impossible for the passengers on board the _kiautschou_ to land on the island. aden, which the british would like to turn into a second gibraltar, is situated in a barren, treeless district, and is wedged in between hills without any vegetation. small fortifications are scattered all over the island. it must be a desolate spot for europeans to live at. the british officers call it 'the devil's punch bowl,' and to be transferred to aden is equivalent to them to being deported." "_january th_, . " ... in the meantime we have spent a most enjoyable and unforgettable day at colombo. the pilot brought the news of queen victoria's death, which filled us with lively sympathy, and which caused a great deal of grief among the british passengers. shortly before o'clock we went ashore: and as the business offices do not open until an hour later--thus preventing me from calling on my business friends at that hour--i took a carriage-drive through the magnificent park-like surroundings of the city. the people one meets there are a fit match to the beautiful scenery; but whilst in former times they were the rulers of this fertile island, they are now, thanks to the blessings of civilization, the servants of their european masters.... "when we reached the old-established oriental hotel where we had our lunch, we met there a number of our fellow-passengers busily engaged in bargaining with the singhalese and indian dealers who generally flock to the terraces of the hotel as soon as a mail packet has arrived. the picture presented by such oriental bargaining is the same everywhere, except that the colombo dealers undeniably manifest an inborn gracefulness and gentlemanly bearing. when i tried to get rid of an old man who was pestering me with his offers to sell some precious stones, he said to me, in the inimitable singing tone of voice used by these people when they speak english: 'just touch this stone, please, but do not buy it: i only wish to receive it back from your lucky hands.' in spite of their manners, however, these fellows are the biggest cheats on earth. another dealer wanted to sell me a sheet of old ceylon stamps for which he demanded fifteen marks--a price which, as he stated, meant a clean loss of five marks to him. when i offered him two marks instead, merely because i had got tired of him, he handed me the whole sheet, and said: 'please take them; i know that one day i shall be rewarded for the sacrifice which i bring.' later on i discovered that the same man had sold exactly the same stamps to a fellow-passenger for pfennigs, and that he had told the same story to him as to me. such are the blessings of our marvellous civilization.... " ... in the afternoon we went for a magnificent drive to the mount lavinia hotel, which is beautifully situated on a hill affording an extensive view of the sea. boys and girls as beautiful as greek statues, and as swift-footed as fallow deer, pursued us in our carriage, begging for alms. it was curious to see with what unfailing certainty they managed to distinguish the german from the english passengers, and they were not slow in availing themselves of this opportunity to palm off what little german they knew on us. 'oh, my father! my beautiful mother! you are a great lady! please give me ten cents, my good uncle!' we were quite astonished to meet such a large progeny...." "_february nd_, . ".... the entrance to singapore is superbly beautiful. the steamer slowly wended her way through the channels between numerous small islands clad with the most luxurious vegetation, so that it almost took us two hours to reach the actual harbour.... the food question is extremely complicated in this part of the tropics, which is favoured by kind nature more than is good. the excessive fertility of the soil makes the cultivation of vegetables and cereals quite impossible, as everything runs to seed within a few days, so that, for instance, potatoes have to be obtained from java, and green vegetables from mulsow's, in hamburg. i am sure my geography master at school, who never ceased to extol the richness of the soil of this british colony, was not aware of this aspect of the matter. "singapore is a rapidly developing emporium for the trade with the far east. it has succeeded in attracting to itself much of the commerce with the dutch indies, british north borneo, the philippines, and the federated malay states. to achieve this, of course, was a difficult matter, even with the aid of the shipping companies, but its clever and energetic business community managed to do it. we germans may well be proud of the fact that our countrymen now occupy the premier position in the business life of the city.... " ... we spent about thirty-six hours at saigon. this city has been laid out by the french with admirable skill, and there is no doubt but that indo-china is a most valuable possession of theirs. as regards the difference in the national character of the french and the british, it is interesting to note that the former have just erected a magnificent building for a theatre at saigon, at a cost of - / million francs. the british would never have dreamt of doing such a thing; i am sure they would have invested that money in the building of club-houses and race-courses...." "_february th_, . " ... as far as social life and social pleasures are concerned, it must be said that the german colony at hongkong is in no way inferior to that at singapore. premier rank in this respect must be assigned to the siebs family. mr. siebs, the senior member of the hamburg firm of siemssen and co., has been a resident in the east for a long term of years--forty-two, if i remember rightly; and he now occupies an exceedingly prominent position both in german and british society. that this is so is largely due--apart from his intimate knowledge of all that concerns the trade and commerce of china, and apart from his own amiability and never-failing generosity--to his charming wife, who, by means of the hospitality, the refinement, and the exemplary management characterizing her home, has been chiefly instrumental in acquiring for the house of siebs the high reputation it enjoys. whoever is received by mrs. siebs, i have been told, is admitted everywhere in hongkong society. "even though i only give here an outline of my impressions, i cannot refrain from adding a few details dealing with some aspects of everyday life at hongkong, this jewel among the crown colonies of britain. the offices of the big firms and of the shipping companies' agencies, most of them housed in beautiful buildings, flank the water's edge; farther back there is the extensive shopping quarter, and still more in the rear there is the chinese quarter, teeming with an industrious population. being myself so much mixed up with the means of communication, i am surely entitled to make a few remarks concerning this subject in particular. horses are but rarely seen, and are only used for riding, and sporting purposes generally. their place is taken by the coolies, who no doubt represent the most pitiable type of humanity--at least, from the point of view of a sensitive person. in the low-lying part of the town the jinrikishas, which are drawn by coolies, predominate; but the greater part of hongkong is situated on the slopes of a hill, and nearly all the private residences are built along the beautifully kept, terrace-like roads leading up to the summit of the peak. in this part the chair coolies take the place of the jinrikisha coolies; and in the low-lying parts also it is considered more stylish to be carried by chair coolies. the ordinary hired chairs are generally carried by two coolies only, but four are needed for the private ones. the work done by these poor wretches is fatiguing in the extreme. they have to drag their masters up and down the hill, which is very steep in places, and it is a horrid sensation to be carried by these specimens of panting humanity for the first time. in the better-class european households each member of the family has his own chair, and the necessary coolies along with it, who are paid the princely wage of from marks to marks pfennigs a month. they also receive a white jacket and a pair of white drawers reaching to the knee, but they have to provide their own food. the poor fellows are generally natives from the interior parts of the island. they spend about one mark a week on their food; the rest they send home to their families. they are mostly married, and the money they earn in their capacity as private coolies represents to them a fortune. they rarely live longer than forty years; in fact, their average length of life is said not to exceed thirty-five. as many as eight coolies were engaged to attend to the needs of my wife and myself for the time of our stay. the poor creatures, who, by the way, had quite a good time in our service, spent the whole day from early in the morning to late at night lying in front of a side entrance to our hotel, except when they had to do their work for us.... " ... the chinese have only one annual holiday--new year. they are hard at work during the whole year; they know of no sundays and of no holidays, but the commencement of the new year is associated with a peculiar belief of theirs. to celebrate the event, they take their best clothes out of pawn (which, for the rest of the year, they keep at the pawnbroker's to prevent them from being stolen). to keep the evil spirits away during the coming twelvemonth, they burn hundreds of thousands of firecrackers when the new year begins, and also during the first and second days of it, accompanied by the noise of the firing of guns. one must have been through it all in order to understand it. for the better part of two days and two nights one could imagine a fierce battle raging in the neighbourhood; crackers were exploding on all sides, together with rockets and fireballs, and the whole was augmented by the shouting and screaming of the revellers. it was a mad noise, and we could scarcely get any sleep at night. "the houses in the chinese quarter were decorated up to the roofs with bunting, beautiful big lanterns, paper garlands with religious inscriptions, and a mass of lovely flowers. "on such days--the only holidays they possess--the chinese population are in undisputed possession of their town, and the british administration is wise enough not to interfere with the enjoyment of these sober and hard-working people. i really wonder how the german police would act in such cases...." "shanghai, _march th, _. " ... it is surely no exaggeration to describe shanghai as the new york of the far east. the whole of the rapidly increasing trade with the yangtse ports, and the bulk of that with the northern parts of the country, passes through shanghai. the local german colony is much larger than the one at hongkong; and here, too, it is pleasant to find that our countrymen are playing an extremely important part in the extensive business life of the town...." "_between_ tsingtau _and_ nagasaki, _on board the s.s_ _'sibiria_.' "_march th, ._ "our s.s. _sibiria_ had arrived in the harbour about ten days ago, and was now ready for our use. i had decided first of all to make a trip up the yang-tse-kiang on board the _sibiria_, because i wanted to get to know this important river, which flows through such a fertile tract of country, and on the banks of which so many of the busiest cities of china are situated. the yangtse--as it is usually called for shortness' sake--is navigable for very large-sized ocean-going steamers for a several days' journey. during the summer months it often happens that the level of the water in its upper reaches rises by as much as feet, which--on account of the danger of the tremendous floods resulting from it--has made it necessary to pay special attention to the laying-out of the cities situated on its banks. the object of our journey was nanking. this city, which was once the all-powerful capital of the celestial empire, has never again reached its former importance since its destruction during the great revolution of , and since the choice of peking as the residence of the imperial family. two years ago it was thrown open to foreign commerce; and the powers immediately established their consulates in the city, not only because a new era of development is looked forward to, but also because nanking is the seat of a viceroy. "our amiable consul, herr v. oertzen, received us with the greatest hospitality. the german colony which he has to look after consists of only one member so far. this young gentleman, who holds an appointment in connexion with the chinese customs administration, feels, as is but natural, quite happy in consequence of enjoying a practical monopoly of the protection extended to him by the home government. he has helped himself to the consul's cigars and to his moselle to such good effect that the _sibiria_ arrived just in time to prevent the german colony at nanking from lodging a complaint regarding the insufficiency of the supplies put at its disposal by the government. the consul told us that we should never have a chance of coming across another chinese town that could compare with the interior of nanking, and so we had to make up our minds to pay a visit to these parts. "i had seen plenty of dirt and misery at jaffa and jerusalem, but i have never found so much filth and wretchedness anywhere as i noticed at nanking. my wife and a charming young lady who accompanied us on our yangtse expedition were borne in genuine sedan chairs as used for the mandarins, preceded by the interpreter of the consulate, and followed by the rest of us, who were riding on mules provided with those typically chinese saddles, which, owing to their hardness, may justly claim to rank among the instruments of torture. "our procession wended its way through a maze of indescribably narrow streets crowded with a moving mass of human beings and animals. everywhere cripples and blind men lay moaning in front of their miserable hovels, and it almost seemed that there were more people suffering from some disease or other than there were healthy ones. when we stopped outside the big temple of confucius, where the ladies of our party dismounted from their chairs, the people, in spite of their natural timidity, flocked to see us, because they had probably never seen any european ladies until then. we were thankful when at last we reached the consulate building again, and when, after having had a good bath, we are able to enjoy a cup of tea. " ... in the early hours of march th our steamer arrived at tsingtau. i was surprised and delighted with what i saw. there, in spite of innumerable difficulties, a city had sprung up in an incredibly short space of time. "rooms had been reserved for us at the handsome, but very cold, hotel prinz heinrich; and in the afternoon of the day of our arrival we strolled up the roads, which were still somewhat dusty, and in parts only half finished, to the summit of the hill where the acting governor and the officers of higher rank had their homes. even though it is true that up to now military necessities have taken precedence in the laying-out of the town, so that the needs of trade and traffic have not received due attention, it must be admitted that a wonderful piece of constructive work has been achieved. all the members of our party--especially those who, like dr. knappe, our consul-general at shanghai, had known the place two years ago--were most agreeably surprised at the progress that had been made. "our first few days at tsingtau were spent much as they were everywhere else--plenty of work during the day-time, and plenty of social duties in the evenings. but things began to look different on saturday morning, when my old friend and well-wisher, field-marshal count waldersee, arrived on board h.m.s. _kaiserin auguste_. he had announced that his arrival would take place at a.m., and his flagship cast anchor with military punctuality. the governor and i went on board to welcome the old gentleman, who was evidently greatly touched at meeting me out here, and it was plain to see that my presence in this part of the world made him almost feel homesick. the field-marshal very much dislikes the restrictions imposed on his activities; and judging from all he told me, i must confess that a great military leader has hardly ever before been faced with a more thankless task than he. on the one hand he is handicapped through the diplomatists, and on the other through the want of unanimity among the powers. thus, instead of fulfilling the soldier's task with which he is entrusted, he is compelled to waste his time in idleness, and to preside at endless conferences at which matters are discussed dealing with the most trivial questions of etiquette. he really deserves something better than that...." "tokio. _march st, ._ " ... what a difference between japan and the cold and barren north of china! there everything was dull and gloomy, whilst this country is flooded with sunshine. here we are surrounded by beautifully wooded hills, and a magnificent harbour extends right into the heart of the city. from the windows of our rooms we overlook big liners and powerful men-of-war, and our own _sibiria_ has chosen such a berth that the hapag flag merrily floating in the breeze gives us a friendly welcome. "the difference in the national character of the chinaman and the japanese clearly proves the great influence which the climate and the natural features of a country can exercise on its inhabitants. the one always grave and sulky, and not inclined to be friendly; the other always cheerful, fond of gossip, and overflowing with politeness in all his intercourse with strangers. but it must not be forgotten that the integrity of the chinese, especially of the chinese merchants, is simply beyond praise, whereas the japanese have a reputation for using much cunning and very little sincerity, so that european business men cannot put much faith in them. "the women of japan are known to us through 'the mikado' and 'the geisha.' they make a direct appeal to our sympathies and to our sense of humour. in one week the stranger will become more closely acquainted with the womenfolk and the family life of japan than he would with those of china after half a dozen years of residence in their midst. in china the women are kept in seclusion as much as possible, but the whole family life of the japs is carried on with an utter indifference to publicity. this is due to a large extent to the way their homes are built. their houses are just as dainty as they are themselves; and it is really quite remarkable to see that the japs, who closely imitate everything they see in europe, still build them exactly as they have done from time immemorial. they are practically without windows, and in place of these the openings in the walls are filled with paper stretched on to frames. instead of doors there are movable screens made of lattice-work; and since everything is kept wide open during the day-time one can look right into the rooms from the street. in the summer the japanese make their home in the streets, and we are told that then the most intimate family scenes are enacted in the open air. i am of opinion that this, far from pointing to a want of morality, is really the outcome of a highly developed code of morals. things which are perfectly natural in themselves are treated as such, and are therefore not hidden from the light of day.... " ... at a.m. on march rd we arrived at kobe, where we had to spend several days. "our trip is now approaching its end; at least, we now experience the pleasant feeling that we are daily nearing home. what will it look like when we get back? at almost every port of call some sad news has reached us, and our stay at kobe was entirely overshadowed by my grief at the loss of my old friend laeisz. even now i cannot realize that i shall find his place empty when i return...." the brief statement in which ballin summarized the results of his trip from a business point of view is appended:-- "among the business transacted during my trip the following items are of chief importance: "( ) the establishment of a branch of our company at hongkong. "( ) the acquisition of the imperial mail packet service to shanghai, tsingtau, and tientsin, formerly carried on by messrs. diedrichsen, jebsen and co. "( ) the acquisition of the yangtse line, hitherto carried on by the firm of rickmers. "( ) the joint purchase with the firm of carlowitz and messrs. arnhold, karberg and co. of a large site outside shanghai harbour intended for the building of docks and quays, and the lease of the so-called eastern wharf, both these undertakings to be managed by a specially created joint-stock company. "( ) the establishment of temporary offices at shanghai. "( ) in japan discussions are still proceeding concerning the running of a line from the far east to the american pacific coast. "( ) in new york negotiations with the representative of the firm of forwood are under way regarding the purchase of the atlas line." this list summarizes the contents of a long series of letters from all parts of the world where ballin's keen insight, long foresight, and business acumen suggested to his alert mind possibilities of extending packetfahrt shipping interests. time translated many of his suggestions into flourishing actualities, some of which survived the - years; others disappeared in the cataclysm; others, again, by the lapse of time have not the keen general interest that appertained to the ideas when they fell fresh-minted from his pen. the following, however, in regard to china and japan, are worthy of record: "_shanghai._ _march th, ._ "i am not quite satisfied with the course which the negotiations concerning the possible inauguration of a yangtse line have taken so far. "the vessels employed are of the flat-bottomed kind, some being paddle boats, others twin-screw steamers. in their outward appearance the yangtse steamers, owing to their high erections on deck, greatly resemble the saloon steamers plying on the hudson. their draught rarely exceeds feet, and those which occasionally go higher up the river than hankau draw even less. most of the money earned by these boats is derived from the immense chinese passenger traffic they carry.... the chief difficulty we have experienced in our preparations for the opening of a yangtse line of our own consists in the absence of suitable pier accommodation...." "_on board the s.s. sibiria on the yangtse._ _march th, ._ " ... after what i have seen of nanking, i am afraid that the development of that place which is being looked forward to will not be realized for a fairly long time to come. matters are quite different with respect to chin-kiang where we are stopping now, a port which is even now carrying on a thriving trade with the interior parts of the country. it can scarcely be doubted that, if the celestial empire is thrown open to the western nations still more than has been done up to now, the commerce of the yangtse ports is bound to assume large proportions. during the summer months, i.e. for practically two-thirds of the year, the yangtse is navigable for ocean-going steamers of deep draught, even more so than the mississippi. at that time of the year the volume of water carried by the river increases enormously in certain reaches. this increase has been found to amount to as much as feet, and some of the steamers of the russian volunteer fleet going up to hankau possess a draught which exceeds feet...." "_on board the sibiria between_ tsingtau and japan. _march th, ._ " ... we arrived at tsingtau on the morning of march th. the impression produced by this german colony on the new-comer is an exceedingly favourable one. everywhere a great deal of diligent work has been performed, and one feels almost inclined to think that the building activity has proceeded too fast, so that the inevitable reaction will not fail to take place. looked at from our shipping point of view, it must be stated that the work accomplished looks too much like wilhelmshaven, and too little like hongkong. it was, of course, a foregone conclusion that in the development of a colony which is completely ruled by the admiralty the naval interests would predominate. however, there is still time to remedy the existing defects, and i left kiautschou with the conviction that a promising future is in store for it. only the landing facilities are hopelessly inadequate at present; and as to the accommodation for merchant vessels which is in course of being provided, it would seem that too extensive a use has been made of the supposed fact that mistakes are only there in order to be committed, and that it would be a pity not to commit as many as possible...." "_on board the s.s. empress of china between_ yokohama and vancouver. _april th, ._ " ... in the meantime i have had opportunities of slightly familiarizing myself in more respects than one with the conditions ruling in japan. "the country is faced with an economic crisis. encouraged by a reckless system of credit, she has imported far more than necessary; she is suffering from a shortage of money, which is sure to paralyse her importing capacities for some time to come. "it seems pretty certain too, that future development will be influenced by another and far more serious factor, viz.: the ousting of the german by the american commerce from the japanese market. the exports from the united states to japan have increased just as much as those to china.... i cannot help thinking that in the coming struggle america will enjoy immense advantages over us; but you must permit me to postpone the presentation of a detailed statement showing my reasons for thinking so until my return to hamburg.... i believe we shall be well advised to establish as soon as possible a service between the far east and the pacific coast of america...." in far-reaching alterations were made in the relations existing between the hamburg-amerika linie and the north german lloyd, which had become somewhat less friendly than usual in more respects than one; and in particular the agreement concerning the far eastern services of both companies was subjected to some considerable modifications. the year is also remarkable for an event which, although not of great importance from the business point of view, is of interest in other respects. this event was the establishment of business relations with a danish company concerning, in the first place, the west indian trade, and later that with russia also. the danish concern in question was the east asiatic company, of copenhagen. the founder of this company was a mr. andersen, one of the most successful business men known to modern commercial enterprise, and certainly not only the most successful one of his own country, but also one of high standing internationally. when still quite young he founded a business in further india which, although conducted at first on a small scale only, he was able to extend by the acquisition of valuable concessions, especially of teak-wood plantations in siam. in course of time this business developed into a shipping firm which, owing to the concessions just mentioned, was always in a position to ship cargo of its own--an advantage which proved inestimable when business was bad and no other freight was forthcoming. when mr. andersen returned to europe he continued to enlarge his business, making copenhagen its centre. he enjoyed the special patronage of the danish royal family, and afterwards also that of the imperial russian family. his special well-wisher and a partner of his firm was the princess marie of denmark, who became known in the political world because she incurred the enmity of bismarck, chiefly on account of her attempt to stir up ill feeling between the iron chancellor and tsar alexander iii. bismarck, in the second volume of his memoirs, describes how he succeeded in circumventing her plans through a personal meeting with the tsar. it was the exceptional business abilities of the princess marie which brought mr. andersen into contact with the russian imperial family. it is typical of the common sense of the princess and of her unaffected manners that she arrived at the offices of the hamburg-amerika linie one day without having been previously announced; and as she did not give her name to the attendant outside ballin's private office, he could only tell him that "a lady" wanted to see him. the two letters addressed to ballin which are given below are also illustrative of her style. "my dear sir, "_january th_, . "i hope you will excuse my writing in french to you, but you may reply to me in english. i have had a chat with director andersen, who told me that your discussions with him have led to nothing. i greatly regret this, both for personal reasons and in the interests of the business. i am convinced that your negotiations would have had the desired result if it had not been for some special obstacles with which this new company had to contend. it is such a pity that mr. andersen had to attend to so many other things. if you and he alone had had to deal with it, and if it had been purely a business matter, the agreement would certainly have been concluded at once. perhaps you and andersen will shortly discover a basis on which you can co-operate. i personally should highly appreciate an understanding between my company and yours if it could be brought about, so that you could work together hand in hand like two good friends. you _must_ help me with it. mr. andersen was so charmed with your amiability when he came back. one other thing i must tell you, because i possess sufficient business experience to understand it, and that is that both he and i admire you as a man of business. i should be delighted if you could come here; but i request you to give a few days' notice of your arrival. wishing you every success in your undertakings and the best of luck during the new year, "i remain, yours faithfully, (_signed_) "marie." "my dear director, "_february th, ._ "i am so delighted to hear from mr. andersen that his company and yours intend to co-operate in the danish west indies and in russia to your mutual interest. i have always held that such an understanding between you and mr. andersen would lead to good results, and you may feel convinced that i shall extend to you not only my personal assistance and sympathy, but also that of my family, and that of my russian family, all of whom take a great interest in this matter. i am looking forward to seeing you in hamburg early in march on my way to france. with my best regards, "yours faithfully, (_signed_) "marie." in june, , after the close of kiel week, ballin paid a visit to copenhagen. there he met the princess marie and the king and queen of denmark, and was invited to dine with them at bernstorff castle. the business outcome of the negotiations was that in a joint service to the west indies was established between the hamburg-amerika linie and the danish west indian company. four of the big new steamers of the latter were leased to the packetfahrt, and operated by that company, which thus not only increased the tonnage at its disposal, but also succeeded in eliminating an unnecessary competition. at the same time the packetfahrt bought the larger part of the shares of the russian east asiatic s.s. company owned by the danish firm. the object of the purchase was to establish a community of interests with the russian company. the kaiser took great interest in this scheme, and during his visits to copenhagen in and mr. andersen reported to him on the subject. it was intended to bring about close business relations between germany, russia, and denmark for the special purpose of developing russian trade, and to organize the russian east asiatic s.s. company on such lines as would make it a suitable instrument to this end. it is to be regretted that the community of interest agreement then concluded was not of long duration. the russian bureaucracy made all sorts of difficulties, and it is possible that the representatives of the hamburg-amerika linie in russia did not display as much discretion in their dealings with these functionaries as they ought to have done. at any rate, the packetfahrt was so little satisfied with its participation in this russian concern that it re-sold its rights to the interested copenhagen parties in , not without incurring a considerable loss on the transaction. the west indies agreement automatically lapsed when the packetfahrt acquired sole possession of the four danish steamers. later on some sort of co-operation with the russian company was brought about once more by the admission of that company to the transatlantic steerage pool. the packetfahrt also had an opportunity of profiting from the technical experience gained by the danish east asiatic company, which was the first shipping concern to specialize in the use of motor-ships. it was enabled to do so by the support it received from the shipbuilding firm of messrs. burmeister and wain, of copenhagen, who had applied the diesel engine, a german invention, to the propulsion of ships, and who subsequently built a fleet of excellent motor-ships for the east asiatic company. one of these vessels was afterwards acquired by the hamburg-amerika linie for studying purposes. the new type of vessel proved exceedingly remunerative during the war, as it made the owners independent of the supply of british bunker coal, and relieved them of the numerous difficulties connected with obtaining it. this great practical success of the danish shipbuilders became possible only because they applied themselves consistently to the development of one particular type of engine, whereas in germany endless experiments were made with a great variety of different types which led to no tangible results. it was only when the war came, and when the building of numerous submarines became necessary that german engineering skill obtained a chance of showing what it could do, and then, indeed, it proved itself worthy of the occasion. in war broke out between russia and japan, an event which exercised such an influence on the packetfahrt that it is hardly an exaggeration to say that the rapid progress the company made during the next few years amounted to a re-birth. the war provided the company with a chance to sell a large number of its units at a considerable rate of profit, and the contract concluded with the russian government for the coal supply added enormously to its revenues. the russian government partly converted the purchased steamers into auxiliary cruisers for the purpose of checking and disorganizing japanese sea-borne trade, and it partly used them to accompany its baltic fleet on its way to the far east. as an illustration of the magnitude and the complexity of this transaction, it may be permitted to quote a few extracts from ballin's notes referring to it: "_may, ._ "much though my time has been occupied by the hungarian affair (the competition of the cunard line in hungary), and great though the strain on my nerves has been on that account, i must say that much bigger claims are made on my time and on my nerves by the negotiations we are now carrying on with the russian government concerning the sale of some of our steamers. on christmas day i sent some representatives to petrograd who were to approach the government in case it intended to acquire any merchant vessels for purposes of war. these gentlemen are still staying at petrograd, where they have been all the time with the exception of a few weeks, and we have carried on some extremely difficult negotiations by cable which so far have led to the definite sale of the _fürst bismarck_ and the _belgia_. the _auguste victoria_, which is still in dock until the necessary repairs have been executed, has also been sold to russia, and the prospects that the _columbia_ will follow suit are extremely good. "the sales, of course, necessitate large alterations of the existing schedules, and they lead to a great deal of inconvenience. a particularly awkward situation has been brought about by the circumstance that the _fürst bismarck_ has been chartered to the firm of thos. cook and sons for an excursion from marseilles, in which members of a sunday school are to take part, so that, in order to release her, it has become necessary for the _augusts victoria_ to interrupt her usual trip to the near east, and for the _columbia_ to take her place.... "our big coal contract with the russian government has, in the meantime, been considerably added to. the execution of the contract, however, is causing me a great deal of anxiety, as the english press, notably _the times_, is only too glad to make use of this circumstance as a pretext for rousing suspicions as to germany's neutrality. as our government is not taking up a very firm attitude, the effect of these articles, of course, is highly disagreeable. on friday, september rd, i had an opportunity of discussing this matter with the imperial chancellor at homburg. the chancellor did not disguise the anxiety he felt concerning these contracts, especially as he had just then received a long telegram from the german ambassador in tokio advising him to proceed with much caution. i told the chancellor that he need not study in any way the damage which our company might suffer; that we did not ask that any regard should be paid to our business interests in case these should clash with those of the country, and that, if the government were of opinion that the interests of the country necessitated the cancelling of the whole agreement, i should be glad to receive instructions from him to that effect. failing such instructions, of course, i was not entitled to cancel a contract which was in every respect a properly drawn-up legal instrument. at the same time i pointed out to the chancellor that germany, if he thought that he had reason to adopt such an attitude, would run the risk of offending both antagonists; for it was but reasonable to expect that, owing to the agitation carried on by the british, no action on germany's part would cause a change of feeling in japan, but that it would be a fatal blow to russia, whose baltic fleet in that case would simply be unable to reach the far east. "from frankfort i went to berlin in order to discuss the question of the coal contract with the foreign office, which the chancellor had requested me to do. i had a long conference with richthofen.... " ... _october st, ._ meanwhile our negotiations with the russian government have made good progress, and practically the whole of my time is taken up with these transactions, which have given us a very exciting time. they compel me to go to berlin pretty frequently, as i consider it both fair to the foreign office and advisable in our own interests that the former should always be fully informed of all the steps i am taking. several of our gentlemen are constantly travelling from hamburg to petrograd, and conferences of our directors are held nearly every morning, necessitated by the telegrams which arrive from petrograd practically every day. in order to be in a position to carry out the coal contracts, we have been obliged to charter a large number of steamers, so that at times as many as of these are employed in this russian transaction. besides the old express steamers and the _belgia_ we have now sold to the russians the _palatia_ and the _phoenicia_, as well as nine other boats of our company, including the _belgravia_, _assyria_, and _granada_ (the remaining ones are cargo vessels, mostly taken out of the west indies service), but as regards these latter, we have reserved to ourselves the right of redemption.... we have successfully accomplished the great task we had undertaken, although, owing to the absence of coaling stations, it was thought next to impossible to convey such a huge squadron as was the baltic fleet all the way from european to far eastern waters. it safely reached its destination, because the previously arranged coaling of the vessels was carried out systematically and without a hitch anywhere, although in some cases it had to be done in open roadsteads. its inglorious end in the korea straits cannot, and does not, diminish the magnitude of the achievement; and the experiences we have gained by successfully carrying out our novel task will surely prove of great value to the government. this whole coaling business has been a source of considerable profits to our company, although if due regard is paid to the exceptional character of the work and to the unusual risks we had to run, they cannot be called exorbitant." a few statistics will show what the whole undertaking meant to the hamburg-amerika linie from a business point of view. during the years and the company increased its fleet by no less than steamers--partly new buildings and partly new purchases--representing a value of - / million marks. to these new acquisitions must be added the steamers then building, of a value of million marks, amongst them the two big passenger steamers _amerika_ and _kaiserin auguste victoria_ for the new york route, and other big boats for the mexico, the river plate, and the far east services. a large fraction of the sums spent on this new tonnage--viz. no less than million marks--represented the profits made on the sales of ships; another large portion was taken out of current earnings, and the remainder was secured by a debenture issue. never again, except in , has the company added such an amount of tonnage to its fleet in a single year as it did at that time. but the "re-birth" of the company did not only consist in this augmentation of tonnage, but also, and chiefly, in the entire reorganization of its new york service by the addition to its fleet of the _amerika_ and the _kaiserin auguste victoria_. this event meant that the era of the express steamers was being succeeded by one characterized by another type of vessel which, though possessing less speed, was mainly designed with a view to securing the utmost possible comfort to the passengers. the two steamers proved exceedingly remunerative investments, and added enormously to the clientèle of the company. the profits earned on the russian transaction also made up to a large extent for the losses incurred in the keen rate war with the cunard line then in progress. in spite of this rate war the company was able to increase its dividend to per cent. in , and to per cent. in . another event which took place in was the conclusion of a contract with the german government concerning the troop transports to german south-west africa, and the year witnessed the settlement of a short-lived conflict with the north german lloyd. this conflict attracted a great deal of attention at the time, and the kaiser himself thought fit to intervene with a view to terminating it. when it was seen that german commercial interests in the middle east had considerably increased, the hamburg-amerika linie opened a special line to the persian gulf in . the year is chiefly remarkable for a rate war affecting the services from hamburg to the west coast of africa, of which until then the woermann line had considered itself entitled to claim a monopoly. the african shipping business had been jealously nursed by its founder, adolph woermann, who had always tried hard to guard this special domain of his against the encroachments of all outsiders. however much ballin and adolph woermann differed in character, they were akin to each other in one essential feature--viz. the jealous love they bore to the undertaking with which they had identified themselves. both men, grown up in absolutely different environments, yet resembled each other in the daring and the fearlessness with which they defended the interests of their businesses. the one had trained himself to employ moderation and commonsense to overcome resistance where the use of forcible means promised no success; the other was a pioneer in the colonial sphere, a king in his african empire, the discoverer of new outlets, but broken in spirit and bereft of his strength when compelled by circumstances to share with others. when adolph woermann had died, ballin honoured his memory by contributing to the public press an appreciation of his character, which is perhaps the best that has been written, and which ought to be saved from being forgotten. this fact, it is hoped, will be sufficient justification for reproducing in this connexion a translation of ballin's article: "the late adolph woermann was a man whom we may truly describe as the ideal of what a hanseatic citizen should be. secretary of state dernburg himself once told me that he knew quite well that the work he was doing for the benefit of our colonies would never come up to what adolph woermann had achieved in the face of the greatest imaginable difficulties. "never before, perhaps, has any private shipowner displayed so much daring as we see embodied in the business he has built up through his labours. woermann has developed the means of communication between germany and her african colonies to such perfection that even the similar work performed by british shipping men has been overshadowed. he has done this without receiving any aid from the government; in fact, he had to overcome all sorts of obstacles which were put in his way by the bureaucracy. his confidence in his work was not shaken when losses had to be faced. then, more than ever, he had his eyes firmly fixed on his goal; and practically every vessel which he had built to facilitate communication between the german mother country and her colonies represented a fresh step forward towards a higher type, thus increasing the immense personal responsibility with which he burdened himself. his patriotism was of the practical kind; he did his work without asking for the help of others, especially without that of the government. "and now he has died in bitter disappointment. his striking outward appearance has always reminded us of the iron chancellor, but the similarity in the character of the two men has only become apparent during the last few years. it is well known that when the troubles in the colonies had been settled he was accused of having enriched himself at the expense of the country. he never lost his resentment of this accusation; and even though his accusers can point to the fact that the court which had to investigate the claims put forward by the government gave judgment to the effect that some of these claims were justified, it must be said in reply that this statement of the case is inadequate and one-sided. all that was proved was that woermann, who hated red tape, and who never had recourse to legal assistance when drawing up his agreements, did not use as much caution in this matter as would have been advisable in his own interest. the facts that have become known most clearly disprove the accusation that he had made large profits at the expense of the country, and that he had used the country's distress to enrich himself. to the task of carrying out the troop transports he devoted himself with his customary largeness of purpose, and he accomplished it magnificently. in order to be able to do so, he had enlarged his fleet by a number of steamers, and the consequence was that, when the work was achieved, he had to admit himself that he had over-estimated his strength. when my late colleague dr. wiegand, the director-general of the north german lloyd, and i were asked to express an expert opinion on the rates which woermann had charged the government, we found them thoroughly moderate; in fact, we added a rider to the effect that if either of our companies had been entrusted with those transports, we could only have carried out a very few expeditions at the rates charged by woermann. woermann, however, carried through the whole task; and when it was done he found himself compelled to pass on to the shoulders of the hamburg-amerika linie part of the excessive burden which he had taken upon himself. "his iron determination would have enabled him to dispense with the assistance thus obtained. but by that time his accusers had commenced their attacks on his character, and when the government had officially taken up an attitude against him, he became a prey to that resentment to which i have referred before. all those who had the privilege of being associated with him during the past few years must have noted with grief how this great patriot gradually became an embittered critic. the heavy blow also led to the breakdown of his health, and during the last years of his life we only knew him as a sick man. "if it is borne in mind how strong, how masterful, and how self-reliant a man has passed away with adolph woermann, it is sad to think that in the end he was not strong enough after all to bear on his own shoulders entirely the immense burden of responsibility which he had taken upon himself, and that he received nothing but ingratitude as the reward of his life's work, although he was actuated by truly patriotic motives throughout. still, this shall not prevent us from acknowledging that he was the greatest, the most daring, and the most self-sacrificing private shipowner whom the hanseatic cities have ever produced--a princely merchant if ever there was one. he was a true friend and an earnest well-wisher to the city in which he was born, and to the country which he served as a statesman. we are sincerely grateful to him for the work he has done, and in honouring his memory we know that we are paying tribute to the greatest hanseatic citizen who had been living in our midst." to complete the enumeration of the many rate wars which occurred during the first decade of the twentieth century, we must make brief reference to the competition emanating in from the so-called "princes' trust" (fürstenkonzern) and its ally, viz. a hamburg firm which had already fought the woermann line. the object of the fight was to secure the business from antwerp to the plate. the struggle ended with the acquisition of the shipping interests of the princes' trust, the business career of which came to a sudden end shortly afterwards by a financial disaster causing enormous losses to the two princely families concerned--the house of hohenlohe and that of fürstenberg. the details connected with this affair are still in everybody's memory, and it would be beyond the scope of this volume to enter into them. it should be mentioned, however, that in connexion with the settlement arrived at the two big companies undertook to start some transatlantic services from the port of emden, and in particular to establish a direct line for the steerage traffic to north america. the necessary arrangements to this end had just been made when the war broke out, and further progress became impossible. the transatlantic pool was considerably extended in scope during those years. more than once, however, after the rate war with the cunard line had come to an end, the amicable relations existing between the lines were disturbed, e.g. when the russian volunteer fleet opened a competing service--a competition which was got rid of by the aid of the russian east asiatic s.s. company; when some british lines temporarily withdrew from the steerage pool, and when some differences of policy arose between the hamburg-amerika linie and the north german lloyd. the hamburg company demanded a revision of the percentages, contending that the arrangements made fifteen years ago no longer did justice to the entirely altered relative positions of the two companies. the discussions held in london in february, , under ballin's chairmanship, which lasted several days, and in which delegates of all the big continental and british lines, as well as of the canadian pacific railway company took part, led to the formation of the atlantic conference (also known as the general pool). it was supplemented in the following year by that of the mediterranean conference. both these agreements were renewed in , and further agreements were concluded with the russian and scandinavian lines to complete the system. agreements on so large a scale had never before been concluded between any shipping companies. this network of agreements existed until it was destroyed through the outbreak of the war. during the fluctuating conditions which characterized the shipping business of those years the year witnessed a depression which, in its after-effects, is comparable only to that caused by the cholera epidemic sixteen years earlier. business had been excellent for a fairly long time, but it became thoroughly demoralized in the second half of , and an economic crisis of a magnitude such as has seldom been experienced began to affect every country. no part of the shipping business remained unaffected by it; hundreds and hundreds of ocean-going liners lay idle in the seaports of the world. very gradually prospects began to brighten up in the course of , so that the worst of the depression had passed sooner than had been expected. indeed, in one respect the crisis had proved a blessing in disguise, inasmuch as it had strengthened the inclination of the shipping concerns everywhere to compromise and to eliminate unnecessary competition--the formation of the general pool, in fact, being the outcome of that feeling. the subsequent recovery made up for the losses; and the succeeding years, with their very gratifying financial results, and their vast internal consolidation, represent the high-water mark in the development of the hamburg-amerika linie. shortly after the end of the depression a renewed spell of building activity set in. first of all a new cargo steamer, possessing a burden of , tons--which was something quite unusual at the time--was ordered to be built by messrs. harland and wolff, at a price which was also unusually low. it almost created a record for cheapness; and the courage of the builders who accepted such an order at such terms was greatly admired. a german yard--the vulkan, of bremen--then came forward with a similar offer, because the german shipbuilders, too, were glad to provide their men with work. the result of the combined labour of both these firms was a type of cargo boat which proved extremely useful, especially in the far eastern trade, and which represented a good investment to the company. gradually the other branches of the business began to increase their activity, and the service to north america especially received the close attention of the company's management. meanwhile, other shipping companies had added some vessels of the very highest class to their fleets. the two big turbine steamers of the cunard line, the _lusitania_ and the _mauretania_, had attracted many passengers, and the white star line had the mammoth liner _olympic_ building, which was to be followed by two others of the same type, the _titanic_ and the _gigantic_. the new cunarder, the _aquitania_, was to be of the same type, so that once more the public was offered the choice of steamers of a kind unknown until then. this competition compelled the packetfahrt to follow suit, and ballin commenced to evolve plans for the building of a new vessel which, of course, had to surpass the highest achievement of the competing lines, i.e. the _olympic_. thus, in co-operation with the vulkan yard, of stettin, and with messrs. blohm and voss, of hamburg, the plans for the three steamers of the "imperator" class were designed. the competition among the various yards had been extremely keen, and the vulkan yard secured the order for the building of the first unit of this class, the _imperator_. from the point of view of speed, these new vessels resembled the fast steamers of the older kind; with regard to their equipment, they represented a combination of this type and that of the _kaiserin_, but from the business point of view they were quite a novelty, as the basis of their remunerativeness was no longer the cargo and steerage business, but the cabin business. if the booking of a certain number of cabins could be relied on for each voyage an adequate return would be assured. everything, therefore, was done to attract as many cabin passengers as possible. these vessels were a triumph of german shipbuilding and engineering skill; and the senior partner of messrs. blohm and voss, when the _vaterland_ was launched, stated with just pride that she was the biggest vessel in existence; that she was built on the biggest slip; that she had received her equipment under the biggest crane, and that she would be docked in the biggest floating dock in the world. the launching of the third and biggest of the three steamers, the _bismarck_, represented a red-letter day in the life of ballin and in the history of the company. nominally she was christened by the granddaughter of the iron chancellor, but actually by the kaiser. the bottle of champagne used for the purpose did not break when it left the young lady's hands; but the kaiser seized it, and with a sweeping movement of the arm hurled it against the stem of the huge vessel. to remove as far as possible the last vestige of the unhappy estrangement between the kaiser and the chancellor had always been ballin's earnest desire. so it filled him with great joy when he was enabled to dedicate the greatest product of his life-work to the memory of the prince whom he admired intensely; and still more was he pleased when the kaiser consented to take part in the ceremony. he had often expressed his regret at the unfortunate stage management in connexion with the kaiser's visit to hamburg after the unveiling of the bismarck monument, when he was driven past it without an opportunity having been arranged for him to inspect it. such a course, ballin remarked, was bound to create the impression that the kaiser had intentionally been led past it. "i wish i had been permitted to speak to the kaiser about it beforehand," he told me afterwards. "i am sure he would have insisted upon seeing it." proper stage management plays so prominent a part in the life of royalty, and it can be of such great use in avoiding certain blunders and in hiding certain shortcomings that it is much to be regretted that the kaiser had so often to dispense with it. the entering into the packetfahrt's service of the "imperator" type of steamers represented an extraordinary increase in the amount of tonnage which the company employed on the new york route; and when the north german lloyd refused to allow the packetfahrt a corresponding addition to its percentage share under the pool agreement, which the packetfahrt believed itself justified in asking for, a conflict threatened once more to disturb the relations existing between the two companies. as a result the position of both was weakened in austria, where the government cleverly used the situation to its own advantage. apart from this, however, not much damage was done, as negotiations were soon started with the object of securing the conclusion of a far-reaching community of interest agreement which was not merely to be restricted to the transatlantic services of the two companies. if these negotiations could be brought to a successful issue, ballin thought that this would be the dawn of a new era in the contractual relations existing between shipping firms everywhere, because he believed that such development would not be confined to the german lines, but would assume international proportions. the agreements actually in force seemed to him obsolete--at least in part. that this should be so is but natural, as the factor which it is intended to eliminate by the terms of such agreements--man's innate selfishness--is, after all, ineradicable. "nature," in the words of the roman poet, "will always return, even if you expel it with a pitchfork." wherever a human trait like selfishness is to be kept within certain bounds by means of written agreements, it becomes necessary not only to make small improvements from time to time, but to subject the whole system to a thorough overhauling every now and then. many events affecting the progress of the company's business have no reference in these pages, but the reader can visualize the importance of albert ballin's life-work if he keeps before his mind the fact that while in the early part of the hamburg-amerika linie maintained but a mail service from hamburg to new york and four lines to mexico and the west indies, from that date to fifty new services were added to the existing ones. the fleet possessed by the hamburg-amerika linie in consisted of ocean-going steamers, totalling , g.r.t.[ ] by the end of these figures had increased to steamers and , , g.r.t. respectively. during the twenty-eight years vessels of , , tons had been added, either by new building or by purchase, and steamers of , tons had been sold. at the end of steamers of , tons were building, so that, including these, the total tonnage amounted to , , g.r.t. at that date. during the same period the joint-stock capital of the company had increased from to - / million marks, the debenture issues from · to · million marks, and the visible reserves from , , to , , marks. the working profits of the company during those twenty-eight years amounted to , , marks, , , of which were government subsidies received during the temporary participation in the imperial mail service to the far east. the average dividend paid to the shareholders was · per cent. per annum. this figure, to my thinking, proves that the biggest steamship company the world has ever known was to a small extent only a "capitalist enterprise." out of a total net profit of over millions, no more than million marks went to the shareholders as interest on their invested capital; by far the greater part of the remainder was used to extend the company's business, so that the country in general benefited by it. concerning one matter which played an important part in ballin's career, viz., the relations between his company and the north german lloyd, the reader may perhaps desire a more exhaustive account. there certainly was no want of rivalry between the two companies. one notable reason for this was the fact that at the time when ballin joined the packetfahrt the latter had fallen far behind its younger competitor in its development, both from the business and the technical point of view. the packetfahrt, in particular, had not kept pace with the technical progress in steamship construction, and the consequence was that, when the pool was set up, it had to content itself with a percentage which was considerably less than that allotted to the lloyd. the enormous advance made under the ballin régime naturally caused it to demand a larger share. at the same time the lloyd also increased its efforts more than ever before, and thus a race for predominance was started between the two big companies, which greatly assisted them in obtaining the commanding position they acquired as the world's leading shipping firms. i do not think this is the place to go into all the details of this struggle, and i shall confine myself to reproducing an article which ballin himself contributed in on the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of the foundation of the north german lloyd. as this article throws several interesting sidelights on the development of transatlantic shipping enterprise, it may furnish a suitable conclusion to the account given in the present chapter: "the year is one which will stand out prominently in the history of our transatlantic shipping on account of the two anniversaries which we are going to celebrate during its course. on may th it will be sixty years since the hamburg-amerika linie was called into existence, and on february th the north german lloyd will celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of its foundation. i suppose that a more competent pen than mine will present us on that day with a detailed account of the development of the great bremen shipping firm, and my only object in writing this article is to review in brief the period of more than twenty years during which i have had the pleasure of working hand in hand with our bremen friends. "until the year the two big companies, the lloyd and the packetfahrt, scarcely had any mutually profitable dealings with each other; on the contrary, their relations were characterized by open enmity. it is true that the attempts at a _rapprochement_, which were made from time to time, did in some cases lead to the conclusion of an agreement concerning certain rates to which both companies bound themselves to adhere, but they never lasted more than a short time, and ultimately, far from causing an improvement of the existing state of things, they left matters worse than they had been before. i think i may congratulate myself on being the first to have brought about a better understanding between the two companies which, in the end, paved the way to the establishment of a lasting friendship which has grown closer and closer during the past twenty years. "in , shortly after i had joined the hamburg-amerika linie, when i went to bremen in order to find out what could be done to lessen or, if possible, to remove altogether the competition between both companies, the conduct of the firm's business had passed from the hands of consul meier, who was getting on in years, into those of director lohmann. mr. lohmann was a man of unusual energy and possessed of a rare gift for organization. in the annals of international shipping his name will be for ever associated with the introduction into the north atlantic route of fast steamers under the german flag. he had been fortunate enough to meet with a congenial mind on the technical side in the head of the firm of messrs. john elder and co., the glasgow shipbuilders. at their yard, starting in , a series of fast steamers were built--the _elbe_, the _werra_, the _fulda_, the _saale_, the _trave_, the _aller_, and the _lahn_--which opened up a new and memorable era in the progress of the means of communication between the old world and the new. these boats proved of great benefit to the company financially, and they were also a considerable boon to the passengers owing to their speed and punctuality. i recollect talking to the chairman of a big british steamship company on board one of his steamers in new york harbour in , when the s.s. _lahn_, of the north german lloyd, steamed in. my british colleague, filled with admiration, glanced at his watch, touched his hat by way of salutation, and said with honest enthusiasm: 'wonderful boats; they are really doing clockwork.' he only expressed the sentiment felt by the travelling public generally; everybody appreciated their reliability and punctuality, and the excellence of their service. "director lohmann died very suddenly on february th, ; he had just concluded an address at a general meeting of the company held at the 'haus seefahrt' when he dropped down dead. during the last few years of his life he had not been well advised technically, and failed to adopt the twin-screw principle, as had been done by the hamburg company. thus, when the two fast single-screw steamers, the _havel_ and the _spree_, were built at stettin in , they were practically obsolete, because the travelling public by that time had come to prefer those of the twin-screw type, owing to the increased safety they afforded. "in consul meier retired from the chairmanship of the lloyd, to be succeeded--after the short reign of mr. reck--by mr. george plate. to mr. plate, if i am rightly informed, great credit is due for having secured the services of director-general dr. heinrich wiegand on the board of the company. "what the lloyd has achieved under the wiegand régime far surpasses anything accomplished in the past. "the hamburg-amerika linie, meanwhile, had been alive to the needs of the times; and the consequence was a healthy competition between these two steamship companies--by far the biggest the world has ever seen--practically on all the seven seas. this competition, by intelligent compromise, was restricted within reasonable limits, the guiding spirits of the two concerns consciously adopting the policy implied by the strategic principle: 'in approaching the enemy's position we must divide our forces; in attacking him we must concentrate them.' "it would not be correct to say that this atmosphere of friendship had never been clouded--it would, indeed, have been tedious had it been otherwise than it was. up to now, however, wiegand and i have always been able to maintain pleasant relations between our two concerns, and in the interests of both of them it is sincerely to be hoped that this spirit of mutual understanding will continue to animate them in the future." chapter vii the technical reorganization of the hamburg-amerika linie in another chapter of this book the big passenger boats of the hamburg-amerika linie have been described as the outcome of ballin's imaginative brain. this they were indeed, and in many instances it is scarcely possible to say how far the credit for having built them is due to the naval architect, and how far it is due to ballin. he was profoundly against employing _one_ system throughout, and on accepting the views of _one_ expert exclusively; and this aversion was so pronounced that he objected on principle to the nomination of any technical expert to the board of his company. the company, he said, is surely going to last longer than a lifetime or two. besides, it must try to solve the problem of perpetual youth, and therefore it cannot afford to run the risk of staking its fortune on the views held by one single man who is apt to ignore the progress of his science without noticing it. the same dislike of onesidedness induced him to encourage to the best of his capacity a healthy competition among the various shipyards, and to avail himself of the experiences gained not only by the german yards but by their british rivals also. at an early stage of his career close business relations were established between himself and messrs. harland and wolff, of belfast; and a personal friendship connected him with the owner of that firm, mr. (now lord) pirrie. acting upon the example set by the white star line, ballin made an agreement with messrs. harland and wolff as early as , by which the latter bound themselves always to keep a slip at the disposal of the packetfahrt. the reason which prompted ballin to make this arrangement was, as he explained to the board of trustees, that the company's orders for new construction and repairs had nowhere been carried out more satisfactorily and more cheaply than by the belfast yard, where all the new vessels ordered were built under a special agreement, i.e. at cost price with a definitely fixed additional percentage representing the profits and certain expenditure incurred by the builders. this arrangement enabled the packetfahrt to become acquainted with whatever was latest and best in british shipyard production, and, as it were, to acquire models which it could improve upon in german yards after they had been tested on actual service. some of the best and most important types of vessels which the packetfahrt has produced owe their origin to this system; and it is only fair to say that it exercised an entirely beneficial influence on the progress of the german shipbuilding industry, the prosperity of which is largely due to the fact that it has profited from the century-old experience gained by the british yards and by british ocean-shipping. ballin held the view that, just as the shipbuilding expert had to watch the progress of naval architecture and to make practical application of its results, and just as the merchant had to exploit this progress for the benefit of his business, the shipowner--especially the one who maintains a service of passenger boats--has the special task of making every step in the direction of further advance serviceable to the needs of the passengers. being himself, as has been pointed out elsewhere, gifted with a strong faculty for appreciating things beautiful, and raising no less high demands as regards the beauty and the comfort of all his surroundings, ballin constantly endeavoured to make use of all the results of his own observations and of his own experience for the greater comfort of the passengers. those who saw the finished products of his imagination, the beautifully appointed "floating hotels," hardly realized how many apparently insignificant details--which, after all, in their entirety make what we call comfort--owe their origin to his own personal suggestions. each time he made a sea voyage on board a steamer of his own, or of some other company, he brought home with him a number of new ideas, chiefly such as affected technicalities, and matters dealing with the personal comfort of the passengers. numerous entries in the notebooks which he carried on such occasions are there to serve as illustrations; the following items, for instance, are selected from those which he jotted down, roughly, on a voyage to new york some time in the 'nineties. they speak for themselves, in spite of their sketchiness: "list of moselle purveyors wants revision--notices on board to be restricted as much as possible, those which are necessary to be tastefully framed--sailing lists and general regulations to be included in passengers' lists--state cabin on board _kaiser friedrich_: key, latch, drawer; no room for portmanteaux and trunks; towels too small--_deutschland_: soiled linen cupboard too small--stewards _oceanic_ white jackets--celery glasses--butter dishes too small--large bed pillows--consommé cups--playing cards: packetfahrt complete name of firm--packetfahrt complete name on wehber's wine bottles--toast to be served in a serviette (hot)." rough notes such as these were used to serve ballin as the material underlying the detailed reports and instructions to the company's servants which he composed during the voyage, so that not even a long sea voyage gave him the unbroken spell of leisure he so badly needed. indeed, the longer it lasted the more chances did it provide for thoroughly inspecting the practical working of the steamer. many other reports are in my possession, but the one given will serve to emphasize the meticulous quality of observation he possessed, and how practical was his mind in regard to details of comfort and convenience, and the special climatic needs of different routes. even where the peculiar conditions obtaining in tropical climates were concerned--conditions with which he was personally quite unacquainted--he unfailingly discovered any defects that might exist, and also the means by which they could be remedied. ballin's connexion with the packetfahrt practically coincides with the whole of that period during which the immense progress of modern steamship building from humble beginnings to its present stage of development took place; with the only exception that the north german lloyd had already, before ballin joined the packetfahrt, established its services of fast steamers which were far ahead of those maintained by other shipping companies owing to their punctuality and reliability, and which ballin then set himself to improve upon and to excel. apart from this one type of vessel, the science of steamship construction, as seen from our modern point of view, was still in its infancy. in the steamships owned by the hamburg-amerika linie were mainly of two different types, viz., those used in the north atlantic service (principally on the new york route), and those used in the mexico-west indies service. the expansion of the packetfahrt's business after ballin had joined the company, and especially the addition of new services together with the increase in the number of ports of departure and of destination, made it necessary constantly to increase the size and the carrying capacity of the cargo boats, and the size and the speed of the passenger steamers, as well as to improve and to modernize the passenger accommodation on board the latter. all this, of course, considerably added to the cost price of the vessels, so that, as a further consequence, the facilities for loading and discharging them had to be improved and extended. four principal types of steamers may be distinguished in the development of the company's fleet, especially of that part of it which was engaged on the north atlantic route, where the main development took place. _type one_: fast steamers--twin screws, knots, , g.r.t.--possessing accommodation for passengers of all classes and provided with comparatively little cargo space, but comfortably and luxuriously appointed throughout. the three leading ideas governing their construction were safety, speed, and comfort; and progress was made to keep abreast of competing lines, until it culminated in the vessels of the "imperator" class. the _imperator_ was built in . they were quadruple screw turbine steamers, possessing no fewer than multitubular boilers each, and, as they were of a capacity of , gross register tons, they were nearly three times the size of the _deutschland_. _type two_: ships of medium speed and of considerable size, and therefore providing a high standard of comfort for passengers combined with ample facilities for cargo accommodation. _type three_: chiefly built as cargo boats, but in such a way that a part of their space could be utilized for the accommodation of a large number of steerage passengers. _type four_: cargo steamers without any passenger accommodation. the difference between the floating palaces of type no. in and those vessels which the hamburg-amerika linie possessed when ballin first entered upon his career as a shipping man was like that between day and night. a brief comparison of a few details will be the best means of illustrating the enormous progress achieved within less than the lifetime of a generation. the size of the vessels had increased from , to more than , tons; the speed from to nearly knots; the height of the decks from - / to feet in the lower decks, whilst that of the upper ones, as far as the social rooms were concerned, amounted to as much as feet. large portions of the upper decks were reserved for the social rooms, the finest of which--the ball-room--could challenge comparison with almost any similar room in any hotel ashore with respect to its size and to the magnificence of its furnishings and of its decoration. from a technical point of view, too, the construction of such a huge room on board a vessel, which possessed a floor space of , square feet, and a ceiling unsupported by any columns or pillars of any kind, was an unprecedented achievement. besides, there were immense dining-rooms for each class, smoking-rooms, ladies' saloons, a restaurant, a winter garden, a swimming pool, and numerous smaller rooms suitable for the relaxation and amusement of the passengers. on the older boats the arrangement was that the small cabins were all grouped round the one and only social room on board, so that the occupants of the cabins could hear all that was going on in the social room, and _vice versa_. the superficial area at the disposal of each passenger was gradually increased from square feet in the double cabins to square feet in the cabins of the _imperator_, so that the latter were really no longer mere cabins, but actual rooms. the suites-de-luxe comprised up to twelve rooms, the largest of which covered an area of square feet. it must not be thought, however, that the first-class passengers were the only ones for whose comfort the company catered. the other classes progressed proportionately in added comfort, space, and social facilities, not excepting the steerage. but by far the greatest improvements made were those in connexion with the enormous progress of the purely technical side of shipbuilding during the whole period under review. the more the vessels increased in size, the less were they liable to the pitching and rolling motion caused when the weather was rough. moreover, special appliances, such as bilge keels and bilge tanks, were employed to lessen these movements still more, even when the sea was high. the reciprocating engines gradually gave place to higher types, and later on turbines and oil-engines were also introduced. in addition to the propelling machinery a number of auxiliary engines were used which were of various kinds and for various purposes, such as the ventilation of the cabins and the other rooms, the generation of light, the services in connexion with the personal welfare of the passengers and with their safety whilst on board ship. instead of single bottoms, double bottoms were used, and the additional safety resulting therefrom was still further enhanced by dividing the space between the two by means of a whole network of partitions. the vessels of the "imperator" class, indeed, possessed practically a double shell, which formed an effective protection against the danger of collision. the lifeboats increased in size and in number, and their shape and equipment were improved. emergency lighting stations were arranged which could generate a sufficient amount of electric current if the ordinary supply should break down at any time. the whole vessels were divided into self-contained compartments by water-tight bulkheads, the doors of which could be automatically closed. this division into many compartments proved an effective protection against the risk of fire; but a number of special devices were also adopted to serve the same purpose, e.g. an extensive system of steampipes by which each single room could be rapidly filled with steam, so that the fire could be automatically extinguished. fire-proof material was used for the walls separating adjacent rooms and cabins, and, not content with all this, the company provided its mammoth liners with an actual fire brigade, the members of which were fully trained for their work. the most important improvements affecting the navigation of the steamers were the introduction of wireless telegraphy apparatus, the gyroscopic compasses, the system of submarine direction indicator signalling, and the substitution of two steering gears instead of one, not to mention a series of minor improvements of all kinds. the provisioning on board the german steamers was of proverbial excellence, the kitchen arrangements were modelled after those found in the big hotels, and were supplied with all manner of supplementary devices. the huge store rooms were divided into sections for those provisions that were of a perishable nature and for those that were not; and for the former refrigerating rooms were also provided in which the temperature could be regulated according to the nature of the articles. perhaps the most interesting development of the various types of steamers is that which type no. has undergone. it originated in great britain, whence it was taken over in . the first unit of this type added to the fleet of the packetfahrt was the _persia_, of , g.r.t., and a speed of knots, built to accommodate a number of cabin and steerage passengers, and to carry a considerable amount of cargo as well. these boats possessed many advantages over similar ones, advantages which were due to their size, their shape, and the loading facilities with which they were equipped. ballin immediately recognized the good points of this type, and he improved it until the vessels reached a size of , g.r.t., which still enabled them to travel at a speed of knots. they were twin-screw steamers, and were provided with every safety device known at the time. a still further improvement of this type was represented by the _amerika_ and the _kaiserin auguste victoria_, built in and respectively, luxuriously equipped throughout; by their large size--they possessed a capacity of very nearly , g.r.t.--extremely seaworthy, and as they could travel at the rate of - / knots, their speed was scarcely inferior to that possessed by the older type of fast steamers. from the point of view of actual remunerativeness they were far superior to the fast steamers, combining, as they did, all the earning possibilities of the passenger and of the cargo vessels. the development of the types comprising the cargo steamers went hand in hand with the expansion of international trade relations, and with the constant increase in the amount of goods exchanged between the nations. to a certain extent development was limited by the dimensions of the suez canal. still, improvements became possible in this respect too when the depth of the canal was increased to feet in , feet in , and feet in . ballin carefully watched this development, incessantly improving the existing types of his company's cargo boats, so that they should always meet the growing needs of sea-borne trade, and in some instances even anticipating them, until, when the war broke out, twin screw cargo boats of a capacity of , tons and possessing a speed of knots were being built for the company. in a brief outline such as this, it is not possible to enter into details concerning the expansion of the other lines which became affiliated to or otherwise associated with the packetfahrt in course of time. one special type, however, ought to receive a somewhat more detailed treatment in this connexion, viz., that of the excursion steamers. the running of pleasure cruises, originally nothing but a mere expedient to prevent the express steamers from lying idle during the dead season, gradually became an end in itself. the northern and mediterranean cruises were soon followed by others, e.g. those to the west indies and the pleasure trips round the globe. two special steamers, the _prinzessin victoria luise_, and the somewhat smaller and less sumptuous _meteor_, both of them equipped after the style of pleasure yachts, were built when it was found advisable to make this service independent of the fast steamers and the big passenger boats which had also been employed for this purpose. after the loss of the _prinzessin victoria luise_ she was replaced first by a british passenger boat that had been purchased, and then by the _deutschland_, specially reconditioned for her new purpose, and renamed _victoria luise_. both vessels were extremely popular with the international travelling public, and year after year they carried thousands of tourists to countries and places distinguished for the beauty of their natural scenery or for their historical and artistic associations. they were largely instrumental in constantly augmenting the number of those who formed the regular clientèle of the company. "imitation is the sincerest form of flattery." in the realm of shipping it has always been customary for each company to profit by the experience gained and the progress made by its competitors. this applies to the packetfahrt and its management also; but in their case they have given infinitely more than they have received, and in the whole history of shipping there has never been one single person who has exercised a more stimulating influence on its technical progress than albert ballin. chapter viii politics notwithstanding the many business controversies in which ballin took an important part, it has occasionally been said that he was not really a "fighter." this statement may be allowed to pass quite unchallenged, provided that by the term "fighter" we mean a man whose habit it is to fight to the bitter end. ballin never indulged in fighting for its own sake, nor was it ever his object to see his vanquished opponent lie prostrate before him. such a mental attitude he, in his own drastic way, would have described as a "perverted pleasure." always and everywhere it was his aim to secure to himself and to those he represented the maximum benefit obtainable consistent with the realities of the situation, so that he has been justly described as "a man of compromise." this feature of his personality, indeed, forms the key-note both to his policy and to the principles on which it was based. perhaps in other spheres of economic activity it is possible for a struggle between two competing rivals to end in the complete victory of one of them; in the shipping business such an outcome is the exception but not the rule. there a really _weak_ opponent is never met with, unless one's rival happens to be exceptionally inexperienced or constitutionally unsound. the minor competitor, where shipping is concerned, is by no means always the less powerful of the two. on the contrary, the contest which inflicts small losses on him inflicts heavy losses on his big opponent, and may easily exhaust the latter first. the last few decades have witnessed the establishment of many new shipping firms under the auspices of national sentiment. governments and whole peoples have backed them, and in such cases private undertakings have found it difficult to compete. during his early training ballin had so thoroughly convinced himself of the necessity for co-operation and compromise in matters economic that this conviction became the corner-stone of his policy. he also made it his principle never to tie an unwilling partner to an agreement which the latter considered to be detrimental to his vital interests, and he would only approve of an agreement if both parties to it felt satisfied that they had done a good stroke of business by concluding it. the numerous "community of interest" agreements to which he signed his name established, the longer they lasted and the further they were extended, an increasingly intimate contact between the shipping firms all over the world, thus proving that the consistent application of his principles was justified by its success. in politics, too, he regarded this line of action as the only correct one. over and over again he described the world war as a "stupid war" or as the "most stupid of all wars," because its origin, the conflict between austria-hungary and serbia, was so utterly meaningless to the progress of the world. its actual outbreak was caused by the strained economic relations between hungary and serbia, or--to put it quite plainly--by the boycott of the serbian pig, a matter which was surely of no importance to the world's trade and traffic at large. "no bismarck was needed to prevent _this_ war," he often said when speaking of its immediate origin. this attitude of his does not mean that he shut his eyes to the deep-seated antagonisms which were at the back of these local squabbles, viz., the franco-russian coalition against germany, and the anglo-german rivalry. the latter he regarded as sufficient to turn the scale; if it could be adjusted a world war, he felt sure, would be avoided. the possibility of a universal conflagration had been pointed out to him by no less an authority than prince bismarck on the occasion of the latter's visit to hamburg, when he was shown over the express steamer of the packetfahrt that was to bear his name. "i shall not live to see the world war," bismarck told him; "but you will, and it will start in the near east." with ever-increasing anxiety, ballin noticed how, as a result of the german naval armaments, the anglo-german antagonism came into existence, and how in time the position became worse and worse. when the government, about the year , embarked upon its propaganda for the creation of a big navy, he lent it his active assistance, but in later years he strongly opposed the naval race with great britain, trying to the best of his ability to circumvent its disastrous consequences. the british argument against germany's naval programme was that a nation which owned one-third of the inhabited globe and intended to maintain its supremacy could not renounce its naval predominance. his knowledge of british mentality--gained, as it was, through many years of intercourse with the english--told him that this reasoning was certainly unassailable from the british point of view, and that england would fight for its recognition to the bitter end. therefore, he considered the situation could only be met by an anglo-german understanding. the failure of arriving at such a solution was probably caused--apart from personal motives--by the fact that in germany the spirit of compromise was not the predominant one, but that its place was taken by an exaggerated opinion of the country's own strength combined with a certain ignorance regarding foreign countries. this mental attitude is typical of the two factions which were all-powerful in germany at the time, viz., what might be called the old prussian aristocracy, and the representatives of the heavy industries. the common platform on which these two groups met was the policy to be pursued regarding customs tariffs, which, although it formed the basis of the economic greatness of germany, also prepared the way for serious international conflicts. during the war these two groups were in charge of what was meant to be the political policy of the country, but which was, in fact, nothing but an inferior substitute for it. ballin's international position is illustrated by the fact that he was the first to be approached in the matter of a projected anglo-german rapprochement, an affair which reached its climax with lord haldane's visit to berlin. owing to its historical interest this episode is worth a detailed account. the first steps in this direction date back as far as the year , and the ultimate breakdown of the project did not take place until the outbreak of the war. the british negotiator was sir ernest cassel, who, a native of germany, had settled in england when quite young, and who had become one of the world's most successful financiers. he was the intimate friend of king edward from the time when the latter was prince of wales, and he also acted as his banker and as his political adviser. the king visited his home almost daily during the last few years of his life to take part in a game of bridge. the motives which may have prompted sir ernest to lend his assistance and his great influence to an endeavour which aimed at an understanding between his adopted country and the land of his birth need not, in the case of a man so clever and so experienced, be very far to seek. sir ernest repeatedly referred to himself as a german, and as such he was deprived of his privy-councillorship during the war. thus it is quite likely that he might have been prompted no less by an inherited predilection for the one, than by an acquired preference for the other country. this very fact may also have enabled him to see matters with particular clearness of vision and without any prejudice. he and his friends reasoned somewhat along the following lines: the policy of king edward having led to a considerable strengthening of the position of france on the continent, there arose the danger of an armed conflict between the continental powers, especially as many points of dispute threatened at the same time to disturb the relations between germany and great britain. these differences were caused on the one hand by the political activities of germany as a world power, and on the other by her commercial and industrial expansion which bid fair to relegate great britain to a subordinate position. people in england regarded the want of a system of protection similar to the german protective tariffs as the real cause of this development, a want which retarded the progress of british industrialism, and which prevented british financiers from taking an active interest in these matters. the german financiers, however, exerted all their influence on behalf of the industrial expansion of their country, thus emancipating it more and more from foreign capital. the time during which the financing of the german industries by french money (the so-called french "pensions"), i.e. the discounting by french capitalists of bills drawn by german industrialists, played an important part, and even represented a serious menace in days of political tension, had only just passed, but, thanks to the increasing capital strength of germany, its effects had now quite ceased to make themselves felt. the advantage to great britain of an understanding with germany was that it would guarantee her maritime supremacy which she was resolved to maintain at any price, whilst at the same time reducing the burden of her naval armaments which, in her case, too, had become wellnigh insupportable. the liberal government then in power was particularly interested in such financial retrenchment, being quite aware that the time had arrived for the state to enter upon an era of social legislation. contact between ballin and the above-mentioned british groups was established through the agency of some friends of his connected with german high finance. the fact that the british selected ballin to start these negotiations is probably due to his well-known friendship with the kaiser, which suggested the possibility of approaching the german government--even if only by informal channels in the first instance. this first attempt, should it prove successful, might at any moment be followed up by direct negotiations between the two governments. in view of the traditional close connexion existing in england between business circles on the one hand, and the politicians, the parties, and the government on the other, such proceedings did not by any means imply a policy of backstairs, but might be relied upon to open up a way for sounding german official quarters in the most natural manner. the general tenor of anglo-german relations at that time was somewhat as follows. the visit of king edward to wilhelmshöhe and that of the german emperor and empress to windsor castle in the summer of had been of a very friendly character, and, together with other manifestations of friendship exchanged between various german and british societies, they had exercised a favourable impression on public opinion in both countries. but very soon this friendly feeling was replaced by one of irritation. great britain and russia had concluded an agreement concerning their frontiers in the middle east, and this led to questions in the reichstag as to whether german interests had been properly safeguarded. at the same time (in the summer of ) the hague conference came to an end without having led to an understanding regarding the limitation of armaments, which many people in england would have liked to be brought about. towards the end of the year the german government submitted to the reichstag a navy bill by which the life of the capital ships was to be reduced from to years. this was tantamount to asking for the cost of three new ships of the line. simultaneously a powerful propaganda for the navy was started, and when prince rupprecht of bavaria resigned the protectorate of the bavarian section of the navy league, because the league which at that time was presided over by the well-known general keim had engaged in party politics, his withdrawal had the undesirable effect of focusing public attention on the league's share in this agitation. this step, as was but natural, brought about a change in the chairmanship of the league. in england the agitation against germany in general, and against her naval policy in particular, became very violent in the early part of . in february _the times_ announced that the kaiser, for the express purpose of interfering with the british naval budget, had sent a letter to that effect to lord tweedmouth, the first lord of the admiralty. his lordship categorically denied in parliament that the document had any political character whatever, but in spite of this denial, and in spite of the support which he received from lord lansdowne and from lord rosebery, the matter produced a violent outburst of feeling on the part of the british press and public. during march, , both houses of parliament discussed german and british naval policy in great detail. in an article published by the _national review_, lord esher, the chairman of the imperial maritime league, demanded that for every keel laid down by germany, britain should lay down two, and general baden-powell described the danger of a german invasion as imminent. on the other hand, sir edward grey, the foreign secretary, emphasized in one of his speeches the point of view referred to above, viz. that a reduction of the naval burdens would also be desirable in the interest of britain, but that he could recommend such a policy only if the other governments consented to do the same. all these considerations might easily suggest to the clear-headed men of business on either side of the north sea how greatly it would be to the mutual advantage of both if a way could be found towards a limitation of naval armaments. the first interview between ballin and sir ernest cassel took place in the summer of , and ballin afterwards gave the kaiser a detailed account of it when the latter visited hamburg and kiel at the end of june. another report, based on material supplied by ballin, was composed by the chief of the press department of the foreign office, geheimrat hammann, for the use of the imperial chancellor and the foreign secretary, and in the absence of any original account by ballin himself, it may be permitted to give an outline of its contents below. sir ernest opened the conversation by saying that for a long time back he had desired to discuss the political situation simply in his capacity as a private person, and that he felt qualified to do so because of his intimate acquaintance with some of the leading personages and with politics in general. he would like to contribute his share towards the prevention of a dangerous development of the existing rivalry. the king felt very keenly that the rapid increase of the german naval forces constituted a menace to britain's maritime position. he was convinced, however, that his nephew would never provoke a wanton conflict, and that, in his heart of hearts, he loathed the horrors of war. although, therefore, during his--the king's--lifetime the danger of an anglo-german war was remote, it was nevertheless necessary that, when his son succeeded him, the latter should find britain's maritime position so strong that the kaiser's successor should be unable to assail it. when ballin interposed at this stage that the british navy, because of its unchallenged superiority in numbers, need not be afraid of the newly created naval power of germany, sir ernest replied that it was well known to british naval experts that the increase of the german navy was considerably greater than the official statements made in the reichstag would let it appear. undoubtedly the british navy would always preserve its superiority, not only numerically, but also technically with regard to material, construction, and armaments. nevertheless, the advantages possessed by the german system of manning the ships and the great efficiency of german naval officers justified an apprehension lest the german superiority in the human factor might outweigh the british superiority in tonnage. the boer war had taught england how difficult it was to conquer a high-spirited, though numerically weak enemy. he said that fear of the german danger formed the driving power of the whole policy of the entente, and that this policy was only meant to guard against that menace. therefore russia had been advised at the reval meeting to forgo the enlargement of her navy, and to concentrate all her energies on her army. upon sir ernest's intimation that at some date britain, together with france and russia, might inquire of germany when she intended to put a stop to her naval armaments, ballin replied that his friend, if he was anxious to render a really valuable service to britain and to the cause of peace, could do no better than make it perfectly plain that such an inquiry would mean war. germany would resist with her whole strength any such attempt which unmistakably suggested the methods employed at fashoda. during the progress of the interview sir ernest--who showed that he possessed excellent information concerning germany's finances--observed that the state of the same would render it very difficult for her to make war. in that connexion he pointed out the intimate bearing of international finance on political relations, and he emphasized how much the borrowing countries were dependent on the lending ones. still, even the creditor nations would sometimes be forced into an uncomfortable position, as was, for instance, the case with great britain after the united states had passed on to her the greater part of the japanese debt. in japan the disproportion between military burdens and economic strength was becoming more and more pronounced, and if the country were faced with the alternative of choosing between the total financial exhaustion of the people and a stoppage of the payment of interest, it would prefer to take the latter course. in london ballin was present at the constitutional club when a member of parliament made a speech in which he stated, with the general approval of his audience, that the position of britain was not really so good as the policy pursued by the entente might lead one to believe. the national balance-sheet had been much more satisfactory during the reign of queen victoria; the items now appearing on the credit side being partly bad debts incurred by spaniards, portuguese, and japanese, for whose political good behaviour britain paid far too high a price, and one should not allow oneself to be misled as to the value of these ententes by balance-sheets which were purposely kept vague. geheimrat hammann told ballin by letter that prince bülow, the imperial chancellor, and herr v. schön, the foreign secretary, were very grateful to him for his information, and that in the opinion of both gentlemen his reply to the suggestion concerning the stoppage of naval armaments was "as commendable as it was correct." meanwhile the kaiser had also supplied the chancellor with a general résumé of ballin's report to him. ballin's visit gave rise to an exchange of letters which it may not be inappropriate to reproduce in this place. by way of explanation, it should first be said that the sandjak railway project, to which reference is made in ballin's letter, had greatly agitated public opinion all over europe during the spring of . in february, count aehrenthal, the austrian foreign minister, at a committee meeting of the delegations, had announced the government's intention of constructing a railway line connecting the bosnian system with the town of mitrovitza in the sandjak (or province) of novi bazar. this announcement led to a violent outburst of the russian press, which described this project as a political _démarche_ on the part of austria in the balkans and as an interference with the macedonian reforms aimed at by the powers. in austria it was thought that germany would support her ally as a matter of course, and prince bülow, in an interview given to a journalist, tried to pacify the _novoie vremia_. he declared that the russian papers were absolutely mistaken when they alleged that the project was inspired from berlin, and he stated that austria, like her german ally, pursued none but commercial aims in the balkans. these remarks will be a sufficient explanation of the allusions contained in ballin's letter of july th, , which, after an expression of thanks for the hospitality extended to him, reads as follows: "by the way, the views i expressed to you on the matter of the sandjak railway are now completely borne out by the facts. both the kaiser and, later, prince bülow have given me positive assurances that the german government was just as much taken by surprise on hearing of this austrian project as were the london and petrograd cabinets. "i hope that our respective monarchs may soon meet now. there is nothing that we on our side would welcome more heartily than the establishment and the maintenance of the most friendly and most cordial relations between the two sovereigns and their peoples. the kaiser will not return home from his northern cruise and from his visit to the swedish royal court until the middle of august, but i think it is probable that the two monarchs may meet when king edward returns from marienbad, and that their majesties will then fix the date for the official return visit to berlin. i sincerely trust that this berlin visit will be of the utmost benefit to both countries." sir ernest cassel replied: "i also feel that the meeting of their majesties must produce a great deal of good, and, as i now hear, it will after all be possible to arrange for this meeting to take place on the outward journey of the king. i am still as convinced as ever that our side is animated by the same friendly sentiments as yours." the meeting between the kaiser and king edward which was suggested in these letters actually took place on august th at friedrichshof castle, when the king was on his way to ischl, and it was accorded a friendly reception in the german press. it was followed up by an exchange of equally friendly manifestations on the part of the peoples of both countries. mr. lloyd george, then chancellor of the exchequer, went to germany in august, , to study the german system of workmen's insurance against disability and old age, and british workmen came to visit german trade unions, and to gather information about german industrial conditions. official britain also pronounced herself in favour of an understanding between the two countries which mr. lloyd george described as the only means of relieving the european tension, and mr. churchill professed similar sentiments. shortly afterwards, however, at the end of october, an event took place which severely compromised the kaiser's policy, viz. the incident of the _daily telegraph_ interview. in this the kaiser, amongst other matters, bitterly complained that his friendship for england received such scant acknowledgment. as a proof of the friendly sentiments by which his actions were guided he stated that he, during the boer war, had refused the humiliating suggestion put forward by france and russia that the three powers conjointly should compel britain to put a stop to the war; that he had communicated this refusal to king edward, and that he previously had presented queen victoria with a plan of campaign mapped out by himself, to which the one actually pursued by britain bore a striking resemblance. with regard to germany's naval programme, he emphasized that his country needed a big fleet in order to command attention when the question of the future of the pacific was discussed. finally, with regard to anglo-german relations, the kaiser said that the middle and lower classes in germany did not entertain very friendly feelings towards england. the effect which this interview produced all over germany was one of profound consternation. its publication led to the well-known discussions in the reichstag in november, , during which the kaiser, to the great dismay of the nation, was staying at donaueschingen with prince fürstenberg, where he was hunting. in england, and abroad generally, people regarded this interview as proving a great want of consistency in the conduct of germany's foreign policy, and this impression was by no means changed when it became known that its publication was only due to an unfortunate oversight. the kaiser had sent the account of it, as he was bound to do by the constitution, to prince bülow, who was then staying at norderney. bülow, however, did not read it himself, but passed it on to the berlin foreign office to be examined. there, indeed, an examination took place, but only with a view to finding out whether it contained any errors of fact, and when this was proved not to be the case, it was marked to that effect, passed the various ministries without any further examination, and was published. this unfortunate chain of accidents did not, however, alter the fact that the kaiser ought to have been aware of the great political importance of his utterances. it has always been a chief fault of his to speak out too impulsively when it would have been politically more expedient to be less communicative. nor can the entourage of the sovereign be excused for not drawing his and the chancellor's attention to the great political significance of his utterances. the chancellor himself and the foreign office, profiting from their previous experiences with the kaiser and his appearances in public, ought to have used a great deal more circumspection, and it would have been well if the permanent officials in the foreign office had shown rather more political insight. the endeavours of the official circles to remove the tension existing between the two countries were not affected by the incident. on february th, , king edward and his queen paid their visit to berlin, thus bringing about the event which ballin in his letter of july th, , had described as so very desirable. to appreciate the importance of this strictly official visit, we must bear in mind the fact that it did not take place until the ninth year of the reign of king edward. this long postponement was no doubt due to a large extent to the estrangement between uncle and nephew, and this, in its turn, had its origin in the natural dislike which the kaiser felt for his uncle's mode of conducting his private life while still prince of wales. it would have been preferable, however, to relegate such personal likes and dislikes to the background where politics or business were concerned. british official comments emphatically underlined the significance of the visit, and the german press followed suit, although voices were not wanting to warn against any over-estimation of such acts of courtesy. the reply given in the reichstag by herr v. schön, the foreign secretary, to a question as to whether any suggestions had been put forward by great britain with respect to a reduction of naval armaments was very cool in its tone. his statement amounted to this: that no formal proposal for an understanding which might have served as a basis for negotiations had been received, probably for the reason that it was not customary among friendly powers to put forward any proposals of which it was doubtful to say whether they would be entertained. in spite of this cold douche and in spite of other obstacles, the promoters of an understanding, ballin and sir ernest cassel, did not cease their efforts in that direction. in july, , ballin paid a second visit to sir ernest, during which the political discussions were continued. on these latter he reported to the kaiser as follows: "my friend to whom i had intimated in a private letter written about a week earlier that it was my intention to visit him--at the same time hinting that, for my personal information, i should like very much to take up the threads of the conversation we had had a twelvemonth ago on the subject of the question of the navy--had evidently used the interval to supply himself at the proper quarters with authoritative information about this matter. during the whole of our long talk he spoke with extraordinary assurance, and every word seemed to be thought out beforehand. "at the commencement of our conversation i said to my friend that in view of the great excitement which reigned in england on account of the german naval armaments, and which was assuming a decidedly anti-german character, he would quite understand that i should desire to take up once more the interesting discussions which we had had on the same subject a year ago. i pointed out that this excitement--spread as it was by an unscrupulous press and fostered by foolish politicians--was apt to produce results altogether different from those which the government might perhaps consider it desirable to bring about within the scope of its programme. i emphasized the fact that, of course, i was merely speaking as a private citizen, reading with interest the english papers and the letters of his english friends, so that all my knowledge of the subject was derived from private sources. "a year ago, i said, my friend, in the clear and concise manner that distinguished him, had explained to me the need for an understanding between germany and britain governing the future development of their naval forces, at the same time requesting me to exert myself in that sense. this suggestion of his had not been made in vain. the fact that i had been successful in establishing complete concord amongst germans, british, french, italians, austrians, and a whole series of small nations on questions affecting their highly important shipping interests, and in replacing an unbridled and economically disastrous competition by friendly agreements to the benefit of each partner, was bound to make me sympathize with any measures that it was possible to take in order to bring about a similar result between the governments if only they were met in the right spirit. i, therefore, had made up my mind to submit such a plan to our government, but before doing so, it would be necessary for me to know whether britain still adhered to the principles which my friend had enunciated to me at our previous meeting. "sir ernest's reply was that as far as britain was concerned a great change had taken place during the interval, and that he was no longer able to endorse the views he had held at that time. the necessity for his country to maintain her supremacy on the sea at all hazards, and subject to no engagements of any kind, was now more clearly recognized than it had been a year ago. a one-sided understanding between germany and britain could no longer be thought of, since both austria and france had now voted large sums for the enlargement of their respective navies. austria would certainly be found on the german side, but france could by no means be said to be an asset on which it would be safe for britain to rely, to say nothing about the two 'dark horses,' russia and italy. if britain, in view of these uncertainties, were to permit germany to nail her down to a fixed programme, she would dwindle down to a fifth-rate power. germany possessed her overwhelmingly large army with which she could keep in check austria, italy, russia, and france, but britain had nothing but her navy to guarantee her existence as a world power and to safeguard the roads that linked her to her colonies. for many decades britain had enjoyed opportunities for accumulating big fortunes. these times, however, had now passed. during the reign of the emperor william ii, who, with a consistency which it would be difficult to praise too highly, had made his country a commercial power of world-wide importance, and who had raised german industrial enterprise and german merchant shipping to a condition of undreamt-of prosperity, britain sustained immense losses in her overseas commerce. british trade was declining, and there was no doubt but that in the long run britain would be compelled to abandon her principles of free trade. "the question of the austrian naval armaments appeared to trouble my friend more than anything, and this circumstance, combined with the doubtful attitude of russia and the uncertainty of the situation in france, was evidently a source of great anxiety to the king. my friend remarked in this connexion that in his opinion the moment chosen for the conclusion of an understanding was very favourable to german but very unfavourable to british interests. it was useless to talk of an agreement so long as an element of mutual fear had to be reckoned with. at present this fear manifested itself in britain in a manner which was most inopportune, so that it was bound to make the german public believe that britain would be ready to come to an understanding even if the terms of it were detrimental to her own interests. britain had got behindhand both with her commerce and with her naval programme. to fight her competitors in the world's trade with a fair chance of success was impossible for more reasons than one, but the elimination of the disadvantage from which she suffered with respect to her naval armaments was merely a question of money. the funds that were required to bring the british navy up to the necessities of the international situation would certainly be found, because they had to be found. "i told my friend that i was astonished to hear how completely his views had changed on these matters. not what he did say, but what he had left unsaid, made me suspect that official circles in england--partly, perhaps, through the fault of the german government--had arrived at the conclusion that the latter would refrain from a further strengthening of the navy after the existing naval programme had been carried out, and that it would merely content itself with the gradual replacement of the units as they became obsolete. such a proceeding could be justified only if the same plan were adopted by britain also. if, however, his remarks implied that in the opinion of his government the moment had now arrived for altering the ratio of naval strength existing between both countries by a comprehensive programme of new building, it would soon become evident that there were some flaws in that calculation. in view of any such intentions it was my opinion--which, however, was quite personal and unofficial--that germany would have to decide upon such an increase of her navy as would enable her to carry on a war of defence with the certainty of success. if, therefore, britain meant to go on building warships on a large scale, this would merely lead to an aimless naval race between the two countries. "these remarks of mine concluded our first conversation, and i accepted my friend's invitation to dine with him that evening in company with some prominent men of his acquaintance. "in the evening i was greatly surprised to see that i was the only guest present. my friend told me that, in order to be alone with me, he had cancelled his invitations to the other gentlemen, stating that he did not yet feel well enough to see them. it was obvious to me that he had, meanwhile, reported on the outcome of our conversation, and that the atmosphere had changed. this change had without doubt been brought about by my remarks concerning the necessity for a further enlargement of the german navy, if the action of britain compelled our government to take such a course. the long discussions that followed proved that this view of mine was correct in every detail. "sir ernest explained that the liberal cabinet had acted penny wise and pound foolish in dealing with the question of the navy. this was the conviction of the great majority of the british people, and this action had caused the feelings of apprehension and of hostility animating them. the liberal government had thus made a serious blunder, and had, in his opinion, prepared its own doom by doing so. he thought the days of the liberal party were numbered, and another party would soon be in office. anti-german feeling would be non-existent to-day if the liberal cabinet had not, because of its preoccupation with questions of social policy, neglected the navy. the whole matter was further aggravated by other questions of a political kind. france, on account of the french national character, had always been a doubtful asset to britain, and, considering the state of her internal politics, she was so now more than ever. germany, on the other hand, possessed a great advantage in that her military preponderance enabled her to rely with absolute certainty on her austrian ally. he would say nothing about russia, because he had never regarded the anglo-russian _rapprochement_ as politically expedient. "if it was admitted--and he thought this admission was implied by my remarks--that her colonial and her commercial interests made it imperative for britain to maintain an unchallenged supremacy on the seas, he felt certain that some reasonable men would, after all, be able to discover a formula which would make an understanding between both countries possible. a great difficulty, however, was presented by my often reiterated demand that britain must not abandon her principles of free trade. in questions such as these, she could, indeed, speak for herself, but not for her great colonies. history had proved that she lost her american colonies as soon as she tried to foist her own commercial policy on the colonists. he had no doubt that germany, despite the disagreeable surprises which she had experienced when adjusting the system of her imperial finances, possessed sufficient wealth to go on increasing her navy in the same proportion as britain. the great mistake committed by the liberal cabinet and by the other advisers of the king had been their assumption that financial considerations would prevent germany from carrying out her naval programme in its entirety. german prosperity had grown far more rapidly, he thought, than even the german government and german financial experts had believed to be possible. signs of it could be noticed wherever one went, and one would turn round in astonishment if, during the season, one heard the tourists in italy or in egypt talk in any language but german. he, at any rate, felt certain of germany's ability to keep pace with britain in the naval race, even if that pace was very greatly accelerated. "reasons of internal policy had convinced him that britain would not in any case abandon her free trade principles within a measurable period of time, and as it was not intended to conclude a perpetual agreement, but only one for a limited number of years, he thought it was not at all necessary that germany should insist upon her demand in connexion with this question. as the colonies enjoyed complete independence in these as in other matters, the difficulties would be insurmountable. in return for such a concession on germany's part, britain would doubtless be willing to meet the views of the german government in other respects. for these reasons he would be quite ready to change the opinion he had expressed in the morning, and to agree that it could produce nothing but good if either side were to appoint some moderate men for the purpose of discussing the whole question. such a meeting would have to be kept absolutely secret, and both parties should agree that there should be no victor and no vanquished if and when an agreement was concluded. this condition would have to be a _sine qua non_. "i promised sir ernest that i would use my best endeavours to this end when an opportunity should present itself, and we arranged to have another meeting in the near future. "there is no doubt but that my friend is an extremely well-qualified negotiator. i do not recollect that during my long experience, extending over many years, i have ever come across a man who could discuss matters for hours at a time with so much self-reliance, deliberation, and fixity of purpose." this report was passed on by the kaiser to herr v. tirpitz, the secretary for the navy, who not only expressed his approval of the project, but also recommended that the imperial chancellor, herr v. bethmann-hollweg, who had succeeded prince bülow on july th should be kept informed of all that was done to bring about an understanding. the chancellor, accordingly, was presented by the kaiser himself with a copy of ballin's report. this was the correct thing to do, as it avoided a _faux pas_ such as, during the chancellorship of prince bülow, had sometimes been made. future developments, however, proved that this step deprived the whole action of its spontaneity, and its immediate effect was that the secretary for the navy was relieved of all responsibility in the matter. ballin, in later days, summed up his views on this way of dealing with the subject by saying that if herr v. tirpitz had been left a free hand in the whole matter--if, for instance, _he_ had conducted it as imperial chancellor--it would hardly have turned out a failure. the main object of the negotiations that ballin had carried on was to ensure that a number of "experts and men of moderate views," i.e. naval experts in the first instance, should join in conference in order to discuss how, without injury to their relative fighting efficiency, both countries could bring about a reduction of their naval armaments. this plan was so simple and so obviously right that, had it been carried out as a preliminary to something else, and had the attention of the experts been drawn to the enormous political importance of their decision, success would have been assured. the procedure, however, which the chancellor adopted compelled him to combat the active opposition of the various departments involved even before a meeting of the naval experts could be arranged for, and this was a task which far exceeded the strength of herr v. bethmann-hollweg, the most irresolute of all german chancellors, the man to whom fate afterwards entrusted the most momentous decision which any german statesman has ever had to make. an interview between ballin and the chancellor was followed up, with the consent of the latter, by an exchange of telegrams between ballin and sir ernest cassel. from these it became clear that official circles in london were favourably disposed towards the opening of discussions in accordance with the terms laid down in ballin's report, and ballin approached the chancellor with the request to let him know whether he should continue to work on the same lines as before, or whether the chancellor would prefer a different method, by which he understood direct official negotiations. in a telegram to the chancellor he explained that in his opinion sir ernest's reference to the friendly disposition of official london implied that he was authorized to arrange the details about the intended meeting of experts. if, therefore, he went to england again, he would have to know what were the views and intentions of the chancellor. the reply of the latter, dated august th, was as follows: "many thanks for your welcome telegram, which has found my closest attention. i shall send you further details as soon as i have interviewed the gentlemen concerned, which i intend to do to-morrow and during the next few days." this reply clearly showed that the chancellor had made up his mind to deal with the matter along official lines and in conformity with his own ideas. the subsequent course of events is indicated by a letter of the chancellor to ballin, dated august st, in which he says: "i have to-day taken the official steps of which i told you. as sir ernest goschen[ ] and i have agreed to observe absolute secrecy in this matter, and as a statement of your friend to the british government to the effect that i had undertaken an official _démarche_, might possibly be regarded as an indiscretion, i suggest that if you inform your friend at all, you should word your reply in such a way that this danger need not be feared." this letter shows, and later events have also proved, that the guiding spirits of germany's political destiny were unable to meet on such terms as expediency would dictate the overtures of a man like sir ernest cassel, whose status and whose good intentions were beyond criticism. if, on receipt of this news, sir ernest, who had been working so hard for an understanding, was not entirely discouraged, it was no doubt due to the diplomatic skill with which ballin--who was a master of this art, as of so many others--interpreted the chancellor's rebuff when communicating it to his friend. that the latter's account of british feeling towards germany was perfectly unbiased, may also be inferred from another piece of news which reached ballin about the same time from a british source, and which reads as follows: "my only object in writing just now is to say that if there is any feeling in high quarters in your country favourable to coming to an understanding with this country concerning naval matters, i am quite satisfied from the inquiries i have made that the present would be an opportune time for approaching this question, and that the present government of this country would be found entirely favourable to coming to such an arrangement." however, by that time, the matter was in the hands of the various departments, and they proved unable to make a success of it. why they failed, and why the step which herr v. bethmann had taken with the british ambassador produced no results, are questions which can only be answered by reference to the files of the foreign office. mr. asquith, in a speech dealing with the british naval programme delivered on july th, , explained why no understanding with germany had been arrived at. "the german government told us--i cannot complain, and i have no answer to make--that their procedure in this matter is governed by an act of the reichstag under which the programme automatically proceeds year by year. that is to say, after the year - , the last year in which under that law four dreadnoughts are constructed, the rate of construction drops in the two succeeding years to two each year, so that we are now, we may hope, at the very crest of the wave. if it were possible, even now, by arrangement to reduce the rate of construction no one would be more delighted than his majesty's government. we have approached the german government on the subject. they have found themselves unable to do anything; they cannot do it without an act of the reichstag, repealing their navy law. they tell us--and no doubt with great truth--they would not have the support of public opinion in germany to a modified programme." as these statements have never been contradicted, it must be assumed that the departments concerned sheltered themselves behind the formal objection that, owing to public feeling, a repeal or a modification of the navy law was out of the question. if this assumption is correct, it is evident that no touch of political genius was revealed in the treatment of this important question. even the hope that the "crest of the wave" had been reached turned out a disappointment, as was proved by the introduction of the new navy bill in . the objections which herr v. bethmann, on march th, , raised to an international limitation of armaments can likewise only be described as formal ones. he said: "if it is the intention of the powers to come to an understanding with regard to general international armaments, they must first of all agree upon a formula defining the relative position of each.... practically, it might be said, such an order of precedence has already been established by great britain's claim that, notwithstanding her anxiety to effect a reduction of her expenditure on armaments, and notwithstanding her readiness to submit any disputes to arbitration, her navy must under all circumstances be equal--or even superior--to any possible combination. great britain is perfectly justified in making this claim, and in conformity with the views i hold on the disarmament problem, i am the last person in the world to question her right to do so. but it is quite a different matter to use such a claim as the basis of an agreement which is to receive the peaceful consent of the other powers. what would happen if the latter raised any counter-claims of their own, or if they were dissatisfied with the percentage allotted to them? the mere suggestion of questions such as these is sufficient to make us realize what would happen if an international congress--because one restricted to the european powers alone could not be comprehensive enough--had to adjudicate on such claims." if this explanation is intended to be a reply to such statements from the british side as the one just quoted from mr. asquith, the fact had been disregarded that the most serious problem under discussion--viz. the anglo-german rivalry--could quite well be solved without convening an "international congress." as early as december th, , herr v. bethmann, in a speech delivered before the reichstag, had enlarged on this same subject from the political point of view: "as to the relations between ourselves and great britain, and as to the alleged negotiations with the latter country concerning a mutual curtailment of naval armaments, i am bound to say that the british government, as everybody knows, has more than once expressed its conviction that the conclusion of an agreement fixing the naval strengths of the various powers would conduce to an important improvement of international relations.... we, too, share great britain's desire to eliminate the question of naval competition, but during the informal _pourparlers_ which have taken place from time to time, and which have been conducted in a spirit of mutual friendship, we have always given prominence to our conviction that a frank discussion of the economic and political spheres of interest to be followed up by a mutual understanding on these points would constitute the safest way of destroying the feeling of distrust which is engendered by the question of the respective strengths of the military and naval forces maintained by each country." the speech which sir edward grey delivered in the house of commons on march th, , with special reference to this speech of herr v. bethmann shows unmistakably that the remarks of the latter did not reassure great britain with respect to the only point at issue in which she was interested, viz. the limitation of the german naval programme. britain, according to sir edward, did not desire that her relations with any power should be of such a nature as to impede the simultaneous existence of cordial relations with germany. an anglo-german agreement had been specially suggested. this suggestion required some careful thinking over. if he were to hold out any hope that germany, in compliance with the terms of some such agreement would be willing to cancel or to modify her naval programme, he would be contradicted at once. only within the limits of this programme would it be possible to come to some understanding between the two governments. it might, for instance, be agreed to spread the expenditure voted for the navy over a longer term of years, or to arrange that the present german programme should not be increased in future. matters such as these could form the subjects for discussion between the two governments, and it would be desirable from every point of view that an understanding should be arrived at. to this speech the _north german gazette_ replied that germany would be quite prepared to fall in with sir edward's suggestions if agreements such as those outlined by him could in any way allay the feeling of distrust governing public opinion in great britain. if from this semi-official pronouncement it may be inferred that herr v. bethmann on his part was favourably disposed towards an agreement, the question arises: "why was it not concluded?" in order to understand why the british cabinet attached so much value to the settlement of the anglo-german naval questions and to the pacification of public opinion, it must be remembered that the liberal cabinet, owing to its hostile attitude towards the house of lords, had drifted into a violent conflict with the conservative party, and that the latter, in its turn, during the election campaign had accused the cabinet of having neglected the navy, driving home its arguments by constantly pointing out the "german danger." moreover, king edward had died in the meantime (may th, ), and of his son and successor it was said that he, at the time of his accession to the throne, was no longer a man of unbiased sentiment, that he was very anti-german, and that he was under the influence of a small group of conservative extremists. it may not be out of place to reproduce in this connexion the text of two accounts dealing with the situation in england which ballin wrote in the spring and in the summer of respectively, when he was staying in london, and which he submitted to the kaiser for his information. in the early part of he wrote: "if i were to say that london was completely dominated by the election campaign, this would be a very mild way of characterizing the situation as it is. the whole population has been seized with a fit of madness. the city men who, until quite recently, had preserved an admirable calm, have now lost their heads altogether, and are the most ardent advocates of tariff reform. every victory of a conservative candidate is cheered by them to the echo. under these circumstances, even in the city, the fear of war has grown. if we ask ourselves what it is that has brought about such an extraordinary change in the attitude of commonsense business people, we find that there are several reasons for it, viz. the general slump in business; the unfortunate policy cf lloyd george with regard to the irish nationalists; the advances he made to the labour party, and the effects of his social legislation which are now felt with increasing seriousness. "business is bad in england, and up to now very little has been seen of the improvement which is so marked in germany. it is but natural that, in view of the extended trade depression which has so far lasted more than two years, a people endowed with such business instincts as the british should feel favourably disposed towards a change of the country's commercial policy. this disposition is further strengthened by the constant reiteration of the promise that it will be possible to provide the money needed for new warship construction and for the newly inaugurated social policy by means of the duties which the foreigner will be made to pay. "it seems pretty certain that the present government, in spite of the great election successes gained by the conservative party, will still retain a slight majority if it can rely on the nationalist vote. that is what i had always predicted. but the majority on which the liberal cabinet depends will doubtless be a very uncomfortable one to work with, and the opinion is general that it will hardly take more than a twelvemonth before another dissolution of parliament will be necessary. it is said that the elections that will then be held will smash up the liberal party altogether, but i consider this is an exaggeration. in this country everything depends on the state of business. if, in the course of the year, trade prospects brighten up again, and if everything becomes normal once more, the tariff reformers in the city will turn free traders again and will take great care not to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. i am quite convinced that everything hangs on the future development of trade and traffic. to-day, as i have said before, tariff reform and a zollverein with the colonies are the catchwords that are on everybody's lips, and the anti-german feeling is so strong that it is scarcely possible to discuss matters with one's oldest friends, because the people over here have turned mad and talk of nothing but the next war and the protective policy of the near future. large crowds are spending hours every night in the principal squares such as trafalgar square, where they have come to watch the announcements of the election results in the provinces. their behaviour is exemplary. it is a curious thing that in this country the election game is spread over several weeks, in consequence of which the political excitement of the masses is raised to boiling-point. within a few months' time, i am sure, things will look entirely different again." from the second report, in the summer of , the following is the salient extract: "i am now returned from england, and it may not be out of place to report the impressions i received of the political and economic conditions over there. "my previous visit to london coincided with the big election campaign, and i have already described the fit of mad excitement which had taken possession of the people, and which was directed against germany. "the situation has now undergone a complete change, which is noticeable everywhere and which is caused by the close of the election campaign, by the death of the king, and, finally, by the visit of the kaiser on the occasion of the royal funeral. everyone whom i met in london--liberals and conservatives alike--spoke in terms of the highest praise of the kaiser's sympathetic attitude displayed during his stay in england, and which was all the more commendable as it was not denied that he had suffered many slights during the lifetime of his late uncle. "the attitude of the people towards the new monarch is one of reserve, but also--in conformity with the national character of the english--one of loyalty and good faith. the situation with regard to home politics is as difficult now as it has been all along. unless a compromise between the parties is arrived at new elections will be unavoidable in the spring or even before. i have met a great many persons of political experience who are of opinion that, even if a compromise is made, it will be necessary to submit such an arrangement to the decision of the electorate by an appeal to the country. it is difficult to predict the result of such new elections. the views held by large sections of the press and of the public bear out the truth of the remarks in my previous letter when i emphasized the fact that the british are a nation of business men who act on the principle of 'leave well alone,' and who will refuse to have anything to do with tariff reform as soon as there is an improvement in trade. "business has, indeed, improved in the meantime, but only very slightly, and much less than in germany. this slight improvement, however, has not failed to give a fillip to the cause of free trade among the city men. if elections in the spring are regarded as likely, much will depend on the further development of trade. i must confess that i take a very pessimistic view as to the future of great britain in this respect. the british can really no longer compete with us, and if it were not for the large funds they have invested, and for the sums of money which reach the small mother-country from her great dominions, their saturated and conservative habits of life would soon make them a _quantité négligeable_ as far as their competition with us in the world's markets is concerned. "of course, their financial strength and their excellent system of foreign politics, in which they have now been trained for centuries, will always attract business to their country, the possession of which we shall always begrudge them (for is not envy one of the national characteristics of the german race?)." up to the summer of the feeling remained friendly. early in july ballin wrote: "to-day the feeling, as far as the city is concerned, is thoroughly friendly towards germany. the visit in the spring of the kaiser and the kaiserin, on the occasion of the unveiling of the monument to queen victoria, has created a most sympathetic impression--an impression which has been strengthened by the participation of the crown prince and princess in the coronation festivities. at present the kaiser is actually one of the most popular persons in england, and the suggestion of bringing about an anglo-german understanding is meeting with a great deal of approval from all sections of the population." however, this readiness to come to an understanding received a setback during the course of the year, when it was adversely affected by the new developments in the morocco affair and by the dispatch of the _panther_ to agadir, which led to fresh complications with france, and later also with great britain. the grievances of the latter found expression in a sharply worded speech by lloyd george in july, , the main argument of which was that great britain, in questions affecting her vital interests, could not allow herself to be treated as though she were non-existent. in germany this pronouncement led to violent attacks on the part of the conservative opposition against herr v. bethmann and against england, and it was the latter against whom herr v. heydebrand directed his quotation from schiller, to the effect that a nation which did not stake her everything on her honour was deserving only of contempt. it is also well known that the outcome of the whole affair, as well as its sequel, the franco-german congo agreement, produced much indignation in germany, where it was felt that the material results obtained were hardly worth the great display of force, and that it was still less worth while to be drifted into a big war in consequence of this incident. the measure of the anxiety which was felt at that time in business and financial circles all over the world may be gauged by reading the following letter from ballin to the secretary of state, herr v. kiderlen-wächter, in which it is necessary to read between the lines here and there. "baron leopold de rothschild has just sent me a wire from london in which he says that, on the strength of information he has received from the paris rothschilds, people there are greatly disappointed to see that the german answer--the details of which are still unknown there--leaves some important questions still unsolved. public sentiment in the french capital, he says, is beginning to get excited, and it would be to the interest of everybody to settle matters as speedily as possible. "i felt it my duty to draw your attention to this statement, and you may take it for what it is worth. "i need not tell your excellency that people here and, i suppose, all over germany, are watching the progress of events with growing anxiety. in this respect, therefore, the desires of the german people seem identical with those of the french. "it would also be presumptuous on my part to speak to your excellency about the feeling in england and the british armaments, as the information you derive from your official sources is bound to be better still than that which i can obtain through my connexions. "with best wishes for a successful solution of this difficult and important problem, i have the honour to remain, "your excellency's most obedient servant, (_signed_) ballin." a most interesting document, and one which casts a clear sidelight on the divergence of opinion held in germany and great britain, and on the chances of arriving at an agreement, is an article which dates from the latter part of . this article deals with the anglo-german controversy and was published by the _westminster gazette_. it was sent to ballin by an english friend with the remark that it presented a faithful picture of the views on foreign affairs held by the great majority of british liberals. ballin forwarded it to berlin for the kaiser's information, with a note saying that he had received it from one of the most level-headed englishmen he had ever met. it was subsequently returned to him, with the addition of a number of marginal notes and a lengthy paragraph at its close, all written in the kaiser's own handwriting. the numerous underlinings, too, are the kaiser's own work. on account of its historical interest a facsimile reproduction of this article is inserted at the end of the book. the following is a translation of the kaiser's criticism at the conclusion of the article: "quite good, except for the ridiculous insinuation that we are aspiring after the hegemony in central europe. we simply _are_ central europe, and it is quite natural that other and smaller nations should tend towards us and should be drawn into our sphere of action owing to the law of gravity, particularly so if they are of our own kin. to this the british object, because it absolutely knocks to pieces their theory of the balance of power, i.e. their desire to be able to play off one european power against another at their own pleasure, and because it would lead to the establishment of a united continent--a contingency which they want to prevent at all costs. hence their lying assertion that we aim at a predominant position in europe, while it is a fact that they claim such a position for themselves in world politics. we hohenzollerns have never pursued such ambitious and such fantastic aims, and, god granting it, we shall never do so. "(_signed_) wilhelm i.r." the year opened with several pronouncements of the british press in favour of an anglo-german understanding. it was even hinted that britain would raise no objections to a possible extension of germany's colonial activities, or, as one paper put it, "to the foundation of a german african empire stretching from the atlantic to the indian ocean." similar sentiments were expressed in a letter from sir ernest cassel to ballin, dated january th, . "since writing to you last," says sir ernest, "i have had the opportunity of a confidential chat with mr. winston churchill. he is aware that the position which he has now occupied for some time ties him down to some special limitations which will not allow him to pay a visit of the kind you suggest so long as the situation remains what it is. should the king go to germany, and should he take winston with him, he--winston--would feel highly honoured if he were permitted to discuss the important questions that were demanding a solution. such an opportunity would have to come about quite spontaneously, and winston would have to secure the previous consent of the prime minister and of sir edward grey. "thus far winston. his friendly sentiments towards germany are known to you. i have been acquainted with him since he was quite a young man, and he has never made a secret of his admiration of the kaiser and of the german people. he looks upon the estrangement existing between the two countries as senseless, and i am quite sure he would do anything in his power to establish friendly relations. "the real crux of the situation is that great britain regards the enormous increase of the german navy as a grave menace to her vital interests. this conviction is a deep-rooted one, and there are no two opinions in london as to its significance. "if it were possible to do something which, without endangering the safety of germany, would relieve great britain of this nightmare, it is my opinion that people over here would go very far to conciliate german aspirations." the striking fact that after a long interval, and in spite of the failure of the previous endeavours, a renewed attempt was made to arrive at a naval understanding, and that special pains were taken to ensure its success, may be due to various causes. for instance, the morocco incident of had shown how easily a series of comparatively unimportant events might lead within reach of a dangerous catastrophe, unless the atmosphere of general distrust could be removed, and it was felt in great britain that this distrust was largely the result of the constant and regular increase of germany's armaments. moreover, it was known that a new navy bill was then forthcoming in germany which, in its turn, would be bound to cause fresh alarm, and growing expenditure in great britain, and that the liberal cabinet would prefer to gain its laurels by bringing about a more peaceful frame of mind. finally, mr. winston churchill had been appointed first lord of the admiralty in october, , and as he was known to be by no means anti-german, his entering upon office may have given rise to the hope that, while he was administering the affairs of the navy, it would be possible to settle certain purely technical matters affecting his department, which could then furnish the conditions preliminary to an understanding with germany. ballin, at any rate, had cherished the hope--as is borne out by the letter quoted above--that mr. churchill could be induced to pay a visit to germany, and that an opportunity might then be found to bring the naval experts of both countries face to face with each other. ballin had always eagerly desired that such a meeting should take place, because his long experience in settling difficult business questions had taught him that there was no greater barrier between people, and certainly none that hampered their intellectual _rapprochement_ to a larger extent, than the fact of their never having come into personal contact with one another, and of never having had a chance to actually familiarize themselves with the mentality and the whole personality of the man representing the other side. it might also be assumed that, once the two really responsible persons--churchill and tirpitz--had met in conclave, the feeling of their mutual responsibility would be too strong to allow the negotiations to end in failure. unfortunately, such a meeting never took place; all that was achieved was a preliminary step, viz. the visit of lord haldane to berlin. owing to the lack of documentary evidence it is not possible to say who first suggested this visit, but it is clear that the suggestion--whoever may have been its author--was eagerly taken up by sir ernest cassel and ballin, and that it also met with a warm welcome on the part of herr v. bethmann. in reply to a telegram which ballin, with the approval--if not at the actual desire--of the chancellor, sent to his friend in london, a message reached him on february nd, , when he was in berlin engaged on these very matters. this reply, which originated with the foreign office, expressed the sender's thanks for the invitation to attend a meeting of delegates in berlin and his appreciation of the whole spirit which had prompted the german suggestion, and then went on to say that the new german navy bill would necessitate an immediate increase in the british naval estimates, because the latter had been framed on the supposition that the german programme would remain unaltered. if the british government were compelled to find the means for such an increase, the suggested negotiations would be difficult, if not impossible. on the other hand, the german programme might perhaps be modified by spreading it out over a longer period of time or by some similar measure, so that a considerable increase of british naval construction in order to balance the german efforts could be avoided. in that case the british government would be ready to proceed with the negotiations without loss of time, as it would be taken for granted that there was a fair prospect of the proposed discussions leading to a favourable result. if this suggestion was acceptable to germany, the british government thought the next step should be a private--and not an official--visit of a british cabinet minister to berlin. perhaps it is now permissible to give the text of some documents without any further comment, as these latter speak for themselves. the first is a letter of the chancellor addressed to ballin, and reads as follows: "berlin. _febr. th, ._ "dear mr. ballin,-- "we are still busy wording the text of our reply, and i shall not be able to see you at o'clock. as soon as the text is settled, i shall submit it to his majesty for his approval. under these circumstances i think it is doubtful whether we ought to adhere to the time fixed for our appointment. i rather fancy that i cannot tell you anything definite before or o'clock, and i shall ring you up about that time. you have already made such great sacrifices in the interest of our cause that i hope you will kindly accept this alteration as well. "in great haste. "(_signed_) bethmann-hollweg." the next document is a letter of ballin to sir ernest cassel, intended to explain the situation. "the demand raised by your official telegram rather complicates matters. the fact is that the bill as it stands now only asks for half as much as was contained in the original draft. this reduced demand is much less than the nation and the reichstag had expected. if after this a still further curtailment is decided upon, such a step will create the highly undesirable impression that, in order to pave the way for an understanding with london, it had become necessary to make very considerable sacrifices. this, of course, must be avoided at all costs, because if and when an understanding is arrived at, there must be neither victors nor vanquished. "i need not emphasize the fact that our government is taking up the matter with the greatest interest and that it is keenly anxious to bring about a successful issue. the reception with which you have met on our side must have given you convincing and impressive proofs of this attitude. "i have now succeeded in making our gentlemen promise me--although not without much reluctance on their part--that they would not object to the formula proposed by your government, viz. 'it is agreed to submit the question of the proposed increase of naval tonnage to a _bona fide_ discussion.' thus there is now a fair prospect of reaching a favourable result, and the preliminary condition laid down by your government has been complied with. "i think that the delegate sent should be accompanied by a naval expert. the gentleman in question should also understand that he would have to use the utmost frankness in the discussions, and that he must be able to give an assurance that it is intended to subject the british programme, too, to such alterations as will make it not less, but rather more, acceptable than it is now. surely, your government has never desired that we should give you a definite undertaking on our part, whereas you should be at liberty to extend your programme whenever you think fit to do so. a clearly defined neutrality agreement is another factor which will enter into the question of granting the concessions demanded by your government. "'reciprocal assurances' is a term which it is difficult to define; if, for instance, the attitude of great britain and her action last summer had been submitted to a court of law, it would hardly be found to have violated the obligations implied by such 'reciprocal assurances,' and yet we were at the edge of war owing to the steps taken by your people. "i thought it my duty, my dear friend, to submit these particulars to you, so that you, for the benefit of the great cause we are engaged in, may take whatever steps you consider advisable before the departure of the delegate. "our people would appreciate it very much if you would make the great sacrifice of coming over to this country when the meeting takes place. i personally consider this also necessary, and it goes without saying that i shall be present as well. "p.s.--the chancellor to whom i have shown this letter thinks it would be better not to send it, because the official note contains all that is necessary. "however, i shall forward it all the same, because i believe it will present a clearer picture of the situation to you than the note. please convince the delegate that it is a matter of give and take, and please come. it entails a great sacrifice on your part, but the cause which we have at heart is worth it. "the bearer of this note is our general secretary, mr. huldermann. he is a past master of discretion, and fully acquainted with the situation." i was instructed to hand the following note by the german government to sir ernest cassel with the request to pass it on to the british government, and at the same time i was to explain verbally and in greater detail the contents of ballin's letter on the situation. the text of the official note is as follows: "we are willing to continue the discussion in a friendly spirit. the navy bill is bound to lead to a discussion of the naval plans of both countries, and in this matter we shall be able to fall in with the wishes of the british government if we, in return, receive sufficient guarantees as to a friendly disposition of british policy towards our own interests. any agreement would have to state that either power undertakes not to join in any plans, combinations, or warlike complications directed against the other. if concluded, it might pave the way for an understanding as to the sums of money to be spent on armaments by either country. "we assume that the british government shares the views expressed in this note, and we should be glad if a british cabinet minister could proceed to berlin, in the first instance for the purpose of a private and confidential discussion only." on the evening of the same day (february th) i left for london. i arrived there the following evening and went straight to sir ernest cassel. i prepared the following statement for ballin at the time, in which i described the substance of our conversation and the outcome of my visit: "the note which i had brought with me did not at first satisfy our friend. he made a brief statement to the effect that we saw a fair prospect of reaching a successful solution of the problem was all that was needed, and that our answer was lengthy, but evasive. this opinion, however, he did not maintain after the close of our conversation, which lasted more than two hours. i pointed out to him that, as i understood it, the phrase 'we are willing to continue the discussion in a friendly spirit' amounted to a declaration on the part of the german government that, in its opinion, there was a 'fair prospect,' and that an accommodating spirit was all one could ask at present. he thought that lord haldane had been asked to go to berlin so that a member of the cabinet should have an opportunity of ascertaining on the spot that berlin was really disposed to discuss matters in a friendly spirit. on this point positive assurances were needed before sir edward grey and mr. winston churchill went across, who, if they did go, would not return without having effected the object of their visit. sir ernest always emphasized that he only stated his own private views, but it was evident that he spoke with the highest authority. the demand for three dreadnoughts, he said, which the new german navy bill asked for, amounted to a big increase of armaments, and great britain would be compelled to counterbalance it by a corresponding increase, which she would not fail to do. if, however, germany were prepared not to enlarge her existing programme, great britain would be pleased to effect a reduction on her part. when i referred to the apprehension of the german government lest great britain should take advantage of the fact that germany had her hands tied, in order to effect big armaments which it would be impossible for us to equal, our friend remarked that, for the reason stated above, such fears were groundless. in spite of this assurance, i repeatedly and emphatically drew his attention to the necessity for limiting the british programme just as much as the german one. he evidently no longer fancied the suggestion previously put forward that the question of agreeing upon a definite ratio of strength for the two navies should be discussed; because, if this was done, one would get lost in the details. nevertheless, he did not, as the discussion proceeded, adhere to this standpoint absolutely. he agreed that the essential thing was to establish friendly political relations, and if, as i thought, germany had reason to complain of british opposition to her legitimate expansion, one could not do better than discuss the various points at issue one by one, similar to the method which had proved so successful in the case of the anglo-french negotiations. great britain would not raise any objections to our desire for rounding-off our colonial empire, and she was quite willing to grant us our share in the distribution of those parts of the globe that were still unclaimed. "by keeping strictly to the literal text of the german note, he found the latter quite acceptable as far as it referred to the question of a declaration of neutrality. he said there was a great difference between such declarations, and often it was quite possible to interpret them in various ways. i imagined that what was in his mind were the obligations which britain had taken upon herself in her agreement with france, and i therefore asked him for a definition of the term 'neutrality.' his answer was very guarded and contained many reservations. what he meant was something like this: great britain has concluded agreements with france, russia, and other countries which oblige her to remain neutral where the other partner is concerned, except when the latter is engaged in a war of aggression. "applied to two practical cases, this would mean: if an agreement such as the one now under consideration had been in existence at the time of the morocco dispute last summer, great britain would have been free to take the side of france if war had broken out between that country and ourselves, because in this case we--as he argued with much conviction--had been the aggressors. on the other hand, if we had severed our relations with italy during the turco-italian war and had come to the support of turkey, great britain would not have been allowed to join italy in conspiring against us if we had an agreement such as the one in question. "in the interval between my first and my second visit sir ernest evidently had, by consulting his friend haldane, arrived at a very definite opinion, and when i visited him for the second time he assured me most emphatically that great britain would concede to us as much as she had conceded to the other powers, but not more. we could rely on her absolute loyalty, 'and,' he added, 'our attitude towards france proves that we can be loyal to our friends.' "for the rest, the manner in which he pleaded the british point of view was highly interesting. great britain, he argued, had done great things in the past, but owing to her great wealth a decline had set in in the course of the last few decades. ('traces of this development,' he added, 'have also been noticeable in your country.') germany, however, had made immense progress, and within the next fifteen or twenty years she would overtake great britain. if, then, such a dangerous competitor commenced to increase his armaments in a manner which could be directed only against britain, he must not be surprised if the latter made every effort to check him wherever his influence was felt. great britain, therefore, could not remain passive if germany attempted to dominate the whole continent; because this, if successful, would upset the balance of power. neither could she hold back in case germany attacked and annihilated france. thus, the situation being what it was, britain was compelled--provided the proposed agreement with germany was not concluded--to decide whether she would wait until her competitor had become still stronger and quite invincible, or whether she would prefer to strike at once. the latter alternative, he thought, would be the safer for her interests. "our friend had a copy of the german note made by his secretary, and then forwarded it to haldane. in the course of the evening the latter sent an acknowledgment of its receipt, from which sir ernest read out to me the words: 'so far very good.' it was evident that his friend's opinion had favourably influenced his own views on the german note. "on tuesday sir ernest and lord haldane drove to the former's house after having attended thanksgiving service. lord haldane stayed for lunch, and was just leaving when i arrived at o'clock. he did not want to be accompanied by a naval expert, for, although he did not pretend to understand all the technical details, he said that he knew all that was necessary for the discussion. he stated that he would put all his cards on the table and speak quite frankly. "our friend spoke of our german politics in most disparaging terms, saying that they had been worth nothing since bismarck's time. what ballin had attained in his dealings with the shipping companies was far superior to all the achievements of germany's diplomatists." the positive information which this report contained was passed on to the chancellor. by way of explanation it may be added that the german navy bill, which later on, at the end of march, , was laid before the reichstag, provided for the formation of a third active squadron in order to adapt the increase in the number of the crews to the increase in the material. this third squadron necessitated the addition of three new battleships and of two small cruisers, and it was also intended to increase the number of submarines and to make provision for the construction of airships. the discussions with lord haldane took place at the royal castle, berlin, on february th, the kaiser being in the chair. the chancellor did not attend, he had a separate interview with haldane. the outcome of the conference is described in a statement from an authoritative source, viz. in a note which the kaiser dispatched to ballin by special messenger immediately after the close of the conference. it reads as follows: "the castle, berlin. " . . . p.m. "dear ballin, "the conversation has taken place, and all the pros and many cons have been discussed. our standpoint has been explained in great detail, and the bill has been examined. at my suggestion, it was resolved to agree on the following basis (informal line of action): "( ) because of its scope and its importance, the agreement must be concluded, and it must not be jeopardized by too many details. "( ) therefore, the agreement is not to contain any reference to the size of the two fleets, to standards of ships, to constructions, etc. "( ) the agreement is to be purely political. "( ) as soon as the agreement has been published here, and as soon as the bill has been laid before the reichstag, i, in my character of commander-in-chief, instruct tirpitz to make the following statement to the committee: the third squadron will be asked for and voted, but the building of the three additional units required to complete it will not be started until , and one ship each will be demanded in and respectively. "haldane agreed to this and expressed his satisfaction. i have made no end of concessions. but this must be the limit. he was very nice and very reasonable, and he perfectly understood my position as commander-in-chief, and that of tirpitz, with regard to the bill. i really think i have done all i could do. "please remember me to cassel and inform him. "your sincere friend, "(_signed_) wilhelm i.r." after lord haldane's departure from berlin there was a gap of considerable length in the negotiations which had made such a promising start, and unfortunately during that time mr. churchill made a speech which not only the german papers but also the liberal press in great britain described as wanting in discretion. the passage which german opinion resented most of all was the statement that, in contrast with great britain, for whom a big navy was an absolute necessity, to germany such navy was merely a luxury. for the rest, the following two letters from the chancellor to ballin may throw some light on the causes of the break in the negotiations: "berlin. " . . . "dear mr. ballin, "our supposition that it is the contents of the bill which have brought about the change of feeling is confirmed by news from a private source. it is feared that the bill as it stands will have such an adverse influence on public opinion that the latter will not accept a political agreement along with it. nevertheless, the idea of an understanding has not been lost sight of, even though it may take six months or a year before it can be accomplished. "in consequence of this information the draft reply to london requires to be reconsidered, and it has not been dispatched so far. i shall let you know as soon as it has left. "sincerely yours. "(_signed_) bethmann-hollweg." "berlin. " . . . "dear mr. ballin, "this is intended for your confidential information. regarding the naval question great britain now, as always, lays great stress on the difficulty of reconciling public opinion to the inconsistency implied by a big increase in the naval estimates hand in hand with the conclusion of a political and colonial agreement. however, even if an agreement should not be reached, she hopes that the confidential relations and the frank exchange of opinions between both governments which have resulted from lord haldane's mission may continue in future. the question of a colonial understanding is to be discussed in the near future. "it is imperative that the negotiations should not break down. success is possible in spite of the navy bill if the discussions are carried on dispassionately. as matters stand, the provisions of the bill must remain as they are. great britain has no right to interfere with our views on the number of the crews which we desire to place on board our existing units. as far as the building dates of the three battleships are concerned, i should have preferred--as you are aware--to leave our hands untied, but his majesty's decision has definitely fixed and as the years for laying them down. this is a far-reaching concession to great britain. "discreet support from private quarters will be appreciated. "many thanks for your news. you know that and why i was prevented from writing these last few days. "sincerely yours, "(_signed_) bethmann-hollweg." in order to find out whether any foreign influence might have been at work in london, i was commissioned to meet sir ernest cassel in the south of europe early in march. ballin supplied me with a letter containing a detailed account of the general situation. owing to a delay in the proposed meeting, i took the precaution of burning the letter, as i had been instructed to do, and i informed sir ernest of its contents by word of mouth. in this document ballin gave a brief résumé of the situation as it appeared to him after his consultations with the various competent departments in berlin, somewhat on the following lines: ( ) after lord haldane's return sir edward grey officially told count metternich that he was highly pleased with the successful issue of lord haldane's mission, and gave him to understand that he thought it unlikely that any difficulties would arise. ( ) a few days later mr. asquith made a statement in the house of commons which amply confirmed the views held by sir edward grey, and which produced a most favourable impression in berlin. ( ) this induced the chancellor to make an equally amicable and hopeful statement to the reichstag. ( ) in spite of this, however, there arose an interval of several weeks, during which neither count metternich nor anybody in berlin received any news from the proper department in london. this silence naturally caused some uneasiness. ( ) count metternich was asked to call at the foreign office, where sir edward grey commenced to raise objections mainly in reference to the navy bill. "i must add in this connexion--as, no doubt, lord haldane has also told you verbally--that on the last day of his stay in berlin an understanding was arrived at between the competent quarters on our side and lord haldane with regard to the building dates of the three battleships. as you will remember, it had been agreed not to discuss the proposed establishment of the third squadron on an active footing and the increase in the number of the crews connected with it, but to look upon these subjects as lying outside the negotiations." quite suddenly and quite unexpectedly we are now faced with a great change in the situation. grey, as i have said before, objects--in terms of the greatest politeness, of course--to the increase in the number of the crews, asks questions as to our intentions with regard to torpedo boats and submarines, and--this is most significant--emphasizes that the haldane mission has at any rate been of great use, even if the negotiations should not lead to any definite result. ( ) the next event was a further interview with count metternich during which it was stated that, according to the calculations of the first lord of the admiralty, the increase in the number of the crews amounted to , men, whilst it had been thought in england that it would be a question of from , to , men at the outset. it appeared that this large increase was looked upon with misgivings, and that it was desired to enter into fresh negotiations which would greatly interfere with the arrangements made by the german competent quarters with regard to the navy. hence metternich replied that, in his opinion, these explanations could only mean that the cabinet did not agree to the arrangements made by lord haldane. grey's answer was full of polite assurances couched in the language of diplomacy, but, translated into plain german, what he meant was: "you are quite right." ballin's letter went on to say that the german navy bill had gradually been reduced to a minimum, and that it was not possible to cut it down any further. we could not, and we would not, give rise to the suspicion that great alterations had been made merely to meet british objections. finally, ballin requested his friend to go to london in order to make inquiries on the spot, and also declared his readiness to go there himself. my report on my conversations with sir ernest cassel, which took place at marseilles on march th and th, is as follows: "our friend arrived about four hours late, but he received me all the same at p.m. on that evening. i told him all about my journey and related to him verbally the contents of ballin's letter. when i described the incident of how grey had raised new objections at his interview with metternich, and when i explained how, after that, the matter had come to a dead stop, so that nothing further was heard of it in germany, our friend interrupted me by saying that since then the british government had presented a memorandum containing the objections raised against the german navy bill. the latter, he suggested, was the only stumbling-block, as could be inferred from a letter which he had received _en route_ from haldane. "when i remarked that ballin, in a postscript to his letter, had expressed an apprehension lest some foreign influence had interfered with the course of events, our friend positively denied this. france, he said, was on good terms with great britain, and had no reason for intriguing against an anglo-german agreement destined, as it was, to promote the cause of peace. "when i then proceeded with my account, drawing his special attention to the reduction of the estimates contained in the navy bill, sir ernest interposed that he was not sufficiently _au courant_ as to the details. he himself, in his statement prepared for the british government, had only referred to the battleships, and he thought he had perhaps given too cursory an account of the other factors of the case. he also threw out some fairly plain hints that haldane had gone too far in berlin, and that he had made statements on a subject with which he was not sufficiently conversant. later on, he continued, the navy bill had been subjected to a careful examination by the british admiralty, and before his departure from cannes he, sir ernest, had received a letter from mr. churchill, the tone of which was very angry. churchill complained that germany had presented such a long list of the wishes with which she wanted great britain to comply, that the least one could hope for was an accommodating spirit in the question of the navy. everything now depended on churchill; if he could be satisfied, all the rest would be plain sailing. he and lloyd george were the greatest friends of the agreement. sir ernest also made it fairly clear that great britain would be content with a postponement of the building dates, or in other words with a 'retardation of the building programme.' the negotiations would be bound to fail, unless ballin could secure such a postponement. it was necessary to strike whilst the iron was hot, and this particular iron had already become rather cool. he quite accepted grey's statement that the haldane mission had not been in vain, as the feeling had doubtless become more friendly since then. some few individual indiscretions, such as churchill's reference to the german navy as an article of luxury, should not be taken too seriously. if the german bill were passed into law in its present shape, the british government would be obliged to introduce one asking for three times as much, but it could not possibly do this and declare at the same time that it had reached an understanding with germany. such a proceeding would be absurd. the argument that it is inconsistent with common sense to conclude an agreement and yet to continue one's armaments, is evidently still maintained in great britain, and is one which, of course, it is impossible to refute. "in the course of our conversation sir ernest produced the letter which he had received from haldane _en route_. this letter stated that the discussions with metternich were then chiefly on the subject of the navy bill, and that the admiralty had prepared a memorandum for the german government dealing with these questions. the letter was dated february th, and its tone was not pessimistic; churchill, however, as stated above, had previously written him a 'very angry' letter. in this connexion it must not be forgotten that the man on whom everything depends is not the amiable negotiator haldane, but churchill." in order to make further inquiries about the state of things and to assist in promoting the good cause, ballin, immediately after my return, proceeded to paris and then to london. he reported to the chancellor upon the impressions he had received in paris. the following is an extract from his report: "owing to the brief time at my disposal when i was in paris, i could only learn the views of the members of the '_haute finance_.' it is well known that in france the attitude taken up by financial circles is always regarded as authoritative. they look upon the present situation as decidedly pacific; they are pleased that the morocco affair is settled, and they feel quite sure that the political sky is unclouded by complications. they would gladly welcome an agreement between germany and great britain. my friends assure me that the government also does not view the idea of such an understanding with displeasure; on the contrary, it looks upon it as an advantage. it is, however, thought unlikely that an agreement will be reached, because it is believed that popular feeling in germany is too much opposed to it. if, notwithstanding these pacific views held by influential and competent sections, the casual visitor to the french capital is impressed by a certain bellicose attitude of the nation as a whole, it is largely due to the propaganda carried on by the _matin_ with the purpose of obtaining voluntary subscriptions for the furtherance of aviation. the french are enthusiastic over this idea, and as it has a strong military bearing, the man in the street likes to connect the french aviation successes with a victorious war." from london ballin sent me some telegrams which i was instructed to pass on to the chancellor. in these messages he stated that his conversations with the german ambassador and with haldane had convinced him that people in london believed that the increase in the number of the crews, if the proposed german navy bill became law, would be greater than the figures given by berlin would make it appear. it would therefore be most desirable to arrange for a meeting of experts to clear up this discrepancy. ballin's impression was that the british cabinet, and also the king, were still favourably disposed to the whole plan, and that the cabinet was unanimous in this view. a conversation with churchill, which lasted several hours, confirmed these impressions. in london the increase in the number of the crews had previously been estimated at half of what it would really be, and alarm was felt about the large number of torpedo boats and submarines demanded; but since the german government had explained that the figures arrived at in london--i.e. those stated in the memorandum which had been addressed to the german government some time before--were not correct, churchill had agreed that both sides should nominate experts who would check the figures and put them right. churchill was anxious to see that the matter was brought to a successful issue, and he was still hoping that a neutrality agreement would induce the german government to make concessions in regard to the navy bill. when ballin had satisfied himself as to this state of things, he immediately returned to berlin, as he did not consider it appropriate that any private person should do anything further for the time being, and as he thought that the conduct of the discussions concerning the neutrality agreement were best left to the ambassador. meanwhile, however, the german government had definitely made up its mind that the navy bill would have to remain as it stood. this was the information ballin received from the kaiser and the chancellor when he returned from london on march th. sir ernest cassel then suggested to the british government that the negotiations concerning the neutrality agreement should be re-opened as soon as the first excitement caused by the navy bill had subsided, which would probably be the case within a few months, and that the interval should be utilized for clearing up the details. in berlin, however, the discussions were looked upon as having been broken off, as may be seen from the following telegram which the kaiser sent to ballin on march th in reply to ballin's information about his last exchange of telegrams with london: "many thanks for letter. the latest proposals arriving here immediately after you had left raised impossible demands and were so offensive in form that they were promptly rejected. further harm was done by churchill's arrogant speech which a large section of the british press justly described as a provocation of germany. the 'agreement' has thus been broken by great britain, and we have done with it. the negotiations must be started afresh on quite a different basis. what apology has there been offered to us for the passage in the speech describing our fleet as an article of luxury? "(_signed_) wilhelm i.r." that the negotiations had actually been broken off was confirmed to ballin by a letter of the chancellor of the same date: "dear mr. ballin, "my cordial thanks for your letter of the th. what your friend told metternich is identical with what he wired you. churchill's speech did not come up to my expectations. he really seems to be a firebrand past praying for. the army and navy bills will probably not go up to the federal council until the st, as the army bill requires some amendments at the eleventh hour. their contents will be published simultaneously. "my opinion is that our labours will now have to be stopped altogether for some time. the problem before us suffers from the defect that, because of its inherent difficulties, it admits of no solution. i shall always remain sincerely grateful to you for your loyal assistance. when you come to berlin next time, please don't forget to call at the wilhelmstrasse. "with kindest regards, "sincerely yours, "(_signed_) bethmann-hollweg." the conviction of the inherent impossibility of solving the problem was shared by many people in germany--chiefly, of course, by those connected with the navy; and some critics went so far as to say that great britain had never honestly meant to arrive at an understanding, or at any rate that haldane--whose honesty and sincerity were beyond doubt--was disowned by his fellow-members in the cabinet. when ballin, in compliance with the wishes of the foreign office, went to london during the critical period before the outbreak of the war in , he wrote a letter from there to a naval officer of high rank with whom he had been on terms of friendship for years. this document is of interest now because it shows what ballin's own standpoint was with regard to the views described in the previous paragraph: "people over here," he wrote, "do not believe that negotiations with great britain on the subject of a naval agreement could possibly be crowned with success, and you yourself contend that it would have been better if such negotiations had never been started. your standpoint is that the failure of any efforts in that direction would merely tend to aggravate the existing situation, a point of view with which i entirely concur. "on the other hand, however, you cannot deny the soundness of the argument that, if the responsible leaders of british naval policy keep expressing their desire to enter into a discussion, the refusal of germany to do so must cause the british to believe that we are pursuing aims far exceeding those we have openly avowed. my somewhat fatigued brain is unable to see whether the german contention is right or wrong. but naturally, i always look upon things from the business man's point of view, and so i always think it better to come to some kind of an agreement with a competitor rather than allow him an unlimited measure of expansion. once, however, i have come to the conclusion that for financial or other reasons this competitor can no longer keep pace with me, his further existence ceases altogether to interest me. "thus the views of the expert on these matters and those of the business man run counter to each other, and i am entitled to dismiss this subject without entering upon a discussion of the interesting and remarkable arguments which winston churchill put before me last night. i cannot, however, refrain from contradicting by a few brief words the contention that the motives which had prompted the haldane mission were not sincere. a conversation with sir edward grey the night before last has strengthened this conviction of mine still further. i regard sir edward as a serious, honest, and clever statesman, and i am sure you will agree with my view that the haldane mission has cleared the atmosphere surrounding anglo-german relations which had become very strained." it may be supposed that history, in the meantime, has proved whose standpoint was the correct one: that of the business man or that of the naval expert. not much need be said about the subsequent development of events up to the outbreak of the war. the above-mentioned opinion which the chancellor held regarding churchill's speech of march th, , was probably arrived at on the strength of the cabled reports only. whoever reads the full original text of the speech must fail to find anything aggressive in it, and there was no harm in admitting that it was a perfectly frank and honest statement concerning the naval rivalry of the two powers. among other things it contained the suggestion that a "naval holiday" should be agreed upon, i.e. both countries should abstain from building new ships for a definite period. we, at any rate, looked upon churchill's speech as a suitable means of making people see what would be the ultimate consequences of the interminable naval armaments. i made a german translation of it which, with the aid of one of the committees for an anglo-german understanding, i spread broadcast all over the country. however, it proved a complete failure, as there were powerful groups in both countries who contended that the efforts to reconcile the two standpoints could not lead to any positive result, and that the old injunction, _si vis pacem, para bellum_, indicated the only right solution. only a master mind could have overcome these difficulties. but herr v. bethmann, as we know, considered that the problem, for inherent reasons, did not admit of any solution at all, and the kaiser's initial enthusiasm had probably been damped by subsequent influences of a different kind. ballin himself, in later years, ascribed the failure of the mission to the circumstance that the kaiser and his chancellor, between themselves only, had attempted to bring the whole matter to a successful issue instead of entrusting this task to the secretary of foreign affairs and to admiral tirpitz, the secretary for the navy. an interesting sidelight on the causes which led to the failure of this last important attempt to reach an understanding is thrown by the rumours which were spread in the german press in march, , to the effect that the secretary of state for foreign affairs, herr v. kiderlen, wished to resign, because he felt that he had been left too much in the dark with regard to the anglo-german negotiations. it was also reported that the chancellor's position had been shaken, and that admiral tirpitz felt dissatisfied, because the navy bill did not go far enough. probably there was some vestige of truth in all these rumours, and this may have been connected with the attitude which the three gentlemen concerned had taken up towards the question of the negotiations with great britain. shortly after the visit of lord haldane ballin received a letter from a personage belonging to the kaiser's entourage in which it was said: "the impression which has taken root with me during the many hours which i spent as an attentive listener is that your broad-minded scheme is being wrecked by our official circles, partly through their clumsiness, and partly through their bureaucratic conceit, and--which is worse--that we have failed to show ourselves worthy of the great opportunity." when it had become certain that the last attempt to reach an understanding had definitely and finally failed, the ambassador in london, count metternich, did not shrink from drawing the only possible conclusion from it. he had always expressed his conviction that a war between germany and a franco-russian coalition would find great britain on the side of germany's opponents, and his resignation--which, as usual, was explained by the state of his health--was really due to a report of his in which he stated it as his opinion that a continuation of german armaments would lead to war with great britain no later than . it is alleged that the kaiser added a very "ungracious" marginal note to this report. consequently, the ambassador, who was a man of very independent character, did the only thing he could consistently do, and resigned his office. in taking this step he may have been influenced by the reception which the failure of the haldane mission met with in conservative circles in great britain, where no stone was left unturned to urge the necessity for continuing the policy of big armaments and to paint german untrustworthiness in the most glaring colours. count metternich's successor was herr v. marschall, a gentleman whose appointment the press and the official circles welcomed with great cordiality, and from whose considerable diplomatic abilities, which were acknowledged on all sides, an improvement of anglo-german relations was confidently expected. it was said that the kaiser had sent "his best man," thus demonstrating how greatly he also desired better relations. but herr v. marschall's activities came to a sudden end through his early death in september, , and in october his place was taken by prince lichnowsky, whose efforts in the direction of an improvement in the relations are familiar to everyone who has read his pamphlet. apart from the work performed by the ambassadors, great credit is also due to the activities displayed by herr v. kühlmann, the then secretary to the legation and subsequent secretary of state. the public did not see a deal of his work, which was conducted with skill and was consistent. his close personal acquaintance with some of the leading british politicians, especially with sir edward grey, enabled him to do much work for the maintenance of good relations and in the interest of european peace, particularly during the time when the post of ambassador was vacant, and also during the balkan war. he had, moreover, a great deal to do with the drafting of the two colonial agreements dealing with the bagdad railway and the african problems respectively, both of which were ready for signature in the summer of . the former especially may be looked upon as a proof not only that a considerable improvement had taken place in anglo-german relations, but also that great britain was not inclined to adjust the guiding lines of her policy in asia minor exclusively in conformity with the wishes of russia. anybody who takes an interest in the then existing possibilities of german expansion with the consent of great britain and on the basis of these colonial draft agreements cannot do better than read the anonymous pamphlet entitled "_deutsche weltpolitik und kein krieg_" ("german world power and no war"), published in by messrs. puttkamer & mühlbrecht, of berlin. the author is dr. plehn, the then representative of the _cologne gazette_ in london, and it partly reflects the views of herr v. kühlmann. in this connexion i should like to refer briefly to an episode which took place towards the close of . the german periodicals have already discussed it, especially the _süddeutsche monatshafte_ in june, , in a review of the reports which count lerchenfeld, the bavarian minister to the court of berlin, had made for the information of his government. in these reports he mentions an event to which the kaiser had already referred in a letter to ballin dated december th, . the kaiser, in commenting on the state of tension then existing between austria and serbia, made some significant remarks concerning the policy of germany towards austria-hungary. when the relations between vienna and petrograd, he wrote, had assumed a dangerous character, because it was recognized that the attitude of serbia was based on her hope of russian support, germany might be faced with the possibility of having to come to the assistance of austria. "the slav subjects of austria," the letter continued, "had become very restless, and could only be brought to reason by the resolute action of the whole dual monarchy against serbia. austria had arrived at the cross roads, and her whole future development hung in the balance. either the german element would retain its ascendancy, in which case she would remain a suitable ally, or the slav element would gain the upper hand, and she would cease to be an ally altogether. if we were compelled to take up arms, we should do so to assist austria not only against russian aggression, but also against the slavs in general, and in her efforts to remain german. that would mean that we should have to face a racial struggle of the germanic element against slav insolence. it is beyond our power to prevent this struggle, because the future of the habsburg monarchy and that of our own country are both at stake. (this was the real meaning of bethmann's very plain speaking.) it is therefore a question on which depends the very existence of the germanic race on the continent of europe. "it was of great importance to us that great britain had so far supported the austro-german standpoint in these matters. now, since a war against russia would automatically imply a war with france as well, it was of interest to us to know whether, in this purely continental case, great britain could and would declare her neutrality in conformity with her proposals of last february. "on december th, haldane, obviously sent by grey, called on lichnowsky and explained to the dumbfounded ambassador in plain words that, assuming germany getting involved in war against russia and france, great britain would _not_ remain neutral, but would at once come to the assistance of france. the reason given for this attitude was that britain could not and would not tolerate at any time that we should acquire a position of continental predominance which might easily lead to the formation of a united continent. great britain could therefore never allow france to be crushed by us. you can imagine the effect of this piece of news on the whole of the wilhelmstrasse. i cannot say that i was taken by surprise, because i, as you know, have always looked upon great britain as an enemy in a military sense. still, this news has decidedly cleared matters up, even if the result is merely of a negative character." ballin did not omit to ask his friend for some details concerning the visit of lord haldane mentioned in the kaiser's letter, and was furnished with the following explanation by lord haldane himself. nothing had been further from his intentions, he said, than to call on prince lichnowsky for the express purpose of making any such declaration; and balkan questions, to the best of his recollection, had not been touched at all. he had spent a very pleasant half-hour with the prince, and in the course of their conversation he had seen fit to repeat the formula which had been discussed during his stay in berlin, and which referred to britain's interest in the preservation of the integrity of france. this, possibly, might have given rise to the misunderstanding. prince lichnowsky himself, in his pamphlet entitled "my london mission," relates the incident as follows: "in my dispatches sent to berlin i pointed out again and again that great britain, being a commercial country, would suffer enormously through any war between the european powers, and would prevent it by every means within her power. at the same time, however, she could never tolerate the weakening or the crushing of france, because it would disturb the balance of power and replace it by the ascendancy of germany. this view had been expressed to me by lord haldane shortly after my arrival, and everybody whose opinion counts for anything told me the same thing." the failure of the negotiations aiming at an understanding led to a continuance of the increase in the british armaments, a concentration of the british battle fleet in the north sea, and to that of the french fleet in the mediterranean. the latter arrangement was looked upon in germany as a menace directed against italy, and produced a sharp semi-official criticism in the _frankfurter zeitung_. in spite of all this, however, friendly messages from london concerning the possibilities of an understanding, the "naval holiday," etc., reached germany from time to time. how closely ballin clung to his favourite idea that the naval experts of both countries should come to an understanding is demonstrated by the circumstance that in , when the british squadron was present during the kiel yachting week, he tried to bring about a meeting and a personal exchange of views between churchill and tirpitz. churchill was by no means disinclined to come to germany for this purpose, but unfortunately the desire was expressed by the german side, and especially by the kaiser, that the british government should make an official inquiry whether his visit would be welcomed. the government, however, was not disposed to do so, and the whole thing fell through, although churchill sent word that, if tirpitz really wanted to see him, he would find means to bring about such a meeting. thus the last attempt at an understanding had resulted in failure, and before any further efforts in the same direction could be made, europe had been overtaken by its fate. chapter ix the kaiser the origin of the friendship between ballin and the kaiser, which has given rise to so much comment and to so many rumours, was traced back by the kaiser himself to the year , when he inspected the express steamer _auguste victoria_, and when he, accompanied by the kaiserin, made a trip on board the newly-built express steamer _fürst bismarck_. ballin, although he received the honour of a decoration and a few gracious words from his majesty, did not think that this meeting had established any special contact between himself and his sovereign. he told me, indeed, that he dated their acquaintance from a memorable meeting which took place in berlin in , and which was concerned with the preparations for the festivities in celebration of the opening of the kiel canal. the kaiser wanted the event to be as magnificent as possible, and his wishes to this effect were fully met by the hamburg civic authorities and by the shipping companies. although ballin had only been a short time in the position he then held, his versatile mind did not overlook the opportunity thus offered for advertising his company. the kaiser was keenly interested in every detail. after some preliminary discussions with the hamburg senate, all the interested parties were invited to send their delegates to berlin, where a general meeting was to be held in the royal castle with the kaiser in the chair. it was arranged that the north german lloyd and the hamburg-amerika linie should provide one steamer each, which was to convey the representatives of the government departments and of the reichstag, as well as the remaining guests, except those who were to be accommodated on board the _hohenzollern_, and that both steamers should follow in the wake of the latter all the way down the elbe from hamburg to the canal. when this item was discussed the kaiser said he had arranged that the _hohenzollern_ should be followed first by the lloyd steamer and then by the hamburg-amerika liner. thereupon ballin asked leave to speak. he explained that, since the journey was to start in hamburg territorial waters, it would perhaps be proper to extend to the hamburg company the honour of the position immediately after the imperial yacht. the kaiser, in a tone which sounded by no means gracious, declared that he did not think this was necessary, and that he had already given a definite promise to the lloyd people. ballin replied that, if the kaiser had pledged his word, the matter, of course, was settled, and that he would withdraw his suggestion, although he considered himself justified in making it. at the close of the meeting count waldersee, who had been one of those present, took ballin's arm and said to him: "as you are now sure to be hanged from the brandenburger tor, let us go to hiller's before it comes off, to have some lunch together." ballin never ceased to be grateful to the count for this sign of kindness, and his friendship with him and his family lasted until his death. the arrangements made by the hamburg-amerika linie for the reception of its guests were carefully prepared and carried out. it is not easy to give an idea to a non-expert of the great many minute details which have to be attended to in order to accommodate a large number of exacting visitors on a steamer in such a manner that nobody finds anything to complain of, especially if, as is but natural on an occasion such as this, an endless variety of questions as to precedence and etiquette have to be taken into account. great pains and much circumspection are necessary to arrange to everybody's satisfaction all matters affecting the reception of the guests, the provision of food and drinks, the conveyance of luggage, etc. thanks to the infinite care, however, with which ballin and his fellow-workers attended to this matter, everything turned out eminently satisfactory. in the evening, when the guests of the hamburg-amerika linie were returning to their steamer at the close of the festivities, the company agreeably surprised them by providing an artistically arranged collation of cold meats, etc., and the news of this spread so quickly that from the other vessels people who felt that the official catering had not taken sufficient account of their appetites, lost no time in availing themselves of this opportunity of a meal. this event, at any rate, helped to establish the reputation of the company's hospitality. it may be presumed that this incident had shown the kaiser--who, although he did not object to being contradicted in private, could not bear it in public--that the hamburg company was animated by a spirit of independence which did not subordinate itself to other influences without a protest, and which jealously guarded its position. it must be stated that the kaiser never bore ballin any ill will on account of his opposition, which may be partly due to the great pains the packetfahrt took in order to make the festivities a success. the event may also have induced the kaiser to watch the progress of the hamburg-amerika linie after that with particular attention. his special interest was centred round the provision for new construction, and in this matter he exerted his influence from an early time in favour of the german yards. the first occasion of the kaiser's pleading in favour of german yards dates from the time previous to his accession to the throne. ballin, in a speech which he delivered when the trial trip of the s.s. _meteor_ took place, stated the facts connected with this intervention as follows: the directors had just started negotiations with british shipbuilding firms for the building of their first express steamer when the prussian minister to the free city of hamburg called to inform them, at the request of prince bismarck, that the latter, acting upon the urgent representations of prince wilhelm, suggested that they should entrust the building of the big vessel to a german yard. the prince was profoundly convinced that germany, for the sake of her own future, must cease to play the part of cinderella among the nations, and that there was no want of engineers among his countrymen who, if given a chance, would prove just as efficient as their fellow-craftsmen in england. the packetfahrt thereupon entrusted the building of the vessel to the stettin vulkan yard. she was the fast steamer _auguste victoria_, and was christened after the young empress. launched in , she immediately won "the blue riband of the atlantic" on her first trip. another and still more practical suggestion of the kaiser was put forward at the time when the company were about to build an excursion steamer. the satisfactory results which their fast steamers had yielded during the dead season in the transatlantic passage business when used for pleasure cruises had induced them to take this step, and when the kaiser's attention was drawn to this project, he, on the strength of the experience he had made with his _hohenzollern_, designed a sketch and composed a memorandum dealing with the equipment of such a steamer. it was ballin's opinion that this imperial memorandum contained some suggestions worth studying, although it was but natural that the monarch could not be expected to be sufficiently acquainted with all the practical considerations which the company had to bear in mind in order to make the innovation pay, and that, therefore, some of his recommendations could not be carried out. if we remember what vivid pleasure the kaiser derived from his own holiday cruises, it cannot surprise us to see that he took such a keen interest in the company's excursion trips. how keen it was may be inferred from an incident which happened early in his reign, and to which ballin, when describing his first experiences on this subject, referred in his above-mentioned speech on the occasion of the trial trip of the _meteor_. ballin said: "even among my most intimate associates people were not wanting who thought that i was not quite right in my mind when, at the head of intrepid travellers, i set out on the first pleasure cruise to the far east in january, . the kaiser had just inspected the vessel, and then bade farewell to the company and myself by saying: 'that's right. make our countrymen feel at home on the open sea, and both your company and the whole nation will reap the benefit.'" in after years the kaiser's interest in the company chiefly centred round those landmarks in its progress which marked the country's expansion in the direction of _weltpolitik_, e.g. its participation in the imperial mail service to the far east, its taking up a share in the african trade, etc. in fact, after , when the kaiser had keenly interested himself in the establishment of the morgan trust and its connexion with german shipping companies, there was scarcely an important event in the history of the company (such as the extension of its services, the addition of a big new steamer, etc.) which he allowed to pass without a few cordial words of congratulation. he also took the liveliest interest in the personal well-being of ballin. he always sent him the compliments of the season at christmas or for the new year, generally in the shape of picture post-cards or photographs from his travels, together with a few gracious words, and he never failed to remember the anniversaries of important events in ballin's life or to inquire after him on recovering from an illness. ballin, in his turn, acquainted the kaiser with anything which he believed might be of interest to his majesty, or might improve his knowledge of the economic conditions existing in his own as well as in foreign countries. he kept him informed about all the more important pool negotiations, e.g. those in connexion with the establishment, in , of the general pool, and those referring to the agreements concluded with other german shipping companies, etc. whenever he noticed on his travels any signs of important developments, chiefly those of a political kind, he furnished his imperial friend with reports on the foreign situation. in the kaiser's interest in ballin took a particularly practical form. ballin had suffered a great deal from neuralgic pains which, in spite of the treatment of various physicians, did not really and permanently diminish until the patient was taken in hand by professor schweninger, the famous medical adviser of no less a man than bismarck. ballin himself testified to the unvaried attention and kindness of dr. schweninger, and to the great success of his treatment. it is to be assumed that schweninger, because of his energetic manner of dealing with his patients, was eminently suited to ballin's disposition, which was not an easy one for his doctor and for those round him to cope with. "as early as january, ," ballin remarks in his notes, "the kaiser had sent a telegram inviting me to attend the _ordensfest_ celebrations in berlin, and during the subsequent levee he favoured me with a lengthy conversation, chiefly because he wanted to tell me how greatly he was alarmed at the state of my health. his physician, professor leuthold, had evidently given him an unfavourable account of it. the kaiser explained that he could no longer allow me to go on without proper assistance or without a substitute who would do my work when i was away for any length of time. this state of things caused him a great deal of anxiety, and, as it was a matter of national interest, he was bound to occupy himself with this problem. he did not wish to expose himself to a repetition of the danger--which he had experienced in the krupp case--that a large concern like ours should at any moment be without a qualified steersman at the helm. he said he knew that of all the gentlemen in his entourage herr v. grumme was the one i liked best, and that i had an excellent opinion of him. he also considered grumme the best man he had ever had round him, and it would be difficult to replace him. nevertheless he would be glad to induce grumme to join the services of the hamburg-amerika linie, if i thought that this would solve the difficulty he had just referred to, and that such a solution would fall in with my own wishes. he was convinced that i should soon be restored to my normal health if i were relieved of some part of my work, and that this would enable me to do much useful service to the nation and himself; so he would be pleased to make the sacrifice. i sincerely thanked his majesty, and assured him that i could not think of any solution that i should like better than the one he had proposed, and that, if he were really prepared to do so much for me, i would beg him to discuss the matter with grumme. that very evening he sent for grumme, who immediately expressed his readiness to enter the services of our company if such was his majesty's pleasure." the lively interest which the kaiser took in the development of our mercantile marine was naturally closely connected with the growth of the imperial navy and with our naval policy in general. the country's maritime interests and the merchant fleet were the real motives that prompted his own naval policy, whereas tirpitz chiefly looked upon them as a valuable asset for propaganda purposes. during the first stage of the naval policy and of the naval propaganda--which at that time were conducted on quite moderate lines--ballin, as he repeatedly told me, played a very active part. it was the time when the well-known periodical _nautikus_, afterwards issued at regular annual intervals, was first published by the ministry for the navy, and when a very active propaganda in favour of the navy and of the country's maritime interests was started. experience has proved how difficult it is to start such a propaganda, especially through the medium of a press so loosely organized as was the german press in those days. but it is still more difficult to stop, or even to lessen, such propaganda once it has been started, because the preliminary condition for any active propaganda work is that a large number of individual persons and organizations should be interested in it. it is next to impossible to induce these people to discontinue their activities when it is no longer thought desirable to keep up the propaganda after its original aim has been achieved. germany's maritime interests remained a favourite subject of press discussions, and the animation with which these were carried on reached a climax whenever a supplementary navy bill was introduced. even when it was intended to widen the kiel canal, as it proved too narrow for the vessels of the "dreadnought" type, the necessity for doing so was explained by reference to the constantly increasing size of the new steamers built for the mercantile marine; although, seeing that the shallow waters of the baltic and of the channels leading into it made it quite impossible to use them for this purpose, nobody ever proposed to send those big ships through the canal. in later years ballin often spoke with great bitterness of those journalists who would never leave off writing about "the daring of our merchant fleet" in terms of unmeasured eulogy, and whom he described as the greatest enemies of the hamburg-amerika linie. but it was not only the propaganda work for the imperial navy to which the kaiser contributed by his own personal efforts: the range of his maritime interests was much wider. he gave his assistance when the problems connected with the troop transports to the far east and to south west africa were under discussion; he studied with keen attention the progress of the german mercantile marine, the vessels of which he frequently met on his travels; he often went on board the german tourist steamers, those in norwegian waters for instance, when he would unfailingly make some complimentary remarks on the management, and he became the lavish patron of the sporting events known as kiel week, the scope of which was extending from year to year. the kiel week, originally started by the yachting clubs of hamburg for the encouragement of their sport, gradually developed into a social event of the first order, and since it became customary for the hamburg-amerika linie to dispatch one of their big steamers to kiel, where it served as a hotel ship for a large number of the visitors. from kiel week was preceded by a visit of the kaiser--and frequently of the kaiserin as well--to hamburg, where their majesties attended the summer races and the yachting regatta on the lower elbe. in the kaiser had the intention of being present at a banquet which the norddeutsche regatta-verein was giving on board the packetfahrt liner _columbia_, and he was only prevented from doing so at the last moment. in the following year the hamburg-amerika linie sent their s.s. _pretoria_ to kiel. on this vessel the well-known "regatta dinner" took place which the kaiser attended, and which, on future occasions, he continued to honour with his presence. ballin received a special invitation to visit the kaiser on board his yacht _hohenzollern_. he could not, however, avail himself of it, because the message only reached him on his way home to hamburg. the year after, the kaiser commanded ballin to sit next to him at the table, and engaged him in a long conversation on the subject of the load-line which he wanted to see adopted by german shipping firms for their vessels. the packetfahrt carried this suggestion into practice shortly afterwards, and in course of time the other companies followed suit. on the occasion of these festivities the kaiser in paid a visit to the new premises of the hamburg-amerika linie. in and in subsequent years he also visited ballin's private home and took lunch with him. the speeches which he made at the regatta dinners given in connexion with the regatta on the lower elbe frequently contained some political references. in , for instance, he said: "although we do not possess such a navy as we ought to have, we have gained a place in the sun. it will now be my duty to see to it that we shall keep this place in the sun against all comers.... i, as the supreme head of the empire, can only rejoice whenever i see a hanseatic citizen--let him be a native of hamburg, or bremen, or lübeck--striking out into the world with his eyes wide open, and trying to find a spot where he can hammer a nail into the wall from which to hang the tools needed to carry on his trade." in he quoted the motto from the lübeck ratskeller: "it is easy to hoist the flag, but it costs a great deal to haul it down with honour." and in , after the launch of the big steamer _bismarck_, he quoted bismarck's saying, slightly altered: "we germans fear god, but nothing and nobody besides." kiel week never passed without a great deal of political discussion. the close personal contact on such occasions between ballin and the kaiser furnished the former with many an opportunity for expressing his views on politics. much has been said about william ii's "irresponsible advisers," who are alleged to have endeavoured to influence him in the interests of certain cliques, and it cannot, of course, be denied that the men who formed the personal entourage of the monarch were very far from representing every shade of public opinion, even if that had been possible. the traditions of the prussian court and of princely education may have contributed their share to this state of things. the result, at any rate, was that in times of crises--as, for instance, during the war--it was impossible to break through the phalanx of men who guarded the kaiser and to withdraw him from their influence. events have shown how strong this influence must have been, and how little it was suited to induce the kaiser to apply any self-criticism to his preconceived ideas. added to this, there was the difficulty of obtaining a private conversation with the kaiser for any length of time--a difficulty which was but rarely overcome even by persons possessing very high credentials. it has already been mentioned that the kaiser did not like to be contradicted in the presence of others, because he considered it derogatory to his sovereign position. ballin repeatedly succeeded in engaging the kaiser in private conversations of some length, especially after his journeys abroad, when the kaiser invited him to lunch with him, and afterwards to accompany him on a walk unattended. ballin's notes more than once refer to such conversations with the kaiser, e.g. on june rd, , when he had been a member of the imperial luncheon party: "after lunch the kaiser asked me to report on my trip to the far east, and he, in his turn, told me some exceedingly interesting pieces of news relating to his stay in england, and to political affairs connected with it." the following passage, referring to the kiel week, is taken from the notes of the same year: "i received many marks of the kaiser's attention, who, on july th, summoned me to kiel once more, as he wished to discuss with the chancellor and me the question of the japanese bank." during his trip to the far east ballin had taken a great deal of trouble to bring about the establishment of a german-japanese bank. the following extracts are taken from the notes of subsequent years: "on december th ( ) i received a wire asking me to see the kaiser at the _neues palais_. to my infinite joy the kaiser had quite recovered the use of his voice. he looked well and fit, and during a stroll through the park i had a long chat with him concerning my trip to america and other matters. in february the kaiser intends to undertake a mediterranean cruise on board the _hohenzollern_ for the benefit of his health. he will probably proceed to genoa on board one of the imperial mail packets, which is to be chartered for him." (april ). "the kaiser had expressed a wish to see me in italy. on my arrival at naples i found a telegram waiting for me in which i was asked to proceed to messina if necessary. owing, however, to the state of our negotiations with the russian government, i did not think it desirable to meet the kaiser just then, and thus i had no opportunity of seeing him until may rd when i was in berlin to attend a meeting of the _disconto-gesellschaft_, and to confer with stübel on the question of some further troop transports to south west africa. i received an invitation to join the imperial luncheon party at which the birthday of the crown prince was to be celebrated in advance, since his majesty would not be in town on may th. the kaiser's health had much improved through his cruise; he had lost some of his stoutness, and the kaiserin, too, was greatly pleased to see him looking so well. we naturally discussed the topics of the day, and the kaiser, as always, was full of kindness and goodwill towards me." "on june st, , the usual imperial regatta took place at cuxhaven, and the usual dinner on board the _blücher_. these events were followed by kiel week, which lasted from june nd to th. we stayed on board the _victoria luise_, and i was thus brought into especially close contact with the kaiser. i accompanied him to eckernförde on board the _meteor_, and we discussed the political situation, particularly in its bearing on the morocco question and on the attitude of great britain." "on june th, , the kaiser, the kaiserin, and some of their sons were staying in hamburg. i dined with them at tschirschky's (the prussian minister in hamburg), and we drove to the races. on june th we proceeded to cuxhaven, where, on board the _deutschland_, i heard the news--which the kaiser had just communicated to kaempff (the captain of the _deutschland_)--that the north german lloyd steamer _kaiser wilhelm ii_, in consequence of her being equipped with larger propellers, had won the speed record. late at night the kaiser asked me to see him on board the _hohenzollern_, where he engaged me in a long discussion on the most varied subjects. on june st the regatta took place at cuxhaven. the kaiser and prince heinrich were amongst the guests who were entertained at dinner on board the _deutschland_. the kaiser was in the best of health and spirits. owing to the circumstance that burgomaster burchard--who generally engages the kaiser in after-dinner conversation--was prevented by his illness from being present, i was enabled to introduce a number of hamburg gentlemen to his majesty. as the kaiser had summoned me to dine with him on board the _hohenzollern_ on the nd, i could not return to hamburg, but had to travel through the kiel canal that same night on board a tug steamer. on the nd i stayed at the club house of the imperial yachting club, whilst at my own house a dinner party was given for persons. on the rd i changed my quarters to the _prinzessin victoria luise_, and the other visitors arrived there about noon. a special feature of kiel week of was the visit of king edward to the kaiser whom he met at kiel. for the accommodation of the ministers of state and of the other visitors whom the kaiser had invited in connexion with the presence of the king, we had placed our s.s. _prinz joachim_ at his disposal, in addition to the _prinzessin victoria luise_. we also supplied, for the first time, a hotel ship, the _graf waldersee_, all the cabins of which were engaged. on june th my wife and i, and a number of other visitors from the _prinzessin victoria luise_, were invited to take afternoon tea with the kaiser and kaiserin on board the _hohenzollern_, and i had a lengthy conversation with king edward." whenever the kaiser granted ballin an interview without the presence of witnesses he cast aside all dignity, and discussed matters with him as friend to friend. neither did he object to his friend's counsel and admonitions, and he was not offended if ballin, on such occasions, subjected his actions or his opinions to severe criticism. on such occasions the kaiser, as ballin repeatedly pointed out, "took it all in without interrupting, looking at me from the depth of his kind and honest eyes." that he did not bear ballin any malice for his frankness is shown by the fact that he took a lively and cordial interest in all the events touching the private life of ballin and his family, his daughter's engagement, for instance--an interest which still continued after ballin's death. in spite of this close friendship between ballin and the kaiser, it would be quite wrong to assume that ballin exercised anything resembling a permanent influence on his majesty. their meetings took place only very occasionally, and were often separated by intervals extending over several months, and it happened only in rare cases that ballin availed himself of the privilege of writing to the kaiser in person. it is true that the latter was always pleased to listen to ballin's explanations of his views, and it is possible that every now and than he did allow himself to be guided by them; but it is quite certain that he never allowed these views to exercise any actual influence on the country's politics. the events narrated in the chapter of this book dealing with politics show that in a concrete case, at any rate, ballin's recommendations and the weight of his arguments were not sufficient to cope successfully with the influence of others who were the permanent advisers of the sovereign, and who had at all times access to his majesty. if thus the effect of ballin's friendship with the kaiser has frequently been greatly overrated in regard to politics, the same holds good--and, indeed, to a still greater extent--in regard to the advantages which the hamburg-amerika linie is supposed to have derived from it. one of ballin's associates on the board of the company was quite right when he said: "ballin's friendship with the kaiser has done more harm than good to the hamburg-amerika linie." indirectly, of course, it raised the prestige of the company both at home and abroad. but there is no doubt that it had also an adverse effect upon it: at any rate, outside of germany. it gave rise to all sorts of rumours, e.g. that the company obtained great advantages from the government; that the latter subsidized it to a considerable extent; that the kaiser was one of the principal shareholders, etc. it is also quite certain that these beliefs were largely instrumental in making the hamburg-amerika linie, as ballin put it, one of the war aims of great britain, and it is even alleged that, at the close of the war, the british government approached some of the country's leading shipping firms with the suggestion that they should buy up the hamburg-amerika linie or the north german lloyd. this was at the time when it became desirable to secure the necessary organization for the intended commercial conquest of the continent. it is quite possible--and, i am inclined to think, quite probable--that this suggestion was put forward because such a step would be in harmony with that frame of mind from which originated such stipulations of the versailles treaty as deal with shipping masters, and with the assumption that german shipping--which was supposed to depend for its continuance mainly on the existence of the german monarchial system--would practically come to an end with the disappearance of the latter. it would, indeed, be difficult to name any historical document which pays less regard to the vital necessities of a nation and which actually ignores them more completely than does the treaty signed at versailles. the allegation that ballin should ever have attempted to make use of his friendship with the kaiser for his own or for his company's benefit is, moreover, diametrically opposed to the established fact that he knew the precise limits of his influence, and that he never endeavoured to overreach himself. his "policy of compromise" was the practical outcome of this trait of his character. the opinion which my close observation of ballin's work during the last ten years of his life enabled me to form was, as far as its political side is concerned, confirmed to me in every detail by no less a person than prince bülow, who, without doubt, is the most competent judge of german affairs in the first decade of the twentieth century. when i asked the prince whether ballin could be accused of ever having abused the friendship between himself and the kaiser for any ulterior ends whatever, he replied with a decided negative. ballin, he said, had never dreamt of doing such a thing. he had always exercised the greatest tact in his relations with the kaiser, and had never made use of them to gain any private advantage. besides, his views had nearly always coincided with those held by the responsible leaders of the country's political destinies. once only a conflict of opinion had arisen between ballin and himself on a political question, and this was at the time when the customs tariffs were under discussion. ballin held that these were detrimental to the country's best interests, and it is a well-known fact that, at that time, there was a widespread feeling as to the impossibility of concluding any commercial treaties so long as those tariffs were in operation. during the most critical period of the existence of the monarchy--i.e. during the war--ballin's influence on the kaiser was but slight. only on a very few occasions was he able to meet the kaiser, and he never had an opportunity of talking to him privately, as in former times. it was the constant aim of the kaiser's entourage to maintain their controlling influence over the kaiser unimpaired. even when they last met--in september, --and when ballin, at the instance of the supreme army command, was asked to explain to the kaiser the situation as it actually was, he was not permitted to see the kaiser without the presence of a witness, so that his influence could not assert itself. the fact that the kaiser was debarred from knowing the truth was the cause of his and of his country's ruin. "the kaiser is only allowed to know the bright side of things," ballin used to say, "and therefore he does not see matters as they really stand." this is all the more regrettable because, as ballin thought, the kaiser was not wanting in either the capacity or the independence of mind which would have enabled him to pursue a policy better than the one in which he actually acquiesced. more than once, ballin said, the kaiser's judgment on a political issue was absolutely sound, but he did not wish to act contrary to the recommendations of his responsible advisers. when, for instance, it was decided that the gunboat _panther_ should be dispatched to agadir, a decision which was arrived at during kiel week of , the kaiser exclaimed, with much show of feeling, that a step of such far-reaching importance could not be taken on the spur of the moment and without consulting the nation, and he only gave his consent with great reluctance. moreover, ballin stated, he was by no means in sympathy with tirpitz, and the latter was not a man after his own heart, but he was content to let him have his way, because he believed that the naval policy of tirpitz was right, so that he was not entitled to jeopardize the interests of his country by dismissing him. the kaiser was not moved by an ambitious desire to build up a powerful navy destined to risk all in a decisive struggle against great britain, and the numerous passages in his public speeches which foreign observers interpreted as implying such a desire, must be regarded as the explosive outbursts of a strong character which was sometimes directed into wrong channels by a certain sense of its own superiority, and which, in seeking to express itself, would occasionally outrun discretion. his inconsistency which made him an easy prey to the influence of his entourage, caused him to be looked upon by foreign critics as vacillating and unstable, and this impression--as was discovered when too late--discredited his country immensely in the eyes of great britain, who, after all, had to be reckoned with as the decisive factor in all questions relative to world policy. such a character could be guided in the right direction only if the right influence could be brought permanently to bear on it. but who was to exercise such influence on the kaiser? certainly his entourage did not include anyone qualified to do so, because it was not representative of all sections of the nation; neither was any of the successive chancellors able to undertake such a task, since none of them succeeded in solving the questions of internal policy in a manner approved by a reliable and solid majority in the reichstag. the kaiserin also was not free from prejudice as to the war and the causes of its outbreak. ballin relates how, on one of the few occasions when he was privileged to see the kaiser during the war, her majesty, with clenched fists, exclaimed: "peace with england? never!" the imperial family considered themselves betrayed by england and the english court. why this should be so is perhaps still more difficult to say now than ballin could understand in those days. arguments, however, were useless in such a case, and could produce nothing but harm. the kaiser did not bear ballin any malice because of the frankness with which he explained his views that day; on the contrary, members of the kaiser's entourage have confirmed that, after ballin had left that evening, he even tried to make the kaiserin see his (ballin's) point of view. putting himself into ballin's position, he said, he could perfectly understand how he felt about it all; but he himself could not help thinking that his english relatives had played him false, so that he was forced to continue the struggle with england tooth and nail. when ballin, during the summer of , gave me a character sketch of the kaiser, of which the account i have endeavoured to present in the preceding paragraphs is an outline, he added: "but what is the good of it? he is, after all, the managing director, and if things turn out wrong he is held responsible exactly as if he were the director of a joint-stock company." this comparison of the german empire and its ruler with a joint-stock company and its board of directors used to form a frequent subject of argument in our inner circle, and even before the war these discussions regularly led to the conclusion that, what with the policy carried on by the government and that carried on by the parties in the reichstag, the hamburg-amerika linie would have gone bankrupt long ago if its affairs had been conducted on such lines as those of the german empire. it was a never-ending cause of surprise to us to learn how completely the european situation was misjudged in the highest quarters, when, for instance, the following incident, which was reported to ballin during the war, became known to us. one day, when the conversation at lunch in the imperial headquarters turned to the subject of england, the kaiser remarked: "i only wish someone had told me beforehand that england would take up arms against us," to which one of those present replied in a quiet whisper: "metternich." it would have been just as proper, ballin added, to have mentioned my own name, because i also warned the kaiser over and over again. on another page in this book reference is made to the well-known fact that the reason why count metternich, the german ambassador at the court of st. james, had to relinquish his post was that he, in one of his reports, predicted that germany would be involved in war with great britain no later than unless she reduced the pace of her naval armaments. this was one of those numerous predictions to which, like so many others, especially during the war, no one wanted to listen. even in the late summer of , when ballin saw the kaiser for the last time, such warnings met with a deaf ear. this meeting, to which ballin consented with reluctance, was the outcome of a friendship which, politically speaking, was devoid of practical results. a detailed account follows. chapter x the war about the middle of the month of july, , ballin, when staying at kissingen for the benefit of his health, received a letter from the foreign secretary, herr v. jagow, which made him put an immediate end to his holiday and proceed to berlin. the letter was dated july th, and its principal contents were as follows: the _berliner tageblatt_, it said, had published some information concerning certain anglo-russian agreements on naval questions. the foreign office did not attach much value to it, because it was at variance with the general assumption that germany's relations with great britain had undergone a change for the better, and also with the apparent reluctance of british statesmen to tie their country to any such agreements. the matter, however, had been followed up all the same, and through very confidential channels it had been ascertained that the rumours in question were by no means devoid of an actual background of fact. grey, too, had not denied them point blank at his interview with lichnowsky. it was quite true that anglo-russian negotiations were proceeding on the subject of a naval agreement, and that the russian government was anxious to secure as much mutual co-operation between the two countries as possible. a definite understanding had not, so far, been reached, notwithstanding the pressure exercised by russia. grey's attitude had become somewhat uncertain; but it was thought that he would ultimately give his consent, and that he would quieten his own conscience by arguing that the negotiations had not really been conducted between the cabinets, but between the respective naval authorities. it was also quite likely that the british, who were adepts at the art of making nice distinctions, would be negotiating with the mental reservation that they would refrain from taking an active part when the critical moment arrived, if it suited them not to do so; and a _casus foederis_ would presumably not be provided for in the agreement. at any rate, the effect of the latter would be enormously to strengthen the aggressive tendencies of russia. if the agreement became perfect, it would be useless for germany to think any longer of coming to a _rapprochement_ with great britain, and therefore it would be a matter of great importance to make a last effort towards counteracting the russian designs. his (v. jagow's) idea was that ballin, who had intimate relations with numerous englishmen in leading positions, should send a note of warning across the north sea. this suggestion was followed up by several hints as to the most suitable form of wording such a note, and the letter concluded with the statement that the matter was one of great urgency. a postscript dated july th added that a further article had been published by the _berliner tageblatt_, according to which the informants of the author also took a serious view of the situation. ballin, in response to the request contained in the letter, did not content himself with sending a written note to his london friends, but he immediately went to berlin for the purpose of gaining additional information on the spot, with special reference to the general political outlook. he learned that austria intended to present a strongly worded note to serbia, and that it was expected that in reply a counter-note dictated by russia would be received. he was also told that the government not only wanted some information regarding the matter which formed the special subject of herr v. jagow's letter, but also regarding the general political situation in london, as it was doubted whether the reports received from the ambassador were sufficiently trustworthy and complete. this was all that ballin was told. since then many facts have become known which throw a light on the way in which political questions were dealt with by the berlin authorities during the critical period preceding the war, and if we, knowing what we know now, read the letter of herr v. jagow, we ask ourselves in amazement what was the object of the proposed action in london? could it be that it was intended to intimidate the british government? this could hardly be thought possible, so that some other result must have been aimed at. we can only say that the whole affair is still surrounded by much mystery, and we can sympathize with ballin's bitter complaints in later days that he thought people had not treated him with as much openness as they should have done, and that they had abused his intimate relations with leading british personages. ballin then left berlin for hamburg. he gave me his impressions of the state of political affairs--which he did not regard as critical--and went to london, ostensibly on business. in london he met grey, haldane, and churchill, and there also he did not look upon the situation as critical--at least, not at first. when, however, the text of the austrian note became known on thursday, july rd, and when its full significance had gradually been realized, the political atmosphere became clouded: people asked what was austria's real object, and began to fear lest the peace might be disturbed. nevertheless, ballin returned from london on july th with the impression that a fairly capable german diplomat might even then succeed in bringing about an understanding with great britain and france which, by preventing russia from striking, would result in preserving the peace. great britain and the leading british politicians, he said, were absolutely in favour of peace, and the french government was so much against war that its representatives in london seemed to him to be rather nervous on the subject. they would, he thought, do anything in their power to prevent war. if, however, france was attacked without any provocation on her part, great britain would be compelled to come to her assistance. britain would never allow that we, as was provided for in the old plan of campaign, should march through belgium. it was quite true that the austrian note had caused grave anxiety in london, but how earnestly the cabinet was trying to preserve peace might be gauged by the fact that churchill, when he took leave of ballin, implored him, almost with tears in his eyes, not to go to war. these impressions of ballin are confirmed by the reports of prince lichnowsky and other members of the german embassy in their observations during the critical days. apart from these politicians and diplomatists on active service there were other persons of political training, though no longer in office, who did not think at that time that there was an immediate danger of war. in this connexion i should like to add a report of a very remarkable conversation with count witte, which took place at bad salzschlirf on july th. the count--whose untimely death was greatly regretted--was without any doubt one of the most capable statesmen of his time--perhaps the only one with a touch of genius europe possessed--and he certainly knew more about the complicated state of things in russia than any living person. for these reasons his views on the events which form the first stage of the fateful conflict are of special interest. i shall reproduce the report of this conversation exactly as we received it at the time, and as we passed it on to berlin. the authenticity of the statements of count witte as given here is beyond question. "yesterday (on july th) i paid a visit to count witte who was staying at bad salzschlirf, and in the course of the day i had several conversations with him, the first of which took place as early as ten o'clock in the morning. after a few words of welcome, and after discussing some matters of general and personal interest, i said to the count: 'i should like to thank you for your welcome letter and for your telegram. the question which you raise in them of a meeting between our two emperors appears of such fundamental importance to me that i may perhaps hope to be favoured with some details by you personally.' "witte replied: 'in the first instance i wish to reaffirm what i have repeatedly told you, both verbally and by letter, viz. that i am not in the least anxious to be nominated russian delegate for the proposed negotiations concerning a commercial treaty between germany and russia. whoever may be appointed from the russian side will gain no laurels. i think a meeting between the kaiser and the tsar some time within the next few weeks would be of very great importance. have you read the french papers? the tone now assumed by jules hedeman is a direct challenge. i know hedeman, and i also know that he only writes what will please sasonov, poincaré and paléologue (the french ambassador in petrograd). now that the peterhof meeting has taken place the language employed by all the french and russian papers will become more arrogant than ever. it is quite certain that the russian diplomatists and their french colleagues will now assume a different tone in their intercourse with the german diplomatists. the _rapprochement_ with great britain is making considerable progress, and whether a naval convention exists or not, great britain will now side with russia and france. if even now a meeting could be arranged between the two emperors, this would be of immense significance. the mischief-makers both in russia and in france would be made to look small, and public opinion would calm down again." "i asked witte: 'do you think, sergei yulyevitch, that the tsar would avail himself of a possible opportunity of meeting the kaiser?' "witte replied: 'i am firmly convinced of it; i may, indeed, state without hesitation that the tsar would be delighted to do so. the personal relations between the tsar and the kaiser are not of an ordinary kind. they converse with each other in terms of intimate friendship, and each time the tsar has had a chat with the kaiser he has been in better spirits. believe me, if this meeting comes off, the impression which the french visit has left on the tsar will be entirely wiped out. the effect of the showy reception of the french visitors which the press agitators have not failed to use for their own ends will be obliterated. such a meeting will express in unambiguous terms that, whatever value the tsar attaches to the franco-russian alliance, he insists on the maintenance of amicable relations with germany. the meeting will have to be arranged without loss of time, in about four or six weeks, because in two months from now the tsar will be leaving for livadia. the army manoeuvres will be held within the next few weeks, and the tsar will then go to the finnish skerries where, in my opinion, the meeting might take place without difficulty.' "i asked witte: 'do you not think that, if the meeting were officially proposed by germany, it might be looked upon as a sign of weakness on her side, especially in view of the now existing tension between the two countries?' "witte replied: 'by no means. one has always to take into account the fact that the relations between the tsar and the kaiser, as i explained before, are in the highest degree friendly and intimate. i do not know how the kaiser would feel on the subject, but i am convinced that he is possessed of the necessary political sagacity to find the way that will lead to a meeting. he might, e.g., write to the tsar quite openly that, as the relations between their two countries had lately been somewhat under a cloud in consequence of the inefficient diplomacy of their respective representatives, he would be particularly happy to meet him at this juncture. or the suggestion might reach the tsar _via_ the grand duke of hesse and his sister, the tsarina. but this is immaterial, because the kaiser is sure to find the right way. i can only repeat that the effect of the meeting would be enormous. the russian press and russian society would change their whole attitude, and the agitation in the french press would receive a severe setback.' "i said to witte: 'i shall communicate the gist of our conversation to mr. ballin. as it is quite possible that he will be ready to endorse this suggestion, i should like to know your answer to one more question, viz., whether, if mr. ballin were to submit the proposal to the proper quarters, you would allow him to refer to you as the originator of the suggestion.' "witte replied: 'certainly. he may say that i look upon this meeting as an event of the utmost importance to both countries at the present moment.' "i said: 'seeing that you will be leaving germany within five days from now, would you be prepared to go to berlin if the kaiser would receive you unofficially?' "witte replied: 'certainly. at any moment.' "when we went for a walk in the afternoon, witte made reference, amongst other things, to various political questions. i shall confine myself to quoting only a few of his remarks. "'practically speaking,' he said, 'i think that there will be no war, although theoretically the air is thick with difficulties which only a war can clear away. but nowadays there is nobody who, like william the first, would put his foot down and say: "now i will not yield another inch!" the spot at ems where this happened is now adorned with a monument. within a few years when the armaments which for the present are on paper only, shall be completed, russia will really be strong. but even then, one has still to reckon with the possibility of internal complications. france, however, need not fear any such difficulties, because countries possessing a constitution acknowledged by all their inhabitants are not liable to revolutionary movements, no matter how often their governments change.' "in speaking of hartwig, witte remarked: 'his death is the severest blow to russian diplomacy. he was unquestionably the most gifted russian diplomatist. when count lammsdorff, who was a great friend of mine, was minister for foreign affairs, he used to do nothing without first asking my advice. hartwig, at that time, was the chief of his departmental staff, and he often came to see me. even in those early days i had an opportunity of admiring his eminent diplomatic gifts.'" the suggestion which formed the principal subject of the above conversations--viz. that a personal meeting of the two emperors should be arranged in order to remove the existing tension--was not followed up, and the proposal would in any case have been doomed to failure, because the politicians who were responsible for the conduct of affairs at that time had done nothing to prevent the kaiser from embarking on his customary cruise in northern waters. the latter end of july was full of excitement for the directors and the staff of the hamburg-amerika linie. we endeavoured to acquaint the vessels that were under way with the critical situation, and we instructed each captain to make for a neutral port in case war should break out. the naval authorities warned us not to allow any ships to put to sea, and we were particularly asked not to permit the sailing of the s.s. _imperator_, which was fixed for july st, because the attitude of great britain was uncertain. at a midnight meeting held at ballin's private residence it was decided to postpone the departure of the vessel "on account of the uncertain political situation." every berth on the steamer was booked, and hundreds of passengers were put to the greatest inconvenience. most of them proceeded to a neutral or to a british port from which they subsequently embarked for the united states. after this, events followed upon each other's heels in swift succession. when war broke out, most of the ships succeeded in reaching neutral ports, so that comparatively few of them were lost in the early part of the war. by august th the cables had been cut. this circumstance made it very difficult to keep up communications with new york, and compelled the majority of our agencies and branches abroad to use their own discretion as to what to do. the place of regular business was taken by the work involved in carrying out the various agreements which the company had entered into during peace time, viz. those for the victualling and bunkering of various units of the imperial navy, for the supply of auxiliary vessels, and for the establishment of an organization which was to purchase the provisions needed by the navy. in the meantime, the ministry of the interior had started to devise measures for provisioning the country as a whole, as far as that was still possible. it is well known that the responsible authorities had done far too little--indeed, hardly anything at all--to cope with this problem, because they had never taken a very serious view of the danger of war. even the arrangements of the military authorities in connexion with the plans of mobilization were utterly deficient in this respect. the first who seriously studied the question as to what would have to be done for the provisioning of the military and civil population if germany had to fight against a coalition of enemies, and if the overseas supplies were stopped, was general count georg waldersee, who became quartermaster general in . in a letter which he wrote to ballin about that time, he gave a very clear description of the probable state of things in such an emergency. he pointed out that the amount of foodstuffs required during a war would probably be larger than the quantities needed in peace time--a contingency which had escaped attention in germany altogether--and that above all there would be an enormous shortage of raw materials. therefore, he said, if it was desired to guard the country against disagreeable surprises, it was imperative to make certain preparations for an economic and a financial mobilization. the military authorities at least had studied this problem theoretically, but the civil authorities would not make any move at all. the general said he thought it desirable that this question should receive more attention in the future, and he asked ballin to let him know his views on the matter, and to give him some practical advice. the anxiety felt in military quarters was largely augmented by the receipt of disquieting rumours about the increase of russian armaments. in reply we furnished count waldersee with a brief memorandum written by myself in which, amongst other items, i referred him to some suggestions put forward by senator possehl, of lübeck, in the course of a lecture delivered about the same time before a selected audience. in view of the fact that germany depended for her food supply and for her raw materials to an increasing extent on foreign sources, there could be no doubt as to the necessity for making economic preparations against the possibility of a war, if a war was considered at all probable. nevertheless, and in spite of the newly awakened interest on the part of the military authorities, these economic preparations had, before the war, made absolutely no progress worth mentioning. the only practical step which, as far as my knowledge goes, had been taken by the civil authorities, was the conclusion of an agreement entered into with a dutch firm dealing with the importation of cereals in case of war. when, in the fateful summer of , this contingency arose, the firm in question had chartered some british steamers, which instead of carrying their cargoes to rotterdam took them to british ports. thus, no serious efforts of any kind had been made to grapple with the problem. on sunday, august nd, geheimrat frisch, who afterwards became the director of the _zentral-einkaufs-gesellschaft_ (central purchasing corporation), came to hamburg, in order to inform ballin, at the request of the ministry for the interior, that the latter felt very anxious in regard to the quantity of food actually to be found in germany, which, it was feared, would be very small, and that it was expected that a great shortage would arise after a very brief period. he therefore asked him to use his best endeavours in order to secure supplies from abroad. a hamburg firm was immediately requested to find out how much food was actually available in the country, and, although the figures obtained were not quite so bad as it was expected, steps were taken at once to remedy the deficiencies by importing food from neutral countries. a great obstacle to the rapid success of these efforts was the absolute want of any preparatory work. the very attempt to raise the necessary funds abounded with difficulties of every kind, because no money had been set aside for such expenditure in connexion with the scheme of mobilization, and the time taken by the attempts made in this direction, as well as the circumstance that communication with the united states could only be maintained _via_ neutral countries, were the causes of a great deal of serious delay. at ballin's suggestion the _reichseinkauf_ (government purchasing organization) was then formed. for this organization the hamburg-amerika linie was to do all the purchasing, and it was arranged that it should put at the disposal of the new body all those members of its staff who were not called up, and who were considered suitable for the work. buyers were sent to every neutral country; but the mobilization then in progress led to a complete stoppage of railway travelling for the civil population, thus causing no end of difficulties to these buyers, and making personal contact with the berlin authorities almost impossible. added to all this, there was the inevitable confusion which the replacement of the civil administration by the army commands brought in its train. it had, in fact, been assumed that this war would resemble its predecessors in every respect, and no one was prepared for a world war. hence, such important matters as the importation of foodstuffs from abroad and the work of supplying political information to neutral countries concerning the german standpoint were sadly neglected; everything had to be provided at a moment's notice, and had to be carried through in the face of a great deal of opposition. funds and energy were largely wasted; the military, naval, and civil organizations were working against one another instead of co-operating; and it took a long time before a little order could be introduced into the chaos. it was also found that the german credits abroad were quite inadequate for such enormous requirements. an attempt to dispose of some treasury bills in new york was only moderately successful, and in consequence of this lack of available funds the supplies obtained from the united states were but small. even the fact that the hamburg-amerika linie immediately succeeded in establishing the necessary connexions with american shippers, and in securing a sufficient amount of neutral tonnage, did not improve matters in the least. to obtain the required funds in berlin, as has been explained before, involved considerable loss of time; and as the months passed the british blockade became more and more effective. thus, as the war continued, large quantities of food could only be procured from european countries. ballin took a large personal share in the actual business transacted by the _reichseinkauf_. he did so, if for no other reason, because he needed some substitute for the work connected with the real shipping business which was rapidly decreasing in extent. the only benefit his company derived from its new work was that it gave employment to part of the members of its staff, thus reducing in some measure the expenses. with the stoppage of the company's real business its principal source of income ran dry in no time, and the small profits made out of the supply of provisions to the navy was only a poor compensation. the world's economic activities in those days presented a picture of utter confusion. all the stock exchanges were closed; all dealings in stocks and shares had ceased, so that no prices could be quoted; several countries had introduced a moratorium, and numerous banks had stopped payment. germany had no longer any direct intercourse with the overseas countries; the british censorship was daily increasing its hold on the traffic proceeding _via_ neutral ports. at first those foreign steamship companies which maintained passenger services to america did splendid business, because europe was full of american tourists and business men who were anxious to secure a berth to get home, and numerous cabin passengers had to be content with steerage accommodation. when this rush was past, however, shipping business, like international commerce, entered upon its period of decline. the freight rates came down, the number of steamers laid up assumed large proportions, and the world's traffic, in fact, was paralysed. after a comparatively brief period it was found too difficult to conduct the _reichseinkauf_ organization with its headquarters at hamburg, because the intercourse with the imperial treasury at berlin, which provided the funds, took up too much time, and also because it seemed highly advisable to purchase the foreign foodstuffs needed by the military as well as the civil population through one and the same organization. the state of things in respect to these matters was simply indescribable; indeed, if it had been purposely intended to encourage the growth of war profiteering, it would have been impossible to find a better method of setting about it. numerous buyers, responsible to different centres, not merely purchased without regard to each other, but even outbid each other, thus causing a rise in prices which the public had to pay. conditions such as these were brought about by the utter unpreparedness of the competent civil authorities and by the fact that the military authorities could dispose of the vast amounts of money placed at their command at the outbreak of the war. these conditions were doubtless the soil from which sprang all the evils which later on developed into the pernicious system we connect with the name of _kriegswirtschaft_, and for which it will be impossible to demand reparation owing to the lost war and to the outbreak of the revolution. in order to facilitate the intercourse with the proper government boards, and to centralize the purchasing business as much as possible, ballin's suggestion that the seat of the organization should be removed to berlin was adopted, and at the same time the whole matter was put on a sounder footing by its conversion into a limited company under the name of _zentral-einkaufs-gesellschaft_ (central purchasing corporation). the history of the z.e.g. is well known in the country, and its work has been subject to a great deal of criticism, largely due to the fact that all the annoyance caused by the many restrictions which the government found it necessary to impose, and which had to be put up with during the war, was directed against this body. generally speaking, this attitude of the population was very unfair, because the principal grievances concerned the distribution of the foodstuffs, and for this part the z.e.g. was not responsible. its only task was to obtain the necessary supplies from abroad. if it is remembered that the transactions of the corporation reached enormous proportions, and that, after all, it was improvised at a time of war, we cannot be surprised to see that some mistakes and even some serious blunders did occur occasionally, and that the right people were not always found in the right places. moreover, some of the really amazing feats accomplished by the z.e.g--e.g. the supply of grain from roumania, which necessitated enormous labour in connexion with the transhipment from rail to steamer and with the conveyance up the danube--were only known to a few people. it is obvious that nothing could be published during the war about these achievements nor about the agreements concluded, after endless negotiations, with neutral countries and thus the management of the z.e.g. was obliged to suffer in silence the criticisms and reproaches hurled at it without being able to defend itself. the volume of the work done by the z.e.g. may be inferred from the fact that the goods handled by the organization during the four years from to represented a value of , million marks, in which connexion it must not be forgotten that at that time the purchasing power of the mark was still nearly the same as before the war. when the roumanian harvest was brought in the daily imports sometimes reached a total of truck-loads. however, the greatest credit, in my opinion, is due to the z.e.g. for putting a stop to the above-mentioned confusion in the methods of buying abroad and for establishing normal conditions. to-day it is scarcely possible to realize how difficult it was and how much time it required to overcome the opposition often met with at home. not much need be said here about the activities of the hamburg-amerika linie during the war. the longer the struggle lasted, and the larger the number of countries involved in the war against germany became, the heavier became the company's losses of tonnage and of other property. all the shore establishments, branch offices, pier accommodation, etc., situated in enemy countries, were confiscated, and the anxiety about the post-war reconstruction grew from month to month. ballin never lost sight of this problem, and it is chiefly due to his efforts that the government and the reichstag passed a bill ( ) providing the means for the rebuilding of the country's mercantile marine. along with this he tried to keep the company financially independent by cutting down expenses, by finding work for the inland offices of the company, by selling tonnage, and by other means. the families and dependents of those employees who had been called to the colours were assisted as far as the funds at the company's disposal permitted. of all these measures the company has already given the necessary information to the public, and i can confine myself to these brief statements. there is only one circumstance which requires special mention. it is universally acknowledged that no german industry has suffered so greatly through the action of the german government as the shipping business. when the discussions as to the rebuilding of the merchant fleet were being carried on, the government frankly admitted this fact. i am not thinking, in this connexion, of those measures which were imposed upon the government by the versailles treaty, such as the surrender of the german mercantile marine, but what i have in mind is the steps taken whilst the war was in actual progress. these have one thing in common with those imposed by the enemy: their originators have, more or less, arrived at the belated conviction that they have sacrificed much valuable property to no purpose. in great britain it is admitted quite openly that the confiscation of the german merchant fleet has very largely contributed to the ensuing collapse of the world's shipping markets, and to the confusion which now prevails on every trade route. the war measures of the german government--or, rather, of the german naval authorities--have sacrificed enormous values merely for the sake of a phantom, thus necessitating the compensation due to the shipowners--a compensation far from sufficient to make good even a moderate fraction of the loss. the vessels that can be built for the sums thrown out for this purpose will not be worth the twentieth part of the old ones, if quality is taken into account as well as quantity. this will become apparent when the compensation money has been spent, and when it will be possible to compare the fleet of german passenger boats then existing with what the country possessed previous to the war. the phantom just referred to was the foolish belief that it would be possible to eliminate all ocean tonnage from the high seas--a belief which was in itself used to justify the submarine war, and which was responsible for the assumption that the withdrawal of german tonnage from the high seas would affect the food and raw material supply of the enemy countries. this mistaken idea was also the reason for prohibiting the sale of the german vessels in neutral ports, and for ordering the destruction of their engines when it became impossible to prevent their confiscation. the latter measure, and in particular the manner in which it was carried out, prove the utter inability of the competent authorities to grasp the very elements of the great problem they were tackling, and in view of such lack of knowledge it is easy to understand the bitterness of tone which characterizes ballin's criticism of these measures as contained in his memorandum to the minister of the interior ( ). he wrote: "when your excellency decided to permit the sale of our vessels in the united states it was too late to do so, because the u.s. government had already seized them. previous to that, when we saw that war would be inevitable, and when we had received an exceedingly favourable purchasing offer from an american group, we had asked permission to sell part of our tonnage laid up in that country. "your excellency, acting on behalf of the chancellor, declined to grant this permission. i am quite aware that neither the chancellor nor your excellency as his representative were responsible for this refusal, but that it was due to a decision of the admiralty staff. however, the competent authority to which the protection and the furtherance of the country's shipping interests are entrusted is the ministry of the interior. with the admiralty staff itself, as i need not remind your excellency, we have no dealings whatever, and we are not even entitled to approach that body directly in such matters. "our company which was the biggest undertaking of its kind in the world, and which previous to the war possessed a fleet aggregating about , , tons, has lost practically all its ships except a very few. the losses are not so much due to capture on the part of the enemy as to the measures taken by our own government. if our government had acted with the same foresight as did the austro-hungarian government with respect to its ships in united states and chinese waters, the german vessels then in italy, portugal, greece, the united states, brazil, and elsewhere, might have been either retained by us or disposed of at their full value. "the austrian ships, with their dismantled engines were, at the instance of the austrian government, sold in such good time that the shipping companies concerned are not only in a position to-day to refrain from asking their government to pass a shipowners' compensation bill, as we are bound to do, but they have even enriched the austrian national wealth by such handsome additions that their capital strength has reached a sum never dreamt of before, and that they are now able to rebuild their fleet by drawing upon their own funds, and to make such further additions to their tonnage that in future we shall not only be compelled to compete with the shipping companies of neutral and enemy countries--which have accumulated phenomenal profits--but with the austrian mercantile marine as well. "from the point of view of our country's economic interests it is greatly to be regretted that the policy of the government has not changed in this respect even now. we have received reliable news from private sources to the effect that the engines of the german vessels now in argentine waters have been destroyed without your excellency having so far informed us of this action, and without your excellency having asked us to take steps to utilize the vessels, if possible, for the benefit of the country's economic interests and for that of the completely decimated german merchant fleet. "moreover, a wire sent by his excellency herr v. jonquières to the competent hamburg and bremen authorities states that the ships in uruguayan waters are also in great jeopardy. the government of that country, according to this report, would prefer to purchase them rather than confiscate them. after what has been done before, we fear that the admiralty staff will either not permit the sale at all, or only grant its permission when it is too late. "your excellency, i am sure, is fully aware of the fact that the methods of the admiralty staff--ignoring, as it does, all other considerations except its own--have caused one country after the other to join the ranks of germany's enemies. in view of the shortage of tonnage which great britain and other of our enemies systematically try to bring about--evidently with the intention of inconveniencing neutral countries as much as possible--these latter feel compelled, for the very reason of this lack of tonnage, to declare war upon us, because the politics of our country are guided by a body of men who, unfortunately, shut their eyes to the economic and political consequences of their decisions. "several months ago, at a time when nobody thought of unrestricted submarine warfare, an opportunity presented itself to us of concluding an agreement with the belgian relief committee by which it would have been possible for us to withdraw our steamers, one after the other, from american ports and, under the flag of that committee, to bring them to rotterdam. at that time, it was again the admiralty staff which prevented the conclusion of this agreement, because, for reasons best known to itself, it would grant permission for only three of these vessels, although great britain had agreed that the whole of our fleet interned in u.s. ports, representing , tons in all, could sail under the terms of the proposed agreement, and although the allies as a whole had signed a written declaration to the effect that they would not interfere with our ships so long as they were used for the provisioning of belgium. i took the liberty of pointing out to captain grashoff, the representative of the admiralty staff, that nothing could have prevented us from letting the ships remain at rotterdam after they had completed their mission, and that afterwards, as has been borne out by later facts, they could have been safely taken to hamburg. "i respectfully ask your excellency whether it is not possible to enter a protest against such unnecessary dismemberment of part of the german national assets.... " ... i must also protest most emphatically against the insinuation--which is sure to be made--that i have no right to criticize any steps which the admiralty staff has regarded as necessary for reasons of our naval strategy. without reservation the german shipowners agree to any measures which are strategically necessary, however greatly they may injure their interests. the criticism which i beg to make on behalf of german shipping--although possessing no formal mandate--concerns itself with those steps which might have been taken without jeopardizing the success of our naval strategy if the vital necessities of german mercantile shipping had been studied with as much consideration as this branch of the economic activities of our country has a right to claim. "what we principally take exception to in this connexion is that no information was sent to us before the decision to destroy the engines of our ships was arrived at, and that we were not assisted in making use of these dismantled vessels in the financial interests of our country. nothing of this kind was done, although it was the most natural thing to do so, and although such action would have deprived many a country of a reason to declare war upon germany." to a man of the type of ballin--who had, throughout his life, been accustomed to perform a huge amount of successful work--a period of enforced inactivity was unbearable. the longer it lasted the more he suffered from its effects, especially because the preparatory work for the post-war reconstruction, the work connected with the war organization of the german shipowners, etc., was only a poor substitute for the productive labour he had been engaged in during more than thirty years of peace. there is no doubt but that the government could have made better use of ballin's gift of organization, but it must be remembered that there was really no effective central government in germany throughout the war. the civil administration was not exactly deposed, but it was subordinated to the military one from the very beginning, and the latter carried on its work along the guiding lines laid down in the scheme of mobilization. the authorities to whose care the economic aspects of the war were entrusted did not often--if at all--avail themselves of ballin's advice; and to offer it unbidden never entered his mind, because he was cherishing the hope that the war would not last long, and because it was his belief that the world would be sensible enough to put an end to the wholesale destruction before long. it was a bitter disappointment to him to find how greatly he was mistaken, and to see that the forces of unreason remained in the ascendancy, especially as he was always convinced that time would be on the side of germany's enemies. the sole aim of his political activities during the war was to bring about peace as early as possible. of all the attempts at mediation known to me, the one which seemed to be most likely to succeed passed through the hands of ballin. to give a detailed account of it must be left to a time which need no longer pay regard to governments and individuals. ballin's share in it was brought about through his former international connexions. through him it reached the kaiser and the chancellor, and owing to his untiring efforts, which lasted for two years, the position in the early part of was such that the establishment of direct contact between the two sides was imminent. then the unrestricted submarine war began, the intended direct contact could not be established, and the carefully woven thread was definitely snapped asunder; because from that time on the allies were certain that the united states would join them, and they felt assured of victory. no other mediation scheme with which i am acquainted has been pursued with so much unselfishness, devotion, and energy as this one. this attempt, however, no more than any other, could have procured for us that kind of peace which public opinion in germany had been led for years to expect, thanks to the over-estimation of the country's strength, fostered by the military censorship and by the military reports. from such exaggerated opinions ballin always held himself aloof. he recognized without reservation the immense achievements of germany in the war, but he was fearful lest the strength of the country could not cope in the long run with the ever-increasing array of enemies, and he therefore maintained that, if it was desired to bring about peace, the government would have to be moderate in its terms. a much discussed article which he contributed to the _frankfürter zeitung_ on january st, , under the heading of "the wet triangle," is not inconsistent with these views of his. in it he pointed out that germany's naval power, in order to make a future blockade impossible, should no longer be content to be shut up in the "wet triangle," i.e. the north sea, but ought to establish itself on the high seas. this statement has been alleged to refer to belgium, and ballin has been wrongly claimed a partisan by those who supported the annexation of that country. what he really meant was that germany should demand a naval base on the atlantic, somewhere in the northern parts of africa, and this idea seemed to be quite realizable if taken in conjunction with the terms of peace he had in view, viz. no annexations, no indemnities, economic advantages, a permanent political and naval understanding with great britain, based on her recognition that a military defeat of germany was impossible. all this would be somewhat on the lines of the article published by the _westminster gazette_, referred to in the eighth chapter and a facsimile of which is given at the end of the book. ballin was firmly convinced that, even if a mere peace of compromise was the outcome, i.e. one which left germany without any territorial gains and without any indemnities, the impression which the german achievements during the war would produce on the rest of the world would be so overwhelming that the country would secure indirectly far greater advantages than could be gained by means of the largest possible indemnity and the most far-reaching annexations. besides, the experiences of former times had proved that germany would be quite unable to absorb such large accessions of territory as certain people had in mind. these views of ballin, of course, were looked upon as those of a "pacificist," and ballin was classified among their number. in a letter which ballin wrote to a friend of his, a naval officer, in april, , he puts up a highly characteristic defence of himself against the accusations implied by describing him as "pacificist" and "pro-english." "if," he wrote, "the fact that i have been privileged to spend a considerable part of my life in close contact with you, entitles me to add a few personal remarks, i should like to say that i have made up my mind to retire from my post after the end of the war altogether. i told you shortly after the outbreak of the war that my life's work was wrecked. to-day i am convinced that it will soon come to life again, but my youth would have to be restored to me before i could ever dream of taking up again that position in international shipping which i held before the war. i cannot imagine that i would ever go to london again and take the chair at the conferences at which the great problems of international shipping would come up for discussion, and nobody, i think, can expect that i should be content to play second fiddle at my age. indeed, i cannot see how i could ever re-enter upon intimate relations with the british, the french, the italians, and especially with the americans. strangely enough, influential circles on our side, and even his majesty himself, look upon me as 'pro-english,' and yet i am the only german who can say with truth that he has been fighting the english for supremacy in the shipping world during the last thirty years. during this long period i have, if i am allowed to make use of so bold a comparison, conquered one british trench after the other, and i have renewed my attacks whenever i could find the means for doing so." it is no secret that during the war many prominent politicians and economists--men of sound political training--viewed the question of the war aims which it was desirable to realize very much in the same light as did ballin, but that the censorship made it impossible for anyone to give public expression to such opinions. ballin's appreciation of the probable gain which germany would derive from a peace by compromise has now been amply confirmed by the undeniable fact that the rest of the world has been tremendously impressed by germany's achievements, an impression which has made foreigners regard her chances of recovery with much more confidence than she has felt herself, stunned as she was by the immensity of her _débâcle_. the following notes, which are largely based on ballin's own diary, are intended to supplement the information given so far as to his political activities during the war. the outbreak of war, as may be inferred from what has already been related, took him completely by surprise, and he did not think that the struggle would last very long. "the necessities of the world's commerce will not stand a long war," was his opinion during the early days. for the rest, he tried to find work for himself which would benefit his country. "what we need to-day," he wrote to a friend, "is work. this will lift us up and keep us going, and will make those of us who are no longer fit to fight feel that we are still of some use after all." but in connexion with this thought another one began to occupy his mind. he anxiously asked: "which of the men now at headquarters will have the strength and the wisdom required to negotiate a successful peace when the time comes?" all his thoughts centred round the one idea of how to secure peace; what advantages his country would derive from it; and how it would be possible to bring about an international grouping of the powers which would be of the greatest benefit to germany. on october st, , he wrote to grand admiral v. tirpitz: " ... i quite agree with what you say in your welcome letter. indeed, you could not view these matters[ ] with graver anxiety than i do myself. i hope i shall soon have the opportunity i desire of discussing these things with you personally. "to win the peace will be hardly less difficult than to win the war. my opinion is that the result of this world war, if it lasts months, will be exactly the same as if it lasts six months. i mean to say that, if we do not succeed in acquiring the guarantees for our compensation demands within a few months, the further progress of events will not appreciably improve our chances in this direction. "what we must aim at is a new grouping of the powers round an alliance between germany, great britain and france. this alliance will become possible as soon as we shall have vanquished france and belgium, and as soon as you shall have made up your mind to bring about an understanding with great britain concerning the naval programme. "i am aware that this idea will find but slight favour with you, but you will never secure a reasonable peace with great britain without a naval agreement. "by a reasonable peace i mean one which will enable both germany and britain to sheathe their swords in honour, and which will not burden either nation with a hatred which would contain within it the germs of future war. "we have had no difficulty in putting up with the french clamour for _revanche_ for a period of years, because in this case we had only to deal with a small group of nationalist firebrands, but a british clamour for revenge would produce an exceedingly adverse effect on the future of our national well-being and of our share in the world's trade and commerce. "for a long time past it has been my conviction that the era of the super-dreadnoughts has passed, and some time ago i asked admiral von müller if it was not possible to consider the question of a naval understanding simply on the basis of an agreement as to the sum of money which either government should be entitled to spend annually on naval construction, leaving it to the discretion of each side how to make use of the money agreed upon for the building of the various types of ships. "great britain is putting up a fight for her existence just as much as we do, if not to an even greater extent. her continuance as a world power depends on the superiority--the numerical superiority at least--of her navy. "i am convinced--always supposing that we shall succeed in conquering france and belgium--that the british terms concerning her naval supremacy will be very moderate, and i cannot help thinking that a fair understanding regarding naval construction is just as important to germany as it is to great britain. "the present state of things is the outcome of a _circulus vitiosus_, and is bound to produce a soreness which will never permit of a sound understanding.... " ... and what about the further course of the war? i sincerely hope that your excellency will not risk the navy. the expression 'the fleet in being' which has never left my memory, and which has lately been heard of again, implies exactly all i mean. "the navy, in my opinion, has never been, and never ought to be, anything but the indispensable reserve of a healthy international policy. just as a conscientious director-general would never dream of reducing the reserve funds of his company, unless compelled to do so by sheer necessity, we ought not to drag the navy into the war, if it could possibly be avoided. "what would it profit you to risk a naval battle on the high seas? not only our own, but british experts as well, believe that our ships, our officers, and our crews are superior to the british, and king edward emphasized at every opportunity that the crews on british warships are not a match to those on german vessels. but what are you going to do? are you going to make them fight against a numerically superior enemy? such a course would be open to great objections, and even, if the battle turned out successfully, the victors would not escape serious damage. "i do not know how your excellency, and their excellencies v. müller and pohl look upon these matters, but since you yourself have asked me to state my views, i hope you will not take it amiss if my zeal causes me to enlarge upon a subject which is not quite within my province. besides, i have another reason for doing so. "it is our duty to prepare ourselves in good time for the peace that is to come. does your excellency believe it would augur well for the future peace if germany succeeded in inflicting a naval victory on the british? i do not think so myself, but i rather fancy that the opposite effect would take place.... if the british should suffer a big naval defeat, they would be forced to fight to the bitter end. that is inherent in the nature of things; even those who can only argue in terms of a continental policy must understand it. "even a partial loss of her naval prestige would spell ruin to great britain. it would imply the defection of the great dominions which now form part of her world empire. the _raison d'être_ for great britain's present position ceases to exist as soon as she has lost her naval supremacy.... " ... and, please, do not lose sight of one further consideration. we must find our compensation by annexing valuable territories beyond the seas; but for the peaceful enjoyment of such overseas gains we shall be dependent on the good will of great britain.... at present, men of german blood occupy leading positions in the economic life of almost every british colony, and the open door has been the means by which we have acquired a great deal of that national wealth of ours which caused the smooth working of our financial mobilization when the war broke out. " ... for all these reasons i consider it a great mistake that the press should be allowed to excite german public opinion against great britain to the extent it is done. i was in berlin during the week, and i was alarmed when i became acquainted with the wild schemes which are entertained not only by the people of berlin, but also by distinguished men from the rhineland and westphalia." apart from the peace problem there was another matter which gave ballin grave cause for anxiety. this was the circumstance that the kaiser, because of his long absences from berlin, lost the necessary touch with the people, and could not, therefore, be kept properly informed of popular feeling. he expressed his fears on this account in a letter to a friend of his amongst the kaiser's entourage in which he wrote: "i hope you will soon be able to induce his majesty to remove his winter quarters to germany. my common sense tells me that, if a war is waged on french and russian soil, the headquarters ought to be situated in germany. from the point of view of security also i consider this very desirable, and i feel a great deal of anxiety concerning his majesty.... whether it is wise to exercise the censorship of the press to the extent it is done, is a question on which more opinions than one are possible.... i have just had a call from a mr. x., a former officer, and an exceedingly reliable and capable man. he complained bitterly of the rigid censorship, and he thought it would be a mistake from which we should have to suffer in days to come. it would certainly be a blessing if such a man who is highly esteemed by the foreign office could be given a chance of explaining his views at headquarters." among the problems of foreign policy with which germany saw herself faced in the early part of the war, those referring to italy and roumania were of special interest to ballin. the question was how to prevent these two countries from joining the ranks of germany's enemies. ballin did all he could to bring about the italian mission of prince bülow. he not only urged the chancellor to select bülow for this task, but he also tried hard to induce the prince to undertake the thankless errand involved. in addition to the political importance of the mission, he laid great stress on its bearing on the food problem. "the question of provisioning the german people," he wrote in a letter to the army headquarters, "is closely connected with the solution of the italian and roumanian difficulties. no pressure is, in my opinion, too strong in order to make it perfectly clear to austria that some sort of an agreement with italy is a _sine qua non_ for the successful termination of this war. if it were argued that italy would come forward with fresh demands as soon as her original claims had been satisfied, i think the german government could combat this objection by insisting upon a written promise on the part of italy to the effect that she would not extend her demands. " ... political and military considerations make it plain beyond any question of doubt that italy, who will be armed to the teeth in march, will not be able to lay down her arms again unless austria arrives at an understanding with her. thus our greatest danger is the uncertainty as to what these neutrals will do, and i hope that the ministerial changes in austria will smooth the way for a reasonable attitude towards this regrettable but unavoidable necessity. our aim should be to prevent the scattering of our forces, for the burden imposed upon ourselves because of the inadequacy of our allies is almost superhuman, and contains the danger of exhaustion." the german mission to italy suffered through the vacillations of austrian politics, and was therefore doomed to failure. austrian feeling concerning a compromise with italy was always dependent on the news from the italian front; if this was favourable, people did not want to hear of it, and in the opposite case they would only discuss such an understanding most unwillingly. the proposed compromise was looked upon as a heavy sacrifice, and people were by no means favourably disposed towards german mediation. prince bülow was accused of having "presented italy with the trentino." disquieting news which ballin received from vienna induced him to report to the chancellor on the state of austrian feeling, and to offer his services if he thought that his old-established relations with vienna could be of any use. his offer was also prompted by his conviction that the german diplomatic representation in vienna was not adapted to austrian mentality. thereupon ballin, early in march, , entered upon a semi-official mission to vienna. he first acquainted himself with the actual state of the austrian mind by calling on his old friend, his excellency v. schulz, the vice-president of the austrian chief court of audits, who was regarded as one of the best informed personages in the capital, and who was one of the regular partners of the old emperor francis joseph for his daily game of tarock. this gentleman told ballin that the people of austria felt a good deal of resentment towards germany, who had stepped in far too early as the "advocate of italy," at a time when austria was still hoping to settle serbia all by herself. this hope, indeed, had proved an illusion; but germany's strategy had also turned out a failure, because she had misjudged the attitude of great britain, and had not finished with france as rapidly as she had expected to do. now austria, confronted by stern necessity, would have to make concessions to italy which every true austrian would view with bitter grief; and, to bring about the active assistance of roumania, count tisza would consider a sacrifice in the bukovina debatable, but never one in transylvania. ballin told his friend that, as far as roumania was concerned, he would have to leave it to austria to settle that question by herself; and that his mission with regard to italy was so difficult that he preferred not to make it more so by trying to solve the roumanian problem as well. ballin's subsequent interviews with the prime minister, count stürgkh, and with the minister v. koerber, as well as those with other influential personages, confirmed these impressions, and he left vienna buoyed up by the hope that the conference between german, austrian, and italian delegates which it was proposed to hold at vienna would lead to a successful result. such, however, was not the case, and it is quite probable that the possibility of arriving at an understanding with italy had passed by that time, or, assuming the most favourable circumstances, that only immediate and far-reaching austrian concessions could have saved the situation; but these were not forthcoming. the next subject which caused much anxiety to ballin was the question as to what roumania would do, a country to whose attitude, considering her importance to germany as a food-producing area, he attached even more value than to that of italy. in his notes dating from that time he said: " ... june st, . the news which i received from x. regarding the political situation in roumania and bulgaria was so serious that i felt bound to send copies of these letters to the chief of the general staff, general v. falkenhayn, and to inform him that, in my opinion, our foreign office had now done all it could possibly do, and that nothing but some forcible military pressure such as he and baron conrad could exercise on count tisza would induce this obstinate gentleman to settle his differences with the balkan states...." " ... on this occasion x. expressed a great deal of contempt at the suggestion that we should draw upon the members of the old diplomacy for additional help. on the whole, he seemed to be very proud of the achievements of the foreign office, whereas i am of opinion that this body has entirely failed, and is of no practical use any longer. things must be in a pretty bad state if herr erzberger, of all people, is looked upon as the last hope of the country. i suggested to the gentlemen that it would do some good if the chancellor were to request the more virulent of the pan-germans to see him, and to ask hindenburg to explain to them the military situation without any camouflage. this suggestion was favourably received, and it is to be passed on to the chancellor.... " ... the chancellor informed me that he was considering whether, if roumania remained neutral, and if the operations against the dardanelles terminated successfully for us, he ought to submit any official proposals for peace to our enemies. i expressed my admiration of the plan, but told the chancellor of my objections to its practical execution. the entente, i feared, would refuse to entertain the proposals, and the german people would regard it as a sign of weakness. the chancellor asked me to refrain from pronouncing a definite opinion for the present, but to think it over until our next meeting." in a letter of july st, , ballin wrote as follows: "i should like to express my heartfelt gratitude to you for sending on to me the report which contains some of the finest observations that have come to my knowledge since the outbreak of the war. " ... the writer lays great stress on the belief prevalent in enemy and neutral countries alike that germany is making a bid for universal supremacy and for supremacy on the high seas--a belief which has spurred on the resistance of the enemy to the utmost, and has caused a good deal of bad feeling amongst the neutrals. i repeatedly brought this fact to the knowledge of the chancellor and i urgently suggested to him that in some way--e.g., by an imperial proclamation on the anniversary of the outbreak of war, or by some other suitable means--we should announce to all and sundry that such hare-brained schemes are not entertained by any responsible person or body of persons in germany. i sincerely trust that some such steps will be taken at an early opportunity, because otherwise i do not see when the war will be over. though not a pessimist i do not believe in taking too rosy a view of things. i envy the british because they have the courage openly to discuss in their press and parliament the reverses as well as the successes they have had. " ... you see i am not taking too cheerful a view of matters. i have nothing but the most enthusiastic admiration for the achievements of the german people, both at the front and at home. although not gifted politically this people could do wonders if led by great statesmen and by great politicians." " ... august th, . this morning i spent an hour with the chancellor, who had requested me to call on him.... we had a long discussion as to the advisability of publishing a statement to the effect that germany would be ready at any moment to discuss an honourable peace. she had achieved great successes in the field, she was in possession of important mortgages, her armies were occupying large tracts of the enemy's country, and she was not carrying on a war of aggression but one of defence: therefore such a step could not be regarded as a sign of weakness. the chancellor, nevertheless, was afraid that such a step might after all be interpreted in that sense. i suggested to him that it might be of some use if the pope could be induced to address a peace message to the rulers of the various countries. "i also called the chancellor's urgent attention to the need for dealing with the food problem during the ensuing winter, especially with relation to the price of meat." " ... august th, . the united states ambassador, mr. gerard, had expressed the desire to discuss with me the question as to the advisability of suggesting that president wilson should mediate between the belligerents. i therefore called on him on tuesday, august th, and advised him to refrain from any official action in that direction, but said that i thought he might ask the president to sound opinion in great britain as to the chances of such peace proposals." in the early part of september, , admiral v. holtzendorff was appointed chief of the admiralty staff. this appointment gave rise to a conflict with grand admiral v. tirpitz, who threatened to resign because, _inter alia_, the kaiser had issued instructions to the effect that the chief of the admiralty staff should no longer be subject to the authority of the secretary for the navy, but that he could communicate with the kaiser and with the chancellor direct. ballin thought a possible resignation of admiral v. tirpitz would be fraught with serious consequences at that moment, as it would produce a bad impression on public opinion and be inimical to the position of the kaiser. these considerations caused ballin to intervene in person with admiral v. tirpitz and with the chief of the naval cabinet, with the result that the grand admiral withdrew his intended resignation. the following extracts are taken from ballin's notes during the next few months: " ... october th, . i am annoyed at the importunity with which some interested parties, such as the central association of german manufacturers and the representatives of agriculture, are pushing forward their views on the peace terms. moreover, my alleged readiness to conclude a 'bad peace' with great britain is being talked about so widely that even his excellency herr v. zimmermann has drawn my attention to the ill effects of such calumnies. all this has prompted me to avail myself of the opportunity presented by the annual meeting of the association of hamburg shipowners of making a speech in which i have explained my views as to the freedom of the seas. "prince bülow will be leaving for lucerne to-day where he intends to stay for some time, and the prussian _chargé d'affaires_, herr v. mutius--of whom it has been alleged that the chancellor appointed him to his post on the death of his predecessor (the excellent herr v. bülow, prussian minister to hamburg) for the reason that he might have a watchful eye on prince bülow and myself--has been promptly transferred to warsaw. evidently the berlin authorities now think the danger has passed, since prince bülow has left." " ... november rd, . hammann[ ] asked me why i did not call on the chancellor, and i told him that i thought the chancellor might feel annoyed with me for my interference in favour of tirpitz, which, however, would not affect me in any way, because i was convinced that i had acted in the best interests of the kaiser, and that it would have been unwise to remove tirpitz from his post so long as the war lasted." " ... the chancellor asked me to see him on wednesday at . p.m., and i spent nearly two hours with him. i urgently advised him to make a frank statement in the reichstag as to our readiness for peace, and to do so in such a form that it could not possibly be looked upon as a sign of weakness." " ... on january th, , i was commanded to dine with their majesties at the _neues palais_. the only other guests apart from myself were the minister of the royal household, count eulenburg, and the minister of agriculture, herr v. schorlemer. none of the suite were present so that the company consisted of five persons only. the kaiser was in high spirits and full of confidence. the after-dinner conversation extended to such a late hour that we did not catch the train by which we intended to return, and we were obliged to leave by the last train that night. "a remark of mine concerning the possibility of an extension of submarine warfare had, as the chancellor had been informed, caused the kaiser to assume that i completely shared the point of view of admirals v. holtzendorff and v. tirpitz, who now recommend a submarine campaign against great britain on a large scale. i therefore, at the chancellor's request, addressed the following letter to the kaiser: "'a few days ago i had occasion to discuss with grand admiral v. tirpitz and admiral v. holtzendorff the question of a resumption of the submarine campaign. "'i was then given confidential information as to the number of submarines at our disposal, and i am bound to say that even if due allowance is made for the activity of the mine-seeking auxiliaries i regard the number of large submarines as insufficient for the purposes of such a finally decisive measure. "'the first attempt at submarine warfare proved unsuccessful on account of the insufficiency of the means employed to carry it through; and it is my humble opinion that a second attempt should only be undertaken if its success were beyond the possibility of a doubt. if this cannot be guaranteed the consequences of such a measure appear to me to be out of all proportion to the risks attached to it. "'i therefore beg to respectfully suggest to your majesty that the work of the mine-laying auxiliaries should be carried on as hitherto, and should even be extended. i also consider that the submarines should be made use of to the fullest extent of their capacity, with the proviso, however, that their employment against passenger steamers should be subject to the restrictions recently laid down by your majesty. "'when the number of the big submarines shall be sufficient effectively to cut off the british food supply, i think the time will have arrived for us to employ this weapon against great britain without paying regard to the so-called neutrals. "'at present about two hundred ocean steamers or more enter british ports every day, and an equal number leave for foreign ports. if we sink a daily average of or we can, indeed, greatly inconvenience england, but we shall assuredly not be able to compel her to sue for peace. "'i humbly apologize to your majesty for thus stating my views on this matter; but i am of opinion that the extreme importance of the proposed steps will be a sufficient excuse for me.'" in the early part of ballin went on a second mission to vienna, and afterwards he prepared a detailed report for the chancellor dealing with the state of public feeling as he found it. this document presents a faithful picture of the precarious conditions in that capital which the german government had constantly to reckon with, and may therefore be of interest even now. the following passages are extracts from it: "if we desire to keep the austrian fighting spirit unimpaired we must avoid at all hazards suggesting the possibility of an understanding with italy. the italian war is popular down to the lowest classes of the people, and the successful stand against italy is a subject of pride and hope to all austrians. "hence the circumstance that prince bülow has temporarily taken up his abode at lucerne has roused a considerable amount of suspicion. even the officials in the various ministerial departments fear that the prince might intend to make unofficial advances to italy when in lucerne, and that these steps might be followed in berlin by a movement in favour of a separate peace with italy by which austria would have to cede the trentino. people were obviously pleased and relieved when i could explain to them that the prince was greatly embarrassed on account of having lost his villa malta, and that the choice of a suitable residence during the winter had been very difficult. they were particularly gratified when i told them--what i had heard from the prince's own lips--that he had had no official mission, and that he had not been engaged upon any negotiations. "people are especially proud of the isonzo battles, but they do not shut their eyes to the uncertain prospects of a successful austrian offensive. they really consider that austria has gained her war aims, and the old emperor described the military situation to frau kathi schratt by saying that the war was in many respects like a game of tarock, in which the winner was not allowed to cease playing because the losers insisted upon him going on with the game so that they might have their revenge. matters at first had been to the advantage of our enemies: the russians had overrun galicia, the serbians had defeated the austrians at belgrade, and the french had looked upon the retreat from the marne as a great success. now, however, the war was all in favour of germany and austria, and therefore our opponents did not want to call a truce just yet. "if this comparison which the venerable old gentleman has borrowed from his favourite game of cards is correct, the war will not be over until one side has nothing further to stake, and the decision will be brought about by that side whose human and financial resources shall last longest. "banking circles, of course, view the financial situation with the utmost gravity, but the general public--in spite of the high prices ruling here, and in spite of the great want of food which is much more noticeable than with us--regard matters a great deal more serenely. this is simply due to the greater optimism so characteristic of the austrians, whose motto is: 'life is so short, and death so very, very long.' they prefer to assign to future generations the worries which would spoil their sublunary existence. "the present cabinet is looked upon as weak and mediocre. the old emperor clings to count stürgkh because of the extensive use to which the latter puts the celebrated paragraph of the constitution, by which parliament is eliminated altogether, and which provides the government with every conceivable liberty of action. the all-powerful tisza gives his support to count stürgkh just because of his weakness. hence the attempt to replace the latter by prince hohenlohe, the present minister of the interior, is beset with much difficulty. the emperor wants to avoid a break with tisza at all costs. this state of things makes people feel very worried. the strain in the relations between austria and hungary has greatly increased since my last visit, whereas the friendly feelings for germany are now more pronounced than ever. "our kaiser everywhere enjoys an unexampled veneration. within the next few days he will be made the subject of great celebrations in his honour. although the tickets of admission are sold at enormous prices, even general v. georgi, the chief of the national defence organization--whom i met last night--did not succeed in obtaining a box, notwithstanding his high connexions. this morning the well-known member of the hofburg theatre, herr georg reimers, read to me two poems dedicated to the kaiser which he is going to recite that night, and i feel bound to say that it can hardly be an unmixed pleasure to the members of the court to witness this act of enthusiastic homage paid to our ruler. "the roumanian question, particularly in its bearing on the food supply, is regarded by people who are able to judge with great anxiety. it is believed that the only thing to do is to send to bucharest experienced men connected with the supply and the distribution of food who must be properly authorized to purchase as much grain as possible for ourselves and for our allies. "the big austro-german _zollverein_--or by whatever other name it is intended to describe the proposed customs union--is looked upon with very mixed feelings. last night baron skoda (the austrian krupp) explained to me after a dinner given at his house, with the lively consent of members of the court and of the big manufacturers, that the austrian interests might indeed profit from such a union with the balkan states, but that it would be better that germany should remain an outsider for a period of fifteen years. this is evidently a case of _timeo danaos, et dona ferentes_, and people feel that austria, owing to her economic exhaustion, would be easily absorbed by germany after the conclusion of the war. the hungarians, naturally, view matters from a different angle, not only because the hungarian farmers would like to sell their grain to germany free of any duty, and because industry counts for very little in their country, but also because they dislike the austrians. " ... i also dined with count tisza. he is a purely magyar politician who regards the international situation from his hungarian point of view, and in conformity with his magyar inclinations. he is evidently a strong if obstinate character, and he does not impress me as a man who will give up his post without a protest. he, too, thinks the real war aims of austria-hungary have been accomplished. serbia is crushed, galicia liberated, and russian supremacy in the balkans--formerly viewed with so much apprehension--is a thing of the past. all that is wanting now is to bring the italian campaign to a successful conclusion and the war may be regarded as over as far as austro-hungarian interests are involved. "both tisza and the austrian society showed strong symptoms of an anglophile leaning. frau schratt, who in such matters simply re-echoes the views of the old emperor, seemed very pro-english, and had something to say about 'german atrocities.' "i mention these facts because i cannot help thinking that, notwithstanding the war, some friendly threads must have been spun across from england to austria." the subject of an unrestricted submarine war, already touched upon by ballin in his above-mentioned letter to the kaiser written in january, , was discussed with much animation in the course of the year, and a powerful propaganda in its favour was started by certain quarters. ballin's attitude towards this question, and particularly towards its bearing on the possible entry of the united states into the war, is described with great clearness in a letter addressed to a friend of his attached to the army headquarters. in this message he wrote: " ... you ask me to tell you something about the political and military situation as i see it, and i shall gladly comply with your wish. "the american danger seems to be averted for the moment at least. a severance of diplomatic relations with the united states would have been nothing short of fatal to germany at the present stage. just because the war may be looked upon as won in a military sense, we were obliged to avoid such a catastrophe at all costs. as far as military exertions are concerned, it is quite correct to say that germany has won the war, because in order to turn the present position into a military defeat our enemies, in the first instance, would have to gain military victories in russia, france, and belgium. these would have to be followed up by our retreat from the occupied countries and by their invasion of ours, and they would have to defeat us at home. every sensible critic must see that neither their human material nor their organizing powers are sufficient for such achievements. the fact is that we have reached the final stage of a progressive war of exhaustion, which nothing but the intervention of the united states could have prolonged. "the accession of italy to the ranks of our opponents has shown what it means if an additional power enters the war against us. from a military point of view the entry of italy did not materially aggravate our position; but the whole aspect of the war, as viewed by our enemies, underwent a complete change, and grey, who shortly before had announced that 'there is nothing between us and germany except belgium,' stated a few weeks subsequent to the italian _volte-face_ that he could not find a suitable basis for peace negotiations anywhere. "the entry of the united states would have been of immeasurably greater effect on the imagination and the obstinacy of our enemies. "the very intelligent gentlemen who even now preach the unrestricted submarine war, especially the leading members of the conservative and national liberal parties, are misinformed about what the submarines can do. they not only regard it as possible, but even as practically certain, that the starvation of great britain could be achieved if the unrestricted submarine war were introduced. i need not tell your excellency that such an assumption fails to estimate things at their true value. great britain will always be able to maintain her connexion with the french channel ports. quite apart from that, she will always succeed in importing the , tons of cereals which she needs every day to feed her population even if the number of our submarines is trebled, because it must not be forgotten that the submarines cannot operate during the night. "hence the whole problem is now, as ever, governed by the axiom to which i have over and over again drawn the attention of the heads of the berlin economic associations, viz. that we can no more force the british into subjection through our submarines than they can hope to wear us out by their starvation blockade. both the submarine war and the blockade are extremely disastrous measures, inflicting heavy losses on either side; but neither of them can determine the fate of the war nor bring about a fundamental improvement in the position of either of the belligerent groups of powers. that, apart from all other considerations, the unrestricted submarine war would have exposed us to the open hostility of the neutral countries, and might even have caused them to join the ranks of our enemies, is an additional contingency which the submarine enthusiasts have found it most convenient to dismiss by a wave of the hand. "if after the war germany remains isolated from the rest of the world, she cannot feed her population, and the doctrine of central european brotherhood promulgated by some of our amiable poets has given rise to a movement which is apt to be of the greatest detriment to the interests of our country when the war is over. "if we had wished to invest large parts of our german national wealth in countries like austria-hungary, bulgaria, and turkey, nothing could have prevented us from realizing such a plan at any time previous to the war, provided we had thought it economically sound. "such a return to a continental policy, i maintain, would be a disaster to germany. our needs and our aspirations have increased to such an extent that we can no longer hope to satisfy them by economic isolation or within the framework of a central european economic league of states. "it is not because i am at the head of the biggest german shipping concern that i tell you these things, but i do so with the disinterestedness of a man who hopes to be allowed to retire into private life when this terrible war is over. no one can perform his life's work more than once, and no one can make a fresh start at the age of sixty. "the war has considerably strengthened the moral fibre of the chancellor; he has learnt to take upon his shoulders responsibilities which, i think, he would formerly have shirked. it is much to be regretted that the conservative party cannot see eye to eye with him in so many questions. he is blamed for the fact that the kaiser is so difficult of access, and that he does not every now and then receive the leaders of our political and economic life, as he should do considering the fateful time through which the empire is passing. "if the chancellor is to succeed in carrying through the huge tasks still before him, it is, in my opinion, imperative that he should not lose touch with conservative circles, and i think there is no reason why the kaiser should not ask men like herr v. wangenheim, count schwerin-löwitz, etc., to visit him from time to time at headquarters, and to acquaint him with their wishes and anxieties. "i cannot help telling you that the whole nation views with profound regret the kaiser's isolation. since the outbreak of the war i have only once had an interview with his excellency v. falkenhayn, and the main purpose of my asking for it was to request him to bring about a change in this state of things by using his influence with the kaiser. his excellency frankly told me that he had some objections to doing this, but he promised me nevertheless that he would exercise his influence in this direction. i am only afraid that, because of the excessive burden of work he has to get through, the matter has slipped his memory...." ballin was not the only one who, as early as , regarded with such alarm the devastating effects of a possible entry of the united states into the war; other men of political training thought so too, although their number was not large. the following passages, taken from two letters which ballin received from a member of the german diplomatic service, show that the feeling was there: "february th, . my chief apprehensions are purely political. although it seems that for the moment our differences with the united states will be smoothed over, there can be no doubt but that at times the tension has been so great that a wrong move at the critical moment would have caused america to take up arms against us. contrary to what most people seem to think, i regard this danger as having by no means passed; in fact i look upon it as always lurking in the background. those who, like myself, have seen that the secret ideal of british policy is an alliance and permanent co-operation with america, will agree with me that such an anglo-american understanding for the period of this war would be of lasting detriment to our whole future. you know england, and you know that the course of events has turned the entente automatically into an alliance, although the british, especially those who look beyond the actual present, have always felt a great deal of aversion towards such a development. the individual frenchman, indeed, is mostly looked upon as a somewhat grotesque and slightly ludicrous character, but all the same there exists some sympathy with the french as a nation, however artificially this may have been brought about; but towards russia the average englishman never felt anything but an icy aloofness and a great deal of antipathy. hence, the so-called allies of the british have never been the cause of unalloyed joy to them. "on the other hand, to establish permanent relations with that part of the anglo-saxon race inhabiting the huge continent across the atlantic has at all times been the aim pursued by every really far-sighted british statesman. by means of such an alliance, it is hoped to consolidate and to strengthen for many generations the foundations on which the venerable but also slightly dilapidated structure of the united kingdom rests. from a purely maritime point of view, such an alliance would be of overwhelming strength. in my opinion it would be perfectly hopeless for our country, constantly menaced as it is by serious continental complications, to gain the trident of neptune in opposition to these two powers. i believe an anglo-american league, whose object it would be to prevent us from becoming a commercial, naval, and continental power, would restrict us once more to a purely continental policy, a policy which we have so successfully discarded since the accession of our present kaiser. "to frustrate such an alliance must be our principal task. to call it into being or even to facilitate its conclusion would be the greatest crime against germany's future which anyone could commit. "let us by all means sink as much enemy tonnage as possible, let us lay mines, and let us proceed with our submarine warfare as hitherto, or even with more energy, but let the people who are at the head of the whole movement be aware of the immense responsibility that rests on their shoulders. if our leading men speak of a war with america just as cheerfully as though san marino or montenegro were involved, i cannot help viewing such an attitude with the utmost apprehension. the british will use all their astuteness and all their energy to exploit any mistakes committed by germany. if they succeed in this, and if, in consequence, our relations with the united states become very strained again or drift towards a rupture, i fear that we shall not be able to bring this war to a successful close, or derive from it any security for our future development. "berlin, february th, . during the two days i have now been here it has greatly depressed me to see a number of fanatics who cannot gauge the consequences of their doings attempting to drive this splendid german people towards a new abyss. alas! delusions and folly are rampant everywhere. if i were you, i should now disregard every other consideration, and explain to the kaiser as a friend that everything is being gambled away: the existence of his empire, his crown, and possibly the fate of the dynasty. it is like living in a madhouse; everyone talks about war with holland, america, denmark and roumania as though a mere picnic were concerned." during the war ballin tried over and over again to make the responsible authorities see the position in the same light as his own observations, and his repeated discussions with unprejudiced and clear-headed men had led him to see it himself. the letter reproduced below contains a description of the general situation at the time of writing (july, ). it was addressed to a friend of his in the diplomatic service who was looking after german interests in one of the countries allied with germany, and who had asked him for some information concerning the situation at home: "i am sorry that i can send you no good news at all. the conduct of the war and its probable outcome are more of a mystery now than ever, and with all that i cannot help feeling that our responsible quarters do not even now realize the profound gravity of the situation. the political and the military leaders are frequently at variance. there is a lack of proper co-operation between berlin and vienna. we imagine ourselves to be the rider, but we are only the horse. the road between berlin and vienna is studded with compromises of doubtful value, and incapable archdukes are given the most important positions. "the military situation was favourable until the austrians thought their day of reckoning with italy had come, and when our own supreme command set out to cover themselves with laurels in france. "both these undertakings turned out to be political and military failures. for hundreds of reasons an early peace is imperative to us. as matters stand at present only great britain and russia can conclude peace, because france and italy must be regarded as mere british vassals. "since the cabinets of london and petrograd remain absolutely deaf to our publicly expressed overtures for peace, we have no choice but to try to utterly defeat the one or the other of these, our principal enemies, either russia or great britain. "we could have finished with great britain if we had had at least first-class submarines, and in that case we might have regarded a war against america with complacency. "however, even if we possessed, as some optimists believe, as many as first-class submarines, we could not strike a mortal blow at great britain and defy the united states as well. therefore, we have only one choice left: we must force russia, our second chief enemy, to her knees. "russia has been badly hit through the loss of the industrial regions of poland. if we had exerted all our strength in that direction, and if we had taken kiev, the economic key to russia, the tsar would have had no alternative but to conclude a separate peace, and this would have settled the roumanian question at the same time. "with less certainty, but also, perhaps, with less exertion, it might have proved possible to make peace _via_ petrograd. but what have we done instead? we have squandered our forces. the eastern theatre of war was denuded of troops, because at first falkenhayn felt sure he could take verdun in a fortnight, then by easter, and finally by whitsuntide. all our forces have been hurled at verdun; rivers of blood have been spilt, and now, in july, we are still outside it. and what does it profit us if we do get it? we shall only find other and more formidable lines behind it. "in the meantime our good austrians have transferred all their reliable officers and men to the tyrol, and have left nothing but the rubbish and their inefficient generals to guard the points of danger. and what are the results? a graceful retirement for salandra and the formation of an anti-german coalition government in italy on the one hand, and a manifestation of austrian superiority on the other, but a failure, nevertheless, because the austrians were not strong enough numerically to get down into the plain. and even if they had compelled the evacuation of venetia nothing would have been gained. the fate of italy, as it happens, does not depend on austria, but on great britain, who will rather watch her starve and perish for want of coal than permit her to sue for peace. "although all this is perfectly plain to everyone, our supreme command seems to be undecided as to whether an offensive with all the means at our disposal should be started on the western front simultaneously with one against russia, or whether it should be directed against russia only. as far back as last year i exerted all my influence--small though it has become--in favour of an energetic and whole-hearted offensive against russia. "well-informed and far-seeing men have justly pointed out that, if fortune so wills it, the kaiser, arm in arm with hindenburg and ludendorff, could risk a 'bad peace' without danger to himself and his dynasty, but it appears beyond doubt that the influence of falkenhayn is all-powerful. " ... if we were to arrive at an understanding with russia to-day, we should be able to go on with the war against great britain for a long time to come, and, by means of unimpeded submarine activity, to carry it to a successful issue. in that case we could also estimate the danger threatening us from america at as low a figure as many who are unacquainted with the position are putting it now. "thus it is my view that it is necessary to abandon definitely the belief that the war can be brought to a successful issue on the western front, and without first defeating russia. it is greatly to be deplored that many observers assert that the western powers will make peace when they have found out that the big offensive now in progress remains without any visible success. only people who do not know great britain can put forward such a proposition, but how many people are there at the wilhelmstrasse who do know great britain? very few indeed, if any.... " ... you said you would rejoice to hear from me, and i can only regret with all my heart that i have not been able to report anything to you in which it would really be possible to rejoice." a still more serious note is struck in the following letter written in september, : "very many thanks for your welcome letter of yesterday's date, with the contents of which i agree in every detail. "i quite share your belief that hindenburg and ludendorff must each feel like a great physician who is only called in when it is too late. two declarations of war within hours were necessary to bring about this change which the german people had been looking forward to for months and months. the chancellor is justly reproached for not having had the courage to insist upon the appointment of these two men and on the resignation of falkenhayn long ago. it is contended that he should have tendered his own resignation if his recommendations were refused, and his neglect to do so makes him principally responsible for the fate that is in store for us. for a long time back i have kept emphasizing the need for transferring our main activities to the eastern theatre of war, and for definitely settling these personal questions. "the chancellor clings to his post because he believes that there is no one better qualified than himself to be at the head of affairs. such an attitude reminds me of the old gentleman who neither wanted to die nor to retire from his post as president of the berlin chamber of commerce, and who bitterly complained to those who came to congratulate him on his ninetieth birthday that he was compelled to stick to his office, in spite of his advanced years, because he could not see a better man to succeed him. "it is very sad that we have arrived at such an _impasse_, and i am convinced that the present internal political situation is untenable. no german chancellor can possibly carry the business of the country to a successful issue if, in the midst of a terrible war, he is obliged to fight against an opposition consisting of the conservatives, the representatives of the heavy industries, and the majority of the national liberals. "as far as i can make out, the chinese wall surrounding the kaiser has not disappeared with the exit of falkenhayn from the scene. no one is granted access to him who knows something about the events that led up to this war, and who, in the interests of his dynasty as well as his own, would tell him the unvarnished truth. we are, after all, a constitutional country. it would doubtless be best to transfer general headquarters to berlin, but, of course, people are not wanting who object to such a proceeding, asserting that it would enable outside influences to acquire a hold on the conduct of affairs. "how badly people are informed with regard to the actual situation was brought home to me when i was in berlin a short while ago, and when x. contended with great emphasis that we should have to attach more value to huge indemnities than to annexations. if it is possible that the men round the kaiser count on heavy indemnities even now, it shows how sadly they misjudge the real state of affairs. "my feeling tells me that the present cabinets, containing as they do men who are compromised by their actions since the outbreak of war, cannot give us peace. how can anyone imagine that men like bethmann, asquith and grey, who have hurled such incredible insults at each other, can ever sit together at the same table? "the question as to who is to succeed them, of course, abounds with difficulties. "i recently met some austrian gentlemen in berlin. they are completely apathetic; they have lost all interest in the future, and they themselves suggest that germany should no longer permit austria to have a voice in the conduct of affairs. her food supply will only last until march st. after that date she will depend on hungary and ourselves for her food. she fears that she is not likely to get much, if anything, from hungary; on the other hand, she feels sure that we are compelled for our own sake to save her from famine. "constantinople, too, has only supplies for a few more weeks. "with us at home the paraffin question is becoming very serious. in country districts it may be possible to tell people to go to bed at curfew time, but the working population of our large cities will never consent to dispense with artificial light. serious riots have already taken place in connexion with the fat shortage. "i am afraid that great britain is trying to bring about such a change in the situation as will enable her shortly to tell the small neutral countries that no one in europe will be permitted any longer to remain neutral, and that they must make up their minds to enter one or the other of the two big syndicates. you see nothing i can write to you has even a semblance of comfort in it. i regard the future with the utmost apprehension." in contrast to such views as were expressed in the foregoing letters, the men who were at the head of affairs at that time maintained that nothing but the application of rigorous force, or, in other words, the unrestricted use of the submarine weapon against great britain, would lead to a successful termination of the world war. the propaganda in favour of that measure is still in everybody's memory. whatever may be said in defence of the authors of this propaganda, there is one reproach from which they cannot escape, viz. that they left no stone unturned to prevent their opponents from stating their views, and this, on account of the strict censorship to which the expression of every independent opinion was subject, was not a difficult matter. their one-sided policy went so far that, when a pamphlet on the question of submarine warfare was written by order of the admiralty staff and circulated among a number of persons, including leading shipping men, ballin was purposely excluded, because it was taken for granted that he would not express himself in favour of the contents. it is not likely, however, that the methods of reasoning put forward in this document--which was much more like an academic dissertation than an unprejudiced criticism of a political and military measure affecting the whole national existence of germany--would have induced ballin to change his views on the submarine war. once only, and then merely for a brief period, was he in doubt as to whether his views on that question were right, but he soon returned to his first opinion when he found that he had been misinformed regarding the number and the effectiveness of submarines available. the inauguration of unrestricted submarine warfare in january, , not only put a sudden end to the peace movement in which ballin, as has been explained on a preceding page, played an important part, but also to the attempt of president wilson to bring the two sides together. the details of the president's endeavours have meanwhile become public property through the revelations of count bernstorff, the german ambassador in washington. in both instances a few weeks would have sufficed to ascertain whether the proposed action was likely to bring about the desired end, and the former attempt had even led to the impending establishment of mutual contact between the belligerents. the inability of the german political leaders to avail themselves of this opportunity, or at least their failure to do so, has doubtless been the greatest misfortune from which germany had to suffer during the whole war. notwithstanding the successful exploits of the submarines, ballin's apprehensions never left him, and they were not allayed by the development of the position at home. the letter published below, which he wrote to the chief of the kaiser's civil cabinet, believing that this gentleman would be most likely to assist him in laying his views before the kaiser, admirably sums up his feelings, and testifies both to his real patriotism and to his presentiment of the fate that was to overtake his country: "your excellency, "_april th, _. the internal conditions of our country fill me with grave alarm, and i therefore venture to approach your excellency privately with this expression of my apprehensions. "i do not doubt for a moment that our competent authorities intend to extract the utmost advantage to ourselves from the situation which is developing in russia. this russian revolution may enable us to bring the war to a close, and to obtain peace terms which, relatively speaking, are not unfavourable. "what germany has achieved in this war is beyond all praise. a glance at the map shows how small she is compared with her opponents in the field; and yet she is bravely struggling against a world in arms in which even the few countries that have remained neutral are not our friends. it is, indeed, one grand epic. but unfortunately the position at home becomes more untenable every day. "if we find ourselves compelled to reduce the bread ration still more, you will, i am sure, agree with me that the bulk of the people will suffer enormously through being underfed. in austria, conditions are said to be worse still, and i am afraid that we shall even have to part with some of our stores to feed her population. "at first sight the chancellor's speech in the prussian house of deputies appeared to be somewhat too comprehensive in its range of vision; but a few days later, when the news of the russian revolution arrived, it almost seemed that his words had been prompted by divine inspiration. after this russian news had become known, it would have been impossible for him to make this speech without giving rise to the suspicion that these events had cast their shadow in advance on the prussian parliament. unfortunately, however, this favourable development was not followed up by the right steps. on the contrary, the chancellor, after his breezy advance in the house of deputies, has now retired from the position he then took up, thus creating the impression that our policy is constantly shaped by all sorts of mutually contradictory views and currents. up to now, although the people have to suffer greatly through the shortage of food and fuel, their patriotism has put up with it because of their faith in the promised electoral reforms. it would have been so simple to reiterate this promise, and at the same time to point out that so many other things claimed precedence during the war, and that so much was at stake, that it would hardly be advisable to introduce this great reform at present, seeing that there was no time to give proper attention to the careful working out of all the details. "if now, however, such bills as those dealing with the entailed property legislation and with the repeal of the polish laws are to be discussed, such a postponement is no longer justifiable. "it almost seems as if the government is unable to read the signs of the times. the fate of the prussian suffrage reform bids fair to resemble that of the sibylline books, of which it was said that the longer one hesitated to buy them the more expensive they became. to-day the people would still be content to agree to plural voting, but when the war is over, and when the socialist leaders are demobilizing their men, inducing tens of thousands of them, decorated with the iron cross, to air their grievances, it will be too late to stop the ball from rolling. it is true that people say revolutions are impossible in the era of the machine-gun. i have no faith in this theory, especially since the events that have happened in petrograd have become known to us. that, in a country like russia, the reigning family could disappear from the scene without any opposition, and without a single grand duke or a single soldier attempting to prevent it, is certainly food for much reflection. "i hope your excellency will pardon me for thus frankly expressing my anxieties, but i considered it my duty to let your excellency know my feelings." in may, , ballin accepted an invitation received from the supreme army command and paid a visit to general headquarters, where he found a great deal of discontent prevailing with the policy of the chancellor. he also met the kaiser, and reports on his visit as follows: "after sharing the kaiser's repast--which was plain and on a war diet--i had several hours' private conversation with his majesty. i found him full of optimism, far more so than i thought was justified. both he and ludendorff seem to put too much faith in the success of the submarines; but they fail to see that this weapon is procuring for us the enmity of the whole world, and that the promise held out by its advocates, viz., that great britain will be brought to her knees within two months, is, to put it mildly, extremely doubtful of realization, unless we can sink the ships which carry ammunition and pit-props to england." in a letter addressed to a gentleman in the kaiser's entourage he gave a further detailed account of his views on the optimism prevailing in high places: "i cannot help thinking of the enthusiastic and at the same time highly optimistic letter which you had the great kindness to show me last night. my opinion is that the gentlemen who form the entourage of his majesty ought not to view matters as that interesting epistle suggests that they do. "you are a believer in the statistics of mr. x. i took the liberty of telling you last night that statistics are a mathematical form of telling a lie, and that, to use the expression of a clever frenchman, a statistical table is like a loose woman who is at the service of anyone who wants her. 'there are different ways of arranging figures,' as they say in england. i do not know mr. x, neither do i know his statistics, but what i have been told about them seemed foolish to me. if we carry on the war, and particularly the unrestricted submarine war, on the basis of statistics such as he and other jugglers with figures have compiled, we are sure to fail in the ends we are aiming at. "as concerns the unrestricted submarine war itself, i still maintain the view i have always held, viz., that we shall never succeed in starving out great britain to such an extent as to force her government to sue for a peace of our dictation. "i have just had a visit from a danish friend whom his majesty also knows quite well, and who, together with a committee of delegates sent by the danish government, will be leaving for england to-night. the two members of this committee who represent the ministry of agriculture have been instructed, _inter alia_, to complain that great britain now imports much less bacon, butter, and other articles from denmark than she had undertaken to do, and that the prices she pays for these imports are much below those originally stipulated. "apart from the cargo carried by two small steamers that have been torpedoed, denmark has been able, notwithstanding our submarines, to supply great britain with all the food required of her. the vessels remain in territorial waters until a wireless message informs them of the spot where they will meet the british convoy which is to take them safely to england. they have to pass through only a small danger zone which, as i have said, has hitherto proved fatal to no more than two vessels. "this fact, to my mind, points to the limits of the success obtainable by our submarines. i have constantly explained, especially to the chief of the admiralty staff, that i can only regard the submarine as a successful weapon if it enables us to cut off the british supplies of ore from spain and sweden, and also those of pit-props, because without the possession of these two necessities, great britain is no longer able to continue the war. i have been assured that our submarines would achieve this task, even if torpedo boats were employed as convoys; but the experiences gained so far do not bear out these predictions. we succeed, indeed, in sinking a few vessels out of many; but suppose there are ten ships in a convoy, it still means that nine of them, with their supplies of ore and pit-props, safely reach their destination. "let me repeat, the starvation of great britain is impossible; because, in addition to her own harvests, she only needs from twelve to fifteen thousand tons of cereals every day, and these she can, if necessary, always obtain at night-time through her channel service, _via_ spain and france. even this necessity will hardly arise, because two medium-sized steamers are sufficient to carry the fifteen thousand tons, and things would have to be very bad, indeed, if these did not succeed in reaching a british port. and if our statistical tricksters juggle with crop failures, please do not forget that new harvests are soon to be expected, and that it will not do always to count on crop failures. "you will be doing a good work if you can persuade people at headquarters to abandon their belief that great britain can be starved to submission. unfortunately their other belief, viz., that we can cut off her supplies of ore and pit-props, will also have to be abandoned. "certainly, the achievements of our submarines have been amazing. at their present rate they will enormously diminish the british tonnage figures, and raise the hatred of everything german to boiling point; but they will not, unfortunately, lead to such an end of the war as our pan-germans desire. it is a thousand pities! "when the submarine problem began to assume practical shape, i pointed out to the chief of the admiralty staff that, to be successful, the submarine war must be brief; that its principal object was not to sink a large number of ships, but to produce such a feeling of alarm in neutral countries as to prevent them from risking their ships ( ) because of the great value of tonnage immediately after the war, ( ) because of the impossibility of finding crews, and ( ) because of the insurance difficulty. these conditions of success were, indeed, realized during the first four weeks; but since that time people, as i had predicted, have got used to the danger. the crews are coming forth again, the insurance companies issue their policies again, and the ships are put to sea again. "if the admiralty staff, who is doubtless in possession of the figures, would submit to you a list of the number of vessels laid up in dutch and scandinavian ports on march st, owing to the submarine danger, and another one showing the position as it is to-day, you would discover that, at a low estimate, at least per cent, of the cargo vessels are running again, and that, after another month or so, the number of those still idle will have dwindled down to per cent, or less. "these are my views on the situation. if we have no other means of finishing the war but the submarine menace, it will go on for years. i should like to protest in anticipation against any suggestion to the effect that i am trying to minimize the achievements of the submarines. on the contrary, i have nothing but the highest admiration for them, and i really find it quite impossible to praise in ordinary prose all that our country has done during this war; the whole achievement is one grand epic. "within the next few months the problem will have to be solved how to put an end to this devastating catastrophe which is ruining the progress of the world. there is no need for me to tell you that the position of germany has grown considerably worse through the active intervention of the united states. the fact that this enormously wealthy country with its one hundred million inhabitants has turned against us is fraught with the most dangerous consequences. now it will no longer be possible for us to continue the war for several more years, and then to enforce a peace on lines such as are laid down by a noisy section of our people, unless we succeed in exploiting the extremely fortunate change in the russian situation in such a way that the vast resources of that country will be at our disposal. "this letter has become longer than it ought to be, but the gravity of the subject with which it deals must be my excuse for going into so many details. perhaps i may avail myself of some future occasion to acquaint you with my hopes and fears on other political matters; because, as i have already explained, the present state of affairs makes it urgently desirable that the gentlemen whose privilege it is to be near his majesty should see things as they really are, and not as they would wish them to be. "compare, if you have a chance, the advertisement pages of an english paper with those of a german one. i have just come across a copy of the _daily telegraph_ which i beg to enclose for this purpose. i have been in the habit of studying these advertisements for many months; they are excellent means of gauging the difference in the effects of the war on the two countries." during the remaining part of , and during the first months of as well, ballin took an active interest in the preparations for the bill dealing with the rebuilding of the german mercantile marine; in other respects, especially with regard to political matters, the course of events condemned him to remain passive. his notes during this period are few. i select the following passages from them: " ... july th, . the erzberger resolution which was chiefly aimed at helfferich and the naval authorities has made the chancellor's position untenable. everybody turned against herr von bethmann, and general von ludendorff informed me by telephone that he would resign if bethmann remained in office. "i then had a lengthy talk with his excellency v. valentini who agreed that it was necessary for the chancellor to retire; but he found it just as difficult as other people to name a suitable successor. vienna had raised strong objections to the appointment of prince bülow, and, acting upon valentini's suggestion, i made up my mind to approach the kaiser with a view to discussing with him the situation which appeared to me fraught with the greatest danger. i therefore asked his excellency von reischach to arrange such a meeting for me, but on thursday night i was rung up from headquarters and informed that hindenburg and ludendorff were already on their way to the kaiser to report to his majesty on this subject. under these circumstances i did not like to interfere, and on friday i withdrew my application for an interview. the kaiser has told the two generals that he had accepted bethmann's resignation the previous evening. he is thus able to save himself from a perplexing situation by contending that he had to give in to the wishes of the supreme army command. " ... july th, . yesterday i called on prince bülow at his flottbek residence, and found him looking better than i had seen him for years. after i had left him i had the feeling that the prince, who regards the whole situation with a great deal of misgiving, would even be willing to accept the post of foreign secretary under michaelis himself, in order to be able to guide our foreign policy along sensible lines once more. contrary to the reserve which he formerly showed, he now condemns bethmann's policy with great bitterness. bethmann, he maintains, by yielding to the demand for universal suffrage, acted like a banker on the day before bankruptcy who would try to save himself from disaster by using his clients' deposits. "the mexico telegram[ ] he treated with a good deal of sarcasm, remarking that it was the maddest prank since the exploits of the captain of köpenick, with which i agreed. if anyone, he said, ever wrote a comedy on the subject, he would scarcely venture to lay the plot in modern times, but would go back to the period when pigtails and wigs were the fashion. " ... july th, . i had several messages over the telephone, as well as a visit, from lieutenant-colonel von voss, the chief of staff with the altona army command, who wanted to consult me as to whether prince bülow should be offered the post of foreign secretary. i am afraid, however, that there is not much chance of his being appointed. the prince shares this opinion, and would not like the press to make any propaganda in his favour. " ... sept. th, . in the meantime, on august th, the kaiser has been to hamburg on a one day's visit. he came from heligoland, and was brimful of optimism. "he pretended to be very well satisfied with his new chancellor, and was very optimistic as to a german victory, an attitude which, i am afraid, is not in the least justified by the situation as it is." in the month of september, , ballin wrote a memorandum for dr. schwander, the newly appointed secretary of state for national economy. apart from politics this document deals with economic matters, and in particular with the legislation concerning these during the period of transition which would succeed the close of the war. ballin gave a great deal of thought to these questions, and i shall refer to them later on. meanwhile i will quote the text of the memorandum: _"september th, ._ "the fall of riga shows once more how far superior our military achievements are to the work performed by our politicians. with the dispatch of the mexico telegram their folly appeared to me to have reached its height; but the descent from that point is but slow. the news recently published by the press to the effect that the federal council is to deal with the question of the constitutional and administrative reforms which are to be granted to alsace-lorraine, makes me fear that some big political blunder is going to be committed again. it is evidently believed that, if alsace-lorraine were to be established as an independent federal state with perhaps some south german prince as its grand duke, such a measure would remove an obstacle to peace. i, however, consider it a great tactical mistake to attempt such a solution of the alsace-lorraine problem before the war is over. we must never lose sight of the fact that each one of the leading actors in the political drama has to play to his own gallery, and that therefore at the conclusion of peace--which in my opinion can only be one of compromise--french diplomacy must be able to show up something which the man in the street can be induced to regard as a _succès d'estime_. no doubt it would be easier and more to our liking to solve the problem in our own way, and at the initiative of our government; but by doing so we would deprive ourselves of another possibility for compromising which we ought to keep in order to enable the french to retire from the struggle with a fair measure of success. "we have a bad habit of spoiling the chances of peace by premature actions intended to help it on and to prepare the way for it. just think of what we did in poland! in the same way we deliberately diminished the great value of the important asset which we possess in the shape of belgium when we set up the council of flanders and introduced the administrative partition of that country. "besides these political matters there are others which were better left alone for the present. i am thinking of the steps taken to regulate our economic restoration after the war. war corporations are springing from the ground like mushrooms after rain, and the preparations made in order to solve the difficult economic post-war problems have an ugly tendency toward establishing too many government-controlled organizations. to my mind the appointment of a 'government commissioner for the period of economic transition' is altogether superfluous. we must refrain from all attempts at interfering by artificial means with the natural development of events. this, however, is precisely what the commissioner would have to do. he would have to act according to instructions received from the bank of germany or from some specially created body dealing with the question of the foreign exchanges and the provision of foreign bills. "my belief is that our foreign exchanges which have so completely got out of order will prove an excellent means of diminishing the hatred against us and of making our enemies less disinclined to resume business with us. the americans who are now able to obtain goods to the value of m . for their dollar, instead of m . , as they used to do, will soon discover their liking for us again. "another point is that the coming peace, even if we derive no other gain from it, will enormously raise german prestige all over the world. prussia became a european power after the seven years' war, in spite of the fact that the peace treaty brought her neither a territorial nor a financial gain, merely confirming the right of frederick the great to the possessions he had defended in the war. prestige, however, means credit, and this circumstance makes me believe that all these anxious discussions of the foreign exchange question and of the need for controlling german payments abroad are just as superfluous as the government control of our economic activities during the period of transition. "the nations now at war will be impoverished after the war, and the state of our exchange and the high prices of raw material will compel us to live from hand to mouth as far as the importation of raw material is concerned. pending the return of normal conditions, no sensible manufacturer will want to import more raw material than he urgently requires. "i therefore think we ought to try to induce the government to desist from its proposed control of trade and industries, and to restore the old conditions. if the government's proposal to carry on under its own management large sections of our import and export trade--in order to make these valuable sources of profit available for the reduction of its debts--were allowed to materialize, our economic doom would be certain, however attractive the plan might be in view of the huge national debt. one must be careful not to ignore the fact that the flourishing state of trade and manufactures is always largely due to the existence of personal relations. "if i think of the lessons of the past forty years--a period during which the freedom of trade, the freedom of industrial enterprise, and the freedom of shipping have led to marvellous successes and to the accumulation of huge wealth--i ask myself: 'how is it possible that a wise statesman could seriously occupy himself with the plan of establishing a government-bound system in place of it?' how, i ask you, can a state-managed industrial organization avail itself of the advantages to be had when trade is booming, or to guard itself against the losses when there is a slump? what will be the attitude of such an organization towards dealings in futures and speculation, both of which are indispensable forms of modern business enterprise? true, it has been suggested that these difficulties could be overcome if some business men were requested to accept appointments under this system, and if so-called 'mixed' concerns worked by the co-operation of public funds and private capital were established. may heaven grant that this will never be done! i am sure you have had even more to do than i with business men who had been promoted to the higher dignity of government officials. most of them have turned out complete failures in their new spheres; they have become more bureaucratic than our bureaucrats themselves; their initiative and their eagerness to take upon themselves responsibilities have never lasted very long. let there always be a fair field and no favour! personal relations and personal efficiency are all that we need for the rebuilding of our national economic system. the 'mixed' concerns are bad because they lack the necessary elasticity, because they disregard the personal equation, and because they impede the indispensable freedom of action. "i am quite prepared for these views of mine to meet with much criticism. people will say: 'all that is very well, but the government's huge indebtedness compels it to take recourse to extraordinary measures.' quite right, but would it not be much wiser to reduce this indebtedness by increasing direct and indirect taxation, instead of depriving those who have proved during the past few decades what they can do of the means that have made them so efficient? "even among the efficient business men, unless they be born geniuses, a distinction must be drawn between those who can make profits and those who can organize. the former kind--who are, moreover, but few and far between--will never submit to the personal restrictions to which they would be subjected in state-managed or 'mixed' concerns. the second kind alone, however, would never make any concern prosper. "another consideration is that the enemy countries would view with much suspicion any such institutions controlled partly or wholly by the government. i remember quite well the scant respect with which the french delegates were treated at the international shipping conferences before the war. everyone knew that the big french shipping companies, owing to the huge government subsidies, had to put up with a great deal of supervision on the part of the government, and that they could often vote neither for nor against the most important proposals with which the conference had to deal, because they had first to obtain the consent of the government commissioner. they were, therefore, simply ignored, as it was clear that they could raise no counter-proposals at their own initiative. "and truly there is every reason for us to use the utmost caution whenever any questions connected with the reconstruction of our country are concerned. the excellent dr. naumann, with his 'berlin--bagdad' slogan, has already smashed a good many window panes which will have to be paid for after the war by the producing classes. the suggestion that an economic union of the central european countries should be established was put forward at a most inopportune moment, and the propaganda in its favour was bound to bring about the retaliatory measures agreed upon by our enemies at the paris economic conference. "the resolutions of this conference were of little practical importance to us until the day when america entered the field against us. if the united states assents to them, it will become possible to enforce them, and for this reason i am watching the further development of the economic question with growing concern. i maintain that peace negotiations should only be started after a previous agreement has been arrived at between the belligerents to the effect that, on the conclusion of peace, the commercial relations formerly existing between them should be restored as far as possible, and that the resolutions passed at the paris economic conference and at the central european conference should be rescinded. such an attitude, however, can only be taken up by our delegates if they agree that the former commercial treaties, no matter whether they are still running or whether they have elapsed, should automatically become valid again for a fairly extensive period of time after the close of the war. the disadvantages which some of these treaties involve for us are easily outbalanced by the advantages secured by the others. "our government cannot be reminded too often that it is necessary to consult experienced men of business in all such questions. since the early days of the war i have vainly tried to convince herr v. bethmann of this necessity. after all, nobody can possibly be an expert in everything. yesterday, when reading the letters of gustav freytag to his publisher, mr. hirzel, i came across the following admirable piece of self-criticism: 'i do not know yet what is to become of my work; but i fear i am doing what others, better qualified than i, ought to be doing, and that i am leaving undone what i ought to do.' every great leader in our political and economic life must have experienced that it is extremely unsatisfactory to waste one's time and energy on work which another man could do just as well as, or even better than, oneself. this the government should remember whenever it attempts to interfere with the big industrial combines, such as trusts, syndicates, etc. wherever a syndicate is necessary in the best interests of any industry, a leader will be forthcoming who will create it; and only in cases where inferior minds, acting for selfish reasons of their own, do not wish to acknowledge the need for combining, the government should be asked to exercise whatever pressure it considers advisable in order to further the great aims that are involved. "i am afraid that after the war we shall lack the funds needed for the solution of the traffic problems with which we shall then be confronted, especially with regard to our inland waterways. at any rate, if we do build the necessary canals immediately after the war, we shall find ourselves compelled to charge such high rates to the vessels using these waterways that their advantages will largely tend to become illusory. even as it is now, our trade and our manufactures are seriously handicapped by the high canal dues existing, by the tugboat monopoly, etc. a really far-sighted policy which would make it its principal object to assist the progress of our foreign trade would have to guard against the mistaken idea that the levying of high rates was the only means of obtaining interest on the capital invested. after all, even the turnpikes had to be abolished in the end. "the agitation in favour of separating from russia the ukraine, finland, and other parts inhabited by alien peoples--an agitation which is becoming noisier every day--troubles me very much. since the early days of the war i have maintained that it must be our main war aim to detach russia from the entente, and that we must endeavour to establish close relations between our own country and russia so that the two of us shall be strong enough to face a possible alliance between great britain, the united states, and france. this should be our aim even now. but if we are going deliberately to dismember the russian empire and to parcel it out into a number of independent units, our political influence after the war will be slight indeed, and the result must necessarily make itself felt to the detriment of our whole economic life." at ballin's suggestion, the members of the reichstag were invited to attend a meeting which was to be held in hamburg during the summer of . large sections of people in the three hanseatic cities viewed with grave concern the plans which the government entertained for the economic development after the war, and the meeting had been called to draw the attention of the visitors to this state of affairs. three principal speeches were delivered, and at the close of the meeting ballin briefly recapitulated the main arguments against too much government interference. much of what he said on that occasion, and much of what he had written in the memorandum quoted above, has been borne out by the events of the recent past, even though the actual terms of the peace imposed on germany were much more unfavourable than he had expected them to be. in addressing himself to the vice president of the reichstag, geheimrat dove, and the large number of the elected representatives of the german people who accepted the invitation, ballin said: "we should be glad if you would see to it that the government does not put a halter round our necks, and that it refrains from the dangerous attempt to employ barrack-room methods where economic questions of national and international importance are at stake. let us have air, and light, and freedom to act; and we, by availing ourselves of our relations with the overseas countries, shall be able to carry out the work that lies before us.... " ... i am convinced that all the measures which are contemplated to stabilize economic conditions during the period of transition from war to peace will do more harm than good. if carried into practice, they will merely prepare the soil for an economic struggle to succeed the present war of arms. we need a peace that is doubly secure! we cannot ask our enemies to give us freedom where we impose compulsion. we cannot fight for the freedom of the seas, and at the same time surround central europe with a barbed wire. "i do not wish to deny that in order to carry out our economic tasks a certain amount of government control will be necessary. that, of course, goes without saying; but anything beyond it is an unmixed evil. if it is said to-day that the measures to be adopted during the period of economic transition are, in some instances, intended to remain in force for three years, and if it is announced semi-officially that the thousand and one war corporations are to be made use of for the purposes of this policy, and that their disappearance is to be very gradual--i can only sound a serious note of warning against any such designs. when the war is over all those who can do efficient work will return to their normal occupations; and those who then prefer to remain attached to the war corporations in one capacity or other are surely to some extent people who have discovered some hidden charms in these institutions, or, if not, they are persons who, fearful of the risks connected with the unfettered interplay of forces, feel that they are better off under the protecting wing of the government. if you are going to entrust the future of our country to such organizations for better or worse, the economic war after the war, as i have said before, will be sure to follow, and you will have to face a war that will last years and years." as regards the closing months of the war--which are also the closing months of ballin's life--it must suffice to refer here to one event only; one, however, which is of dramatic significance. i am speaking of ballin's last meeting with the kaiser. his notes on this subject, roughly sketched though they are, require no further comment. i reproduce them in full: _"hamfelde, august th (sunday), ._ "last tuesday herr deters[ ] rang me up to ask me on behalf of hugo stinnes if i would meet him in berlin on the thursday. lieut.-colonel bauer, one of ludendorff's aides-de-camp, a gentleman largely responsible for the pan-german leanings of the general and for his close association with the interests of the big manufacturers, had been to see stinnes, and on the strength of the information he had received from lieut.-colonel bauer he thought it advisable to have a talk with me. i declined the invitation because i expected that the work they wanted me to do would be anything but pleasant. "next morning herr deters rang me up again and told me that stinnes would call on me in hamburg on friday morning. "i left for hamfelde on wednesday afternoon, but returned to town again on thursday, because stinnes had arranged to call on me as early as . a.m. on friday. "the proposed meeting thus took place on friday, august rd, from . a.m. to . p.m. stinnes, with admirable frankness and directness, started our conversation by stating that the military situation had become much worse. our troops, he said, began to fail us in our task, and the number of deserters had been very large lately (he mentioned, i believe, that their number was , ). ludendorff had told the crown prince the plain truth; but it was still necessary to explain the true state of affairs to the kaiser, and to make it clear to his majesty that hertling, who was completely laid up with sickness, could no longer effectively fill his post. the real work was done by his son, captain v. hertling, and no efforts were being made to come to a cessation of hostilities. in other directions, too, matters were drifting towards a catastrophe. the minister of war, v. stein, lacked the necessary authority. in many instances the men called up did not enlist at all; in silesia large numbers of them had concealed themselves in the woods and forests, and their wives provided them with food, while no energetic steps to check these occurrences were taken by the chief army command. i replied to stinnes that if ludendorff agreed i would be ready to undertake the unpleasant task of informing the kaiser, but that it would first be necessary that ludendorff and myself should come to an understanding as to whom to propose to his majesty for the chancellorship. _"continuation. hamburg, august th, ._ "stinnes said he thought that ludendorff had prince bülow in his mind. i told stinnes that bülow, in my opinion, might perhaps be suitable at the head of a peace delegation, but that it was too late to think of him as a possible chancellor, and that the german people--more particularly the socialists--had not now the requisite confidence in his ability to fill the post of chancellor. neither would he be acceptable to our enemies. it would be difficult to persuade great britain, the united states and france that a prince, especially prince bülow, would seriously carry out the democratization of germany. if, however, we really were to discuss peace at last it would be necessary that the office of chancellor should be vested in a man to whom our enemies could take no possible exception. stinnes perfectly agreed with me in this matter. "we continued to discuss other possible candidates for the post, but we could not agree on anyone. finally stinnes proposed that we should both go to berlin and there continue the discussion together with lieut.-colonel bauer, ludendorff's representative. he would in the meantime report to berlin about our conversation, and he was hopeful that we could see bauer either to-night (monday), or to-morrow (tuesday, august th). "this morning stinnes informed me through deters that he had sent me a wire stating that the proposed meeting could not take place until monday next, september nd, at p.m. he proposed that we should have a preliminary meeting at the hotel continental at p.m. the same evening. i suggested that it would be better to fix this preliminary meeting at . p.m. "i must add that bauer's (that is ludendorff's) suggestion was that i should not see the kaiser by myself, but together with stinnes, duisburg, and krupp v. bohlen. "i replied to stinnes that i considered it very inadvisable for such a deputation to visit the kaiser, who would never tolerate that four gentlemen--two of whom were perfect strangers to him--should speak to him about such matters. it would be better that herr v. bohlen, or, if ludendorff attached special value to it, i myself should call on the kaiser in private, and that either herr v. bohlen or i should then endeavour to induce the kaiser to see the other three gentlemen as well. "stinnes was greatly depressed and took as grave a view of the situation as i did myself." ballin's notes on the berlin meeting are confined to a few jottings, from which it appears that not lieutenant-colonel bauer but major v. harbou in his stead took part in it, and that the question of selecting a suitable candidate for the chancellorship proved impossible of a satisfactory solution. as a last resort, if everything else should fail, ballin thought of proposing stinnes himself, because in his opinion the situation demanded a man of dictatorial character and with the authority of a dictator. concerning his interview with the kaiser, ballin wrote down the following notes: "i arrived at wilhelmshöhe on the morning of september th, and i was asked to 'report' to the kaiser at . p.m. this expression was chosen because the new head of the kaiser's civil cabinet, herr v. berg, evidently wished to invest my visit with an official character which would enable him to be in attendance. after a while, however, the kaiser became impatient and did not wish to wait till the hour appointed for the interview. so i was requested by telephone to hold myself in readiness by o'clock. "i went to the castle at that hour and waited in the room of the aide-de-camp until the kaiser came and asked me to go for a walk with him. however, herr v. berg was also there and accompanied us. consequently the conversation lost much of the directness which would have been highly desirable in the kaiser's own interest, as well as in that of the country. "i found the kaiser very misinformed, as usual, and full of that apparent buoyancy of spirit which he likes to display in the presence of third persons. the facts have been twisted to such an extent that even the serious failure of our offensive--which, at first, had depressed him very much--has been described to him as a success. it is now intended to retire to the old hindenburg line, so that the only result of the offensive has been the loss of several hundreds of thousands of valuable lives. all this, as i have said, is dished up to the poor kaiser in such a fashion that he remains perfectly blind to the catastrophic effect of it. "he now puts his whole trust in herr v. hintze, whom he evidently looks upon as a great light. "i told the kaiser of my grave misgivings and made him clearly understand that i did not think there would be much use in entering into peace negotiations with great britain. i urged that no time should be lost in immediately approaching wilson, who was an idealist and who had no territorial aspirations in europe. if, however, the war should continue much longer wilson would most probably become subject to the influences of a war party, and then we could no longer hope that he would still insist upon a settlement along the lines of his idealist programme. "the kaiser agreed that my views were well founded, but he thought we ought not to enter into peace negotiations before the approach of autumn, by which time we should have returned to the safe position afforded by the hindenburg line. then, he thought, we should avail ourselves of the offer of mediation which had been made by the queen of holland. "whenever i was too frank in my criticisms and suggestions, herr v. berg skilfully interposed. he declared to me when the kaiser had left that it would not do to make his majesty too pessimistic. "i also discussed with the kaiser the question of doing away with the restrictions imposed upon the sale of perishable articles of food, such as butter, eggs, etc.; and i pointed out to him that the fixing of maximum prices and the issuing of regulations dealing with illicit trading merely forced the people to pay exorbitant prices, at the same time helping those engaged in underhand trading to amass huge fortunes. on this subject, too, the kaiser fell in with my own views, and it was decided to release at least the perishable articles, and to allow them to be sold once more through the ordinary channels without restriction. "the kaiser also declared that this war would soon be followed by another, to which he referred as the second carthaginian war. he spoke a great deal of an anglo-american alliance which would, of course, be directed against japan, and the views on political subjects which he expressed in this connexion showed that he is being very badly advised indeed. "herr v. berg is obviously conservative and pan-german in his politics, and it seems that his influence is predominant at court. only on the prussian suffrage question did he agree with my own standpoint, which is that universal suffrage must be granted now that the king has promised it. "since the kaiser and the kaiserin, on account of the latter's illness, were dining alone, i joined the so-called 'court marshal's table,' together with the countesses keller and rantzau, the gentlemen-in-waiting on the kaiser, and the physician-in-ordinary and the chamberlain of the kaiserin. the duty of acting as court marshal fell to general v. gontard, as herr v. reischach had unfortunately fallen seriously ill." in order to illustrate further what has been shown to be ballin's views on the character of the kaiser, i here quote the first part of a letter of his, dated october th, : "in the meantime," he writes, "wilson's reply has been received, and it is certain that compliance with its terms will be equivalent to capitulation. "to my mind wilson's note clearly shows that he and his allies will demand that the hohenzollerns, or at any rate the kaiser and the crown prince, shall relinquish their rights to the throne, and that, in consideration of such an act, they will ease their terms of peace. "each of the men who are at the head of their respective governments has to play to his gallery, and if these men desire to give their audience a convincing proof of the completeness of the success they have achieved, they can do no better than demand condign punishment for the man who has been held responsible for the war, and inflict it upon him. i do not believe that the kaiser would grieve very much if he were given a chance now of retiring into private life without much loss of dignity. the war, which was something absolutely uncongenial to his whole nature, has had such bad effect on his health that it would be desirable in his own interest if he were enabled to retire comfortably into private life. he must see the force of this argument himself, and it is not likely that he would refuse to accept such a chance, as a refusal would prejudice the best interests of his country. the kaiserin, however, may be expected to oppose any such solution with much feeling. if the kaiser's grandson were now appointed his successor, and if a regent were nominated in whom everybody had confidence, the whole german situation would lose much of its seriousness. of course, the abdication of the kaiser would not take place without certain disturbances, but it would be necessary to face these disadvantages with a good grace. no doubt the outlook would be better if they could be avoided, and if the kaiser, without losing his position, could be invested with rights and duties similar to those of the british king, who, broadly speaking, enjoys all the advantages of his dignity without having to take upon himself responsibilities which he is unable to bear. i quite believe that the kaiser never derived much pleasure from his sovereign powers; at any rate, if he did, he has ceased to do so since this unfortunate war has been forced upon him." ballin's last entry in his diary contains the following passage: "stinnes has sent word to me that the socialist and centre parties are of opinion that i ought to be nominated to conduct the peace negotiations. i have told him that i should not shirk it, but that i should be much better pleased if somebody else would do it." this note was written on november nd, . one short week later, on november th, his heart had ceased to beat--a heart which had so warmly responded to the call of his kaiser and country, and which had succumbed to its excessive load of grief and sorrow. chapter xi personal characteristics to present an exhaustive description of albert ballin's life-work within the compass of this volume is an impossible task, and the more the writer entered into the details of his attempt to do so, the more thoroughly did he realize this impossibility. the story of a life comprising thirty-two years of incessant hard work, only interrupted when nature's law or a very imperative behest of his medical adviser made it necessary, and spent at the head of an undertaking which, as a result of this work, developed into one of the greatest that the economic history of the generation just passed has known, cannot be told in full by means of a mere description unless it be accompanied by volumes of statistics which, however, convey no meaning to anyone except the initiated. the author, therefore, had to content himself with delineating a picture of his hero with a background formed by the events which he himself had helped to shape, and which, in many instances, had received their distinguishing stamp through his own genius. the essence of his character, and the importance of his work to his contemporaries, must stand out from this background as the portrait of a painter--as seen by himself--would stand out from a mirror. what the mirror does not show, and cannot show, is the immensity of the mental forces hidden below the surface which alone give expression to the portrait; all the factors which have brought about the final result--the strength, the courage, the daring, and the feeling of responsibility without which it would never have been achieved. still more difficult it is to interpret the very essence of the character of him whose work we see before us, or, indeed, to give a comprehensible account of it to the stranger. the only way of doing justice to a man of such commanding genius as ballin is to try to discover first of all the one essential root principle of his personality. having succeeded in that, we shall find no more difficulty in reconciling the great number of apparently mutually contradictory traits of his character. this principle is the focus where all the rays of light are collected from all directions, and which forms the source of light, warmth, and vital energy. albert ballin was a born business man if ever there was one. to him the noble words of schiller's lines apply: "the treasures which his ships carry across the oceans spell untold blessings to all who receive them." his whole mind was drawn towards the sea; his inborn inclinations and the surroundings amidst which he grew up had destined him to be a shipping man. to the boy ballin the hamburg harbour was the favourite playground; and the seven seas were just large enough to serve as a field of action for the youth and the man. there was his real home, and there he felt at rest. how often, indeed, has he assured us that the sleeplessness to which he fell an unfortunate victim whenever he was ashore left him as soon as he was on board ship, and that a miserable river barge was sufficient to have this effect on him. he was proof against sea-sickness, both bodily and mentally. thus he became a shipping man, because it was his natural vocation; and in this chosen profession of his he became one of the greatest and most brilliantly gifted rulers the world has ever seen. whenever there was a problem to be solved he attacked it in a spirit of boldness, yet tempered by the utmost conscientiousness and caution. no task he encountered was so big that his daring could not tackle it and overcome its difficulties; nothing was so insignificant that he would not attend to it somehow. whatever decision his infallible instinct intuitively recognized as right, and to whatever idea his impulsive nature had given practical shape, had to pass muster during the sleepless hours of the night before the tribunal of his restless mind when, as he used to say, "everything appears wrapt up in a grey mist." at such times his reason began to analyse and to criticize the decisions he had reached during the day. then he would often shudder at his own boldness, and the torments of doubt would be aggravated by the thought of the enormous responsibility which he bore towards his company. for it must be understood that from the day he joined the hamburg-amerika linie his interests and those of the company became parts of an inseparable whole. the company's affairs absorbed all his thoughts at all times; the company's well-being was the object of his constant care; he devoted himself exclusively to the service of the company, and the opinions which he formed in his mind regarding persons and things were instinctively coloured according to their relationship to the company's affairs. the gradual progress during its infancy, the later expansion, and the final greatness of the company, were as the events of his own life to him; when the proud structure which he had raised collapsed his life was ended. his thoughts incessantly converged towards this very centre of his being. all his work, all his words and deeds, were devoted to the furtherance of the company's interests. he identified himself so completely with the company that he actually was the packetfahrt, and the packetfahrt was he. even his love and hatred were rooted in the company. he remained a grateful and lifelong friend to anyone who had been of service to the company or to him as representing it. this highly subjective and indissoluble relationship between himself and the company--which it had been the dream of his life to raise to the highest pinnacle of prosperity--is the key to the fundamental principle which lies at the root of his whole complex personality. but however well-defined his personal individuality stood out, his subjectivity was nevertheless animated by a strong sense of duty. his views, for instance, on the essential principles governing the most perfect organization which modern capitalism has produced--i.e. the joint-stock company--were free from any tinge of personal considerations whatever. he was himself the responsible head of a big joint-stock company, and instinctively this fact exercised such a powerful influence on all his thoughts and feelings that it is quite impossible to arrive at a just appreciation of his character unless this circumstance is borne in mind. his character which appears so complicated to the cursory onlooker, but which is in reality of singular simplicity and consistency, is best illustrated by his reply to a question of one of his friends who had asked him why he did not allow some piece of scathing criticism which he had just expressed in private to be made public. "my dear friend," he said, "you forget that you are not the chairman of the board of directors of a joint-stock company." what he meant to convey was that the enmity which he would incur by expressing those views in public would adversely affect the firm of which he was the head, and that the interests of his company compelled him to impose upon himself restrictions which he could ignore in his private capacity. although he had nothing but scorn for the very suggestion that this company should receive at any time any subsidies from public funds, he made it to the fullest extent subservient to the needs of the public and of the nation at large. he often remarked that such gigantic concerns as, e.g., the hamburg-amerika linie, are no longer private ventures purely and simply. the ties that bind them to the whole economic life of the nation--and, for the matter of that, to the world in general--are so close and so manifold that it would be disastrous to ignore them or to sever them. hundreds of industrial, commercial, and agricultural enterprises were lavishly supplied with work through the orders they received from the hamburg-amerika linie in connexion with the building and the equipment of its steamers and with the needs of its organizations on shore. its hundreds of thousands of passengers and emigrants, and the huge volume of german-made products and manufactured articles carried on board its vessels, spread the german name and german fame throughout the civilized world. hence, to albert ballin the national flag and that of the hapag were two symbols expressive of but one idea. a man who, like ballin, was at the head of the biggest german shipping company and therefore also, by implication, one of the leading spirits in the economic life of germany, could not very well hold himself aloof where high politics were concerned. the more the economic problems gained in importance, the greater became their bearing on the course of the country's politics. ballin, however, would never have become a professional politician from inclination, because he invariably refused to be mixed up with the strife of parties. he never officially belonged to any political party; and although he made friends with members of all the non-socialist parties, his general outlook on politics was mainly coloured by liberal views, and he was a firm believer in free trade. whenever questions dealing with the interests of shipping and trade were involved, he had no difficulty in making the responsible people listen to his claims and to his suggestions, but he never tried to make his influence felt on purely political affairs unless they affected the country's vital international interests. his lengthy and extensive travels to the countries of europe, to the north american continent, and to the far east, had broadened his outlook. his profession as a shipping man not only brought him into frequent contact with the heads of the big shipping companies all the world over, but also with a number of the financial magnates and industrial captains of great britain, the united states, and other countries of economic importance. he took rank with the greatest economic leaders as an equal, and this unchallenged position of commanding authority was reflected by the esteem in which he was held by the principal statesmen and parliamentarians. he was familiar with the essential and vital needs of other nations, and he therefore not only stood up for the national rights whenever they appeared in jeopardy, but he also raised his warning voice against a policy provocative of conflicts whenever he thought it possible to avoid them. whoever is conscious of his strength is also aware of the limitations set to his power. in politics as well as in business he held that "a lean compromise was preferable to a fat lawsuit," as the german proverb puts it. it has been mentioned elsewhere in this volume that ballin was essentially the man of compromise. it is very probable that the experiences of his early life had helped to develop this outstanding feature of his personality. it may be assumed that he, a young man of unknown jewish family, found his path beset with difficulties in a city-state like hamburg, where the influence of the wealthy patriciate of the merchant classes was supreme, and that he was looked upon as an upstart even after he had reached a prominent position himself. the casual observer is far too much inclined to underestimate the conservative character--both politically and socially--of the three hanseatic cities. still, evidence is not wanting that ballin's unusual gifts were occasionally recognized and appreciated even in the days of his early career. an english journalist, for instance, who met him some time about , characterized him by the following words: "he struck me as a great man; otherwise nothing so incongruous as such a type of man at the head of a big steamship line could be imagined." that field-marshal count waldersee honoured him by his friendship at an early period has been mentioned in a different chapter of this volume. and even in patrician hamburg he found an immensely powerful friend and patron shortly after he had entered the services of the packetfahrt. this was no less a man than the shipowner carl laeisz, the most eminent representative of the "house of laeisz." the firm of f. laeisz, which was successfully owned by its founder, ferdinand, his son carl, and his grandson carl ferdinand, has stood sponsor to all the more important shipping companies established in hamburg, and through its great authority helped them all to get over the critical years of their early youth. the sound principles by which the firm was guided might sometimes lead to much disappointment on the part of the shareholders, but they proved to be of unsurpassable benefit to the companies concerned, and nothing illustrates them better than the oft-told episode of the shareholder who went to see carl laeisz, complaining that the hamburg south american s.s. company did not pay any dividend. "the object of the company is to carry on the shipping trade, and not to distribute dividends," was the blunt but characteristic reply. being thoroughly unconventional in his habits, carl laeisz--no less than his singularly gifted son, who was one of those rare men whom it was really impossible to replace--nevertheless did invaluable service in connexion with the establishment of new firms in hamburg, and with the encouragement of existing ones. it was a great compliment to ballin that in , when he had only been associated with the packetfahrt for a couple of years, and when the directors asked for authority to increase the joint-stock capital of the company from to million marks, carl laeisz informed them in advance that, at the general meeting of the shareholders, he would move an increase of instead of millions, and that this motion was unanimously carried. those who have known carl laeisz personally will appreciate what it meant to ballin when, by way of giving him an introduction to the london firm of messrs. j. henry schröder, laeisz scribbled the following note on the back of one of ballin's visiting cards: "it gives me pleasure to introduce to you the bearer of this card, whom i am proud to name my friend, and to recommend him to your protection and to your unfailing kindness. "sincerely yours, "(_signed_) laeisz." as this card was found among the papers and documents which ballin left at the time of his death, it would seem that it was not used for its intended purpose, but that he preferred to keep it as a souvenir of the man whom he always remembered with gratitude and affection, and of whose life he could tell a good number of characteristic anecdotes. the telegram of which the text is given below is also highly typical of carl laeisz. i have not been able to discover what was the occasion of sending it, but i am inclined to think that it must be in some manner connected with the conference held in the berlin royal castle, and referred to on an earlier page, at which ballin first attracted the kaiser's attention. the text is as follows: "persons who give in without a protest are miserable creatures, and being such, they are deserving of nothing but contempt. suggest that you obstinately stick to hamburg point of view, not only from personal conviction, but for other weighty reasons as well. meeting hardly convened simply to induce you to give in." although there is scarcely anyone to whom the name of a hamburg patriot can be applied with greater justice than to ballin, and although there are few people who have done more to promote the well-being and the prosperity of their native city, and who have had a better appreciation of one of the most lovable features of her inhabitants, viz. their dry, unconventional, and kindly humour, it would be wrong to assume that this local patriotism of ballin made him blind to the shortcomings and deficiencies of his native city. on the contrary, his eminent sense of the realities of life made him see most clearly the points of weakness in the position of hamburg, e.g. those connected with the system of her finances. the so-called köhlbrand agreement, which, after a hard struggle, put an end to the long controversy between hamburg and prussia by stipulating that the course of the lower elbe should be regulated without detriment to the interests of the town of harburg, imposed such a vast amount of expenditure upon hamburg, and the prussian local authorities concerned insisted on securing the payment of such large compensations to the owners whose rights were adversely affected by the improvement of the waterway, that it might well be doubted whether hamburg could shoulder these enormous burdens. it speaks volumes for ballin's unprejudiced mind that he frequently maintained nothing would be of greater benefit to hamburg than her renunciation of her sovereignty as a city-state in favour of incorporation with prussia. prussia, he argued, was her natural hinterland, after all; and if she consented to be thus incorporated, she would be such a precious jewel in the crown of prussia that she could secure without an effort all the advantages and privileges which prussia, by pursuing the strictly prussian line in her politics, now actually prevented her from acquiring. in course of time, however, her present isolation would undermine the foundations of her existence, especially if and when the increasing volume of traffic passing through her port should demand a further expansion of the latter, and, consequently, a further rise in the financial burdens. in that case the unnatural position which resulted from the fact that the "elbe delta" belonged to two different states, and which had its origin in the political history of the district, would make itself felt with all its drawbacks, and the ultimate sufferer would be the country as a whole of which hamburg, after all, was the connecting link with the nations beyond the sea. these are the same arguments and considerations which are used when the modern problem of a "greater hamburg" is under discussion, with this difference only, that in ballin's time the only solution which was regarded as possible was that hamburg should cast in her lot with her prussian neighbour. ballin repeatedly vented the full force of his sarcasm against the advocates of an "out-and-out hamburg policy" to whom his own views sounded like heresy, a policy which found perhaps its most comic expression in the speech of a former hamburg burgomaster who referred to the king of prussia as "our illustrious ally." ballin did not recognize the existence of a line of demarcation which, as many lesser minds imagined, separated republican hamburg from the rest of germany. in reality there is no such separation; hamburg, indeed, receives year after year a constant influx of human material and of ideas from her german hinterland, without which she could not exist at all, and in spite of which she has never had a superfluity, but--at times, at least--rather a deficiency of specially gifted citizens. this latter circumstance and the frequent absence of that quality of mental alertness which bismarck, in speaking of the german character in general, used to designate as the missing "dash of champagne in the blood" once made ballin say: "i quite see that what this town wants is , jews. i do not, by any means, shut my eyes to the disagreeable qualities of the jewish character, but still, another , of them would be a decided advantage." this utterance confirms how free from prejudice he was where the jewish question was concerned. although not at all orthodox, but rather indifferent in his religious views, he was far too proud to disavow his origin or his religion, or to change the latter. of someone who had changed his name, he said, in a tone of bitter reproach, that he had insulted his father. ballin's relations with the working classes and his attitude towards the labour question were not such as the socialist papers were fond of alleging, especially at the time when the labour controversy was at its height, and when strikes were constantly occurring or threatening. the first big strike affecting ballin's special sphere of activity was that of the hamburg dock labourers in . it was caused by wages disputes which the packetfahrt tried in vain to settle by raising the wages paid to the men. the interests of the employers in the ensuing struggle were not, however, specially represented by the associations of the shipping firms, but were looked after by the big "association of employers of labour," and therefore the attitude taken up by the employers as a whole was not determined by practical considerations from the point of view of the shipping companies. the packetfahrt, however, seems to have emphasized the necessity of being guided by such practical considerations, as may be inferred from the fact that the packetfahrt was the only one among the large firms of employers which advocated from the outset that certain concessions should be granted in respect of the demands put forward by the workmen. although, as has been remarked, the company succeeded in seeing its recommendation adopted, the strike started on november th, . at first it was restricted to the dockers, but the number of the strikers was soon swelled by the adhesion of the quay-labourers and of several other categories of port-labourers and seamen. when this had occurred, and when the packetfahrt suggested that steps should be taken on the part of the employers with the object of reaching a friendly settlement, these suggestions did not secure a majority in the counsels of the employers, and it was in regard to this that ballin's notes, under date of december th, contain the following entry: "we are continuing our efforts to induce the employers' association and the shipowners' association to give the strikers a chance of an honourable retreat. what we propose in detail is that the men should be asked to resume work of their own accord in consideration of which the employers would promise to submit their grievances to a _bona fide_ examination. all our efforts have failed because of the attitude taken up by the employers' association. we can only hope that the senate will consent to mediate in the conflict." this body, however, was afraid of being accused of prejudice in favour of the employers, and declined to act as mediator. "it is very much against my wish," ballin's notes continue, "that our own interests are represented by the employers' association," and on december rd, he wrote: "meanwhile, the senate, in reply to the resolution passed by the men, has asked them to resume work unconditionally against the promise to look into their grievances, and as far as they appeared to be justified, to redress them after a joint conference had been held between the employers and the strikers. this offer of a compromise was rejected by the workmen." the employers were able to get the most urgent work done by substitute labour, and the strike came to an end in the early days of february. among the subsequent labour troubles those of are of special significance. in that year, after a strike of the dockers and the seamen, all those employers who had occasion to employ any workmen in the port of hamburg founded an organization somewhat on the lines of a labour bureau, called the _hafenbetriebsverein_. the termination of the strike just referred to was brought about by ballin's personal influence, and it was he who conducted the prolonged negotiations with the heads of the labour organization. later on, in , when the _hafenbetriebsverein_ began to conclude agreements with this organization by which the wages for the various categories of dock labourers were fixed--a policy which did not exactly meet with the full approval of large sections of employers, it was again due to ballin's influence that these agreements were generally accepted. it is just possible that a certain event, insignificant in itself, may have strengthened ballin's natural tendency towards a settlement along the lines of a compromise. as has been said before, the year , which, from the business point of view, had been excellent (at least, during the first six months), and during which the above-mentioned strike occurred, was succeeded by a year which brought exceedingly unsatisfactory earnings to the company. ballin did what he had done on a previous occasion, in : he sent a memorandum to all the employees of the firm asking them to cut down expenses to the lowest possible extent, to contribute their share towards a more economical working of every department, and to submit to him any suggestions of their own as to how the necessary retrenchment could be effected. i was instructed to examine the general expenses account with a view to finding out in what way a reduction would be possible, and i drew ballin's attention to the fact that the considerable sums which had to be spent in in consequence of the strike would, of course, not appear again in the balance-sheet for , so that this would lead to an automatic reduction of the working expenses. ballin was surprised to see how large this particular item was, and the whole occurrence proved once more that a lean agreement would have been preferable to a fat lawsuit. as ballin was pre-eminently a man whose mind was bent on practical work and on the production of practical results, it is but natural that he was greatly interested in the practical aspects of social politics, and that he applied its principles to the activities in which he was engaged as far as he thought he was justified in doing so. not in peace times only, but also during the war did he hold these views, and when he was connected with the work of provisioning the civil population, and, later, with that of preparing the economic post-war reconstruction, he was frequently brought into contact with men who occupied prominent positions in the world of labour. his capacity for work was enormous and seemed wellnigh inexhaustible. he made a most lavish use of it, especially in the early part of his life, and the personal assistance he required with his work was of the slightest. his greatest aid, indeed, was his marvellous memory, which almost enabled him to do his work without ever referring to the files of letters and documents. he could always recall to his mind every phase of past events, and every detail of all the ships he had built or purchased, and he was never wavering in the opinion he had formed of anyone who had ever crossed his path, because such opinion was founded on facts. very gradually only did his fellow-members on the board of directors succeed in persuading him to refrain from putting in an appearance at his office on sundays, and to do such sunday work as he wanted to do at home. the telegraph and the telephone always kept him busy, both on weekdays and on sundays. even on his travels and on his holidays he wanted to be informed of all that was going on, and he could be very annoyed when any important news had been withheld from him, or when he believed that this had been the case, so that his secretariat, to be on the safe side, had gone rather far in forwarding on his correspondence when he was away from town. when i first entered upon my duties with him he had just returned from a rest cure at kissingen. he pointed at the huge pile of letters that had been forwarded to him on his so-called holiday, adding, in a tone of bitterness: "you see, every expansion of a business becomes a curse to its leader." sometimes his absences from hamburg would amount to as much as eight months per annum, and it was certainly no easy task always to know what to send on and what to hold over until after his return. to do so one had to be well acquainted with all the details of each transaction and to know what was important, especially what was important to him; and if one wished to see his mind at ease it was necessary never to let him think that anything was kept back from him. any apparent neglect in this respect he was apt to regard as a personal slight. and yet the time which he had at his disposal for attending to current correspondence, both when at the office and when travelling, was but limited. the waiting-room outside his private office was nearly always crowded with intending visitors. the callers were carefully sifted, and all those who were strangers and those who had come without having an appointment were passed on to someone else as far as this was possible. great credit is due to his ever faithful personal attendant at home and on his travels, carl fischer, for the perfect tact which he showed in the performance of this difficult task. in spite of all this sifting, however, the time left for getting through a day's mail was not sufficient. i therefore, shortly after entering the company's services, made it a point to submit to his notice only those letters which i considered of real importance. according to the mood in which he seemed to be i then acquainted him with the contents of as much of the remainder as i thought it wise to do. i believe i gradually succeeded in acquiring a fair amount of skill in reading his mind, and this facility enabled me to avoid more dangerous rocks than one. i tried to proceed along similar lines when he was away from hamburg, especially when he was taking a holiday. on such occasions i forwarded on to him only the important letters, taking great care, however, that he was not kept out of touch with any matter of real consequence, so that he should never feel that he was left in the dark about anything. after some time i had the satisfaction of being told by him when he returned from a holiday that that had been "his first real holiday since he had joined the packetfahrt." once one had learnt to understand his way of reasoning and his individual traits, it was not difficult to know how to treat him. if a mistake had been made, or if some oversight had taken place, the most foolish thing would be not to tell him so at once. to act otherwise would mean the immediate and permanent forfeiture of his confidence, whilst an open admission of the mistake would strengthen his faith enormously. he hated to be shut out from the actual practice of the company's business by a chinese wall of bureaucratic control. whenever such a wall was in process of erection he quickly and inexorably pulled it down, and he always remained in personal contact with every department and with every prominent member of the staff as far as the size of the huge undertaking enabled him to do so. for this reason he but rarely, and only when the pressure of other business was encroaching too much on him, omitted to receive at his private office the captains who came to make their reports to the directors. he knew, of course, every one of them personally, as he had appointed many of them himself years ago. he was no stranger to their various idiosyncrasies, and he knew all their good qualities. he was also personally acquainted with a great many of those unconventional and often somewhat blunt but always good-natured individuals of humble rank who seem to thrive wherever much shipping is going on. he was not too proud to write an appreciative article on the death of one of them, which, since it reflects high credit on his own generosity and kindness of heart, ought not to be allowed to be forgotten altogether. it was published by the _hamburger fremdenblatt_, to the staff of which the subject of his appreciation might, in a sense, be said to have belonged. kuskop. "it was not until my return from england that i learnt, through reading the _fremdenblatt_, the news of the death of karl kuskop--news which made me feel very sad indeed. kuskop ranked high among the few remaining real 'characters' of whom he was a type, and as i was not able to pay my last respects to him i feel a desire to do honour to his memory by a few words of personal recollection, although dr. obst has already done so by means of an excellent article of his own. for i believe i owe a few words of farewell to a man of whom i have heard nothing but what was good and generous throughout the better part of thirty years. "karl kuskop was a 'character' in the best sense of the term. he was as harmless as a big child; and although he could scarcely be said to be prominently gifted for his work, he did, indirectly at least, a great deal of good within his humble sphere. his popularity amongst all sorts and conditions of men connected with shipping was tremendous. my personal acquaintance with him dates back to the early trial trips of our steamers and similar occasions--occasions at which kuskop was present as the 'representative' of the _fremdenblatt_. i still have a vivid recollection of a magnificent summer evening when we, a party of about eighty people, left the passenger reception halls by our saloon-steamer _blankensee_ on our way to brunshausen where we intended to go on board one of our new boats which was ready for her trial trip. kuskop, who was wearing his yachting cap and was armed with a pair of huge binoculars, had taken up a position on deck. he stood out very conspicuously, and a port labourer who was working on board an english steamer as soon as he saw him, raised the cry of _'fremdenblatt_.' this cry was immediately taken up by the people on the quay-sides, on the river-vessels, on the ferry-boats, on the barges, and all other vessels in the neighbourhood, and developed into quite an ovation which was as spontaneous as it was popular. the worthy kuskop appeared to be visibly gaining in importance; he had taken off his cap, and the tears trickled down his kindly face. "he well deserved this popularity. for years and years he unfailingly saw to it that the hamburg steamers, at whatever port of the globe they arrived, found a _fremdenblatt_ waiting for them, thus providing a valuable and much appreciated link between the crews and the old home. i myself have also reaped the benefit of his attentive care. years ago when i was making a trip round the world i found the _fremdenblatt_ waiting for me wherever i went; and after having been so much out of touch with the civilized world for weeks, that even kuskop's genius could not discover my whereabouts, i was agreeably surprised to find on arriving at vancouver all the old copies of the _fremdenblatt_ that had failed to reach me, carefully piled up in one of the sleeping compartments of the saloon carriage which had been placed at my disposal for the railway journey from the pacific to the atlantic seaboard. "at that time i personally experienced the pleasant sensation--of which our captains and the other officers had often spoken to me--which one feels on reading the back copies of old newspapers, calling up, as it does, vivid recollections of home. in company with my wife, and some german officers who were returning from the scene of unrest in china in order to complete their convalescence at home, i greedily devoured the contents of the old papers from beginning to end, thus passing in a delightful way the time taken by travelling the long distance from vancouver to montreal. the idea, which was afterwards made use of by oskar blumenthal in a witty article, occurred to me to edit a paper which would publish the news of the day a week after it had been reported, and even then only as much of it as had proved to be true. such a newspaper would save us a great deal of unnecessary worry, as the contents of this 'periodical for the dissemination of truthful news' would be sifted to a minimum. "but it is time to cut short this digression. when i met my friend kuskop again after my trip, it was at stettin on the occasion of a launch. he happened to be in especially high spirits, and even more communicative than usual. he then told me the tale of his friend senator petersen, and it is such a good story that it would be a pity not to record it here. "it had become customary for the ships' captains and the other ships' officers who could boast his friendship to treat poor kuskop to the wildest canards in return for his supplying them with reading matter from their far-away home. one afternoon, when they were sitting over a bottle of old port in hermann bade's wine restaurant at stubbenhuk and it was getting late, one of them--he always referred to them as 'them young fools'--told him that a river barge loaded with arsenic had just sprung a leak in the harbour, so that it might become necessary to prohibit the use of water for drinking purposes for some time. it was about five o'clock and kuskop, according to his own account, did not even stop to finish his glass of port, but hurried to the offices of 'his' paper which, in its next edition, published it as a fact that a quantity of arsenic had vitiated the water of the elbe. next morning, when kuskop was still soundly asleep, two detectives appeared at the house in which he lived, and escorted him to headquarters, where he was locked up. at ten o'clock he was taken up before mr. livonius--or whoever was the chief of police at that time--who, with much abuse, demanded particulars concerning the arsenic affair. kuskop, seeing at once that one of 'them young fools' had been pulling his leg, refused to supply any information whatever. he was then brought before senator petersen, who, with a great display of persuasion, tried to make him reveal the name of his informant. kuskop, however, remained obstinate, and the senator, changing his methods from persuasion to coercion, had him locked up again. he remained in confinement till five o'clock in the afternoon, and was then taken before senator petersen for the second time, who now peremptorily demanded that he should state his informant's name. kuskop replied: 'herr senator, if you were in my position, you would not give him away yourself.' the senator turned round to the police officials and said: 'mr. kuskop is a gentleman, you see. we shall not get anything out of him. the best thing you can do is to chuck him out,' which suggestion was thereupon promptly and most efficiently carried out by some of those who were present. "another of his adventures he confided to me when a trial trip had taken us right out into the north sea. one of 'them young fools,' he said, whom he regularly met at mutzenbecher's tavern, had told him as the very latest news that captain kier had been taken into custody at rio on the unfounded allegation of having committed theft. kuskop, feeling somewhat sceptical on hearing this intelligence, but not believing himself justified in depriving the readers of the _fremdenblatt_ of such a highly interesting item of news, thought he would be extra careful this time, and so did not mention the captain by name, but merely referred to him as 'a mr. k----, captain of a hamburg steamer.' this happened in the good old times when there were still real winters in hamburg, and when the elbe was sometimes ice-bound for months. the hamburg steamers were then compelled to take up winter quarters at glückstadt--of all places--and kuskop used to establish a 'branch office' at that town on such occasions. as bad luck would have it, he was fated one day to meet captain kier there, who, with some of his friends, was dining at his hotel. a huge tureen of soup with an enormous ladle stood on the table in front of the captain, who was just about to serve the soup when kuskop entered the room. without a moment's hesitation the captain seized the ladle, the tureen, and everything he could lay his hands on, and hurled them at him. he was, as the latter afterwards confessed to me with the most innocent expression, offended by the newspaper report, because, as it happened, he was the only captain k---- on the route from hamburg to rio at that particular time. he subsequently brought an action against kuskop, who had to retire from his business for some weeks in order to get over the consequences of the mistake he had made. "these are only two of the minor adventures from kuskop's ample store of reminiscences. it is a pity that our sea-faring men are so reticent; otherwise they would be able to furnish a volume of material concerning kuskop that would far exceed that relating to kirchhoff, that other well-known hamburg 'character.' i wish someone would collect all the kuskop stories; for i do not believe that we shall ever again come across such a perfect specimen of his kind as he was, and it would be sad to allow such a man to be forgotten. "kuskop, however, was not only a 'character': he was also a 'real good sort,' and he has been of real service to all those who have ever travelled on hamburg vessels. because of that it is certain that he will long be remembered; for it is not to him that the following quotation can be applied: 'may each one of us--whether he works with his hands or with his brain to earn a living wage--always bear in mind that all that is best in him is gradually lost in the process of toil, and that, after he has departed this life, nobody will remember that he ever existed.' "our friend kuskop never lost his good qualities in the process of toil, and he was always a friend and a helpmate to all decent people. i am sure in saying this i have the support of all who knew him, and so with us his memory will always be kept green." ballin very frequently went to new york--which might be called the most prominent outpost of the company--because he recognized the value of being in constant touch with every aspect of the many activities carried on by the packetfahrt, and especially with those persons whose interests it was of importance to the company to cultivate. the numerous pool conferences often took him to london, where he always made a point of keeping on friendly terms with the leading british shipping firms, and, later on, with some of the leading politicians as well. there were few people in germany who could rival him in his knowledge of the psychology of the american or the british mind. this knowledge resulted from his great capacity for rapidly and correctly summing up the character of anyone with whom he had to deal. he had developed to a high degree the art of treating the different types of people he met according to their different individualities. his kindness of heart, his brilliant powers of conversation, his prodigious memory, his quickness of repartee, and his keen sense of humour made him a favourite wherever he cared to be one. one felt his charm as soon as one came into personal contact with him. his wonderfully alert eye, which could express so much kindness, the soothing tones of his melodious voice, and the firm and friendly grip of his hand, made one forget that he was not a handsome man, although his powerfully developed forehead and his head which, in later years, was almost bald, were of classic perfection. albert ballin would never have gained the commanding position he held if the keenness of his intellect and the force of his character had not been supplemented by that pleasing amiability which distinguishes all really good men. to him was given a large measure of that noble courtesy which springs from the heart. he who could be hard and unyielding where the business interests entrusted to his care were at stake, was full of generosity and sympathy towards the members of his family circle and his friends. nothing delighted him more than the happiness of others. those whom he cared for he treated with a tender regard which was deeply touching. he loved to give presents, and did so with the most delicate tact. he never expected any thanks; it was sufficient for him to see the happy face of the recipient. and if he ever met with ingratitude or spitefulness, he ignored it and dismissed it from his mind. personally generous to the limit of extravagance, he never spent a penny of the funds of his company without being convinced that it would be to its benefit. he left nothing undone when he thought he could realize a profit to the company, or cut down expenses. money, to him, was only a means to an end; and the earnings of the company were in the first place intended to be spent on increasing its scope and prosperity wherever possible. those who know what remuneration the heads of other concerns receive may well be surprised to see how little ballin made for himself out of his position, but they would do him a great injustice if they thought he ought to have made more out of it. he even spent the greater part of his income for purposes of representation in the interests of his company. his amiable charm of manner and his brilliant conversational gifts did much towards making the entertainments he provided the successes they invariably were; and even if so much representation, especially that in connexion with kiel week, became somewhat of a burden to him, his company reaped rich benefit from his munificence. but to appreciate to the full the charm of his personality one must have been his guest at his beautiful home in hamburg or at his beloved country seat near hamfelde, and have listened to his conversation while sitting round the fire of an evening, or been his companion on his long walks and rambles through the neighbouring forest of hahnheide. his conversation was always animated, his witty remarks were always to the point, and he was unsurpassed as a raconteur. he was excellent as a speaker at committee meetings, and he always hit upon the right words suitable for a political toast. the skill with which he wielded the pen is proved by numerous newspaper articles, memoranda, and descriptions of his travels, but above all by his voluminous correspondence. he was probably one of the most versatile letter-writers, and yet so conscientious in this as to be almost pedantic. in his early years he had also tried his hand at poetry. his beautiful home, which was adorned with pictures and sculptures by eminent masters, was a source of great pleasure to him. he was very fond of music and congenial company, and he knew how to appreciate the pleasures of a full and daintily arranged table. when i intimated to one of ballin's old friends that i intended to write his life, he told me that this would not be an easy task, and that he hoped i would not forget to depict ballin as the amiable _charmeur_ to which side of his character so many of his successes were due, and which was the secret of much of his great popularity. the number of people who claimed to be his friends, both before and after his death, but especially when they were trying to get some advantage out of the company, was surprisingly large. they were, in fact, so numerous that such a claim, when put forward, was generally--and rightly--looked upon with a great deal of suspicion. very often, when such self-styled friends were announced to him, ballin would reply: "i do not know the man," or "i do not remember him, but i may have met him." ballin may justly be described as a man of world-wide fame, and whenever he went abroad the papers eagerly followed his movements. in new york especially it required all his cunning and resourcefulness to escape from the reporters desiring to interview him. owing to his prominent position before the public he received an abundance of honours during his life. the many distinctions and presents which the kaiser bestowed on him were a source of gratitude and delight to him, and he valued them because they were a symbol of the personal ties that linked him to the kaiser; but the foreign decorations, of which he also received a great many, were of so little interest to him that he did not even trouble to have those of them replaced which once were stolen from him. it was a great disappointment to him, however, not to be able to recover the japanese ornamental swords which were taken on the same occasion, and which he had always carefully treasured because of their high artistic value. they were a present from the marquis ito, whom ballin had once helped to obtain an audience of the kaiser--an audience which, he hoped, would lead to the establishment on a permanent footing of germany's relations with the empire of the mikado. it would appear, indeed, that, if the leaders of germany's political destiny had shown some more circumspection, the same friendly relations might have been brought about between germany and japan as were entered into later on between great britain and the latter country. personal souvenirs, like those just mentioned, were prized so highly by ballin that no persuasion would induce him to part with them, and even professor brinckmann, the director of the hamburg museum for arts and crafts, who was one of the leading authorities on the subject of japanese applied art, and who tried hard to secure possession of them for his museum, met with a flat refusal. every year ballin spent at least six months, and often more, away from hamburg, and during such absences the work he had to accomplish was not less, but rather more than that which he did when in hamburg. conferences followed upon each other in quick succession at all times of the day, and the time that was left was filled up by visits. often the amount of work was so great that he had to get through a whole series of difficult problems in a single day. the number of visits he had arranged was always considerably augmented by numerous others not allowed for in his arrangements for the day; because wherever he went the news of his arrival spread immediately. he could never even think of travelling incognito. it is literally true that he was known to every hotel porter all over the world. he was in the habit of extending his hospitality twice a day to a larger or smaller number of business friends when he was travelling. at first his love of congenial society had prompted him to do this, but in after years he continued it because he wanted to secure some benefit for his company even in his hours of relaxation. still, he was often quite glad when, late at night, he had come to the close of his day's work, and when he could let the happenings of the day pass before his mind's eye in the quiet solitude of his room, or, as he liked to express it, "to draw the balance of the day's account." even before the never-tiring energy of his mind and the excessive strain on his nervous system brought about a practically permanent insomnia which never left him either in hamburg or on his travels. only when he was on the sea, or was staying at his country house, did he obtain any relief; and at such times he could dispense with the drugs to the use of which he had become a victim more and more regularly and extensively as time went on. the fact that this habit did not entirely ruin his nervous system proves that he was possessed of an iron constitution, which only gave way under the huge strain caused by the war. when he saw that his life's work had been broken to fragments, and when he felt that he had not enough strength left for a second attempt of such magnitude, even his immense nerve force collapsed under the blow. the anxieties caused by the war--a war which he knew would be lost--weighed more and more heavily on his mind the longer it lasted. outwardly he bore himself bravely and steadfastly, but his mind was full of dark forebodings, especially when he was by himself. if he had not had the unvarying sympathy of the faithful partner of his life, with whom he shared thirty-five years of mutual happiness, and if he had not always derived fresh consolation from his beloved adopted daughter and from his grandchildren, he would indeed many a time have felt very lonely. in spite of his apprehensions as to the result of the war, he yet remained faithful to the task of his life, and he hoped against hope. his ardent love of his work was constantly struggling with his reason, which foretold him the ruin of the empire and in consequence that of german shipping. this fact explains some apparent contradictions in his views and actions. what was the general public to think of a man who was watching the progress of the war with the greatest pessimism, whilst at the same time bringing all his influence to bear on the passing of a law which was to make possible the reconstruction of germany's merchant fleet, knowing that such reconstruction could only be achieved if the empire which was to set aside the funds were to remain intact. in this matter, as in others, it was the intuition of the born business-man which guided him, or perhaps a sort of instinct which made him discover new ways when the old ones had failed. these forces of his mind had nothing in common with logical reasoning, and they prevented him from drawing the practical inference from the sentiment so often expressed by us during the war: "if the empire falls to pieces, we shall all be ruined; and if the empire becomes bankrupt, we shall be insolvent too." events have shown that this sentiment was not justified by facts. empires and individuals may perish; but the nations, and their trade and commerce which are the outcome of their economic needs and of their geographical position, will outlast them. neither is it likely that the life-work of those men who have left their mark on their epoch will ever be in vain. there are two great achievements which, it appears, will always stand out like two pillars in the wreck of destruction that has fallen upon germany, viz. bismarck's work of political unification, and--a necessary preliminary of it--the powerful economic foundations laid with incessant toil by the great industrial leaders of whom germany had so many during the era of her prosperity. albert ballin was one of the most gifted among their number, and the world-wide fame of his achievements has outlived his death. when, after five years of isolation from the rest of the world, germany appeared once more amongst the nations, she did so with the knowledge that the foundations of the proud structure which ballin had built up were still unshaken, and this knowledge has proved one of her greatest assets when she entered upon the task of reconstruction. if german shipping is to flourish again, and if german steamers are now ploughing the oceans once more, credit is due to albert ballin. his work it is from which new life is emanating, and it is to be hoped that his spirit will continue to animate german shipping both now and in the future. [illustration: extract annotated by william ii] index aden, adler line, aehrenthal, count, agadir incident, agents, emigration, work of, alsace-lorraine, problem of, _america_, _amerika_, , , andersen, mr., and the danish royal family, anglo-american alliance, ballin's opinion of, anglo-german rapprochement, shipping agreement, understanding, , advantage of, ballin as negotiator, failure of, anglo-russian agreement, antwerp, , _aquitania_, asquith, mr. h. h., on lord haldane's mission, speech on navy, atlantic conference, atlantic transport-leyland co., enlargement of, _auguste victoria_, , , , , , _australia_, austria, need of compromise with italy, austria-hungary, strained relations between, austro-german _zollverein_, baden-powell, general, and the german menace, bagdad railway, baker, b. n., american shipping magnate, comes to europe, baker, b. n., discusses terms of community of interest agreement, balkan states, and germany, ballin, albert, adopts lord pirrie's advice, advises peace overtures, after the war problems, agreement with harland and wolff, american appreciation of, an english journalist on, ancestry of, and admiral v. tirpitz, and adolph woermann, and anglo-german rapprochement, and carl laeisz, and count tisza, and count waldersee, and government subsidies, and hamburg-amerika linie, and hugo stinnes, and mr. gerard, and labour questions, and politics, and north german lloyd, and princess marie of denmark, and reichstag, and submarine warfare, , and the russo-japanese war, and union line, and working classes, and world war, anxiety as to roumania, article in _frankfurter zeitung_ on blockade, as anglo-german negotiator, as arbitrator, as general representative of carr line, as head of packetfahrt passenger department, , at constitutional club, at neues palais, at the german front, attempts at mediation during war, boldness of, business principle of, capacity for work of, chairman of pool conference, complains of german official high-handedness, conducts london emigration discussions, , death of, defends himself, dines with danish royal family, disagrees with use of submarines, discusses morgan trust with william ii, early biographical details of, education of, , establishes german-japanese bank, estimates british naval staying-power, far east investigations, favours peace by compromise, forcing the british lines, friendliness of william ii toward, further reports on morgan trust negotiations, - grave warning in , hamfelde, his country home, handling of labour troubles, - his father's death, his life-work, his trip epitomized, his observation of details, his view on evading war, july , , ideal in forming pool, impressions of paris after morocco affair, in london discussing austrian ultimatum, in vienna, , ballin, albert, intense patriotism of, international services of, vii interview with bethmann-hollweg, interview with grey, haldane, and churchill, last diary entry, last meeting with william ii, , letter from william ii, letter to kiderlen-wächter, letters to general v. falkenhayn, made packetfahrt director, meets sir ernest cassel, mental versatility of, mission to vienna, , negotiations with booth line on brazilian trade, notes of conversations with william ii, official thanks to, on agadir incident, on _blücher_, on death of edward vii, on engineering problems, on foreign exchange, on _hohenzollern_, on london in election time, on naval armaments, on neutrals, on peace problems, on sale of confiscated fleet, on sandjak railway, on security of william ii, on serbian situation, on war's failures, _et seq._ opinion of german chancellor, opinion of war's duration, personal characteristics of, pioneer in steerage business, policy of, political views, premier position at twenty-nine, present from marquis ito, prodigious memory of, report on british attitude to germany, report on development of german shipping, reticence of, reviews war position in , ridicules submarine warfare, - stimulating influences of his life, strain of war on health, sturdy honesty of, suggested as negotiator of peace, suggests pool, talks with prince bülow, talks with william ii on submarine war, threatens british traffic, trip round the world, value of wonderful memory, views on character of william ii, visits london in , war problems of foreign policy, william ii discusses politics with, william ii writes to, on navy bill, william ii's personal interest in, wire from leopold de rothschild, with prince henry of prussia on the _hohenzollern_, with william ii at front, with william ii in italy, with william ii on _kaiser wilhelm ii_, work in _reichseinkauf_, writes frank letter on war to william ii, , _et seq._ writes on morgan trust, writes to william ii, april, , bauer, lieut.-col., beck, edward, berg, herr von, _berliner tageblatt_ on anglo-russian naval agreement, bernstorff, count, bethmann-hollweg, von, , , , , , attacked respecting agadir, on british delegation, - telegram to mexico, _bismarck_, launch of, bismarck, prince, blockade, german, futility of, blohm and voss, _blücher_, ballin on trial trip, boer war, european move to stop, lesson of, bohlen, krupp v., bolten, august, british argument against german naval expansion, cabinet and german naval expansion, confiscation of german merchant fleet, convoys, how they outwitted the germans, emigration, comparison with german, excitement over morgan trust, feeling in russo-japanese war, at german attitude, ludendorff's promise to crush, navy, ballin on, opinion on shipping deals, rivalry with germany, shipbuilding, developments in, and hamburg-amerika linie, , shipbuilding, german move against, shipping companies, pierpont morgan and, shipping lines, and emigration, - ; agreement with, ; join the continental pool, ; offered to german companies, supremacy, ballin on, bülow, prince, , , canadian pacific railway, , cargo and steerage shipping, carr, edward, carr line, the, _et seq._ and packetfahrt, cassel, sir ernest, and winston churchill, meets ballin, on anglo-german understanding, on naval problem, on sandjak railway, report of interview with, on navy, work for reduction of naval armaments, _et seq._ cholera, epidemic at hamburg, , christiansand, port of, churchill, mr. winston, at kiel, , complains of germany, sir ernest cassel on, speech on navy, suggests a naval holiday, colombo, _columbia_, , community of interest agreement (_see_ "pool" and "morgan trust") congo, franco-german agreement, coolies, chinese, cunard line, and austrian government, and hungarian government, effect on pool, introduces turbines, new liners, opposition to cabin pool, refuses to join pool, cuxhaven, development of, regatta at, _daily telegraph_, sent to william ii, the william ii interview, dardanelles, the, operations in, de freitas and co., a. c., de freitas line, purchase of, denmark, emigration from, royal family of, their interest in shipping, _deutschland_, , , diesel engine, application to steamship, dreadnoughts, eastern asiatic co., edward vii, and morgan trust, edward vii, chances of anglo-german war, during reign of, death of, policy of, the kiel week, visit to wilhelmshöhe, visits berlin, visits kaiser at friedrichshof, elbe, enlargement of harbour facilities on the, , , ellerman, mr., of leyland line, emden, rise of, emigrants, early accommodation of, , , emigration, anti-british action, ballin's work for, beginnings of pooling, british and german, british rates, business, how controlled, comparisons of carr line and packetfahrt, cost of, danish, hungarian, in the 'seventies, medical control established, on pre-paid basis, _et seq._ rate war begins, statistics of, stopped by hamburg cholera epidemic, emigration law, german, erzberger, herr, esher, lord, and the admiralty, europe, concerted inquiry to germany, situation in september, , falkenhayn, general v., ballin and, finland, forced draught, first vessels under, foreign exchange, ballin on, francis joseph, emperor, and count tisza, frederick the great on experience, viii frisch, geheimrat, furness, sir christopher, and morgan trust, _fürst bismarck_, fürstenkonzern, george v, king, ballin's letter respecting, george, mr. lloyd, speech on agadir incident, visits germany, gerard, mr., and ballin, german-british shipping agreement, german emigration fleet, in , german government, note to british government, german naval bill, german navy, the affair, germany, and belgian relief committee, and the merchant service bill, bad feeling among neutrals to, ballin cries "everything is being gambled away," ballin discusses after-the-war problems, big naval programme, british agitation against, confiscation of merchant fleet, control of trade and industries, failure of political leaders, favourable shipping situation of, feeling towards british, food problem, september, , habit of premature actions, ignorance of british character, internal condition in august, , _et seq._ lack of effective administration during war, mental attitude of, plans to approach president wilson, germany, state in "like living in a madhouse," useless sacrifices of, war condition of, war-hopes in ruins, germany's industrial growth, _gigantic_, goschen, sir ernest, gothenburg, port of, grey, sir edward, on lord haldane's mission, on naval armaments, on the navy, great war (_see_ world war) grumme, capt. v., joins hamburg-amerika linie, with william ii at morgan trust discussion, . hague conference, hahn, dr. diederich, chairman agrarian league, haldane, lord, and british neutrality, cabinet's attitude toward, explains to ballin, german opinion respecting, success of his mission, visits berlin, , william ii's discussions with, _et seq._ hamburg, absorption into prussia, birthplace of ballin, cholera epidemic in, , dock strike, in the nineteenth century, - hamburg-amerika linie, and great britain, and persia, and russo-japanese war, buys foodstuffs for isolated germany, far-reaching alterations, fate of ships when war broke out, financial stability of, fleet of, instructions to ships on eve of war, new premises, sixtieth anniversary, william ii and, hamburg-amerika linie (_see also_ packetfahrt) hamburg-amerikanische packetfahrt-actien-gesellschaft, hamburg regattas, william ii at, hamburg-south american s.s. co., hammann, geheimrat, , _hammonia_, hansa line, taken over by hamburg-amerika linie, hansemann, v., director disconto-gesellschaft, hansen, president, chief of arbitration court pool, harbou, major v., harland and wolff, , henckell-donnersmarck, prince, kaiser's interest in, hintze, herr v., _hohenzollern_, holland-america line, holland, queen of, offers mediation, holtzendorff, admiral v., hongkong, huldermann, bernhard, and count witte on averting war, and navy bill, immco lines, pool name for morgan trust, immigrants, scandinavian trade, _imperator_, , , , international mercantile marine company (_see_ morgan trust) inverclyde, lord, and morgan trust, italia company, the, started, italy, agreement with, necessary to success of war, germany's failure in, jagow, herr v., , jewish ancestry of ballin, jones, sir a., and the morgan trust, jonquières, herr v., _kaiser wilhelm der grösse_, _kaiser wilhelm ii_, _kaiserin_, _kaiserin auguste victoria_, , , kaiserin, the, and the war, opposition to private life, kiautschou, kiel canal, widening the, edward vii at, week, origin of, kirchheim, chief inspector emil f., viii köhlhrand, agreement the, kühlmann, herr v., kunhardt, m., kuskop, karl, laeisz, carl, laeisz, f., laird's, orders to, law, german emigration, of , leuthold, prof., leyland line, acquired by pierpont morgan, liberal cabinet, and naval armaments, liberal government, and anglo-german understanding, lichnowsky, prince, view on haldane's "neutrality" conversation, liners, developments in, _et seq._ lohmann, mr., director-general of lloyd line, ludendorff, and the crown prince, and "to her knees" promise, _lusitania_, , marie, princess, of denmark, marine engineering, ballin's enterprise in, development of, packetfahrt types, progress in, marschall, bieberstein v., _mauretania_, , mediterranean conference, _meteor_, metternich, count, at st. james's, on anglo-german understanding, predicts great war, sees sir edward grey, morgan, pierpont, guest of william ii at kiel, morgan, trust, the, _et seq._ agreement reached, announced to british press, effect of freight slump, final discussions in new york, _et seq._ financial aspect, inception of, international mercantile marine co., formal name of, king edward vii and, outline of draft agreement, pierpont morgan at london conference, pierpont morgan's operations attract public attention, telegram from william ii, terms of agreement, william ii discusses, morris and co., _et seq._ mutius, herr v., nanking, naumann, dr., and "berlin to bagdad," _nautikus_, naval propaganda in, naval armaments, a cause of unrest, ballin's report on, _et seq._ big navy propaganda, reichstag and reduction of, naval bill of , ballin writes to sir ernest cassel on, british alarm at, naval holiday, mr. churchill suggests a, navy, a bigger british, navy league, german, _new york_, new york, emigration to, in the 'eighties, _et seq._ steerage passengers to, statistics, _normannia_, north atlantic steamship lines association, history of, _north german gazette_, north german lloyd, , , , competes with packetfahrt, jubilee of, oertzen, herr v., _olympic_, packetfahrt, the, a founder of, agreement with philadelphia shipping co. and pennsylvania railroad co., and ballin, and carr line, and emigrants, and harland and wolff, and russian coal, and the russo-japanese war, ballin made director of, celebration of jubilee, pool, extension of south american business, improved appointments and accommodation on vessels, increase of capital, letter from chairman of cunard company, more new vessels built, , new york branch established, passenger department created, service to mexico, statistics ( ), (_see also_ hamburg-amerika linie) _panther_, william ii and, paris economic conference, passenger traffic, improvements in, peace negotiations, ballin and, peters, heinrich, central offices of, secretary of pool, _philadelphia_, pirrie, lord, advises ballin, discusses morgan trust, pleasure cruises, inception of, _et seq._ pool accommodation discussions ( ), actuarial basis of, agreement on ( ), agreement with allan line, agreement with italian lines, agreement with lloyd line, ballin's opinions upon, british lines refuse ( ), cardinal principles of, cunard line refuses to join, details of the, heinrich peters, secretary of, its most dramatic episode, more internal troubles, negotiations for a greater, north atlantic steamship lines association, formal name of, proposed by ballin, , special, for mediterranean business, terms definitely made, the general, the transatlantic, tonnage and passenger statistics, u.s.a. railway pool compared, world war's effect upon, port said, _pretoria_, princes' trust, _prinzessin victoria luise_, prussia, prince henry of, rate war, the, , red star line, _reichseinkauf_, the, formation of, reuchlin, mr., of holland-american line, richardson, spence and co., riga, fall of, roumania, anxiety regarding food from, neutrality of, supplies grain during war to germany, rupprecht of bavaria, prince, russia, army of, russian east asiatic s.s. co., russian press, outburst against sandjak railway, russian volunteer fleet, russo-japanese war, coaling problems for russian fleet, ships for, _st. louis_, _st. paul_, sandjak railway, scandia line, scandinavian emigration, schön, herr v., schratt, frau kathi, pro-english sympathies of, schwander, dr., shanghai, shaughnessy, lord, shipping agreement on rates, agreements, enormous range of, british tonnage in , crisis of , imperial government's interest in, some tonnage comparisons, statistics ( - ), transatlantic business, trend of, ships, speed of, in , singapore, skoda, baron, sloman and co., r. m., south african war, south america, development of, southampton, packetfahrt service transferred to, spanish-american war, ships for, steinhöft, hamburg, stettin, vulkan yard, , orders to, stinnes, hugo, storm, director a., viii strasser, mr., of the red star line, stürgkh, count, francis joseph and, submarine warfare, , , amazing achievements, unrestricted, beginning of, thingvalla line, _times, the_, on german neutrality, tirpitz, admiral v., , , and ballin, threatens resignation, tisza, count, and count stürgkh, _titanic_, tokio, trans-andine railway, completion of, tsingtau, , tweedmouth, lord, and the kaiser, ukraine, the, u.s.a., application of monroe doctrine in, cholera and isolation in, devastating effects of entry into war, economic depression of the 'eighties, enters the war, german fears of intervention, immigration from scandinavia, railway pool, railways and shipping co-operation, _vaterland_, versailles treaty, german view of, vienna, conditions in, vulkan yard, stettin, , , waldersee, general count georg, and ballin, on rationing germany, _westminster gazette_ (article in facsimile at end), , white star line, and pierpont morgan, new liners, wiegand, dr. heinrich, and morgan trust, wilding, mr., ballin's friendship for, william ii, and "a place in the sun," and british navy, british feeling aroused, and _daily telegraph_ interview, and nicholas, suggested talk to avert war, and president wilson's note, and the _bismarck_, at hamburg, ballin explains situation in september, , ballin reports to, on navy problem, ballin tells him the ugly truth in , blind to situation, september, , "brimful of optimism," comments on _westminster gazette_ article, designs excursion steamer, discusses morgan trust with ballin, discusses morocco question, facsimile comments on _westminster gazette_ article (_see_ end of book) interest in german shipbuilding, interest in morgan trust, intervenes in shipping struggle, isolation of, last meeting with ballin, letter on british navy, maritime interests of, monarchical discussions, ballin and, on balance of power, on germany's austro-hungarian policy, on the churchill speech, outspoken letter in from ballin, _et seq._ personal interest in ballin, persuaded to retire into private life, sees edward vii at friedrichshof, supports ballin's mission of inquiry to u.s.a., telegram to morgan trust, venerated in austria, visits windsor, wants apology from great britain, writes to ballin on haldane interview, wilson, president, witt, mr. johannes, witte, count, on situation july, , woermann, adolph, character sketch of, world war, the, ballin attempts mediation, ballin describes situation to william ii, ballin favours a compromise, ballin on neutrals, ballin on the blockade, ballin on the crisis, bismarck's prophecy regarding, british censorship in, coal problems during, count witte on situation, july th, , defection of german conscripts, effect on pool, world war, the, entry of u.s.a., effect of, _et seq._ food problems of germany, forced upon william ii, foreign policy and food during, german mistakes in, - germany stunned by _débâcle_, grain from roumania, indemnities, mexico telegram, outbreak of, peace overtures, position in , provisioning germany, shipping profits during, submarine warfare in, the british blockade, tyrol, failure in the, verdun and italian campaigns, political and military failures, world's shipping collapse, cause of, yang-tse-kiang, the, , zentral-einkaufs-gesellschaft, _et seq._ printed in england by cassell & company, limited, london, e. c. . footnotes: [ ] gross registered tonnage. [ ] then british ambassador in berlin. [ ] this refers to the political events in berlin immediately prior to the outbreak of war. [ ] the head of the press department of the foreign office. [ ] the telegram which the foreign office sent to the german minister in mexico, and which was partly responsible for the entry of the united states into the war. [ ] director of the hamburg branch of the firm of hugo stinnes. * * * * * typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: aded to their fleets=> added to their fleets {pg } in the era on the machine-gun=> in the era of the machine-gun {pg } aready explained=> already explained {pg } transcriber's notes: . page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id=sjmmaaaamaaj the money gods the money gods by ellery h. clark author of "loaded dice," "the carlton case," "ebenezer's millions," "pharos," "dick randall," "the camp at sea duck cove," &c. boston new york the cornhill publishing company copyright, , by the cornhill publishing company all rights reserved, including motion picture rights, dramatic rights, serial rights, and including that of translation into foreign languages, including the scandinavian printed in the united states of america the jordan & more press boston to dr. and mrs. l. d. shepard contents chapter i hide and seek. ii tangled threads. iii the golfers. iv a flurry in the market. v fools rush in. vi misery meets company. vii the adventure of blagden. viii the adventure of tubby mills. ix a message from the past. x the adventure of atherton. xi a fresh start. xii the flight of bellingham. xiii the great secret. xiv a triple discovery. xv thrust and parry. xvi the final effort. xvii the power and the glory. xviii fate is fickle. xix the sowers of the wind. xx the end. the money gods the money gods chapter i hide and seek outside the open window, clustering ramblers flecked the wall with crimson, and the ceaseless murmur of the questing bees filled the midsummer air with melody. no other sound disturbed the silence of the study, where marshall hamilton, president of the standard bank, and his secretary, hugh bellingham, sat facing one another at the table in the centre of the room. one by one, the capitalist was disposing of the documents before him, working rapidly, but with the absolute precision acquired by years of experience in the world of high finance. a note here, a numeral there, a word of explanation to the secretary; at length he had completed his task. "that will be all, bellingham," he said curtly. "when you've attended to these, you may have the rest of the day to yourself. i'm expecting some friends to play golf." bellingham rose, picked up the papers from the table, and with a murmured word of thanks made his way slowly up the broad staircase to his pleasant, airy room at the top of the house. yet it was evident that he viewed the prospect of a holiday with indifference, for as he seated himself at his desk and gazed forth over marshall hamilton's broad acres, the look upon his face was one of discouragement bordering on despair, while his thoughts, gloomily disconsolate, were divided between pity for himself and envy of his employer. how would it feel, he wondered, to change places with the banker, if only for a day, and to become the owner of these well-kept lawns, these groves of birch and pine, the hills and valleys of the links and the sea-blue river winding its leisurely way through the green and fertile meadows on its journey toward the sea. that would indeed be happiness, and more glorious still would be the knowledge that he was one of the "big men" of wall street, not only a multi-millionaire, but a director in a score of huge companies and the organizer of mighty enterprises. for an instant, as he sat staring into the sunshine and letting his fancy roam at will, he almost succeeded in realizing his dream, but the next moment, with a sudden start, he came to himself again--hugh bellingham, private secretary at a salary of two thousand a year, and with debts so urgent and so impossible of payment that the very thought of them was a perpetual torment, causing him anxious days and sleepless nights, and robbing his life of all pretence of happiness. "money," he reflected, "i've got to find it. a lot of it, too. ten thousand dollars, at the least. but heaven knows where it's coming from, and if i don't have it soon--" a shrug of his shoulders completed the sentence, and rousing himself with a sigh from his vain imaginings, he turned to the papers before him and was about to begin work in earnest when he heard the patter of footsteps coming swiftly down the hallway toward his room, and at the sound shook his head in humorous despair. "young marshall," he said to himself. "no chance for writing now." and scarcely had the words passed his lips when the door flew violently open and marshall hamilton, junior, a handsome boy of seven, burst explosively into the room, and without wasting time on preliminary greetings, hastened to announce the purpose of his visit. "i say, hugh," he cried, "i've finished my lunch, and miss wilton's still at the table, stuffing like a pig. so let's play hide and seek." abruptly, bellingham swept his papers together, thrust them into the drawer of his desk, and rose acquiescently from his chair. "very well, sir," he rejoined, "if you say hide and seek, then hide and seek it is. and i suppose you want me to be 'it' so that you can have all the fun and make me do all the work." but the boy shook his curly head. "no, no, hugh," he cried, "you're wrong about that. _i_ want to be the hunter; that's the mostest fun. and don't you hide--" he added, raising an admonishing finger, "in any easy baby place like curtains, the way you did last time. i want to have a real 'citing hunt, so you must choose the hardest place you can. now then, i'll give you a fair start; i'll count three hundred by ones. ready, hugh--" and seating himself in the chair which the secretary had just left, he buried his face in his hands and began to count rapidly to himself in a buzzing undertone, while bellingham, crossing the room on tiptoe, made his way quickly out into the corridor, wondering where he might find a hiding place sufficiently inaccessible to satisfy the aspirations of the hunter. near the turn in the hallway, he paused opposite the picture gallery; and, seized by a sudden impulse, entered, closed the door behind him, and for a moment stood motionless, temporarily blinded by the transition from the glare outside to the semi-darkness within. presently, however, his sight returned to him, and at once, in the vague half-light, he became aware of an uncomfortable feeling that the ancestral hamiltons upon the walls were peering down at him through the gloom with a hostile and disapproving gaze, as though resenting his presence in the room. but time pressed, and the secretary, still governed by the impulse which had bade him enter, did not stop to analyze this impression, but instead turned hastily from the unfriendly portraits to the four suits of massive armor which flanked the door, bulking grimly upon their pedestals, survivals of those far-off days when the fighting hamiltons of old had girt their swords about them, and had gone blithely forth to do battle with their foes. toward the nearest of these bellingham made his way, and a few moments later stood safely entrenched within his shell of steel, securely hidden from view and smiling to himself as he reflected that he had unquestionably found a place difficult enough to test the ingenuity of his pursuer. the seconds passed. evidently the boy was making a thorough search of bellingham's chamber, for no sound disturbed the quiet of the gallery until all at once, with a swiftness which made bellingham start, he heard the door suddenly opened and closed again, and immediately afterward became aware that someone was hastily crossing the room. for the moment, with his field of vision restricted by the bars of his helmet, he could not tell who the visitor might be, yet he felt certain that the footsteps could not be those of a child, and the next instant proved that he was right as there appeared before his startled eyes the figure, not of the boy from whom he was hiding, but of marshall hamilton himself. a singular time, thought the bewildered secretary, for his employer to be visiting the gallery, and the banker's subsequent actions were more remarkable still, for walking directly up to one of the portraits, a dignified hamilton of the seventeenth century with ruff at neck and sword at side, the financier stopped short, listened for a moment, and then, casting a quick glance over his shoulder, raised his hand and apparently touched some portion of the picture, whereupon, to bellingham's amazement, the portrait, frame and all, swung smoothly back; the banker, without hesitation, stepped quickly through the orifice thus made, and an instant later the picture had slipped noiselessly into place again, and all was once more silent in the room. for the moment, bellingham experienced nothing but the most intense astonishment, yet almost at once this feeling gave place to one of apprehension and dismay, for it was only too evident that the exit which he had just witnessed was something which he had never been meant to see, and that if his eavesdropping should be discovered, he would be placed in a position of obvious embarrassment, and perhaps of actual danger. and moreover, since young marshall was a great chum of his father, it seemed equally clear that if the boy should find the secretary's hiding place, news of it would inevitably come to the banker's ears; and accordingly bellingham, without losing an instant, made haste to emerge from his place of concealment, and stepping quickly to the door of the gallery, opened it just in time to hear the boy's voice crying impatiently, "make a noise, hugh; i can't find you. make a noise, quick." like a flash, bellingham darted across the hall, entered a spare bedroom, and with a sigh of relief dropped behind a table, at the same time calling aloud to guide the hunter. instantly the boy came storming down the hall, captured his quarry in triumph and began clamoring eagerly for another game. but fortunately for bellingham, miss wilton, having completed the process of "stuffing like a pig," now appeared upon the scene and took command of her charge. "you're to come driving with me, marshall," she announced, and turning to the secretary, she added, "and miss helen wishes to know, sir, if you would care to play a round of golf with her at five o'clock?" bellingham, his mind still in confusion, stood staring at her as if he found it difficult to comprehend her words, but at length he managed to answer, with an effort, "yes indeed, i'll play with pleasure," and as the boy and his governess disappeared down the staircase, he stood for some moments gazing after them; then with a muttered, "well, i'll be damned," he turned on his heel, and walked rapidly away down the corridor. chapter ii tangled threads bellingham's first act, upon regaining his room, was to close the door tightly behind him, as if to prevent the possibility of pursuit. after which, he resumed his seat at his desk, and lighting his pipe, leaned back thoughtfully in his chair, and began to consider at his leisure the strange scene which he had just witnessed in the gallery. a more imaginative man might perhaps have wondered if his eyes had not deceived him, but bellingham, being of a prosaic and matter-of-fact disposition, did not dream of questioning the evidence of his senses. yet to solve the riddle of his employer's conduct was a problem which was wholly beyond him, and although various vague conjectures suggested themselves to his mind, he immediately dismissed them as being too improbable to be worthy of consideration. drink could not be the answer, nor could drugs, for marshall hamilton, although a man of more than middle age, was aggressively healthy, with a body of iron and nerves of steel. intrigue seemed to the secretary to be a more plausible explanation, and yet scarcely a likely one, for the banker's devotion to his invalid wife, and his affection for his daughter and for his little boy were unmistakably genuine and sincere. more probable appeared the supposition that the sliding panel might be the entrance to a vault, where the capitalist could keep important documents and securities. but whatever the secret might be, the secretary felt certain that it was on no slight and trivial errand that the banker had visited the gallery, for in the three years during which he had served his employer he had long ago discovered that hamilton's huge responsibilities made his outlook upon life essentially a serious one. and while it was quite possible that if someone else, of lesser interests and of greater leisure, had thus vanished through a wall, the incident might have seemed frivolous and amusing; yet where marshall hamilton was the man in question, bellingham felt that the occurrence was of genuine significance. all his efforts to solve the mystery, however, were in vain, and presently realizing that he was accomplishing nothing, and that his correspondence was still unfinished, he came to the sensible conclusion that he was wasting his time, and accordingly set to work upon his task and a couple of hours later had completed it, just as martin, the butler, knocked at the door and entered to leave the afternoon papers upon the secretary's desk. bellingham thanked him, and at the same time advanced a chair and pushed a box of cigars across the desk, for martin's personality, and his position in the hamilton household, were both distinctly out of the ordinary. tall and smooth-shaven, with a keen and penetrating eye, there was something in his appearance suggestive of the ministry; yet this impression was a false and misleading one, for while it was true that the butler had interests and aspirations far beyond his station, yet these interests were the very reverse of ecclesiastical. the stock market, the wheat pit, the cotton exchange--these were the absorbing passions of his life; his ears, sharp as those of a fox, were trained to lose no word that fell, at table, from the lips of his master and his master's friends; and whether it was owing to this, or to natural shrewdness on his part, his ventures had prospered so amazingly that he occupied a position in the eyes of his fellow-servants almost as dignified and exalted as that of his master in wall street. now, with a respectful inclination of his head, he seated himself, helped himself to a cigar, and in answer to the secretary's question, "well, what's new, martin?" he answered, "stocks were very strong to-day, sir. steel crossed one hundred and twenty-nine." "the devil!" exclaimed bellingham. "you don't mean it!" and forthwith turned eagerly to the papers, for while in his present impoverished condition he had no personal interest in the market's ups and downs, yet in the atmosphere of finance in which he lived it was part of his duty to have at his fingers' ends the daily fluctuations in cotton, stocks and grain. for some moments he studied the pages of the _journal_ in silence; then handed the paper to martin, observing, "well, you're right. and there's the explanation, too." the butler took the paper from bellingham's hand, and read, in staring headlines, at the top of the page, "bull market continues. marshall hamilton and cyrus mckay both said to favor the advance. steel booked for two hundred." martin's eyes glistened. "mr. bellingham," he asked earnestly, "do you imagine, sir, that this is true?" the secretary, with the unbiassed mind of the man who has no stake in the game, meditated for a moment, then answered truthfully, "my dear martin, i haven't the remotest idea whether it's true or not." the butler looked visibly disappointed. "if you happen to hear anything, sir," he said in a tone so low that it was almost a whisper, "you know what i mean, sir--any letters or telegrams--i should be most grateful if you'd remember me, sir." bellingham nodded. "i'll be glad to," he answered, with just the suggestion of a smile, for the combination of martin the decorous servant and martin the eager speculator was one which never failed to amuse him. then, impelled by mere curiosity, he added, "which is it this time, martin? are you long or short?" the butler's face was impassive, but his voice was eager with the irrepressible passion of the gambler. "i'm short, sir," he answered. "quite heavily short. i have every reason to believe, mr. bellingham, that we are going to see a severe decline in the market. unusually severe, sir. but of course i may be wrong." bellingham glanced at the papers with renewed interest, running his eye up and down the narrow columns of figures which summarized, in this brief space, the prosperity or the adversity of the entire world. "they're awfully strong," he commented, "and the gains run through the list, too. locomotive is up four, crucible three and a half, steel five. and the rails are strong, too. by jove, martin, i believe you _are_ wrong. be careful you don't come a cropper. have you any real reason for thinking the market isn't going up?" "why, sir," the butler answered, "you may remember that about three months ago it was generally supposed that we were on the brink of a panic. but i am confident that at that time mr. hamilton and mr. mckay and the other gentlemen were buying very heavily indeed. and if that is so, sir, why it hardly seems probable that they would be adding to their purchases now, when stocks are thirty or forty points higher than they were then. in fact, sir, if it's not an impertinence upon my part, i think that if you were to sell steel short on a scale up--" but bellingham interrupted him. "my dear martin," he observed with a smile, "when a man has dallied with the market all his life, as i have, and suddenly ceases either to buy or to sell, there is usually just one answer," and raising his hand, he formed, with thumb and forefinger the figure zero. the butler flushed. "i beg your pardon, sir," he said hastily. "i didn't intend--i meant it in a friendly way, sir--" "of course you did," bellingham good-naturedly interposed, "and i appreciate your tip, martin. i'm only sorry i can't take advantage of it, but i hope you make a million. oh, and by the way," he added, as the butler rose to go, "would you mind telephoning saunders to saddle the bay mare? i'll be over right away." ten minutes later, on his way to the stables, he met helen. hamilton returning from the garden, her arms heaped high with flowers. "you're not forgetting our golf?" she asked. "miss wilton said that you would play." "yes, indeed," he answered, "i'm only going for a turn. i'll be back in plenty of time." and as he continued on his way, he found himself thinking, as he had done a hundred times before, that his employer's daughter approached more nearly to his ideal than any other girl whom he had ever seen. he admired her beauty, her charm, her thoughtfulness of others, and most of all he liked the friendliness of her smile and the frank and fearless glance of her dark brown eyes. "no nonsense about her." that was his invariable summing-up of her character, and her friendship had been the pleasantest feature of his employment at marshall hamilton's. once astride the mare, however, he had no further chance for meditation, for his mount had stood idle for two days, and now seemed to be doing her level best to pull his arms from their sockets, and to break his neck into the bargain. but after he had made the circuit of the lake, and had turned her head toward home, she behaved more sedately, and subconsciously he had already begun to think again of the adventure in the gallery when all at once, as he neared the entrance to the links, the whole affair was suddenly revived by the appearance of cyrus mckay's motor, drawn up by the side of the road, the chauffeur, a thick-set, bullet-headed young irishman, sprawled comfortably on the seat, cigarette in mouth. "i'm expecting some friends to play golf." he remembered his employer's phrase, and at once drew rein beside the car. "hullo, jim," he hailed, "how are you? mr. mckay on the links?" "sure," the chauffeur answered, with a yawn. "i brought him out here two hours ago, and i've just come back for him now. so i guess he's had some game." "yes, indeed," agreed bellingham, "it's a perfect day for it, too. you'll find you'll be waiting another half hour yet." the chauffeur stretched himself luxuriously, happy in the mere enjoyment of the pine-scented air and the languorous warmth of the sun. "well," he grinned, "it won't worry me any; i'll put my time against his. but on the level, mr. bellingham, don't it beat hell? when the boss is working, he's the busiest guy in wall street; a minute is worth a thousand dollars; i'm on the jump the whole blamed time. and then he'll come out here to mr. hamilton's and waste a whole afternoon chasing a little white ball around a field, making half a dozen rotten shots to every good one. honestly now, can you beat it?" bellingham smiled. "it's relaxation, jim," he answered, "and that's what the big men have got to have. that's all that keeps them going. whoa, girl, whoa," for the mare, impatient at the delay, reared straight upward and began to paw the air frantically with her forefeet. there was a momentary struggle while bellingham coaxed her back to earth again, calling over his shoulder to the chauffeur, "good-by, jim, see you again." then, yielding to a fleeting impulse, he added, "where are you keeping the car now? i may drop in and see you some day." "wheeler's garage," nolan answered. "find me there about noon, most any time," and bellingham, giving the mare her head, arrived at the stables in greater perplexity of mind than ever. "so he's been playing golf," he reflected, "just as he said he would, and according to jim nolan, mr. mckay came to the links at half past two. but that was just the time when i was in the gallery. so mr. hamilton couldn't have stayed there long; that's certain. probably he went straight over to the golf course. but i was working at the window, all that time, and i should surely have seen him. and it's a safe bet that a man can't be in two places at once. so what the devil does it all mean, anyway?" the village clock was striking five as he and his partner reached the hill which overlooked the first tee. jock mckenna, the professional, practising faithfully for the open championship, was just making ready to drive, while on the green, two hundred and twenty yards away, a half dozen small white objects bore testimony to the stocky scotchman's deadly aim. helen laid her hand restrainingly on bellingham's arm. "let's watch him," she whispered, and mckenna, unconscious of his audience, drew back with the free, effortless swing of the born golfer, while the ball, like a shot from a gun, skimmed away toward the fluttering flag, struck, bounded, rolled, first with vigor, then more and more slowly, until it came to a final stop hole high and only a hair's breadth to the left of the green. helen, with the enthusiasm of a true lover of the game, clapped her hands involuntarily. "oh splendid, jock," she cried, "that was a beauty," and the professional, looking quickly up at them, smiled and touched his cap, not ill pleased that his shot had been appreciated. an instant later, they had joined him upon the tee. "well, jock," asked bellingham, "how did mr. hamilton come out with mr. mckay? i suppose he won, didn't he?" the professional stared. "'deed, and there's been no match to-day," he declared. "and more's the pity, for the course was never as good as now. young mr. marshall was down this morning, skelping up my turf for me till i fair had to drive him away, but nobody else has played a stroke." helen hamilton, paying no heed to their talk, had teed her ball, and now, with a deliberate and well-timed swing, sent her ball straight down the fairway for a hundred and fifty yards. "very good, miss helen," was mckenna's comment, "you're improving all the time. what handicap does mr. bellingham give you now?" "a stroke a hole," she answered, "but i only take it to humor him. in another month i shall beat him even." she spoke chaffingly, and bellingham answered in similar vein, "nonsense, i could give you two strokes instead of one," but his thoughts, as he swung, were far distant from the game, and a topped and sliced tee shot came to rest in a sand-trap near the seventeenth green. helen hamilton laughed aloud, and the professional half smiled in sympathy with her triumph, half frowned in disapproval of this most inartistic shot. "you've played golf enough, mr. bellingham," he said reprovingly, "to make it a shame for me to have to say 'you didna follow through,' like i would to some beginner. but that was the trouble, man; you checked your swing as though you were no thinking of the shot at all." "my club turned in my hand," said bellingham absently. "the grip's worn smooth." but as they started for the green, he was saying to himself, "so they played no golf. and if they weren't on the links, where were they? that's one mystery. and the second is, no matter where they were, what on earth were they doing?" and greatly wondering, he walked onward toward the trap where his misplayed ball lay buried in the sand. chapter iii the golfers the hamilton estate was bounded upon the north by the main highway, and between the road and the hills and valleys of the links extended a strip of woodland, about a quarter of a mile in width, and covered with a dense growth of hemlocks, birches and tall pines towering upward toward the sky, while at the base of these forest giants briars and brambles, shrubs and bushes, had been permitted to grow unchecked, until they had formed a network of underbrush so thick as to be well-nigh impassable. upon the same day, and almost at the identical hour when bellingham stood gazing open-eyed after his employer's vanishing form, a man came slowly through this strip of woodland, proceeding cautiously, with the practised step of the forester, along a path so narrow and so overgrown that it was practically invisible. yet the man was apparently familiar with his surroundings, and apparently, too, he was not merely a forester, but a huntsman as well, for he carried a gun slung over his shoulder and his clothes and cap of faded green harmonized so perfectly with the underbrush that his furtive progress along the path was almost imperceptible. slowly and noiselessly he advanced until he had drawn near to a clump of huge firs, set in a natural circle and distant about a hundred yards from the trail which led to the links. here he paused and dropping on his hands and knees crept through the bushes and entered a hutlike shelter, artfully woven of growing shrubs, where he lay effectually concealed, commanding, through a narrow orifice, a perfect view of the approach to the clump of firs. next, with leisurely precision, and with no trace of excitement upon his bronzed and weather-beaten face, he proceeded to unsling his weapon from his back and to make it ready for use; and as he did so, one further circumstance became apparent--namely, that he was a huntsman who did not care for noise--a poacher, perhaps--for what had resembled a gun now proved to be an old-fashioned crossbow, of rare and curious workmanship, and this bow the huntsman bent, and then, adjusting the murderous looking bolt, settled down to wait in comfort until his quarry should appear. silence descended upon the forest; a silence so profound that it seemed as if animals, birds and insects, all were slumbering amid the quiet of the summer afternoon. surely, the huntsman had poor prospects of success, yet if this were so, he did not appear to care, but lay motionless, resting quietly, with ears upon the alert and eyes fixed steadily upon the clump of firs. the moments passed. then, presently, far up the road, sounded the throbbing rhythm of a motor, and a half a minute later cyrus mckay's big car drew up at the gateway leading to the links, and mckay, founder and president of the national wire trust, stepped leisurely forth, a huge, burly, bull-necked man, with power written in every line of his ruddy, jovial face, in every movement of his big body, and in every glance of his shrewd blue eyes. with something of an effort, he reached for his golf bag, and with a nod to the chauffeur, said, "all right, jim. come back at half past four." the chauffeur touched his cap; the big car turned and sped smoothly down the road, and mckay, left alone, started slowly along the pathway toward the links. apparently, he anticipated a pleasant afternoon, for as he strolled along he whistled boyishly, burst occasionally into snatches of song, and presently, some distance up the path, he stopped for a moment, drew a white feather from his pocket and adjusted it carefully in his cap; after which he seemed suddenly to alter his mind regarding his destination, for striking boldly off from the trail, he began making his way through the waist-high underbrush, directly toward the clump of firs. as the sound of the motor had died away in the distance, the huntsman in the thicket had redoubled his vigilance, and now, as the crackling of the bushes grew more and more distinct, his keen eyes swept searchingly about the glade and his fingers tightened upon the stock of his weapon, as if it were for human game that he was thus lying in wait. yet if this were the fact, it was clearly not mckay whom he was expecting, for as the latter's bulky form loomed into view the hunter relaxed his grip upon his crossbow, and once more resumed his attitude of patient watchfulness. in the meantime mckay had reached the edge of the circle of firs, and with a shrug of distaste for the ordeal that lay before him, he settled his cap more firmly on his head, and guarding his face with his upraised arm, he at length succeeded in forcing a passage through the close-knit barrier of the trees. then, extracting a key from his pocket and achieving, not without difficulty, a kneeling posture, he cleared away the soil until a square of steel came into view, and fitting a key to the lock, he threw back the door and disclosed a flight of stone steps, down which, with the utmost nonchalance and as if he were conducting himself in a perfectly normal manner, he promptly disappeared, carefully closing the trap behind him. at the foot of the short flight of steps he paused for a moment, and drawing a flashlight from his pocket proceeded briskly along the narrow passageway, stoutly shored and timbered, until he presently emerged, through a second door of steel, into the underground chamber where marshall hamilton stood awaiting him. the room itself was simply--almost barely--furnished, and in appearance was as conventional as the method of approaching it was unique. the only furniture was a heavy mission table and four chairs to match; a massive safe was set into the wall; at one end of the room stood an old wooden desk, elaborately carved and inlaid, and at the other a sideboard bearing glasses, decanters and cigars. the two men shook hands with the ease of long acquaintance. "on time, as usual," hamilton observed. mckay drew a chair up to the table and sat down. "the others will be here?" he asked. "any minute," hamilton responded with equal brevity. "they come from the south, this time," and the words had scarcely passed his lips when the door opened to admit james norton, the "cereal king," and vincent brooks, senior partner in the famous banking house of brooks & harrington. brooks was a tall, fair man, often described by his friends as "a fellow who had been dealt every card in the pack." in other words, he had been welcomed, from the day of his birth, into the most aristocratic society in new york, was immensely wealthy, and possessed, into the bargain, great natural ability and a wonderful aptitude for "big business," where the figures ran into billions, and the risks and the rewards were alike staggering to the imagination. norton, on the other hand, was almost his exact opposite, a dark, eager man of forty, fairly dynamic with energy, who had been favored with no cards by fortune, and who had thereupon fared blithely forth and had collected an entire pack for himself. in the wall street district he had first been hated and despised as an upstart, but later had been made welcome as a man too shrewd and forceful to be ignored. immediately the four men seated themselves around the table, and hamilton, drawing a sheaf of papers from his pocket, proceeded to call the meeting to order and for perhaps fifteen minutes read steadily, interrupted now and again by a comment or a query from one or the other of his associates. at the conclusion of his task, there followed approval and acceptance of his report, the carrying of various formal motions, and then began a low-toned, informal talk between the four, apparently entirely harmonious until mckay and norton became involved in a discussion which gradually increased in intensity until at length they had the conversation to themselves, brooks and hamilton listening with an intentness which made it evident that the subject was one of vital importance. finally mckay, with the utmost earnestness, spoke at length, summarizing and emphasizing his arguments with all the skill at his command, but when he had concluded it became evident that his efforts had only served to increase norton's opposition, for the cereal king struck the table before him with his clenched fist, crying, "no, no, mckay, you're absolutely wrong. you're altogether too conservative. life is short, and so i say: let's get all we can." at this outburst mckay only smiled, and instead of answering he turned to hamilton. "would you be kind enough, marshall," he asked, "to read to us once more the statement showing our profits for the year?" hamilton found the document referred to. "gross," he answered, "seventy millions. net, after deducting all payments and expenses, forty-two millions." "thanks," said mckay briefly, and to norton he added, "well, my boy, that makes precisely ten millions and a half apiece for the four of us, to say nothing of what we've disbursed to our subordinates, or of the sums that have been realized by our friends across the water. in the face of such a showing, do you maintain with seriousness that we may be termed ultra-conservative?" "that," responded norton with spirit, "is exactly my contention. it's not the actual financial results, in dollars and cents, that i'm criticizing, for as you say, ten millions and a half of sure money is a satisfactory income for anyone. no, my objections are based purely on artistic grounds. when you consider--" but mckay, with a huge burst of laughter, broke in upon him. "artistic grounds!" he exclaimed. "good heavens, man, you might accuse us of plenty of other things, but not of being inartistic. why, that is our strong point--our trump card. if we're not artistic, we're nothing." norton shook his head. "only in a sense," he retorted. "in the same way that we hark back to the beginnings of any art. for their age, they sufficed, but in the light of later knowledge and achievement they are bound to appear pitifully crude and inadequate. and so it is with us. forty years ago the founders of our society were the ablest financiers of their day, and the system which they inaugurated was wonderfully efficient for that period. but think of all that has happened in forty years. think of the increase in population, the increase in wealth, the increase in the number of enterprises, of corporations and combinations, of securities upon the stock exchange. and yet, in spite of this, we are still satisfied to conduct our business along the old primitive lines of forty years ago. why, i could take pencil and paper now, and in two minutes i could suggest improvements that would increase our earnings a hundred, two hundred, three hundred per cent. i'm absolutely certain of it." "i quite agree with you," mckay responded quietly, "there's not a doubt of it. but the answer is: what's the use? here's a parallel case for you. suppose, somewhere in some mountain wilderness, you were to come by chance upon an undiscovered stream, simply filled with trout so hungry and so unwary that they would rush ravenously for your bare hook. under such conditions, would you use bait?" "not at first," rejoined norton. "i'll admit that. but you don't complete your parallel. after a while, as your supply of fish begins to diminish, you will find that those which are left will grow wiser and more suspicious. and that is the time when you will need all your skill, and must use your choicest bait." "no, no," mckay protested warmly, "that's not a fair argument at all. we are not discussing some possible time when fish grow wise. we are confining ourselves to facts; my premise is that you can catch all you need with your bare hook. and when four men--" he added, with a wave of his hand toward the papers on the table, "can make forty million dollars in twelve months, without half trying, it certainly doesn't appear as if our human fish were possessed of any great supply either of caution or of brains." brooks, man of few words, nodded approval. "right," he interjected. "you're quite right, cyrus." and to norton he added significantly, "you don't want to fish out your brook, jim. if you do, you'll go hungry." norton's eyes gleamed. "perfect rot," he persisted. "that's the same old 'safe and sane' chatter i'm so tired of hearing. in the first place, you can't fish the brook out; there's one born every minute. but wouldn't i like to try it, though. i'd like to start right now; there never was a better chance; and for the next twelve months do nothing else except slaughter the innocents. big fish, fingerlings, i'd keep 'em all. never a one would i throw back into the brook to grow. why, just imagine what we could make, if we once started after it. we'd murder 'em; crucify 'em; skin 'em alive." and he licked his lips covetously at the thought. mckay's brows contracted. it was not the first time that his own views and those of his younger associate had come into violent contact. "oh, if you aspire to be a game hog, a professional butcher--" he began, but at this point marshall hamilton, who had maintained an unbroken silence, allowing the debate to range unchecked, suddenly leaned forward in his chair. "one moment, cyrus," he said courteously, "may i interrupt you?" and as mckay assented, the banker continued, "this figure of the trout brook is a very appropriate one, but neither of you has quite completed the picture. to make the parallel exact, you must include a very important person, and that is the owner of the stream." norton stared. then, with the respect which was invariably accorded to the financier, he objected, "i don't think i follow you, mr. hamilton. who is this owner? i should say that we come pretty close to being the owners ourselves." "no," hamilton answered, "we are not the owners. there are times when it might appear so, but we must not allow ourselves to be deceived. we are nothing more than poachers--bold, formidable and successful poachers, i admit--but none the less poachers for all that. and though the owner of the stream is stupid and careless, slow to anger and to realize that he is being robbed, still we must never forget that he exists and that when once aroused his power is irresistible." brooks looked frankly puzzled. "i cannot suppose, marshall," he said quizzically, "that after the highly uncomplimentary adjectives you have been using, you are venturing to refer to the individual mentioned in the prayer books as the 'high and mighty ruler of the universe.'" "no," hamilton answered briefly, "this is the twentieth century. i'm not bringing god into the discussion in any way." "i don't understand you either, marshall," broke in mckay. "i disagree with norton in many respects, but i do agree with him in this--that so far as this enterprise of ours goes, we are supreme. whom do you designate as this owner of the stream? surely not the law?" there was a general smile. "no," hamilton drily responded, "scarcely that. as far as the courts are concerned, i suppose we may fairly claim that we _are_ the law." "and the profits--" interjected brooks under his breath, but hamilton was too much in earnest to heed him, and continued, "no, the owner of the stream is the public, and the weapon we have to fear is the intangible but terribly effective one of public opinion." "oh, the public," commented norton flippantly, "well, as vanderbilt said--" but hamilton went on gravely. "i assure you that i am quite serious. our one possible danger is that some day the public may learn the truth. you all know that periodically, after some spectacular rise or equally spectacular decline in prices, there is sure to be a terrific bleating from the victims, and a plaintive demand that someone must investigate the new york stock exchange. of course these demonstrations don't amount to anything--it's child's play to check them--but if we should adopt norton's suggestion and should play the game to the limit, then the danger would be correspondingly increased, and if some day the truth should become known--" norton interrupted him. "but that is impossible," he declared. "impossible," retorted hamilton, "is a dangerous word. i acknowledge that it is highly improbable--thanks to the founders of this order for taking the precautions that they did--but it's not impossible. there is always 'the plaguy millionth chance.' and grant," he added with increased emphasis, "that the truth should become known; admit, for the sake of the argument, that the public should find out what has been happening to their money for the last forty years, and where would we be? i'll tell you where. we'd be marked men, fleeing for our lives, and never safe from vengeance, even in the uttermost corners of the earth." no one gainsaid him, and the gravity of his hearers' faces was sufficient confirmation of the importance of what he said. "you're right," brooks assented. "quite right," mckay agreed. and norton, convinced in spite of himself, added thoughtfully, "well, perhaps you are." "i'm sure of it," hamilton answered, "and now, gentlemen, it is time to go. when shall we meet again?" "i suggest day after to-morrow, at the same hour," said mckay. "to-morrow will be a big day in the market, and we shall have a number of things to discuss." "yes, the time is ripe," hamilton responded, "it is a wonderful opportunity." "how far will cotton decline?" asked norton. "i should say, off-hand," answered hamilton, "a couple of hundred points, at least. but that will be decided, of course, in the usual way. we can tell better after the first break." "and wheat," queried brooks, "will go up?" "exactly," said hamilton. "the conditions there are exactly reversed. the advance will be sharp." he walked over to the sideboard, filled his friends' glasses, and then raised his own high in the air, glancing, as he did so, at the old desk across the room. "here's to our predecessors," he said gravely. "the men who came here forty years ago. the men who have made us what we are to-day." chapter iv a flurry in the market it still lacked five minutes of ten o'clock, the hour for the daily opening of the stock exchange, but the board room at holt and henderson's was already filled to suffocation, and presently, as more and more clients came hurrying through the doors, so little space remained that as the crowd surged to and fro frequent forcible collisions became unavoidable. yet while at any other time these gamblers would promptly have resented this jostling and scrimmaging, now they were so preoccupied and so intent upon their own affairs that they never thought of wasting time, either in apologizing themselves or in demanding an apology from those with whom they had come in contact. the gathering would have repaid the studies of a psychologist. it numbered at least two hundred men, and apparently every rank and condition of society had furnished a representative. well-dressed gentlemen rubbed elbows with ragged tipsters and hangers-on of wall street; a famous musician examined the "chart" of a no less famous artist; a coachman confident of a rise in july oats swapped theories with a farmer who foresaw a fall in december corn. but though in appearance so strikingly dissimilar, yet in one respect all these men were startlingly alike; not one of them seemed wholly normal. their aberration displayed itself in various ways. some were unable to keep still, but moved continually hither and thither, from the news ticker to the newspaper files, from the newspaper files to the bulletin board. others, though content to remain in one spot, were unable to control their tongues and talked incessantly, the intensity of their speech and their nervous laughter showing the strain under which they were laboring; while others still, of a less friendly temperament, maintained an unbroken silence and a sullen aloofness from their companions. occasionally, here and there, small groups collected to discuss one subject, and one only--the future of the three great markets. "well, what do you know?" was the common salutation, while now and then a customer, seemingly disregarding the grim significance of the phrase, would propound the jocular query, "well, what are they going to do to us to-day?" questions, answers, comments, filled the air. "london's up." "how's liverpool?" "it's a big bull move; they've only started 'em." "i think they're toppy; you can sell 'em on the rallies." so ran the talk of the speculators, vapid and valueless, without end or beginning, and begotten of the fever which consumed their veins. at one end of the office was a narrow alcove in the wall, just wide enough to contain a single chair, and this seat was now pre-empted, as it had been for the past month, by a man who at least in appearance presented a marked contrast to his fellow gamblers. he was young and exceptionally good-looking, with the build and bearing of an athlete, while his clear-cut features betokened not only birth and breeding, but also no lack of determination and tenacity of purpose. his whole attitude, indeed, suggested confidence in himself, and the occasional glances which he bestowed upon his companions were somewhat disdainful, as though he despised them for their excitement and their lack of self-control. yet he himself, although quite unaware of it, was not exempt from the universal nervousness of the office, for every few moments he cast a quick glance upward at the clock, and repeatedly drew from his pocket a small memorandum book, studying it as the patron of the race track examines his wagers before the beginning of a race. the hands of the clock pointed to ten o'clock; a bell tinkled sharply; and the tickers, like sprinters shooting from their marks at the starter's signal, commenced clicking and whirring at breakneck speed, while demming, the red-headed, pot-bellied customers' man, began bellowing forth the quotations with an air of omnipotence which suggested that he alone was responsible for all that was taking place. "crucible, ninety-four," he cried, "union, one hundred and fifty-three; steel, one hundred and twenty-seven and a half," and then, to divert his audience, and to show that he was a genuine humorist, he dropped into the time-honored slang of the street, and with a smirk of self-appreciation, went on chanting, "annie connolly, one hundred and five; old dog, sixty-two; soup, par and a quarter." the young man in the corner listened eagerly, noting the prices, as the board boys posted them, with an approving eye. "still strong," he said half-aloud, "they're going up, all right," and he had settled himself to watch in comfort the rise that was to make him rich when one of the employees of the office came hastily up to him. "if you please, mr. atherton," he said respectfully, "mr. holt would like to see you for a moment, sir, in his office." atherton looked at him in surprise. "are you sure you have the right name?" he queried. "i don't like to leave the board just now." "yes, sir, i'm sure," the man responded. "in fact, mr. holt said that he particularly wished to see you at once." atherton rose. "very well, then," he answered shortly, "if it's as important as that, i'll go." in the private office he found both partners seated at the long table in the centre of the room. holt was tall, dark and solemn; henderson short, rosy and never without a smile; so that almost inevitably they had become known to employees and customers alike as "joy" and "gloom." they greeted him pleasantly enough, and after he had taken a seat, holt picked up a card from the table and with a preliminary clearing of his throat, observed, "our margin clerk has called our attention, mr. atherton, to the state of your account, and i thought that i had better speak to you about it." atherton, with the touchiness of a very young man, at once took offence. "i wasn't aware," he said stiffly, "that my account was not in good shape. but if you object to it, i suppose i can take it elsewhere." at this retort, mr. holt's solemnity visibly increased, but the smiling henderson, at his best in such an emergency, came promptly to the rescue. "now, now, mr. atherton," he remonstrated, "don't be so hasty. there's nothing wrong with your account as it stands, and it's an account that we're very glad to have in the office, and that we don't wish to lose. but mr. holt is merely suggesting to you, for your own good, that you are rather crowding things. you've been carrying twenty-five hundred shares of steel; yesterday, at the close, you bought twenty-five hundred more. and as your deposit with us is just about fifty thousand dollars, it is obvious that you are getting pretty close to the danger line." "quite so," atherton acknowledged, "but that is my lookout. as long as i keep my ten point margin good, why should you worry?" "that," resumed mr. holt, "is exactly the question. are we to understand that in the event of a decline in the market, you stand ready to deposit additional sums as we may require them?" "no," atherton answered frankly, "you're not to understand anything of the sort. all the money i have in the world is in here now. but the market is going up and you're not obliged to worry about more margin; if there should be a drop, then we can talk things over again." mr. holt heaved a sigh of impatience. "you young men, mr. atherton," he complained, "are all alike. you are too cocksure about everything. now you can't tell anything about this market; it may go up; it may go off; but to try to carry five thousand shares of steel on a ten point margin is absolute madness--i've been in the brokerage business long enough to know that. sell out half your holdings, mr. atherton, and then, if a drop comes, you won't be giving us all nervous prostration." atherton frowned. he had calculated his profits so many times that the thought of seeing them cut in halves did not appeal to him in the least. "i don't want to sell," he demurred. "i tell you this market _can't_ go down. the steel corporation is earning more money than at any time in its history. everyone says it's going to cross two hundred. so don't be too particular about my margin; they don't always insist on ten points in other offices." "more fools they," retorted holt briskly, but henderson, foreseeing in atherton's attitude the possible loss of a good customer, hastened to make a suggestion. "personally, mr. atherton," he observed, "i think mr. holt is quite right. we've been in this business a long time, and we've seen many a good man embarrassed for lack of sufficient margin. but if you feel confident that we are in a big bull market, and are willing to take your chances, we will carry you, provided you will sign an order authorizing us to sell you out if steel reacts to one hundred and twenty. in other words, you give us a stop loss order for our protection, and take your chances of being caught. it's rank gambling on your part, mr. atherton, and we won't always agree to carry you overnight, but if it is an accommodation to you, we will carry you along from day to day, and give you the opportunity of making a big killing if the market goes up." atherton reflected, and obsessed as he was with the idea that the market was going much higher, mr. henderson's scheme impressed him favorably. with his stock selling at over one hundred and twenty-seven, a recession to one hundred and twenty seemed impossible, and by signing the stop loss order he would be enabled to hold the whole of his five thousand shares. accordingly, since it was no time for delay, he made up his mind at once and promptly answered, "very well, i'll do it." at once mr. holt selected a "sell order" from the printed slips upon the table, filled in the figures agreed upon, and atherton, hastily signing his name, hurried back to the board room to find, to his delight, that steel had advanced to one hundred and twenty-eight. this, however, appeared to be a critical point in the struggle, and while the transactions increased to enormous proportions, the fluctuations narrowed correspondingly. up an eighth, down a quarter, up an eighth again, while every few moments demming's voice could be heard roaring vociferously, "a thousand steel--three thousand steel--five thousand steel--" eleven o'clock came, and twelve, and atherton, in view of the market's steadiness, decided to go out to lunch. but the grip of the game had laid its spell upon him, and without the board before his eyes he became so nervous and ill at ease that he ate his meal at breakneck speed, raced hurriedly back to holt and henderson's, and drawing a breath of relief as he regained the familiar entrance, he thrust open the door and went in. yet scarcely had he crossed the threshold when he realized that during his brief absence from the office something sensational must have occurred. the room was in a turmoil; a bedlam of sound filled the air; a mob of dishevelled customers fought their way madly toward the windows of the order clerks, elbowing and shoving each other this way and that in their frenzied eagerness to buy or sell. waters, regulator of margins, ordinarily the coolest man in the world, now stood in the rear of the office, crimson-faced, perspiring, sorting and shuffling a sheaf of customers' cards in his hands, and sending his subordinates rushing hither and thither in pursuit of those unfortunates whose slenderly margined accounts were either already submerged or in imminent danger of becoming so at any moment. all this atherton saw in one lightning flash of vision; the next moment his eyes leaped to the board and he gasped to see in the steel column the figures, one twenty-four, while in the same breath he heard the voice of demming, hoarse and exhausted, but still powerful, roaring out "union, one forty-nine; reading, one hundred and three; steel, one twenty-three and seven-eighths, three-quarters, five-eighths, a half--" in a second the calm and confidence of the past few weeks, born of a rising market and the conviction that he was making his fortune, vanished utterly, leaving him weak, trembling and panic-stricken. no longer despising his fellow gamblers, he grasped the first who passed him by the arm. "what's up?" he cried. "what the devil's happened?" "war!" the man shouted in reply. "war with japan! battleships and submarines off the pacific coast! a whole fleet of 'em. hell to pay. i'm going to sell 'em short, right here." he rushed away in the direction of the order clerks, leaving atherton perplexed and dismayed. a short distance away from him he noticed a man, apparently calm amid the confusion, whom demming had once pointed out to him as the best judge of the market among all the customers of holt and henderson. without the loss of a moment, atherton walked up to him. "what do you think of 'em?" he asked anxiously, "are they going lower?" the man did not take his eyes from the board, but answered courteously enough, "i can't tell. it's a big bear raid. i've thought for the last few weeks the big men were getting out." "but i thought all the big men were in" protested atherton. "that's what all the papers have been saying." the trader grinned sardonically. "there's a lot in the papers that oughtn't to be there," he rejoined, "and there's a long sight more that isn't there, but ought to be. there's only one explanation of this. the public are ninety-five per cent long of stocks, and the insiders are getting them! that's all; it's the same old game." atherton reflected. "but the warships--" he queried. "all in your eye," was the trader's response. "it will be denied to-morrow. but they're doing just as much damage," he added, with a gesture toward the board, "as if they were real. when the crowd takes fright, it's all over. down go stocks, and then the big men load up again at the bottom, and sell again at the top. it's what you might call a crime, if you dared to." at this new view of the stock market, atherton felt more perplexed than ever. "then you think they'll rally?" he ventured. "sure," his informant agreed, "but you can't tell how much lower they'll go first. it all depends on how heavily the public is in the market. i know what the bears are aiming at, and that's one hundred and twenty on steel; that was the old low, six weeks ago. if it goes through there, good-night." atherton shuddered, for by coincidence this was precisely the point at which his stop order would be reached. yet he hesitated to put much confidence in this stray acquaintance and his theories. big men slaughtering the public so wantonly, false reports in circulation, prices being swayed, not by basic conditions, but by manipulation and by such strange fetishes as "new lows"--if all these things were true, his faith in human nature and in the goodness of the world had been sadly misplaced. "but look here," he objected, "steel _can't_ go down like this. why, the earnings for the last quarter--" the trader's grin widened, and for the first time he turned away from the board and gazed squarely at atherton, as if at some new and interesting specimen of mankind. "earnings," he repeated vaguely, and still again, more forcibly, "_earnings!_" and at last, as though realizing the inadequacy of speech, he muttered tolerantly and not unkindly, "oh, hell--" and turning on his heel, walked over toward the board. atherton, bewildered and abashed, stole back to his alcove, and sat down to watch the progress of the fight. in his mind, he pictured to himself the rival armies--the bears red-faced, scowling, domineering men, objectionable to a degree, pirates of the exchange, attempting to wreck a stock like steel; the bulls sane, conservative men of affairs, shrewd judges of fundamental conditions, men, in fact, much like himself. and he could not doubt that the bulls would win. up went steel an eighth, and he thrilled with pride for those who were defending it; down it went a quarter, and he shook with fear of these reckless raiders and highwaymen. and so the battle raged. two o'clock came and went, and suddenly atherton realized the sensations of a wearied fighter in the ring, striving to hold his own until the clanging of the gong to mark the end of the round. "if only it holds another hour," he thought. then he would at least have a respite until the following morning, a chance to decide matters at his leisure without this frightful accompaniment of sound and fury, this whirling maelstrom of men seeking desperately to make new dollars or trying more desperately still to cling to the dollars they already owned. if the market would only hold-- but even as these thoughts were shaping in his mind, there came a furious onslaught from the bears. one hundred and twenty-three for steel, twenty-two and a half, twenty-two, twenty-one and three quarters. he could feel the blood surging to his brain, and his hands clenched as though he were fighting physically for victory. then a rally and a long fight around twenty-three. but he could feel, with a gambler's instinct, that there was no life to the advance, and sure enough, as he had feared, presently the tide began once more to ebb. twenty-two again, twenty-one and a half, then suddenly, with a bull-like bellow from demming, one hundred and twenty-one, twenty and seven-eighths. for the fiftieth time he glanced up at the clock; two, thirty-five; only twenty-five minutes more, but less than a point lay between him and virtual ruin. his lip trembled, his knees shook under him, and without realizing that there was anything incongruous in such a proceeding, he began to pray fervently, imploringly-- in the midst of the group which thronged, five deep, around the ticker, suddenly arose wild commotion. atherton could discern faces frenzied with joy; other faces torn with anguish; heard, above the tumult, some one cry shrilly, "they've done it!" and the next instant, demming, in tones of incredulous wonder, was reporting the cataclysm, "union, forty-eight, seven, six; reading, ninety-nine, eight, seven and a half; steel, one hundred and twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, _sixteen_--" atherton stood dazed, benumbed; the blow had fallen so quickly that for a moment he could not grasp the truth. then all at once he knew--knew that he had lost not only the fortune he had sought but most of the capital which he had risked to gain it. steel at one hundred and twenty; he would have fifteen thousand dollars left; but instantly he recalled the lightning speed of the sheer drop to one hundred and sixteen, and wondered whether he had been fortunate enough to escape at the stop loss figure. there was but one way to find out, and mingling with the crowd, he fought his way to the order clerk's window, and presently caught the eye of curtis, his particular friend among the office force. the clerk shook his head dubiously. "no word yet, mr. atherton," he called, "everything is away behind." and thus, for ten minutes which seemed unending, atherton maintained his place until at last curtis bent quickly forward, scribbled some figures upon a piece of paper, folded it, and handed it through the window. atherton seized it, made his way back to the alcove, and tense with excitement, unfolded it to see staring up at him the figures - / . his fears were realized--deducting commissions, his account was practically wiped out of existence. and suddenly a frenzied desire seized him to leave the place and never to see the inside of a broker's office again. there was a moment's delay at the cashier's window, and then, residue of the fifty thousand he had staked, there came back to him a check for thirteen hundred and forty dollars and seventy cents. he thrust it into his pocket, and started for the door. around the board the storm was still raging, but now a different note was in the air. "steel, one twenty-one," he heard, "twenty-two, three and a half, twenty-four." the trader whom he had questioned stood in his path, and recognizing atherton, he said, "they've turned. just as i thought. warship story's denied. all a mistake; japan expresses warm friendship. they'll come back strong now. you can buy 'em right where they are." without answer, atherton passed on. in his heart smouldered a fierce resentment--a bitter hatred of everybody and everything connected with the gambler's trade. forgetting, for the moment, that he had only himself to blame, he felt that he had somehow been tricked, deceived, robbed. and as he opened the door, and banged it to behind him, the last sound which rang in his ears was demming's frenzied shriek, "steel, twenty-six and three-quarters, _twenty-seven!_" outside, in the street, the world was bathed in sunshine. overhead the sky was blue. about him, on every side, men and women were going about their appointed tasks, alert, smiling, unbelievably happy. of a sudden atherton's vision cleared, and in a flash of readjustment, he realized, for the first time, the incredible folly of what he had done. chapter v fools rush in bellingham was alone in his room. before him, on his desk, lay letters from his creditors, and beside them a timetable of the local trains. the telephone leading to the stables stood within easy reach of his hand, yet he made no effort to lift the receiver from its resting-place, but remained irresolute and motionless, a picture of indecision. over and over again, during the last two days, he had tried to make up his mind as to the course he should pursue, but his endeavors had been unavailing, and he was still as far from a conclusion as ever. upon one hand, decency and caution combined to warn him. urged decency, "you are living under marshall hamilton's roof; accepting his money; eating his bread. by the merest chance, you have seen something which you were never intended to see. in loyalty to your employer, you should dismiss it from your mind, and never think of it again." and caution added, "all that decency says is true, and you must remember that there is a further consideration, which is more important still. that is your own safety. there is a mystery here, and it is the experience of mankind that mystery, as a rule, goes hand in hand with danger. you may not be satisfied with things as they are, but do not forget that nothing is ever so bad that you cannot make it still worse. therefore you will be wise to drop the whole affair, once and for all." thus argued decency and caution, but opposed to them, in bellingham's troubled mind, were another pair of powerful allies, desperation and curiosity. clamored desperation, "if you cannot find the money to pay your debts, your creditors will very shortly complain to mr. hamilton. there is no doubt of that; the proof of it lies in black and white on the table in front of you. and when mr. hamilton learns of your financial condition, he will discharge you at once; that is one point about which he is most particular. you will lose this position, and you will have difficulty in finding another; and thus you will drag through life a failure, with the millstone of debt bound fast around your neck." so, with pitiless candor, spoke desperation, and curiosity, knowing the glamor of adventure and the charm of the unknown, added alluringly, "this is no ordinary mystery; marshall hamilton and cyrus mckay are two of the biggest men in new york. opportunity, they say, knocks but once, and this may be your life's turning-point. you cannot disregard it." thus the secretary gave ear to all these arguments in turn, but in the end it was the promptings of caution that he heeded most, for the primary instinct of self-preservation told him that life, even to a man hampered by his debts, was still much to be preferred to death and oblivion. yet it was hard for him to think of wholly abandoning the undertaking, and presently it occurred to him that there was more than one method of solving the mystery, and that a compromise was not in the least impossible. it was true that marshall hamilton had vanished through a picture in the wall, but it was also true that cyrus mckay had disappeared into the woods adjoining the links; and while caution counselled him to avoid the gallery, curiosity, on the other hand, persistently insisted upon a vicarious pursuit of mckay. nolan, of course, was clearly the man for the job. he drove his employer to the golf course; therefore he had the opportunity. he was physically strong and courageous; therefore he would not shrink from danger. and he was pleasure-loving and always in debt; therefore a reward would be certain to appeal to him. beyond question, nolan was the man. "but is it right," asked decency, "to send someone else where you would not venture yourself?" to which query desperation promptly answered, "oh, in this world you can't be too particular; it's a case of each man for himself. there probably isn't any danger, anyway, and if you should get hold of anything really valuable, you can make it right with nolan later." thus the discussion ended. "i'll try it," decided bellingham, and taking the receiver from the hook he telephoned to the stables and ordered the motor in time to catch the next train for town. an hour later, he emerged from the subway, and made his way rapidly down the street in the direction of the garage where nolan kept his car. a sense of guilt oppressed him, and though he realized that his fears were wholly groundless, he could not prevent himself from casting occasional furtive glances to left and right, as though apprehensive of pursuit. at length he came to the garage, and hailing the first workman whom he met, inquired if nolan were around. the man jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "back of the shop," he answered briefly. "sixth floor. freight elevator. run it yourself." and went on with his task. bellingham made his way in the direction indicated, entered the elevator and pulled the rope, and began his leisurely ascent past floor after floor littered with cars--cars new and old, cars good and bad, cars whole and cars dismembered--until he came to the sixth story, where he stopped the elevator and to his joy discovered nolan, cigarette in mouth, seated placidly upon a bench at the end of the room, superintending repairs, real or imaginary, upon mr. mckay's machine. thrilling with renewed excitement, the secretary walked over to him, and nolan, when he recognized his visitor, greeted him cordially. "hello, mr. bellingham," he cried. "didn't expect to see you quite so soon." "oh, just a little business matter," the secretary replied, trying hard to make his voice sound nonchalant and under control. "walk over as far as the window, and i'll tell you what i want." nolan rose at once, and as soon as they were safely out of earshot, bellingham continued, "look here, jim, do you want to make some easy money?" the chauffeur grinned, and for answer inserted thumb and forefinger in the pocket of his coat, exposing the empty lining. "ah, say," he rejoined, "don't ask me none of those easy ones. try me with something hard." bellingham felt his spirits rise. "that's the way to talk," he said, "and here's what i want you to do. you remember taking mr. mckay out to mr. hamilton's day before yesterday to play golf. well, he didn't play; i know that for a fact. and what is more, i believe that he and mr. hamilton have some kind of secret meeting-place near the golf links. so the next time you go out there, i want you to drive away as usual, and then, after you round the first curve in the road, you can stop your car, double back along the wall, and trail after him to see where he goes. and for your trouble, jim, i'm going to be just fool enough to give you fifty dollars." nolan deliberated. fifty dollars was worth making, but his job was a good one, and he had no wish to lose it. "well," he answered at last, "here's one trouble, right away. the boss is a pretty wise old guy, and this trailing business is a new game for me. the betting is that i trip over a tree, go on my nut, and when his nibs turns around and asks me what the devil i'm doing there, why where's my alibi?" "alibi?" echoed the secretary. "why, that's easy; there's nothing to that at all. mr. mckay keeps his clubs in the machine, doesn't he?" "yes, always," rejoined nolan. "they're in there now." "then that settles it," said bellingham. "all you need to do is to take out his putter and hide it under the seat. then when you start after him, take the putter with you, and if by any chance he sees you coming after him, just wave it around your head and tell him it dropped in the car and you knew he needed it. how about that?" "that," agreed nolan, "is certainly good. pretty smooth, i call that." "then you'll do it?" asked bellingham eagerly. the chauffeur did not hasten his reply. "well," he said at length, "i suppose i'm taking chances, after all, and i figure that if the job's worth fifty dollars, it's worth a hundred." the secretary did not stop to argue. "very well," he assented, "a hundred it is." "and it's also worth," the chauffeur continued, "just about twenty dollars down, to bind the bargain." bellingham drew out his pocket-book; then hesitated in his turn. "but how do i know," he objected, "when you will be going out there again?" "that's easy," nolan answered, "because we're going this very afternoon. so you're bound to get some action for your money, all right." bellingham felt his nerves tingle with excitement, and without further protest he handed the money to the chauffeur. "good for you, jim," he said. "i'll be here to-morrow, at this same time, and i'll give you the balance then." "i'll be here," nolan agreed, "and now i must get back and see that those strikers don't put my car to the bad. if she don't run perfect, i'll get it from the old man. so good-by, mr. bellingham." "good-by," echoed the secretary, and descending as he had come, he walked quickly away up the street, greatly wondering what news nolan would have for him on the morrow. promptly at half past two, that afternoon, cyrus mckay's motor stopped at the gateway leading to the links, and as before mckay alighted, took his clubs from the machine, and said to the chauffeur, "four thirty, jim." there was no sign of anything unusual in nolan's manner. "yes, sir, four thirty," he answered, and touching his cap, he turned his car and sped briskly away for the city. yet no sooner had he turned the curve of which bellingham had spoken, than he began swiftly to execute his plan. drawing in to the side of the road, he shut off his power, extracted his employer's putter from under the seat, and tossing his cap, with its conspicuous black visor, into the car, he vaulted the wall and began to work back toward the path. fortune favored him, for the underbrush had gained no hold upon the smooth masonry, and he was able to make rapid progress, so that only a short time elapsed before he regained the entrance to the links. his next task was to find some trace of his employer, but a quick glance down the path revealed nothing and nolan, puzzled, walked straight ahead toward the links, casting quick glances to right and left of him as he advanced. presently, halfway down the trail, a twig snapped to his left, and quickly turning his head, he saw mckay slowly forcing his way through the bushes in the direction of a circle of huge firs. at the sight, nolan's usual calm deserted him, and his pulse beat faster. "there _is_ something queer, then," he thought, and bending low he crept stealthily after his employer, like a hunter stalking his game. little by little, favored by his slighter build, he gained upon mckay until the distance between them had been decreased one-half, whereupon he tried to gain no more but was content simply to keep pace with the man whom he was trailing. straight onward toward the firs mckay made his way, and when he reached them, instead of turning aside, he stooped and began to seek an entrance through their branches' barricade. nolan felt his wonderment increase. "the devil," he murmured, and fearful lest he might lose sight of his employer, he sacrificed safety to speed, and stole rapidly onward until he too had reached the border of the trees. ahead of him, he could faintly discern his master's form, and the continual snapping of twigs made it evident that he was still advancing. for a moment nolan stood motionless, uncertain what to do. his heart was beating violently. if he continued to follow, the pretext of the forgotten putter could hardly serve him as an excuse; if he went on from this point, it was at his own risk. and suddenly, for no apparent reason, fear seized him. in the shelter and silence of the forest, he seemed to himself to shrink and grow small; the solitude oppressed him; and he stood like a man in a dream, scarcely breathing and noting, subconsciously, the beauty of the rifts of sunlight which filtered through the trees. "i guess," he muttered, "i'll be getting back." but even as he spoke the words, there sounded behind him a faint twang, as of a cord released-- he was running, running and leaping magnificently, running as he had never run before. whither he was going, he could not tell, for the power of sight had left him, but he felt that he was travelling through space with incredible speed. a singular buoyancy had permeated his whole being, so that it seemed to him that he was no longer upon the earth, but was whirling over sea and land and sky. onward he swept, still onward-- but now, little by little, he could feel that his speed diminished, and that he was struggling upward, like some submerged and drowning swimmer, from darkness toward the light. slower and slower he ran, more slowly still-- his eyes opened. he was lying among the bushes, flat upon his face, and he realized that he was in frightful pain, and that he gasped painfully for breath; something was choking him; throat and lungs were filled with it. and as his brain cleared, suddenly he knew, although too far spent to conjecture what had befallen him, that he was very near to death. he tried to move-- there was a trampling in the bushes, and a man in faded green stood over him. then he felt himself roughly seized by the chin, his head was bent back, further, further--something gleamed and glittered in the sunlight-- calmly, and without emotion, the huntsman stood looking down upon the murdered man. "only three," he murmured, "in all these years. one in my father's time; two in mine." and after a pause, he added, "how could this man have known? and is he the only one, or will others come to tempt their destiny?" chapter vi misery meets company daylight was fading; the shadows of the trees lengthened upon the grass; yet atherton made no move to leave the park, but still sat motionless, oblivious to everything except the turmoil of his thoughts. from the office of holt and henderson he had walked blindly along, heedless of his destination, until as he had neared the lake a sudden weariness had seized him and he had sunk down upon a bench to rest. for a time, he could scarcely convince himself of the reality of what had occurred; seen in retrospect, it all appeared fantastic and of the texture of a dream. but at length, as the afternoon wore on, and the shrill clamor of the newsboys filled the park, he purchased a paper and when he read, in black and white, the story of the day's decline, his last hope vanished and he knew that this was no nightmare, but reality, and that financially he was a ruined man. at first, the burden of his calamity seemed too hard to bear. fifty thousand dollars! while he had possessed it, never dreaming of its loss, he had not appreciated its magnitude, but now that it was gone, he realized what a sum of money it was. so marvellously easy to lose; so tremendously difficult to regain. but presently, since he was young, and by no means a coward, he managed to recover his courage. he had made a bad mistake, but so had other men; he had a difficult task before him, but others had faced problems still more difficult, and had triumphantly solved them. therefore he resolved that beginning with to-morrow he would put the past behind him, and would think only of the future; but this afternoon he would not try to plan--his brain was weary and the tragedy of the day was still too recent and too deeply in his thoughts. and suddenly, as he lived over again the past few weeks, it dawned upon him that he had been quite mad, and not he alone, but all these other men who had sat and talked and laughed their futile laughter while the narrow ribbon of the tape spelled ruin for them before their very eyes. how had he dared, he wondered--how did any of them dare--to speculate in stocks? what did they know of real conditions throughout the world? in the papers they read bits of news, already stale and cold, and this news they swallowed and assimilated until at last they mistook its effect upon their minds for the process of original thought. so it had been with him. over and over again, for days, he had read, first in one form, then in another, the news that steel was going up; until he had ended by believing it with a fervor that nothing could shake; imagining, moreover, that he had shrewdly reasoned this out for himself, that he was a good judge of commerce, finance, trade--that because of his ability he could make a fortune in stocks--he laughed ironically; disillusionment had been absolute, complete, a hammer stroke--"the boy gambler," he murmured to himself, "a story of punctured pride." twilight deepened; the night breeze, grateful and refreshing, swept across the water, and all at once atherton remembered that he had not eaten since his ill-omened luncheon and that he was ravenously hungry. "it's lucky," he reflected, "that i've enough left for a meal," and forthwith made his way toward the sign of the peacock, a café where he knew that evening dress was not required, and where food, wines and music vied each with the other in excellence. the head waiter greeted him with his customary smiling welcome. "all alone to-night, mr. atherton?" he inquired; and atherton, answering mechanically, "yes, for one, please," was shown to a table near the window, but no sooner had he seated himself than henri, the second in command, came bustling up to him. "ze zhentlemen," he explained, "across ze room--zey ask ze honnaire--" and he waved his hand with a gesture deprecatory but inviting. atherton glanced in the direction indicated, and immediately recognized the two men as friends and classmates of his college days. blagden, tall, dark, good-looking, had been one of those attractive but unreliable students who are more brilliant than successful, more admired than liked, so that on the whole his university course had been more spectacular than satisfying. but though open to plenty of criticism on other grounds, no one had ever denied him the qualities of courage, coolness and "nerve," and these had won for him outdoors the title of tennis champion, indoors the still more valuable reputation of being the best poker player in college. the other man, thickset, solid, rosy, with the neck of a bull, was "tubby" mills, guard upon the eleven for three seasons; never quite of "all-america" timber, but steady, dependable, and always managing to let the man opposed to him in the line realize, before the game was ended, that he had been through an afternoon of exercise perhaps more strenuous than beneficial. stolid but likable, "tubby" made up in genial good nature what he perhaps lacked in brains. atherton rose at once, crossed the room and took the vacant chair at their table. "well, well," blagden greeted him, "how goes it, old scout?" and so strong is the force of habit that atherton, despite the day's reverses, rejoined, "oh, first-rate, thanks. how is it with you?" "fine," blagden responded, "couldn't be better. everything lovely." "and you, tubby," said atherton, turning to mills. "oh, pretty good," the chubby one answered, and pushing the bill of fare toward atherton, he added, "here, what will you have? this is on me. better try a porterhouse with onions; we've ordered some fizz." atherton followed his advice, and the talk, running back to college days and college classmates, dealt for a time wholly with the past until at last, after a pause, blagden asked the question that atherton had been expecting, "and what are you doing with yourself now?" atherton hesitated; then, inspired perhaps by the comforting influence of the steak and the "fizz," he answered impulsively, "oh, i might as well tell you the truth. i've been playing the market, and like a fool i got in so deep that this drop to-day wiped me out. so i'm practically busted, and wondering what i'm going to do next." having finished his disclosure, he awaited the conventional expressions of sympathy from his friends, but to his surprise neither of them spoke, and blagden stared at mills, and mills at blagden until presently, somewhat to atherton's resentment, both of them began to grin broadly. "shall we tell him, tubby?" asked blagden at length. "sure thing," responded mills briefly. "he told _us_." blagden turned to atherton. "well, then," he observed, "to borrow a phrase from the unregenerate and indefensible game of poker, this appears to be a case of three of a kind. last week, i was long of twelve thousand bales of january cotton, and they dropped the market on me one hundred and fifty points in two days, and beggared me to the tune of about ninety thousand dollars. to-day tubby, who has been a terrible bear on wheat, and was short up to his eyebrows, got forced out on the rise, and was stung for--how much was it, tubby?" "oh, about thirty-five thousand," answered mills regretfully, "between thirty-five and forty. i bit off more than i could chew." in spite of himself, atherton smiled in his turn. "well, i'll be damned," was his first rejoinder, and then, as the real significance of the coincidence dawned upon him, he cried, "what's the trouble with this speculative game, anyway? why on earth can't anyone beat it? we're not all fools. suppose a hundred men start speculating on the same day? you'd naturally suppose, on some kind of law of averages, that half of them would win and half would lose. but what's the answer? the answer is that the whole darned hundred lose. i never knew it to fail. and i'd like to know why. it can't be true that everybody who invests money in cotton and grain and stocks is stark, staring crazy. there must be some men who understand conditions, who possess ability enough to calculate and plan; there must be some winners. but if they are, i never heard of 'em. it's a mighty funny game." "you're right," blagden assented. "i've been doing some thinking myself since last week; i've been asking the very questions you're asking now. i can't find the answer, but i've got this far; i know why poor idiots like you and me and tubby get it in the neck. it's because we play the game single-handed. and look at what we're up against. this is an age of consolidation and co-operation. it's so in business and it's so in the markets. pools--that's all you hear nowadays--pools in leather, copper, oil, cotton, corn. and we're fools enough, with a few thousand dollars, to go into a game where you need millions. and as for talking about understanding conditions, and calculating what the market ought to do, why good lord, atherton, you ought to know better than that. speculation is only another way of spelling manipulation. prices don't _go_ up--they're forced up; they don't _go_ down--they're jammed down, and sometimes most curiously far, too. but as for planning, calculating, reading, studying conditions--good night!" and he refilled his glass. there was a thoughtful silence. atherton, pondering on what blagden had said, and remembering, also, what the trader at holt and henderson's had told him, felt that his ideas of speculation had undergone a violent change. so that at length he answered reluctantly, "well, it looks as though you were right. but i wish we'd thought of this before. now it's a case of 'they've got the money and we've got the experience.'" mills leaned forward, planting his elbows comfortably upon the table. "that's so," he agreed, "i never could see much sense in this _post mortem_ business. the point is: what are we going to do next? and i for one wish it distinctly understood that i refuse to be licked. i started out to make a million dollars, and i'm not going to quit until i'm put away in a box underground. you two fellows were considered rather clever when you were in college, so instead of all this sob stuff why don't you furnish some practical wisdom? what are we going to do? how are we going to get our money back?" atherton gazed at his stocky friend, not without admiration for his grit. "blagden," he answered, "has made one mighty good suggestion. whatever we do, let's not continue this 'lone hand' business; let's take his tip that this is an age of consolidation, and let's pool our resources, such as they are, and see if we can't manage to do a little better." mills grunted approval. "good scheme," he assented. "we'll be a regular trust. but when you say, 'resources, _such as they are_,' you've put your finger on our weakest spot. if we have resources, they're not in cash. what shall we call ourselves? 'the united brotherhood of down and outs'? or is that too severe?" but blagden, the imaginative, suddenly caught fire at the idea. "no, no," he objected, "nothing as crude as that. give a dog a bad name and hang him. i'll tell you what we'll call ourselves. 'gentlemen adventurers.' that has the proper ring. every morning we'll start forth on a tour of discovery; then we'll meet and compare notes and see if we can't combine our experiences to our mutual advantage." "that sounds fine," mills agreed, "but what kind of adventures are we going to have?" "oh, tubby, tubby," cried blagden. "if there's a more prosaic man in the world than you are, i'd like to see him. why, you miss the point of the whole thing. if we knew just what was going to happen to us, every day of our lives, where would the fun be? where would be the romance, the thrill? if you could see an adventure coming half a mile down the road, then it wouldn't _be_ an adventure; it has to bump into you from right around the corner. do you get the idea?" "oh, sure," retorted mills. "at least, i get what you think is the idea. but that is the trouble with you poetical chaps; you can't understand that this is a practical world, especially the dollars and cents part of it. and if you're proposing that we leave here to-night and start looking for adventure, why we'd better raise an emergency fund at once. because instead of finding money, we'll be losing it. i've started looking for adventure lots of times in my life, and i always bring up in one of two places--the police station or the hospital." "oh, i don't mean that kind of adventure," blagden hastened to explain. "i mean the 'new arabian nights' sort of thing. we'll meet princesses and potentates and you may take my word for it that it won't be long before we're on the trail of some real money. we'll get back all we've lost and more too." he spoke persuasively, but mills remained unconvinced. "oh, it's easy enough," he objected, "to talk like that in here, with the lights and the music and a couple of glasses of champagne under your belt. but nothing will really happen. we'll go out of this place and walk peacefully home again, and in the morning we'll wake up and laugh at ourselves. i only wish your dreams would come true, blagden, but they won't; they're all moonshine. the only real thing is that we're broke." but blagden, always at his best under fire, rallied vigorously to the support of his theory. "nonsense," he cried, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself. one minute you claim to be a fighter and the next you're ready to quit cold. why, the trouble with you--the trouble with all three of us--and the reason we think there's no romance left in the world is simply that we've gone stale--stale from sitting over the ticker day after day, without a thought of anything else on earth except the ups and downs of the market. i would gamble my last cent that there's waiting for us, right here in this city, adventure enough to fill a thousand books; adventures of riches and of poverty, of romance and reality, of battle and murder and sudden death. here's the test. what day is this? tuesday. friday night, at nine o'clock, we'll meet in my rooms and compare notes. we'll all three try our best in the meantime and if by friday no one of us has had an adventure worthy of the name, no one of us has chanced on the slightest idea, the faintest clue, that spells money, then i'll admit that i'm wrong and that tubby's right. now then, you fat guzzler, isn't that fair?" "oh, sure, that's fair enough," mills was forced to agree, "but i don't believe--" he stopped abruptly, gazing straight before him, and then, under his breath, he murmured, "great heavens, what a peach!" the girl who had entered the café and taken a seat at a table not far from their own surely merited his praise. she was tall and slender, faultlessly gowned in black, and her face, under the broad picture hat, was of exceptional beauty, yet with an expression of mingled indifference and assurance that bespoke a plentiful knowledge of the world. she gave her order, began leisurely to remove her gloves, and presently, as she glanced about the room, atherton perceived, to his surprise, that her eyes remained fixed upon their table with a singular intentness. nor was he the only one to notice this, for immediately mills observed, "by jove, one of us seems to have made a hit. do you know her, atherton?" atherton shook his head. "no, i haven't the pleasure," he answered. and as the girl's eyes were suddenly averted, he added, "there was something, though, about our table, that seemed to attract her. and reasoning by the process of elimination, i conclude that it must be blagden." "you flatter me," blagden calmly rejoined. "just my luck, though, to be seated with my back to the lady. is she really so charming?" "charming?" mills echoed fervently, in a tone which answered blagden's question in ardent affirmative. and atherton supplemented, "yes, if anybody happens to fancy that particular type, i should almost say that she is as pretty a woman as i ever saw in my life." "why, this is wonderful!" cried blagden. "this calls for personal investigation. i don't suppose i can deliberately turn around and stare, but we might as well be going, anyway, and i must see her, if only as we depart." they rose, and as they started to leave the table, atherton noticed that the girl's eyes were again turned in their direction, and almost simultaneously was aware of a smothered ejaculation from blagden. "so you know her?" he whispered. blagden did not answer directly. "just a moment," he muttered, "i'll be right back." and walking swiftly over to the table, he exchanged a few brief words with its occupant, and then rejoined his companions, his face eager and expectant. "i'll see you fellows later," he hurriedly explained; adding hastily, "what do you think of my theories now. didn't i tell you this was the city of adventures. and mine is going to begin right here." mills grinned. "you always were a lucky devil," he cried enviously. "well, all i can say is that if this is the form our adventures are going to take, they can't come too fast for me." and he and atherton walked slowly in the direction of the door, while blagden turned and made his way toward the girl who awaited him. chapter vii the adventure of blagden "it was two years ago," began blagden, "on the beach at trouville. i shall never forget it. the sea and the sky were blue; the sands were silver; and you were a marvelous mermaid, in gold and crimson, basking on the shore. when i saw you, i felt such emotion that i began at once repeating whole stanzas of swinburne, appropriate to the occasion, and rivalling the day in warmth. i hoped--" but she interrupted him. "it is pathetic," she said, "that a memory so tenderly poetical should be so much at fault. i am grieved for myself; i thought i had made a more lasting impression." "but my memory," he protested, "is not at fault. i remember perfectly. it was a wonderful costume, almost worthy of its wearer. it was gold, pale gold--" "oh, stupid man!" she cried, "we are not talking of costumes; what do they matter? we are talking of our first meeting, and that was not at trouville at all. trouville, although delightful, came later. our first meeting was at the races--" "by jove," he ejaculated, "you're right. so it was--deauville races. and you were in the grandstand, in the very first row--" "that's better," she exclaimed. "your memory is improving. i was watching the horses parade before the opening race, and was suddenly smitten with the charms of a beautiful bay named _voyageur_. immediately i knew that i must bet five hundred francs on _voyageur_. the time was short--" "and so," he smiled, "you made appealing eyes at me--" "no, no," she contradicted, "i did not. or if i did, i was quite justified. you had been staring at me very rudely for some time." "that is true," he admitted. "i couldn't help myself. but in any event, we became acquainted, and i placed the money on your favorite. i recall that distinctly. and i remember thinking, 'poor girl; poor lovely girl; she will surely lose.' and then _voyageur_--" she in her turn took up the tale. "oh, wasn't it splendid?" she cried. "a furlong from home, and we thought that he was beaten, and then, like a flash, up he came, out of the ruck, past the leaders, won under wraps, with his jockey sitting still, and both of us shrieking, '_voyageur_! _voyageur!_' like mad." "it was glorious," he agreed. "and after that do you remember the race for two-year-olds, and my theory that in an untried field the odds were all against the favorites winning? i suggested that we buy a ticket on every horse in the race; you assented, and the theory proved a magnificent success. we won a thousand francs--" "and that night," she reminded him, "flushed with victory, we played roulette. it was i who invented the system then, and unlike yours, it cost us every cent we had made, and much more besides. do you remember that?" "of course i do," he answered. "it was the old story; we were winners, but didn't know when to stop. but it was worth it; those were royal days." "and then," she continued, "came our ventures in the market. the rise in rails that made us rich; and the cotton corner that beggared us. you haven't forgotten those?" "forgotten them?" he echoed. "could i forget? ah! what times those were!" there was a pause. at length she said musingly, "two years ago. two long years. and how has fortune treated you? bountifully, i hope." blagden smiled. "i was just complaining to my friends," he said, "that she had deserted me. and now--she resumes her favors." she bowed, half in earnest, half jestingly. "you are too kind," she answered, "but seriously, i am sorry if you have not prospered." "to be candid," blagden admitted, "i have not. but i am not discouraged. being a goddess, it is her privilege to be fickle; that, i suppose, is her real fascination. but tell me how the years have gone with you. have you lived as you planned to live?" she regarded him steadily, and without emotion. "exactly," she answered, "as i planned." he was silent, returning her gaze. "well," he rejoined at length, "if it is a matter for congratulation, then i congratulate you. is he rich?" "oh, very," she responded. "you need hardly have asked me that?" "quite true," he answered. "forgive my stupidity. and are you happy?" "why--yes," she replied more doubtfully, "i suppose so. i have a great deal. i desire more." "that," he said, "is the chief trouble with all of us. that, in fact, was the reason for my recent undoing. i risked a moderate capital to gain a fortune, and was wiped out. i lost everything--hook, line and sinker." "i am so sorry," she answered. "was it in stocks?" "next door to it," he responded. "it was january cotton. by every test in the world, by reasoning, by statistical information, by the opinion of the trade, by the advice of brokers, by every known method of determining values, january cotton was the greatest purchase in the universe. it had to go up, that was all there was to it. it was mathematically impossible for it to stay down. so i bought it, bought it up to my eyebrows; and so, i imagine, did every tom, dick and harry in the street. result, a hundred and fifty point drop, swift and sudden as a hurricane, and when it was over, scattered heaps of financial corpses, of which i had the honor to be one. i had money, desired more; and got--what i deserved." she sighed sympathetically. "i only wish," she murmured, more to herself than to him, "that i had known." he regarded her with frank amazement. "what could you have done?" he queried. "prevented me from losing?" "yes," she answered gravely, "i think that i could. i, of course, know nothing, but it happens that my friend is a great authority upon the markets. he is never wrong." blagden smiled indulgently. "oh, i've heard of those fellows," he responded. "don't think i'm rude, but there's no such thing in the world as a man who's never wrong on speculation. he simply doesn't exist." "but you don't understand," she insisted. "he _really_ knows." "pure coincidence," he retorted lightly. "i've known of such cases. he might hit it three times, four times, a dozen times, but nobody can be consistently right. it's humanly impossible." "it was over six months ago," she rejoined with conviction, "that he told me to make my first trade. at my cottage he has had installed tickers for all three of the markets. if he is there between ten and three, he keeps close watch of them. and every so often he will say, 'would you like some pin money?' and always i win, and never lose." "well," said blagden lightly, "we won't quarrel over it. if you say it's so, it's so. but why do you say that you 'desire more?' i should consider you a very fortunate lady. if i could win every time i gambled, i don't think i'd require anything else." "oh, yes, you would," she promptly answered. "if you were only allowed to play every week or two, and in a very limited way, and under the direction of another person, would that satisfy you? of course not. the point is here. i am only allowed to meddle with stocks as an amusement--a plaything. but i want to know how he does it. then i should be satisfied, for i could make all the money i wished." "but why so eager about money?" he queried. "you never used to be." "in two years," she answered, "i have changed a great deal. i am older; i hope wiser. i know that youth fades, that life itself is brief. and before i die, i wish to realize a dream--a vision. i wish to have the finest pleasure yacht in the world and to voyage north, south, east, west, until i have seen all that there is to see upon this earth. hence my desire for money." "now i understand," he replied. then added, more lightly, "you say you 'want to know how he does it.' does it appear to be a kind of magic? does he make his profits in the same way that a conjuror extracts rabbits from a hat?" his levity nettled her. "you are provincial," she retorted sharply. "you reason that because you have lost money in stocks, everyone must do so. often it is foolish to believe too much; but sometimes one may believe too little." he hastened to make amends. "i apologize," he said. "you are perfectly right. and i am really immensely interested in your story. you think, then, that he speculates with some sort of system?" "i am sure of it," she answered with conviction, "and when i saw you here to-night, i suddenly remembered many things that you had told me about the market, and i wondered if you could not aid me now." "if i may help," he assured her, "i am wholly at your service. though i fear i am somewhat at a loss as to how or where to begin." "and yet," she rejoined, "there is a starting-point. i am confident of it. are you at liberty this evening?" "never more so," he answered. "then come with me," she said. "i have a taxi waiting." and blagden, assisting her to put on her wraps, escorted her to the motor, which whirled them away from the city, mile after mile, until it finally stopped at a pretty cottage, far out in the country, isolated and half hidden in a miniature forest of trees, shrubs and flowers. a trim maid answered her mistress's ring, then discreetly vanished. "now," she said, "i will show you what i mean," and leading the way to the study on the floor above, she turned the switch and flooded the room with mellow light. blagden looked about him with interest. as she had told him, over against the wall stood the three tickers, side by side, and beyond them a desk and a telephone switchboard. in spite of himself, blagden was impressed. there was an orderliness, an indefinable businesslike touch to the room and its contents which seemed to make it evident that its owner was a man of affairs. "well," she queried, "do you believe me now?" "oh, it's not a question of belief--" he began, but she suddenly exclaimed, "wait a moment; i forgot," and hurriedly leaving the room, she returned almost instantly with a small memorandum book in her hand. "now," she said, "look at this." blagden took the book and scanned the entries with care. here was fifty reading bought at ninety-three and sold at ninety-eight; and here one hundred bales of may cotton sold at eighteen, fifty-six, and bought in at seventeen, fifty-two. a little further on were ten thousand bushels of december wheat bought at a dollar, fifty-four and closed out at a dollar, fifty-seven. sometimes the gains were large, sometimes small, but invariably, as she had claimed, each transaction showed a profit. blagden gazed, fascinated. "now," she said, "isn't it wonderful?" "wonderful," he echoed. "it's more than that. it's a miracle. if i had met you six months ago, where would i be to-day? i'd be rolling in it; i'd be worth a million." her face was as covetous as his. "you've been in the market for years," she said. "haven't you any way of finding out?" "i don't know," he answered slowly. "did you tell me in the café you had a clew?" she hesitated. "it sounds rather ridiculous," she answered, "but do you think it's possible that the time of day can have anything to do with the strength or weakness of stocks?" he looked disappointed. "oh, i've heard that talk down town," he responded. "there are as many theories of speculation as there are speculators. everyone agrees that there's manipulation--flagrant manipulation--though of course this is indignantly denied by everybody connected with the exchange. but how this manipulation is managed, no two men agree. i've heard what you hint at, that the future course of stocks is determined by their artificial strength or weakness at certain hours of the day; two o'clock, some people think is the significant time. personally i never believed in it at all. why do you ask?" "because," she answered, "when he stands here by the tickers, he is continually looking at his watch. i am not supposed to know this; in fact, between ten and three i am excluded from this room; but i have devised means of watching, and that is the peculiarity i have noticed; that, and the jotting down in his notebook of memoranda which he apparently copies from the tape." blagden looked puzzled. "i should be very slow," he said, "to believe anything of the kind. and i should think you could manage this affair without my aid. considering your relations with this man, considering your very obvious attractions, i should think the stage was all set for a modern version of merlin and vivien." she smiled a trifle bitterly. "i will confess to you," she answered, "that the same thing occurred to me. in fact, i attempted it; and failed utterly. compared with this--" she indicated the tickers--"i am the proverbial dust beneath his feet." there was silence. at length blagden spoke. "this fascinates me," he said. "at first, i wholly disbelieved your story; now i do believe it. and upon one condition, i will devote my time, my energy, my best endeavor to the solving of this mystery. but the condition is important." she regarded him curiously. "name it," she said. he rose from his seat, and stood looking at her appraisingly, a cold flame gleaming in his eyes. "it is this," he answered. "you liked me, i think, in the old days, but i was a poor man. i am a poor man to-day. but if we fathom this secret and gain the keys to paradise, then let us make the building of your yacht a joint enterprise, and let us make the cruise--together." she too had risen and now stood looking at him with a faint smile upon her lips. "ours," she responded, "is a quite exceptional friendship. you are a man and i am a woman, and yet we have the great advantage of thoroughly understanding one another. if you can grant me my desire, i will reciprocate. i accept your offer, and i wish you success." chapter viii the adventure of tubby mills at the street entrance to the café, mills and atherton came momentarily to a halt. "well," observed the stout one, "we've got to hand it to blagden. he's what you might describe as the original tabasco. yet it's no credit to him that he finds adventures; they just naturally come his way. he couldn't dodge 'em if he tried. see what's happened to him now; do you suppose either of us is going to run into anything like that?" atherton, still under the spell of blagden's eloquence, was gazing forth upon the crowded thoroughfare, with its hurrying throngs of pedestrians, and its multitude of motors, passing and repassing incessantly under the glare and brilliance of the bright white lights. "i think," he slowly answered, "that anything is possible. blagden is right. ninety-nine men out of a hundred live and die in a rut. it has to be so; that is life. but if the hundredth man is so situated that he may range the world at will, with eyes open and every sense alert, i believe, with blagden, that he will find adventure awaiting him at every turn in the road. it's tremendously exhilarating. here we take leave of each other; you go one way, i go the other, and what we may discover we haven't the shadow of an idea. i think we ought to thank blagden for waking us up. i haven't felt so keen about living since i can remember." "blagden," said mills, "is a queerer combination than most of us. he's an artistic sort of chap, with all the merits and defects of the artistic temperament. he always makes me think of an airship with its steering gear shot away; he goes like the very deuce, but you can't tell what his destination is, or at what moment a gust of wind may veer him from his course. prince or pauper; he may become either; but he'll never be one of your commonplace mediocrities." "you're right," atherton agreed, "and to-night, at least, i envy him, though i imagine that in the end your plodder is perhaps the happier man of the two. he may get less out of life, but he risks less. thrills and ills are apt to go together." his companion laughed. "well, we've got to risk it," he answered. "we're committed now to a life of adventure, whether we like it or not. i'm going to vary your phrase. 'thrills for mills' is going to be my motto. and we must make a start, atherton; our time is short. good-night and good luck; we'll see each other friday." he raised his hand in farewell, and started leisurely down the street. people by tens and hundreds and thousands surrounded him, enveloped him on every hand, yet of all the multitude he seemed to be the only wayfarer who was not hurried, preoccupied, intent upon his own individual affairs. "this," he concluded, "is too much like the middle of the stream; what i want is some quiet backwater, where there's a chance to pause and breathe." leaving the main street, he walked east for several blocks, and turning again parallel to his original course, found himself in one of the poorer residential districts of the city. as he had divined, here there was incident to be encountered, but of too sordid a nature to bear the remotest resemblance to genuine adventure. old men, ragged, unkempt, muttered requests for a night's lodging, for food, or more openly for the price of a drink. younger men, of sinister exterior, eyed him as he passed and noting his bulk, allowed him to go on his way unmolested. women of the street, in gaudy finery, their white faces daubed with scarlet in ghastly mockery of health and beauty, ogled him leeringly, and mills, sophisticated city dweller though he was, felt his heart sicken at the thought of their venal trade. "if there was some attraction," he thought, "some seduction, that would be one thing. but these wrecks--these walking corpses--it's horrible." by this time, he had traversed several blocks, and the chances of adventure seemed each moment to be growing slimmer. "i'll go home," he reflected, "and go to bed. and in the morning i'll make a round of the brokers' offices; perhaps i'll be able to pick up news of something really good." and having thus allowed his mind to return to the subject of the market, he began to dream, like all defeated gamblers, of some wonderful way of "getting square with the game." "cotton," he mused. "a man could make money in cotton. i got in too deep; that was all. if a fellow would only stick to small lots, and regular rules--" a touch upon his arm aroused him, and he wheeled to confront a girl of a very different type from those whose demeanor had so disgusted him. she was evidently of the working class, but she had the instinctive good taste to dress according to her station, leaving to others the garish footgear, the semi-nudities of costume, and the overpowering stench of cheap perfume. and thus, in comparison with her companions upon the street, she looked so refreshingly youthful and ingenuous, and her big eyes were so appealingly pathetic that mills, for the first time, began to feel that an adventure, even in this locality, might be both possible and enjoyable. "i ask your pardon," she said, "for speaking to you, but i am in great trouble, and i thought that perhaps you would be willing to help me." mills, still only half aroused from his meditations, stared at her uncomprehendingly, and as he did so was struck afresh by the girl's air of innocence. her eyes still gazed trustfully into his, her hold upon his arm was not relaxed, and as a result mills presently found himself replying guardedly, "why, i might. what's wrong?" she gave a sigh of relief. "oh, you are so good," she cried. "i was sure of it when i saw you. and i need someone to help me so badly. only--" she added shyly, "let's not stand here. it's so conspicuous, and this is a horrid neighborhood; people are always talking. just come with me; it's only a step--" mills hesitated. perhaps, if he had taken a little less wine, he might have been more suspicious; possibly, if she had not slipped her arm confidingly through his, he might have been less avid of adventure; but as it was, he yielded, and as they walked along she lost no time in acquainting him with the story. it was not she herself, it appeared, who was in trouble, but a friend of hers named rose, who was only eighteen years old and as beautiful as a picture. rose, it appeared, had been sought by a policeman on the beat, but being as virtuous as she was pretty, she had indignantly rejected the overtures of this immoral man. whereupon he had threatened to "get" her, and promptly made good his threat by employing a skillful shoplifter to "plant" some articles of jewelry upon the person of the persecuted rose. she had been arrested; her case was coming up for trial to-morrow; and alone in the world, she did not know, in her predicament, where to turn for aid. thus her friend had been prompted to go forth and look for help, and had been attracted by the prepossessing exterior of mills. "i knew you looked good, the moment i saw you," she repeated, and as she uttered the words, her voice was tremulous either with grief or with some other emotion. mills was frankly puzzled. the tale struck him as extremely wild and improbable, but on the other hand he was enjoying the society of his guide, and the opportunity of seeing the lovely rose strongly appealed to him. just how this meeting was to benefit the order of gentlemen adventurers was perhaps not quite clear, but mills' mind was not, by this time, working along the lines of strict logic; emotion, rather than pure reason, was in the ascendant. and in any event, he would have had little time to ponder the matter, for the walk, as his guide had promised, was a short one, and he presently found himself following her into a tenement of rather dubious exterior, and up countless flights of stairs whose atmosphere wholly failed to appeal to mills' somewhat fastidious nostrils. more than once, during the climb, strong suspicion assailed him, and his better judgment counselled flight, but the fear of being a "quitter" restrained him, and he continued his ascent until presently he surmounted the final flight, and found himself in a room somewhat barely furnished, but with an air of comfort and refinement which renewed his confidence in his guide. she laid aside her hat and coat, and as she turned toward him, he observed with pleasure that she was really exceedingly pretty. "rose will be here right away," she observed; then, listening for a moment, she added, "there she is now," and mills, listening in his turn, could hear a light footfall ascending the stair. but in another instant his companion's face turned white. "my god!" she cried, "it's my husband. i thought he was out of town. what on earth shall i do? he mustn't find you here." mills gave her one searching glance, muttered grimly to himself, "well, i'll be damned," and making no effort to escape, sat motionless in his chair, his eyes fixed upon the door, which opened the next moment to admit a small, sinister looking man, who gazed at the couple before him in a manner forbidding and malevolent. nor were his first words reassuring. "what the hell is this?" he cried, and advancing toward mills, he demanded truculently, "what the devil are you doing here?" the girl sprang forward. "don't hurt him!" she cried. "it's my fault. i oughtn't to have listened to him. but he wanted to come. he said he'd pay me well--" her words acted as an infuriant upon this slender but dangerous looking man. "i'll teach you swells--" he hissed, and like a flash he whipped a pistol from his pocket and levelled it at the head of the unfortunate mills. for an instant the victim gazed stolidly at the menacing circle of steel; then, with an air of complete detachment from his surroundings, he made an equivocal and wholly unlooked-for rejoinder. "got a cigarette?" he asked. the outraged husband glared. from past experience on many such occasions he was quite prepared for men who grovelled and begged for mercy, and once in a great while he had learned to look for a man who showed fight, but a retort like this was distinctly a novelty. and since the question scarcely admitted of a direct reply, he responded with a snarl, "now don't get gay, young feller, don't get gay." mills turned to the girl. "i call that tough," he observed conversationally. "here i want to register courage, and the only real way to do it is to light a cigarette. i love to see 'em do it on the stage, and now when i have a chance myself, all i can do is just say i'm not scared. but it's not the same thing; it ruins the effect." the girl eyed him keenly, her face noncommittal, expressionless. the man continued to glare. mills did not look like a lunatic, and the girl, as a rule, managed to "pick them" to perfection. yet this time it appeared as though she had made a mistake, and while he hesitated, uncertain as to his next move, mills obligingly relieved his embarrassment by continuing, "what you want, of course, is to get money out of me or else to damage my reputation. but unfortunately for you, i have neither reputation nor money. as far as reputation goes, i'm a small town guy, unknown in new york, and as for money, i've been playing the wheat market, and if you're looking for my coin, why, as the funny man says, 'i'll help you look.' i'm sorry to be such a disappointment--" he turned once more to the girl--"but this is the time you got the wrong pig by the ear." the pseudo husband stared fixedly at mills as if trying to make up his mind as to the truth of his story; then evidenced his belief by abruptly returning his pistol to his pocket, and to relieve his feelings began to vent his indignation upon the girl. "by gad, you're clever," he exclaimed, and since he did not possess a large vocabulary and depended principally upon repetition for his effects, he added, after a momentary pause, "you're clever, by gad." the girl's brow darkened. evidently she did not take kindly to criticism, and casting about for some means of defence, she jerked her head in tubby's direction. "well," she countered, "look at him." her four words worked wonders, for mills, quick to perceive their point, first grinned, then laughed, and finally, partly as a relief for overstrained nerves, partly because the true humor of the whole affair now suddenly dawned upon him, fairly shook with merriment, while the girl, watching him, forgot her resentment and relaxed, until finally she too joined in his mirth, and even her saturnine companion permitted himself the luxury of a grin. "but see here," cried mills at last, "i'm not stuck on my looks, or my shape, but the old badger game--why that's positively an insult. why didn't you sell me a gold brick and be done with it? you must have thought i was a cinch." "i did," she retorted, "but don't you care, fatty, you're all right. the joke's on me; i'm sorry i tackled you." "well, it's on me, too," he admitted. "you did a good job. let's call it square, all around." the man with the pistol had come forward as they talked, and now stood directly in front of mills, regarding him with a fixed and searching gaze. "just one minute, now," he cautioned. "a square answer to a square question. there's no double cross to this? you're not going to leak to the bulls?" "not much," mills answered. "live and let live. i've no kick coming." apparently the man was content. "then see here," he continued, "if you're busted, i can find you a job. my name is stoat. this old badger stuff isn't my regular line; in my day i was called the best second-story man in new york, and i could turn a good trick now if i needed to. but there's safer games than that; i've had a fake promoting scheme under my hat for a long time, and with your front we could make a killing. with a few little changes you'd be the honest miner to the life you and i and the kid here could work the thing to a frazzle. what do you say?" mills hesitated. the change from full pockets to empty ones had wrought a distinct alteration in his moral code. yet partnership with stoat was not an attractive prospect. "i don't believe," he temporized, "i'm the man you want. i never mixed up in anything like that." stoat yawned audibly. "well, it's late," he said, "and i'm most cursedly sleepy. i was sitting into a game all last night, and i've got to get to bed. think this thing over, and if you want to give it a go, drop around to-morrow sometime. you'll be making no mistake; it's safe as can be, and there's big money in it, too." mills got up and started for the door. "all right," he agreed, "i'll think it over. much obliged for the offer." and to the girl he added, "good night. when you see rose, remember me to her." she laughed. "say," she answered, "you fell for that easy, like all the rest of 'em. it's a shame to do it. but you're a pretty good guy. you come around to-morrow and we'll talk business." once more upon the street, mills gazed around him with fresh appreciation. how near he had been to death he could not guess; his knees felt as they used to at the finish of a three-mile run. to the lights, the noises, the people on the street, he warmed with a new affection. "i'm mighty glad," he muttered, "that i'm still in the picture." and more pensively than was his wont, he turned his steps toward home. chapter ix a message from the past bellingham for the twentieth time consulted his watch, and finding that it still lacked ten minutes of midnight, he rose, walked over to the window, and stood looking out into the night. in the distance he could see the bulk of the stables looming through the darkness, and near at hand the huge lone pine tree towered in silhouette against the sky; yet his mind was not fixed upon what was before him, but was reviewing once again the events of the day, events which had occurred scarcely twelve hours ago, but which seemed, in retrospect, to have taken place ages since, in the shadow of some dim and distant past. he could see himself, a distinct and separate entity, leaving the car and hurrying toward the garage, alert, expectant, eager to find nolan and hear what he had to say. from the same man whom he had seen before he had sought to discover if nolan was in, and the man had nodded with a curt "yep," but when bellingham was half way to the elevator his informant had called him back to explain, "say, hold on a minute; i forgot; nolan's quit his job." the secretary could feel again the sinking of the heart, the shock of disappointment the words had caused. "quit?" he had repeated, and the man had replied, "yep. he's quit. new man on the car; a swede. he's up there if you want to see him." but bellingham had muttered something about its being a personal matter, and still in a daze, had made his way out of the garage, perplexed and disheartened, and vainly wondering what could possibly have happened to the chauffeur. it was not an easy problem to solve. certainly the money he had advanced could have been no temptation to nolan; twenty dollars was nothing compared with the keeping of a good position. and if the chauffeur's abandonment of his job had not been voluntary, of necessity it must have been involuntary; it appeared as though he must have been detected in his pursuit of his employer, and met with a summary dismissal. yet if this were so, why could he not still have kept his appointment with the secretary. there seemed to be no satisfactory solution, yet as a practical matter none was necessary; of what importance were theories when he knew that the actual result was a complete failure of his plans to gain information through the instrumentality of nolan. and as a result he would now be forced to act himself; no choice was left to him; whether he liked it or not, he must assume the risk. thus, throughout the remainder of the day, he had laid his plans, and now was decided as to his course. but the hour for action had not yet arrived; two o'clock in the morning was the time he had chosen; and thus he lighted his spirit lamp, made and drank two cups of coffee, and then, setting and muffling his alarm clock, he lay down, fully clothed, upon the bed, to gain a little rest before setting out upon his tour of exploration. but before many moments passed, he realized that the setting of the clock was a needless precaution; the strain he was under added to the stimulant he had taken made sleep an impossibility. and curiously enough his brain, which should have been intent upon the adventure before him, now cast back through the years, and as he lay there he could see, projected against the curtain of the dark, pictures long since forgotten, detached and yet connected, leading with merciless precision to the miserable predicament of his latter days. behind the house lay a broad expanse of meadow, gay with flowers and traversed by a brook which had its source in the hills adjoining the farm. hither, in his boyhood, he made an almost daily pilgrimage, but not to gather the violets and the buttercups which lined its banks, or to hunt for blackbirds' nests in the swamp below. the attraction for him had been altogether different. with his jack-knife he would fashion boats from shingles, imagine them in his mind to be racing yachts, under clouds of sail, and starting them, with scrupulous fairness, amid the ripples of the stream, he would run headlong down the field, just able to keep pace with the current, and watching with breathless interest the outcome of the contest, as the tiny craft swept around promontories, skirted the shallows, and finally crossed the finish line, to be rescued with a forked stick, and carried back up the meadow to race and race again. how had he come to play this game? no one, as far as he could remember, had taught it to him; he had been only six or seven at the time, but the memory persisted, the thrill of the struggle, the eager brook and the no less eager boy-- the scene shifted. some one had given him a game of "steeplechase," and a new world was born. as clearly as if it had lain on the bed beside him, he could see the oval of the board, the horses, bay, black, white and gray, and he himself, cheeks flushed, heart throbbing, sitting entranced hour after hour, casting the dice, and watching and recording the result of every race. later had come his college days, with the thrill of real racing; the futurity, the suburban, the scramble of dainty thoroughbreds with the bright silks of their jockeys gleaming in the sun. but before this he could dimly recall his first knowledge of the stock market, when his father, forbidden for a time to use his eyes, had asked his son to read to him the quotations in the evening paper. bellingham could remember that he had made sorry work of it, so that his father, usually the kindest of men, had lost his temper and had soundly berated him for his stupidity. other days, too, he could remember, of alternate exaltation and depression until the afternoon when he had come home to find his mother in tears, and his father had taken him by the shoulder and said gravely, "hugh, you must promise me one thing. never, so long as you live, must you have anything to do with the stock market. it has been the curse and ruin of my life. it must not ruin yours, too." boylike, he had promised, but a dozen years later, when the lure of the street had bewitched him, he had not regarded his promise, and with the few thousands at his command, had started to make his fortune. how he had despised the men who traded in ten-share lots; "pikers," he had called them; for it had seemed to him that to deal in hundred and two hundred share lots, on a slender margin, was evidence of true gameness and grit. but this period had not lasted long; soon the ten-share lots became a necessity, and finally an impossibility, until the fatal day when he had borrowed money on a story that was two-thirds a lie, and a week later had seen a quiet, lagging market suddenly declined with incredible rapidity, leaving him hopelessly in debt, and now at the mercy of his long-suffering creditors. so passed the pictures before his eyes, from the boy running beside the brook to the desperate, harried man. inheritance or not, here had been the keynote of his life--the love of a contest, a race, a struggle, the thrill of the unknown gamble, the possible chance. and in other ways he had been sane and normal; as men go, a decent sort of man. a sense of injustice surged within him. was it fair? if a good god ruled the world, why did he implant these fierce desires in the breasts of his children? why did he change a world of joy and beauty into a hell of discontent? why did he-- with a start, he came to himself. how long, he wondered, had he been dreaming? the flashlight showed ten minutes of two, and silencing the alarm, he rose, and in his stocking feet crept cautiously to the door of his room and out into the hall. for good or ill, his hour had come. the 'house was absolutely still. and suddenly, oppressed with the strain of the day, unnerved by the strangeness of his errand, he seemed to himself to be moving in some fantastic nightmare, and he was seized with a panic of fear, so that he could scarcely control his impulse to return as he had come and to abandon his reckless quest. but after an instant, he managed to conquer his quivering nerves, and concentrating all his energies upon his task, he stole down the hallway like a shadow, entered the gallery, and found himself standing before the portrait through which the banker had made his unexpected exit three days before. copying, as well as he could recall it, the posture of his employer, he pressed with his forefinger here and there upon the canvas, but without result until he reached the hilt of the pictured sword, when almost before he realized what was taking place, the portrait, as before, swung back, and the gateway of adventure lay open before him. a hundred times, during the day, the secretary had made his plans, and thus, without losing an instant, he entered the orifice, drew his knife from his pocket, and wedging the narrow space between the portrait and the wall so that his retreat would not be closed to him, turned to examine the staircase that lay at his feet. it was a slender spiral of steel, apparently extending downward for an indefinite distance, and so narrow that there was scarcely an inch of superfluous space on either hand. without hesitation, bellingham started to descend, listening from time to time and hearing nothing, until at length he reached the bottom and found himself in a low passageway, with a door at the end. the secretary's heart sank. "locked," he thought to himself, but equally to his surprise and his delight, the knob turned in his hand, and he entered a small chamber, with a second door at the further end. this additional exit, however, was securely barred, and finding his progress cut off in that direction, bellingham turned his attention to the room itself. a first glance afforded him small encouragement. to open the massive safe was clearly impossible; the sideboard was empty; and the desk in the corner, though it appeared, at first sight, to be a promising hiding place, proved, on closer examination, to contain nothing. the secretary's heart sank. evidently his hopes were vain; his dream of romance gave place to prosaic reality; and with a pang of keenest disappointment he stood ready to admit defeat. yet since he had risked so much, he decided that before leaving he would make one final search, an investigation of the room so careful and minute that he would be certain that he had overlooked nothing. accordingly, he first approached the sideboard, hunting around, behind and under it, removing and replacing each drawer in turn. yet his efforts were in vain, and when he next transferred his attentions to the desk and began a similar exploration there, he met with no better success until he had removed the last drawer of all, and then, for the first time since he had entered the chamber, he experienced a momentary thrill as the flashlight revealed a crumpled paper which had fallen between the back of the drawer and the rear wall of the desk. inserting his arm, he brought it forth to find that it was torn, faded and yellow with age, with some words quite illegible and others missing altogether. yet piecing it together as best he could, he made an attempt to decipher its contents, and the next moment, so intense was the shock, so overpowering the revulsion from despair to exaltation, that he found himself staggering backward as if from a blow, grasping at the table behind him to save himself from actual physical collapse. but the next moment, as his heart once more sent the blood coursing through his veins, he rallied, and without losing a second he returned the drawer to its place, glanced hastily around to make sure that he had left no traces of his visit, and then made his way as quickly as possible up the staircase, through the opening in the wall, and once more regaining his room, he locked the door, lit his reading lamp, and began a systematic study of his prize. it took only a few moments to make him realize that the task of deciphering the document was to be one of almost insuperable difficulty, but at the same time it became increasingly evident that he had made a discovery the importance of which could scarcely be exaggerated. the paper was a plain sheet of foolscap, apparently a rough draft of a final copy,--torn into eight pieces, of which to bellingham's chagrin it now appeared that two--the lower rectangle on the right and the third from the top on the left--were missing. in the upper right-hand corner of the paper was the date, january , , and beneath, in the middle of the sheet was a heading of which the first word was almost wholly obliterated, but the remaining four, "of the money gods," were comparatively clear and distinct. under this heading were five sub-divisions, the numerals , , , and showing plainly at the left, while the missing would evidently have been written on the first of the two pieces which were lacking. and now, patiently and with infinite effort, straining his eyes over the dull, discolored paper and the faded ink, bellingham succeeded in bringing out a word here and there until under the first numeral he had an actual sentence, though still with gaps where the wished-for word stubbornly resisted his search. "most men ---- fools ----blers by nature ---- easiest way ---- to ---- in stocks." the second sentence, for some reason or other, was much more distinctly written, and in a short time the secretary had produced, "fundamental plan; bull market, sell ---- top; depress; bear ----ket; buy at bottom; give shorts ----." but it was the third sentence which proved to be the most startling of all. it was very brief, containing only eight words, of which part of the first and the last four were all that the secretary could read. but they were quite sufficient to make him gasp. "communi---- ---- signals on the tape." the letters, pregnant with meaning, stared him in the face, and made his breath come quick and fast as he threw an apprehensive glance into the darkness behind him, as though dreading the wrath and vengeance of some ghost from another world. almost beside himself with excitement, he toiled on. but the fourth sentence, with its missing fragment, told him little, for while the words were clear enough to the eye, they conveyed no message to his brain. on the upper line were the words, "on the watch," and directly beneath them, "for these signals," but the loss of the left hand paper, and the absolute impossibility of conjecturing what other words completed the sentence, made this portion of the message apparently valueless. equally tantalizing was the message under the figure five. the sentence began clearly enough, "the basis will be / / / if ----" and then came the blank occasioned by the second missing fragment of paper; while the sentence, resumed on the left-hand portion of the document, continued, " / / / if down. buying and selling ----" then once more the inevitable hiatus, and finally the three words, "on a scale." and this was the end. the secretary sat gazing straight before him, his brain in a tumult. coincidence well nigh incredible had led to this discovery, and now left no doubt in his mind that rumors which had been current in the street for years, but always laughed to scorn by the whole fraternity of brokers, were true, after all. and suddenly, with irresistible conviction, facts, remarks, events, never before understood, now crowded to his mind, clear as crystal in the light of his present knowledge. signals on the tape. more than once he had heard the story, told with bated breath under pledge of strictest secrecy. but here was proof. and for him, individually, this ancient document revealed all the glories of a new world. and thus, bending once more over the paper, bellingham toiled until the first light of the dawn crept in at the windows, and rising unsteadily from his desk, he saw staring at him from the mirror a worn and haggard face which he could scarcely recognize as his own. chapter x the adventure of atherton atherton stood on the steps of the café watching mills' departure until his friend's broad back and sturdy shoulders were swallowed up in the crowd; then, descending to the street, he strolled leisurely away in the opposite direction. but although, as he had just said to mills, blagden's enthusiasm had inspired him, he now concluded that it was not at this particular moment that he desired adventure, for there is a limit to human endurance, and the experiences of the day had left him exhausted both in body and mind. so that in spite of blagden's counsel as to keeping constantly on the alert, he threaded his way through the throng absent-mindedly, his thoughts, through force of long habit, reverting instinctively to the ticker, whose sudden plunge downward had proved so ruinous to all his hopes and plans. at length, however, as he turned aside from the main thoroughfare, he was roused from his abstraction by the sight of an automobile standing motionless at the curb, while the chauffeur cranked away manfully, but without result, and a tall, well-built man of middle age, evidently the owner of the car, stood looking on with a frown upon his brow. the whole affair was commonplace enough, and presumably atherton would not have given it a second thought, if it had not been for the girl who stood at the man's side; but at the sight of her, her beauty and the charm of her radiant youth suddenly made him forget everything else in the world, and under the pretense of looking into a neighboring window, he lingered for the pure delight of stealing an occasional glance at her, already determined that as soon as the car took its departure he would contrive to note its number, so that he might learn its owner's name. but a still better opportunity was to present itself, for presently there came an explosion, not from the car but from its owner. "that will do," he said crisply. "you can't run an automobile, and never could. you're discharged. go to the garage and tell them to send for the car, and come out to-morrow for your pay and your clothes." without protest, and almost as if glad to escape thus easily, the chauffeur vanished around the corner, and immediately atherton, lover and master of motors, saw the goddess of adventure beckoning to him alluringly. at once he stepped forward, and asked, "beg pardon, but may i help you?" the owner glanced at him sharply. "that depends," he retorted, "on how much you know about a car. i doubt if you could know any less than the idiot i was fool enough to hire. if you want to try, go ahead." without the loss of an instant atherton began his investigations. "spark's all right," he muttered; then, sniffing the air suspiciously, he added, "but i can smell gas; she must have sprung a leak." and inserting his hand under the carbureter, he brought it forth again, his palm dripping with gasolene. "feed pipe," he decided, but shrewdly surmising that the owner would care more for results than for explanations, he kept his knowledge to himself, and drawing his knife from his pocket, he dropped on his knees beside the car and after a few moments' deft manipulation, rose, walked forward, and gave the crank a vigorous turn. there followed two or three spasmodic reports, after which the engine, once more receiving its normal supply of gas, settled down to work and began to whirr away in perfect and melodious rhythm. whereupon atherton, who by this time was beginning to find enjoyment in the situation, approached the owner of the car and touching his cap, reported, "all right, sir; she'll run now." the owner eyed him keenly. "good," was his brief comment; then added in a tone that was half a statement, half a query, "you're not a professional chauffeur?" there was a moment's silence before atherton, seized by inspiration, answered, "well, not exactly, sir; not at present. the fact is, i'm looking for a situation." again the keen appraising glance, followed by question and reply. "you're a good driver?" "yes, sir, i can drive a car." "my name is hamilton. i live near rosecroft, about twenty miles out of town. do you want to drive me there?" this time atherton did not hesitate. at once he recognized his patron's name, and became aware that here was a genuine adventure, an opportunity not to be disregarded. and accordingly, striving to adopt a tone appropriate to his new employment, he responded respectfully, "yes, sir, i'd be glad to." hamilton turned to the girl. "jump in, helen," he said, and to atherton, in the manner of a man thoroughly accustomed to giving orders, "now find the nearest telephone; ring the central garage and tell them that i shan't need them, after all. do it as quick as you can, and then come back here." he stepped into the motor, and atherton, smiling to himself, hastened to carry out the banker's orders, and then returned to the car, eager to discover what the outcome of this adventure would be, and determined to show his passengers that he had not overstated his ability as a chauffeur. nor did he disappoint them, although as a matter of fact he had every opportunity for producing a favorable impression. the roads were perfect, the car behaved splendidly, and aided by occasional brief instructions from mr. hamilton, in a little over an hour from their departure he entered the winding driveway, experienced a momentary glimpse of wide lawns, shrubbery and stately trees, and brought the car to a halt beneath the portico. immediately the door opened, and a dark, dapper-looking little man in livery came down the steps to meet them, alertly enough, yet as it seemed to atherton with the air of one a trifle unaccustomed to his surroundings. and that this impression was correct became evident when mr. hamilton, alighting, looked at the servant in some surprise and then as if suddenly recollecting said, "oh yes, you're the new second man. where is martin?" "martin, sir," the man answered, "has retired. shall i tell him that you are here?" "no, never mind," answered mr. hamilton. "ask the housekeeper to get us something to eat." and turning to atherton, he added brusquely, "you said you were looking for a situation. do you want this one?" the question, under the circumstances, was not wholly unexpected, and atherton, during the drive, had had ample opportunity to make up his mind as to his answer. so that now he replied promptly, "yes, sir. very much indeed, sir." "satisfactory references?" asked the banker, and atherton, knowing a number of men upon whom he could rely, responded, "yes, sir." whereupon the financier, without further questioning, observed, "very well then, you're engaged on trial." and to his daughter, "i'm going to ask bellingham to show him to his room. by the way, what's your name?" "atherton, sir," answered the new chauffeur. "very well," said hamilton again. "wait here." he disappeared within the house, but helen hamilton, instead of following him, remained standing on the porch, and presently, with frank approval, she remarked, "you drive a car very well indeed. much better than the other man." at her words, atherton felt as if the genial warmth of his romance had suffered a sudden chill. the other _man_. he did not care for the term, for it made him realize that although he had obtained a foothold in the hamilton family, he had gained it by means of the rear entrance instead of the front. he was a servant, mr. hamilton's _man_. but though at first resentful, he soon had the grace to perceive that after all his position was of his own choosing, and accordingly he answered deferentially, "i thank you, miss, very much indeed." there followed silence, and atherton, fearing that she would depart, was racking his brains to discover some method of prolonging the conversation, when she solved the problem for him by continuing, "i am really very glad that we met you to-night." immediately, atherton felt a glow of joy, only the next instant to have his hopes again dispelled as she added, "it is an excellent chance for you. mr. bellingham will give you all the details, but i know that for one thing if you suit my father he always allows his chauffeurs two sets of livery free." atherton gazed at her, wondering if any object underlay her words. her glance was sincerity itself; her tone seemed blandly philanthropic; yet atherton could not make himself believe that the daughter of marshall hamilton would stand upon the porch of her house at midnight, discussing the terms of his employment with an unknown chauffeur. no. even if he flattered himself unduly by the assumption, he imagined that she must have detected at least a trace of the gentleman in his demeanor, and was trying to draw him out. yet despite his blind and adoring infatuation, he promptly decided that if this were her purpose, he would give her no satisfaction, and therefore with assumed eagerness he answered greedily, "that's very generous of him, miss. and i hope, miss, he don't object to something with a bit of life to it. a purple, miss, with a red stripe, is tasty; very rich and tasty indeed." if she was puzzled by his reply, she did not show it, but whether at the vision of the "tasty" suit, or for some other reason, she broke forth into silvery laughter, so bewitching that the enraptured atherton, in another moment, might have capitulated and revealed to her the secret of his identity, if the door had not opened to announce the return of mr. hamilton, followed by a good-looking young fellow, apparently some four or five years atherton's senior. "bellingham," said the banker, "this is atherton, who is to take rawlings' place, temporarily at least, perhaps permanently. i wish you would show him his room, and explain to him the customary routine. have the car ready at half past eight." bellingham acknowledged the introduction with a nod, jumped into the car, and they started at once for the stables. atherton's first impression of his new acquaintance was not particularly favorable, for the secretary was evidently preoccupied and hardly spoke until he had conducted the new chauffeur to his pleasant and comfortable room in the upper portion of the stables. but here, as he lit the light and for the first time had a fair chance to see what the new arrival looked like, a sudden change came over him, and after a somewhat prolonged scrutiny he suddenly exclaimed, "well, i may not be in a class with the well-known mr. holmes, but if descriptions and family resemblances count for anything, i should say the odds were about a hundred to one that you were a cousin of billy atherton, princeton, ' ." it was atherton's turn to stare. "right you are," he answered. "do you know billy?" "more or less," responded bellingham. "we roomed together for four years." and suddenly atherton remembered. "what a fool i am!" he cried. "hugh bellingham, of course. i never thought of it. why, i've heard about you from billy time and again." they stood gazing at each other, and at precisely the same moment both of them began to grin. "i suppose," said atherton, a trifle sheepishly, "that you're wondering about this fool chauffeur business--" but bellingham cut him short. "my dear fellow," he rejoined, "i'm not wondering at anything. it's none of my business what you are. and as far as that goes, you have an equal right to wonder at my job; i fear it's not a very exalted one for a college graduate to hold. but we're neither of us on the witness stand. all i can say is that i'm glad you're here, and if there's anything i can do to make you comfortable, or anything i can tell you about the household, why just fire away and ask me what you please. i'm quite at your service." there was a sincerity in his tone that atherton appreciated. "you're mighty good," he answered, "and there are some things i'd like to know, but first, if you don't mind, i'd like to explain my being here." and forthwith, while bellingham seated himself on the side of the bed and listened attentively, atherton briefly recounted his misadventures in the market, his meeting with mills and blagden, and his subsequent search for adventure, with its most unlooked-for ending. when he had finished, bellingham sat for some moments in thoughtful silence before he replied, "atherton, we're getting pretty confidential on short acquaintance, but of course it's not as though we were absolute strangers. and i want to take a liberty, and give you a piece of advice. the man who does that is usually a fool, but you will understand me better if i follow your example, and tell you just why i am in my present position. when i was a year or so older than you are now, i made the same mistake that you have just made. i went broke in the stock market, tried for over six months to land a job, and finally found employment with mr. hamilton, and have been here ever since. so at all events there is a bond of sympathy between us." "by jove, i should say so," atherton answered, "and i imagine, if we knew the truth, we could find a long list of fellow sufferers." "not a doubt of it," replied the secretary, "and that leads up to what i wish to say. if you're like me, if you're like ninety-nine men out of a hundred, you'll find that after a while you'll forget your lesson, and you'll rake and scrape to get money together to go back into the game again. and what i want to urge upon you, most earnestly, is just this: don't do it. i'm not at liberty to tell you all i know, but i can tell you this: you can't beat the game, and to go on trying is nothing more nor less than dashing your head against a wall. it's suicide in either case." neither his earnestness nor his good-will could be misunderstood, and atherton was quick to respond, "i don't doubt that you're right, and i'll surely remember what you say. but i don't think i'm going to be tempted again; i believe i know when i've had enough." the secretary was silent. presently he rose from his seat and nervously paced up and down the room before he finally came to a halt in front of the new chauffeur. "atherton," he said, "doubtless you'll think i'm crazy, but i assure you that i'm not. and you can't appreciate what a godsend it is to me to have you here. i want to ask two favors of you, and i repeat that i was never more serious in my life. do you mind letting me tell you what they are?" the events of the day--and night--had been so many, so varied, and so nearly akin to those of a "movie show," that atherton had reached a point where he felt really incapable of experiencing surprise at anything. and therefore he simply responded, inelegantly but heartily, "why, sure, fire ahead." "then first," said the secretary, "if at any time during your stay here you think you discover anyone in the household, from mr. hamilton down, trying to spy upon me, either by daylight or dark, i want you to promise that you will let me know as soon as you possibly can. are you willing to do that?" "of course i am," responded atherton. "i'm afraid i'm not worth much in the detective line, but i'll keep my eyes open, and let you know if i see anything out of the ordinary. that settles number one; what's number two?" "this," bellingham answered. "if i had to leave very suddenly, could you give me an address in the city where i could go and stay for a little while, in case i wanted a temporary hiding-place? i mean a house where i could be sure that i could trust the occupants; the quieter the locality, the better for me." atherton pulled out his memorandum book, tore out a page, and scrawled blagden's address across it. "here's the very place," he answered. "and if i find that you've left, i'll get in touch with blagden at once and tell him to be on the lookout for you. the neighborhood is just what you're after; old-fashioned and peaceful." bellingham took the paper and thrust it into his pocket. "that's fine," he said with evident relief, "and thank you for being willing to take me seriously. perhaps some day i can explain everything to you; i might even be able to reciprocate your kindness." atherton smiled. "you can reciprocate right now, if you'd like to," he responded. "i'd like to ask you just one question. is miss hamilton engaged to be married, or anything like that?" bellingham stared; then smiled in his turn. "so that's it," he rejoined. "well, now the chauffeur business becomes clear. and i'm glad that i may relieve your mind. no, there have been plenty of applicants, but i don't think the right one has yet appeared. i believe she is still heart whole and fancy free." atherton heaved a sigh of relief. "i'm glad to hear that," he answered, and unable to remain quiet, he leaped to his feet, and in his turn began to pace the room. "bellingham!" he cried, "she is--she is--" but the words would not come, and his very silence bore witness to the fervor of his love. bellingham, in spite of his worries and anxieties, threw back his head and laughed aloud. "my dear fellow!" he cried, "you're certainly hard hit. but let me tell you this. i've known miss hamilton for three years, and i can testify that no finer girl ever lived. i wish you luck, atherton, although i must say that just at present i should think you were laboring under quite a handicap." at the thought of his poverty, atherton's face fell, but the next moment he regained his confidence. "a handicap," he retorted, "makes a fellow do his best. if i hadn't lost my money, i should never have met miss hamilton; and by jove, bellingham, it's worth the price. i don't regret it." at this reasoning, the secretary smiled, but he answered kindly, "well, i think you deserve to succeed. but i'll leave you now, for it's late, and you must be tired." they parted at the door, and atherton, left alone, began slowly to disrobe, reflecting earnestly upon the events of the last twelve hours. "some day," was his conclusion. "some hectic day." and at the thought of his friends and the meeting in the restaurant, he added, half aloud, "i'll have to admit that blagden is a wonder. 'adventure' is certainly right." chapter xi a fresh start "but i shouldn't think," said helen, "that you would be satisfied to remain a chauffeur. there's no future in it; it's only rather an easy way of earning a living." atherton was silent. he had risen early and thoroughly overhauled his engine, and on his appearance at the house had discovered, to his delight, that helen had decided to accompany her father on his trip to town. they had left mr. hamilton at his office, and after making some purchases in the shopping district, helen had taken her place beside him on the front seat of the car, and they had started for home. quite evidently, thought atherton, feminine curiosity was still unsatisfied. she had begun, with the elaborate and obvious artifice of the sex, to talk on general subjects, gradually, however, narrowing the scope of the conversation until it had centered upon atherton himself. but while, on the one hand, she had the advantage, by thus taking the offensive, of being able to direct the talk as she pleased, atherton, on the other, through his inferior social position and through the necessity of managing the car, was able to present a strong defence, and contrived, by answering her queries either in monosyllables or with evasion, to leave her as much in the dark as ever. to this course he had steadily adhered, for while he had no real objection to telling her the true state of affairs, yet he feared that if he did so she might repeat the story to her father, and that marshall hamilton might regard his past with disfavor and forthwith give him his discharge. and this was the last thing atherton desired, for with the coming of morning he had grown each moment more eager to retain his "job." in the first place, after his long sojourn in the city, his surroundings themselves delighted him. the song of birds which had awakened him, the fresh, pure air, the radiant sunlight, the soft green of the fields, all the sights and sounds of the country seemed to refresh and reinvigorate him. then, too, there was his acquaintance with bellingham, and a natural curiosity regarding the mystery which surrounded the secretary's actions and the strange requests which he had made. and finally there was the novelty of the whole situation; the charm of feeling himself disguised, of playing a part, put him on his mettle to do it well, and the ordeal of breakfast below stairs, with the august martin presiding at the head of the table had kept him on the alert in his anxiety neither to overdo nor underdo the role of chauffeur. there was distinctly a spice of excitement about the whole affair; he was still young enough to enjoy it as a "lark." a pretty housemaid had made admiring eyes at him; less pleasantly, he had imagined that once or twice he had detected jenkins, the new second man, eyeing him with concealed but deliberate scrutiny. on the whole, it seemed to him that he had acquitted himself well, and thus he still had courage, even with so charming a cross-examiner, to continue to enact the part of atherton the self-satisfied chauffeur, and not of atherton the gentleman in adversity. and accordingly, after thoughtful consideration of her remark, he answered perversely, "well, miss, there's many advantages to a chauffeur's job. it's apt to be steady, and it's considered very genteel, miss; very genteel, indeed." the girl's expression, he thought, showed disappointment at his reply, but before she could answer they swept around a turn in the winding road, and the beauty of the scene before them was sufficient to make them, for the moment, oblivious of all else. a broad blue stream of troubled water, fed by many a clear and sparkling mountain brook, rushed headlong down the valley, its whirling eddies gleaming with the silver of dashing spray and the gold of dancing sunbeams. above the bridge which lay in their path the river was wide and comparatively shallow, but below the bridge the banks narrowed sharply; the water deepened; and a couple of hundred yards further down went roaring and booming over the falls which furnished power for the mill whose machinery hummed and whirred beside the eddies of the foam-flecked pool. and to complete the picture's charm, in the middle of the bridge a boy leaned against the railing, casting his line into the stream below, while by his side two little girls romped and played with a half-grown puppy of some nondescript breed which wriggled and leaped and whirled hither and thither, in pure delight at being alive to enjoy the wonders of such a delightful and interesting world. to avoid all chances of injury, atherton brought the car down to a snail's pace, and thus they crossed the bridge in safety, but as the wheels of the motor struck the road upon the further side he heard behind him a sharp and terrified yelp from the dog, followed almost simultaneously by a shrill cry of anguish from his playmates. instantly atherton's hand was on the brake; the car jerked jarringly to a standstill; and in another second he had leaped out and had regained the middle of the bridge. what had happened was only too evident. the puppy, in the course of his mad gyrations, had approached too nearly the edge of the bridge, had lost his balance, fallen, and was now being swept rapidly away down stream. for the little girls, it was plain that the end of their world had come; after their first instinctive cry, they stood motionless, with parted lips, their faces white and rigid with grief and terror. there was no time for reasoning or for counting the cost; no time for anything but instant action; and with the speed of lightning atherton stripped off his coat, poised for an infinitesimal moment, and then plunged, head foremost, into the flood. the impetus of his dive carried him under, but as he came to the surface and shook the water from his eyes he saw that his aim had been true, for the puppy was only a few feet away from him, its head just visible above the rush of the waves, as it battled valiantly, but vainly, for its life. a couple of quick strokes and atherton had grasped it with his left hand, and thanking fortune that he could use the english side stroke, he struck out as best he could with his unencumbered arm. nor did he save his strength, since a quick glance above and below showed him that his task would be no easy one, for the speed of the current was tremendous, and already the bridge seemed far away, and the brink of the falls loomed ominously near. yet on the other hand the stream was narrow, and once freed from the burden of the dog, he could have reached the shore in a dozen powerful strokes. but as it was, with his left arm useless, it was hard to keep his head and shoulders clear of the water, and half blinded, he struggled on, never dreaming of releasing his hold upon the puppy, but fully conscious that at best it was going to be a case of touch and go. the seconds passed, the roar below him grew louder, and at length, taking time for one quick glance, he saw that the falls were less than fifty feet away, and that just at their brink, before the downward rush of the river began, a jagged rock jutted out from the shore into the stream. here, then, was his chance, though but a slim one, for swimming is one of the most taxing exercises in the world, and his long hours beside the ticker had softened him and relaxed his muscles so that now, just when he needed it most, his lack of condition told upon him and began steadily to wear him down. and thus, summoning every remaining ounce of energy, he lashed through the water until as though through a mist he saw the rock come into view just below him. one stroke more and it was abreast--the boom of the falls deafened him--he choked, gasped--now his moment had come--he reached desperately for the rock, grasped it only to have his clutch torn loose--he had missed it, his chance was gone--he had lost his fight-- down the bank flashed headlong a gleam of white; the girl's lithe form was thrown prostrate upon the rock; her arm leaped out, her hand caught his, and she braced herself, every muscle stiffening under the strain; then slowly, inch by inch conquering the force of the current, she drew man and dog to safety, and a moment later bent over them as they lay prone upon the bank. atherton's eyes were closed; his breath came in quick, uneven gasps. "are you all right?" she cried, and although he made no direct reply, he contrived a vague gesture toward the draggled ball of yellow fur at his side. "look after--pup," he managed to articulate, and was satisfied to lie still, while the sunshine whirled dazzlingly about him, and the baffled river roared past at his feet. but the dog needed little help. nervous shock--if puppies are subject to nervous shocks--seemed to be all that ailed him, and presently he sat up, very moist and somewhat dazed, to greet the children who now came tearing down the bank, their grief changed suddenly to wild delight. for the little girls, the dog was all that mattered; and gathering him, all dripping as he was, into their arms, they loaded him with caresses and endearments, and without a thought of atherton, bore him away toward home. but the boy, old enough to be a hero worshipper, lingered to gaze admiringly as atherton at length sat up and began to wring the water from his clothes. "say, mister," he volunteered, "you done that slick," and abashed by the sound of his own voice, hastily departed to see that the incident was adequately described at the farmhouse. and thus helen and atherton were left alone. little by little, atherton's composure returned. the world ceased revolving; his heart beats steadied; and immediately he was admiringly conscious of the girl's courage and skill. so that presently, forgetting for the moment his efforts at disguise, he exclaimed with all sincerity, "i don't see how you did it! there's no doubt you saved my life!" but the girl was evidently not thinking of her own share in the rescue. "if i did," she answered, "i am glad. but you were very brave. it was a great risk to take for a dog." "well, i always liked dogs," he pleaded in extenuation, "and he was a cunning little rascal, too. he looked so tiny and helpless down there in the water; it didn't really seem quite fair." there was silence. for atherton, the world had suddenly taken on new and brighter colors, for the girl's expression plainly showed her admiration for his act. and at length, summoning all his courage, he asked, "if i should ask you a truthful question, would you give me a truthful answer?" far down in the depths of her eyes there gleamed a sparkle of merriment, but otherwise her face was quite grave as she responded, "of course." and with the slightest possible accent upon the pronoun, she added, "_i_ am always truthful." but he did not choose to notice the implication. "then," he asked, "when you saw me last night, did you think i appeared to be an ordinary, everyday chauffeur, or did you notice any signs of--what shall i call it--of a gentleman in reduced circumstances?" "as for reduced circumstances," she answered promptly, "i never gave that a thought, but as for thinking you were a gentleman, yes, that certainly occurred to me. and really, mr. atherton--" again, though ever so slightly, she stressed the "mr."--"i fear that the theatre isn't your vocation. your conception--that is the word, isn't it--your conception of the chauffeur's part is very crude indeed. it is a quite frightful combination of a stage englishman and a vaudeville butler." his face fell. "now isn't that too bad!" he exclaimed ruefully, "and i thought i was doing it so well. i am terribly discouraged." "oh, but you needn't be," she responded. "to be an actor is a fine thing, but there are other things even better. for instance, to be a life-saver is infinitely nobler." she spoke between jest and earnest, and atherton, for the first time since his ducking, laughed. "considering the size of the pup," he answered, "the title is far too grand. but i'll accept it, just the same, to save my pride. and if you don't mind, i should like to explain this business of the chauffeur," and very briefly, and without the mentioning of names, he ran over the adventures and misadventures of the preceding day. "and so," he concluded, "you can see that i've made rather a mess of things. but i wish--i'd like to--" he began to flounder helplessly, then got himself once more in hand, and went on steadily, "you'll think i'm an awful bounder for saying this, but i'll probably never have another chance, and coming so near to the edge of things as i did just now seems to make life a lot more real. i want to say just this; that i admire you tremendously, and i wish i'd had the good luck to meet you before i made ducks and drakes of all my prospects in life." and now, having had his say, he was suddenly amazed at his own temerity, and did not dare look at her until at length, as she remained silent, he ventured to steal a glance at her face, and was relieved to discover that she did not appear to be displeased. she was gazing straight before her into the whirling eddies of the river, and presently she turned her head and answered him, and as she did so he was struck afresh by the simple charm and directness of her manner. "if you admire me," she said, "i am very glad, and i assure you it is quite mutual. i like a man to be brave, and even more, i think, i like him to be kind. and as for your misfortunes, i don't think you should regret them. you see, i know something about stocks, and the market--my father and i have always been great pals--and i'm sure the game isn't worth the candle. i'm sure that every man who possibly can should be doing some hard, honest work--work that will somehow count--and stock gambling most emphatically doesn't count. so i believe your losses are a blessing in disguise." he knew that she spoke the truth, and hastened to acknowledge it. "you are quite right," he admitted, "but it's sometimes hard to live down a reckless past. i should like nothing so much as a fresh start, but can i get it? i don't think it will be easy." she meditated. "the question is," she said slowly, "what can you do best?" and with a gleam of mischief, she added, "we'll omit the stage, but all the rest of the world remains." he smiled a trifle grimly. "i'm badly equipped, i know," he responded. "the usual college education, and that is about all. but i am a fair mechanic. motors especially. i've always loved them, and sometimes i can make them do things that other people can't. i believe, if i could get a chance in the automobile business, i could make good." she thought again. "i see a way," she said at length. "my father, as you perhaps know, is a man of wide interests. among other things, he and his friends have just taken over two or three big motor companies, and are going to consolidate them. i'll arrange an interview for to-night; you can tell father your story, and perhaps he'll help you. at any rate, i'll tell him what you did this morning; that ought to show him that you have courage, and that you know how to make up your mind." atherton stared. there was a business-like directness about her which made him realize that she was a true daughter of marshall hamilton. "you're very good," he answered gratefully. "i'd like nothing better than a chance like that." "i'm happy to help," she said, and as she rose to her feet, she added, "and now, if you've recovered, we must be going. i've a luncheon engagement that i mustn't miss." he jumped up at once, his knees still a bit unsteady, but his heart as light as a feather, and feeling, as they made their way back toward the motor, that the falling of the dog into the water had sufficed to change the whole course of his fortunes. that night, at eight o'clock, he was received in marshall hamilton's study, and for twenty minutes was subjected to a rapid fire of questions, searching but not unfriendly, and aimed with a skill that made atherton understand and appreciate why his employer was a successful man. to the matter of his stock losses mr. hamilton came back more than once, but apparently he was willing to forgive this indiscretion, for at the end of their talk it was arranged that atherton should continue as chauffeur until monday night, and should then be given a chance in one of the factories of the new company to see whether he could reascend the ladder from which he had been so rudely displaced. so his opportunity had come to him, and as he left the house and made his way back to the stables, bright visions of the future filled his brain, and he dreamed over and over again, as young men have dreamed since the beginning of time, dreams of youth, dreams of fame, and above all else, dreams of love. chapter xii the flight of bellingham on the narrow balcony outside his room atherton sat alone in the darkness, looking forth upon the splendor of the night. above him stretched the velvet blackness of the heavens, jewelled with bright and luminous stars; from the distant woodland sounded, in ceaseless iteration, the music of the whippoorwills; while from the meadows the south wind, bearing the fragrance of the fields, stirred the ivy on the stable walls and murmured nocturnal melody among the branches of the slumbering pines. beauty everywhere, on earth and in sky; beauty, it seemed to atherton, in perfect unison with the thoughts which filled his brain. "ye shall be born again." the old biblical phrase, long forgotten, echoed and re-echoed in his mind. and in his case he knew that it was true; that the events of the last three days had altered the whole current of his being. already the old life--the feverish hours around the ticker, the crowd of gamblers, the close, stale air of the customers' room, the glare and dazzle of the lights--all of these things seemed part and parcel of another world. now they were gone, and gone, too, was that horrible concentration on points and fractions; quarters and eighths; to atherton, gazing upon the calm and silent glory of the night, it seemed incredible that he could ever have lived through times like these. midway in his mind, between that past hell and this present heaven, lay the memory of his meeting with blagden and with mills. and once again, as he recalled that evening, it seemed to him impossible that he could have been a party to the compact they had made. like a drunkard only half sobered after a debauch, he knew now that although he had not realized it he had still been under the spell of the market, a beaten gambler, yet in the grip of the lure and lust of the game. yet his agreement caused him no real uneasiness, for though at the time blagden's magnetism and his ready eloquence had made all that he had said seem plausible and sane, now, viewed from this distance, the idea of three young men, without money and without influence, solemnly banding together to defy the world, appeared quite childish and absurd. and yet, so far as he was concerned, he was compelled to admit that in one particular blagden's judgment had certainly been correct; a true adventure had awaited him. how, he wondered, had mills and blagden fared. it was difficult to imagine tubby in any very melodramatic role, but blagden, after his meeting with his fair acquaintance, seemed destined inevitably to encounter some sort of romance or intrigue. and as atherton thought of the woman at the café, with her splendid beauty so flauntingly for sale, a sudden sequence of comparisons and contrasts flashed through his mind. there was the life of the ticker, feverish, fascinating, fruitless, ringing empty and hollow when set over against the sane and wholesome life of the man who works for his livelihood. and in like manner there was this traffic and barter of illicit love, morbid, exotic, supersensual, paling to quivering shame when compared with true love, something so earthly and yet so celestial, so passionate and yet so ethereal, so bewildering and so enthralling that it would not let him sleep, but kept him here in the darkness, while the clocks struck twelve, and half-past, and one-- among the shadows surrounding the house occurred a subtle transformation--a change half sound, half motion, and so faint and evanescent that atherton, still partly in dreamland and only semi-conscious of the real world about him, regarded it incuriously, oblivious of its real significance. but an instant later he became thoroughly awakened as he saw one of the shadows detach itself from the rest and begin to move, cautiously and without noise, in the direction of the stable. atherton looked on with interest. "now who the dickens," he wondered, "can that be? and what in the world is he after? this is a cheerful hour for a man to be taking a walk for his health." the general attitude of the figure, indeed, suggested secrecy, if not something still more sinister. slowly and warily it advanced, but the stable was evidently not its destination, for as it passed the huge pine in front of the house it approached it, little by little, until at last the shadow of this nocturnal prowler became lost and merged in the lower branches of the tree. at once atherton's curiosity increased. "i'd better have a look at this," he decided, and stepping into his room, he slipped his revolver into his pocket, passed quietly down the stairs and began making his way toward the tree. at the edge of its lower branches, which swept the ground, he paused to listen, and heard above him faint sounds which seemed to indicate that this midnight marauder was ascending the tree. completely mystified, he dropped on hands and knees, and as he crawled inward, an occasional descending branch or bit of bark made it evident that his supposition was correct. atherton's wonderment increased. "must be a lunatic," was his first thought, but this seemed scarcely possible. then why, he reflected, should a person wish to climb a tree at this time of night? to signal? for what purpose, and to whom? to keep some kind of a watch, or lookout? this seemed more likely. could the man be a burglar, with a confederate working in the house? "if i go up after him," he thought, "he'll surely hear or see me. and if i hail him when he comes down, i'll probably get into trouble right away. if he _is_ a burglar, he's doubtless a good shot and a quick one, too. i think i'll play this safe." and climbing up some eight or ten feet from the ground, he found a place where two huge limbs grew close together, and working out as far as possible from the trunk of the tree, he stretched himself out at full length and waited. occasional faint sounds reached him from above and presently the figure again descended, passing so near him that even in the darkness atherton gained the impression that the man was of slender stature, somehow suggesting vaguely the identity of martin's new assistant. waiting until it seemed safe, atherton slipped down to the ground in his turn and reached the circumference of the branches just in time to see the shadow once more disappear upon the veranda. presumptively, then, the man was not a burglar, but an inmate of the house. but for what purpose had he climbed the tree? "i believe," concluded atherton, "that i'll go up myself. must be a bully view, if nothing else." accordingly, he began his ascent, memories of similar climbs in boyhood coming vividly to mind as he mounted higher and higher. the first part of his journey was made in darkness so profound that there was no possible chance for observation, but when he reached a height about two-thirds of the way to the top the branches began to shorten rapidly so that presently he found that he could command a view of the stable upon one hand and of the house on the other. the stable was in total darkness, but when he turned his attention to the house he at once discovered that one window was brightly lighted and his heart quickened at the sight, for there was now at least a possible explanation of the mystery. who's room was it, he asked himself, and although totally unfamiliar with the interior arrangement of the house, he felt that considering the secretary's story everything pointed to bellingham as its occupant. again he started upward, but it now became a question whether or not he could obtain a glimpse of the room, for he had reached an altitude where the trunk of the pine had decreased dangerously in size, so that every puff of wind swayed him giddily to and fro. undoubtedly, his predecessor's lighter weight had been an advantage, but atherton's curiosity was thoroughly aroused and setting his teeth he advanced foot by foot until at length, with one arm clasped tightly around the trunk of the pine, he had gained a height whence he could view, through the open window, the interior of the room. as he had expected, it was bellingham's apartment. the secretary, a green shade over his eyes, sat at his desk, working with concentrated absorption upon the papers before him. to his right and left were scattered about the room what at first appeared to be streamers of white ribbon, but which atherton presently recognized as the paper "tape" which supplies the tickers and upon which are recorded the daily transactions of the exchange. "a chart fiend," thought atherton to himself, "working in secret, as they always do. i wonder, though, why anyone should be spying on him; he can't be harming anybody but himself. i wonder if it's possible--" but at this point a gust of wind, unusually severe, interrupted his reflections, swinging him back and forth so dizzily that when it had subsided he was glad enough to begin his descent from his airy altitude. once safely back upon the ground, he paused to think. his first impulse was to return to his room and wait until morning before informing bellingham of what had occurred. but on second thought various circumstances seemed to combine to render haste imperative. for one thing, there was the manner in which the secretary had acted; for another, there was the unmistakeable earnestness of his appeal; and to lend color to his fears there was this singular nocturnal observation of his labors. surely, no ordinary servant would have had the wish, the courage or the skill to make this dangerous ascent, and in addition to this there was the added fact that this arboreal spy was in the employ of marshall hamilton, one of the financial leaders of new york. all in all, the matter assumed serious proportions. but how, at this hour of the morning, was he to make his way to bellingham's room? doors and windows were locked; no water pipe or sturdy vine adorned the walls. "a bow and arrow," he thought to himself, "might do the trick." and although such a weapon was not available, the idea suggested another, and making his way back to the stable, he unearthed, in the loft adjoining his room, an old discarded tennis set, and abstracting three of the balls, returned to his room, slit them with a knife, and hastily penned three notes, "man has been watching you from top of pine tree. if you leave, meet me at address given to-morrow night, eight o'clock." then, inserting one of these, with a corner projecting, in each of his missiles, he once more retraced his steps toward the house. if possible, he would have preferred to make his attempt from the ground, but the height of bellingham's room made the angle so difficult that he wisely decided there would be no use in attempting this method of communication. "i might shoot away all night," he reflected, "and never hit the window at all. i'll have to take another climb." and accordingly, travelling with the added speed acquired by familiarity with his surroundings, he soon regained the top of the pine. to his relief, the window was still open, and the secretary was still pursuing his labors with undiminished ardor. "this," thought atherton, "is the time to 'groove' one," and taking one of the balls from his pocket, he waited for a lull in the wind, and calculating, as well as he could, the required elevation, he let fly with so good an aim that the ball struck fairly on the window ledge, bounced over and disappeared within the room. immediately atherton saw the secretary start, look around him with an expression of amazement, and then rise hastily from his seat. a few moments later he reappeared at the window, gazing forth in the direction of the pine tree with every evidence of terror and consternation; then abruptly closed the window and lowered the shade. for an instant atherton could see him moving hurriedly about the room; then the light was suddenly extinguished, bellingham's apartment was engulfed in the black bulk of the house; and atherton, feeling that he had done everything in his power, again descended and made his way to his room, wondering greatly what would be the outcome of the night's events. chapter xiii the great secret an unexpected trip in the motor had delayed atherton's departure for town, and it was after nine o'clock when he ran quickly up the stairs which led to blagden's room, confidently expecting to find bellingham there before him. the morning had dawned, revealing no trace of the secretary, and atherton had taken advantage of an errand in the village to telephone blagden to be on the lookout for the fugitive in the neighborhood of eight o'clock. but now, to his disappointment, he entered the room to find blagden and mills alone, blagden lying on the couch, eyes half closed, pipe in mouth, mills sprawling in the easy chair, extracting minor chords of unspeakable melancholy from blagden's guitar. both were clearly bored, and glad of a chance to vent their indignation upon atherton. "you're an idiot of a fellow," observed blagden. "where's this friend of yours? we've been here since seven o'clock." "yes," added mills. "hurried our dinner, too. worst thing in the world for a man. we thought from your telephoning that it must be important." atherton, weary from loss of sleep, dropped into a chair. "well, i imagine it is important," he rejoined. "he'll be here, i'm sure. unless--" he added thoughtfully, "something may have happened to him. i shouldn't be greatly surprised if that was the trouble. but you fellows needn't make such a row about it. it hasn't done you any harm. we were supposed to meet to-night anyway." mills laid aside the guitar. "that's right," he assented, "this was to be the experience meeting. and as you are the originator of the whole thing, blagden, you'd better begin. how did you get along with the lovely lady? was it a real adventure?" blagden puffed thoughtfully at his pipe. "yes," he at length replied, "it surely was. the lovely lady is interested in stocks and she has a--what is the technical word in such cases--friend, isn't it? gentleman friend? yes, that's it. she has a gentleman friend who gives her tips on the market and--" he paused dramatically--"whose tips are always right. she never loses, and _always_ wins." both of his hearers laughed. "you mentioned the 'arabian nights' that evening in the café," scoffed mills. and atherton added, "that's just like a woman. why did she pick out the one impossible story in the world? anything else i'd have believed, out of compliment to her good looks. but a friend who beats the stock market. never. that's incredible." "yes," blagden admitted, "on general principles, i'd agree with you. and yet i must say that her story was most convincing. i saw the house where she lives; saw the tickers, large as life, installed by her friend; saw her very dainty little account book, with its record of six months' trading in cotton, grain and stocks, and with every transaction showing its profit--a clean slate." there followed silence. then atherton asked, still unbelievingly, "but why does she confide in you? if she's got such a good thing--the tips, i mean, not the gentleman friend--why isn't she satisfied? why does she tell _you_ her troubles?" mills laughed. "it's his personal charm," he volunteered. "he always scores with the ladies. they'll tell him anything." "oh, shut up, tubby," blagden retorted, "this is a serious matter." and then to atherton, "the answer is as old as the time of bluebeard, as old as eve and the serpent. curiosity, that is the trouble with my charming friend. it seems that she's not satisfied merely to make money; it's the secret of making it she's after. and her benefactor won't tell it to her. he lets her play with the market as a child would play with a toy, and that's all." "but how does she know," queried mills, "that there is any secret? it may be nothing but luck." "yes, that's possible," admitted blagden, "but according to our experience, it's very unlikely. no man's luck would hold in all three markets for six months without a break. besides, she's intelligent enough, and she's convinced that he plays on a regular system. her theory is that there's some kind of inside manipulation by which stocks are put up at certain hours of the day and put down at others; frequently, she says, he consults his watch before making a trade. rather an ingenious idea." "humph," ejaculated mills, "i should say it was. sounds pretty reasonable to me. first time i ever heard of it." "well," demurred blagden, "it's barely possible, but i doubt it. in fact, i don't take the whole story very seriously. and yet--it's curious. but in any event, i fear i didn't help her much. if there is a secret, it's not an easy one to solve." he was silent. "anything else?" asked atherton, after a pause. "no," blagden answered, "that's the whole story. and now you fellows can tell your troubles. how about you, tubby? any adventure?" mills chuckled at the remembrance. "oh, rather," he replied. "i too met a lady, only she wasn't quite in a class with yours. she was a pretty little minx, though, at that, and after she had decoyed me to her home with a most pathetic story, she and her running mate, a most villainous looking individual named stoat, tried to hold me up with the old badger game." "good lord!" cried blagden, "that wasn't any joke, tubby. it may be an old game, but it's as dangerous as it ever was. weren't you scared?" "sure was," admitted mills. "couldn't have been scareder, but nature having blessed me with a placid exterior, i managed to get by without their knowing it. and finally we wound up by becoming great pals; i never made such a hit in my life. in fact, good old stoat, who appears to be quite a noted criminal, offered me a partnership on the spot. as near as i could make it out, he was drawn to me by my appearance of respectability. it sounds conceited of me to repeat it, but he assured me that with the proper training, i had all the qualifications for a most successful criminal." atherton laughed. "some compliment," he commented dryly, but blagden heard the news with perfect seriousness. "i believe he was right, tubby," he cried. "if he seemed to be a pretty smooth proposition, why don't you go in with him? we might get hold of something big, and without any risk to it, either." "oh, thanks," retorted mills with unwonted asperity, "why don't you try it yourself? i'll introduce you with pleasure. but none of the jesse james stuff for me, please. jails and electric chairs never appealed to me in the least." blagden grinned. "oh, i haven't your peculiar beauty of face and form," he rejoined. "i'm sure i wouldn't suit your friend. you're missing a great chance, tubby; you'd better reconsider." "not on your life," answered mills with conviction, "but if you ever require the services of a first-class robber, second-story man and i dare say murderer, why he kindly gave me his name and address, and i shall be delighted to bring two such congenial spirits together." "all right; i'll remember it," said blagden. then, turning to atherton, he asked, "how about you? anything doing?" atherton smiled. "why," he responded apologetically, "after all this spotlight melodrama of yours and tubby's, i'm afraid my experience will sound pretty tame. in fact, when you learn the truth, you may expel me from the united order of gentlemen adventurers. it's a shameful confession, but i'm working for my living. i am--" he paused a moment properly to emphasize the announcement--"a chauffeur." both his hearers shouted with laughter. "oh, fine!" cried blagden, "that's the best yet. go on. give us the details. i'll bet it's a lady you're working for. some rich old spinster, i hope. she might adopt you." "no," atherton answered, "no lady in this at all. but i'm working for a man you may have heard of. his name is marshall hamilton." his hearers suddenly sobered. "the deuce!" cried mills, and blagden added, "well, there's a chance to get some real tips on the market. perhaps you have some already." "no, no such luck," responded atherton, "but i have come across something curious connected with the stock market. mr. hamilton has a secretary named bellingham, a very decent chap indeed--he's the one i telephoned you about this morning. now bellingham, it appears, is a chart fiend, or something of that sort; he has the tape sent to him and works at it nights, puzzling out some sort of a system of his own. but the singular thing is that he's been mortally afraid of being detected; we got chummy the first night i met him, and he told me all his fears, and asked me for some safe address where he might go if he had to leave on the jump. and last night the very thing happened that he'd been dreading; some one was spying on him; i got wind of it and let him know, and advised him to come here to-night. so with the dawning of the morning, friend bellingham had disappeared, and that is why i expect him here." there was a moment's silence. then blagden cried, triumphantly, "didn't i tell you fellows the truth? didn't i say that we were stagnating over the tickers when there was plenty of adventure left in the world if we only had enterprise enough to go out and look for it? and just see what we've discovered in the first few days." "yes, that's true," agreed atherton. "we'll give you credit for that. but don't forget that there's something else you haven't proved to us. you claimed that somehow or other we were going to be able to combine our experiences to our mutual advantage, and i can't quite see how we're going to do it. you have made the acquaintance of a lady who knows how to beat the stock market; mills knows an expert criminal; and i am driving a car. but how is all this going to make us rich? explain that to us, blagden." "oh, well," blagden retorted, "what do you expect? that fortunes are made over night? of course not. give us a chance. we'll accumulate more knowledge as we go along, and presently we'll strike a winning combination. just consider what's happened to us already. why, if we can keep up this gait, we'll need a card catalogue to keep track of our adventures. you're unreasonable, atherton; we've made a start, and that's the principal thing." as he finished speaking, the bell, as if to punctuate his words, rang sharply. atherton leaped to his feet. "bellingham," he cried, and strode hastily to the tube. "who is it?" he asked, and as he had expected, the answer came back in low but hurried tones. "it's i; bellingham. let me in, atherton, quick!" atherton pressed the button, threw open the door, and an instant later there came the sound of rapid footsteps on the stairs, and bellingham came into the room, pausing on the threshold to close and lock the door behind him, as though fearing pursuit. the secretary's appearance had changed greatly for the worse. his face was pale; dark circles ringed his eyes, and acknowledging atherton's introductions to the others with a nod, he sank heavily into a chair with the air of a man thoroughly exhausted and spent. blagden eyed him keenly for a moment, then rose, walked over to the sideboard, poured some brandy into a glass, and handed it to him. bellingham drained the glass, and almost immediately the red began to creep back into his cheeks. "thanks," he said, "that's better," and turning to atherton he added, "i've had an awful day. i've been shadowed; i'm sure of it. but i managed to give them the slip about an hour ago. i wanted to see you before i leave." atherton did not know how to interpret his words. "before you leave?" he echoed. "have you made up your mind to that?" "yes," bellingham answered, "it's the only thing i can do. i've taken a risk. i've played for big stakes--and lost. if i stay here, i won't live another twenty-four hours. i've booked passage for south america; the steamer sails at seven o'clock to-morrow morning; and i shan't feel easy until i've gone aboard to-night and locked my stateroom door behind me. then i believe i have a chance. but if i do get away safely, i owe my life to you, and i wanted to see you and tell you so." "but you shouldn't have risked it," cried atherton. "it wasn't worth while. i don't deserve any thanks, anyway; i acted on the impulse of the moment; that was all." bellingham gazed at him abstractedly, as if scarcely heeding his words. "time is short," he said, "and i've a good deal to say. we've got to think quick." then, with a glance at mills and blagden, he added, "i understand that you three fellows have pooled your fortunes. what i say to one, i can say to all." "that's correct," atherton assented, and the secretary continued, "then here's the story. by the merest accident, i've stumbled on a big secret, the biggest secret in the world. financially speaking, you can't overestimate its importance. if a man can solve it, he can make all the money he wants--nothing can stop him. but if it becomes known that he has solved it, or if he is detected in the attempt, he might as well have written his own death warrant. i want to do the right thing by you fellows; if you care to have me do it, i'll tell you what i know. or if, on the other hand, you don't feel like tempting fate, well and good; i dare say i'll only be doing you a bad turn by telling you. take your choice; i leave it to you to decide." blagden, whose eyes had never left the secretary's face, was the first to speak. "we'll take a chance," he answered coolly. "isn't that right, boys?" "sure thing," assented mills, but atherton did not immediately respond. three days ago, he would not have hesitated, but his meeting with helen hamilton had made all matters connected with money assume a secondary place, and life itself, with so much to live for, now seemed a possession too precious to be risked. yet it was difficult to take bellingham's words seriously; he must be exaggerating. and finally curiosity turned the scale, and he answered briefly, "all right; go ahead." bellingham leaned forward in his chair, his eyes bright, the liquor loosening his tongue. "then here is the story," he cried. "for years, every one has claimed that the stock market is an unbeatable game. man after man tries it; goes into it sanguine, confident; and emerges broken in purse and spirit. isn't that so?" there was a murmur of assent. "and why it is so," went on bellingham, "is a mystery. you can't say that all men are fools. they're not. men play the stock market who have succeeded brilliantly in other lines--men who have never made a failure in their lives--but the stock market beats them as it beats any novice. i think you'll bear me out in that." again his hearers signified assent, and bellingham, lowering his voice, continued, "then what is the answer? all my life i've lived in the atmosphere of the exchange; all my life i've heard the legends and the rumors that surround it; but never, until three days ago, have i even suspected the truth. there's no need for me to tell you how i came by this knowledge; it's enough for me to say that a paper, accidentally discovered, has so filled the gaps in what i knew before that now i can make something more than a guess at the real mystery of the stock exchange. and this is what i know. forty years ago, four men--the wealthiest, ablest and shrewdest men of their day--met together and founded the most wonderful secret order in the world. this was their plan--to form and perfect an organization so powerful that by means of it they could govern the course of the stock market--could actually raise or lower prices as they chose." blagden, who had been listening with constantly increasing attention, now broke in, more to himself than to the others, "just what i said. combination; cooperation; it's the only way." bellingham turned to him. "exactly!" he cried. "and what was the first requisite for their plan? money, of course; money unlimited; not money as we understand it, in hundreds and thousands, but money in millions, in tens of millions, in billions. and that is what these four men, with their resources and connections, were able to achieve. they labored until they had ready at their command what was practically an inexhaustible reservoir of gold. that was the first step. the next was to perfect the army of men who were to carry on this financial war. at its head were seven commanders-in-chief, the four i have mentioned, and besides them one in england and two on the continent. these were the true insiders, the sole possessors of the secret, sworn by the most solemn of oaths to guard it from all the world excepting themselves and their successors in office. they were the leaders, but under them were colonels and captains and privates in the ranks, each man of proved ability, and each with his special duty to perform. and thus, fully equipped with men and munitions, they were ready to take the field." mills had been gazing at him, wide-eyed, absorbed in the secretary's story. now he could contain himself no longer. "i don't care much," he cried, "for your comparison. you keep talking about a war. i should call it a slaughter. with most of the money in the world behind you, how can you help but lick the other fellow. war! do you talk about a war between a boa-constrictor and a rabbit?" "you're right," assented the secretary. "quite right. and i'll drop figures of speech altogether. when these men had everything in readiness, then began the cold-blooded, systematic despoiling of the people. for one thing, they had--and have--the finest publicity department in the world. the heads of it know all the weaknesses of human nature, know every detail of the psychology of the so-called average man. they know how to arouse his interest in the market, how to whet his appetite for speculation, how to get him to invest his money, and most important of all, once he has taken sides as a bear or a bull, they know how to publish the forecasts and the information that will make him stick to his position until they have extracted the last cent of the last dollar that he can afford to lose. that is what the publicity department can do, and aiding and abetting them at all times are the sleek and smiling brokers--financial courtezans--genial, jovial men, bidding you welcome to the warmth and light and luxury of their offices; joking with you, advising you, humoring your wild ideas and your crazy theories of speculation, gathering their commissions as their pay and knowing, in the bottom of what they call their hearts, that once you are in their clutches, you won't escape while you have a penny to your name. that is your average broker--a licensed thief, a man of ill-fame, a speculative prostitute." there followed momentary silence. then atherton remarked, "i don't doubt the truth of what you say. but admitting that it's so, still you haven't shown us why a man can't sometimes win." "but i have!" cried bellingham, "or if i haven't, it's because i haven't made myself clear. don't you understand? it's nothing more nor less than highway robbery. the insiders play against the public; the insiders with their eyes open, the public blindfolded. or, to vary the figure, the insiders hold their cards in their hands, while the public lay theirs face up on the table. there's only one result. it's open and shut--cut and dried. why, at any moment of the day these men have access to the books of any bank or any broker's office in america; they can tell, at a second's notice, just what proportion of the public is long of stocks and just what proportion is short. they know the name and trade and record of every speculator in the market; they know his resources, his commitments; and if they wish to 'get' a man, it is just like some millionaire strolling down with a net to his private fishpond, and picking out some particularly plump fish for his dinner. as a matter of fact, mighty few individuals are successful enough so that it is worth while to go after them, but if the insiders decide to do it, why--snap--and it's all over; not even a ripple comes to the surface. and if it's a pool they decide to swallow--some combination of foolish millionaires who have grown suddenly rich--then it becomes a very pretty game, like shooting or fishing or bull-fighting or any other so-called sport where the odds are all one way. it takes a little longer--the death struggle is more drawn out--sometimes a bubble or two does come to the surface--but the result is always the same. you must see it now; i'm sure you do. it is the absolute quintessence of simplicity." atherton sat silent for a moment; then, as the true significance of the secretary's story dawned upon him, he murmured to himself, slowly and with infinite meaning, "well, by _heck!_" bellingham glanced at his watch; then drew from his pocket a packet of papers and a sealed envelope, and handed them to atherton. "i can't stay much longer," he said, "but here is the proof of my story; the papers are the results of my experiments; the envelope contains the holy of holies, the key to the whole mystery. i can give you the gist of the matter now. the greatest achievement in their whole wonderful system is their method of communicating their plans. you can see how necessary it must be; they are dealing with a hysterical public, who in time of panic follow each other like sheep. therefore, when some unexpected event occurs--the northern pacific corner, war, disaster of any kind--if these men cannot consult together almost instantly, they may face ruin, even for individuals as powerful as themselves. how then will they communicate? by cable? telegraph? telephone? too cumbersome. too many people to handle the messages. simpler far a code, a cipher, so that what appears to be an ordinary transaction recorded on the tape becomes in reality a piece of information that shapes the destiny of the market, and of the thousands who vainly seek to fathom the secret of its ups and downs. to issue these is the special duty of one man. i know that all this is true, and i fear that they suspect that i possess this knowledge. in any event, the game is too big for me; i would rather be a live dog than a dead lion." he paused for a moment, but though the three faces bent on his were tense and rigid with excitement, no one spoke, and presently he continued, "but besides being their greatest strength, you can see how this wonderful system might be their greatest weakness as well. and when i say this, i refer to the possibility of the system's being discovered. now the originators of this plan were men of intelligence and ability; they must have seen this danger, and the necessity of safeguarding their secret in every possible way. and they did so. but fate is stronger than man, and through a trick of fate they have been found out." as he finished speaking, he rose from his seat. "i dare not stay longer," he said, "and for the sake of all three of you, i prefer not to go from this house directly into the street. isn't there some way, blagden, by which i could go along the roofs and down by some other exit?" "yes," blagden agreed, "we can do that." and with a handshake the secretary took his leave of mills and atherton, and followed blagden up the ladder, along the chimney tops, until an open skylight at the end of the block furnished them their opportunity, and at the foot of the stairs bellingham, after carefully reconnoitering, made ready to depart. "if it's necessary to see you again," whispered blagden, "what is your boat, and when does she sail?" "the _pernambuco_," bellingham answered. "she leaves at seven o'clock to-morrow morning. good-by and good luck." and the next instant he had slipped out into the street, and had disappeared from sight. chapter xiv a triple discovery blagden returned as he had come, quickly remounting the stairs of the lodging house, ascending the ladder and crossing the roofs, and at length, with a feeling of relief, clambered down into his own dwelling, and re-entered his apartment, to find mills and atherton seated at the table, busily examining the documents which bellingham had left behind him. "now then," said blagden brusquely, "leave those papers alone a minute; there's time enough for them later. but here's the question to settle first. we've been listening to the damndest yarn i ever heard in my life. and what i want to know is this. do you fellows believe it, or don't you?" "i don't," mills answered readily. "not for a minute. bellingham appeared to be a very decent chap, but i don't consider him sane. i think he's gone crazy over this thing. it's too tough a story to swallow." blagden smiled. "tubby," he rejoined, "you were born a doubter. you may suffer from other faults, but your imagination will never be your ruin; i'm sure of that. what do you say, atherton? do you believe it?" "yes, i do," atherton promptly rejoined. "you see, tubby," he added, turning to mills, "i've had the advantage of knowing bellingham before he knew he was being watched, and he was as sane a man then as you would wish to see. of course he's a nervous wreck now, but who wouldn't be? he must feel like a hare with the hounds after him. i hope he gets away all right." "oh, nonsense!" cried mills unbelievingly, "he'll get away. i don't believe he's being followed at all." "well, i do," atherton retorted. "you can bet that fellow who was after him was no ordinary detective, and if he had the enterprise to be climbing pine trees at two o'clock in the morning, to get the goods on bellingham, i don't believe he's going to let him escape if he can help it. what's your opinion?" he asked of blagden, who stood by the mantel piece, smoking furiously, his brow contracted as he pondered over the amazing story to which they had just been listening. blagden laid aside his pipe and began pacing up and down the room. "frankly, atherton," he confessed, "i'm puzzled. i'm half inclined to believe the whole thing is true; it would explain practically everything about the market which has perplexed us for so long. and yet it's such a romantic, impossible sort of a tale that i can't convince myself it's so; at least, not without further proof. but i'm sure of one thing; we ought to investigate with all the care in the world; it may be the opportunity of a lifetime. can you make anything out of his figures?" and he motioned toward the papers on the table. "not a great deal," atherton answered. "i should say he was still in the experimental stage; he's guessing at different theories, and then seeing how they fit the facts. but of course, unless you've got the whole code at your fingers' ends, you couldn't expect to follow the ups and downs of the tape intelligently. he has made a beginning; it remains for us to try to complete it." "and what was the other paper he spoke of?" asked blagden. "what did he call it? 'the holy of holies'?" atherton started to draw it from his pocket; then, with an apologetic half laugh, thrust it back again, walked to the door, and cautiously reconnoitered. but no one was in sight, and accordingly he rejoined his friends, again pulling the envelope from its resting place, while mills and blagden peered eagerly over his shoulder. the first envelope contained a second one; the second a third. "april fool," muttered mills. "i told you he was crazy," but was suddenly silent as atherton drew from the third envelope the paper, faded and yellow with age, which bellingham had found in the vault, and with it a typewritten copy, explaining its contents as far as the secretary had been able to decipher them. no faintest sound disturbed the stillness of the room as they read, and as they finished, they remained motionless, staring at each other, with all trace of levity or disbelief gone suddenly from their faces. then mills, like a man awakening from a trance, slowly passed his hand across his forehead. "he couldn't have faked that paper," he murmured. "that's the real thing." but the others scarcely heard him. "then it _is_ true," said atherton at length. "everything we've heard and guessed at, but never honestly believed. there is a 'money trust,' there _is_ a 'system.' good lord, it's like a dream!" "a nightmare," responded blagden grimly. "no wonder we couldn't win. and now let's take our time, and go over it again. i should say that 'holy of holies' was right; i believe this scrap of paper is just about the most important document in the world." side by side, they seated themselves at the table, and word by word began their study of the cryptic talisman. half way through atherton called a halt. "so far, so good," he observed. "as bellingham told us, it's the very height of simplicity. they feed the public with good news, bait them with bull tips, and then when a sufficient number have loaded up at the top, they break the market and incidentally break the fools who have been caught. then begins the campaign of bad news--famine, pestilence and sudden death--then arrive the bear tips, and when all the longs have been driven out and a new crop of suckers have gone short at the bottom, then comes the accumulation by the money gods and up goes the market for them to sell on to the next crop of idiots who will never buy except at the very top, after stocks have advanced from ten to twenty points. but all that doesn't help us much, unless we can tell what is the bottom and what is the top. what we want to know is about these signals. signals on the tape. what a wonderful scheme! when bellingham found this paper, he must have felt as if he had happened upon a ton of dynamite." "dynamite," said blagden, "is a very happy word. if we could prove the authenticity of this paper, we could just about blow this old country sky-high. we could close every stock exchange in america, and drive the money gods into exile for their health. oh, 'dynamite' is too mild a word; this would be a higher explosive than that." as he finished speaking, atherton was conscious of a sudden chill of dismay. rightly or wrongly, he had no desire to see harm befall helen hamilton's father, and was correspondingly relieved to hear mills exclaim, "yes, but we don't want to do anything like that. the only time to be reformers is when we've made all the money we can use. we want ours, blagden, so for heaven's sake don't think of blowing this thing until we've had a chance at it." blagden smiled at the stout man's earnestness. "oh, don't worry," he reassured him. "i was only emphasizing the importance of the paper. you are quite right, tubby; let the money gods live and wax fat. all we want is a few of the crumbs that fall from the master's table." "sure thing," atherton assented with relief, "we're all agreed about that. and now let's examine the rest of the paper. the signals themselves; that's what interests us." once more they bent to their task. "on the watch," read mills, "for these signals. now what is the sense in that? of course they would be on the watch for them. they would be fools not to." but suddenly blagden gave a cry of amazement, and his companions, gazing at him, saw his face go white, and then flush with crimson. he sprang to his feet. "i've got it," he exclaimed, half incoherent with excitement. "don't you see? _on the watch!_ it doesn't mean _be_ on the watch; it means the watch itself. it's the missing words that spoil the sense. it isn't a verb; it's a noun. _a_ watch. the watch a man carries in his pocket. that's where the key to the cipher is, and there couldn't be a better place. no one would suspect it, and it's always at hand. that's what the girl told me; don't you remember? always looking at his watch, when she spied upon him by the tickers. she is right. her friend is one of these men. just think of it. no wonder she always won. and see what it means for us. monte cristo wasn't in it. we've got a fortune in our grasp." he paused, his eyes gleaming, his whole face tense with excitement. then, going over to the sideboard, he poured for himself an even stiffer drink than he had prepared for bellingham, and hastily gulped it down. "i needed that," he said. "some excitement to-night. this is probably the wildest day of our bright young lives." atherton had remained seated, still intent upon the paper before him. "steady, blagden," he objected. "you're jumping at conclusions. this may be all coincidence. but your theory is ingenious. and if you _should_ be right--" he did not finish his sentence, letting his imagination dwell upon the possibilities of the future. "if i _should_ be right," echoed blagden reproachfully. "why good lord, man, of course i'm right. if tubby had doubted me, i could have forgiven him, but you ought to have the vision to piece the thing together. oh, god--" he flared forth again, "what a bully old world it is. checkered, but never dull. here we were, two days ago, busted like a flat tire, and now the lamp of aladdin awaits our touch. and all--" he added suddenly, "because we coöperated. i'd forgotten that in the excitement. i guess i'm the original little coöperator, all right. just think what's coming to us, boys. steam yachts, motors, women--" he smacked his lips, but mills, the practical, now questioned, "yes, but what about getting the watch of this eminent but erring financier? are you going up to him to ask the time of day, and then will you grab it and run? what's he going to be doing? naturally he's no spring chicken." "oh," blagden answered with confidence, "that's merely matter of detail. once we know who the man is, we'll get the watch. just look at our advantage. we know what he's got, and he doesn't know that we know. that gives us the whip hand, right away. as a matter of fact, i dare say the lady could help us." mills brightened. "that's a good idea," he agreed. "something like the panel game. i believe that would work." "but there's one thing," suggested atherton, "that we ought not to neglect. if bellingham intends to leave the country, never to return, we ought to be sure that we have everything he knows. let's go over these papers of his now, and make a list of anything we don't understand. we could see him in the morning and have a last word with him before he sails." "you're right," blagden cried, "but wait a minute first. there's something else i want to see about." he disappeared into his bedroom, from whence they presently heard the tinkle of his telephone. shortly he returned. "now then," he said briskly, "luck is still with us. i rang up the girl, pretending that i wanted to see her to-morrow evening, and she told me that she was engaged and that i must be sure and not come to her house. that, of course, means only one thing. you, atherton, meet me at hillcrest station to-morrow night at eight, and we'll do a little detective work. and you, tubby, get up at five thirty to-morrow morning and go over to the _pernambuco_ with a list of questions that we'll make out now. while everything is going our way, we'll lose no time." for an hour or more they worked, and finally disbanded, mills going to his room to set his alarm clock and then, his brain on fire with excitement, to toss restlessly about for the balance of the night, with a hundred wild dreams and visions disturbing his rest. with the first whirr of the alarm he was out of bed, and disposing of a cup of coffee and a roll, he sallied forth to obtain the final information from bellingham. the good weather of the day before had vanished; the morning was thick and foggy, and as he neared the wharves mills found himself inclined to shiver, half with the chill of the wind, half from the over-excitement of the preceding night. he found the vessel without trouble, a big, old-fashioned, somewhat dingy craft, and with an inquiry or two made his way readily enough to bellingham's cabin. his knock, however, brought no answer, and after a moment's hesitation he tried the door, found it unfastened, and walked in. the secretary's bag lay open on the table, its contents tossed about in confusion, and the secretary himself lay in his bunk, sound asleep. "tired out," thought mills, and crossing the cabin, he extended his hand to awaken bellingham, and in doing so inadvertently brushed with his fingers the cheek of the slumbering man. the flesh, to his touch, was cold as marble, and on the instant sudden dread gripped him by the throat as he nerved himself for the ordeal and slowly withdrew the bedclothes from bellingham's face. there followed a ghastly moment, and he found himself staggering back across the cabin, faint and sick with horror, and with blotches of crimson flashing and wheeling before his eyes. then, by a mighty effort recovering his control, he made his way, like a man in a dream, on deck, back to the gang-plank, and thus to the shore, thanking heaven for the pall of fog which still enshrouded land and sea. like a criminal, he crept back to his lodgings, and like some hunted fugitive, he kept all day to his rooms, a great dread in his heart as he pondered on the craft and power of these unseen foes against whom he and his friends had dared to wage unequal war. and thus the long day passed, dark and lowering, with occasional spurts of rain. but toward sunset the wind veered to the west, scattering the clouds across the sky, with gleams of sunshine filtering through the rifts, and by the time atherton and blagden met at the station, clear stars were shining overhead and a crescent moon gave promise of fair weather to come. "did you have any trouble getting away?" asked blagden, as they tramped up the narrow and deserted road. "no," atherton answered, "things have been quiet all day, and to-night mr. hamilton was called to the city on business, and fortunately for me he decided to go by train, so there was nothing to detain me. but i don't mind telling you, blagden," he added, "that i'm not a bit keen about this whole business. eavesdropping isn't a pleasant task, at best, and if by any chance we should be caught, it would be a humiliating experience." "no fear," blagden answered. "there's a hedge around the house thick enough to hide a regiment. we'll creep into it, one each side of the path which leads to the house, and there's an electric light across the street that ought to make it easy enough to get a look at our man. tracing him afterward may be a more difficult matter, but i don't think so. naturally, he won't be suspicious, and that is a point in our favor. here we are, now, right ahead. just before we reach the drive, you duck into the hedge, and i'll walk by and then do the same on the other side. between us, we'll get a glance at him, and follow him if we can." five minutes later, atherton was comfortably ensconced in his hiding place, and had settled down to what proved to be a tiresome vigil. ten o'clock came and went, half past ten, and then, at last, the sound of an opening door, a glimpse of a man and woman in the dimly lighted hall, a farewell embrace, the door closed and a man's figure came leisurely down the path. atherton, with beating heart, strained his eyes upon the spot where the man must pass. now the footsteps came nearer, and nearer still; now the man's figure was plainly visible in the radiance of the light; and all at once atherton was hardly able to repress a gasp of amazement and consternation. for the face of the man was one that he knew well. it was the face of marshall hamilton. chapter xv thrust and parry the atmosphere of blagden's room was tense with uncertainty. a storm seemed imminent; danger signals filled the air. blagden himself, the embodiment of nervous energy, paced continually to and fro; atherton sat at the table, mechanically tracing aimless figures on the pad before him; while mills, the taciturn and phlegmatic, instead of reclining, as usual, in the easy chair, sat bolt upright, balanced on its edge, his expression eloquent of anxiety. the temporary silence was broken explosively. "damnation, atherton," cried blagden, "can't you see that such a thing would never happen again in a million years. as a rule, i'm not religious, but i tell you this has made me believe that we're chosen as the instruments of providence. i believe there's a 'system' in heaven as well as on earth, and i believe that god almighty has picked us out to break the power of the money gods for the rest of time." atherton smiled, a little wearily. "when fate is on your side," he answered, "and you can see millions ahead of you, then it's an easy matter to believe in god." "but who wouldn't," blagden insisted. "less than a week ago three penniless adventurers meet in a café, and go blindly forth to seek adventure. each of them follows a separate strand of incident, which is apparently quite independent of the other two, until suddenly, like magic, the three strands meet and unite in one. why, we have the whole story now. even with what bellingham told us, we knew almost enough, and what we saw last night gives us the key to the whole affair. here's our man, our big market operator, carrying upon his person the ultimate cipher of the code. all we have to do is by hook or crook to gain possession of his watch, and we'll have the chance that will never come to three men again as long as the world lasts. so don't stand in the way, atherton; be a sport." "it's a simple matter," atherton replied, "to say, 'get possession of his watch,' but haven't you read stories of treasure chests guarded by some secret contrivance which meant death to those who tried to open them? that's the kind of thing we're up against. bellingham tried to solve the mystery, and bellingham is dead. and do you suppose for one instant that if his story is true--if these men have the power he says they have--that we are going to meddle with their secrets and escape unscathed? if you do think so, you were never more mistaken in your life. why, rather than go ahead as you want us to do, i would take my chance on walking into a powder factory, with a lighted pipe in my mouth and the wind blowing a gale." mills nodded solemnly. life to him was something precious; many delights lay before him through the placid years. "you're right, atherton," he agreed. "it's tremendously tempting, but this putting your head into the lion's jaws is a dangerous game; if he happens to close them, why--good-by." blagden, the dynamic, exploded again. "oh, you quitters!" he vociferated, "why do you stand in such awe of this gang. i tell you they're only human. the bigger they are, the harder they fall. under ordinary circumstances, i'll admit that we'd have no show. but see what fate has done for us. here is atherton, in the employ of marshall hamilton. here's mills, pals with the celebrated stoat, who claims to be the best little housebreaker in new york. what could be easier than for atherton to leave a window open, so that stoat could slip into the house, make his way into hamilton's bedroom, and get possession of the watch? easy? why, it would be child's play." "but that," objected mills, "would be only the beginning. even assuming that we got the watch, as soon as it was missed there would be the devil to pay. every speculator in the country would be a marked man. we might have the knowledge but would we dare to use it?" "tubby," retorted blagden savagely, "you make me tired. i've considered all the possibilities, and i've decided that there's just one way for us to succeed. stoat must get the watch, copy the cypher, and then return it again before it's missed. in that way we'll be doing no harm to anyone, and we'll be absolutely safe. nobody can have the slightest ground for suspicion." "oh, that's different," mills assented. "if we could do that, we'd be all right." but atherton promptly demurred. "blagden," he said firmly, "you've got to realize that my position in this whole affair has changed. i'm working for mr. hamilton; he has treated me well; and i can't help you out on any such plan as this. it wouldn't be the decent thing." "oh, decent be damned," rejoined blagden with heat. "you went in with us on this adventure scheme; we agreed to stick together; and now that our chance has really come, you refuse to take advantage of it. i don't consider, atherton, that you're playing square with us." atherton's eyes gleamed. "oh, come," he remonstrated, "i'd go slow with that kind of talk. we went into this together, as you say, but that doesn't mean that we're bound to stick through thick and thin, regardless of whatever circumstances may arise. what do you say, tubby? isn't that stretching things beyond all reason?" "oh, of course," mills agreed, "there's a limit somewhere. but i can't see why you should worry about marshall hamilton. apparently, he's nothing but a plain, ordinary robber; the only difference between him and other criminals is that he operates on a larger scale. i don't see where he comes in at all. and as blagden says, it isn't as though we were harming him. suppose we get what we're after. all we want is to be let alone until we've made our fortunes; then we can decide whether we dare expose the crowd or not. but for the present, no harm is coming to hamilton." "how do you know it isn't?" atherton insisted. "you're assuming that everything is to result as you plan it. but you can't tell. even for stoat, admitting that he's as skillful as we think he is, this is going to be a delicate job. suppose he makes his way successfully as far as hamilton's bedroom, and then suppose that hamilton awakens, that there's a fight, and that hamilton is killed. what are we then? murderers, aren't we? not legally, perhaps, but morally." "oh, rot!" cried blagden contemptuously, "that's not a fair way to argue. supposing--supposing--why, if you once begin, you can suppose anything you please. we've got to figure on probabilities, not possibilities. and tell me this, atherton. i don't admit for an instant that you are right, but assuming that you are--assuming the very worst that can happen--why are you so solicitous about marshall hamilton? what's his life to you? he is protected by respectability, and that's all. apart from that, he's a robber, a common plunderer; he's got your money and tubby's money and mine. he takes the risks of his profession; he can't complain. so i ask you again, why the devil are you so afraid of his being harmed?" atherton hesitated. naturally honest and straightforward, he knew perfectly well in his own mind what his real reasons were--that it was not so much consideration for his employer that influenced him as the fear that something might happen to distress helen herself. yet he was loth to admit this, until all at once the keen-witted blagden, noticing his confusion, suddenly leaped to the correct conclusion. "i have it!" he cried. "it's not marshall hamilton at all; he has nothing to do with it. it's his daughter." and as atherton's expression confirmed his conjecture, he added savagely, "look here, man, what a hypocrite you are. here you pose as a moralist, and all the time you're laying your plans to marry hamilton's daughter, become independent for life, and then leave tubby and me in the lurch. that's a pretty trick." he was thoroughly angered, and like most angry men, had gone too far. atherton leaped to his feet. "stop it," he cried, with ominous calm. "stop it right away. what you're saying is nonsense, every word of it." "every word of it," repeated blagden. "do you deny that you would like to marry miss hamilton?" atherton did not hesitate now. "there is no question of marrying anybody," he answered. "i'm not in a position, financially, to think of marriage. if you ask me whether i'm in love with miss hamilton, i'll tell you that i most certainly am. but when you talk about marrying and becoming independent, and when you talk about my going back on you and tubby, then you're simply ranting about what isn't true." there was a pause, the two eyeing each other like wrestlers about to come to a grapple, while mills, the lover of harmony, gazed miserably from one to the other, in distress at this sudden disagreement. "well," said blagden at length, "i don't see that your reasons make any difference, anyway; i made a mistake when i brought them into the discussion. but the practical result is that you decline to help us with this scheme. isn't that the long and short of it?" "yes," atherton admitted, "it is. it's too risky, and it's criminal, and altogether it's a poor game to mix up in. i'm sure we'll do better to let it alone." "and in the next place," went on blagden, "to make use of biblical language, which you, as a moralist, will undoubtedly approve, if you are not with us, are you against us? will you remain neutral, and let tubby and myself go ahead with this plan ourselves?" atherton shook his head. "no," he replied, "if this were simply a case of robbery, i suppose, under all the circumstances, i shouldn't object to it, but the trouble is that you can't tell where you are going to stop. therefore, i'm opposed to any such attempt as you propose." "very well," said blagden, "now we know where we stand. only please don't think you have a monopoly of all the brains in this crowd, because you haven't. and now i'm going to ask you another question. has it occurred to your pure and youthful mind that the events of last night may have some bearing oh the situation?" atherton started. such a possibility had not occurred to him. "what do you mean by that?" he demanded in his turn. "just this," retorted blagden. "that if worse comes to worse, i mean to take a parting shot at our friend hamilton by letting his wife know of this little affair of his. his wife--and his daughter." atherton's heart sank. "but listen, blagden," he cried, "you wouldn't do that. why, that would be rotten, sneaking blackmail. no gentleman could stoop to that." blagden grinned. "then i'm not a gentleman," he scoffed. "how interesting these distinctions are. your prospective father-in-law is a robber and is unfaithful to his wife, and yet he is a gentleman. it's quite an elastic term. but i'm not proud. i'll forfeit my title to being one. but gentleman or not, if you say that you are going to interfere with my plans, i'll make things hum in the hamilton family." "but mrs. hamilton," objected atherton, "is an invalid. news like that might easily kill her. you have no right to make her suffer." "oh, that's not my lookout," disclaimed blagden airily. "blame her husband, or fate, or anyone else, but not me. so on the whole, atherton, don't you think you'd better withdraw your opposition, and let us go ahead?" atherton, realizing the difficulty of his position, made no answer. to allow wife and daughter to know of marshall hamilton's double life was unthinkable; better far, it seemed, to risk the danger of the attempt to rob the banker of his watch. but while he pondered, suddenly, to his amazement, blagden's whole manner underwent a complete change, and he burst into laughter. "heavens, man, but you take things seriously!" he cried. "i didn't mean what i said. i was only seeing how far i could push the argument. you're quite right; we couldn't take the risk. we'll give up the whole affair, and wait for a better chance." atherton stared at him, relieved and yet incredulous. nor did mills appear to know whether to believe this sudden change of front was simulated or sincere. "good lord!" he exclaimed, "do you mean you're going to stop now? after all we've been through? that doesn't sound like you, blagden; you never were a quitter." blagden threw him a glance of veiled meaning. "oh, i don't mind quitting when i have to," he answered. "atherton's right, and that settles it." he strolled across the room as he spoke, and in his most winning manner laid his hand on atherton's shoulder. "but you must own up, old man," he said, "that you owe a good deal to me. you seem to be on the crest of the wave now, but don't forget who launched you from the shore. when you're happily married and settled down, i shall come around to the back door and expect a cold meal if i need one." at once atherton melted. "i realize everything," he responded, "and if it hadn't been for your energy, i don't know what i should be doing now. i don't want to seem ungrateful, but you can see that i'm in a hard position. i want to do the decent thing by everyone, if i can." "that's right," blagden agreed heartily, "and something else is bound to turn up soon. where can i get hold of you if i want you? how much longer do you stay as chauffeur?" "only till monday," atherton answered. "after that, write me at the standard motor works till further notice. and now i must be getting home; there's no train for two hours if i miss the next one. no hard feeling, blagden?" "not a bit," blagden answered. "you're quite right. i didn't agree with you at first, but i do now. good-by and good luck." his tone was cordiality itself, but when he had regained the street, atherton began to wonder whether or not his friend was speaking the truth. as mills had artlessly phrased it, it "didn't sound like" blagden; blagden the bold, the tenacious and the daring. "i'll take no chances," he reflected, "i owe him a great deal, as he said, but i can still keep my eyes open." and if he could have looked back into the room he had just left, and could have heard the flood of vituperation which streamed from blagden's lips, he would have realized the wisdom of his resolve. chapter xvi the final effort the clock in the village struck two, and atherton, crouching in the darkness amid the shrubbery on the lawn, hailed with relief the distant coming of daybreak. unable, upon reflection, to credit blagden's sincerity, he had left the employ of mr. hamilton on monday, as agreed, but before beginning work at the factory had asked for, and obtained, a three days' leave of absence. and now, for the third successive evening, he had come to stand guard, trusting that if blagden tried to carry out his plan, he could at least prevent danger of injury to the inmates of the house. between midnight and three o'clock in the morning; this, he had decided, would be the time for any such attempt, for before midnight, the house had scarcely settled down to slumber, and after three the first faint light of the midsummer dawn began to brighten in the sky. the first two nights had passed without incident, and of this, the third and last, only an hour remained; yet atherton experienced no sense of relaxation from the tension of his vigil, for if the trial was to be made at all, now seemed to him the fitting time. the night was overcast; a fresh damp wind blew from the south; and a veiled moon and scuds of flying cloud portended rain. "if i were a housebreaker," thought atherton, "i should call this my chance. you couldn't see a man to-night until he was right on top of you--my god, what's that?" not twenty feet away from him, a shadowy figure glided, ghost like, through the shrubbery, bent low and travelling so rapidly that before atherton had time fairly to collect his senses, the man's form was again invisible in the darkness. atherton's heart-beats quickened. that this was stoat he had no doubt whatever, and now, for the first time, he realized the difficulties of his task--an unskilled amateur attempting to shadow one of the best professional burglars in new york. yet whether he liked it or not, the moment for action had come, and acutely conscious of the awkwardness of his movements, he crept as best he could after his predecessor. an open window on the veranda showed him where the thief had entered, and with hammering pulses atherton followed suit, and automatic in hand crept cautiously up the staircase to the second floor, and at the head of the stairs crouched, listening, in the shadow of the hall. marshall hamilton's room lay to the left. helen's was directly opposite the stairway, and from the right, where mrs. hamilton slept, he could hear stifled breathing and an occasional low moan which told him that her malady was at its worst. far away, at the end of the hall, a single light burned dimly, and presently, without the slightest sound, he saw the housebreaker's sinister and shadowy form coming stealthily, with the same rapid gliding motion, down the hallway toward the stairs. clearly, thought atherton, stoat had accomplished the first part of his mission in safety, and he had just begun to experience a sensation of relief when all at once, to his consternation, came the very sound he had been dreading, the faint tinkle of the bell which connected mrs. hamilton's room with her daughter's, and by means of which the elder woman was accustomed to call the younger to her aid. stoat, too, must have heard it, for he stopped instantly, and for a few breathless moments all was silence. then the shadowy form once more advanced, and had almost reached the head of the stairs when the door of helen's room was suddenly thrown open, and the girl, clad in her wrapper, stepped quickly forth into the hall. what followed occurred with the rapidity of lightning. simultaneously the girl detected the presence of the housebreaker, and stoat sprang forward with upraised arm; and in the next fraction of a second--a space too short to permit the use of his revolver--atherton too had leaped, and the blow of the blackjack, meant for helen, struck him a glancing blow on the head, and sent him reeling to the floor, while stoat, at headlong speed, made off down the stairs. yet he was not to escape scotfree, for through the haze that blinded him, and despite the agony of pain, atherton contrived to raise himself on one elbow, and steadying himself with a mighty effort, sent a shot down the staircase after the fugitive. then the lights that flashed before his eyes seemed to recede and to grow faint; darkness descended upon the world; and he fell back unconscious, a creeping trickle of red bearing witness to the power of the burglar's blow. meanwhile, in the trees near the turn of the road, blagden and mills waited anxiously, gazing at the outline of the house, filmed dimly against the sky. here at last was the climax of their adventure; if stoat lived up to his reputation, success was almost within their grasp. and thus, although the night was mild, blagden was aware that he was trembling with excitement, and even the phlegmatic mills was moved beyond his usual calm, and fidgeted uneasily as the moments passed. still came no sign of their accomplice, and at length blagden turned the flashlight on the dial of his watch. "he's been gone twenty minutes," he muttered. "pretty nearly time for him now." "yes," mills assented, "he said he meant to do a quick job. but i suppose it all depends on the watch; whether he can get it and how much is on it. _great god!_" across the silence of the night, sharp, unmistakable, ominous, sounded the report of a pistol. blagden uttered an oath. "damnation," he cried, "they've got him." "perhaps he fired himself," suggested mills. "i don't believe it," returned blagden. "i told him not to shoot, except as a last resource. listen. what's that?" they paused, every nerve on the alert, but blagden had been mistaken, and for some moments they heard nothing. then, at last, far away up the road, there sounded through the stillness the sound of rapid footsteps. "he's got away," cried mills. "thank heaven for that." "i don't care a hang for _him_," returned blagden brutally, "if only he's got what we want. we'd better be ready. they'll be after him." more and more distinctly sounded the footfalls, and presently a dark figure became visible. mills started from the bushes, but blagden laid a restraining hand upon his arm. "careful," he cautioned. "let's be sure it's stoat." but in another moment it was evident that it was their accomplice. and evidently, too, he was either hurt, or spent with running, for they could distinguish his hurried, gasping breaths, and could see that he appeared to be advancing aimlessly, zigzagging from one side of the road to the other. blagden stepped forward, "here," he called sharply, "this way." and at the sound of his voice stoat turned and staggered toward them. he was in sore straits. his head swung back and forth like that of an athlete exhausted in a race, and keeping to his work only by a sheer effort of the will. at once, blagden put his arm around him, and half drew, half carried him into the bushes, but at the contact the housebreaker could not keep back a groan. "they--got me," he whispered haltingly. "i'm all in. guess--i'm going to croak." as he uttered the words, blagden suddenly felt his burden relax in his grasp, and picking the man up bodily, he retreated still further into the woods, and laid him down upon the ground. then, examining him with the flashlight, he ripped open his coat and vest and saw that his shirt was stained with blood. "here's a mess," he murmured, and made his way back to mills. "keep a good lookout," he directed, and returned to stoat, who lay without sound or motion on his bed of leaves and moss. "done for," reflected blagden. but it was not stoat's condition that disturbed him; his mind was set wholly on the success or failure of his mission. and accordingly he stooped, ran his fingers quickly over the housebreaker's person, felt something in one of the pockets of his vest, and with fingers which trembled drew forth an old-fashioned watch which he felt instinctively could be no other than the one he sought. without the loss of a second, he threw open the case, and hardly daring to look for fear of a crushing disappointment, beheld, to his delight, row after row of tiny figures, interspersed with arrows pointing up or down. patient delving among bellingham's papers had made him familiar with the theory of the symbols, and instantly he realized that here, as plain as print, lay the precious key to the whole vast mystery. and then, in a flash, it came over him how wonderfully fate had played into their hands, and though every moment was of value, yet he felt certain, with the gambler's instinct, that he must take an added risk, and once again hastened back to mills' side. "if you hear anyone coming," he whispered, "let me know instantly. otherwise keep quiet until i return." and once more regaining the housebreaker's side, he drew a notebook from his pocket, and with scrupulous care transferred the table of figures from the case. this accomplished, he replaced the watch in the pocket of the injured man, and bending over him with the hope that stoat was either dead or dying, he asked, "how do you feel?" but to his dismay the housebreaker showed a wonderful vitality and tenacity of life. "better," he gasped. "i believe i could walk, if you'll give me a lift." blagden, calculating the future with a heart of steel, nerved himself for the task before him. "all right," he answered soothingly, "i'll help you. lie still a minute." then, with a movement quicker than thought, which caught stoat wholly off his guard, he threw himself across the burglar's body, with one hand over his mouth and with the other gripping his nostrils in an iron clasp. galvanized into life, the housebreaker, with the instinctive effort of self-preservation, for a moment struggled desperately, while horrible choking gasps were muffled in his throat, but his injury, his weakness, and blagden's terrible grip made the encounter all too unequal, and presently there came a quick collapse, and his writhings ceased. blagden rose to his knees, and lifted one of stoat's arms. it fell back limply. then, with a shudder of disgust, he picked up the body in his arms and bore it rapidly toward the road. he found mills standing where he had left him, listening intently. "i think they're coming," he whispered. "so much the better," answered blagden grimly. and advancing from the bushes, he placed the body of the dead man face downward in the road, and as his ears caught the sound of an approaching motor, he leaped back to shelter and grasped his companion by the arm. "come on!" he cried. "we must get away from here as quickly as we can." a moment or two after they had vanished into the depths of the woods, the headlights of a motor, driven at slow speed, brightened the road, and presently a man's voice cried sharply, "there he is. right ahead." immediately marshall hamilton leaped from the car, ran forward, and precisely as blagden had done, began hastily to examine stoat's clothing. instantly his fingers closed on the object he sought, and with a gasp of relief, he drew it forth and returned it to his own pocket. then, without a glance at the housebreaker, "saved," he murmured. "thank god." chapter xvii the power and the glory mills drained his second cup of coffee, lit a cigarette, and rising, walked over to the window and gazed forth across the square. "a funny little town," he observed, half to blagden and half to himself. "the buildings are low and the brows of the citizens are high--or supposed to be." then, turning, he continued, "blagden, there's undoubtedly a touch of humor to all this. here we are, breakfasting in a private room in boston's most exclusive hotel, like a couple of millionaires, and after we've begged and borrowed, raked and scraped, the sum total of our wealth amounts to just six thousand dollars. i call it a case of make or break." "make or break," blagden assented, "is right. but i'm not worrying. we're going down into state street with the best chance that two fellows ever had in this world. and i believe we're going to get away with it." "i hope so," said mills somewhat dubiously, "but oughtn't we to wait a while longer? it's only three days since we got what we went after. i should think it might be safer to lie low until everything has blown over--long enough so that no possible suspicion could attach to us." "no," blagden answered, "emphatically not. in the first place, everything broke just right for us. they must have found stoat with the watch in his pocket, and that is proof positive that he tried to escape with it and failed. how can they connect us with him?" "through atherton, of course," responded mills. "it's true," blagden agreed, "that atherton might impart his suspicions to hamilton, but the betting is all the other way. in the first place, if atherton accuses us, he is obliged to confess to knowing a lot more than he is supposed to know, and considering what happened to bellingham, i imagine that might be equivalent to a sudden and unpleasant death. now if he's in love with hamilton's daughter, that is the last thing he's going to do. and besides, what does he gain? nothing. and even if he could keep himself clear of danger, he must realize that it's too risky to try to hurt us while we're holding our blackmail threat in reserve. no, we've nothing to fear from atherton, and as for the rest of it, there's no reason under the sun why we should be thought of for a moment." "i believe you're right," mills admitted. "but i'll feel better if we find our system really works." "i haven't a doubt of it," blagden asserted, "but we'll soon know. in any event, we have the code by heart. i could say it backwards and forwards; up and down." "so could i," answered mills. "where did you say you were going to trade?" "i've found the very place," responded blagden. "floyd & meredith, in the exchange building. they are thoroughly reliable, and the office is precisely the right size. it's big enough so we won't attract attention--they have perhaps fifteen or twenty customers in the office, on an average. and it's small enough so that we can always have a place at the ticker, and see our stuff as it comes." mills stared out into the sunshine. "and what sized lots," he asked, "are you going to trade in?" "i shall take no chances," blagden answered. "i am going to be over cautious, for if anything happens this time, it will surely be our finish. i'm going to play in three lots of a hundred shares each, which will give us twenty points margin on each lot. that's conservative, isn't it?" "sure," mills grinned. "after some of the shoestring margins i've played on, twenty points sounds like the bank of england, with certain portions of broadway thrown in. and whether you buy or sell, i suppose it will be on a scale, up or down." "exactly," blagden assented. "that is the way the big men do it; we know that now for a certainty. and what is good enough for them is good enough for us." there was silence for a moment; then blagden continued earnestly, "tubby, if we are right, can you imagine what this is going to mean? think of it. actually to win, instead of losing. no more horror of sudden bulges or drops. no more nightmares of dwindling margins. no more agony of stop orders caught and accounts wiped out. to think of piling up gold, steadily, unceasingly, till we have all we want. honestly, it seems too good to be true." mills sighed. "that's what i'm afraid of," he rejoined. "i've been a lamb--or a goat, whichever you choose to call it--so long, that i can't make myself believe we can ever take money out of the market. but there's one comfort; we've always lost before, so if we lose again this time, it won't be a new experience, and we really can't complain." blagden rose from his seat. "we mustn't turn faint hearted now!" he cried. "we've been through a good deal in the last ten days, or our nerves would be in better shape. come on, let's get down to state street and have it over with. as you say, we can't do more than lose." a half hour later, they had entered the exchange building, ascended to the office of floyd & meredith, and were cordially greeted by farwell, the amiable, bald-headed and inoffensive customers' man. it was still a few minutes to ten; a dozen speculators talked, read, or studied the "dope" in letters, telegrams and financial papers of all descriptions. bearishness was in the air. "they're a sale." that was the slogan on every lip; that was the message, express or implied, upon each printed page. from the firm's correspondents in new york came the word, "sell them on the bulges; don't buy them at any price." blagden strolled over to where farwell was standing. "not a very bullish crowd in here," he observed. "you're right, they're not," the customers' man replied. "they're all bears now. and i believe they're right. i think this market is going to break wide open." "what's a good stock to sell?" asked blagden. "i think," farwell answered, "that the rails will be the most vulnerable. take union pacific, now. last months' earnings were very poor, and there is talk of labor troubles; i understand they're facing a serious situation. the industrials ought to go down, too. in fact, i think the whole market is a sale, but i believe the rails will drop the most." blagden walked over to where mills was seated, reading the "boston news bulletin." "well," he queried, "what seems to be the big idea?" mills looked up from his reading. "the idea," he answered, "is that the country is in a bad way. there's an article here on union pacific; it says that in all probability the dividend is going to be cut. if these were the old days, blagden, and i was relying on my own judgment, i know mighty well what i'd do. i'd sell my head off. the short side looks like a cinch." "yes," acknowledged blagden, "it does. and yet, reasoning from what we know, isn't this the very time to be suspicious?" he turned as he spoke and indicated the little knot of gamblers around the ticker. "now," he continued, lowering his voice, "according to what farwell just told me, practically every man there is short of the market. and i suppose this office is only a sample of a great many others; i suppose that it is fair to guess that the majority of traders are short at this moment. then comes the question: are they going to win? and if looks are any indication, i judge they're not." mills gazed at the group. "blagden," he confided, "i think i begin to see a great light. i never studied a group of speculators before; i was always so busy with my own troubles that i never thought of anyone else. but it's just as you say; those men are a pretty futile looking crowd. there isn't one of them who looks as if he possessed any real ability. there isn't one of them whose judgment you would be apt to trust. i believe we're having a unique experience. we're seeing the game played from the inside." ten o'clock came. the ticker whirred; the crowd pressed closer around the tape; and presently mills and blagden strolled over and took their places with the rest. farwell looked up as they approached and with extended forefinger pointed downward to indicate the trend. "they're weak," he told them. "awfully weak. you can sell 'em right here. and there's pressure on union, all right. it's off a point and a half." "guess i'll have to sell some, then," said blagden, and taking his stand where he could read the tape he watched, outwardly calm, but inwardly experiencing the thrill of excitement which comes to the man who is watching the biggest game in the world. the market was active. quotation after quotation came whirring forth from the busy machine, and then, all at once, appeared a heavy block of union pacific, the figures tallying precisely with the symbols they had learned. blagden yawned, turned away from the ticker, and walked over to the window. presently mills followed. "you saw it?" whispered blagden. "sure," mills answered. "they're buying it, and after you left they flashed again to buy reading and then to buy southern railway." "well," said blagden, "there's no use waiting. here's where we sink or swim." and writing out an order to buy a hundred union pacific at the market, he walked across the office to the order clerk, gave him the slip of paper, and resumed his place at the tape. yet the market continued to decline, and the crowd of traders became jubilant. eyes glistened, tongues were loosened, and as the paper profits grew larger before their eyes, more than one speculator, taking advantage of a fleeting rally, wrote out and handed in further orders to sell. it was an exceedingly active day, and one of pronounced weakness as well. in the course of another hour, union pacific had run off two points more, and then, as a second flash appeared, blagden bought a second lot, and about two o'clock, as the whole market broke sharply into a state of semi-panic, he purchased the third and last lot of one hundred shares. "and now," he said as he rejoined mills, "we've done our best. as far as we can tell, we have done exactly what the big men are doing, so if we don't win now, then we never will." "there's just one thing," rejoined mills thoughtfully, "that makes me think we will win. and that is this. i've been watching these fellows all day, and i've noticed that while every one of them is ahead on paper, there isn't one solitary man who has actually cashed in. everyone says the market is going lower; everyone believes it; some of them claim it's going ten, twenty, thirty points below where it is now. it's been a big day--nearly two million shares--and what i'm asking myself is: if these men, and others like them, are doing the selling, then who in the name of goodness is doing the buying?" blagden nodded. "tubby," he answered, "i've been thinking that same thing. but all i'm wondering is, how much lower will they go? with our margin, we ought to be safe for a long time yet, but i should think the market ought to steady pretty soon." and indeed, about twenty minutes before the close, the decline ceased, and after a brief period of uncertainty, prices actually began to improve. "only a rally," was the cry around the ticker. "a rally in a bear market." but to mills and blagden, watching the tape with the eye of omniscience, every sign and symbol spelt, "buy! buy! buy!" and by closing time the tone of the market had altered so perceptibly that the enthusiasm of the bears was changed to uneasiness, yet still, so firmly does the human mind cling to its cherished hopes and dreams, that not a man covered, but waited, undecided and irresolute, to see what the morning would bring forth. so the day ended. and for mills and blagden there followed an evening of eager expectancy, and a sleepless night. the tone of all the papers was still bearish and pessimistic; all the emphasis was laid upon the decline, and none upon the rally. but when ten o'clock came around again and the market opened, the tape itself told a far different story, and mills and blagden, reading spellbound between the lines, could see the mighty touch of a magician's hand. the attack at the start was bold, direct, incisive. stocks were up two to three points all around. then came a reaction; the market was made to "look weak"; and bears regained their courage; and put out fresh lines of shorts; then followed a space of comparative inaction, with prices holding firm, and finally, in the noon hour, when most of the traders had gone to lunch, there came a sudden upward spurt which carried quotations to new high levels for the day. then, with the bears securely hemmed in, began a steady, ceaseless advance, irresistible as the sweep of the incoming sea. up a quarter, back an eighth; up another quarter, back another eighth; so continued the advance. and just at the close, with new bulls rushing in to buy, and terrified bears scrambling for safety, with the market fairly boiling with excitement, suddenly, before blagden's watching eyes, appeared the flash to sell, and in a twinkling, too eager for his profits to think of waiting to sell upon a scale, he shot the three hundred shares of union upon the market, and sold them at the top price for the day. that night, over the most expensive dinner they could invent, the pair, incoherent with happiness, reviewed the day's experiences, and laid their plans for the morrow. "seventeen hundred dollars, tubby," blagden repeated, over and over again. "can you grasp it? seventeen hundred dollars in two days. and that's only a taste; only first blood. now we'll go short, and down she'll go; then we'll load up again. a flood of gold, tubby. what does the bible say? 'the earth is ours and the fullness thereof.'" and tubby, his red face much redder even than usual, grew maudlin over the champagne and the thoughts of the delights which awaited him until at last grief assailed him, and he nearly wept as he uttered the plaint of all the ages, "sho much fun livin', it's shame to think we're goin' die." chapter xviii fate is fickle in the dim light of the early summer dawn marshall hamilton paced restlessly to and fro across his study floor. he had returned from the pursuit of stoat to find that helen had summoned doctor rowland, the local physician, and had herself superintended the removal of atherton's body to the room left vacant by bellingham. shortly afterward, the doctor had arrived, and although at a first cursory examination he had shaken his head ominously, he was now engaged in a more careful study of the patient's injuries, to see if human skill could restore to life the flame which alternately seemed to flicker, and then to subside, in the breast of the erstwhile chauffeur. yet it was not of the injured man that marshall hamilton was thinking, for though he realized that it was to atherton's bravery that he owed his daughter's life, yet long years in the atmosphere of high finance had so accustomed him to viewing the world in its immensity that outside the scope of his own immediate family he had gradually become a man of no emotions whatsoever. mankind, to him, meant no longer the isolated individual, but a vast, teeming mass of habits, customs, tendencies; interesting, if studied in the bulk; wearisome and insignificant, if reduced to a single microcosm. and atherton, therefore, was no more to him than any other pawn in the game; this pawn had saved his queen, and that was all. but with regard to the banker's own affairs, so strangely disturbed by this mysterious sequence of events which had threatened the system of which he was the chief, here the situation was disconcerting in the extreme. only once before, in the twenty years of his leadership, had there been room even for a suspicion that their secret was in danger, and then, without waiting to discover whether or not these suspicions were well founded, the man who had been the occasion of them had suddenly disappeared, and everything had continued as before. but this recent chain of incidents had been infinitely more alarming, for there had been a cohesion between them which seemed to indicate not the haphazard gropings of a single individual, but the concerted effort of a group of bold and intelligent men. to be sure, the attempt of mckay's chauffeur to follow his employer had not caused them any great anxiety. precautions, of course, had been taken; among others, the placing of detectives at the houses of both mckay and hamilton; but no further trouble had been anticipated, and the discovery by one of the detectives that bellingham was secretly working over the tape had come as an unwelcome shock, for the incident of the chauffeur and the labors of the secretary had been so closely connected in point of time that it seemed improbable that they could have been merely a coincidence. and although, in the case of bellingham, further investigation might perhaps have shown that the secretary was merely one of the many innocuous "chart fiends," and that there was nothing sinister in his study of the tape, this possibility was strongly negatived by bellingham's sudden flight, an event which had necessitated his murder upon the very eve of his departure from the country. and here, with this double tragedy, the banker had confidently expected the disturbance to cease, instead of which had ensued, with almost incredible boldness, the events of the night, and the endeavor, within an ace of being successful, at capturing the cypher which held the key to the seemingly purposeless fluctuations of the stock market. thus the banker was most profoundly disturbed. by what possible chance the secret could have been fathomed--how the impregnable defence of forty years had all at once been beaten down--was wholly incomprehensible. and yet, grave as the situation was, there was still much for which to be thankful. for if atherton's bullet had not gone to its mark, and the marauder had escaped with the watch, there might easily have resulted a scandal which would have shaken the country from one end to the other. but as it was, it appeared that although by the narrowest of margins they had managed to escape, and the next task was to be on the alert to see whether more attempts would be made, or whether this, as he most devoutly hoped, would be the last. a knock at the door aroused him, and the imperturbable martin stood aside to admit doctor howland, gray-haired, a trifle bent, but still a hale and vigorous man. "well," asked mr. hamilton, "how do you find him?" "he's badly off," the doctor answered. "there's no doubt about that. he is still unconscious, and his heart action is distinctly unfavorable. in fact, mr. hamilton, to put it bluntly, i should say that he is at the point of death. your daughter is still with him; she has been most helpful; but i have sent for a nurse, who will come at once. we will do all we can, and of course, if you say the word, there are other men whom you cay call in consultation. charles carrington, for instance, has done wonders in these cases, and kennedy is good, also, though of the two, i believe carrington is the more skillful." the banker nodded. "i see," he responded briefly. "yes, i think we should do what we can. by all means, i had better send for carrington." the doctor jotted a number on a scrap of paper, handed it to the financier, and was about to leave the room when helen hamilton, her face as pale as death, met him upon the threshold. "quick, doctor," she cried, "he's delirious, and trying to get up. i've left martin with him." and with a deep-drawn breath she added imploringly, "oh, isn't there anything that you can do?" the doctor, without replying, strode quickly up the stairs, the banker following at his heels, while helen, sinking into a chair, and striving to keep back the tears, prayed imploringly to heaven for the life of the man she loved. they found atherton tossing restlessly from side to side, his eyes wide-open and glassy, the flush of fever in his cheeks. martin was at his side, but as they entered, the bell rang sharply and the butler left the room, leaving marshall hamilton and the doctor alone with the injured man. atherton was no longer violent, but plainly enough the events of the last few weeks were passing, in chaos, through his disordered brain, for he muttered to himself unceasingly, and presently, as his voice gathered strength, they could distinguish clearly what he said, although the words seemed ironically trivial. "i like dogs," he whispered confidentially. "he's a good little pup. i'm glad he's all right." again martin entered the room. "a telephone message for doctor rowland," he announced. "they would like him to come to mrs. horton's at once." the doctor turned to the financier. "a childbirth case," he explained. "i must go, and as a matter of fact, there is very little that i can do here. the nurse will arrive at any moment; i have explained to her everything that is to be done. you had better get carrington." and he hastily left the room. "shall i remain here, sir?" inquired the butler, but hamilton shook his head. "no, look after affairs down stairs," he answered, and martin withdrew, leaving the banker alone with the unconscious atherton. the mutterings ceased; then broke forth again; and presently, quite clearly and with a note of surprise in his tone, the sick man exclaimed, "marshall hamilton!" the banker started. his first thought was that atherton had suddenly regained consciousness, and involuntarily he stepped forward toward the bed, but atherton still gazed straight before him, with no sign of recognition in his staring eyes, and whatever it was that had caused the utterance of the banker's name, it was evident that in a few brief seconds he had traversed countless miles of space and numberless hours of time, for now he was talking earnestly with some one else, his voice high-pitched and querulous with anxiety. "you can't do that, blagden!" he cried. "that's blackmail. and remember his wife is an invalid. it might kill her if she knew." then silence, and then again, "i tell you you can't, blagden; i'll leave it to mills. how about it, tubby; you wouldn't do that?" again silence. in breathless amazement, marshall hamilton stood gazing at the prostrate figure on the bed. he could not mistake the meaning of the words; this message was for him; his sin, long cherished in secret, had found him out. but before he could think or act, another portion of the wild phantasmagoria flashed on the clouded brain, and atherton, trying hard to raise himself from the pillow, exclaimed eagerly, "on the watch; on the watch for these signals. you're right, blagden, that's the whole question: verb or noun!" for the first time in many years, the banker wholly lost his composure; his heart seemed suddenly to contract, and instinctively he clutched at the chair beside him for support. horror was being piled on horror. was his whole life an open book? did the whole world know his secret? in what possible way, after the strict precaution of years, had he and his associates thus betrayed themselves, or been betrayed? atherton, exhausted, now lay without motion, breathing rapidly and weakly, and presently, as the banker's glance fell upon the paper in his hand, containing the number of the specialist, with a sudden movement, as if seeking to take vengeance on an inanimate object, he crumpled it and thrust it into his pocket. this man had saved his daughter's life, and it was his bullet that had brought down the escaping thief, but he knew far too much and therefore it was better that he should die. again footsteps sounded in the hallway; martin ushered in the nurse; and the banker, thus relieved, went slowly down the stairs to his study, his mind in a turmoil of apprehension and of actual fear. helen stood awaiting him upon the threshold. "is he better?" she cried. "is there any hope?" even for hamilton, with his thoughts intent upon other things, there could be no mistaking the intensity of her tone. and since he was genuinely fond of his daughter, he answered. "he's about the same." and then without wasting words, he added, "why? do you care for him?" she stood regarding him gravely, and without a trace of false shame, she answered simply, "more than for anyone in the world. i can't live without him. oh, father, he _must_ get well." marshall hamilton hesitated. through and through, a man of large affairs, he knew well the oath that he had sworn, long years ago; knew it to be his duty to see that by fair means or foul atherton's mouth was closed forever. yet knowing all this, here stood his only daughter, agonized, beseeching. there was a moment's tense silence; then the banker turned and pressed the electric bell. "we'll do what we can, dear," he said, and as martin, immaculate, unruffled and debonair, answered his call, he handed him a crumpled bit of paper. "get doctor carrington at once," he ordered. "tell him expense doesn't matter; i must have him here at once. tell him it's a case of life and death." chapter xix the sowers of the wind all through the night and the early morning a summer northeaster had lashed the city streets; the pavements glistened with moisture; the hurrying rainclouds obscured the sun. but now, as the day advanced, the wind veered to the north, and presently appeared patches of blue sky, and a ray of sunshine, piercing its way through the curtains of the room, fell upon the face of the slumbering mills, as he lay breathing heavily, mouth parted, and the mottled red and white of his cheeks bearing witness to the excesses of the past two weeks. presently, as the sunbeam reached the level of his eyes, he twitched and stirred uneasily, and finally awakening, sat bolt upright with a sound midway between a yawn and a groan, and extending his legs over the side of the bed, remained inert, supporting his aching head in his hands. then, perceiving that blagden still slept, he seized a pillow and flung it with such certain aim that his companion, thus rudely aroused, started up spasmodically from his couch and perceiving the cause for his awakening, scowled savagely, growled, "oh, don't act like a damned kid," and tried to compose himself for further slumber. but the shock had been effectual, and at length, realizing the futility of the attempt, he assumed the same position occupied by mills, and heavy-eyed and blinking, the pair sat gazing at each other across the room. "blagden," said mills solemnly, "do you care to know my genuine, sincere opinion of life in general?" blagden grinned faintly. "if you feel the way i do," he answered, "i can guess it right now. but if it will cheer you up to get it off your mind, why go ahead." mills needed no further encouragement. "life," he observed, "is a fake; an ugly, rotten fake. there's no fun in it; there's no good in it; there's no pleasure; there's no satisfaction. it's dust and ashes, and i'm tired and sick of it." blagden's smile broadened. "well, of all the ingratitude," he rejoined. "when we made our first clean-up, a fortnight ago, you told me life was the most splendid, gorgeous, wonderful thing imaginable. if things had gone against us since then, you might complain, but they haven't; everything that could come our way has come our way. the system is perfect; where we had six thousand dollars we have fifteen thousand now; and in a year we'll have to hire a special safety deposit vault. and in the meantime think of the pace we've set. have we been temperance advocates, preachers of the gospel, haters of women? the answer is; no, decidedly and emphatically, no. it has been some fortnight; some happy little fortnight, tubby, my boy." mills groaned. "that's just the trouble," he complained. "all my life, i've looked forward to the time when i could travel as fast as i wanted to, without caring a hang for the expense. and now that i've done it, what a mess it's been. i don't want to eat or drink again as long as i live, and as for women--" he shuddered--"good lord, blagden, i can't bear the thought of them. lumps of flesh, with wide-open mouths, crying 'give, give, give!' beasts, that's all they are; ugly, crawling beasts; to the deuce with the whole of them." he passed a shaking hand across his eyes, trying to brush away the film of cobweb which hung there. but his hand passed through it, and the film remained. blagden looked at him curiously. "better pull up a bit, tubby," he admonished. "you don't want a session with the d. ts. i know just how you feel, but wait till you've had a bath and a bracer, and you'll be all right again. in fact, you've got to be all right again; this is the night we're going out to danforth's for a time with those girls from the south. had you forgotten?" "by jove, i had," mills acknowledged. but at the thought of danforth and the pictures he had shown them, the embers of gorged and glutted lust began to glow again. "well," he said more cheerfully, "this will be a bit different from the usual thing. besides that, we'll be in the country. what a damnable place the city is. you know, blagden," he went on confidentially, gazing straight before him, "sometimes lately i catch myself doing something i've never done before; i keep thinking back to when i was a kid. i suppose that's a sign i'm growing old. why, darn it all, i can remember the room i used to have, and the little white bed, and the long summer nights with the crickets singing away outside in the moonlight, and there i'd lie awake, kind of wondering what it was all about, anyway, and thinking how fine it would be to grow up to be a man. and now--" his voice died away. "you've got the same idea," observed blagden, "as the man who said that the country boy comes to the city and works hard all his days to earn enough so that at the end of his life he can go back and live in the country again." "and he was right!" cried mills. "that's the absolute truth. this money game is all rot. i want the country again. the grass and the brooks and the trees, the singing of the birds, the sweep of the sky over the hills, sunrise and sunset--oh god--oh god--" once more he passed his hand over his burning eyes. blagden, rising, walked over and laid a hand on his shoulder. "there, there," he said not unkindly, "i never knew _you_ had nerves. we'd better send you away for a week; i can look after things here." with an effort, mills regained control of himself. "confound it all," he cried, "i must be in poor shape to act like this. excuse me, blagden, i'm all right now." then, as another thought struck him, he added, "but think of this fellow danforth that we've been so thick with. how on earth does he stand it? he's no athlete; he's not half my size. but he's stayed with us for two weeks; drink for drink; girl for girl. and i swear he's as fresh as when we started. how do you account for that?" "this man danforth," blagden answered, "is a product of little old new york. and that is half the battle. but even at that, he's a wonder. all of him that isn't steel is whipcord and whalebone, and he carries a copper riveted boiler where his stomach ought to be. in short, he's a bear and a bird, and an all-around phenomenon, and as a physical specimen i take off my hat to him. but as a speculator, tubby, he's the worst i ever saw. he's been losing money like water." "i know he has," mills answered. "and it's a shame, too, because he's an awfully decent little chap. i couldn't help tipping him off the other day. he was long of stocks in a market that was just going to break wide open, and i told him to get out. he did, too, and only just in time. i saved him from a slaughter." blagden looked troubled. "be careful, tubby," he admonished. "we don't want to get the reputation of being money makers; that's our one danger now. i'd rather act as if we were losing it; in fact, i think we'd better lose occasionally just to cover up our tracks. however, i guess there's no harm done. danforth is harmless, and we owe him something for the time he's going to give us to-night." an hour later they discovered danforth, flower in buttonhole, spruce and smiling after three hours' sleep, displaying to the customers at floyd & meredith's a new buck-and-wing step in the centre of the office floor. but he desisted to greet his friends. "it's all right," he told them confidentially, "the girls got in this morning, and to-night will be one great and glorious time. they are ladies, you understand; as fine girls as you'd want to meet anywhere; but chock full of the devil, and once in a while, on the quiet--well, you understand. take the five-thirty for fairview; i'll meet you at the station. there's the bell; i'm short of steel and she's going up on me. see you later." and he leaped for the ticker. that afternoon mills and blagden spent at the ball game, but managed to reach the train in time, and danforth, meeting them at their destination, whirled them away in his motor along the winding country roads through groves of pines, past fertile meadows, and by stretches of marsh where the sunset stained the pools of water as red as blood. "lonely," said danforth, "but i like it. and especially for a time like this. here we are, safe and sound." the motor drew up in front of the plain old country house, and as they followed their guide into the hall, they could see through an open doorway the table bright with silver and linen, set for six. "the girls," danforth explained, "have been spending the day at eastfield. they're coming over by motor; ought to be here any minute now. just let me show you your room." they followed him upstairs, and down the upper hall to the rear of the house, where he flung open the door of the guest room, and stood back for them to enter. "there," he said heartily, "make yourselves at home. i'm just going to the kitchen for a minute to see that everything's all right, and i'll be back again in no time." he departed, closing the door behind him, and mills throwing himself into an easy chair, gazed around him with approval. the room was old-fashioned and low studded, but comfortably furnished, and the drawn shades and the mellow light from the lamp on the table combined to give it an appearance both homelike and inviting. blagden, after a similar appreciative glance, followed mills' example, and both of them, wearied after many days of tense excitement around the ticker, followed by nights of wild carousal, sat in pleasurable silence, their thoughts busied with visions of enjoyment to come. presently they heard outside the throbbing of a motor. "there come the ladies," hazarded mills, but after his surfeit of dissipation, he did not pay their fair companions the compliment of rising from his chair. nor did blagden stir. yet he listened keenly to the sound of the motor, and suddenly observed, "that car wasn't coming, tubby; it was going. what do you suppose that means?" "don't know and don't care," yawned mills, stretching his huge arms luxuriously above his head, "but i've one fault, though, to find with danforth's taste. he seems to have a prejudice against ventilation. it's fearfully close in here." blagden rose, with just the faintest shadow of anxiety upon his face. "you're right," he agreed. "let's have some air." as he spoke, he walked over to the window, snapped up the curtain, and then gave a cry so sharp and so fraught with alarm that mills involuntarily leaped from his seat, and stood gazing with blanched cheeks at the space where a window should have been, but which, instead, was barricaded by a plate of solid steel. in spite of himself, mills felt as if the blood had ceased flowing in his veins, and his voice sounded thick and strained as he cried, "what's this? some fool joke?" without a word, blagden had rushed to the other window, only to encounter a similar barrier. and then suddenly, even in the midst of his excitement, he was aware of a disagreeably penetrating odor in the room. "tubby," he cried, "it's gas; poison gas! he's trying to murder us. where does it come from?" but there was no time to search. already they began to experience a strange lightheadedness, a singing in the ears, and a numbing heaviness in their limbs. mills tried the door, found it locked, and terrified and trembling, turned instinctively to his leader. "blagden," he gasped, "what can we do?" but there came no answer, and he saw that his comrade had fallen and lay motionless upon the floor. thus thrown upon his own resources, desperation seized him, and a blind fury at the treachery of the man whom they had trusted as their friend. hastily crossing the room, and mindful of the old savage drill upon the football field, he ran full speed and hurled himself bodily against the door. before that terrific impact, the wood split and splintered, and mills, tearing wildly, with torn fingers, at the gap thus made, managed to force an opening--only to see, shimmering in the lamplight, again the glint of polished steel. and now despair, grim and relentless, gripped his heart. to him, who had loved life so ardently, and had lived it so emptily, appeared the shadow of death. staggering, helpless, with blood trickling from nose and mouth, he retreated once again; again, with a last flicker of energy, charged the gate of steel; struck it, full force; fell reeling to his knees; tried to rise, tottered, and then, slowly, like some giant tree beneath the woodsman's axe, he crashed headlong, and lay still. chapter xx the end the glory of the morning turned the world to gold, and presently atherton awakened, strengthened and refreshed, and for the first time since his accident, feeling that he was really himself once more. consciousness, or rather semi-consciousness, had returned a week ago, and since that time he had dwelt in a state of delightful convalescence, sleeping, eating, sleeping again, his body slowly regaining the energy destroyed by the ravages of the fever. he had been forbidden to talk, and at first, indeed, his brain had been too incurious for him to wonder greatly concerning the events of the night on which he had been struck down. helen herself was safe, for she had come often to relieve the nurse and to sit by his side, while he had purposely feigned sleep for the delight of watching her from half-closed eyes. and mr. hamilton was unharmed, for he too had found time to make occasional visits to the sick room. and therefore the success or failure of stoat's mission had seemed to him, at first, a matter of relative unimportance. but now, as his strength returned, so did his interest in the whole affair, and he found himself hoping that stoat had achieved what he was after, for that, he felt, would be the surest way of freeing the hamilton household from danger. and if successful, how, he wondered, were mills and blagden progressing with their hair-brained scheme of acquiring riches untold. his curiosity was soon to be gratified, for that afternoon, after the doctor had made his visit, marshall hamilton came into the room, and drew up a chair beside the bed. "doctor carrington informs me," he began, "that you are out of all danger, and on the high-road to recovery." atherton felt instinctively that there was something behind the words, and that they were not the mere commonplaces they seemed. "yes, indeed," he answered. "i'm feeling very fit. almost as well as ever." "that is good," the banker answered, "and i am doubly glad, because it now becomes necessary for us to have a talk of some importance." it was coming, then. atherton mentally braced himself for the ordeal. "i am ready," he said. there was silence. then, "you had two friends," said marshall hamilton, "named blagden and mills." atherton gave him a quick glance, but the face of the financier was inscrutable. yet atherton was sure that the "had" was no mere slip of the tongue, and the significance of the word was not lost upon him. "yes," he answered, "that is so." "they are dead," said marshall hamilton. atherton drew a quick breath, and though he heard with emotions strangely mingled, yet sorrow was uppermost in his heart. with blagden he had differed, and blagden had played him false, yet he had admired the man's courage, his energy, his enthusiasm, while as for mills, poor old tubby had always been a genial, kindly boy. and there was moisture in his eyes and a tightening in his throat as the financier went on, "they played with fire, and the flame consumed them. yet through no fault of their own. they played boldly for a high stake and they played well. they must have been brave, ingenious, shrewd--" he paused; then slowly and thoughtfully continued, "i have lived for over fifty years. i have enjoyed this world. i have tried to observe and study both myself and my fellow men. but to me the most fascinating thing in life has been to watch destiny play its game with us all. do you believe in god?" atherton hesitated. "no," he answered, "i do not think that i do." "my own belief," said the banker, "is in a god, but not the god of the bible. moore, the novelist, has described him in a phrase which i have always admired. 'the greater aristophanes.' isn't that perfect? he is not the blameless, faultless god of scripture, but infinitely more human. he is a humorist; sometimes a grim one. doubtless i appear to you to be wandering, but i am not. here is the point. this greater aristophanes has played with us all--with you and your friends, with me and my friends, with my family and with bellingham, my secretary--weaving us all into a strange, fantastic web, and always on the side of your friends until the final moment. and then--a sudden humor seizes him--he changes sides, and allows a blow to fall on your head. you become ill--delirious--and in your ravings you lay bare the whole mystery which has puzzled me for so long, and incidentally, through no fault of your own, you sign the death warrant of your friends." atherton, overwhelmed, lay silent. "then you know," he said at length, "what the burglary was for?" for answer, the banker drew forth his watch, held it up before atherton's eyes, and replaced it in his pocket. "i know everything," he said. "this was no time for half measures. rightly or wrongly, your belongings have been searched, and i have found the paper which explains the whole affair." the pause lengthened. apparently, it seemed to atherton, the banker was giving him time to assimilate this news, and surely he needed it. and more and more, as he reflected, grew his wonder as to what his position might be. death had been meted out to mills and blagden for their knowledge. why should he escape? instinctively he glanced at the financier as if to read his thoughts, and as if he understood the look--indeed, as if he had been expecting it--hamilton spoke. "you are, perhaps, wondering," he said, "as to my attitude toward you." "that," responded atherton, "is precisely what i should like to know." "i have been," the banker answered, "greatly puzzled, but it has seemed to me that we should have a moment's talk of a most confidential nature. and i am not," he added grimly, "going to extort any pledge of secrecy. knowing the fate of bellingham, of mills and of blagden, you will understand why i deem that unnecessary." in spite of himself, atherton shuddered. he felt weak, powerless, as if he were lying bound in the path of some huge engine of destruction. "this system, of which you are cognizant," continued the financier, "really exists. it is our policy to deny it, but with you that would hardly serve. it exists. it has existed for forty years. it is international in its scope, and although vague rumors are occasionally heard regarding it, and it is periodically assailed upon suspicion, so far our secrets have been so well guarded, and the punishment meted out to those who have spied upon us, or even talked about us, have been so crushingly severe, that we have maintained an impregnable defence. the system is open to criticism; i do not deny that. to many men and women it has brought disaster, ruin, and even death. yet people so constituted that they must gamble in the stock market would probably be unsuccessful in any event in whatever else they undertook; they are the world's weaklings, and their loss means little to the world. moreover, somebody must rule this country; that is our real defence. democracy is a farce, a failure, an idle dream. in any land, there must be an aristocracy of brains. therefore we rule, and on the whole, i think, wisely. we permeate everywhere; we dominate everything; politics, commerce, the whole domain of trade, they are all ours; we are the country's uncrowned kings. thus the market is only one source of our revenue, though our most important source. without us, there would exist a state of chaos. for forty years, we have averted panics; steered the nation through crisis after crisis; our function is really that of a mighty balance wheel. in a word, we do evil that ultimate good may come. do i make myself clear?" atherton had listened, spell-bound. at last doubt had changed to certainty; the picture was complete. "yes," he answered, "i understand." "and now," continued hamilton, "as to your position. by all the rules of the game, you should have ceased to trouble us, two weeks ago. one thing has saved you. unfortunately for me, it appears that my daughter cares for you. though why," he added whimsically, "she could not have fallen in love with someone else, is more than i can see." atherton flushed. "i know," he began, "i'm not in the least worthy of her--" but the banker cut him short. "there, there," he said, "i wasn't really serious. i believe you are a clean and honorable young man--you have shown that in many ways--and i think i may offer you a choice. you may take a subordinate place in our organization. it will have many attractions. you will prosper; you will make money; you may rise, if you possess the ability, even to the greatest heights of all. but you will give your undivided allegiance. you will rid yourself of all emotions of pity. you will see the lambs led to the shearing; you will help to lead them there. but you will gain the pride of place, and glory in the eyes of men." before atherton's eyes swept a vision of the seething brokerage offices, the eager crowds, the whirring, clicking tickers, the dreamers of dreams that were destined never to come true. and unhesitatingly he answered, "mr. hamilton, never again, as long as i live, do i wish to see the inside of a broker's office; never again do i wish to hear the opening bell, to see the tape begin to tell its lying story. let me be a poor man all my life; but let me do some honest work, if it's no more than turning out bolts or nails on a machine. anything in the world but what you offer me." the banker regarded him, apparently not displeased. "i will not say," he answered, "that you are unwise. we play a great game, but a dangerous one. our fortunes swell to the bursting point; labor watches and threatens; the people are not blind; it is a condition which may bring about its own cure. there may come revolution, death and destruction--no man can tell. therefore, you are perhaps wise to choose the factory and the chance to rise through your own endeavors. and that, i take it, is your choice." "there is nothing," atherton answered, "that i should like better." "very well," the banker responded, "but remember this." and as he spoke, his voice became low and stern. "you have done me more than one favor; i do you one now. but i consider that by doing so we are quits, and more than quits. forget what you have seen, what you have heard, what you know. think of it as a dream, dissolving into air. for if ever in the future you breathe one word, one whisper, of what you have learned, you are that moment a dead man, and mine will be the first hand raised to strike you down." atherton, without flinching, returned his gaze, realizing as never before the power of this vast order which ruled with such an iron hand, and realizing, too, his own insignificance, his utter helplessness, his inability to do aught else than to comply. "i give you my word," he answered. "what i know is forgotten." the banker rose. "then the whole incident," he said, "is closed. i wish you a speedy recovery, and now i think there is another visitor waiting to see you, no doubt impatiently." he left the room, and atherton, wearied, for a moment closed his eyes. a splendor of sunshine flooded the world without; an oriole in the swaying elm filled the air with song. all things spoke of youth and life and joy. so softly did she enter that he did not hear her cross the room, and it was only when he opened his eyes again that he knew that dream and reality were one, and that before them lay the long, bright years, for him and the girl he loved to traverse, side by side. the memoirs of an american citizen [illustration] the memoirs of an american citizen by robert herrick author of "the web of life," "the real world," "the common lot," etc. new york the macmillan company london: macmillan & co., ltd. _all rights reserved_ copyright, , by the curtis publishing company. copyright, , by the macmillan company. set up and electrotyped. published july, . norwood press j.s. cushing & co.--berwick & smith co. norwood, mass., u.s.a. to will payne "o commander of the faithful," said the other, "shall i tell thee what i have seen with my eyes or what i have only heard tell?" "if thou hast seen aught worth telling," replied the khalif, "let us hear it: for report is not like eye-witness." "o commander of the faithful," said the other, "lend me thine ear and thine heart." "o ibn mensour," answered the khalif, "behold i am listening to thee with mine ears, and looking at thee with mine eyes, and attending to thee with mine heart." contents chapter page i. the lake front in chicago ii. the harrison street police court iii. jasonville, indiana iv. the piersons v. a man's business vi. first blood vii. the bomb viii. the trial of the anarchists ix. another boost x. love xi. marriage xii. an honorable merchant xiii. the will of a woman xiv. the first move xv. the atlas on the floor xvi. the struggle xvii. no gospel game xviii. the strike xix. denounced xx. treachery xxi. a squeeze xxii. judgments xxiii. happiness xxiv. war xxv. the last ditch xxvi. victory xxvii. doubts xxviii. a new ambition xxix. the senatorship xxx. the cost xxxi. further cost xxxii. the end illustrations page "feeling that i had come to the end of things in chicago mighty quick" "i believe she would have let me kiss her had i wanted to then" "earning mighty little but my keep" "'i guess she don't want much to see you'" "'i want you to take this'" "'ma pierson's'" "the enterprise market" "'that's strauss!'" "'do you hear?' the irishman roared" "my part was to drive a wagon for dround at fifteen a week" "'what do you know about sausage?' he asked" "'all right,' he called out, 'we'll take his deal'" "his long arms twitched with horror" "from another man it might have been just slobber, but henry i. dround meant it, every word" "'my! i tell you i'll be glad to get home to-night'" "big john was one of the first to welcome me back" "the door of the inner office was pulled back and strauss himself walked into the room" "'why, of course, you are the mr. harrington who--but you have changed!'" "she was reading me like a book of large print" "'i have been offering your young man some advice, sarah'" "i could see that they would come together very soon" "'you aren't much troubled with scruples, van!'" "'i paid the right people ninety-five hundred dollars. now what are you going to do about it?'" "'young feller, do you reckon you can buck up against me and the strauss crowd with that one-horse rig?'" "'i think you could put up the right kind of a fight,' she remarked quietly" "that comedy took place on the court-house steps according to law" "i pointed out the great currents of world trade" "the black rocks starting right out of the water" "'when the time comes that you want help, when you cannot go on alone--'" "he undertook to give me a lesson then and there on the rights of the anarchist" "'you have done something the taste of which will never get out of your mouth'" "'when a man comes out of the alley and puts a pistol in your face, and asks for all the money you have on you, you don't wait to see where you hit him, do you?'" "'only this,' i said slowly, 'i don't sell out to you'" "'couldn't you find any one else to do your dirty work but your own brother?'" "somehow years had gone by in that evening" "'no, child, you are wrong! there is no truth in your cruel words'" "to-day i should like to slip back once more to the bum that landed in chicago--unattached, unburdened, unbound" "it was a messenger boy with a delayed telegram" "'for this is the last ditch, sure enough!'" "'if you grasp them in a strong hand, they will become diamonds'" "'there isn't enough money coined to bring me to him'" "'and we are the crowd that's got the combination to the safe'" "men paused to read the bulletin, and i stopped, too" "'he's the man who sold scraps and offal to the government for canned beef--'" "'so you see there is nothing, van, that you can give me that i should want to take'" "'do you remember how i used to wash while you wiped, when we wanted to get out buggy-riding, may?'" "'it was good sausage, slo! at least it was when _we_ made it'" [illustration] chapter i the lake front in chicago _i sleep out--a companion--hunting a job--free lunch and a bad friend--steele's store and what happened there--a positive young woman--number twelve_ it was a raw, blustering september night when i rounded up for the first time at the lake front in chicago. there was just a strip of waste land, in those days, between the great avenue and the railroad tracks that skirted the lake. in there were no large hotels or skyscrapers fronting a tidy park; nothing but some wooden or brick houses, and, across the tracks, the waves lapped away at the railroad embankment. i was something more than twenty, old enough, at any rate, to have earned a better bed than a few feet of sand and sooty grass in a vacant lot. it was the first night i had ever slept out,--at least, because there was no place i had a right to go to. all that day i had been on the tramp from indiana, and reached the city with only a few cents in my pockets. i was not the only homeless wanderer by any means. early in the evening a lot of bums began to drop in, slinking down the avenue or coming over from the city through the cross streets. it was early in the season; but to-night the east wind raked the park and shook gusts of rain from the low clouds, making it comfortable to keep moving. so we wandered up and down that sandy strip, footing it like dogs on the hunt for a hole, and eying each other gloomily when we passed. early in the evening a big wooden building at the north end was lighted up, and some of us gathered around the windows and hung there under the eaves watching the carriages drive up to the door to leave their freight. there was a concert in the hall, and after it began i crawled up into the arch of a window where i was out of the rain and could hear the music. before the concert was over a watchman caught sight of me and snaked me to the ground. he was making a round of the building, stirring up the bums who had found any hole out of the reach of the wind. so we began once more that dreary, purposeless tramp to keep from freezing. "kind of chilly!" a young fellow called out to me. "chillier before morning, all right," i growled back, glad enough to hear a voice speaking to me as if it expected an answer. "first night?" he inquired, coming up close to me in a friendly way. "'tain't so bad--when it's warm and the wind don't blow." we walked on together slowly, as though we were looking for something. when we came under the light of the lamps in the avenue we eyed each other. my tramp companion was a stout, honest-looking young fellow about my age. his loose-fitting black clothes and collarless shirt made me think that he too had come from the country recently. "been farming?" i ventured. "pine lake, across there in michigan--that's where i come from. hostetter, ed hostetter, that's my name." we faced about and headed toward the lake without any purpose. he told me his story while we dragged ourselves back and forth along the high board fence that guarded the railroad property. he had got tired of working on his father's farm for nothing and had struck out for the big city. hostetter had a married aunt, so he told me, living somewhere in chicago, and he had thought to stay with her until he could get a start on fortune's road. but she had moved from her old address, and his money had given out before he knew it. for the last week he had been wandering about the streets, hunting a job, and looking sharp for that aunt. "we can't keep this up all night!" i observed when his story had run out. "last night i found an empty over there in the yards, but some of the railroad fellers got hold of me toward morning and made me jump high." a couple of tramps were crouching low beside the fence just ahead of us. "watch 'em!" my companion whispered. suddenly they burrowed down into the sand and disappeared. we could hear their steps on the other side of the fence; then a gruff voice. in a few moments back they came, burrowing up from under the fence. "that's what you get!" ed grunted. well, in the end we had to make the best of it, and we camped right there, hugging the fence for protection against the east wind. we burrowed into the loose sand, piling it up on the open side until we were well covered. now and then a train rushing past shook us awake with its heavy tread. toward morning there were fewer trains, and though it began to mist pretty hard, and the water trickled into our hole, i managed to get some sleep. at daylight we got up and shook ourselves, and then wandered miserably into the silent streets of the downtown district. between us we had fifteen cents, and with that we got some coffee and a piece of bread at a little shanty stuck on the side of the river. a fat man with a greasy, pock-marked face served us, and i can see him now as he looked us over and winked to the policeman who was loafing in the joint. after our coffee we began the hunt for an odd job, and ed talked of his hopes of finding that aunt--mrs. pierson. we kept together because we were so lonesome, i suppose, and ed was good company--jolly and happy-hearted. that night we slept on the back porch of an empty house 'way south, where the streets were broad, and there were little strips of green all about the houses. the owners of the large house we picked out must have been away for the summer. toward morning we heard some one stirring around inside, opening and shutting doors, and we made up our minds there were thieves at work in the house. ed stayed to watch, while i ran out to the avenue to get some help. it was a long time before i could find a policeman, and when we got back to the house there was hostetter sitting on the curbstone hugging his belly. one of the thieves had come out of the house the back way, and when ed tried to hold him had given him such a kick that ed was glad to let him go. the officer i had brought evidently thought we were playing some game on him or weren't quite straight ourselves, and he tried to take us to the station. we gave him a lively chase for a couple of blocks; the last we saw of him he was shaking his fist at us and cussing loud enough to wake the dead. that day was much like the one before, only worse. the weather was mean and drizzly. i earned a quarter lugging a valise across the city, and we ate that up at breakfast. at noon we turned into one of the flashy saloons on state street. we hoped to be overlooked in the crowd before the bar while we helped ourselves to the crackers and salt fish. we were making out pretty well when a man who was standing near the bar and drinking nothing spied us and came over to the lunch table. "wet day," he observed sociably. "that's about it," i replied cautiously, looking the man over. he wore a long black coat, a dirty light-colored waistcoat, and a silk hat, underneath which little brown curls sprouted out. he fed himself delicately out of the common bowl, as if the free lunch didn't tempt his appetite. "seeing the town?" he asked next, looking pointedly at ed's dirty shoes. "some part of it, i reckon," ed laughed. "looking for a job?" "you bet we're looking!" ed growled back. "know where we can find it?" before long we were on easy terms with the stranger. he insisted on paying for beer all around, and on the strength of that ed and i made another raid on a platter of beans. dinner that night didn't look very promising. "it seems to me i know of the very thing for you young fellers," our friend finally remarked, and we pricked up our ears. he said he had a friend in one of the large stores on state street, who had found fine places for some young men he had recommended. they were making big money now. ed's eyes began to glisten. but suddenly another idea struck our good friend. he lowered his voice and drew us to one side. would one of us like a fat job, where there wasn't much work except special times--a gay kind of place, where we could see something of life? ed was pretty eager, but i rather suspected what he was after. "i guess the other place is more what we want," i said. "ain't up to snuff just yet?" he giggled. "wait a week or two, and you will be as quick as the next one." as we made no reply, and i was moving toward the door, he remarked:-- "sure, it's stopped raining! let's be moving up the street, and see what my friend can do for you." so we started up state street with the man in the silk hat. at the door of a big dry-goods store, where we had tried unsuccessfully that morning to obtain work, he remarked:-- "we'll just look in here. i know a man in the gents' underwear department, and p'r'aps he can help you." i didn't think it very likely, for i hadn't much faith in our smooth acquaintance. but there was nothing better to do. so we all passed in through the heavy doors of steele & co.'s establishment. even on that rainy afternoon the place was pretty well filled; mostly with women, who were bunched together at certain counters. we had some trouble in following our guide, who squirmed into the thick of every jam. i began to think that, having talked big to two green young fellows, he now wanted to give us the slip. but i determined, just to tease him, he shouldn't get out of our sight as easily as he thought to. the "gents' underwear" department, as i happened to have observed in the morning, was on the state street side, near the door which we had just entered. nevertheless, our friend was leading us away from that part and seemed to prefer the most crowded aisles, where "ladies' goods" were displayed. at the glove counter there was a press of women who were trying to get near a heap of ninety-eight-cent gloves. our guide was just ahead of us at this point, and near his elbow i noticed an old gentleman and a young lady. the latter, who was trying on a pair of gloves, kept asking the old gentleman a string of questions. he was smiling at her without taking the trouble to reply. the girl was pretty and nicely dressed, and i suppose i must have looked at her hard, for she suddenly glanced up at me and then turned her back and faced the counter. as she turned i noticed something white drop from her hand, and i pressed closer to her to pick it up. it was a little handkerchief. as i reached down i saw a thin hand stretch out around the young lady's waist and then give a little jerk. i had just straightened myself with the handkerchief in my fingers when i heard the young lady exclaim:-- "father! my purse has gone!" "why, why!" the old man stammered. "your purse has gone? where could it have gone to?" just then some one grabbed my arm, and a voice said in my ear:-- "not so slick as that, young feller!" a man who looked like an official of the store had hold of me. "don't make any fuss, and hand over that lady's purse," he added in a low voice. "i haven't got her purse. i was just going to give her this handkerchief, which i saw her drop," i protested, holding up the silly thing i had picked from the floor. "that's all right," the man said with a grin. "and now hand over the purse, too." he began to feel my pockets, and, of course, i resented his familiarity, and, like a country jake, kicked up a muss then and there. a crowd began to collect. the floor-manager rushed up at this point, and between them i was hustled across the store and into one of the private offices. the first thing i heard when i got there was the old gentleman just behind me, stuttering, too much excited to talk plain. "yes, yes, my daughter's purse! she just lost it!" "that's all right," i said. "and i saw the fellow who took it...." "i saw this man take it," i heard the girl say to the manager. "yes, yes, my daughter saw the thief take her purse," the old man put in excitedly. "i was watching him all the time," said the man who had laid hold of me first. "he came in at the state street entrance a few minutes ago with a green one and an old sneak. i didn't think he had the time to pass the stuff over." i was cool now, and laughed as the manager and the detective went through my pockets carefully. "the old one's got the stuff fast enough," the detective remarked disgustedly. "shall we have this one locked up, mr. marble?" "you'll do it at your risk!" i put in loudly. "where's the young woman?" the manager demanded. "it happened just while my daughter was buying a pair of gloves," the old man began to chatter. "you were asking me, my love...." the young woman looked a little confused, i thought, and not so sure of herself. but she answered the manager's questions by saying promptly:-- "he must have taken it!" "you saw him?" the detective questioned. "yes--i must have seen him--i saw him, of course!" "i don't believe you could have seen me, ma'am," i said with a grin, "for you had just turned your back on me." "how did you know that?" she asked triumphantly. "i know it because when i first began to look at you, you didn't like it, and so you turned your back on me to show it." "you know too much, young man," the manager remarked. "you'll prosecute him?" he added, turning to the old man. "prosecute? why, yes, of course," he stammered; "though, if he hasn't the purse--" "come on, m'boy," the detective said to me. "you and i'll take a stroll down the street and find a good night's lodging for you." * * * * * that was before the day of patrol wagons. so the detective locked his right arm securely in my left, and in this intimate fashion we walked through the streets to the police station. when we reached that foul-smelling pen we were kept waiting by a large "order" that had just been rounded up from a gambling-house in the neighborhood. there were about twenty men and women in this flock. they were filing, one by one, before the desk-sergeant. i had never heard such a family gathering of names. they were all smiths, browns, and joneses, and they all lived a good way from town, out in the fifty-hundreds, where there are many vacant lots. at the end of the file there was a little unshaven jew, who seemed very mad about it all. he was the only one who had any money; he gave up a fat roll of bills that took the officer some time to count. "i know who did this!" the jew sputtered at the man behind the desk. "and i can make it hot for some of youse, all right." "that's good," the sergeant replied pleasantly. "another time you'll have the sense to know when you are well off." i thought this was fatherly advice addressed to the jew for his moral health. i congratulated myself that i had fallen into clean hands. so when my turn came, i said to the desk-sergeant confidentially:-- "i am quite innocent!" "is that so, m'son?" he remarked pleasantly. "they haven't any right to arrest me. i was--" "of course, of course! keep all that for his honor to-morrow morning. what's your name, m'son?" "e.v. harrington," i replied quite innocently. "and where do you hail from?" "jasonville, indiana." it did not occur to me then that, guilty or innocent, it made no difference after i had given my real name and home. thanks to the enterprise of metropolitan journalism, the folks in jasonville, indiana, would be reading at their breakfast to-morrow morning all about how van harrington had been taken up as a thief. "here!" the fat sergeant called out to one of the officers, after i had handed over to his care the few odds and ends that i still had about me; "show the gent from indiany to number twelve." chapter ii the harrison street police court _a night in jail--a rapid-fire judge--the young lady is not so positive--the psychology of justice--what's the matter with jasonville?--i tell my story to his honor_ [illustration: _feeling that i had come to the end of things in chicago mighty quick._] there was a greasy bench at one end of number twelve, where i sat myself down, feeling that i had come to the end of things in chicago mighty quick. a measly gas-jet above the door showed what a stinking hole i had got myself into. i could hear the gambling party across the way, laughing and talking, taking their lot rather easily. pretty soon a man was put into the cell next mine. he kept groaning about his head. "my head!" he would say, "oh, my head! my head! oh, my head!" until i thought my own head was going wrong. i wondered what had become of hostetter. apparently he had cleared out when he saw his chance friend getting into trouble. perhaps he thought i had been working with our smooth acquaintance all along. then i thought what a fool i had been to give my real name and home to the desk-sergeant. to-morrow the wise ones down in jasonville would be calling van harrington bad names all over again, and thinking how clever they had been. some bad-smelling mess was shoved at me for supper, but i had no stomach for food, good or bad. the jail quieted down after a time, but i couldn't sleep. my mind was full of the past, of everything that had happened to me from the beginning. only forty-eight hours before i had been tramping my way into the city, as keen as a hungry steer for all the glory i saw there ahead of me under the bank of smoke that was chicago. boylike, i had looked up at the big packing-houses, the factories, the tall elevators that i passed, and thought how one day i should be building my fortune out of them as others had built theirs before me. and the end of that boyish dream was this bed in a jail! * * * * * the next morning they hustled us all into court. i was crowded into the pen along with some of the numerous smiths and joneses who hadn't been able to secure bail the night before. these were disposed of first in the way of routine business, together with a few drunks and disorderlies. there were also in the pen some sickly-looking fellows who had been taken up for smoking opium in a chinese cellar, a woman in whose house there had been a robbery, and a well-dressed man with a bandage over one eye. he must have been my neighbor of the bad head. the court room was pretty well jammed with these prisoners, the police officers, and a few loafers. the air smelled like a sewer, and the windows were foul with dirt. the judge was a good-looking, youngish man, with a curling black mustache, and he wore a diamond-studded circlet around his necktie. behind the judge on the platform sat the young woman whose purse i was accused of stealing, and her father. she saw me when i was brought into the pen, but tried not to let me know it, looking away all the time. when i arrived on the scene the judge was administering an oath to a seedy-looking man, who kissed eagerly the filthy bible and began to mumble something in a hurry to the judge. "yes, i know that pipe dream," his honor interrupted pleasantly. "now, tell me the straight story of what you have been doing since you were here last week." "you insult me, judge," the prisoner replied haughtily. "i'm an educated man, a graduate of a great institution of learning. you know your horace, judge?" "not so well as the revised statutes of the state of illinois," his honor snapped back with what i thought was a lack of respect for learning. "two months. next!" "why, judge--" there was a titter in the court room as the graduate of a great university was led from the pen. his honor, wearing the same easy smile, was already listening to the next case. he flecked off a stray particle of soot that had lodged on the big pink in his buttonhole as he remarked casually:-- "is that so? twenty-five dollars. it will be fifty the next time." the judge nodded blandly to the prisoner and turned to my neighbor of the night, the man who had had so much trouble with his head. i was getting very uneasy. that smiling gentleman up there on the bench seemed to have his mind made up about most folks beforehand, and it didn't seem to be favorably inclined this morning. i was beginning to wonder how many months he had me down for already. it didn't add to my peace of mind to see him chatting genially with the old gentleman and his daughter as he listened to the poor criminals at the bar. his honor went on disposing of the last cases at a rapid rate, with a smile, a nod, a joke--and my time was coming nearer. the sweat rolled down my cheeks. i couldn't keep my eyes off the young lady's face; somehow i felt that she was my only hope of safety. finally the judge leaned back in his chair and smelled at his pink, as if he had 'most finished his morning's work. the clerk called, "edward v. harrington." i jumped. "well, edward?" the judge inquired pleasantly as i stood before him. "the first time we have had the pleasure, i believe?" i mumbled something, and the store detective began to tell his story. "is that it, doctor?" the judge asked the old man. "why, i suppose so--i don't know. he was caught in the act, wasn't he?" then, as the old man sat down, he added peevishly: "at least, that's what my daughter says, and she ought to know. it was her purse, and she got me down here this morning." "how about it, miss?" the judge asked quickly, wheeling his chair the other way and smiling at the young lady. "did you see the prisoner here take your purse?" "why, of course--" she was just going to say "yes" when her eyes caught mine for a moment, and she hesitated. "no, i didn't exactly see him, but--" her look swept haughtily over my head. "but he was very close to me and was stooping down just as i felt a jerk at my belt. and then the purse was gone. he must have taken it!" "stooping to beauty, possibly?" the judge suggested. "stooping to pick up the lady's handkerchief, which i saw her drop," i ventured to put in, feeling that in another moment i should find myself blown into prison with a joke. "oh! so you were picking up the lady's handkerchief? very polite, i am sure!" his honor glared at me for an instant for the first time. "and you thought you might as well take the purse, too? for a keepsake, eh?" he had wheeled around to face me. a sentence was on his lips. i could feel it coming, and hadn't an idea how to keep it back. i looked helplessly at the young woman. just as his honor opened his mouth to speak, she exclaimed:-- "wait a moment! i am not sure--he doesn't look bad. i thought, judge, you could tell whether he had really taken my purse," she ended reproachfully. "do you consider me a mind reader, miss?" the judge retorted, suspending that sentence in mid-air. "let him say something! let him tell his story," the young lady urged. "perhaps he isn't guilty, after all. i am sure he doesn't look it."' "why, sarah!" the old gentleman gasped in astonishment. "you said this morning at breakfast that you were sure he had stolen it." here the detective put in his oar. "i know him and the one that was with him--they're old sneaks, your honor." "that's a lie!" i said, finding my tongue at last. "good!" the judge exclaimed appreciatively. "i am inclined to think so, too, edward," he went on, adjusting his diamond circlet with one finger. "this young lady thinks you have a story of your own. have you?" "yes, i have, and a straight one," i answered, plucking up my courage. "of course," he grunted sarcastically. "well, let's have it, but make it short." it did sound rather lame when i came to tell what i had done with myself since i had entered the city. when i got to that part about the house where ed and i had been disturbed by thieves, the old gentleman broke in:-- "bless my soul! that must be the wordens' house. the officer said there were two suspicious characters who ran away up the boulevard. this fellow must be one of them. of course he took the purse! you know the wordens, don't you, judge?" his honor merely nodded to the old gentleman, smiled at the young lady, and said to me:-- "go on, young man! tell us why you left home in the first place." i got red all over again at this invitation, and was taken with a new panic. "who are your folks? what's the name of the place?" the judge asked encouragingly. "jasonville, indiana." "what's the matter with jasonville, edward?" he asked more sharply. "why do you blush for it?" "i had rather not tell with all these folks around," i answered, looking at the young lady. * * * * * his honor must have found something in my case a little out of his ordinary experience, for he took me back into his own room. he got me started on my story, and one thing led to another. his manner changed all of a sudden: he no longer tried to be smart, and he seemed to have plenty of time. after that long night in the jail i wanted to talk. so i told his honor just how it had been with me from the beginning. chapter iii jasonville, indiana _the harringtons--the village magnate--a young hoodlum--on the road to school--the first woman--disgrace, and a girl's will--an unfortunate coincidence--in trouble again--may loses faith--the end of jasonville--discharged--a loan--charity--the positive young lady hopes i shall start right--the lake front once more--i preach myself a good sermon_ the harringtons were pretty well known in greene county, indiana. father moved to jasonville just after the war, when the place was not much more than a cross-roads with a prospect of a railroad sometime. ours was the first brick house, built after the kind he and mother used to know back in york state. and he set up the largest general store in that district and made money. then he lost most of it when the oil boom first came. mother and he set great store by education,--if father hadn't gone to the war he wouldn't have been keeping a country store,--and they helped start the first township high school in our part of the state. and he sent will, my older brother, and me to the methodist school at eureka, which was the best he could do for us. there wasn't much learning to be had in eureka "college," however; the two or three old preachers and women who composed the faculty were too busy trying to keep the boys from playing cards and smoking or chewing to teach us much. perhaps i was a bit of a hoodlum as a boy, anyway. the trouble started with the judge--judge sorrell. he was a local light, who held a mortgage on 'most everything in town (including our store--after father went into oil). we boys had always heard at home how hard and mean the judge was, and dishonest, too; for in some of the oil deals he had tricked folks out of their property. it wasn't so strange, then, that we youngsters took liberties with the judge's belongings that the older folks did not dare to. the judge's fine stock used to come in from the field done up, raced to death, and the orchard by the creek just out of town (which had belonged to us once) rarely brought a good crop to maturity. we made ourselves believe that the judge didn't really own it, and treated him as a trespasser. so one night, when the judge made a hasty visit to our house after one of the "raids," my father found me in bed with a wet suit of clothes on, which i had been forced to sacrifice in the creek. the end of that lark was that father had to pay a good sum for my private interpretation of the laws of property, and i spent the rest of the summer on a farm doing a man's work. perhaps if it hadn't been for that ducking in the river and what followed, i might have come out just a plain thief. while i was sweating on that farm i saw the folly of running against common notions about property. i came to the conclusion that if i wanted what my neighbor considered to be his, i must get the law to do the business for me. for the first time it dawned on me how wonderful is that system which shuts up one man in jail for taking a few dollars' worth of truck that doesn't belong to him, and honors the man who steals his millions--if he robs in the legal way! yes, the old judge knocked some good worldly sense into me. (nevertheless, old sorrell needn't have hounded me after i came back to jasonville, and carried his malice to the point of keeping me from getting a job when i was hoping to make a fair start so that i could ask may rudge to marry me. but all that was some time later.) may was one of that handful of young women who in those days stood being sneered at for wanting to go to college with their brothers. we were in the same classes at eureka two years before i noticed her much. she was little and pale and delicate--with serious, cold gray eyes, and a mouth that was always laughing at you. i can see to-day the very spot where she stood when i first spoke to her. good weather i used to drive over from father's to eureka, and one spring morning i happened to drive by the rudge farm on my way to school instead of taking the pike, which was shorter. there was a long level stretch of road straightaway between two pieces of green meadow, and there, ahead of me, i saw the girl, walking steadily, looking neither to the right nor to the left. i slowed up with the idea that she might give me a nod or a word; but she kept her pace as though she were thinking of things too far off to notice a horse and buggy on the road. somehow i wanted to make her speak. pretty soon i said:-- "won't you ride to school with me, miss may?" then she turned her head, not the least flustered like other girls, and looked me square in the eye for a minute. i knew she was wondering what made me speak to her then, for the boys at school never took notice of the college girls. but she got into the buggy and sat prim and solemn by my side. we jogged along between the meadows, which were bright with flowers and the soft, green grass of spring. the big timber along the roadside and between the pasture lands had just leaved out, and the long branches hung daintily in the misty morning air. all of a sudden i felt mighty happy to be there with her. i think her first words were,--"do you come this way often?" "perhaps i shall be coming this way oftener now," i made bold to answer. her lips trembled in a little ironical smile, and the least bit of red sprang into her white face. i said, "it isn't as short as the pike, but it is a prettier road." the smile deepened, and i had it on my tongue to add, "i shall be coming this way every morning if you will ride with me." but i was afraid of that smiling mouth. (of course i didn't tell his honor all this, but i add it now, together with other matters that concern me and belong here. it will help to explain what happened later.) so that fine spring morning, when i was seventeen, i first took note of what a woman is. the rest of that year i used to drive the prim little girl back and forth between her father's farm and school. i was no scholar like her, and she never went about with the other girls to parties. she wasn't in the least free and easy with the boys. in those days most girls didn't think much of a fellow who wouldn't take his chances to kiss them when he could. evenings, when we called, we used to pull the parlor door to and sit holding hands with the young woman of our admiration. and no harm ever came of it that i know: most of those girls made good wives when the time came, for all they were easy and tender and ready to make love in the days of their youth. but once, when i tried to put my arm about may rudge, as we were driving along the lonely road, she turned and looked at me out of those cold gray eyes. her mouth rippled in that little ironical way, as if she were laughing down in her mind. she never said a word or pulled away from me, but i didn't care to go on. may gave me ambition, and she made me want to be steady and good, though she never said anything about it. but now and then i would break away and get myself into some fool scrape. such was the time when i came back from a terre haute party pretty light-headed, and went with some others to wake up the old methodist president of the college. i don't remember what happened then, but the next morning at chapel the old boy let loose on "wine and wantoning," and called me by name. i knew that i had done for myself at eureka, and i was pretty mad to be singled out for reprobation from all the offenders. i got up from my seat and walked out while the school stared. as i was getting my horse from the place where i kept it, may rudge came into the yard. "you aren't going this way?" she demanded quickly. "i don't see as there's much use waiting for bouquets." "you aren't going without apologizing!" she flashed out. to tell the truth, that had never occurred to me. it seemed she cared less for the disgrace than for the way i took it. so in the end, before i left town, i drove up to the president's house, apologized, and got my dismissal in due form, and was told i should go to hell unless i was converted straightway. then may drove down the street with me in face of the whole school, who contrived to be there to see my departure. [illustration: _i believe she would have let me kiss her had i wanted to then._] "i guess this ends my education, and being a lawyer, and all that," i said gloomily, as we drew near the rudge farm. "dad will never forgive this. he thinks rum is the best road to hell, the same as the old preacher. he won't sell a glass of cider in the store." "there are other kinds of work," she answered. "you can show them just the same you know what's right." "but you'll never marry a man who isn't educated," i said boldly. "i'll never marry a man who hasn't principles--and religion," she replied without a blush. "so i must be good and pious, as well as educated?" "you must be a man"--and her lips curved ironically--"and now you are just a boy." but i held her hand when i helped her from the buggy, and i believe she would have let me kiss her had i wanted to then. [illustration: _earning mighty little but my keep._] father and mother took my expulsion from school very hard, as i expected. father especially--who had begun to brag somewhat at the store about my being a lawyer and beating the judge out--was so bitter that i told him if he would give me fifty dollars i would go off somewhere and never trouble him again. "you ask me to give you fifty dollars to go to hell with!" he shouted out. "put me in the store, then, and let me earn it. give me the same money you give will." but father didn't want me around the store for folks to see. so i had to go out to a farm once more, to a place that father was working on shares with a swede. i spent the better part of two years on that farm, living with the old swede, and earning mighty little but my keep. for father gave me a dollar now and then, but no regular wages. i could get sight of may only on a sunday. she was teaching her first school in another county. father and mother rudge had never liked me: they looked higher for may than to marry a poor farm-hand, who had a bad name in the town. my brother will, who was a quiet, church-going fellow, had learned his way to the rudge place by this time, and the old people favored him. after a while i heard of a chance in a surveyor's office at terre haute, but old sorrell, who had more business than any ten men in that part of the country, met the surveyor on the train, and when i reached the office there wasn't any job for me. that night, when i got back from terre haute, i told my folks that i was going to chicago. the next day i asked my father again for some money. mother answered for him:-- "will don't ask us for money. it won't be fair to him." "so he's to have the store and my girl too," i said bitterly. "may rudge isn't the girl to marry a young man who's wild." "i'll find that out for myself!" always having had a pretty fair opinion of myself, i found it hard to be patient and earn good-will by my own deserts. so i said rather foolishly to father:-- "will you give me a few dollars to start me with? i have earned it all right, and i am asking you for the last time." it was a kind of threat, and i am sorry enough for it now. i suspect he hadn't the money, for things were going badly with him. he answered pretty warmly that i should wait a long time before he gave me another dollar to throw away. i turned on my heel without a word to him or mother, and went out of the house with the resolve not to return. but before i left jasonville to make my plunge into the world i would see may rudge. i wanted to say to her: "which will you have? choose now!" so i turned about and started for the rudge farm, which was about a mile from the town, beyond the old place on the creek that used to belong to us. judge sorrell had put up a large new barn on the place, where he kept some fine blooded stock that he had been at considerable expense to import. i had never been inside the barn, and as i passed it that afternoon, it came into my mind, for no particular reason, to turn in at the judge's farm and go by the new building. maybe i thought the old judge would be around somewhere, and i should have the chance before i left jasonville to tell him what i thought of his dirty, sneaking ways. but there was no one in the big barn, apparently, or anywhere on the place, and after looking about for a little i went on to may's. i came up to the rudge farm from the back, having taken a cut across the fields. as i drew near the house i saw will and may sitting under an apple tree talking. i walked on slowly, my anger somehow rising against them both. there was nothing wrong in their being there--nothing at all; but i was ready to fire at the first sign. by the looks of it, mother was right: they were already sweethearts. will seemed to have something very earnest to say to may. he took hold of one of her hands, and she didn't draw it away at once.... there wasn't anything more to keep me in jasonville. i kept right on up the country road, without much notion of where i was going to, too hot and angry to think about anything but those two under the apple tree. i had not gone far before i heard behind me a great rushing noise, like the sudden sweep of a tornado, and then a following roar. i looked up across the fields, and there was the judge's fine new barn one mass of red flame and black smoke. it was roaring so that i could hear it plainly a quarter of a mile away. naturally, i started to run for the fire, and ran hard all the way across the fields. by the time i got there some men from town had arrived and were rushing around crazily. but they hadn't got out the live stock, and there was no chance now to save a hen. the judge drove up presently, and we all stood around and stared at the fire. after a time i began to think it was time for me to move on if i was to get to any place that night. i slipped off and started up the road once more. i hadn't gone far, however, before i was overtaken by a buggy in which was one of the men who had been at the fire. "where be yer goin', van?" he asked peremptorily. "i don't know as i am called on to tell you, sam," i answered back. "yes, you be," he said more kindly. "i guess you'll have to jump right in here, anyways, and ride back with me. the judge wants to ask you a few questions about this here fire." "i don't answer any of the judge's questions!" i replied sharply enough, not yet seeing what the man was after. but he told me bluntly enough that i was suspected of setting fire to the barn, and drove me back to the town, where i stayed in the sheriff's custody until my uncle came late that night and bailed me out. will was with him. father didn't want me to come home, so will let me understand. neither he nor my uncle thought i was innocent, but they hoped that there might not be enough evidence to convict me. some one on the creek road had seen me going past the barn a little time before the fire was discovered, and that was the only ground for suspecting me. the next morning i got my uncle (who wouldn't trust me out of his sight) to drive me over to the rudge place. he sat in the team while i went up to the house and knocked. i was feeling pretty desperate in my mind, but if may would only believe my story, i shouldn't care about the others. she would understand quick enough why i never appeared at the farm the day before. old man rudge came to the door, and when he saw me, he drew back and asked me what my business was. [illustration: "_i guess she don't want much to see you._"] "i want to see may," i said. "i guess she don't want much to see you." "i must see her." the sound of our voices brought mrs. rudge from the kitchen. "mother," old rudge said, "van wants to see may." "well, cyrus, it won't do any harm, i guess." when may came to the door she waited for me to speak. "i want to tell you, may," i said slowly, "that i didn't have any hand in burning the judge's barn." "i don't want to believe you did," she said. "but you do all the same!" i cried sharply. "every one says you did, van," she answered doubtfully. "so you think i could do a mean, sneaky thing like that?" i replied hotly, and added bitterly: "and then not have sense enough to get out of the way! well, i know what this means: you and will have put your heads together. you're welcome to him!" "you've no reason to say such things, van!" she exclaimed. "there ain't no use in you talking with my girl, harrington," put in rudge, who had come back to the door. "and i don't want you coming here any more." "how about that, may?" i asked. "do you tell me to go?" her lips trembled, and she looked at me more kindly. perhaps in another moment she would have answered and not failed me. but hot and heady as i was by nature, and smarting from all that had happened, i wanted a ready answer: i would not plead for myself. "so you won't take my word for it?" i said, turning away. "the word of a drunkard and a good-for-nothing!" the old man fired after me. "oh, father! don't," i heard may say. then perhaps she called my name. but i was at the gate, and too proud to turn back. i was discharged the next week. although there was nothing against me except the fact that i had been seen about the barn previous to the fire, and the well-known enmity between me and the judge, it would have gone hard with me had it not been for the fact that in the ruins of the burned barn they found the remains of an old farm-hand, who had probably wandered in there while drunk and set the place on fire with his pipe. when i was released my uncle said the folks were ready to have me back home; but without a word i started north on the county road in the direction of the great city. * * * * * "so," said his honor, when i had finished my story in the dingy chamber of the police court, "you want me to believe that you really had no hand in firing that barn any more than you took this lady's purse?" but he smiled to himself, at his own penetration, i suppose, and when we were back in the court room that dreaded sentence fell from his lips like a shot,--"officer, the prisoner is discharged." "i knew he was innocent!" the young lady exclaimed the next instant. "but, judge, where is the purse and my friend worden's fur coat?" the old gentleman protested. "you don't see them about him, do you, doctor?" the judge inquired blandly. then he turned to me: "edward, i think that you have told me an honest story. i hope so." he took a coin from his pocket. "here's a dollar, my boy. buy a ticket for as far as this will take you, and walk the rest of the way home." "i guess i have come to chicago to stay," i answered. "they aren't breaking their hearts over losing me down home." "well, my son, as you think best. in this glorious republic it is every man's first privilege to take his own road to hell. but, at any rate, get a good dinner to start on. we don't serve first-class meals here." "i'll return this as soon as i can," i said, picking up the coin. "the sooner the better; and the less we see of each other in the future, the better, eh?" i grinned, and started for the door through which i had been brought into court, but an officer pointed to another door that led to the street. as i made for it i passed near the young lady. she called to me:-- "mister, mister, what will you do now?" "get something to eat first, and then look for another purse, perhaps," i replied. she blushed very prettily. "i am sorry i accused you, but you were looking at me so hard just then--i thought.... i want you to take this!" she tried to give me a bill rolled up in a little wad. "no, thanks," i said, moving off. "but you may need it. every one says it's so hard to find work." "well, i don't take money from a woman." "oh!" she blushed again. then she ran to the old gentleman, who was talking to the judge, and got from him a little black memorandum-book. [illustration: "_i want you to take this._"] "you see, my cards were all in the purse. but there!" she said, writing down her name and address on the first page. "you will know now where to come in case you need help or advice." "thank you," i replied, taking the book. "i do so want to help you to start right and become a good man," she said timidly. "won't you try to show your friends that they were mistaken in you?" she turned her eyes up at me appealingly as if she were asking it as a favor to her. i felt foolish and began to laugh, but stopped, for she looked hurt. "i guess, miss, it don't work quite that way. of course, i mean to start fresh--but i shan't do it even for your sake. all the same, when you see me next it won't be in a police station." "that's right!" she exclaimed, beaming at me with her round blue eyes. "i should like to feel that i hadn't hurt you--made you worse." "oh, you needn't worry about that, miss. i guess i'm not much worse off for a night in the police station." she held out her hand and i took it. "sarah! sarah!" the old gentleman called as we were shaking hands. he seemed rather shocked, but the judge looked up at us and smiled quizzically. * * * * * outside it was a warm, pleasant day; the wind was blowing merrily through the dirty street toward the blue lake. for the moment i did not worry over what was to come next. the first thing i did was to get a good meal. after that refreshment i sauntered forth in the direction of the lake front--the most homelike place i could think of. the roar of the city ran through my head like the clatter of a mill. i seemed to be just a feeble atom of waste in the great stream of life flowing around me. when i reached the desolate strip of weeds and sand between the avenue and the railroad, the first relay of bums was beginning to round up for the night. the sight of their tough faces filled me with a new disgust; i turned back to the busy avenue, where men and women were driving to and fro with plenty to do and think, and then and there i turned on myself and gave myself a good cussing. here i was more than twenty, and just a plain fool, and had been ever since i could remember. when i had rid myself of several layers of conceit it began to dawn on me that this was a world where one had to step lively if he wasn't to join the ranks of the bums back there in the sand. that was the most valuable lot of thinking i ever did in my life. it took the sorehead feeling of wronged genius out of me for good and all. pretty soon i straightened my back and started for the city to find somewhere a bite of food and a roof to cover my head. and afterward there would be time to think of conquering the world! chapter iv the piersons _a familiar face--a hospitable roof--the pierson family, and others--the enterprise market, and ten dollars a week--miss hillary cox--crape--from the sidewalk--the company of successful adventurers--the great strauss_ "hello! here you be! ain't i glad i found yer this soon," and ed's brown eyes were looking into mine. his seemed to me just then about the best face in the world. "seems though i was bound to be chasin' some one in this city!" he shouted, grabbing me by the arm. "but i've found all of 'em now." he had missed me at the police station by a few minutes, and i had left no address. after looking up and down a few streets near by, ed had thought of lying in wait for me on the lake front, feeling that unless some extraordinary good luck had happened to me i should bring up at that popular resort. he had not seen the little incident when the detective grabbed me in the great store, for just at that moment his attention had been attracted to a girl at one of the counters, who had called him by name. the girl, who was selling perfumes and tooth-washes, turned out to be his cousin lou, his aunt pierson's younger daughter. after the surprise of their meeting ed had looked for me, and the floor-walker told them of my misfortune. then the cousin had made ed go home with her. mrs. pierson, it seems, took in boarders in her three-story-and-basement house on west van buren street. she and the two girls had given ed a warm welcome, and for the first time in many days he had had the luxury of a bed, which had caused him to oversleep, and miss me at the station. [illustration: "_ma pierson's._"] all this i learned as we walked westward toward ed's new home. at first i was a little shy about putting another burden on the boy's relations. but my friend would not hear of letting me go. when ed tucked his arm under mine and hauled me along with country heartiness, saying i could share his bed and he had a job in view for us both, i felt as though the sun had begun to shine all over again that day. through all the accidents of many years i have never forgotten that kindness, and my heart warms afresh when i stop to think how ed grabbed my arm and pulled me along with him off those city streets.... so it happened at dinner-time that night i found myself in the basement dining room and made my first bow to some people who were to be near me for a number of years--one or two of them for life. i can remember just how they all looked sitting about the table, which was covered with a mussed red table-cloth, and lit by a big, smelly oil lamp. pa pierson sat at the head of the table, an untidy, gray-haired old man, who gave away his story in every line of his body. he had made some money in his country store back in michigan; but the ambition to try his luck in the city had ruined him. he had gone broke on crockery. he was supposed to be looking for work, but he spent most of his time in this basement dining room, warming himself at the stove and reading the boarders' papers. the girls and the boy, dick, paid him even less respect than they did their mother. they were all the kind of children that don't tolerate much incompetence in their parents. dick was a putty-faced, black-haired cub, who scrubbed blackboards and chewed gum in a board of trade man's office. neither he nor his two sisters, who were also working downtown, contributed much to the house, and except that now and then grace, the older one, would help clean up the dishes in a shamefaced way, or bring the food on the table when the meal was extra late or she wanted to get out for the evening, not one of the three ever raised a finger to help with the work. the whole place, from kitchen to garret, fell on poor old ma pierson, and the boarders were kinder to her than her own children. lank and stooping, short-sighted, with a faded, tired smile, she came and went between the kitchen and the dining room, cooking the food and serving it, washing the dishes, scrubbing the floors, and making the beds--i never saw her sit down to the table with us except one christmas day, when she was too sick to cook. she took her fate like an indian, and died on the steps of her treadmill. there were two other regular boarders besides myself and ed--a man and a woman. the latter, miss hillary cox, was cashier in the new enterprise market, not far from the house. she was rather short and stout, with thick ropes of brown hair that she piled on her head in a solid mass to make her look tall. she had bright little eyes, and her rosy face showed that she had not been long in the city. the man was a long, lean, thin-faced chap, somewhat older than i was. his name was jaffrey slocum; he was studying law and doing stenographic work in a law office in the city. when i first looked at him i thought that he would push his way over most of the rocks in the road--and he did. slocum was a mighty silent man, but little passed before his eyes without his knowing what it meant. i learned later that he came from a good maine family, and had been to college in the east. and he had it much on his mind to do several things with his life--the first of which was to buy back the old home in portland, and put his folks there where they belonged. old sloco, we called him! for all his slow, draggy ways he had pounds of pressure on the gauge. he and i have fought through some big fights since then, and there's no man i had as soon have beside me in a scrap as that thin-faced, scrawny-necked old chip of maine granite. * * * * * when ed introduced me at the table, grace made a place beside her, and her sister lou hospitably shoved over a plate of stew. then lou smiled at me and opened fire:-- "we read all about you in the papers this morning, mr. harrington!" "heh, heh!" pa pierson cackled. "say, lou, i don't call that polite," grace protested in an affected tone. "don't mind me," i called out. "i guess i'm a public character, anyway." "what did the lady say when she found she was wrong?" lou went on. "i should think she'd want to die, doing a mean thing like that." "did she give you any little souvenir of the occasion?" dick inquired. "if they are real nice folks, i should think they'd try to make it up some way," grace added. "but what we want to know first," slocum drawled gravely, "is, did you take the purse, and, if so, where did you put it?" "why, mr. slocum!" miss cox sputtered, not catching the joke. "what a thing to insinuate! i am sure mr. harrington doesn't look like that--any one could see he wouldn't _steal_." in this way they passed me back and forth, up and down the table, until the last scrap of meat was gnawed from the bone. then they sniffed at jasonville. where was it? what did i do there? why did i come to the city? miss cox was the sharpest one at the questions. she wanted to know all about my father's store. she had already got ed a place as delivery clerk in the enterprise market, and there might be an opening in the same store for me. i could see that there would be a place all right if i met the approval of the smart little cashier. it has never been one of my faults to be backward with women,--all except may,--and as miss hillary cox was far from unprepossessing, i fixed my attention on her for the rest of the evening. the pierson girls tired of me quickly enough, as they had already tired of ed. lou soon ceased to smile at me and open her eyes in her silly stare when i made a remark. after dinner she went out on the steps to wait for a beau, who was to take her to a dance. grace sat awhile to chaff with the lawyer's clerk. he seemed to make fun of her, but i could see that he liked her pretty well. (it must be a stupid sort of woman, indeed, who can't get hold of a man when he has nothing to do after his work except walk the streets or read a book!) there was nothing bad in either of the girls: they were just soft, purring things, shut up all day long, one in a big shop and the other in a dentist's office. of course, when they got home, they were frantic for amusement, dress, the theatre--anything bright and happy; anything that would make a change. they had a knack of stylish dressing, and on the street looked for all the world like a rich man's daughters. nothing bad in either one, then--only that kind gets its eyes opened too late!... the next morning i stepped around to the enterprise market, and miss cox introduced me to the proprietors. they were two brothers, sharp-looking young men, up-to-date in their ideas, the cashier had told me, and bound to make the enterprise the largest market on the west side. miss cox had evidently said a good word for me, and that afternoon i found myself tying up parcels and taking orders at ten dollars a week. not a very brilliant start on fortune's road, but i was glad enough to get it. the capable cashier kept a friendly eye on me, and saved me from getting into trouble. before long i had my pay raised, and then raised again. ed had taken hold well, too, and was given more pay. he was more content with his job than i was. the work suited him--the driving about the city streets, the rush at the market mornings, the big crates of country stuff that came smelling fresh from the fields. the city was all that he had hoped to find it. not so to me--i looked beyond; but i worked hard and took my cues from the pretty cashier, who grew more friendly every day. we used to go to places in the evenings,--lectures and concerts mostly,--for miss cox thought the theatre was wicked. she was a regular church attendant, and made me go with her sundays. she was thrifty, too, and taught me to be stingy with my quarters and halves. [illustration: _the enterprise market._] the first day i could take off i went to the police station and paid my loan from the judge. i had to wait an hour before i could speak to him, while he ground out a string of drunks and assaults, shooting out his sentences like a rapid-fire battery. when i finally got his attention, he turned one eye on me:-- "well, edward, so you haven't gone home yet!" and that was all he said as he dropped the coin into his pocket. (i hope that my paying back that money made him merciful to the next young tramp that was cast up there before him!) after i had paid the judge i strolled down to the south side, into the new residence district, with some idea of seeing where the young lady lived who had first had me arrested and then wanted to reform me. when i came to the number she had written in the memorandum-book, there was a piece of crape on the door. it gave me a shock. i hung around for a while, not caring to disturb the people inside, and yet hoping to find out that it was not the young lady who had died. finally i came away, having made up my mind, somehow, that it was the young lady, and feeling sorry that she was gone. that night i opened the memorandum-book she had given me, and began a sort of diary in a cramped, abbreviated hand. the first items read as follows:-- _september ._ giv. this book by young la. who tho't i stole her purse. she hopes i may take the right road. _october ._--got job in ent--mark., w. vanb st. $ . is this the right road? _october ._--went to address young lad. gav. me. found crape on the door. hope it's the old man. * * * * * from time to time since then i have taken out the little black memorandum-book, and made other entries of those happenings in my life that seemed to me especially important--sometimes a mere list of figures or names, writing them in very small. it lies here before me now, and out of these bare notes, keywords as it were, there rise before me many facts,--the deeds of twenty-five years. * * * * * when i got back to the piersons' for dinner, miss cox was curious to know what i had done with my first day off. "i bet he's been to see that girl who had him arrested," lou suggested mischievously. "and from the way he looks i guess she told him she hadn't much use for a butcher-boy." pa pierson laughed; he was a great admirer of his daughter's wit. "i don't think he's that much of a fool, to waste his time trapesing about after _her_," hillary cox snapped back. "well, i did look up the house," i admitted, and added, "but the folks weren't at home." after supper we sat out on the steps, and hillary asked me what kind of a place the young woman lived in. i told her about the crape on the door, and she looked at me disgustedly. "why didn't you ask?" she demanded. "i didn't care to know if it was so, perhaps." "i don't see as you have any particular reason to care, one way or the other," she retorted. and she went off for that evening somewhere with ed. for the want of anything better to do i borrowed a book from the law student, who was studying in his room, and thus, by way of an accident, began a habit of reading and talking over books with slocum. so i was soon fitted into my hole in the city. in that neighborhood there must have been many hundreds of places like ma pierson's boarding-house. the checker-board of prairie streets cut up the houses like marble cake--all the same, three-story-and-mansard-roof, yellow brick, with long lines of dirty, soft stone steps stretching from the wooden sidewalks to the second stories. and the group of us there in the little basement dining room, noisy with the rattle of the street cars, and dirty with the smoke of factory chimneys in the rear, was a good deal like the others in the other houses--strugglers on the outside of prosperity, trying hard to climb up somewhere in the bread-and-butter order of life, and to hold on tight to what we had got. no one, i suppose, ever came to chicago, at least in those days, without a hope in his pocket of landing at the head of the game sometime. even old ma pierson cherished a secret dream of a rich marriage for one or other of her girls! hillary cox smiled on me again the next day, and we were as good friends as ever. as i have said, the energetic cashier of the enterprise market had taken me in hand and was forming me to be a business man. she was a smart little woman, and had lots of good principles besides. she believed in religion on sundays, as she believed in business on week days. so on the sabbath morning we would leave ed and lou and dick pierson yawning over the breakfast table, while slocum and i escorted grace and hillary downtown to hear some celebrated preacher in one of the prominent churches. hillary cox had no relish for the insignificant and humble in religion, such as we might have found around the corner. she wanted the best there was to be had, she said, and she wanted to see the people who were so much talked about in the papers. perhaps the rich and prominent citizens made more of a point of going to church in those days than they do now. it was a pretty inferior church society that couldn't show up two or three of the city's solid merchants, who came every sunday with their women, all dressed in their smartest and best. hillary and grace seemed to know most of these people by sight. women are naturally curious about one another, and i suppose the girls saw their pictures and learned their names in the newspapers. and in this way i, too, learned to know by sight some of the men whom later it was my fortune to meet elsewhere. there was steele, the great dry-goods merchant, and purington, whose works for manufacturing farming tools were just behind ma pierson's house; lardner, a great hardware merchant; maybricks, a wholesale grocer; york, a rich lumberman--most of them thin-faced, shrewd yankees, who had seized that tide of fate which the poet tells us sweeps men to fortune. and there were others, perhaps less honorably known as citizens, but equally important financially: vitzer, who became known later as the famous duke of gas, and maxim, who already had begun to stretch out his fingers over the street-car lines. this man had made his money buying up tax titles, that one building cars, and another laying out railroads, and wrecking them, too. they were the people of the land! [illustration: "_that's strauss!_"] one fine winter morning, as the four of us idled on the sidewalk opposite a prominent south side church that was discharging its prosperous congregation into the street, slocum nudged me and pointed to a group of well-dressed people--two or three women and a short, stout, smooth-shaven man--who were standing on the steps of the church, surveying the scene and bowing to their neighbors. "that's strauss!" it was not necessary to say more. even in those days the great strauss had made his name as well known as that of the father of our country. he it was who knew each morning whether the rains had fallen on the plains beneath the andes; how many cattle on the hoof had entered the gates of omaha and kansas city; how tight the pinch of starvation set upon russian bellies; and whether the sultan's subjects had bought their bread of liverpool. flesh and grain, meat and bread--strauss held them in his hand, and he dealt them forth in the markets of the world! is it any wonder that i looked hard at the portly, red-faced man, standing there on the steps of his temple, where, with his women and children, he had been worshipping his god? "my!" said grace, "mrs. strauss is plain enough, and just common-looking." (i have noticed that women find it hard to reconcile themselves to a rich man's early taste in their sex.) "she don't dress very stylish, that's true," hillary observed thoughtfully. "but it weren't so very long ago, i guess, that she was saving his money." strauss, surrounded by his women folk, marched up the avenue in solemn order. we followed along slowly on the other side of the street. "he didn't make his pile at the enterprise market," grace remarked. she spoke the idea that was in all our minds: how did he and the others make their money? "i guess they began like other folks," hillary contended, "saving their earnings and not putting all their money in their stomachs and on their backs." this last was aimed at grace, who was pretty smartly dressed. "well," said slocum, dryly, "probably by this time strauss has something more than his savings in the bank." thus we followed them down the street, speculating on the great packer's success, on the success of all the fortunate ones in the great game of the market, wondering what magic power these men possessed to lift themselves out of the mass of people like ourselves. pretty simple of us, perhaps you think, hanging around on the street a good winter morning and gossiping about our rich neighbors! but natural enough, too: we had no place to loaf in, except ma pierson's smelly dining room, and nothing to do with our sunday holiday but to walk around the streets and stare up at the handsome new houses and our well-dressed and prosperous neighbors. every keen boy who looks out on life from the city sidewalk has a pretty vigorous idea that if he isn't as good as the next man, at least he will make as much money if he can only learn the secret. we read about the rich and their doings in the newspapers; we see them in the streets; their horses and carriages flash by us--do you wonder that some poor clerks on a sunday gape at the steeles and the strausses from the sidewalk? what was the golden road? these men had found it--hundreds, thousands of them,--farming tools, railroads, groceries, gas, dry-goods. it made no matter what: fortunes were building on every side; the flowers of success were blooming before our eyes. to take my place with these mighty ones--i thought a good deal about that these days! and i remember grace saying sentimentally to slocum that sunday:-- "you fellers keep thinkin' of nothin' but money and how you're goin' to make it. perhaps rich folks ain't the only happy ones in the world." "yes," hillary chimed in, "there's such a thing as being too greedy to eat." "what else are we here for except to make money?" slocum demanded more bitterly than usual. he raised his long arm in explanation and swept it to and fro over the straggling prairie city, with its rough, patched look. i didn't see what there was in the city to object to: it was just a place like any other--to work, eat, and sleep in. later, however, when i saw the little towns back east, the pleasant hills, the old homes in the valleys, and the red-brick house on the elm-shaded street in portland, then i knew what slocum meant. whatever was there in chicago in to live for but success? chapter v a man's business _signs of trouble at the enterprise--a possible partnership--he travels fastest who travels alone--john carmichael--feeding the peoples of the earth--i drive for dround_ "do you see that big, fat fellow talking with mr. joyce?" the cashier whispered to me one morning as i passed her cage. "he's dround's manager--his name is carmichael. when he shows up, there is trouble coming to some one." dround & co. was the name of the packing firm that the enterprise dealt with. i tied up my bundles and made up my cash account, thinking a good deal about the appearance of the burly manager of the packing-house. pretty soon mr. carmichael came out into the front store very red in the face, followed by the elder joyce, who had been drinking, and they had some words. the cashier winked at me. the enterprise had been doing a good business. it was run on a new principle for those days--strictly cash and all cut prices, a cent off here and there, a great sale of some one thing each day, which the house handled speculatively. the brothers joyce kept branching out, but there wasn't any money to speak of behind the firm. the drounds and a wholesale grocer had backed it from the start. nevertheless, we should have got on all right if the elder joyce had given up drinking and the younger one had not taken to driving fast horses. latterly no matter how big a business we did, the profits went the wrong way. that evening, as hillary cox and i walked over to the piersons', she said to me abruptly, "there's going to be a new sign at the enterprise before long!" the smart little cashier must have divined the situation as i had. "cox's market?" i suggested jokingly. "why not harrington & cox?" she retorted with a nervous little laugh. we were on the steps then, and ed joined us, so that i did not have to answer her invitation. but all through the meal i kept thinking of her suggestion. it was nearly two years since she had introduced me to the enterprise, and i had saved up several hundred dollars in the meantime, which i wanted to put into some business of my own. but it did not quite suit my card to run a retail market. after supper the others left us in the dining room, and when we were alone hillary said:-- "well, what do you think of the firm name? it wouldn't be so impossible. i've got considerable money saved up, and i guess you have some in the bank, too. it wouldn't be the first time in this town that a clerk's name followed a busted owner's over the door." she spoke in a light kind of way, but a tone in her voice made me look up. it struck me suddenly that this thing might mean a partnership for life, as well as a partnership for meat and groceries. hillary cox was an attractive woman, and she would make a splendid wife for a poor man, doing her part to save his money. between us, no doubt, we could make a good business out of the old enterprise, and more, too! "that firm name sounds pretty well," i answered slowly, somewhat embarrassed. "yes--i thought it pretty good." suddenly she turned her face shyly away from my eyes. she was a woman, and a lovable, warm-hearted one. perhaps she was dreaming of a home and a family--of just that plain, ordinary happiness which our unambitious fathers and mothers took out of life. i liked her all the better for it; but when i tried to say something tender, that would meet her wish, i couldn't find a word from my heart: there was nothing but a hollow feeling inside me. and the thought came over me, hard and selfish, that a man like me, who was bound on a long road, travels best alone. "i don't know as i want to sell coffee and potatoes all my life," i said at last, and my voice sounded colder than i meant to make it. "oh!" she gave a little gasp, as if some one had struck her. "you're very ambitious, mr. harrington," she said coldly. "i hope you'll get all you think you deserve, i am sure." "well, that wouldn't be much--only i am going to try for more than i deserve--see?" i laughed as easily as i could. we talked a little longer, and then she made some kind of excuse--we had planned to go out that evening--and left me, bidding me good night as if i were a stranger. i felt small and mean, yet glad, too, to speak the truth--that i hadn't made a false step just there and pretended to more than i could carry through. some time later slocum looked in at the door, and, seeing me alone, came into the room. he had a grim kind of smile on his face, as if he suspected what had been happening. "where's grace?" i asked him. "just about where your hillary is," he answered dryly; "gone off with another fellow." i laughed. we looked at each other for some time. "well?" i said. "he travels fastest who travels alone," he drawled, using the very words that had been in my mind. "but it is a shame--miss cox is a nice woman." "so is the other." "yes, but it can't be--or anything like it." and the difference between us was that i believe he really cared. * * * * * so the enterprise market crumbled rapidly to its end, while i kept my eye open for a landing-place when i should have to jump. one day i was sent over to dround's to see why our usual order of meats hadn't been delivered. i was referred to the manager. carmichael, as i have said, was a burly, red-faced irishman--and hot-tempered. his black hair stood up all over his head, and when he moved he seemed to wrench his whole big carcass with the effort. as i made my errand known to him, he growled something at me. i gathered that he didn't think favorably of the enterprise and all that belonged thereto. "they can't have any more," he said. "i told your boss so the last time i was over." i hung on, not knowing exactly what to say or do. "i guess they must have it this time," i ventured after a while. "'guess they must have it'! who are you?" he thrust his big head over the top of his desk and looked at me, laying his cigar down deliberately, as if he meant to throw me out of the office for my impudence. "oh!" i said as easily as i could, "i'm one of their help." "well, my son, maybe you know better than i what they do with their money? they don't pay us." i knew he was trying to pump me about the enterprise. i smiled and told him nothing, but i got that order delivered. once or twice more, having been successful with the manager, i was sent on the same errand. carmichael swore at me, bullied me, and jollied me, as his mood happened to be. finally he said in earnest:-- "joyce's got to the end of his rope, kid. you needn't come in here again. the firm will collect in the usual way." i had seen all along that this was bound to come, and had made up my mind what i should do in the event. "do you hear?" the irishman roared. "what are you standing there for? get along and tell your boss i'll put a sheriff over there." "i guess i have come to stay," i replied easily. "come to stay?" he said with a grin. "how much, kid?" [illustration: _"do you hear?" the irishman roared._] "all you will give me." "what are you getting?" "twenty." "i'll give you fifteen to drive a wagon," he said offhand, "and i'll fire you in a week if you haven't anything better with you than your cheek." "all right," i said coolly, not letting him see that i was ruffled by his rough tongue. in that way i made the second round of the ladder, and went whistling out of dround's packing-house into the murky daylight of the stock yards. [illustration: _my part was to drive a wagon for dround at fifteen a week._] i liked it all. something told me that here was my field--this square plot of prairie, where is carried on the largest commissariat business of the world. in spite of its filth and its ugly look, it fired my blood to be a part of it. there's something pretty close to the earth in all of us, if we have the stomach to do the world's work: men of bone and sinew and rich blood, the strong men who do the deeds at the head of the ranks, feed close to the earth. the lowing cattle in the pens, the squealing hogs in the cars, the smell of the fat carcasses in the heavy wagons drawn by the sleek percherons--it all made me think of the soft, fertile fields from which we take the grain--the blood and flesh that enter into our being. the bigness of it all! the one sure fact before every son and daughter of woman is the need of daily bread and meat. to feed the people of the earth--that is a man's business. my part was to drive a wagon for dround at fifteen a week, but i walked out of the yards with the swagger of a packer! chapter vi first blood _wholesale--the little envies of life--learning how to read--what there might be in sausage--schemes--a rise in life--big john's favoring eye--going short of pork--uncertainty--five thousand dollars in the bank_ i told them all at the supper table that evening how i was going into wholesale with henry i. dround & co. slocum nodded approvingly, but before any one could say a word of congratulation, hillary cox snapped this at me:-- "so you were looking out for yourself with that carmichael man! i thought the enterprise wasn't big enough for your talents. a desk in the inside office, i s'pose?" "not quite yet," i laughed; but i didn't say how little my job was to be. miss cox had given me up. i don't believe she meant to be disagreeable, but somehow we had become strangers, all at once. there were no more gossips on the front steps or sunday parties. ed went to church with her in my place. they were getting very close, those two, and it didn't take a shrewd eye to see what was going to happen sometime soon. the others were more generous than the little cashier and inclined to make too much of my good fortune. for the first time in my life i had the pleasure of knowing that folks were looking up at me and envying me, and i liked the feeling of consequence. i let them think i was to get big wages. "i suppose you'll be leaving this ranch before long?" lou suggested. "oh, i shouldn't wonder if i might move over to the palmer house." a look of consternation spread over ma pierson's face at my joking words. she saw a quarter of her regular income wiped off the slate. after the others had gone i told her it was only a joke, and that i should stay with her "until i got married." she cried a little, and said things were bad with her and getting worse all the time. lately lou had taken to going with such kind of men that she had no peace at all. i tried to cheer her up, and it was a number of years after that before i could bring myself to leave her place, although the food got worse and worse, and the house more messy and slack. even when, later, i began to make a good deal of money, i did not care to change my way of life. at ma pierson's were the only people i knew well in the city, and though grace, and lou, and ed, and dick weren't the most brilliant folks in the city, they were honest, warm-hearted souls and good enough company. and the law clerk, slocum, was much more. he meant a good deal to me. he taught me how to read--i mean how to take in ideas as they were thought out by those who put them in books. he lent me his own books, all marked and pencilled with notes and references, which showed me how a well-trained mind stows away its information, how it compares and weighs and judges--in short, how it thinks. we had many a good talk, sitting on the dusty stone steps in our shirt sleeves late summer nights, when it was too hot to sleep. he had read a deal of history and politics and economics as well as his law, and when it came to argument, he could shut me up with a mouthful of facts that showed me how small my lookout on the world was. i remember how he put me through his old mill, making me chew hard at every point until i had mastered the theory; then he fed me darwin and spencer, and stubbs and lecky, and a lot more hard nuts. and i think that i owe no one in the world quite so much as i do that keen, silent yankee, who taught me how to read books and know what is in them. meantime i was not doing anything wonderful over at the yards. for several months the big manager scarce looked my way when he came across me, while i drove and made deliveries to the city trade. dround & co.'s customers were mostly on the west side, in the poorer wards along the river, where jews and foreigners live. i used to wonder why the firm didn't try for a better trade; but later, when i learned something about the private agreements among the packers, i saw why each kept to his own field. i soon came to know our territory pretty well, and got acquainted with the little markets. my experience at the enterprise gave me an idea that i thought to turn to some account with dround's manager. one day, as i was driving into the yards, i met the irishman, and he threw me a greeting:-- "hello, kid! what's the good word?" and he climbed affably into the seat beside me to drive up to the office. here was my chance, and i took it. "why don't dround's handle sausage?" i said to the manager. "what do you know about sausage?" he asked. i told him what i had in mind. when i worked for the enterprise we used to have trouble in selling our sausage. women were afraid of it, thinking it was made from any foul scraps in the store. so, to make the customers take it, i hit on the plan when we had fresh sausage meat of putting some of the sausages by in clean little pasteboard boxes, and the next time a particular customer came in i would call her attention to one of the boxes, "which i had put aside for her specially." and she would take it every time. in this way the enterprise built up a considerable trade in sausages. the same condition existed in other markets, as i knew; good customers were afraid to eat the ordinary sausage. so, i thought, why shouldn't the packing-house put up a superior kind of sausage in nice little boxes, with a fancy name? the marketmen could retail them handily. carmichael seemed to be impressed with my idea: he asked questions and said he would think it over. that encouraged me to spring another scheme on him. dround's trade was in the jewish quarters, but of course we didn't sell to the real jews. [illustration: _"what do you know about sausage?" he asked._] "why not get some old rabbi and make kosher meat--the real article? strauss and the other packers don't handle it. we might have the market to ourselves, and it is a big one, too." "kid, you've got a head on you," big john said to me with warmth. and i saw myself a member of the firm next week! it didn't work as easily as that, however. the next time i saw the manager i asked him about sausage and kosher meat, and he scowled. it seems he had presented my ideas to mr. henry i. dround, and that gentleman had turned them down. he was a packer, so the head of the house said, and no cat's-meat man, to retail sausages in paper packages to the public. the same way with the kosher meat idea: his business was the packing business, and the firm wasn't trying any ventures. it seemed to me that mr. henry i. dround lacked enterprise; i felt that his manager would have given my ideas a trial. it was not long after that, however, before carmichael took me into the office and made me a kind of helper to him, sending me up and down the city to collect accounts, look after the little markets that traded with dround's, and try on the sly to steal some other fellow's business--that is, to break secretly one of those trade agreements which the packers were always making together, and always breaking here and there, and, when caught, promising each other to be good, and never do it again--until the next opportunity offered, of course! this was more or less confidential and delicate business, and i was not let into the inside all at once. but i said nothing, and kept my eyes open. i began to know some things about the business, and i could guess a few more. i learned pretty soon that henry i. dround & co. was not one of the strongest concerns in the city; that it was being squeezed in the ribs by the great strauss over the way--that, if it had not been for the smart irishman, strauss might take the bread out of our mouths. next to slocum, i owe big john carmichael more than i could ever pay in money. he was an ignorant, hot-tempered, foul-mouthed irishman, who had almost been born in the yards, and had seen little else than the inside of a packing-house all his life. he couldn't write a grammatical letter or speak an unblasphemous sentence. but it didn't take me long to see that dround & co. was carmichael, the manager, and that i was in the best kind of luck to be there under him, and, so to speak, part way in his confidence.... well, as i said, i got an inkling from time to time how there was a private agreement between the large firms to carve up the market, retail as well as wholesale, and that when one of the firms felt that they could do it safely they would sneak around the agreement (which, of course, was illegal) and try to steal their neighbors' trade. carmichael managed this business himself, and now and then, when he saw i knew how to keep my mouth shut, he would trust some detail of it to me. but i was getting only twenty dollars a week, and no rosy prospects. my little schemes of making sausages on a large scale and kosher meat had been turned down. i stowed them away in my mind for future use. meantime, after working at the yards for nearly two years, i had managed to lay by about a thousand dollars, what with my savings when i was at the enterprise. that thousand dollars was in a savings-bank downtown, and it made me restless to think that it was drawing only three and a half per cent, when chances to make big money were going by me all the time just out of my grasp. i kept turning over and over in my mind how i might use that thousand and make it breed money. there were lively times then on the board of trade. nothing much was done in the stock market in chicago in those early days, but when a man wanted to take his flyer he went into pork or grain. i used to hear more or less about what was being done on the board of trade from dick pierson, who had been promoted from scrubbing blackboards to a little clerkship in the same office, which operated on the board. dick had grown to be a sallow-faced, black-mustached youth who had his sisters' knack of smart dressing, and a good deal of mouth. he was always talking of the deals the big fellows were carrying, and how this man made fifty thousand dollars going short on lard and that man had his all taken away from him in the wheat pit. he was full of tips that he picked up in his office--always fingering the dice, so to speak, but without the cash to make a throw. dick knew that i had some money in the bank, and he was ever at me to put it up on some deal on margin. slocum used to chaff him about his tips, and i didn't take his talk very seriously. it was along in the early summer of my third year at dround's when dick began to talk about the big deal strauss was running in pork. pork was going to twenty dollars a barrel, sure. according to dick, all any one had to do to make a fortune was to get on the train now. this time his talk made some impression on me; for the boys were saying the same thing over in the office at the yards. i thought of asking carmichael about it, but i suspected john might lie to me and laugh to see the "kid" robbed. so i said nothing, but every time i had occasion to go by the bank where i kept my money it seemed to call out to me to do something. and i was hot to do something! i had about made up my mind after turning it over for several weeks, to make my venture in strauss's corner. pork was then selling about seventeen dollars a barrel, and there was talk of its going as high as twenty-five dollars by the october delivery. it happened that the very day i made up my mind to go down to the city and draw out my money i was in the manager's office talking to him about one of our small customers. carmichael was opening his mail and listening to me. he would rip up an envelope and throw it down on his desk, then let the letter slide out of his fat hand, and pick up another. i saw him grab one letter in a hurry. on the envelope, which was plain, was printed john carmichael in large letters. as he tore open the enclosure i could see that it was a broker's form, and printed in fat capitals beneath the firm name was the word sold, and after it a written item that looked like pork. as carmichael shoved this slip of paper back in the envelope i took another look and was sure it was pork. i went out of the office thinking to myself: "carmichael isn't buying any pork this trip: he's selling. what does that mean?" as i have said, the manager had charge of those private agreements with which the trade was kept together. in this way he came in contact with all our rivals, and among them the great strauss. after thinking for a time, it was clear to me that the irishman had some safe inside information about this deal which dick did not have, nor any one else on the street. that afternoon when i could get off i went down to the bank and drew my money. at first i thought i would take five hundred dollars and have something left in the bank in case i was wrong on my guess. but the nearer i got to the bank the keener i was to make all i could. i took the thousand and hurried over to the office on la salle street, where dick worked. i beckoned him out of the crowd in front of the board and shoved my bunch of money into his hand. "i want you to sell a thousand barrels of pork for me," i said. "gee!" dick whistled, "you've got nerve. what makes you want to go short of pork?" "never you mind," i said; "go on and tell your boss to sell, and there's your margin." "i'll have to speak to the old man himself about this," dick replied soberly. "this ain't any market to fool with." "well, if he don't want the business there are others," i observed coolly. [illustration: _"all right," he called out, "we'll take his deal."_] dick disappeared into the back office, and i had to wait some time. presently a fat little smooth-shaven man shoved his head through the door and looked me over for a moment with a grin on his face. i suppose he thought me crazy, but he didn't object to taking my money all the same. "all right," he called out with another grin, "we'll take his deal." and dick came out from the door and told me in a big voice:-- "all right, old man! we sell a thousand for you." when i got out into the street i wasn't as sure of what i had done as i had been when i went into the broker's office; but i had too much nerve to admit that i wished i had my money back in my fist. and i kept my courage the next week, while pork hung just about where it was or maybe went up a few cents. then it began to slide back just a little--$ . - / , $ . , $ . , were the quotations--and so on until it reached $ . , where it hung for a week. then it took up its retreat again until it had slid to an even $ . dick, who congratulated me on my luck, advised me to sell and be content with doubling my money. strauss was just playing with the street, he said. this was only the end of august: by the middle of september there would be a procession. but my head was set. to be sure, when, after the first of september, pork began to climb, i rather wished i had been content with doubling my money. but i pinned my faith on carmichael. i didn't believe he was selling yet. for a fortnight at the close of september, pork hung about $ . - / , with little variation either way. then the last three days of the month, as the time for october deliveries drew near, it began to sag and dropped to $ . . i hung on. it was well for me that i did. october first strauss began delivering, and he poured pork into the market by the thousand barrels. pork dropped, shot down, and touched $ . one morning i called at the broker's office and gave the order to buy. i had cleared four thousand dollars in my deal. it was first blood! there was about five thousand dollars in the bank that day when i went back to the yards, and i was as proud as a millionnaire. somehow, i seemed to forget how i had learned the right tip, and thought of myself as a terribly smart young man. perhaps i looked what i was thinking, for when the manager stepped out of his office a little later and eyed me there was a queer kind of smile on his lips. "what's happened, kid?" he asked, quizzing me. "been selling any more pork this morning?" then i suspected that somehow he had learned about my little venture in the market. i was doubtful just how he might take it. "no," i said. "it's the time to buy now, isn't it?" "covering?" he chuckled. "well, that's good. say, some one telephoned out from cooper's office for you this morning--about a little deal in pork. i answered the 'phone." so that was the way he had learned! that fool dick had got nervous, and been telephoning to me. "i hope you made it all right," carmichael added. "you bet," i answered cheerily. and that was all that was ever said about the matter. chapter vii the bomb _i become a packer on my own account--what there is in sausage--the duchess--the piersons' again--at the haymarket--the path of the bomb--another kind of evil_ not long after my little deal in pork carmichael promoted me. instead of running around the city to look after the markets, i was sent out on the road to the towns that were building up all along the railroad lines throughout the neighboring states. my business was to secure as many of these new markets as i could, and, wherever it was possible, to dispossess any rival that had got hold before. it gave me a splendid chance to know a great section of our country which was teeming with life. that five thousand dollars in the bank burned worse than the first thousand. i took no more chances on pork, however, but i managed to turn a dollar here and there, and after a time something rather big came my way. there were a couple of german jews, the brothers schunemann, who were trying to run a packing business at aurora. they had started as small butchers, and had done well; but they wanted to get into the packing business, and they were having a hard time to compete with the big fellows in chicago. their little plant was covered with a mortgage, and dround and strauss had taken away most of their trade. the schunemann brothers were such small fish that they could make no agreements with the large companies, and they weren't important enough to be bought out. that was what i told one of the brothers when he asked me to say a good word for him with carmichael. his concern was pretty near bankruptcy then, and it was plainly out of the question for them to go on as they had been without capital. if they had tried to build up a small business in _delicatessen_ and such things, they might have succeeded better. i had never given up the idea of the money that might be made in putting up sausages and preparing kosher meat for the city market. here, i thought, was just the opportunity. if i could buy out the schunemann brothers or get a controlling interest, i might try my experiment. the scheme grew in my mind, and i went to aurora several times to see the brothers. after a while i made the man an offer, and then we talked terms for several months. slocum advised me and drew up the agreement. i was ready to put my stake into the venture, all that i had in the world. it hurt them to sell me the control of their business for seven thousand dollars, which was all that i could scrape together--and part of that was slocum's savings, which he lent me. at last we made the arrangement, and the schunemann brothers put up the "duchess" brand of sausage after my plan, and we began to handle kosher meat in a small way. i managed the sausage trade with dround's business, working the two together very well; for the retailers who dealt with dround's took to my idea and pushed our duchess brand, which was packed in nice little boxes. it was a new idea in those days, and nothing takes like something that hasn't been tried before. we began to make money--not a fortune all at once; but the business promised to grow. thus i became a packer, after a fashion! * * * * * in the years that immediately preceded the troublous times of , i was a very busy man and often out of the city, too much engrossed with the growing business on my hands to consider very seriously the disturbances of that period. the fight with labor, which seems to be a necessary feature of our progress, had come a kind of crisis in that year. but the events in chicago during that crisis are still so near to many of us that even with the rapid forgetfulness of our days they have not quite escaped the memory of thoughtful men. i remember that now and then, around ma pierson's table, the talk turned on the strike over at the harvesting works. we were all on the same side, i guess--the side of capital; there was enough for all of the good things of life, we thought, if men would only stop their kicking and keep at work. slocum, for all that he was a lawyer, was the only easy one on the strikers: so long as they respected the laws he was with them in their struggle to get all they could from their employers. "mr. renshaw says they're too well off now," lou observed. "who is mr. renshaw?" i asked, surprised that lou should take an interest in such matters. slocum looked across the table at me, and grace quickly began on something else.... well, on the night of the fourth of may i was on my way to the piersons' from the union station. it was very late, for i had just returned from aurora, where i had been during the afternoon on my own business. as i got on the street car the men on the platform were talking excitedly about the shooting over at the harvester works. when i reached home, i was surprised to find no one on the steps, the door wide open, and a kind of emptiness in the whole place. "what's up?" i asked old pierson. "that cox girl's got her cheek blowed open with a bomb or suthin'. times like this folks can't go gallivantin' about the streets," the old man snarled. slocum came in at the sound of my voice and told me what had happened. his face was white, and his long arms still twitched with the horror of what he had seen that night. it seems that dick pierson had come home to supper full of the news about the row between the police and the strikers. his talk had worked up the girls,--that is, hillary cox and grace,--for lou hadn't come home,--until all of them had started off after supper in the direction of the harvester works, where the trouble was reported to be. [illustration: _his long arms twitched with horror._] then they had strolled down to the haymarket, where, instead of the great crowd they had expected to find, there were only some hundreds of men and women listening quietly to several workingmen who were speechifying from a cart. it didn't look very lively, and as a thunder storm was coming up in the north sloco was for going home. but ed, who, like a country galoot, was curious to hear what the orator in the cart had to say, pressed up close to the truck, in the front of the crowd, with hillary cox on his arm. suddenly, so slocum said, there was a shout from somewhere behind them:-- "the police! look out for the police!" in the rush that followed, slocum and grace were jammed back by the press and separated from the others. he remembered only a little of what happened those next moments. and what he did remember didn't tally with the stories that were told later at the trial. in the darkness of the lowering storm, above the heads of the close-packed, swaying mass in the square, there sounded a dull whir. then came a terrific explosion. the next thing slocum knew he was crawling on his hands and knees, groping in the darkness for grace, while all around them crackled the pistol shots of the police. then he heard ed's voice shrieking:-- "the bloody brutes have shot her!"... "and hillary?" i asked. "is it bad?" "a piece of iron ploughed across her cheek." "scar?" slocum nodded. (the truth is that if it hadn't been for the ignorant doctor who got hold of the girl first her looks might have been saved. but he took eleven stitches, and there was left a long, ugly, furrowed scar across her pretty face!) we went up to slocum's room, and sat there far into the night, discussing what had happened. "oh, i suppose you law pills will mouse around in it considerable," i said. "the way to do is to string 'em up to the nearest lamp-post, as they do out west." as i was saying that, a cab drove up hurriedly in the quiet street and stopped at our door. slocum and i put our heads out of his window, curious to know what was happening now at two o'clock in the morning. we saw a man get out, then turn and lift a woman from the cab to the street. the woman staggered as she started to walk across the sidewalk. "it's lou pierson!" slocum exclaimed. he drew in his head suddenly and bolted from the room. i waited long enough to see the man who was with lou pull the doorbell, and then leave the poor girl half-fallen on the steps, while he went back to the cab and spoke to the driver. then i followed slocum downstairs, two steps at a time. slocum had wrenched open the house door and leaped down the long flight of steps, not pausing at the girl, who was making feeble attempts to rise and calling: "fred! fred!" but the man, having given his directions to the driver, paid no attention and got into the cab. i helped lou to her feet; she was still calling in a drowsy voice: "fred! fred!" i could see slocum with his hand on the door of the cab. he spoke to the man inside, but i could not hear what he said. suddenly his hand shot out; there was a tussle, half in and half out of the cab; the driver whipped up his horses, and slocum was thrown to his knees. he picked himself up holding in his fist something that looked like a necktie. as slocum helped me carry the girl up the steps, he said:-- "that's who renshaw is. a bit of a bomb would be about the right thing for him!" generalizations, i have learned, are silly things to play with. but there are some experiences in a man's life that tempt him to make them. it was only a mere accident that the man who was lou pierson's companion in the cab that night had taken a prominent part against the striking workmen. but when, later, i was called upon to sit in judgment on some hot-headed fools because they, in their struggle to get an eight-hour day, fomented strife, my thoughts would go back sourly to this example of the men i was expected to side with. chapter viii the trial of the anarchists _the terror of good citizens--henry iverson dround--righteous indignation--leaders of industry get together "to protect society"--a disagreeable duty--selecting the jury--the man from steele's--what is evidence?--what is justice?--in behalf of society--life is for the strong--all there is in it!--i take my side_ the morning after the fourth of may the city was sizzling with excitement. from what the papers said you might think there was an anarchist or two skulking in every alley in chicago with a basket of bombs under his arm. the men on the street seemed to rub their eyes and stare up at the buildings in surprise to find them standing. there was every kind of rumor flying about: some had it that the police had unearthed a general conspiracy to dynamite the city; others that the bomb throwers had been found and were locked up. it was all a parcel of lies, of course, but the people were crazy to be lied to, and the police, having nothing better, fed them lies. at the yards, men were standing about in little groups discussing the rumors; they seemed really afraid to go into the buildings. in front of our office a brougham was drawn up--an unusual sight at any time, and especially at this hour. it was standing close to the door, and as i picked my way through the crowd i looked in at the open window. my eyes met the eyes of a woman, who was leaning against the cushioned back of the carriage. she was dressed in a white, ruffled gown that appeared strange there in the yards, and her eyes were half closed, as if she were napping or thinking thoughts far removed from the agitated city. but when i came closer she gave me the sharpest look i ever saw in a woman's eyes. it was a queer face, dark and pale and lifeless--except for that power of the eyes to look into you. i stopped, and my lips opened involuntarily to speak. as i went on upstairs, i wondered who she could be. my desk was just outside the manager's private office, and, the door happening to be ajar, i could see mr. dround within, striding up and down in great excitement. carmichael was trying to quiet him down. i could hear the chief's high, thin voice denouncing the anarchists:-- "it is a dastardly crime against god and man! it threatens the very foundations of our free country--" "yes, that's all right," big john was growling in his heavy tone. "but we don't want to make too much fuss; it won't do no good to poke around in a nest of rattlers." "let them do their worst! let them blow up this building! let them dynamite my house! i should call myself a craven, a poltroon, if i wavered for one moment in my duty as a citizen." carmichael sighed and bit off the end of a fat cigar that he had been rolling to and fro in his mouth. he seemed to give his boss up, as you might a talkative schoolboy. henry iverson dround was a tall, dignified gentleman, with thick gray hair, close-cut gray whiskers, and a grizzled mustache. he always dressed much better than most business men of my acquaintance, with a sober good taste. the chief thing about him was his manners, which, for a packer, were polished. i knew that he had been to college: there was a tradition in the office that he had gone into the business against his will to please his father, who had begun life as a butcher in the good old way and couldn't understand his son's prejudices. perhaps that explains why all the men in the house thought him haughty, and the other big packers were inclined to make fun of him. however that might be, mr. dround had a high reputation in the city at large for honorable dealing and public spirit. there was little set afoot for the public good that henry i. dround did not have a hand in. i had met the chief once or twice, big john having called his attention to me, but he never seemed to remember my existence. to-day mr. dround blew out of the manager's office pretty soon and brushed against my desk. suddenly he stopped and addressed me in his thin, high voice:-- "what do you think, mr. harrington, of this infernal business?" my answer was ready, pat, and sufficiently hot to please the boss. he turned to carmichael, who had followed him. "that is what young america is thinking!" carmichael put his tongue into his cheek instead of spitting out an oath; but after mr. dround had gone, he growled at me:-- "that's all right for young america, but i am no damn fool, either! my father saw the riots back home in dublin. it's no good sitting too close on the top of a chimney--maybe you'll set the house on fire. the police? the police are half thieves and all blackguards! they got this up for a benefit party, most likely. why, didn't they kill more'n twice as many men over at mccormick's only the other day, just because the boys were making a bit of a disturbance? and nobody said anything about it! what are they kicking for, anyway?" mr. dround's view, however, was the one generally held. that very evening there was a meeting of the prominent men of the city to take counsel together how anarchy might be suppressed with a strong hand. we little people heard only rumors of what took place in that gathering, but it leaked out that there had been two minds among those wealthy and powerful men--the timid and the bold. the timid were overridden by the bolder-hearted. good citizens, like strauss and vitzer, so carmichael told me with a sneer, talked strong about encouraging the district attorney to do his duty, and raised a fund to pay for having justice done. "it means that some of those rats the police have been ferreting out of the west side saloons will hang to make them feel right. the swells are bringing pressure to bear, and some one must be punished. it's grand!" he chuckled bitterly at his own wit. but the swells meant business, and when henry i. dround was drawn for the grand jury, to indict those anarchists that the police had already netted, big john swore:-- "he needn't have done that! there are plenty to do the fool things. it's his sense of duty, i s'pose, damn him! it's some of his duty to come over here and help us make enough money to keep his old business afloat!" the irishman thought only of the business, but henry i. dround was not the man to let any personal interest stand in the way of what he considered his duty to society. perhaps he was a little too proud of his sacrifices and his civic virtues. some years later he told me all about that grand jury. all i need say here is that this famous trial of the anarchists was engineered from the beginning by prominent men to go straight. the hatred and the rage of all kinds of men during those months while the anarchists were on our hands, before they were finally hanged or sent to prison, is hard to understand now at this distance from the event. that bomb in its murderous course had stirred our people to the depths of terror and hate: even easy-going hustlers like myself seemed to look at that time in the face of an awful fate. the pity of it all was--i say it now openly and advisedly--that our one motive was hate. stamp this thing out! that was the one cry. few stopped to think of justice, and no one of mercy. we were afraid, and we hated. finally it came time for the trial; the _venire_ for the jury was issued. one night, to my consternation, i found a summons at the house. when i showed it to a fellow-clerk at the office the next morning, he whistled:-- "i thought i saw the bailiff in here yesterday, looking around for likely men. they are after a safe jury this time, sure!" i asked carmichael to use his influence to get me excused, as i knew he usually did for the boys when they were summoned for jury duty. but all he said was:-- "you're a nervy youngster. you'd better do the thing, if you are accepted." "it means weeks, maybe months, off," i objected. "we'll make that all right: you won't lose nothing by it. but you mustn't mind finding a stick of dynamite under your bed when you go home after the trial," he grinned. "i guess there's no trouble with my nerve," i said stiffly, thinking he was chaffing me. "but i don't want the job, all the same." "well, you'll have to see the old man this time. maybe he can get you off." so i went into mr. dround's private office and made my request. the chief asked me to take a chair and handed me a cigar. then he began to talk about the privileges and duties of citizenship. from another man it might have been just slobber, but henry i. dround meant it, every word. "why don't you serve?" i asked him pretty bluntly. he flushed. "i haven't been drawn. besides, it has been thought wiser not to give the jury too capitalistic a character. this is a young man's duty. and i understand from mr. carmichael that you are one of the most energetic and right-minded of our young men, mr. harrington." [illustration: _from another man it might have been just slobber, but henry i. dround meant it, every word._] he stood facing the window and talked along for some time in a general way. his talk was rather simple and condescending, but kind. he spoke of the future before me, of my having the right influence in the community. when i left him i knew perfectly well that the house expected me to serve on that jury if i was chosen, and that mr. dround would take personally the warmest interest in a young man who had the courage to do his duty "in behalf of society," as he kept saying. still i hoped to escape. i was tolerably far down the list. so day after day i listened to the wrangle among the lawyers over the selection of the jurors. it was clear enough from the start that the state wanted only one kind of man on that jury--an intelligent, well-to-do clerk or small manufacturer. no laboring man need apply: his class was suspect. as a clerk in steele's store said to me while we waited our turn:-- "that bailiff came into our place and walked down past our department with the manager. i heard him say to mr. bent: 'i'm running this case. let me tell you there won't be no hung jury.'" "do you want to serve?" i asked the man from steele's. "well, i do and i don't." then he leaned over and whispered into my ear: "it looks to me that there might be a better place for me at steele's if everything goes off to suit and i am a part of it!" he nudged me and pulled a straight face. "i guess they ought to be hanged, all right," he added, as if to square himself with what he was ready to do. after the defence had used up its challenges, which naturally was pretty soon, the real business of getting the jury began. much the same thing happened in every case. first the man said he was prejudiced so that he couldn't render a fair verdict on the evidence. then his honor took him in hand and argued with him to convince him that his scruples were needless. his honor drove him up and down hill until the man was forced to admit that he had some sense of fairness and could be square and honest if he tried hard. and then he was counted in. in every case it went pretty much as it did in the case of the man from steele's. "i feel," so the man from steele's said, "like any other good citizen does. i feel that some of these men are guilty; we don't know which ones, of course. we have formed this opinion by general report from the newspapers. now, with that feeling it would take some very positive evidence to make me think that these men were not guilty, if i should acquit them.... but i should act entirely upon the testimony." "but," said the defence, "you say that it would take positive evidence of their innocence before you could consent to return them not guilty?" "yes, i should want some strong evidence." "well, if that strong evidence of their innocence was not introduced, then you want to convict them?" "certainly!" then the judge took him in hand, and after a time his honor got him to say:-- "i believe i could try the case on the evidence alone, fairly." and so they took him, and they took me in the same way, when it came my turn. * * * * * this is scarcely the place to tell the story of that famous trial. it has kept me too long as it is. the trial of the anarchists was an odd accident in my life, however, which, coming, as it did, when i had my foot placed on the ladder of fortune, had something to do with making me what i am to-day. up to this time i had never reflected much upon the deeper things of life. the world seemed good to me--a stout, hearty place to fight in. i had made money in the scheme of things as they are, and i found it good. i wanted to make some more money, and i had little patience with the kickers who tried to upset the machine. but i had not reasoned it out. there in the court room, and later shut up in the jury quarters, day after day, cut off from my usual habits, i thought over some of the real questions of our life, and made for myself a kind of philosophy. to-day, after the lapse of eighteen years, i can see it all as i saw it then: the small, dirty court room; the cold, precise face of the judge; the faces of the eight men whom the police had ferreted out of their holes for us to try. there wasn't much dignity in the performance: some pretty, fashionably dressed girls sat up behind the judge, almost touching elbows with his honor. they came there as though to the play, whispering and eating candy. there was the wrangling among the lawyers, snarling back and forth to show their earnestness. but my eyes came back oftenest to the faces of those eight men, for whose lives the game was being played. two were stupid; three were shifty; but the other three had an honest glow, a kind of wild enthusiasm, that came with their foreign blood, maybe. they were dreamers of wild dreams, but no thugs! from the start it seemed plain that the state could not show who threw that fatal bomb, nor who made it, nor anything about it: the best the state could do would be to prove conspiracy. the only connection the lawyers could establish between those eight men and the mischief of that night was a lot of loose talk. his honor made the law--afterward he boasted of it--as he went along. he showed us what sedition was, and that was all we needed to know. then we could administer the lesson. now that eighteen years have passed, that looks to me like mighty dangerous law. then i was quick enough to accept it. when we filed into the court room the last morning to listen to the judge's charge, the first face i saw was that of hillary cox. a big red scar, branching like a spider's web, disfigured her right cheek. it drew my eyes right to her at once. all her color and the plump, pretty look of health had gone for good. she looked old and sour and excited. and i wished she hadn't come there: it seemed as though she was waiting for her revenge for the loss of her youth and good looks. she was counting on me to give it to her! ed sat beside her, holding her hand in a protecting way. he was an honest, right-feeling sort of fellow, and i guessed that her loss of good looks would make no difference in his marrying her. near the district attorney sat mr. dround. he listened to the judge's charge very closely, nodding his head as his honor made his points and rammed conviction into us.... "in behalf of society"--his phrase ran in my head all through the trial. that was the point of it all--a struggle between sensible folks who went about their business and tried to get all there was in it--like myself--and some scum from europe, who didn't like the way things are handed out in this world. we must hang these rebels for an example to all men. to be sure, the police had killed a score or two of their kind--"rioters," they were called: now we would hang these eight in a proper, legal, and ordinary way. and then back to business! i suppose that the world seemed to me so good a place to hustle in that i couldn't rightly appreciate the complaint of these rebels against society. and at any rate i was convinced that we sensible folks who had the upper hand could not tolerate any bomb foolishness. "in behalf of society"--yes, before we had left our seats in the court room my mind was made up: guilty or not, these men must suffer for their foolish opinions, which were dead against the majority. thus i performed my duty to society. * * * * * when our verdict was ready, and we came in to be discharged, i saw hillary cox again. as the foreman rose to give our verdict, her scarred face flushed with excitement, and an ugly scowl crept over her brow. i turned away. queer thoughts came into my mind--for the bad air and the weeks of close confinement had made me nervous, i suppose.... society! i seemed to see old strauss with his puffy, ashen face, and his broad hands that hooked in the dollars, dirty or clean, and vitzer, who kept our honorable council on his pay-roll for convenience, and the man who had been with lou pierson that night, and many others. were they better men before the eyes of god these eight misguided fools whom we were about to punish? who did the most harm to society, they or that pale-faced fielden, who might have been a saint instead of an anarchist?... the judge was still making remarks; the jury were listening restlessly; the prisoners at the bar seemed little interested in the occasion. i kept saying to myself: "society! in behalf of society! i have done my duty in behalf of society." but what was this almighty society, anyhow, save a lot of fools and scamps with a sprinkling of strong souls, who were fighting for life--all of them fighting for what only a few could get? my eyes rested on hostetter's face in the crowd. his jaw was hanging open, and he was staring at the judge, trying to understand it all. poor ed! _he_ wouldn't have much show in the scramble if society didn't protect him. suddenly a meaning to it all came to me like a great light. the strong must rule: the world was for the strong. it was the act of an idiot to deny that truth. yes, life was for the strong, all there was in it! i saw it so then, and i have lived it so all my life.... [illustration: "_my! i tell you i'll be glad to get home to-night._"] the man from steele's nudged my elbow:-- "my! i tell you i'll be glad to get home to-night. won't the old woman's food taste slick to-night? you bet." "the jury is discharged." the play was over. the spectators were moving from the crowded room. at the door my friends were waiting for me. hillary cox stretched up a thin hand. "thank you, van," she said. "you fellows did just right," hostetter added. slocum said nothing, but there was a dubious smile on his lips. "we're going to blow you off for a dinner at the palmer house, the best you ever ate," dick pierson called out loudly. then he added for the benefit of the onlookers, "to hell with the anarchists!" "quit that!" i said sharply, some of those queer doubts about the justice of the act i had been concerned in returning to me. "it's over now, and let's drop it." it was good to be out on the streets once more, knocking elbows with folks, and my heart soon began to feel right. in the lobby of the hotel men i didn't know, who recognized me as one of the famous jury, came up to me and shook hands and said pleasant things. before the dinner was far along i was quite myself again, and when slocum set up the champagne for the party, i had begun to feel rather proud of the part i had taken in public affairs. after all, it was a fine thing to live and hustle with your neighbors for the dollars. i had done my part to make the game go on smoothly. at the yards, the next morning, it was the same thing: my desk was covered with flowers, and the boys kept me busy shaking hands and taking in the cigars until i thought i was at a church presentation party. big john was one of the first to welcome me back. "say! do you want a vacation? the old man thinks a month or two would be the right thing. enjoy yourself, my boy, after your arduous duty!" "shoo!" i replied. "what would i do with a month's vacation, john? i've just pined to be back here at work. what do i want to light out for now?" "supposing some of 'em should try to fix _you_?" he grinned. "i guess we've fixed _them_ for good and all." "well, your nerve is all right." so i sat down to my desk, quite the cock of the walk, and felt so pleased with myself that you would think i had saved the whole town from being blown up. i was for society as it is, first, last, and all the time, and i felt good to be in it. [illustration: _big john was one of the first to welcome me back._] once, some months later, i saw those eight men again, when they were brought into court to be sentenced. they all had a chance to speechify, and i listened to them for a time. i didn't take much stock in spies and parsons--long-winded, talky, wild fellows. but the others, who weren't as glib as those two, had a kind of simple sincerity about them. they had the courage to stand up there in the face of death and say what they believed. no one plead for mercy. i was sorry for them. but, nevertheless, it was comfortable to be of the strong. the world is for the strong, i said to myself as i left the court, and i am one of them! chapter ix another boost _i become of importance in dround's--making money--the end of ma pierson's--rivals in sausage--i conclude to sell my business--bluffing old strauss--carmichael regards me with respect_ after the trial came another boost at dround's. thanks to the big irishman, i had done pretty well before; but now there was some one at the top watching me. i was given a chance to see what i could do to make markets in the new southwest, which was developing rapidly and in my opinion offered a weak house like ours a better opportunity than the older fields. and my little venture with the brothers schunemann was booming all the time. ed and sloco had looked out for my interests during the trial, and had kept my partners from robbing me. pretty soon i was able to buy out their interest in the aurora plant and get rid of them altogether, putting ed in as my manager. the schunemanns took to peddling our kosher meat in chicago, and worked up a good trade. in my trips for dround & co. i was able to make a large business for the duchess brand of sausage, which soon began to attract attention. one day carmichael said to me:-- "so you're a sausage maker, after all, van?" "yes, and coining money, too," i replied. "perhaps mr. dround would think differently now about the cat's-meat business." carmichael grunted. i suspected that he might like to have me offer the firm a chance to come into my business, but i had no such idea. i saw a great future in sausage, and, after that, other things--down a long vista of golden years. * * * * * about this time lou pierson disappeared from the house and never came back. slocum went east and did his best to find the girl. he may have been too proud to marry her sister, but he felt badly enough over lou's going that way. later, when i saw the girl in new york, i concluded her return could do no good to any one, and said nothing. after lou disappeared the old man began to drink pretty hard, and finally had to go to the hospital. the van buren street house was a drearier place than ever, and slocum and i decided to move and start housekeeping together. ma pierson needed us no longer. the hostetters were keeping house for the old lady; for ed married hillary shortly after the trial, and together they tried running the enterprise. but they could not make it go, somehow; so later i made ed my manager, as i have said. some time after this, when the old lady pierson got sick, slocum and i saw that she had a little rest and comfort to the end of her days. for her son dick could never look after anybody but himself. we had not been long in our comfortable flat on the south side before an unexpected chance came to me to make a lot of money. as i have said, the duchess brand of sausage, packed in dainty little boxes, was making a name for itself and attracting the attention of the trade. i began to have rivals, and my profits were cut somewhat; but they could never drive out the duchess, which had a good start. one day carmichael asked me if i would like to sell my sausage factory, as he called the aurora plant. i told him jokingly he hadn't the money to buy it. but in reality i was ready to sell, for i saw that if the big packers went into the business in earnest, i could not compete. and it was only a matter of time before they would see, as i had seen, the immense profit in such small things. so when, a few days later, carmichael said that one of strauss's men had asked him to bring me over to their place, i went quick enough. carmichael took me into strauss's office and introduced me to one of the men, a shrewd little fellow, who managed some of the old man's deals for him. after a little while, the man, gooch, began to talk of my sausage business, praised the idea, and hinted that his boss might consider buying me out "for a proper figure." so we began to deal, and pretty soon gooch named a figure, twenty-five thousand dollars or something of the sort, expecting me to bite. i laughed, and carmichael, who was sitting by enjoying the fun, said: "he's no kid, gooch, though he looks it. better go your whole figure straight off." gooch then said thirty-five thousand dollars--that was the limit. i began to talk about the kosher meat business the schunemann brothers were handling for me, and i could see gooch's eyes open. he got up and went back into an inner office, and when he returned he made the figure fifty thousand dollars. carmichael expected me to take his offer, and if i had been asked that morning i should have said it was a big price. but suddenly it came into my mind that in that inner office was the great strauss himself. he thought i was too small fry to deal with: he left me to his lieutenant. and i had a good mind to bring him out to buy my plant of me. so i talked on, and gooch asked me to name my figure. "seventy thousand," i answered pretty quick. gooch turned to his desk, as if to tell me to go home, and carmichael grunted, thinking how he would laugh at me about my cheek. i began to think i had gone too far, when the door of that inner office was pulled back and strauss himself walked into the room. he nodded to carmichael and gave me a look from head to foot, but said nothing. gooch waited for the great man to speak. "we'll take your figure, mr. harrington," strauss said, after he had looked me up and down, and walked out again. it took my breath away: the next moment i was sorry i hadn't said a hundred, it seemed so easy. but strauss was back in his office and the door was pulled to. the next i knew i was on the street, and big john was laughing so that men turned to look at him. "pretty good for a kid," he kept saying between his bursts of laughter. "you had the old fox on the run. he wanted your cat's-meat place bad, though." [illustration: _the door of the inner office was pulled back and strauss himself walked into the room._] we went into a saloon, and i set up a bottle of champagne. "you're all right," carmichael said to me when we had drunk to my good luck. "you couldn't have run that place much longer. the big ones would have eaten you up, hide and all." "i knew that!" i said calmly. carmichael looked at me with considerable respect, and that was one of the pleasantest moments of my life. chapter x love _a poor stenographer--the positive young lady under altered circumstances--miss gentles's story--a hard road for tender feet--social and sentimental--a misunderstanding--which is made right in the only way--my boss invites us to dinner--another kind of woman--a woman's shrewdness--the social gift--at the opera--business and pleasure--sarah on mrs. dround_ it was a hot day in august three years after the trial; i was sitting in carmichael's office trying to get a breath of fresh air from his west windows. i called old peters and asked him to send me up a stenographer. "haven't a good one in the place, mr. harrington," he said. "all the smart ones are off on their vacation. there's miss gentles, though--the old man generally keeps her for himself, but he's gone home by this time." "send up anything so long as it can write!" "well, she _ain't_ much good," peters replied. i had my head down behind my desk when the stenographer came in, and i began to dictate without looking up. these stenographer ladies were all of a piece to me,--pert, knowing misses,--all but miss harben: she was fifty and sour, and took my letters like biting off thread. this one evidently wasn't in her class, for pretty soon she sang out:-- "please wait! i can't go so fast." so i waited, and looked up to see what i had to do with. this young woman was a good-looking, ladylike person, with a mass of lovely brown hair and long brown eyelashes. she was different from the other girls in the office, and yet it seemed to me i had seen her before. she was dressed in black, a sort of half mourning, i judged. pretty soon she got stuck again and asked me to repeat. this time she looked at me imploringly. "i am not very good," she said with a smile. "no, you are not," i replied. she laughed at my blunt answer--laughed pleasantly, like a lady who knows how to turn off a harsh truth, not flirtatiously, like most of her profession. "been long at it?" i asked the next time she broke down. "not so very. i graduated from the school about six months ago, and i have always worked for mr. dround since then. he doesn't talk as fast as you do, not nearly." she smiled again at me, frankly and naturally. suddenly i remembered where i had seen that face before, and when she looked up again i said:-- "did you ever find that purse, miss gentles?" she looked puzzled at first; then a light spread over her face, and she stammered:-- "why, of course, you are _the_ mr. harrington who--but you have changed!" "rather, i hope! and the light wasn't good in the police station that morning." miss gentles leaned back in her chair and laughed, a blush spreading prettily over her face. "it's all so funny!" she exclaimed. "funnier now than it was then," i admitted. [illustration: "_why, of course, you are the mr. harrington who--but you have changed!_"] "i am very glad to meet you again. no, i never found that purse. the judge still twits me, when he sees me, about changing my mind. he thinks--" then she stopped in embarrassment, and it was some time before i found out what the judge did think. "have you been back to that place in indiana?" she asked. and we had quite a chat. she talked to me like a young lady who was receiving a caller in her father's house. it took a long time to finish the few letters i had started to write. when she went, i got up and opened the door for her. i had to. "good afternoon, mr. harrington," she said, holding out her hand. "i am so glad to have met you again." old peters, who was in the outer office, looked at us in considerable surprise. when miss gentles had gone he remarked in a gossiping way:-- "so you know the young woman?" "i met her once years ago," i admitted. "how did she land here? she doesn't seem to have had much experience as a stenographer." "no, she hasn't. her father died several years ago, and didn't leave a cent. he was a very popular doctor, though--a southerner. they lived kind of high, i guess, while there was anything. the drounds knew them in their better days, and when the doctor died mrs. dround tried to help the girl in one way and another. then they fixed up this job for her. i guess mr. dround don't work her very hard. sorry you were troubled with her. we'll see that you get a rattler the next time, mr. harrington," he ended. (the men in the office were pretty nice to "mr. harrington" these days!) "oh, she isn't so bad!" i said to peters. for i rather looked forward to seeing the pretty, pleasant-mannered girl again. "i'd just as soon have miss gentles next week when mr. dround goes east, if no one else wants her." old peters had a twinkle in his eyes as he answered:-- "just as you say, mr. harrington." so i came to see a good deal of miss gentles that summer while mr. dround was away on his vacation. i can't say that the young lady developed much business ability. she forgot most things with a wonderful ease, and she was never very accurate. but she tried hard, and it seemed to worry her so when i pointed out her mistakes that i took to having in another stenographer in the afternoon to finish what she hadn't done. miss gentles boarded with an old aunt of her mother's near where slocum and i lived. i gathered that the aunt and her husband were not very kind to her. they thought she ought to marry, having good looks and no money. miss gentles let me call on her, and before the summer was over we were pretty well acquainted. for a long time the thought of may had kept me from looking at a woman; i always saw that little white face and those searching eyes, and heard that mocking laugh. but miss gentles was so different from may that she never made me think of the woman i had once loved. i took slocum to call on my new acquaintance, but they didn't get on well together. she thought his old yankee ways were hard, and i suppose he thought i was bound on the voyage of life with a pleasure-loving mate. he used to growl to me about tying myself to a woman, but i always said he needn't worry about me--i wasn't the marrying kind. "oh, you'll be wanting to get married the same as the rest of the world," sloco would answer, "and have a wife and children to spend your money on and make you earn more!" but i thought differently. a man of my sort, i replied to him, works and fights just the same without wife or child, because of the fight in him, because he can't help himself, any more than the man who wants to drink can keep his lips from the glass. it's in his blood and bone.... miss gentles had seen a good deal of society,--the best there was in the city in those early days. it was odd to hear her talking about people who were just big names to me, as if she had known them all her life. i must have struck her as pretty green. but she made me feel from the first like some one she had always known. she was proud enough, but simple, and not in the least reserved. she told me all about her people, the easy times and the hard times. and never a word of complaint or regret for all the parties and good things that were gone out of her life. she was one to take her beer with a joke when she couldn't have champagne. of course, i told her, first and last, all my story. she made me take her to see the hostetters at the old place on van buren street. then the four of us went up the lake on a picnic one sunday. hillary, i remember, was sullen because ed paid so much attention to miss gentles on this trip. so we became good friends. yet i never felt really intimate with her, as i had with hillary, and when i tried to step past a certain line she had her own way of keeping me off, not haughtily or pertly, but like a lady who knew how people of the great world, where i had never been, behaved to one another. one day, i remember, i was fool enough to send her a little fancy purse with a gold eagle in it, and a line saying that it was time for me to make restitution, or something of the sort. my gift came back quick enough, with a clever little note tucked inside, saying she couldn't let me admit that i had taken her purse. it was a good lesson for me. when mr. dround returned in the fall she reported to him for work, and i was not altogether sorry. i had plenty of chances to see her outside of the office now, and i was desperately busy. in a few days, however, when i happened to be in mr. dround's office on some matter, he began to talk about miss gentles. peters had told him that i had had her as my stenographer during his absence, and mr. dround would like to have me continue, as she wasn't adapted to his needs. then he spoke of her people, and how he and mrs. dround had held them in the highest esteem, and had tried to do something for this girl. but there had seemed to be nothing that she was really fitted to do. so we began again our work together, only it was worse; for her fashionable friends were back in the city now, and they kept inviting her out to parties and one thing and another, until she was too sleepy to do her work in the morning and was rather irregular. then she was ill, off for a fortnight. i had peters hire me another stenographer, a man, and miss gentles still drew her pay. peters winked at me when i suggested that he needn't mention the fact of her absence in his report. i suppose, if i had stopped to think of it, i should have considered it more businesslike of her to quit her society and parties when she found they were interfering with her work. it was human, though, that she should want to get a little fun out of her life, and not lose sight altogether of the gay world where they have time to amuse themselves. and a pretty woman like her could hardly be expected to take stenography in a stock-yards office seriously. well, i missed her more and more, especially as i couldn't see her now that she was ill, and had to content myself with nice little notes of thanks for the flowers and fruit i sent. she came back at last, looking weak and droopy, for the first time rather hopeless, as if she saw that she wasn't fitted for the job and couldn't keep up with her friends, either. i felt very sorry for her. she wasn't made for work--any one could see that--and it was a cruel shame to let her boggle on with it. just then i had to go to texas on business; when i got back a week or so later, peters told me that miss gentles had left five days before. a cold little note on my desk said good-by, and thanked me for my kindness to her--never a word of explanation. i was so upset that i didn't wait to open my letters, but called a cab and started for the aunt's to find out what was the matter. it was just as well i had been in a hurry, for in another ten minutes miss gentles would have been on her way to louisville, and it would have taken a week to hunt out the small place in kentucky where she was going. her trunk was packed, and she was sitting with her aunt in the large, ugly parlor, waiting for the expressman to come. when i walked in, following the servant, she didn't draw back her veil, but merely stood up and touched fingers with me. i saw that something was so wrong that it had to be made right at once, with no time to spare. "you will kindly let me speak to miss gentles alone," i said to the aunt, who was inclined to stick. she went out of the room ungraciously. "now," i said, taking the girl's hand and looking through her veil into her eyes, "what is the matter? tell me." her eyes were large and moist, and her lips quivered. but she shut her teeth down hard and said stiffly: "nothing whatever, mr. harrington. you are very kind to come to see me before i leave." "you aren't going to put me off with any such smooth answer as that," i said, "or you will have my company all the way you're going, wherever it may be. tell me the straight truth, and all of it." she began to laugh at my bluffing words, and ended with a nervous sob. after a while i learned the whole story. it seems that the man i employed talked out in the office about how he did all my work, and while i was south one of the "lady" stenographers had said something to miss gentles--a something she would not tell me. so she got up and took her leave, and knowing that her old aunt wouldn't want her around if she had no job, she had written some cousins in kentucky and was going to them. the expressman came about this time, but he didn't take her trunk. and when i left that chilly parlor we were engaged to be married. she said at the last, putting her hands on my coat: "you know i always liked you, even in the police station, mr. harrington--and--and i am so very, very happy, now, van! it was terrible to think of going away. i had to, before you were due home. i was never so miserable before in my life!" something stirred from the bottom of my heart. i felt pitiful for all her trouble, her weakness, her struggle with a world she wasn't made for. then she said trustingly, like a little child:-- "and you will always be good to me, as papa was with mamma, and patient, and love me a great deal, won't you? yes, i know you will!" i kissed her, feeling then that nothing in life could ever be like the privilege of loving and protecting this woman in her helplessness. i suppose that words like those she and i spoke then are common enough between men and women when they are in love. yet those words have always been to me like some kind of sacred oath--the woman asking, out of her weakness, for love and protection from the one who holds all happiness and life for her, and the man, with his hasty passions, promising of the best there is in him. many a time in later years, when it hasn't always been easy to see things simply as it was then in our first joy, those words of hers have come back to me and given me that same soft tug at my heart. to hurt her would be to strike a child, to wring the neck of a bird that nestled in your hand. there are a good many kinds of love in this world, as there are of hate; perhaps about the best of all is this desire to protect and cherish a woman--the feeling that any man who is worth his salt has for the one he wants to marry.... sarah walked part way back to the office with me that morning, then turned north, saying she must try to find mrs. dround and tell her. she was so happy she couldn't go home and sit down quietly until i got back from the office. mrs. dround, she knew, would be specially glad to hear the news. "for she thinks you are a very smart young man," sarah added shyly. "the lady must be a mind reader, then; for in the ten years i have been with the firm i can't remember seeing her once." "oh, yes, she has seen you. she said so. anyway, jane knows all about you, you may be sure. there isn't much that goes on around her that jane doesn't know about." with that she gave me a happy little nod and was off to the great stone house of my boss up north on the lake. it was a windy, dirty december day, but i was very content with the world as it was and thought chicago was the finest city in the world. as i sat down to my desk my mind began to dance in a whirl of thoughts--of old plans and new combinations. i wondered what sarah would say to some of my schemes to make our fortune. perhaps they would merely frighten her; for a woman is a natural conservative. i hurried up my business to get back to her and tell her that some day, not so very distant, she would be a tolerably rich woman. for now it seemed only a step into the greater things i had seen all these years afar off. * * * * * the drounds gave us a dinner not long afterward. i reached the house early, expecting to have a little time with sarah before the others came. pretty soon i heard the rustle of skirts, but, instead of sarah, a tall, thin woman in a black lace evening-dress came into the room where the servant had left me. instantly i knew that this was the face i had seen in the carriage the morning after the anarchist riot. she was a beautiful woman, with a dark, almost foreign look. she smiled cordially as she gave me her hand. "sarah is not quite ready. she wants to make herself very fine--the child! and mr. dround is late, too. i am glad, because it will give us a few minutes to ourselves. come into the library." she led the way into a long, stately room, with a beautiful ceiling in wood and gold. at one end, in a little arched recess, a wood fire was blazing. there were a number of large paintings on the walls, and queer eastern idols and curios in cabinets. mr. dround had the reputation of being something of a traveller and collector. my first glance around that room explained a good deal to me about the head of our firm. mrs. dround seated herself near the fire, where the light from a great candelabrum filled with candles flickered above her head. her dark eyes gleamed under the black hair; it was a puzzle of a face! she began pretty soon to talk of sarah in a natural but terribly shrewd way. "i wonder, mr. harrington, if you know your treasure," she said, half laughing. "it takes most men years to know the woman they marry, if they ever do." [illustration: _she was reading me like a book of large print._] "well, i know enough now to begin with!" "sarah is such a woman--tender, loyal, loving. it needs a woman to know a woman, mr. harrington. but she hasn't a particle of practical sense: she can't keep an account straight. she has no idea what economy is--only want or plenty. she is southern, so southern! those people never think what will happen day after to-morrow." it seemed queer that she should be telling me this kind of thing, which i should be finding out fast enough for myself before long. perhaps she wanted to see what i would say; at any rate i replied clumsily something about not expecting to make a housekeeper of my wife. "yet," she said slowly, studying me, "a woman can do so much to make or mar her husband's career." "i guess i shan't lay it up against my wife, if i don't pull out a winner." she laughed at that. "so you think you are strong enough to win a fight without a woman's help?" "i've done it so far," i said, thinking a little of may. "you have made a beginning, a good beginning," she remarked judiciously. she was reading me like a book of large print, leaning back in her great chair, her eyes half closed, her face in shade except when the firelight flashed. "i suppose the only way is to keep on as you begin--keep your eyes open and take everything in sight," i continued lightly. "it depends on how much you want, perhaps." "i want pretty much all that i can get," i retorted quickly, my eyes roving over the rich room, with an idea that i might like to put sarah in some such place as this. mrs. dround laughed a long, low laugh, as though she were speculating why i was what i was. "well, you are strong enough, my friend, i see. as for sarah, love her and don't look for what you can't find." just then we heard sarah's laugh. she came into the room with mr. dround, a smile kindling graciously all over her face. the two women, as they kissed each other, made a picture--the dark head against the light one. then mrs. dround gave sarah a cool, motherly pat on the cheek, saying:-- "i have been offering your young man some advice, sarah." "he doesn't need it!" sarah answered in a flash. "well, i don't know that he does," mrs. dround laughed back, kissing her again. every one loved sarah in the same protecting way! soon after this mr. dround came up, smiling genially at the women's talk, and gave me his hand. i had not seen the chief out of business hours before. i had never thought him much of a business man in the office, and here, in his own house, with his pictures and books and curios, he was about the last person any one would believe spent his days over in packington. it wasn't to be a simple dinner that evening. sarah whispered that jane had insisted on inviting a lot of people, some important people, she said, to meet her young man. and presently the guests arrived,--lardner and steele and jefferson with their wives, and a number of others. about the only ones i knew were big john and his very fat wife. they seemed to be as much out of the crowd as i felt i was, with all my coolness. but sarah was perfectly at her ease. i admired her all afresh when i saw how easily and gayly she took the pretty things those men said to her. i was more at my ease in the smoking room after dinner, where i had to tell the story about the theft of the purse in steele's store. the shrewd old merchant laughed heartily. [illustration: "_i have been offering your young man some advice, sarah._"] "i trust, mr. harrington," he drawled, "that now you are going to marry you will lose _your_ purse there in place of taking one." they paid me considerable attention all around, and it gave me a pleasant feeling--all of which, i knew, was due to sarah. i was nothing but a newcomer among them, but she was the daughter of an old friend. and she had a wonderful way of her own of coming close to people. i remember that we went later to the opera, which was being given in that big barn of an exposition building on the lake front where i had had my first experience of chicago hospitality. we were in a box, and between the acts people came in to call. sarah introduced me to some of them, and she held a reception then and there while mrs. dround looked on and smiled. i forget the opera that was given,--some french thing,--but i remember how gay the place was, and all the important people of the city whom sarah pointed out to me. even as a matter of business, i saw it would be a good thing to know these people. of course, the social side of life doesn't count directly in making money, but it may count a good deal in getting close to the crowd that knows how to make money. perhaps i began to have even a little more pride in sarah than i had before, seeing how she knew people and counted for something with them. in the game that we were going to play together this social business might come in handily, perhaps. in one of the intervals of the opera mrs. dround remarked as if her mind had been on the same idea:-- "you see sarah's sphere, mr. harrington?" "yes," i replied. "and the girl does it tip-top!" she laughed. "of course! it's in the blood." "well, it isn't a bad thing, some of it," i went on with pride and content. "strauss isn't here, is he?" i asked. "the strausses never go anywhere, you know." "he's the biggest of them all, too," i said partly to myself. "you think so? why?" she asked, her brows coming together. "he's the biggest dog, and it's dog eat dog in our business, as all over nowadays," i replied. "why now more than ever before?" she asked. "it's in the air. there's a change coming over business, and you feel it the same as you feel a shift in the wind. it's harder work fighting to live now than ever before, and it can't go on like this forever. the big dog will eat up the rest." "and you think strauss is our big dog?" she asked with a smile. i saw then where she had led me, but it was too late to be less frank. "yes," i answered, looking her in the eyes. "then how should one keep out of his jaws?" she went on, playing with her fan. "well, you can always get out of a scrap and stay out--or--" i hesitated. "or?" she persisted. "put up such a fight that the big fellow will give you good terms to get rid of you!" "i see. you have given me something to think about, mr. harrington." "the time is coming," i went on, careless whether she repeated to mr. dround my views, "and mighty quick, too, when that man strauss will have the food-products business of this country in his fist, and the rest of us will be his hired men, and take what he gives us!" "what are you two talking about in this intimate way?" sarah broke in. "the future," mrs. dround said. "business," i added. "business!" sarah sniffed, and i knew i had done something i ought not to do. "and nevada singing so divinely to-night! come, van, i want you to meet mr. morehead." and i was led away from our hostess to keep me out of mischief. * * * * * on our way home after the opera sarah and i talked of mrs. dround. i had never met any woman like her, and i was loud in her praise. "yes," sarah admitted slowly, "she seemed to like you. but did you see how she treated the carmichaels? just civil, and hardly that. nobody can understand jane. she just does as she wants always." "i believe she must have a great head for business. if she were in henry i.'s shoes--" "i don't see why you say that! i am sure you never hear the least word about business in their house." i smiled at sarah's little show of temper, as she continued:-- "anyway, it would be strange if she didn't know something about money-making. her father was old joe sanson--they say he was a half-breed and made his money trading with the indians and getting government lands. father used to tell stories about him. we heard that he left her a great deal of money, but nobody knows much about her or her affairs. she's so silent." "i didn't find her so." sarah apparently did not altogether share my enthusiasm for mrs. dround. "tell me," she demanded, "just what she said to you, every word." "i can't. she talks with her eyes, most." "oh, i hate to have men discuss business with women. it is such bad taste!" "why, sarah, business is the whole thing for me. there isn't anything else i can talk about except you." "talk about me, then. i shall have to keep you out of jane's way. i don't want you to talk to her about things i don't understand." "why not?" she shivered and drew me closer to her. "because, jane--i am afraid of jane. she is so strong, and i am so weak. if she wanted you, or anybody, she would take you." for all reply to this nonsense i kissed her good night. chapter xi marriage _old scenes--how home looks after the city--my sister-in-law--in the country a man grows old--the judge once more--i make will a suggestion--the joy of success--my wedding breakfast--unexpected talk--the hand of jane_ just before we were married, sarah and i went down to my old home in jasonville. she was determined that i should make it up with my folks; it hurt her gentle heart to think that i had lived all these years without any news of my kin. it was a freezing january day when we drove up to the red brick house next the store. as we rattled over the rutty streets in the depot carriage, and passed the small frame houses all closed in for the winter, i couldn't help feeling a most pharisaical pleasure in knowing that i wasn't condemned to live in this bleak little town. when i knocked at the door, mother came to see who was there. she knew me at once, but she looked at me slowly, in the questioning way i remembered so well, before she said:-- "well, van! you've come back?" "yes, mother, and brought with me the best girl in the world." "i am glad to see you both," she said quietly. "and how's father?" i asked nervously. "your father died nearly three years ago. we didn't know where to send word to you." there was no reproach in her voice; it was as if she expected nothing of me. we went into the house and sat down, and began to talk. it was solemn and painful all around, and if it hadn't been for sarah i should have been taking an early train for chicago. but she was sunny and light-hearted, and seemed to take pleasure in being there. while we were sitting in the front room talking to mother, a young woman came in with two small children hiding in her skirts. "your brother will's wife," mother explained quickly. "why, may!" i exclaimed, a little embarrassed, "i didn't exactly look for this. will didn't let me know--i--" "we wanted to write you, but we didn't know where you were. i am very glad to see you, van," may said quietly, a little smile curving up from her lips in a way that reminded me of the girl i once loved. she took both sarah's hands and looked straight into her eyes. "and this is your wife, van?" "not quite, yet." of course i had told sarah all about may, and i thought she might be cold to her, meeting her in this way of a sudden as will's wife. she always said may had been hard that time before--had been too keen about her good principles to be a real woman. yet, as they stood there looking into each other's eyes, i could see that they would come together very soon. sarah smiled as if to say: "it's all right, my dear! you see, i am glad you turned him away that time. we have no reason to quarrel, have we?" [illustration: _i could see that they would come together very soon._] may began to blush under that smile, as though she knew what was in sarah's mind. then mother brought up may's two little boys, who went to sarah at once. will was away somewhere and didn't come home until supper. i thought he looked pretty old for his age. perhaps business was poor in jasonville. the country ages a man fast when things go hard with him. at first he was stiffish to me, taken aback by our unexpected visit, but pretty soon he thawed to sarah, who talked with him about his boys. after dinner will and i went to the barn and had a long smoke. he told me that the judge had pressed father pretty hard before he died, and after his death there wasn't much saved but the store, and that was mortgaged. and the business didn't amount to anything, according to will. the mail-order business had cut into the country trade pretty badly by that time, and country people had begun more and more to go to the city to buy their goods. moreover, time had shown that jasonville lay to one side of the main lines of traffic. in short, will had to scrape the barrel to get a living out of the old store. he asked how it had been with me, and it gave me considerable pride to tell him what i had been doing. i told him about the packing business, my sausage factory, the deal with strauss. he opened his eyes as he smoked my good cigar. "so you struck it rich after all, van!" there was something on his mind, and after a time he managed to say:-- "i hope you won't have any more hard feeling for mother and me. we all treated you pretty harsh that time; we never gave you credit for what you had in you, van." "i guess it would have taken a prophet to see i had anything in me more than foolishness," i laughed. "anyhow, it was the best thing that ever happened to me, will, and i can't be too thankful that you folks in jasonville threw me out." "yes, jasonville ain't just the place for an ambitious man," he sighed. "and, van,--about may,--it wasn't hardly fair. she cared most for you, then, at any rate; she wouldn't marry me, not for five years." "don't say another word, will. may will make the best sort of sister. she's the right kind." so that was the way we made it up as two brothers should. and the next morning, after doing some thinking over night about how i could best help my brother and may, i followed will over to the store. on the way i met the old judge, looking hardly a day older than when i saw him last. he eyed me hard, as if he didn't know me from the last tramp, but i stopped him and greeted him. "so you're loose once more," he grinned. "i see they shut you up as soon as you struck chicago." he had a good time laughing at his little joke. "yes," i replied, "i am out once more, judge. and, from what i hear, the harringtons have been paying you pretty well for all the green peaches i ever took off your place." he mumbled something, but i turned on my heel, rather proud of myself if the truth be told, being well dressed, with an air of city prosperity. will was in the bit of an office behind the store. the old place was as mussy and dirty as ever, with fat files of dusty old letters and accounts. the old desk where father used to make up his bills was littered with last year's mail. it was sunday, and the musty smell of the closed store came in through the door. it all gave me the forlornest feeling i had had in years. "this will never pay, will," i said to my brother, who was turning the leaves of a worm-eaten day-book. "the time when the small business would pay a man anything worth while is pretty nearly over for good." "i suppose so," he replied despondently. "but somehow we must get a living out of it." "let the judge have it, if he'll take it. i can find you something better." there was a place in dround's that will might work into; and before long he could be of use to me in a scheme that was coming around the corner of my mind into sight. as i talked, will's eyes brightened. before we left the little office a new kind of look, the look of hope, had come over his face. i thought he seemed already some years younger. it takes the steps of a treadmill, downward faced, to crush the spirit in a man! that was a happy morning. surely, one of the joys of success is to give it away to the right ones. i remember a good many times in my life that i have had the pleasure of seeing that same look of hope, of a new spirit, come into a man's face, when i gave him his chance where he was least expecting it. "but, will, mind you, if you come to the city you'll no longer be your own man," i cautioned him. "dround'll own you, or i shall. no doing what you want! to work with me is to work under me. can you stand taking orders from your junior?" "i guess, van," he answered without any pride, "you have shown yourself to be the boss. i'll follow." that night, when will and may had left us at the junction where we were to take the chicago train, sarah brushed my arm with her cheek in a little intimate way she had and whispered:-- "may couldn't thank you. she feels it too much. you have made them so happy--there's a future now for them all. and i think, maybe, i can make you as good a wife as she could--perhaps better, some ways. may said so! though may is a very nice woman, and i shall always love her." "i guess you are both right," i replied, too happy to say much more. * * * * * a few weeks later and we were married. the drounds gave us a pretty little wedding breakfast, to which came the few friends i had in the world and a few of the many sarah had. if mrs. dround was a careless hostess sometimes, that was not the day. she was specially gracious to will and may, who were 'most strangers. it was all just as it should be, and i felt proud of myself to be there and to have this handsome, high-bred woman for my wife. it was sarah's idea that all the others should leave the house first, and that then we should slip away quietly to the train by ourselves. so at the last, while i was waiting for my bride to come downstairs, mrs. dround and i happened to be alone. she looked pale and worn, as if the people had tired her. she ordered the servants to take away the great bunches of roses that filled every nook in the room. "they are too sweet," she explained. "i like them--but in the next room." her fastidiousness surprised me, and, as always, i began to wonder about her. suddenly she leaned forward and spoke swiftly, intently:-- "i hope you and sarah will be happy together--really happy!" it was an ordinary kind of thing to say, but beneath the plain words there seemed to lie something personal. "we shall be happy, of course!" i answered lightly. "there's nothing against it in sight." "ah, my friend, you can't count that way! happiness is hard to get in this world, and you pass it by at odd corners and never know it." she smiled a little sadly, and then added in a more ordinary tone: "sarah tells me that you are to be away only a few days. does business tempt you so much that you can't resist it even now?" "well, i expect to love sarah just as much when i get back to work. business is a man's place, as the house is a woman's. take either out of their places for long, and something is likely to go wrong with them." she laughed at my satisfied wisdom. "are you so needed over there in the office?" "you must ask your husband that." "he says that you are the cleverest man they have had for years. does that make you proud?" "thank you!" "will you let the big dog strauss eat us?" she laughed on. "i'll tell you a few years later, madam." "yes," she mused, "you are right. a man, a strong man--and that's the only kind that is a man--must be at work. the sweetest love can't keep him long." here sarah's voice reached us:-- "you mustn't distract him to-day of all days, jane!" "he can't be distracted long, my child--by anybody!" * * * * * we had taken a pleasant house on one of the broad avenues to the south beyond the smoke bank, with a bit of a garden and a few trees. when we got back from new york we found supper waiting for us, roses on the table, a bottle of wine ready to open, and on the sideboard a box of cigars. "the hand of jane!" remarked my wife, as she rearranged the flowers and put the roses on the mantelpiece. "the hand of jane?" i repeated dully. "you mean mrs. dround did it all?" "yes, of course; it reaches everywhere." and sarah did not look as much pleased as i expected. chapter xii an honorable merchant _mr. dround's little weakness--an unpleasant occurrence--to the best of one's knowledge--"kissing goes by favor," and other things--switch-tracks and rebates--carmichael talks--an item of charity--our manager goes over to the enemy--i am offered his place--a little talk on the moral side--the dilemma of the righteous--what is, is good enough for me_ "mr. dround seems to be doing a good deal of talking for the benefit of his neighbors," slocum observed one day when i was in his office. "oh, he likes the job of making the country over! it suits him to talk more than to sell pork." "did you see what he said last night?" slocum continued. "no, what was it? free trade or college education?" for mr. henry i. dround was long on both subjects. he had always fooled more or less with politics, having come out as a mugwump and free-trader under cleveland. that kind of doctrine wasn't much in favor among the business men of chicago, but dround liked being in the minority. he was an easy, scholarly speaker, and was always ready to talk at dinners and public meetings. "it seems to me i saw something in the papers of his speaking at the jefferson club banquet," i went on; "but i didn't pay any attention to it. the old man is rather long on wind." "the papers missed most of the ginger. but i was there, and it was lively. jimmy birdsell, hart's man, was there, too. it was this new civil service bill that the silk stockings are trying to push through the legislature. of course, hart and the machine are fighting it like fire. well, your boss made the chief speech, a good little talk, about purity and business methods in government and the rest of it. birdsell sat just across the table from me, and i could see from the way he knocked his glasses about that he was getting hot. maybe he came there for a fight. at last he boiled over. "'say, mr. dround,' he sang out in a pause between two periods, 'how about your new switch-track over in ada street?' "dround looked toward him over his glasses for a moment, as though he hadn't heard what was said, and then he went ahead with his talk. but birdsell was some drunk and too mad to care what he did. the men beside him couldn't keep him quiet. 'i say, dround,' he broke out again pretty soon, 'we should like to hear what your firm does when it wants any little favors from the city? that might be to the point just now!' "this time dround couldn't pass it over. he took a drink of water and his hand shook. then he said: 'i do not see that this is the proper time to introduce a personal matter, but since the gentleman seems concerned about my business honor, i am glad to set his mind at rest. to the best of my knowledge, henry i. dround & co. have never asked and never accepted any favors from the city. is that satisfactory?' "'come, now, mr. dround,' birdsell sneered, 'that isn't generally believed, you know.' "'i said,' your boss ripped back, '_to the best of my knowledge_, your insinuation is a lie!' he leaned forward and glared at birdsell. well, there was a kind of awkward pause, everybody waiting to see what would come next; and then birdsell, who must have been pretty drunk, called back: 'ask your man john carmichael what he does when he wants anything from the city. ask him about your rebates, too. then the next time you come here telling us how to be good, you'll know more.' there was a cat-and-dog time after that, some yelling to put birdsell out, and others laughing and clapping." slocum paused, and then added:-- "it put mr. dround in a tight place." "what of it, anyhow?" said i. "birdsell is nothing but a yellow dog. hart keeps him to lick his platters. every one knows that." "yes, that's so. but he said what most every one believes is true." "that kissing goes by favor, and most other things in this world, too. well, what of it?" slocum leaned back in his chair and laughed. then he said to me seriously:-- "you aren't much troubled with scruples, van!" "come, what's the use of talking good? you and i know well enough that there isn't any other way of doing business, not in any city in the country. you have got to pay for what you get, the same as elsewhere. dround ought to know it, too, by this time, and not go 'round preaching loose--or else get out of business, which might be better!" [illustration: "_you aren't much troubled with scruples, van!_"] "i suppose so," slocum replied solemnly. "but i always liked his sermons. perhaps you and carmichael could tone him down a bit just now." "oh, john don't mind his speeches, so long as he don't interfere with the business!" we went out to lunch, and talked of other matters, and for several days i thought no more of the incident that slocum had related. the switch-track business did not seem to me important. if the reformers wanted to get after us, or any other big firm, there were many more vulnerable points than that. special privileges from the city we regarded as our rights. but there was the graft of railroad rates. any fool could tell that, at the published tariff rates, there would be little business for the packers outside of chicago. it was common knowledge that the trade was honeycombed with private agreements and rebate privileges, and that the fiercest part of the business was to get the right rate from the roads. then there were the secret agreements between the packers, which were all illegal, but necessary to keep the trade from cutting prices all the time. carmichael attended to this end of the business for dround, as he did of everything of real importance. he was a member of the firm now, and the wonder to me was that this smart irishman could put up with dround. it could hardly be a matter of sentiment with him. i had a warm feeling for the illiterate junior member, with a temper about an inch long, but a big, round heart open to any friend. he had bucked his way up in the world by main force, and i admired him. besides, he had taught me how to eat, so to speak. in a word, i liked his way of doing things better than mr. dround's college talk. well, it happened that the cur birdsell set some of the civil service reformers on the tracks of brother dround, and they got a smart newspaper reporter to work over the whole matter. there was a lively write-up in one of the papers, all about our switch-track over in ada street, with photographs and figures, and a lot more about the way the packers did business with the city. when i read the piece in the paper i took the trouble to pass by our new warehouse on my way to the office. the trackage was in, sure enough. carmichael was just the man to have a thing done and settled by the time the public got around to talk about it! mr. dround was in his office bright and early this morning, and sent for me. "harrington," he began, "what do you know about this talk in the papers?" mr. dround seemed very nervous, not sure of himself. "why," i smiled, "i don't know much more than what the papers said. mr. carmichael, you know--" "yes," mr. dround interrupted impatiently, "mr. carmichael is in new york, gets back this morning; but i thought you might--" he hesitated, not wishing to admit his own ignorance. "i will send for you later when mr. carmichael comes in," he concluded. so when john arrived he had us both in his office. "you want to see me?" carmichael asked gruffly, as if he hadn't much time that morning to waste on the senior member. "yes, i wish to talk over certain matters that concern us all, even though they may have no immediate bearing upon the business." mr. dround always talked like that when he got the least nervous. "well, what is it?" carmichael asked. he had just arrived, and i suppose his letters interested him more than mr. dround's talk. "you may not have seen the articles in the morning papers--about--about certain privileges which it is alleged--" "what are the boys yapping about now?" carmichael demanded, taking up a newspaper from the desk and thrusting his shoulders forward in an ugly fashion. "it concerns our permit to lay that new switch-track," mr. dround explained. carmichael laid the paper down and looked at the senior member in a curious way, as if he were trying to make out just what kind of a fool he had to deal with. but as he said nothing, mr. dround continued:-- "recently i had occasion to deny categorically that, so far as i knew, our firm ever made any such kind of arrangement as is here described. my word was challenged. it was a very painful situation, i need not say. since then i have been thinking--i have been wondering whether this charge--" he floundered pitifully, disliking to mouth the dreadful words. john helped him out brutally:-- "you wonder whether we had to grease anybody's paw about that switch-track over in ada street?" dround nodded. "the papers say so!" "they have to print something, don't they? what harm does that do us? i wouldn't trust the whole d----n bunch of papers with a ten-dollar bill. they're a lot of blackmailers--that's what they are!" john bit off the end of a cigar and spat it out in front of mr. dround. "we are not concerned with the newspapers or their motives, mr. carmichael," the senior member observed with considerable dignity. "what i want is your assurance that this firm--that, so far as we are concerned, this accusation is false." we waited for the irishman's reply. it would be an easy matter to tell a fib and set mr. dround's mind at rest. but carmichael seemed to be in a specially bad temper this morning. when he went to new york he was accustomed to enjoy himself, and it was not the right time to badger a man just off the cars. pretty soon john said fiercely:-- "it's my business to look after such matters?" mr. dround nodded. "don't i do it satisfactorily?" mr. dround waived this point. "well, i guess you'll have to be content with that." "mr. carmichael," the senior member leaped to his feet, "you forget yourself! you will be good enough to answer me yes or no, to my direct question. did you or did you not pay money for this privilege?" carmichael's voice shook as he replied:-- "see here, dround! if you don't know your own business enough to know the answer, i don't see why i should tell you." his temper was going with every word he said. "but if you want to know, you shall! there hasn't been such a thing as a private switch-track put down in this city since you began doing business for less than seven thousand dollars. i paid the right people ninety-five hundred dollars for ours. there, you've got it! now what are you going to do about it?" [illustration: "_i paid the right people ninety-five hundred dollars. now what are you going to do about it?_"] the big irishman plumped his two red fists on mr. dround's desk and glared at him. at that moment i pitied the old gentleman heartily; he was never born to do business, at least in our day. he seemed to shrivel up under carmichael's words. "how, may i ask," he said at last in a low tone, "was this done without my knowledge? how does it appear on the books?" carmichael laughed at the simple question. "charity! we are a very charitable concern!" mr. dround's lips trembled, and he cried out rather than spoke:-- "no, never! better to fail! better to go bankrupt at once!" he was talking to himself. then he recollected us and said with dignity:-- "that is all, mr. carmichael. after this i shall attend to all such matters myself. good morning, gentlemen." he sat down at his desk, dismissing us. carmichael was shaking with anger. "no!" he cried, "it isn't all! turn me out of your office like a boy, with my orders, when it's me that have stood between you and ruin any day these ten years! what would your business be worth if it weren't for john carmichael? ask harrington here. go out and ask your bank--" "i don't believe we need to discuss this any further--" mr. dround began. "yes, we will! get somebody else to do your dirty business for you. for, let me tell you right here, henry i. dround, that i don't go broke with you, not for all your college talk and prin-ci-ples." mr. dround pointed to the door. he was trembling again. i took the big irishman by the arm and led him from the office. outside the door he shook me off, and hurled himself into his own office. that was the first wind of the storm, and the rest wasn't long in coming. somebody told me that carmichael had been seen with one of strauss's lieutenants going into a law office that did some of the big packer's work. it looked as though he were making a deal with the strauss crowd. it seemed natural enough to me that carmichael should do this, but i was sorry for what must come. meantime, mr. dround was more assiduous at business than i had ever known him to be. he came early, and instead of driving over to his club for luncheon took a bite in his office, and put in the afternoons going into all departments of the business. in the end, the trouble came to a head in this way: in company with every large shipper at that period we made our bargain with the roads; no large firm and no railroad pretended to live up to the law in the matter of rates. the roads sold their transportation, as we sold ribs and lard--for the highest figure they could get. before any considerable contract was entered into the thrifty shipper saw to his rate in advance. and some time later there came along from the railroad that got the business a check in the way of "adjustment." the senior member, in his new energy, discovered one of these rebates. he sent it back to the traffic manager of the road with a letter such as the roads were not in the habit of getting from their favored shippers. the second vice-president and general traffic manager of that line attended the same church the drounds went to, and the president of the road, also, was one of dround's friends. i wonder what they thought when their attention was called to this little matter! carmichael told me what had happened with a wicked grin on his face. "righteous man, henry i. dround, all right! d----n good business man, too," he commented. "what do you think is going to happen to this concern? he's chucked away the profits of that contract!" "you aren't planning to stay, john?" i remarked casually. he looked at me and laughed. "do you want to come with me when i get out?" i smiled, but said nothing. there was no open row between mr. dround and the junior member of the firm this time. but a few weeks later mr. dround told me what i already knew--that he and carmichael were about to part. i advised him bluntly to make it up with the irishman if he could,--not to part with him at any cost. "for, mr. dround, you will find him fighting on the other side; strauss will have him." he knew as well as i what that meant to his business, but he said with new determination:-- "mr. carmichael and i can never do business together again." then he offered to take me into partnership on the same basis that carmichael had. i suppose he expected me to jump at my chance, but the prospect was not altogether inviting. "i ought to say, mr. dround," i replied hesitatingly, "that i think carmichael was right in this rebate business, and in the other matter, too. if i had been in his place i should have done the same thing--any man would. it's against human nature to sit still and be eaten alive!" mr. dround's eyes lowered, and he turned his face away from me. his spirit was somewhat daunted: perhaps he began to realize what it meant to stand out alone against the commercial system of the age. nevertheless, he said some things, perfectly true, about the honor and integrity of his firm. as it had been handed over to him by his father, so he would keep it, please god. "that's all right," i said a little impatiently. "that might do in times gone by. but carmichael and i have got to live in the present. that means a fight. i would like to stay on and fight it out with you. but i can't see the use on your basis. look!" i pointed out of his window to a new refrigerator building that strauss was putting up under our noses. "that is only one: you know the others. he is growing every day. you can't expect us to sit here twiddling our thumbs and thinking of our virtue while he gets the business! better to sell out to strauss right here and now, while there is something to sell." "never!" mr. dround cried with unaccustomed vehemence. "never to him!" "well, then, we've got our work cut out for us, and let us waste no more time talking rebates and the rest of it." "yet that horrid scandal about the switch-track," he resumed in his old weak way. "nothing has done so much to hurt my position in the city as that!" "but what are you going to do about it?" i asked in carmichael's very words. "those thieves over there in the council hold you up. what good does it do the public for you to refuse their price? it's like paying for the right to put up a house on your own lot--it's tough, but you had better pay and not worry." "mr. harrington, i refuse to believe that in our country an honorable business cannot be conducted successfully by honorable methods." "that depends on what you choose to call honorable methods. at any rate," i concluded in disgust, "you are likely to have a good chance to try that proposition to the bitter end, unless you take my advice and sell to your chief competitor." he waived this aside impatiently. "well, then, look for the fight of your life just to survive, not to make money. i tell you, mr. dround, strauss is out there waiting to eat us all up. and you have thrown him your general for a beginning." "but i trust that i have another as good or better," he said with his usual flourish of courtesy. we had some more talk, he urging me to stay with him, although i let him see plainly where i stood on the matter of rebates, private agreements, and all the rest of the underground machinery of business. "if i take your offer," i said at last, "i shall use the old weapons--you must know that. there are no morals in business that i recognize except those that are written on the statute book. it is dog eat dog, mr. dround, and i don't propose to be the dog that's eaten." even then he did not stop urging me, salving his conscience by saying: "it saddens me to hear as young a man as you take that cynical view. it is a strange time we are coming to. i pray it may not be a worse time for the country!" to my mind there was something childish in the use of those words "better" and "worse." every age is a new one, and to live in any age you have got to have the fingers and toes necessary for that age. the forces which lie in us and make those triumph who do triumph in the struggle have been in men from the beginning of time. there's little use in trying to stop their sweep, or to sit and cry like dround by the roadside, because you don't like the game. for my part, i went with the forces that are, willingly, gladly, believing in them no matter how ugly they might look. so history reads: the men who lead accept the conditions of their day. and the others follow along just the same; while the world works and changes and makes itself over according to its destiny. chapter xiii the will of a woman _a family scene--sarah's ideas--we dine--carmichael comes in--visions of empire--almost persuaded--common people--the touch of mind and mind--mr. dround becomes ill, and we miss big john--the garden by the lake--a bit of old marble and other things--inspiration--outlining a campaign--the big gamble_ after all, it was the will of a woman, perhaps of two women, that settled this business matter, for even in business--in the groping for position and money--the woman's share is large. wherever a man's will is in play she brings her influence, soft and sure and hidden. when i left mr. dround that afternoon i was not ready to put the little fortune i had made, and, what was more, my life energy, into his forlorn enterprise. not to hurt his feelings, i asked for time to consider his offer, and went home to tell my wife about the change in our affairs, considerably puzzled what to do. we had just moved into a larger house near the lake; the place had some pretty ground around it, and a large stable. it was all that our means warranted, and a little more. but sarah had a passion for having people about, and there was a boy now to be considered. the air was supposed to be better for him farther away from the city smoke. sarah had been delicate and nervous ever since the child was born, and i was glad to have her mind busy with the big new plaything. a nurse in uniform was just coming into the gate when i arrived. it seems that little ned had a cold, and though he looked lively enough when i went into his room, sarah was hovering over him as if he had lung trouble. "the doctor thought i should have a trained nurse," sarah explained. "of course he doesn't expect any serious results, but one should take every precaution. and mary is so careless, and we have those people coming to dinner to-night, and are going to the theatre." i had forgotten that we were to have guests this evening. while we were dressing, i told sarah about the trouble between dround and his old manager, and how they had finally parted. "that's just what i should have expected from mr. dround!" my wife exclaimed approvingly. "it must have been annoying for mr. dround to have such a dishonest person connected with him." "well, that is one way of looking at it i hadn't thought of!" i laughed. "that carmichael man is just an irish brute! i suppose you have to put up with such people in the packing business, but i couldn't have them in my house." "the carmichaels don't trouble us much," i replied, smiling to myself at sarah's ideas of things. "and john's all right--as honest as most men. this isn't just a case of stealing somebody's wash from the back yard, you know." "but it's just as wrong! it's dishonest!" she cried with a proud tone in her voice. she came across the room and took hold of me by the shoulders. "van, you don't believe in bribing people and such things? why, you're too big and strong and handsome"--she gave me a kiss--"to do such common things!" "well, i don't know; it depends how you call it." but she gave me another kiss, and before we could recover from this argument there was a knock at the dressing-room door. "my, van! there's the first of them, and i haven't my dress hooked. you run and send mary to me!" that rather closed the topic for the present. there were ten of us at dinner, and we tried to keep up a chatter about the little things that sarah had trained me to talk of when i was in company--the theatres and the opera, mrs. doodle's new place in the country, or old steele's picture by the french painter. but to-night it was hard work: my thoughts would wander back to the yards. at last the ladies left us to put on their wraps, and the men were lighting their cigars, when a servant told me that a man was waiting in the hall to see me. it was carmichael. "why didn't you come right out, john?" i exclaimed. "some of your friends are out there." "no, thanks, van," he growled. "i ain't got my fancy clothes on this trip, and maybe your wife wouldn't think me good enough for her friends" (which was pretty close to the truth). "but i come to see you about something important." sarah rustled into the hall just then. "van!" she said, bowing coldly to john, "we are all waiting for you." "better go, harrington," carmichael said sarcastically, reaching for his hat; "business don't count when there's a party goin' on." "oh, it's business!" sarah's voice could carry a deal of scorn. "leave a ticket for me and i'll follow later," i replied impatiently, leading carmichael into my library. "very well," sarah answered, and swept out of the hall without a look for the irishman. carmichael took a cigar, poured out a long drink of whiskey, and thrust his ungainly figure into a chair before the fire without saying a word. after a time he ripped out:-- "you aren't thinking of staying with old dround?" "that depends--" i began. "dround'll go broke inside of two years," he interrupted savagely. "his credit ain't much to boast of now, and when it gets around that i have drawn out, it won't improve." "that's true enough," i admitted. "the london and chicago company is going into the hands of receivers this week," he went on confidentially. "that was another of your tony houses managed from england! strauss'll most likely get their plants at twenty cents on the dollar, and he'll get dround when the time comes." i made no remark, and after smoking for a time he leaned over toward me, saying impressively:-- "young feller, do you reckon you can buck up against me and the strauss crowd with that one-horse rig?" [illustration: "_young feller, do you reckon you can buck up against me and the strauss crowd with that one-horse rig?_"] it seemed to me highly improbable that any man could perform this feat, but i held my tongue. carmichael should make his bid in his own way. finally he whispered almost solemnly:-- "want to make big money?" and he began to bid, lowering his loud voice and beating the arm of his chair to clinch his argument. he spoke of the great revolution throughout the business world, coming consolidations, far-reaching plans that the strauss people had had in mind for a long time, the control of railroads and steamship lines--all leading to one conclusion, one end--the complete mastery of food products by strauss and his allies. we had in more whiskey and cigars for the irishman, who had a head like a rock. as he drank and talked, his brain was fired by a kind of rude imagination for the vast reach of what he saw. he opened himself to me without reserve, as if he already held me in his hand. the hours sped by; a carriage drove up to the house, and i knew that sarah had returned from the theatre. but carmichael talked on. through his words i could see those vast industrial forces that had been shaping themselves for ages now fast rushing on toward their fulfilment. ever since my head had been above the horizon, so to speak, i had seen straws borne on this wind. but now the mighty change was imminent; those who survived another decade would look out upon a very different world from that we had grown up with. that is what carmichael and i saw that night, and when the door finally closed on my visitor i felt that it was settled: i should fight with the stronger army, side by side with carmichael.... i was standing before the dead fire, thinking, when the door opened and sarah came in, her hair loosened over her white dressing-gown. she looked strangely pale and troubled. "van!" she cried sharply. "what have you to do with that dishonest carmichael? what business has he with you? he makes me afraid; and you never came to the theatre at all!" "you're dreaming, sal." i took her on my knee. "john just came to tell me how to make your everlasting fortune." "but you are not to leave mr. dround?" "just that." "leave mr. dround and go with that dishonest man! what are you thinking of, van harrington?" that instinct of women, which people talk about, sometimes acts like a fog: it keeps them from seeing any one thing clearly. sarah could only see the drounds and the piece in the paper about bribing. so we talked it over, like husband and wife, arriving nowhere in particular, and finally i said at random:-- "you would like to be rich, to have a lot of money, more than you ever thought to have--millions, maybe?" "would it mean all that?" she asked slowly. i laughed at the way she took my bait. "millions and millions, maybe." "would it be dishonest, van?" "we don't calculate on going to prison," i joked. "well," she reflected, "of course you know best. i don't believe a woman should interfere in her husband's business. but the carmichaels and the strausses are such common people, even if they are so awfully rich. they haven't the position the drounds have." when it came to that i kissed her and put out the lights. * * * * * in this life few intimacies fill the full orb of a man's being. most men of affairs whom i have known, very wisely shut down their desks before coming home, and shut therein a good slice of themselves. perhaps they do not care to trust any one, even a wife, with their secrets. perhaps they do not need to share those restless hours of anxiety that come to all men who go into the market to make money. the wife should mean peace and affection: that is right and proper. nevertheless, there come times when a man must talk out his whole soul to one who understands the language of it. for he hungers to say to another what he scarcely dares say to himself, what is shut up in the dark of his thoughts. it is not advice that he needs, but sympathy--to reveal to another that web of purpose which he has woven, which is himself. many a man who has carried burdens silently long years knows what i mean. the touch of hand to hand is much: the touch of mind with mind is more. not that sarah and i failed to be good married lovers. she was my dear wife. but there are some last honesties that even a wife penetrates not--moments when the building of years is shaking in the storm; moments of loneliness, when mad thoughts arise in a sober head, and a man gropes to find what there is not even in the heart of the woman he loves. * * * * * dround was not at the office the next morning: they telephoned from his house that he was ill. worry, perhaps, had brought on one of his nervous attacks. meantime, it was easy to see the effect of carmichael's loss all over the place. down to the girls in the mailing room, the force knew that something was wrong with the concern. you can't keep real news from spreading: people are good conductors of electricity; their thoughts leak. in any business, the trouble at the head runs all along the line to the office boys. later in the day there came a message from mr. dround asking to see me at his house before i went home. it was plain enough what he wanted of me, and i disliked the coming interview. for i should have to tell him that i had decided to desert to his enemies. there was no other way, as i saw it. and yet it seemed like ingratitude. that was what his wife would think, and i saw her looking at me, a scornful smile on her lips. however, this was no matter for sentiment. if her husband had been another sort of man,--if he had any dare in him,--it might have been worth while to try a fall with carmichael and strauss. but as it was, i felt no desire to follow a funeral. maybe she would understand.... as i turned into the avenue near dround's house there was a fresh little breeze from the lake, blowing the smoke away from the city and cooling the air after the warm day. it was quiet and peaceful on the broad avenue--a very different kind of place from the dirty yards whence i had come. it made me feel all the more that dround didn't belong in packington. i sat waiting some time for mr. dround, and was growing impatient when his wife came into the room. "mr. dround is engaged with his doctor," she said. "won't you step into the garden with me?" behind the house, hidden from a cross street by a brick wall, was a little green lawn with one old willow tree. it was a pretty, restful kind of place, hardly to be looked for so near the heart of the city. in one corner there was a stone bench and some chairs, and a table with books and tea things. across the top of the wall one could see a line of gray where the horizon met the lake. "pleasant place!" i exclaimed, looking across the little garden out to the lake. "yes, it makes the city in summer tolerable." her eyes followed mine as they rested on a bit of marble, old and sculptured with yellow figures, that had been set into the wall. "i brought that from siena," she explained. "it was in an old wall there. it reminds me of italy," she added, touching the marble lightly with her fingers. suddenly she turned to me with a swift question:-- "so you're to be our new mr. carmichael?" it was not woman's mere haphazard quizzing: she demanded the truth. "no," i replied gravely, after a moment's hesitation. "mrs. dround, i have come here to tell mr. dround that i must decline his offer. i have other--" "you are going over to them!" she cried quickly. there was no reproach in her voice, but she gave me a keen look that read to the bottom of my mind. "you will be a tool for the jew and the irishman!" there was a smile on her lips and a touch of scorn in her voice. "tell me, why?" and i told her, as i might a man whom i trusted, just what the situation was--how disastrous had been the row with carmichael, and how foolish the cause, as i thought. she listened without questions, and i went on to cover the whole matter--to tell of the large plans that our great rival undoubtedly had in view, plans which meant ultimately the consolidation of the entire business in some great corporation under his control. it was as clear to me as handwriting what he was aiming for--the entire food-products business of the country; and it would take a stronger man than henry i. dround to stand against him. "so, mrs. dround," i concluded, "the best thing you and i can do for mr. dround is to advise him to retire, to sell out--" "he would never do that," she interrupted me quietly. "you must make him see it," i urged. "there are some things i cannot do. you will not understand; i cannot tell you--it is not my right. only he will go on to the bitter end." i bowed. there was nothing further to be said, and we sat silently for a few minutes. "but are you sure," she began again, "that that would be the best way? is it best to run to your enemy, crying for quarter?" "not if you can put up a good fight!" she drew her fingers caressingly over the outlines of the old marble. "i think you could put up the right kind of a fight," she remarked quietly. "suppose that you saw your way clear to go in--to fight--what would you do?" "the first thing," i said, smiling, "would be to hit strauss between the eyes." [illustration: "i think you could put up the right kind of a fight," she remarked quietly.] "just how?" "do what he is doing, if i could: get together all the independent concerns that could be bought or persuaded into joining. then you would be in a position to make terms with the railroads and force agreements from the big fellows. and i shouldn't let my scruples stand in the way, either," i added hardily. "naturally not--if the others were the same kind!" "and if your husband were made like you," i thought to myself, "the chance would be worth the trying." "if," i continued aloud, "you could get the jevons brothers, the e.h. harris company, griscom, in omaha, and two or three others, there would be a beginning. and there is this london and chicago concern, which could be had cheap," i mused half to myself, remembering carmichael's words. "i was sure you knew what must be done," she took me up in the same cool, assured tone. "you aren't the man to follow in the traces. you are the kind that leads, that builds. and this is building! what is the first step?" i looked at her, but this time i did not laugh. she had risen from the stone bench and stood gazing out across the quiet sward to the blue lake beyond. her dark features were alight with enthusiasm. then she looked over at me inquiringly, expecting me to take her lead, to walk on boldly with her. and there of a sudden--for until that moment there was nothing in my mind but to tell mr. dround that i was to leave him--there shot into my head a plan of how this thing might be handled, the sketch of a great campaign. all the seeds of thought, the full years' schemings, the knowledge and experience of life i had been getting--everything that was within me came surging up into one grand purpose. how it came to me of a sudden, born of a few words this woman had spoken here in the garden by the blue lake, is beyond my explanation. suddenly i saw a way, clear and broad ahead--the way for me to travel. "you will have to take the first steps by yourself--manage this london and chicago company affair on your own responsibility." mrs. dround's voice was now matter-of-fact, as though the time for clear thinking had come. "then, when you have your plans ready--know just what must be done--you will have the necessary help. i can promise that!" i understood what she meant--that mr. dround was not to be approached until the scheme was ripe. then she would swing him to a decision. that was the wise way. "you are right," i agreed. "it would be useless to trouble him until the land is mapped. when it comes to forming the company--" "yes, then," she interrupted, seeing my point. "then i shall be of use." "my,--but it's a big gamble!" i said low to myself. "that is the only kind worth making!" she flashed. it struck the right note in my heart. she held out her hand, and i took it in mine. "we're partners on this thing!" i smiled. "yes--to the end. now, shall we go to mr. dround?" here was a woman who should have headed a regiment, or run a railroad, or sat at a game with a large stake! mr. dround opened the door on the veranda and came forward, walking feebly. "how do you do, harrington?" he greeted me, giving me a thin, feverish hand. "the doctor's been gone a good while, jane," he added querulously. "i have been waiting for you in the library." mrs. dround moved away while we discussed some matters of urgency, and then mr. dround said hesitantly: "i hope you see your way clear, harrington, to accepting my offer. it promises a great future for a man as young as you, with your energy," he added a trifle pompously. "it is pretty late to talk of that to-night," i replied, evasively. mrs. dround was walking slowly toward us; she stopped by the marble piece in the wall and seemed to be examining it. but i knew that she was listening. "there are some plans i want to talk over with you first. if they prove satisfactory to you, we could make an arrangement, perhaps." mrs. dround turned her head and looked at us inquiringly. "oh, very well; i expect to be at the office to-morrow. this commission for the exposition takes a great deal of my time and energy just now." (it was the year before the great fair, and mr. dround was one of the commissioners for that enterprise.) "but we will take up your plans at once," he concluded graciously, giving me his hand. * * * * * there was a family party at my house that evening. will had arrived from texas, where he had been to look over the field for me, and may was visiting us with her children. as i walked up the path to the house on my return from mr. dround's, i could hear sarah's low laugh. she and may were rocking back and forth behind the vines of the piazza, watching the children at their supper. may was looking almost plump and had a pleasant flush on either cheek; for good times had made her blossom out. but sarah was the handsomer woman, with her wavy, rich brown hair and soft profile. instead of may's prim little mouth, her lips were always half open, ready to smile. as i kissed her, she exclaimed:-- "where have you been, van?" "seeing some one." "i know," she said with a pout. "you have been with that horrid irishman. well, i hope you made him give you just loads of money." "but suppose i haven't been to see john?" i asked laughingly, thinking she would be delighted to find out i was to keep on with dround. "suppose i took your advice?" "what! are you going to stay with mr. dround, after all? and all that money you were telling me about--millions!" she drawled in her soft voice like a disappointed child. she seemed troubled to know that after all i had given up my chance to make money with strauss and carmichael. "i guess we shan't starve, sarah," i laughed back. "you must do what you think best," she said finally, and repeated her favorite maxim, "i don't believe in a woman's interfering in a man's business." after supper, as we sat out in the warm night, will talked of his trip through the southwest. "it's a mighty big country down there, and not touched. you folks up north here haven't begun to see what is coming to that country. it's the new promised land!" and he went raving on in the style i love to hear, with the sunshine of great lands on his face and the wind from the prairies blowing low in his voice. it was like music that set my thoughts in flow, and i began to see my scheme unfold, stretch out, embrace this new fertile country, reach on to foreign shores.... then my thoughts went back to the garden by the lake, with the piece of yellow marble in the wall. "that's a pretty little place the drounds have behind their house," i remarked vaguely to sarah in a pause of will's enthusiasm. "what were you doing in the drounds' garden?" sarah asked quickly. "oh, talking business!" "it's a queer place to talk business." "it's a pretty place, and there's a piece of marble in the wall they got in italy--siena, or some such place." "so you were talking business with jane?" sarah persisted. "well, you can call it that. tell me more about that country, will. maybe the future will take us there." in the warm, peaceful evening, with a good cigar, anything seemed possible. while the women talked of schools and the children's clothes, i saw visions of the coming year--of the great gamble! chapter xiv the first move _the chicago and london packing company--bidding for bonds--a man named lokes--a consideration for services performed--bribery--a sheriff's sale--we take the trick--the tail of a snake--not a gospel game_ slocum had been after the bondholders' protective committee of the london and chicago company. there were only a million and a half of bonds out, which, before their smash, could be picked up for less than twenty. lately, on the rumor that one of the strong chicago houses was bidding for them, their price had risen somewhat. the hand of carmichael working through one of the smaller corporations controlled by strauss was plain enough to one who watched, and i resolved as the first step in my campaign to outwit my old boss in this little deal. from the price of the bonds it was evident that carmichael was offering the bondholders about twenty-five for the control. i told slocum to give forty and then arrange to bid the property in at the sheriff's sale. the lawyer reported that two of the bondholders' committee were favorable to our terms: they hated the strauss crowd, and they were afraid to wait for better terms, as money was hardening all the time. but the third man, who had been the treasurer of the defunct corporation, held out for a higher figure. slocum thought that this man, whose name was lokes, might be dickering with carmichael secretly to secure some favors for himself in the deal. this lokes was not unknown to me, and i considered slocum's suspicions well founded. he had left behind him in kansas city a bad name, and here in chicago he ran with a set of small politicians, serving as a middleman between them and the financial powers who used them. in short, i knew of but one way to deal with a gentleman like mr. lokes, and i had made up my mind to use that way. slocum made an appointment with lokes in his office, and i went there to meet him and arrange to get the london and chicago outfit with as little delay as possible. lokes was a small, smooth-shaven fellow, very well dressed, with something the air of a horsy gentleman. first he gave us a lot of talk about the value of the london and chicago properties, and the duty of his committee to the bondholders. he and his associates had no mind to let the property go for a song. i made up my mind just what inducement would reach him, while he and slocum argued about the price of the bonds. when lokes began to throw out carmichael at us, i broke in:-- "mr. lokes, you know there isn't much in this deal for that crowd. but i don't mind telling you frankly that it is of prime importance to the interests we represent." slocum looked up at me, mystified, but i went on:-- "we propose to form a large packing company, into which we shall take a number of concerns on which we have options. we want this property first. when our company is formed we might make it very well worth your while having been friendly to us in this transaction." lokes didn't move a muscle: this was the talk he had been waiting for, but he wanted to hear the figures. i told him enough of our plans to let him see that we had good backing and to whet his appetite. "now we have offered your committee forty cents on the dollar for your bonds, which is fifteen more than the other crowd will give you. if you will induce your associates to take bonds in our corporation, we will give you fifty, instead of forty--and," i concluded slowly, "there will be fifty thousand dollars of preferred stock for your services." at the word "services" slocum jumped up from the table where he had been seated and walked over to the window, then came back to the table, and tried to attract my attention. but i kept my eyes on lokes. "what will you do for the others?" lokes asked significantly, meaning his two associates on the committee. "nothing!" i said shortly. "you will look after them. they will do what you say. that is what we pay for." it was plain enough that i was offering him a good-sized bribe for his services in turning over to us the assets of the london and chicago concern rather than to our rivals, and for bonds in the prospective company instead of cash. that did not trouble him: he was aware that he had not been asked to meet me to talk of the health of the bankrupt company of which he had been the treasurer. lokes thought awhile, asked some more questions about our company, and finally hinted at his preference for cash for his services. "either forty cash with no bonus for your services, or fifty in bonds with the preferred stock for you," i answered shortly. pretty soon he took his hat and said he was going to see his associates on the committee, and would be back in the course of the afternoon. "he's gone over to carmichael," i remarked to slocum, when he had closed the office door behind mr. lokes. "but john won't touch him--he won't believe his story. he doesn't think i've got the cash or the nerve to play this game. we'll see him back in an hour or two." "do you know, van, what you are doing?" slocum asked sombrely, instead of replying to my remark. "you have bribed that man to betray his trust." "i guess that was what he came here for, sloco. but we are offering them a good price for their goods. this man lokes happens to be a rascal. if he had been straight, we could have saved that preferred stock. that's all there is to it." but slocum still shook his head. "it's a bad business." "well, it costs money. but i mean to put this thing through, and you know at the best i may lose every cent i have made in twelve years. it's no time to be squeamish, slocum." "i wish--" he began, and paused. "you wish, if there is any more of this kind of thing, i would get some one else to do my business? but i can't! i must have a man i can rely upon." it meant a good reward for him, too, if we carried through my great plan. but slocum was not the one to be reached in that way. he needed the money, and wanted it badly, but money alone wouldn't make him stick by me. i knew that. "we'll hope this is the last," i said, after a time. "and, besides, i take the risk. i want you, and you won't go back on me. i need you, slo!" he made no reply. sure enough, late that afternoon slocum telephoned me that lokes had come back and signified his consent and that of his associates to our terms. the bondholders would take notes, to be converted later into bonds of the new company at fifty cents on the dollar. lokes asked for some kind of agreement about the stock he was to get for his "services," which i refused to give him, on slocum's advice. he had to content himself with slocum's statement that he was dealing with gentlemen. [illustration: _that comedy took place on the court-house steps according to law._] the next step in the proceedings was the sheriff's sale of the defunct corporation's effects, which was ordered by the court for the following monday. that comedy took place on the court-house steps according to law. the sheriff read the decree of court to an audience of hoboes, who were roosting on the steps, and some passers-by halted to see the proceedings. when the sheriff asked for bids, a little jew lawyer in a shiny silk hat stepped forward out of the crowd and made his bid. this was marx, the junior member of a firm employed by strauss. just as the sheriff was about to nod to the jew, slocum stepped forward with a certified check in his hand and bid in the property for seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. there was nothing for marx to do; carmichael had given him no instructions for this contingency. he had his orders, and he stood there with his jaw hanging, while slocum handed in the certified check and completed the formality of the sale. "it is fraud!" marx shouted, shaking his fist in my face as we left. perhaps he was right; but whatever fraud there was in the transaction did not concern marx or the men he represented. they had been euchred at their own game. and they knew it: we never heard anything more from the strauss crowd about the london and chicago bonds. "well, you've got it," slocum said, as we came away from the sale. "i hope we won't have trouble with lokes." "that's all right," i replied. "we've got him where he can't make trouble." "there's usually a tail to this kind of thing--you never can tell when you have reached the end." but i was too jubilant to take gloomy views. the skirmish was over, and we were a step nearer my goal. a few days after that i ran across john carmichael as i was picking my way in the muck out of the yards. he was driving in a little red-wheeled road wagon such as the local agents use for running about the city. he called out:-- "hey, van harrington! come over here!" "can't strauss do any better by you than that? or maybe you have gone back to collecting again?" i asked. the irishman grunted his acknowledgment of my joke, and we talked about one thing and another, both knowing perfectly well what there was between us. finally he said it:-- "so you thought you could do better by sticking with the old man?" i nodded. "how long do you think he'll keep goin'?" "about as long as i stay with him, john." "and you put him up to buying that junk at the auction the other day?" he added. "i bought it for myself," i replied promptly. "the h--l you did! say, kid, this ain't any gospel game you are in. you needn't look for favors from our crowd." "we aren't asking any just now. when we want them, i guess we'll get all that we need." "you will, will you?" big john raised his whip and hit his horse as if he meant to lay the same lash on me one of these days. the red-wheeled cart disappeared down the road, the figure of the burly irishman leaning forward and flecking the horse with his lash. chapter xv the atlas on the floor _a tell-tale portrait--when the fire of life has gone--the guiding hand--a woman who understands--the highroads of commerce--the great southwest--dreams--the art of life--"no one asks, if you succeed"_ mr. dround's illness kept him away from business for a mouth or more. he had always been in delicate health, and this worry over the loss of carmichael and the bad outlook in his affairs was too much for him. his absence gave me the opportunity to form my plans undisturbed by his timidity and doubts. after he recovered, his time was much absorbed by the preparations for the fair, in which he was much interested. in all this i could see a deft hand guiding and restraining--giving me my rein. at last, when i was ready to lay my plans before mr. dround, i made an appointment with him at his house. he was sitting alone in his great library, looking at a picture which one of the artists attracted to the city by the fair was painting of him. when he heard my step he got up sheepishly and hung a bit of cloth over the portrait, but not before i had seen the cruel truth the painter had been telling his patron. for the face on the canvas was old and gray; the daring and spirit to fight, whatever the man had been born with, had gone out of it. i pitied him as he stood there by his picture, his thin lips trembling with nervousness. he seemed to shrink from me as though afraid of something. we sat down, and after the first words of politeness neither of us spoke. finally he asked:-- "well, harrington, how do you find matters now that you have had time to look into the situation?" "very much as i expected to find them," i replied bluntly. "and that is as bad as could be. something must be done at once, and i have come to you to-day to settle what that shall be." he flushed a little proudly at my words, but i plunged in and sketched the situation to him as it had become familiar to me. at first he was inclined to interrupt and question my statements, but he saw that i had my facts. as i went on, showing him how his big rivals had taken his markets--how his business had fallen so that he could no longer get those special rates he had been too virtuous to accept--he seemed to slink into his chair. it was like an operation; but there was no use in wasting time in pity. his mind must be opened. toward the end he closed his eyes and looked so weak that once i stopped. but he motioned to me to go on. "and what do you advise?" he asked weakly at the end. "i have already begun to act," i replied with a smile, and outlined what had been done. he shook his head. "that has been tried before. all such combinations have failed. strauss, or one of the others, will split it up." i did not believe that the combination which i had to propose would be so easily disturbed. in the midst of our argument some one came into the room behind us and paused, listening. i stopped. "what is it, my dear?" mr. dround said, looking up. "we are talking business." "yes," she said slowly. she was in street clothes, with hat, and she began to draw off her gloves slowly. "shall i disturb you?" "why, no," he answered indifferently, and i resumed my argument. mrs. dround sat down behind the table and opened some letters, busying herself there. but i felt her eyes on my words. unconsciously i addressed the rest of my argument to her. when i had finished, mr. dround leaned back wearily in his seat and sighed:-- "yours is a very bold plan, mr. harrington. it might succeed if we could get the necessary financial support. but, as you know well enough, this is hardly the time to provide money for any venture. the banks would not look favorably upon such a speculative suggestion. we shall have to wait until better times." "we can't wait," i said brusquely. "bad times or not, we must act." "well, well, i will think it over. it is time for my medicine, isn't it, jane?" he said, looking fretfully at his wife. it was a broad hint for me to take myself off, and my wild schemes with me. for a moment i felt disgusted with myself for believing that anything could be accomplished with this failing reed. mrs. dround came softly up to her husband's chair and leaned over him. "you are too tired for more business to-day, dear. come--let me get your medicine." she took his arm and with all the gentleness in the world led him from the room, motioning to me with one hand to keep my seat. when they had gone i removed the cloth from the portrait on the easel and took a good look at it. it was the picture of a gentleman, surely. while i was looking at it, and wondering about the man, mrs. dround came back into the room and stood at my side. "it is good, isn't it?" "yes," i admitted reluctantly, thinking it was only too good. as i replaced the cloth over the picture, i noticed that her lips were drawn tight as if she suffered. i had read a part of their story in that pathetic little way in which she had led her husband from the room. "so you have started," she said soon, turning away from the picture. "how are you getting on? tell me everything!" when she had the situation before her, she remarked:-- "now is the time to take the next step, and for that you need mr. dround's help." "exactly. these separate plants must be taken over, a holding company incorporated, and the whole financed. it can be done if--" "if mr. dround will consent," she finished my sentence, "and give his aid in raising the money?" her shrewdness, immediate comprehension, roused my admiration. but what was her interest in the scheme? as sarah had told me, it was generally believed that jane dround had a large fortune in her own right. why should she bother with the packing business? she might spend her time more agreeably picking up italian marbles. her next words partly answered my wonder:-- "of course, he will see this, and will consent; or prepare to lose everything." i nodded. "i don't like to pull out of things," she said slowly. "mr. dround is in such poor health," i objected. "this is not his fight: it is yours. all that he can do is to give you your first support. leave that to me. tell me what you will do with this corporation--what next?" she was seated in a little chair, resting her dark head upon her hands. her eyes read my face as i spoke. again, as the other time when we had spoken in the garden, i felt as though lifted suddenly on the wings of a strong will. at a bound my mind swept up to meet her mind. on the shelf near by there was a large atlas. i took it down, and placing it on the rug at our feet, turned the leaves until i came to the plate of the united states. "come here. look there!" i said, indicating the entire eastern third of the map with a sweep of my hand. "there is nothing for us that way to be had. we could never get to the seaboard. the others own that territory." the map was streaked with lines of railroad running like the currents of a great river from the broad prairies of the dakotas, across the upper mississippi valley, around the curve of the great lakes, eastward to the atlantic seaboard. "those are the old highroads," i went on, following the lines of trade with my finger. "and those are the old markets. we must find a new territory, make it, create the roads. and it must be a territory that is waiting, fertile, unexplored! here it is!" my hand ran down the map southwestward, crossing kansas, nebraska, oklahoma, indian territory, resting on the broad tract marked texas. "for us that will be what the northwest has been for our fathers. there lies the future--our future!" "our future," she repeated slowly, with pleasure in the words. "you plan to feed this land?" "settlers are pouring in there, now, like vermin. the railroads are following, and already there are the only strong markets we have to-day--those i have been building up for five years." we sat there on the floor before the atlas, and the bigness of the idea got hold of both of us. i pointed out the great currents of world trade, and plotted a new current, to rise from that same wheat land of the dakotas, flowing southward to the ports of the gulf. already, as i knew, the wheat and corn and meat of this western land had begun to turn southward, avoiding the gate of chicago with its heavy tolls, to flow by the path of least resistance out through the ports of the gulf to europe and asia. [illustration: _i pointed out the great currents of world trade._] "this is but the beginning, then--this packing company?" she questioned slowly, putting her finger on the inner truth, as was her wont. "perhaps!" i laughed back in the recklessness of large plans. "the meat business is nothing to what's coming. we shall have a charter that will let us build elevators, railroads, own ports, run steamship lines--everything that has to do with the handling of food stuffs. some day that canal will be dug, and then, then".... i can't say how long we were there on our knees before that atlas. it may all seem childish, but the most astonishing thing is that most of what we imagined then has come true in one way or another. and faster even than my expectation. at last we looked up, at the same moment, and our eyes rested on the portrait above us. the cloth had slipped from the canvas, and there was the speaking face, old and saddened--the face without hope, without desire. it seemed the face of despair, chiding us for our thoughts of youth and hope. mrs. dround arose from the floor and hung the cloth in its place, touching the portrait softly here and there. then she stood, resting her hands on the frame, absorbed in thought. a kind of gloom had come over her features. "this--this scheme you have plotted, is life! it is imagination!" she drew a long breath as though to shake off the lethargy of years. "that art," she pointed to the picture of a pale, ghostly woman's face, hanging near by us on the wall--"that is a mere plaything beside yours." "i don't know much about art: that is the work of a man's own two hands. but mine is the work of thousands and thousands, hands and brains. and it can be ruined by a trick of fate." "no, never! you shall have your chance--i promise it--i know! sit down here and let us go back to the first steps and work it out again carefully." * * * * * so there in the fading twilight of the afternoon was formed the american meat products company. again and again we went over the companies to be included, the sources of credit, the men to interest, the bankers from whom money might be had. "it is here we must have mr. dround's help," i pointed out significantly. she nodded. "when this step is taken, i think he ought to go abroad--he needs the rest. he could leave all else to you, i think." i understood; the corporation once formed, he would drop out. "there might be matters to which he would object--" she translated my vague words. "no one asks, if you _succeed_," she answered tranquilly. and with that observation were settled those troublesome questions of morality which worried mr. dround so deeply. as i left i said in homage:-- "if this thing is pulled off, it will be _yours_!" "oh, no! mr. dround doesn't like women to meddle with business. it is all yours, all yours--and i am glad to have it so." her eyes came back to mine, and she smiled in dismissal. chapter xvi the struggle _hard times--how to make something out of nothing--the problem of finance--getting help--cousin farson--a trip down the coast--paternal admonition--the beautiful city beside the lake--the last ditch--a strong woman's nonsense--the drounds sail for europe--i am in command_ it is not my purpose to recall all the details of the crowded years that followed. from the autumn of ' , when the events that i have just related occurred, through the period of deepening depression in all business and the succeeding era of prosperity, i can do little more than touch here and there upon more vital events. suffice it to say that we were met at the start with hard times, a period of tight money, which prevented the quick realization of my plan to incorporate the properties that had been gathered together. one way and another the companies were carried along, by issuing notes and securing what financial help could be got, waiting for the favorable time to launch our enterprise. here mr. dround was a strong help: once committed to the undertaking, he persuaded others and used his credit generously. sometimes he looked back, seeking to retreat from the positions to which he was being forced; but he saw only ruin behind him, and perforce went ahead. strange to say, we met at first little or no opposition from our strong rivals. whether it was that strauss and his crowd were willing to let the mice foregather into one trap before showing their claws, or that they despised us as weaklings, no one could say. we were able, even, to join the great packers in one of those private agreements that made it possible for us to secure our share of the home trade. mr. dround was aware of this fact, but averted his eyes. necessity knows little squeamishness. it must have filled john carmichael with unholy joy to know that dround had come to this compromise with his virtue. so, in spite of the hard times, we pushed on, branching out here and there as the chance offered, building a plant in texas, where will was sent to take charge, and making a deal with a car line that had been started by some boston men. but the time came when we had to have more money, and have it at once. there was none to be raised in chicago, where the frost of the panic had settled first and hardest. slocum, who was my right hand all these months, suggested that the money might be had from the boston men who owned the car line. so in july, ' , we made a hurried trip to the east. they were frightened in boston, and we met with little but disappointment. men were waiting for congress to repeal the silver law, or do something else to make it pleasant, and wouldn't listen to putting out another dollar in a chicago enterprise. then it occurred to slocum that we might interest a man he knew named farson, the rich man of his old home, portland. farson, we found, was down the coast somewhere on his vacation, and we followed after him. it was the first time i had ever been in that part of the country, and the look of it was queer to me--a lot of scrawny, rocky fields and wooden-built towns. when we failed to find farson in portland, it did not seem to me worth while to go on--i doubted if there was as much money in the whole town as we had to have; but sloco was strongly of the opinion that these maine people had fortunes tucked away in their old stockings. so we kept on down the coast, and found our man at his summer cottage, on a little rocky island. this mr. farson was a short, wiry, little man, almost sixty years old, with a close-cropped gray mustache, and looked for all the world like a retired school-teacher. he received us on his front piazza, and it took him and slocum half an hour to establish just the degree of cousinship they were to each other. i wanted to laugh and to put in: "we've come to make your fortune, cousin. it don't make any difference whether you are third once removed or second twice removed." but i thought it likely that slocum knew his business best with these people and kept quiet. when slocum got around to saying that we were interested in various western enterprises, the weather seemed to grow cool all of a sudden. but cousin farson listened politely and asked some good questions at the end. then he let us go all the way across the harbor to the hotel where we had put up, to get our dinner. i thought we had lost him, but slocum thought not. for cousin farson had asked us to go fishing with him in the afternoon. "he might have given us a sandwich," i growled to slocum. "that place of his looks as if he could afford it." slocum smiled at my irritation. "he did not ask you down here. he doesn't feel responsible for your coming. probably cousin susan would need a warning before inviting two strangers to dinner." well, the little old schoolmaster came over in the afternoon with a very pretty steam launch. the fishing was not all a pretence. he liked to fish; but i never saw a man who listened as keenly as that man did. and i did the talking. i let him see that we were engaged on a big work; that in putting his dollars into our packing-houses he wasn't just taking a flyer, way off at the end of the earth. i had had some experience in dealing with men by this time; it was no raw young schemer who came to this party. and i had observed that what men want when they are thinking of putting their money into a new enterprise is to have confidence in the men who will spend their dollars. my experience has shown me that the cheapest thing to get in this world is money. if you have the ideas, the money will flow like water downhill. at any rate, that was the way it worked with good mr. farson. we stayed there in deer isle three days, and had one simple meal in the banker's house after cousin susan had been duly warned. at the end of the time farson thought he would give us a couple of hundred thousand dollars and take some of our bonds, and he thought maybe his brother-in-law would take a few more, and also his brother-in-law's brother. in short, mr. farson was the first one in a long row of bricks. he went up with us on the boston boat, when we started back, to secure the others. it was a glorious night early in august, and, after slocum had gone to bed, the old banker and i sat up there on the deck watching the coast fade away in the moonlight. i had never seen anything like it before in my life--the black rocks starting right out of the water, the stiff little fir trees, the steep hills rolling back from the sea. [illustration: _the black rocks starting right out of the water._] "this is the prettiest thing i have ever seen!" i exclaimed. "my wife must come down here next summer." "yes," the old gentleman replied, with evident pleasure in my praise of his native rocks. "i can tell you that there is very little in the world to compare with the charm of this coast." then he began to talk of other lands, and i found that he had been all over the earth. he talked of italy, and india, and japan, and parts of russia. after a time he began to ask me questions about myself, and being an easy talker, and happy over the success we had had, i told him a good deal of my story, and how i had come to enter the present undertaking. it was easy to tell him things--he had quick sympathy and was as keen as a boy. he seemed to approve of my general plan, but advised patience. "this silver trouble will lead to a period of bad times," he remarked. "the very time to prepare," i retorted. "true," he laughed, "when you have the faith and energy. but i am an old man. i wish to live in peace the rest of my life. young man, i have been through two panics and the war. i lost a son while i was in the wilderness. he would have been about your age," he added, in a far-away tone. that switched the talk from business, and we sat there on deck until nearly dawn, discussing religion all the time. as he bade me good-by at the boston station the next evening, i remember his saying to me with one of the pleasantest smiles i ever saw on a man's face:-- "now, mr. harrington, i can see that yours will be a busy life. success will come not merely in these matters, but in many others." he wagged his head confidently. "i don't make many mistakes in men. but if you ever want to have such pleasant talks as we had last night, when you get to be an old man like me, you must see to it that your hands are kept clean. remember that, my boy!" and he patted my shoulder like a father. it was a queer thing for one man to say to another at the end of a business day. i had occasion to think of it later, although at the time i put it down to the old gentleman's eccentricity. we parted very cordially. i felt that a valuable ally had been secured--one who had it in his power to bring others with him to our aid,--and i liked the old boy himself. among other things, mr. farson had asked me casually about a little line of missouri railroad--the st. louis great southern, it was called. he and his friends were pretty well loaded with the securities of this bankrupt little road, and the banker wanted me to look into it and advise him what to do with the property. thus it happened that the st. louis great southern became another link in my plan of conquest. altogether it was a most important connection, that between us and farson's crowd, and it was fortunate that slocum thought of cousin farson in our hour of need. * * * * * all this time there had been building the beautiful city of white palaces on the lake, and it was now open for the world to see what chicago had dreamed and created. although it had made me impatient to have mr. dround spend on it his energy that was needed in his own business, now that it was accomplished, in all its beauty and grandeur, it filled me with admiration. there were few hours that i could spend in its enjoyment, but i remember one evening after my return from the east when we had a family party at the fair. may and will were spending his vacation with us during the hot weather, and the four of us, having had our dinner, took an electric launch and glided through the lagoons beneath the lofty peristyle out to the lake, which was as quiet as a pond. the long lines of white buildings were ablaze with countless lights; the music from the bands scattered over the grounds floated softly out upon the water; all else was silent and dark. in that lovely hour, soft and gentle as was ever a summer night, the toil and trouble of men, the fear that was gripping men's hearts in the market, fell away from me, and in its place came faith. the people who could dream this vision and make it real, those people from all parts of the land who thronged here day after day--their sturdy wills and strong hearts would rise above failure, would press on to greater victories than this triumph of beauty--victories greater than the world had yet witnessed! nevertheless, in spite of hopeful thoughts like these, none knew better than i the skeleton that lay at the feast, the dread of want and failure that was stealing over all business. but for that night we were happy and without fear.... as our launch drew up at the landing beside the great fountain, another launch glided by our side, holding a number of the commissioners and some guests of distinction. among them were the drounds, who had entertained liberally all this season. the two boat parties came to shore together, and stood looking at the display of fireworks. the court of honor was thronged with thousands and thousands; the great fountain rippled in a blaze of light; the dark peristyle glowed for a moment in the fantastic flame from the fireworks. i turned and caught the light of the illumination in the dark face of jane dround. she bowed and smiled. "in your honor!" she murmured half mockingly, as a rocket burst into a shower of fiery spray in the heavens above. "i hear that you return from boston victor. you should hear henry! he has no doubts now." she laughed in high spirits, and we stood there awhile gazing. "to-night i have no doubts; but to-morrow--who knows?" her brows contracted seriously. "you need, my friend, one great quality, and you must get it somehow--patience!" "that is true, but--" "patience!" she repeated slowly; "the patience that covers years. perhaps you think that is a woman's virtue, but men, too, must have it if they are to endure. remember--patience! now, before any one comes, let me tell you: we are to leave for europe as soon as the fair closes. do you think that it will be all right by that time? say yes or no," she added, as we were approached by may and sarah. "yes," i answered with a strange feeling of sadness. once more, before we left the grounds, i caught a moment of talk with mrs. dround. "to you the game--the great game!" she exclaimed softly. "and to me the waiting. but remember, one useless woman is watching across the water every move you make, and when the time comes that you want help, when you cannot go on alone--" [illustration: "_when the time comes that you want help, when you cannot go on alone_--"] it sounded like woman's sentiment, and i interrupted jokingly:-- "when i am in the last ditch, cable you?" "don't laugh at me! i am more earnest than you know. if that time comes--if you don't know which way to turn for help, if you have done _all_, and still--" we were standing beside a bandstand, and at that moment the music crashed out, flooding us with deafening sound. she pressed my hand, smiled, and turned away. i thought no more of her words then. but some weeks later, before the drounds sailed for europe, there came in my mail an envelope addressed in a woman's hand. inside there was only another envelope, marked:-- "for the last ditch!" i tossed it into a drawer, rather annoyed by the silliness of it all. it was the first evidence of weakness i had ever detected in this intelligent woman. chapter xvii no gospel game _elementary lessons in finance--what is a panic?--the snake begins to show signs of life--an injunction of the court--inquiries--ed hostetter knows our man--how to deal with a political judge--slocum objects--my will prevails--the injunction is dissolved_ sarah and i were sitting over our coffee one morning, six months after the fair had closed its gates for the last time. our second child, a little girl, was but a few weeks old, and this was the first morning that sarah had breakfasted with me for some weeks. she had been glancing at the morning paper, and suddenly she looked up from it with wonder on her face. "the tenth national bank has failed. isn't that mr. cross's bank?" i nodded. "will the crosses lose all their money?" "it's likely enough--what's left of it--all his and her folks', too." "yesterday some one told me the kentons were trying to sell their place at the lake. what does it mean? why are people growing poor?" "it's the panic," i answered briefly. "business has been getting worse and worse ever since the fair. some think it started with the fair, but the trouble goes back of that." she put aside the paper and looked at me seriously. "van, what is a panic?" it seemed strange that she should ask such a question in a simple, childish way. but she had been shut away from people and things of late, and it was not her nature to explore what was not right in her path. "a panic," i replied, finishing my coffee, "is hell! now i must run and see what has happened to us." she looked at me in round-mouthed astonishment, and when i bent over to kiss her good-by, she said reprovingly: "you don't mean it could touch us, van?" "it might," i smiled, thinking of the troubled waters where i was swimming. "we must trust providence--" "and me." "van!" she kissed me with a bit of reproof. "i wish you would be more religious." my wife had been growing very serious of late. under may's example she had taken to church work and attended religious classes. she and may had discovered lately a new preacher, who seemed a very earnest young man. the bible class he had formed sometimes met at our house, and sarah preferred to go to his church, which was a long way from our house, to the church near by where we had a pew. it made little difference where i was taken to church, and i was glad to have sarah pleased with her young preacher. so i kissed my wife good-by and hurried off, half an hour late as it was. there was trouble brewing. it had shown a hand some months back, darkly and mysteriously. one day, while i was east, a man had walked into slocum's office, introduced himself as a henry a. frost, and said that he represented some minority bondholders of the defunct london and chicago company. we knew that there were a few scattered bonds outstanding, not more than forty thousand dollars all told, but we had never looked for trouble from them. mr. frost represented to slocum that his "syndicate" did not wish to make us trouble, but that before the property of the london and chicago concern was finally turned over to our corporation he wished to effect a settlement. slocum asked him his figure for the bonds held by his "syndicate," believing at the worst that frost would demand little more than the cash price of fifty. to his astonishment the man wanted par and interest, and when slocum laughed at his proposal, he threw out hints of trouble that might come if his "syndicate" were not satisfied. slocum referred the matter to me, and advised me to seek some compromise with frost. "for," he said, "our record is not altogether clear in that transaction," referring to the sum we had paid for services to the treasurer of the bankrupt corporation. this move on the part of frost and his associates was blackmail, of course, but the lawyer advised compromise. it would have been the wise thing to do; but having succeeded so far, i felt my oats too much to be held up in this fashion. i refused peremptorily to deal with the man, and slocum intimated to him, when he called for a reply, that we would not consider giving him more than the other bondholders had received; namely, fifty per cent of the par value of the bonds he held in new bonds. frost went off, and we had heard nothing more from him. meanwhile we had gone our way, making ready to turn over our properties, rounding up this matter and that, guarding against the tight money market, and quietly getting things in order for putting out our securities. then one day had come, like a thunderbolt from an open sky, an injunction, restraining the american meat products company from taking over the properties of the london and chicago company, the petitioners alleging that they held bonds of the latter concern, and that the sale of its properties to the representatives of the american meat products company had been tainted with fraud. a judge garretson, of the circuit court, had granted the temporary injunction one night at his house, and the argument for the permanent decree was set for april , a fortnight later. the names of the petitioners, all but frost's, were unknown to us. "there is the trail of the snake!" slocum muttered when he had read the injunction. "we had better find lokes. this will be in the papers to-night, and in the eastern papers to-morrow morning--you will hear from it all over." sure enough, the next noon i had a telegram from farson in boston:-- "papers print injunction a.m.p. co.; charge fraud. wire explanation." "cousin john didn't let the grass grow under him," slocum grimly remarked when i handed him this telegram at luncheon. "you had better let me answer him. now for lokes: he denies all knowledge, and it's plain enough that he isn't interested in having this matter aired. but some one must have found out pretty accurately what has happened. perhaps lokes when he was drunk let out what he had got from us. anyhow, it's blackmail, and the question is what are we going to do about it. it will cost us a pretty penny to settle now!" the situation was alarming. unless we could get that injunction dissolved, and speedily, our project faced serious danger. the banker farson's telegram was only the first. the banks and our backers east and west would soon call us to account. "it _is_ blackmail," i said to slocum, "and if there is a way out we will not pay those rats. find out what you can about them." in a day or two he came over to me with the information he had obtained. the "syndicate" consisted of three or four cheap fellows, hangers-on of a broker's office. one of them happened to be a relative of judge garretson, who had issued the midnight injunction. "i got that last from ed hostetter," slocum explained. "i met him on the street as i was coming over here. having heard that this lucas smith lived out ed's way, in may park, i asked him if he knew anything about the man. he said at once: 'you mean the jedge's brother-in-law? he's a political feller.' of course this smith is a bum like the rest." so we had in ed, who had come back to work for me, having failed in a market where i had started him after the sausage plant was sold. "ed," i said to him, "we want you to find out all you can about this brother-in-law of judge garretson's. see if you can learn how many of those london and chicago bonds he holds." the next morning ed brought us the information that lucas smith was willing enough to talk, boasting that he and his friends were going "to tune up those packers in good style." ed thought they had got their tip from one of lokes's pals. it seems that smith owned, nominally, only two of the bonds. and there we were! slocum rubbed his chin, trying to see light in a dark place. "what sort of a man is this judge garretson?" i asked the lawyer. "good enough for a political judge, i guess. he's up for reëlection this fall. there was some talk about his attitude in traction cases, but nothing positive against him." "see here, ed!"--i turned to hostetter abruptly--"i want you to go straight out to this lucas smith's place and find him. tell him you know where he can get twenty-five thousand dollars for those two bonds of his the day judge garretson dissolves that injunction." "hold on, van!" slocum interposed. "that is too strong! i stuck by you last time, but i won't stand for this!" "go on, ed!" i called out to hostetter peremptorily. "tell him just that--the day the injunction is dissolved he gets twenty-five thousand dollars for his bonds, and the other rats don't get a cent!" slocum rose without a word and put on his hat. i put my hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into his chair. "you aren't going to quit like that, sloco, after all these years! think it over. what else is there for us to do? can we have this business aired in court? what will farson say to that story of lokes's? do you think we could buy the bonds from those _rats_ for any likely figure?--for any figure, if carmichael is waiting around the corner to pick up our cake when we are forced to drop it?" he sank into the chair rather limp, and we looked at each other for a minute or two. "well," he said slowly, "it might as well come out now as later." "you have got to sit in the boat with me, sloco! i need you." i leaned across the table and looked into his eyes. slowly, after a time, he nodded, and gave himself up to me to do my will. in the heat of my trouble, i scarce realized what that acquiescence cost him: he never gave another sign. but it cost him, one way and another, more than i ever could repay,--and now i know it. we walked out together, and as i turned in the direction of home i said cheerfully:-- "once out of this mess, old man, we shall be on easy street, and you can buy a block of those old brick shanties back in portland!" the lawyer smiled at my speech, but turned away without another word. * * * * * judge garretson dissolved the injunction in due course. what is more, he roasted the petitioning parties who had entered his court "with flimsy and fraudulent pretexts." there was a righteous flavor to his eloquence that would have been worthy of a better cause. nevertheless, that same evening lucas smith collected his price from ed and delivered his bonds. i turned to slocum, who was with me in court when the decision was handed down, and said jubilantly:-- "that worked. they can't touch us now! i guess we've seen the end of this business." slocum demurred still. "maybe, but i doubt it. you don't think that frost and his pals are going to sit quiet after such a roast? they will nose around to find out who sold them out." but i did not pay much heed to the lawyer's fears. chapter xviii the strike _the labor question from the inside--a talk with strikers--tit for tat all round--a ticklish place for an argument--my anarchist--bluff--it works--we call it square_ meantime, for a little entertainment, we had a strike in one of our indiana plants. at first it didn't make much difference: all the packers had been shutting down here and there during the cold months, and we were ready to close that particular plant. but as the severe winter of ' passed, and the men saw that we were in no hurry to start work until better times, they began to get ugly, to set fire to the buildings, and do other injuries. there was no police protection to amount to anything in any of these country places, and it would cost too much to keep a sufficient force of hired detectives to guard the property. it got on toward spring and we wanted to open the place for a short run, but i was determined not to give in to the union, especially since they had taken to hurting the property. there had been a number of strikes that year, notably the great one at pullman, followed by the railroad trouble. it was a most senseless time for any man with a job to quit work, and the employers were feeling pretty set about not giving in. i remember that about this time some of the preachers in the city, and among them the reverend mr. hardman, sarah's young man, got loose on the strike question and preached sermons that were printed in the newspapers. hardman's ideas were called "christian socialism," and it all sounded pretty, but wouldn't work twenty-four hours in chicago. i wanted sarah to try a new minister, who had sense enough to stick to his bible, but she was loyal to hardman, and even thought there might be something in his ideas. well, it got along into july, and i concluded to run down to our indiana plant and see what could be done with the situation. there was a committee of the union waiting for me in the superintendent's office. we talked back and forth a considerable time, and finally i said:-- "see here, boys, i want you to come over the plant with me and let me show you what some of you strikers have done, and what it will cost us before we can open up." so i tramped over the place with the men, and i pointed out damages to the property that would cost the company over ten thousand dollars to repair. "now, go home and ask your union if they will stand for that bill?" they thought it was my little joke. they could not understand that a union, if it is to have the power to force a rise in wages, must be responsible also for the damage done by its members. nor could they see that if the company wasn't making money, they could not make more money out of the company. at last, after talking with the lot of obstinate poles for three hours, i turned them all away, with the suggestion that they might see a trainload of men coming in from the south in about a week if they didn't come back--for we were going to open on the first of the month. they trotted off to a saloon to talk it over. the superintendent shook his head and talked about a riot if we should try getting in new men. then he and i went over the place together to see about improvements, and spent another hour looking into every corner of the building. he left me up in the loft of the main building, while he went back for some plans that were in the office. i poked about here and there in the dusty, cobwebbed place. there was only rough scantling for a floor, and below my feet i could see the gaping mouths of the great vats, still filled with dirty, slimy water. pretty soon i heard the tread of feet coming up the stairs. it didn't sound like the superintendent. he was a light man, and this was a heavy person. i called out to the man to take care, as the light was none too good, and a tumble to the floor below into one of those vats would be no joke. he did not reply, and i was bending over looking down between the boards and trying to make out who it was, when suddenly i felt myself grasped by the neck. i straightened up, and both of us came near tumbling over backward through the loose boarding. "quit your fooling!" i cried, wondering what had got into the fellow. then i threw him off a bit and could see that i had to do with one of those men who had been talking with me down below in the office. "so you get some other help, you do, you do?" he began to spit at me. "i know you! i know you!" there was very little light in that loft, for the day was pretty well over. all that could be seen by me was a stocky, short man, with a face covered by a heavy beard. i remembered that i had seen him in the office with the other men, though he had not done any talking. "well," i said, "what are _you_ after, john?" considering my position, i thought it was as well to speak good-naturedly. it wasn't just the place for a wrestling match. "i know you!" he came forward again and shook his fist in my face. "you are one of the men who murdered my friends. yes, you did murder them!" "you're drunk, john," i said as coolly as i could. "yes, you do know. seven, eight year ago. at the trial!" "so you are an anarchist! those were your friends, were they?" "and this time yust look out for yourself!" he made a grab for me, and i jumped out of his reach. in doing so, i slipped on one of the boards, and went through part way. in the distance below me i could see those tough-looking vats. it was only a question now of how soon the superintendent would come. i could not hear the sound of his steps below. perhaps my anarchist had settled him first. in that case there was little help for me. if i should struggle, he could kick me over the edge as easily as you could brush off a fly from the side of a bowl. so, to gain time, i thought i would try to make the man talk. then, at the last, i could grab him by the legs and fight it out in that way, or pull him down with me. [illustration: _he undertook to give me a lesson then and there on the rights of the anarchist._] "so you think you'll get even by killing me! what is the good of that? you'll be caught the first thing, and you and your mates won't get one cent more for your day's work than you've had before. i don't count for so much. some one else will take my place in this business, and you will have the same trick to play over again. he will boss you, and you will work for him." my theory of life seemed to amuse my earnest friend, for he undertook to give me a lesson then and there on the rights of the anarchist. "maybe all the others like you will get killed some day," he concluded. "perhaps, john," i answered. "but you'll never kill us all. that's one sure thing. and if by any luck you should do away with all my kind, your own men would take to robbing you on a big scale as they do now on a small one. here, give me your hand and help me out." very likely his answer to my bluff would be my end. but i was tired out, holding my two hundred pounds there in the air with my elbows. strangely enough, while i watched him, waiting for him to act, and expecting the last blow, i did not seem to care half as much as i should have expected to. i thought of sarah and the children; i hated to leave the job i had set myself half-done, with a lot of loose ends for other folks to bungle over; and it didn't look inviting down there below. but the fall alone would probably do for me at once, and, personally, my life didn't seem to be of much consequence. but my anarchist friend made no move. it seemed to trouble him, the way i took his attack. so i gave a great heave, raised myself half up to the girder where he stood, and held out my hand. he took it! a moment more i found myself standing upright beside my anarchist. the next thing was to induce him to continue the discussion a few floors lower down, where there would be less likelihood of losing our balance in the course of a heated argument. but i sat down, friendly-like, on one of the cross-beams, and began to talk. "so you are an anarchist? yes, i helped to hang your friends. i had some doubts about the matter then. but just here, now, after my experience with you, i haven't any at all." i gave him a good sermon--the gospel of man against man, as i knew it, as i had learned it in my struggles for fortune. i showed him how i was more bound than he,--bound hand and foot, for he could run away, and i couldn't. at bottom he wasn't a bad sort of fellow, only easily excited and loose-minded. in conclusion i said:-- "now we'll just step down. i am going home to get some supper." i started, and he followed on meekly after me. it was a rather creepy feeling i had, going over those stairs! they were perfectly dark by this time, and steep. "you'll try to fix me for this?" the fellow said, when we reached the first floor, and i had started toward the office. "i guess we'll call this square," i replied, "and forget it. good night." he made a line for the gate, and that was the last i ever saw of him. i found the superintendent locked in the office. he had been spending his time telephoning to the nearest town for help. then i took the train for chicago. that experience was the greatest bracer i had ever had in my life. hanging there with the expectation every minute of dropping into the vats below had steadied my nerves for a good long haul. and i needed it, too. chapter xix denounced _the snake lifts its head--my picture gets into the newspaper--the reverend mr. hardman in his church--the opinions of ministers--mr. hardman points his finger at me--i reply--a scene--the real blow--may has her say--women, religion, and this earth_ it was the saturday after my little adventure in indiana. as i was riding downtown in a street car, my eye was caught by a coarse cut in the newspaper that the man opposite me was reading. the picture seemed in a general way familiar. underneath it ran these flaring head-lines:-- bribery of a judge! official in packing concern implicated! exclusive story in the _nationalist_! i bought a copy of the paper, and when i reached my office i read the article. it was sprung, plainly enough, to hit garretson, who was up for reelection, and, in the main, they had a straight story,--lokes, frost, the judge's brother-in-law, and all. and the right figures, too! the reference to slocum and me was vague, and ed was left out altogether. my picture was put in alongside of the judge's and labelled "vice-president and general manager of the american meat products company." the inference was plain, and the paper wouldn't have dared to go so far, i judged, if they hadn't their facts where they could produce them. there was no word of the story in the other morning papers. i folded up the article and put it away in my desk, then telegraphed slocum, who had gone to st. louis on some railroad business for farson and me. luckily, the _nationalist_ was not a sheet that ever found its way into my house, but that evening i looked apprehensively at sarah. she was pale and quiet,--she had been downtown all day shopping,--but she said nothing to indicate that she was specially disturbed. the next day was sunday, and though mr. hardman's preaching was not much to my liking, i drove over with sarah to the little church on the north side where he held forth. there was a pretty large congregation that morning, mostly women and poor people of the neighborhood, with a few north side men whom i knew in a business way. the reverend mr. hardman never preached a good sermon that he had written out beforehand. he was one of those episcopal preachers who come out in front of the chancel rail, cross their hands, look down on the floor, and meditate a few minutes to get their ideas in flow. then they raise their eyes in a truly soulful manner and begin. but to-day, for some reason, mr. hardman didn't go through his trick. he marched out as if he had something on his mind to get rid of quick, and shot out his text:-- "_what shall it profit a man if he gain all and lose his own soul?_" then he began talking very distinctly, pausing every now and then after he had delivered a sentence. he said that we had fallen on evil days; that corruption was abroad in the land, polluting the springs of our national life. and the law breakers came and went boldly in our midst, the rich and powerful, the most envied and socially respected. every one knows the style of his remarks from that introduction. most preachers nowadays feel that they must say this sort of thing once or twice a year, or their people won't believe they read the papers. so long as he kept out in the open i had no objection to his volleys. i had heard it all before, and in the main i agreed with him--only he saw but a little way into the truth. suddenly his right arm, which had been hanging limp by his side, shot out, and as we were sitting pretty well up front on the main aisle it _seemed_ to point at us. sarah gave a little start, and her cheeks flushed red. "and i say," the minister thundered, "that when such men come into our churches, when they have the effrontery to mingle with god-fearing people, and, unrepentant of their crimes, desecrate this sanctuary, yea, partake of the holy body, i say it is worse for them than if they were mere common thieves and robbers! i tell you, my people, that here in our very midst one of them comes--a man who has defied the laws of man and god, the most sacred; who has corrupted the source of justice; who has bought that which the law denied him! this man has used...." i had been getting angry, and was looking the minister in the eye pretty fiercely. at that moment sarah gave a little groan. she was very white. "come!" i whispered to her, getting up. "come. it's time you got out of this." at first she shook her head, but as i refused to sit down she rose to follow me. i had stepped to the aisle and turned to give sarah my arm when she fainted--just sank down with a groan in my arms. "so this is the gospel you preach!" i called out to the minister, who had paused and now stepped forward to help me raise sarah. "let her alone! you have hit her hard enough already. another time when you undertake this kind of business, you had better know what you are talking about." he stepped back to his desk and kept silent, while i and one of the ushers who had come forward to help me lifted sarah and carried her to the door. when we got to the end of the aisle sarah opened her eyes and stood up. "i have had enough of _your_ gospel, my friend!" i called back. "i am going where i shall hear religion and not newspaper scandal." sarah groaned and pulled gently at my arm. once in the carriage, she turned her face to the window and looked out as if she were still shocked and sick. i tried to say something to comfort, but i could only think of curses for that meddlesome pharisee, who thought it was his duty to judge his flock. "don't talk about it!" sarah exclaimed, as if my words gave her pain. so we rode home in silence all the way. at the end she turned to me:-- "just say it isn't true, van!" i began to say a few words of explanation. "no, just say it isn't true!" she interrupted. "i can't understand all that you are saying. just say that you haven't done anything wrong. that's all i want." "some people would think it was wrong, sarah," i had to say after a while. she gave a little groan and shut her lips tight. when we entered the house may was there, with her children. "why, my land!" she exclaimed on seeing us. "what brings you people back so soon? sarah looks sick!" sarah was ready to faint again. may helped her up to her room, and i went into my study. pretty soon may came down to me. "what's the matter with sarah, van?" she asked sharply. "she seems all queer and out of her head." then i told her what had happened. "did you see the piece in the paper?" i asked at the end. may shook her head. "but i shouldn't wonder if sarah had seen it." "why do you think so?" i asked. "why, she seemed troubled about something yesterday when she came into the house after she had been downtown shopping. she asked me whether i generally believed the things i saw in the papers. i asked her what kind of things, and she said,--'scandals about people in business.' i thought it was queer at the time." "she won't talk to me about it," i said. may didn't make any reply to this, and we sat there some time without talking. then may asked in a queer little voice:-- "tell me, van, is there anything in that story? is it true in the least way?" "i'll tell you just how it was," i answered. may was not the kind of person that could be put off with a general answer, and i was glad to give her the inside story. so i told her the circumstances of the case. "it was blackmail and robbery--the judge was waiting to be bought. these rats stood between us and what we had a perfect right to do. there's hardly a business man in this city who, under the circumstances, would not have done what we did!" "i don't believe that!" may exclaimed in her sharp, decisive little way. she sat looking at me rather sternly with the same look on her face that i had remembered for twenty years. and the next thing that she said was pretty much what i thought she was going to say:-- "van, you are always a great hand to think what you want to believe is the only thing to believe! you know that!" she smiled unconsciously, with the little ironical ripple which i knew so well, and i smiled, too. i couldn't help myself. we both seemed to have gone back to the old boy and girl days. but i was angry, as well, and began to defend myself. "no," she interrupted. "it isn't a mite of use for you to bluster and get angry, van. i don't trust you! i haven't for some time. i have been worried for will. don't you let him mix himself up in your ways of doing things, van harrington!" "if he is so terribly precious," i said hotly, "i guess you had better take him back to jasonville." "maybe i shall," she answered quietly. "i'd take him to the meanest little place in creation rather than know he had done any such thing as you say you have done!" we were both pretty angry by this time, and yet we both smiled. she was such a snappy, strong little woman--i admired her all the time she was making me angry! somehow it brought back all that time long ago when i had thought the world began and ended with her. we had never been so near each other since. and i think she felt somewhat in the same way. "well," i said at last, "i am not going to fight this thing out with you, may, or with any other woman. i have too much else on hand. i am answerable for all i do or have done. if you and will don't like my company, why, we have got to do without you." i wished i hadn't been so small as to make that fling. she flashed a look at me out of her eyes that brought me to my senses in a moment. i took her by the shoulders. "see here, may, we mustn't quarrel. let's all hang together in this, as in other things. you women don't know what business means." she smiled back into my eyes and retorted, "it seems to be just as well we don't!" in a moment more she added: "but you mustn't think that i can make up like this. you and i don't look at things in the same way." "never did!" i said dryly. "at any rate, you had better go up now and look after sarah. she can't keep on this way. she's got to look at this more sensibly. she isn't like you, may!" "no," may retorted, "she isn't! but this hurts her, too. perhaps she cares more what folks _say_ than i do. and she believes in her religion, van." "that's all right. her religion tells her to forgive, and not to judge, and a few other sensible truths, which that minister seemed to forget to-day." "i never expected to see you, van harrington, asking for quarter in that way!" she flashed. then she went back to sarah. what my sister-in-law said set me to thinking queer thoughts. i admired the way she took the matter, though it made me pretty angry at the time. it seemed straight and courageous, like her. if we had married, down there at home in the years past, there would have been some pretty lively times between us. i could never have got her to look at things my way, and i don't see how i could have come to see things her way. for in spite of all the preacher and may had to say, my feeling was unchanged: women and clergy, they were both alike, made for some other kind of earth than this. i was made for just this earth, good and bad as it is,--and i must go my way to my end. chapter xx treachery _who was the traitor?--slocum's logic--we send for our accomplice--one look is enough--the poison of envy--i see the last of an old friend--slocum points the moral--what people know--public opinion--cousin farson again--we lunch at a depot restaurant--i touch granite_ the monday morning after mr. hardman's outbreak, slocum was waiting for me at my office. in reply to my telegram he had come back from st. louis, where he had been attending to some business in connection with farson's railroad. "they got it pretty straight this time," was all he said as a greeting, with a care-worn sort of smile. "they can't prove it! we'll bring suit for libel. i must put myself straight--for family reasons." but the lawyer shook his head doubtfully. "that wouldn't be safe, van! it's too close a guess. i rather think they've got all the proof they want." "where did they get it, then? not out of lokes. he hasn't any reason to squeal. nor the judge, nor his brother-in-law!" "of course not; but how about frost? this is the way i figure it out: when those rats were euchred in their hold-up game by garretson's dismissing his injunction, they were mad enough and determined to find out who sold them. it didn't take them long to see that the judge had been fixed in some way. they nosed around, and spotted the judge's brother-in-law as the one who made the trade. then they started out to get proof." "well?" slocum looked at me shrewdly. "i have been thinking about that all the way back from st. louis. there is only one man left in the combination." we stared at each other for a minute. "you don't mean _him_!" i gasped. "who else?" "not hostetter--not ed!" "send for him, and we'll find out," he answered shortly. i telephoned out to our office in the yards to send hostetter to the city, and while we waited we discussed the story in all its bearings. "we've got the trick," slocum commented in reply to my desire for action. "and marx, who managed this business for carmichael, is shrewd enough to see it. _they_ won't bother us." there was some comfort in that reflection: no matter what the scandal might be, we had the london and chicago properties in our possession, and nothing short of a long fight in court could wrest them from our control. "the only thing to do," the lawyer continued, "is to keep quiet. the papers will bark while the election is on, and it looks mighty bad for garretson. but out here most people forget easily." it was queer to hear old slocum talking in that cynical tone, as if, having accepted the side that was not to his taste, he took pleasure in pointing out its safety. "well," i grumbled, thinking of may and sarah, "it's mighty uncomfortable to be held up by rats like lokes, frost, and company, and then be branded as a briber!" "what do you care?" slocum asked harshly. "it won't hurt _you_ much. you'll make money just the same, and there aren't many who would lay this up against you. of course, there are always a few who are shrewd enough to guess just about what has happened, and remember,--yes, remember a story for years! but you don't care for their opinion!" i knew that he was thinking of the honest men in his own profession, the honorable men at the head of the bar, who would mark him henceforth as my hired man. hostetter arrived soon, a shifty look in his eyes. he had changed a good deal since that time he had slept out on the lake front. he was a heavy man, now, with a fleshy face, and his dress showed a queer love for loud finery. he wore a heavy seal ring, and a paste diamond in his tie, which was none too clean. his sandy mustache dropped tight over his mouth. yet in spite of his dress and his jewellery, he was plainly enough the countryman still. "ed," i said at once, "have you been talking to any one about that matter of the bonds--the deal with lucas smith?" he glanced at slocum and then at me. one look at his face was enough: the story was there. "you low dog!" i broke out. slocum tried to hush me. hostetter muttered something about not knowing what we were talking about. "you're lying, ed! tell me the whole truth. did you sell what you knew to the _nationalist_, or to frost and his crowd?" he became stubborn all at once, and refused to answer. i turned to the lawyer:-- "see that man! i picked him out of the bankruptcy court two years ago, after giving him his third start in business. last winter i sent his wife south and kept her there six months so that she could get well." i turned to ed. "whose bread are you eating now, to-day?" he picked up his hat and started for the door. but i called him back. it came over me all at once what we had been through together, and i couldn't let him leave that way, sneak out of my sight for good and all. "tell me, ed," i asked, more miserable than he, "are you going over to carmichael to get some more pay for this?" "maybe, if i did," he replied sullenly, "it'd be some better than it is working for you." "i don't think so--not long. folks like you aren't worth much. come, ed! did i ever do a mean thing to you? didn't i give fifteen cents when we hadn't but twenty between us? what were you thinking when you did this dirty piece of business? just tell me you were drunk when you did it. i would have given you ten times as much as you ever got from them to know you couldn't do it!" [illustration: "_you have done something the taste of which will never get out of your mouth._"] then he began to go to pieces and cry, and he told me all i wanted to know. it was a plain case of the poison of envy. i was rich and on top, and he was working for thirty dollars a week for me. his wife, who had always kept a grudge against me for not making up to her in the old days, had taunted him for taking his wages from me. she kept telling him that i did nothing for him, and when she found out about his dealing with lucas smith for me, she saw her chance. somehow frost got on his track, and evidently they thought his information was worth paying something for. that was the whole story. while we were talking, slocum slipped out of the room. it was a pitiful scene. "ed," i said finally, "you must go back to the country. that is the only place for you. you'll grow worse in the city the longer you stay. your belly's got bigger than your brain, and your heart is tainted at the core. i will start you on a ranch i've got in texas. think it over and get out of this place as soon as you can. i'm sorry for you, ed. for you have done something the taste of which will never get out of your mouth." he left my office without a word, and that was the last i ever saw of him. when he had gone slocum came back and sat down. "it was a pretty tough thing for ed to do," he remarked calmly, looking out into the muddy street, where men were hurrying along the pavements. i made no remark, and he added in the same far-off tone of voice: "that's the worst of any piece of crooked business: it breaks up the man you work with. ed is a rascal now--and he was never that before!" "that's true enough," i assented gloomily. slocum advised me to leave the city for a while, because should the _nationalist_ charges be investigated by the grand jury, it might be awkward for me. but i refused to leave the city: no matter what happened, i was not the man to run and hide. the democratic papers made all they could out of the affair, and then after the election it died away. garretson was reëlected, and that was a kind of vindication for him. but the insiders in the city knew that something had been wrong, and, as slocum said, the scandal connected with quashing that injunction followed us for many years. it was of less importance to me than to slocum; for the men with whom i dealt were used to stories like mine. they believed what they had a mind to, and did business. but for slocum it was more serious. the worst of it for me was at home. sarah brooded over the newspaper talk until she was morbid, refusing to go almost anywhere she would be likely to meet people she knew. the bible classes had been given up, and, naturally enough, we never went back to mr. hardman's church, nor returned to our old church. sarah and i talked about it once or twice, but we got nowhere. "i should think you would care for the children!" she would cry, persisting in considering me as a criminal. "you'll see that it won't make the smallest difference to any one a year hence, if you'll only hold up your head!" "well, i don't understand business, but may thinks it pretty bad, i know, because she doesn't come to the house any more when you are at home." "she has no reason to act that way. and i don't mean to have you or may or any other woman holding me up with your notions of what's right and wrong, just because the newspapers make a lot of talk." that ended the matter between us; but for a long time sarah avoided our old friends, and the house was unusually quiet. what troubled me more than the racket in chicago was the way that dround and farson and a few other of our backers might take the story. the drounds were in egypt, but they would hear the news quickly enough. mr. dround was the president of our corporation, and the most influential single stockholder. with his ideas, he might become a nuisance, or draw out altogether, which would be awkward in the present condition of the company. as for farson, i always counted a good deal on that crusty bit of rock, and he had never failed me yet. one thing after another had come up in the last four years, and he and his friends had backed me solidly. we were pretty deep in other enterprises than this packing business--railroads and land in that southwest where i had set my eyes. while the scandal was the worst we never heard a word from farson, and i was congratulating myself that he had overlooked the matter, when one morning i received a despatch: "meet me union station twelve to-morrow. farson." that was all. when he got out of the sleeper that noon i missed his usual warm smile. he refused my invitation to lunch at the city club, and led the way into the fly-specked, smelly restaurant at the station. we ate our miserable meal, and he said little while i talked to him about our affairs. it was like talking to a blank wall: he listened but said nothing. after a while he interrupted me in a kind of thin whisper, as if his mind had been absent all the time:-- "what about this judge garretson? it isn't true?" "you mean what the papers say?" the old gentleman didn't like newspapers. but he waived that aside with a frown. "the facts!" he whispered across the table. "i should not have mentioned it had it not been for a conversation which i had the other day in new york with judge sloan, of the chicago bar. he tells me that it is generally believed to be true that this garretson was bribed, and that my old friend jeff slocum was mixed up in it. he says that slocum has lost his reputation among the best men of the profession on account of his connection with this scandal. what are the facts?" "this is hardly the place to go into all that," i replied somewhat tartly. "i don't know but that the place is good enough," the banker observed dryly, "provided you have the right things to say." but he took the frost out of his severe tone by one of his most genial smiles, and added more gently:-- "perhaps you young men don't realize how serious it is to have such rumors get around about your reputation. why, my boy, it puts you in another class! you are no longer gentlemen, who can be trusted with honest people's money and confidence." farson would be a hard man to bring to my point of view! i said by way of allegory:-- "when a man comes out of the alley and puts a pistol in your face, and asks for all the money you have on you, you don't wait to see where you hit him, do you? we don't here in chicago. the men who are making all this talk were the hold-ups, and they did not get our money." i laughed. [illustration: "_when a man comes out of the alley and puts a pistol in your face, and asks for all the money you have on you, you don't wait to see where you hit him, do you?_"] but he did not laugh with me--instead, he shut up like a clam all at once. he finished his corned beef hash and tea, making a few remarks about the train service on the road he had come over. i asked him some questions about our railroad matters, but he merely mumbled "um, um" to all i had to say. finally he said with his usual calm courtesy that he had some letters to write, and as the train for the west he was to take did not leave for some time he would not detain me, but would go upstairs to the waiting-room and write his letters. so he seized his worn old grip and marched off. "cursed old maine yankee," i said to myself, and i repeated the remark over the telephone to slocum, telling him the result of my luncheon with the banker. "maybe so," the lawyer telephoned back. "but we can't afford to let him get his back up." "it's up already--he's been talking with sloan, and i gather the judge didn't speak highly of you or me." "i suppose not," came the answer over the wire, and slocum's voice sounded dreary. "that kind of thing dies hard." it _was_ dying hard, and no doubt about it! chapter xxi a squeeze _the great fit of dumps--keeping afloat--interest on bonds--a sudden financial frost--strauss shows his hand--i beard the lion in his den--he soars--i give him food for thought--the thermometer rises once more--they treat me with consideration at the bank_ as every one knows, the recovery of business from that awful fit of depression which followed ' was slow. at times it would seem that the country was ready to throw off its fit of sickness and begin to grow again. then there would come along some new set-back, and we were all in the dumps once more. it had been a great fight to keep the meat products company afloat during these hard times. it was all we could do to pay our fixed charges, which were heavy, as most of the concerns that formed the corporation had demanded bonds in payment for their properties before they would consent to join us. there was also, of course, a big issue of stock, preferred and common, which, by a mutual agreement, was not to be marketed for three years. we had not yet come in sight of a dividend on this stock; hence there were signs of dissatisfaction among the little fellows, who had expected wonders of the company. and the time was fast approaching when they would be at liberty to dump their stock on the market for what they could get for it. the strauss crowd, since their secret attempt through the tool frost and his "syndicate" to thwart our plans, had kept their hands off us. they knew well enough what was our financial condition, and were biding their time to strike. but so far, clear down to the winter of ' , we had been able to meet all interest charges promptly, and had thus kept the corporation from foreclosure. that year as the time approached for the march payment of interest on the bonds and sinking-fund requirement, it became evident that our treasury would not be able to meet the sum required, and that it would be necessary for us to borrow for the immediate emergency. we already had a good deal of our paper out in chicago, and so slocum and i went east to raise what we needed. that was not so easy as it would have been in the days when we could rely on farson's aid. but after considerable efforts we got together in new york what was needed for the emergency, and i left for home. that was the fourteenth of february. i congratulated myself that the danger was past, for i was sure that, with the opening of our new plant in kansas city, and the constant improvement in our business, we ought to be beyond attack when the next payment was due in the fall. after that period we should be on the road to dividends. i had been at home a couple of days, my attention given to other matters of importance, when one morning notice came from the mercantile national bank, where we did most of our business, that some large notes were called. we had over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in "call" loans due that bank, and though, during these uncertain times, we could not get any long paper, the management of the mercantile had been friendly to us from the start, and i had no reason to anticipate trouble in that quarter. but when i went over to see the mercantile people i met with only a polite and cool reception. the loans were called; they must be paid; money was hardening, and so on. it was a granite wall, with just as much human consideration in it as stone and steel--and back i went to my office to think. there was more than the ordinary bankers' caution in this sudden financial frost; and, whatever was the power working against us, it was strong enough to close the doors of credit throughout the city. wherever i went those dreary two days, from bank to bank, i was met with the same refusal: money was not to be had on any terms. the word had gone out that we were a doomed ship, and not a bank would touch our paper. after a second sleepless night i made up my mind to a desperate step, with the feeling that if it failed the game was up. as soon as i reached my office on the last day of grace i got old strauss himself on the telephone and asked for an appointment. he was gracious enough when i reached his office; it was the cordiality of a hungry eater before a good meal. "what can i do for you, mr. harrington?" he purred. i cut into the meat of the matter at once. "what are your terms?" "do you mean that you wish to sell your property?" he asked indifferently. "not a bit of it." "then how can i help you, mr. harrington?" he inquired blandly. "you can take your hand off the banks, and let us get a living." he shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly, as if i gave him credit for too much power, and we had it out at some length. he had no interest in the meat products company. if the corporation went into the hands of a receiver, he and his friends might consider buying it up, and he was willing to discuss terms if we wished to deal in a friendly manner before it reached the courts. i rose from my chair as if to go. "very well, mr. strauss," i said dryly. "you have made it impossible for us to get any money in chicago, but you don't own the earth. there is money in new york--about four hundred thousand dollars lying there for me at this moment." "to pay the interest on your bonds!" he shot back, showing how closely he had followed us. "yes," i admitted, "to meet our march interest and sinking fund. but i am going across the street to the telegraph office to wire it out here and take up our paper." he looked at me inquiringly, waiting for the next move. "and the march interest?" he suggested. "we shall default." the old dog raised his eyebrows, as if to say that was what he had been waiting for all along. "of course," i went on, "that is what you have been working for, and that is why the mercantile people come down on us at this moment. you think you have got us where you can squeeze the life out of us. well, you have." "you are a smart young man, harrington," the great packer replied genially. "but you have got into a big game. you'd much better have listened to carmichael when he offered you a chance with us." [illustration: _"only this," i said slowly, "i don't sell out to you."_] "thanks!" i said glumly. "now, why can't we avoid a fight and settle this matter between ourselves? there might be something good in it for you." "i know the way you settle such matters." "according to your own talk, there isn't much left for you folks." "only this," i said slowly, and i walked back to his desk and leaned over it: "i don't sell out to you. we default. the bonds will be foreclosed, and maybe your crowd will hold the majority of 'em. but when we get into the courts, mr. strauss, on a receivership, i go before the judge and tell the story. i have the papers, too. and part of that story will have to do with certain agreements which our company has made with you and the other packers. and more than that, behind these arrangements there are a lot more of the same kind in our safe that we got from dround and others. now, if you want the whole story of the packing business aired in court and in the papers throughout the country, you'll have your wish." "pshaw!" he said coolly, "you don't suppose that bluff counts! they can't do a thing to us." "maybe not," i replied. "nothing more than a congressional investigation, perhaps. and that might block your little game." "go on, young feller!" he exclaimed contemptuously. "that's all. i want you to know that i am in this fight to the end, and if it ruins me and my friends, i will see that it hurts you. now, if you want to fight, let the bank call this money." we had some more talk on the same subject, and, though the great packer maintained an air of indifference, i thought i had made some impression on him. then we parted, and the old fellow paid me the compliment of seeing me as far as the door of his office. from strauss's place i went to the telegraph office, wired for the money in new york, and in due time presented myself at the mercantile bank ready to take up the notes, as i had told strauss. the president of the bank was waiting for me with a flurried look on his face. "you have come in to renew your paper, mr. harrington?" he remarked, as if there had been no trouble between us. "no," i said; "i have come to pay what we owe. i don't do any more business with you." "we have reconsidered the matter, and we shall be very glad to renew your paper." strauss had seen the point to my remarks, and concluded to retreat! "thank you, i don't care to get any more call money from you fellows," i said placidly. "you make too much trouble." well, when i left the president's room i had arranged for a loan of four hundred thousand dollars for six months. i had measured myself against the great strauss, and never again would the big fellow seem to me so terrible. i judged that, for a time, the american meat products company would be left to do business undisturbed.... on my desk, when i returned from the bank that afternoon, was a telegram from mr. dround from new york: "we arrived to-day--leaving for chicago." for once, mr. dround had made up his mind in a hurry. chapter xxii judgments _mrs. dround once more--the point of view--reflections--a family discussion--may delivers her ultimatum--we part--the middle age of life_ "in rome you must do as the romans, or be done!" i quoted jocularly. mrs. dround smiled appreciatively. "from all accounts you have been a tremendous roman!" "well, at least i haven't been done--not yet." jane dround smiled again and turned her face from the window of the library, through which could be seen dots of ice and snow sailing out on the blue lake. the years she had been gone in europe had dealt lightly with her. she had grown a trifle stouter, and looked splendidly well--dark, and strong, and full of life. "i did my best," she continued half humorously. "i tried to get lost in darkest africa beyond the reach of telegrams and newspapers. but a party of chicago people coming up the nile crossed the path of our daha-biyeh, recognized us, came abroad--and brought the story. cables wouldn't hold him then! we came as the crow flies; it was no use to plead sickness--he was ready to leave me behind in paris!" she laughed again genially. "it was nothing much to get excited about," i replied a little impatiently; "and it has passed now, anyway, like a winter snow in the city--slush, water, nothing!" "but the principle! you forget the principle!" she remonstrated dryly. "i know--and he's going to resign from the presidency--that ought to satisfy his principle--but we must keep him on the board." "it was a judge, too! a sworn officer of the law!" mrs. dround interrupted, quoting demurely from henry i's remarks about the injunction scandal. "very well, he can make over his stock to you, then! it won't trouble you, and you can draw the big dividends we are going to pay soon. i don't want him to get out now, when the fruit is almost ripe to shake." "is that the only reason?" mrs. dround asked quickly. "of course, we don't want his stock coming on the market in a big block. it would break us all up. and it might easily get into the wrong hands." for mr. dround, in the brief interview that we had had on his return, had intimated his desire not only to withdraw from the presidency of the corporation, which had been merely a nominal office, but to dispose of his stock as soon as the agreement expired in the fall, suggesting that i had best find some friendly hands to take his big holding. in his gentlemanly way he had told me that he had had enough of me and was quite ready to snow me under, if it could be done in a polite and friendly fashion. "so you want him to wait?" mrs. dround suggested indifferently. "yes, until i am ready!" she made no reply to this remark, and after a moment i said more lightly:-- "but i came to welcome you home,--i want you still to be my friend, my partner!" "they say you are a dangerous partner," she retorted, looking closely at me,--"deep in all sorts of speculative schemes, and likely to slip. they say you are un--scrupulous"--she drawled the word mockingly--"and a lot more bad things. do you think that is the right kind of partner for a simple woman?" "if you've got the nerve!" "well, let me show you some of the new pictures we have bought." and she turned me off with a lot of talk about pictures and stuffs and stones, until i arose to leave. * * * * * shortly afterwards my carriage took me back to the city, where i had to meet some gentlemen who were interested in my schemes for the development of the new southwest. as i rode through the windy, dusty streets, my thoughts went back over the years since that time when at the suggestion of this woman i had just left, i had put my hand to building something large out of henry i. dround's tottering estate. in a busy life like mine, one event shades into another. each path to which a man sets his feet leads to some cross-roads, and from there any one of the branches will lead on to its own cross-roads. while the adventurer is on his way it is hard to tell why he takes one turning and not another, why he lays his course here and not there. years later he may see it plotted plain, as i do to-day--plotted as on a map. then the wanderer may try to explain what made him move this way or that. yet the little determining causes that turned his mind at the moment of choice are forever forgotten. the big, permanent motive remains: there is the broad highroad--but why was it left, why this turn and double across the main track? so it was with me. the main highroad of my ambition was almost lost in the thickets in which i found myself. struggling day by day against the forces that opposed me, i had lost sight of direction. the words with jane dround, the flash of her dark eyes, pierced my obscurity, gave me again a view of the destiny to which i had set myself. some fire in her fed me with courage, and made my spirit lighter than it had been for months.... when i reached home in the evening, i found sarah ill with a nervous headache. "will is back!" she exclaimed on seeing me, and her tone scarcely concealed a meaning beyond her words. "what's that? he didn't send me word that he was coming." "may telephoned--he's just got in." something unexpected must have brought him suddenly all the way from texas, where he was looking after our interests. the news was disturbing. "i saw jane dround this afternoon," i remarked idly. "she's looking fine--never saw her better." "jane!" my wife said slowly. "so she's back once more." then after a pause she exclaimed:-- "i don't like her!" sarah, who rarely said a bitter word about any one, spoke this harshly, and i looked at her in surprise. "i don't trust that woman, van! she is secret. and i believe she influenced you--that time about the judge." it was the first time for months that sarah had referred to this matter. "i'll go and ring up may," i said, not caring to refute this wild accusation, "and ask them to come over to-night." "i asked them for dinner, but she wouldn't come," sarah remarked gloomily. "no one wants to come here but people like the webbs and coopers--people who think they can make something out of your schemes." "oh, i guess they aren't the only ones who are willing to come. and what's the matter with the webbs and the coopers? if the rest of your friends don't like us, we can get along without their society. i guess new york will stand us, and that's where we shall be before many years, if all goes well. this place is only a gossipy old village." "i don't want to go to new york!" sarah wailed. * * * * * when i had may at the telephone, she answered my invitation in a dry little voice:-- "yes, we are coming over to see you about a matter. will has something important to say to you." by the tone of may's voice i judged that we should have a rather lively family party, and i was not mistaken. sarah was still lying on the lounge in my study when will and may came in after dinner. there was battle in may's eyes and in her tight-shut lips. it had been a long time since she had come to the house when i was at home. and to-night will, too, was looking very pale and troubled. [illustration: "_couldn't you find any one else to do your dirty work but your own brother?_"] "may," i said, "you look as if you had a gun trained on me. fire away, only make it something new. i am tired of that old matter about the judge. 'most everybody has forgotten all about that except you and sarah." "it's something new, fast enough, van; but it isn't any better," she retorted. "couldn't you find any one else to do your dirty work but your own brother?" "what's the matter now?" "show him the article, will." will unbuttoned his coat and reached for his inner pocket. from it he hauled out a bulky newspaper, which he handed me. it was a copy of the sunday _texas world_, and a front page article was heavily pencilled. "that's too much, van," he protested solemnly, handing me the paper. "read it." "yes, read it all!" may added. the three were silent while i ran through the article. it was the usual exaggerated sort of newspaper stuff purporting to describe the means used to secure a piece of railroad legislation, in which i and some new york men were interested. the sting lay in the last paragraph:-- * * * * * "it is commonly understood that the lobby which has been working for the past winter in the interest of this rotten bill is maintained by a group of powerful capitalists, dominated by the head of a large chicago packing company. this gentleman, who suddenly shot into publicity the past winter as the result of an unusually brazen attempt to corrupt a chicago judge, has opened his office not three blocks from the state capitol, and has put his brother in charge of the corruptionist forces.... the deserving legislators of our state may soon expect to reap a rich harvest!" * * * * * a few more generalities wound up the article. i folded the paper and handed it back to will. no one said a word for a few moments, and then will observed:-- "that isn't pleasant reading for an honorable man!" "i don't see how it should trouble you, will. you are down there to look after our interests in a legitimate way enough. if you don't like the job, though, i can get another man to take your place." "van," may interrupted, "don't try to squirm! you know that's true--what's written there! you didn't ask will to use the bribe money, because you knew he wouldn't do anything dishonorable. but you let him take the blame, and sent some one else with the money, no doubt. what was that partner of mr. slocum's sent down there for?" "will,"--i turned to my brother,--"let us settle this by ourselves. it's a man's business, and the women won't help us." "no, van," may replied. "i guess we women are as much concerned as anybody. where there's a question of my husband's honor, it's my business, too. i stay." "well, then, stay! and try to understand. this bill the paper rips up is all right. we must have it to put our road through to the gulf, and if it were not for the money the pacific western road, which owns the state, is putting up against us we shouldn't have any trouble. they want to keep us out, and strauss and his crowd want to keep us out, too, so that they can have all the pie to themselves. i have been working at this thing for years in order that we can get an outlet to the seaboard, untouched by our rivals. they think to block us just at the end, but i guess they find out they are mistaken when the line comes next month. that's all!" "do you think that explanation is satisfactory? of course, van, you want the bill passed!" may said ironically. "what does it mean--what has van been doing?" sarah asked for the first time, sitting up and looking from one to another in a puzzled way. none of us answered, and finally will said:-- "i guess, van, you and i don't see things quite the same way. i know you wouldn't ask me to do what you thought was bad, but all the same there's too much that's true in that piece in the paper, and i don't want to have it said--there's things going on down there that aren't right--and may feels--i feel myself, that it ain't right. we don't think the same way, you and i. so we had better part now, before we have any bad feeling." "all right! did you come over here to-night to tell me that?" "no, van," may put in hastily, her voice trembling with feeling. "that wasn't all. will and i came to ask you to give up the sort of business you are doing down there. we want you to turn back into the right road before it is too late. if you don't land in the penitentiary, van harrington, your money will do you no good. it will taste bad all your life!" we were all pretty well stirred up by this time. i was weary of meeting these charges of dishonesty on all sides. this last was too much--to have my family accuse me of a crime, when i did not feel guilty, not for a minute! "i don't see why you should say that, may!" sarah suddenly bridled. "after all, it's only the newspapers, and no one believes them to-day." this unexpected defence from sarah aroused may afresh. "oh, he don't deny it! he can't. first it was a judge--he bought a judge and paid for him, and he never came out and denied it! now it's worse even than that. it's the people of a whole state he's trying to buy through their representatives." "who are there for sale," i laughed. "does that make it any better?" she turned on me. "seems to me, van, you don't know any longer the difference between black and white!" "we've got a perfect right to build that road, and build it we will--that's all there is to that matter!" and so we argued for hours, may and i doing most of the talking. for i wanted her to understand just how the matter lay. no business in this large, modern world could be done on her plan of life. that beautiful scheme of things which the fathers of our country drew up in the stage-coach days had proved itself inadequate in a short century. we had to get along with it the best we could. but we men who did the work of the world, who developed the country, who were the life and force of the times, could not be held back by the swaddling-clothes of any political or moral theory. results we must have: good results; and we worked with the tools we found at hand. "it's no use your saying any more!" may exclaimed at last. "i understand just what you mean, van harrington. it's the same way it was with the judge's peaches. you wanted 'em, and you took 'em! what you want you think is good for every one, especially for van harrington. and you are so wise and strong you think you can breakthrough all laws because laws are made for small people, like will and me, and you and your kind are napoleons. you talk as if you were a part of god's destiny. and i say"--here her voice broke for a moment--"i say, van, you are the devil's instrument! you and those like you--and there a good many of them--are just plain big rascals, only the laws can't get hold of you." her lips trembled and at the end broke into that little ironical smile which i knew so well, the smile she had when i used to get into some boyish scrape, and she was looking through me for the truth. but for all her hot words, i knew she had kindly feeling for me somewhere in her heart. nevertheless, sarah, who had been following our talk as well as she could, fired up at her accusations. "i think, may," she remonstrated with all her dignity, "that you cannot say any more such things in my husband's house." "yes," i added, "we have had too much talk all around. you can't change my character any more than you can make wheat grow in arizona or sugar-cane in dakota. and i don't want to change your views, either, may." for though she made me pretty angry, i admired the way she stood to her guns. she was a fighter! and will must act as she decided. whoever travelled with her would have to travel by her star. "yes," my brother replied, "it's gone too far now to change. words don't do any good. come, wife, let us go." "i am sorry for sarah!" may said, taking sarah's hands in hers. "she suffers for you, van, and she will suffer for this all her life. but i am sorrier for you, van, for you have gone too far to suffer!" thereupon she swept out of the room, her little figure swelling with dignity; and will followed her, as the needle swings to its magnet, pausing only long enough to reach for my hand and press it. when the front door shut upon them the house seemed suddenly cold and empty. sarah had slipped back to the lounge, and was staring up at the ceiling, a tear trickling across her face. "i suppose may won't ever come back again. and we were planning to take that cottage this summer so that the children could be together." that detail didn't seem to me very important, but it was the one that showed to sarah the gulf which had opened between us. sarah's little world, by that token, had suffered an earthquake. "oh," i said, trying to comfort her, "like as not this will blow over! may has disapproved of me before this." but in my heart i felt there wasn't much likelihood that this breach would be healed. knowing may as i did, i had no idea that she would let will continue with me, even in another position. no compromise for her! to-morrow or next day will would come into the office to take his leave.... [illustration: _somehow years had gone by in that evening._] "i guess, van, i'll go to bed." it was the first word sarah had spoken for half an hour. the tears had dried on her face. she gave me a light kiss, and left me.... the house seemed cold and desolate, as if the pleasant kindliness of life had gone out of it when my brother and his wife had left. i made up the fire, lighted a fresh cigar, and sat down to think. somehow years had gone by in that evening; i was heavy with the heaviness of middle life. to take the other road, her road--that was what may demanded of me. how little she knew the situation! that would mean immediate ruin for me and mine, and for those men who had trusted me with their money. the world that i had been building all these years would crumble and vanish like smoke into the void out of which i had made it! not that may's talk had meaning or sense to it, either. nor do men made as i am alter at the sound of words. we are as we are, and we grow with the power to do that which we must do. may was merely an unreasonable and narrow woman, who saw but one kind of good. in all the forty years of my life there had been no evil as i know evil. no man could say that he had harm from me--unless it might be poor ed hostetter--and for thousands of such workers as live from day to day, depending on men like me to give them their chance to earn bread for their wives and children, i had made the world better rather than worse. unthinking thousands lived and had children and got what good there was in life because of me and my will. but to the others, the good ones, to farson and dround and may, i was but a common thief, a criminal, who fattened on the evil of the world. what had they done to make life? what was their virtue good for? they took the dainty paths and kept their clothes from the soil of the road. yes, and what then? a renewed sense of irritation rose within me. why should i be pestered like this, why should i lose my brother and may, why should sarah be hurt, because they were too good to do as i had done? so my brother and may went their way. they left me lonely. for the first time since the day, many years before, when i walked out of the police station alone into the city, the loneliness of life came over me. to-morrow, in the daylight, in the fierce fight of the day, that weakness would go; but to-night there was no hand to reach, no voice to speak, from the multitude of the world. one person only of all would know, would place big and little side by side and reckon them rightly--would understand the ways i had followed to get my ends. jane dround would throw them all a smile of contempt, the little ones who weigh and hesitate! there was the soul of the fighter. chapter xxiii happiness _i learn of mr. dround's intentions--a plea for myself--despots--a woman's heart--the two in the world that are most near--sarah's cry--jane defends herself--to go away forever--vows renewed_ "henry is simply furious--thinks his name has been involved--and he means to sell every share of stock he holds as soon as the agreement expires." "i knew that he would do just that!" mrs. dround threw back her coat and looked up with a mischievous smile on her face. she was a very handsome woman these days, not a month older than when i saw her first. she had reached that point where nature, having done her best for a woman, pauses before beginning the work of destruction. she had come this afternoon to call on sarah, and, having failed to find her at home, was writing a note at her desk, when i came in from the day's business, a little earlier than was my wont. "it isn't just that matter of the injunction. you know, my friend, people here in the city--henry's friends--say that you are engaged in dangerous enterprises--that you are a desperate man yourself! are you?" "you know better than most!" i answered lightly. "but i am getting tired of all this talk. i had a dose of it in the family the last time." she nodded as i briefly related what had happened with will and may. "and, of course, sarah feels pretty badly," i concluded. "poor child!" she murmured. "i wondered what was the matter with her these days. she will feel differently later. but your brother, that is another question." "he and his wife will never feel differently." she tossed aside the pen she held and rose to her feet. "never mind! i know you don't mind really--only it is too bad to have this annoyance just now, when you have much on your shoulders. i wish i could _do_ something! a woman's hands are always tied!" she could say no more, and we sat for some time without further talk. i was thinking what would happen when mr. dround's stock was dumped on the market, to be snapped up by my enemies. our company was very near the point of paying dividends, and with a friendly line of railroad giving us an outlet into the southwest, the struggling venture would be in a powerful position. "if he would wait but six months more!" i broke out at last. she shook her head. "where a question of principle is involved,--" her lips curved ironically. "what would _you_ do, tell me, if a parcel of scamps were holding you up for the benefit of your enemies? suppose you had a perfect right to do the business you had in hand. would you put tail between legs and get out and leave your bone to the other dog?" "if i wanted to starve, yes! i should deserve to." "you and i think surprisingly alike very often!" "i always liked despots," she replied. "and, as a matter of fact, despots--the strong ones--have always really done things. they do to-day--only we make a fuss about it and get preachy. no, my friend, don't hesitate! the scrupulous ones will bow to you in time." "you would have made something of a man!" she bowed her head mockingly. "that is man's best compliment to poor, weak woman. but i am content, when i touch the driving hand, now and then." after a time she added:-- "you will find the way. it is not the last ditch, far from it. a man like you cannot be killed with one blow!" she had given the warning, done what she could, and now she trusted me to do the rest. her will, her sympathy, were strong behind me. so when this moment was over, when she went her way and i mine, out into the world of cares and struggle, i might carry with me this bit of her courage, her sureness. i felt that, and i wanted to say it to her, to let her see that it was more herself than her good will or her help that i valued. but it was an awkward thing to say. her hands lay upon the desk between us. they were not beautiful hands, merely strong, close-knit--hands to hold with a grip of death. i looked at them, thinking that in her hands was the sign of her character. she raised her eyes and gazed at me steadily for several moments. "you know how i feel?" i nodded. "you don't need a woman's sympathy--but i want you to know how i feel--for my own sake." "thank you for it. in this life a man must stand pretty much alone, win or lose. i have always found it so--except when you and i have talked things over. that hasn't been often. this is a tight place i find myself in now. but there is a way out, or if there isn't--well, i have played the game better than most." "even that thought doesn't give happiness," she mused. "i know, because, my friend, i, too, have stood alone all my life." she gave me this confidence simply, as a man might. "i suppose a woman counts on happiness," i said awkwardly in response. "but i have never counted much on that. there have always been many things to do, and i have done them, well or ill i can't say. but i have done them somehow." it was a clumsy answer, but i could find no proper words for what i felt. such things are not to be said. there followed another of those full silences which counted with this woman for so much more than words. again it was she who broke it:-- "for once, only once, i want to speak out plainly! you are younger than i, my friend,--not so much in years as in other things. enough, so that i can look at you as--a friend. you understand?" she spoke gently, with a little smile, as if, after all, all this must be taken between us for a joke. "from the beginning, when you and sarah first came into our lives, i saw the kind of man you were, and i admired you. i wanted to help you--yes, to help you." "and that you did!" "not really. perhaps no one could really help you. no one helps or hinders. you work out your fate from the inside, like all the powerful ones. you do what is in you to do, and never question. but i longed for the woman's satisfaction of being something to you,--of holding the sponge, as the boys say. but a mere woman, poor, weak creature, is tied with a short rope--do you know what that means? so the next best thing, if one can't live one's self, is to live in another--some strong one. when you are a woman and have reached my age, you know that you can't live for yourself. that chance has gone." "i don't believe it," i protested. "you are just ready to live." she gave me a smile for my compliment, and shook her head. "no, i don't deceive myself. most women do. i know when i have reached the end of my chapter.... so i have followed you, step by step--oh, you don't know how closely! and i have sucked in all the joy of your success, of your power, of you--a man! i have lived a man's life." "but you went away?" i said accusingly. "yes, i went away--because that would help! it was the only thing i could do--i could go away." for the first time her voice shook with passion. i was answered. "now i have come back to find that my hands are tied more than ever. i can help you no more. believe me, that is the hardest thing yet. i can help you no more! my husband--you understand? no, you need not understand. a woman is bound back and across by a thousand threads, which do not always show to the eye.... i may yet keep my husband from throwing you over, but that is no matter--the truth is i count no longer to you. if the world had been other than it is, my friend, i should have been by your side, fighting it out daily for you, with you. as it is--" she threw up her arms in a gesture of disgust and remained silent, brooding. it was not necessary to complete the words. nor could i speak. something very wonderful and precious was passing before my eyes for the last time, something that had been near was floating off, would never come back. and life was so made that it was vain, useless, to try to hold it, to cry out, to do anything except to be still and feel the loss. my hands fell beside hers upon the polished surface of the desk, and we sat looking into one another's eyes, without fear. she was feeling what i was feeling, but she was looking deeper into fate than i could look. for she was wiser as a woman than i was as a man. we were the two in the world most near, and between us there was a gulf that could not be crossed. the years that are to come, my heart said to me then, will be longer than those that have passed. "listen," she whispered, as though she were reading my thoughts. "we shall never need more than this. remember! nothing more than this. for i should be a hindrance, then, not a help. and that would be the end of me, indeed. you have your will to work, which is more than any woman could give you. and i have the thought of you. now i must go away again--we have to live that way. it makes no difference: you and i think the same thoughts in the same way. what separation does a little distance put between you and me? i shall follow after you step by step, and when you have mounted to the broad level that comes after accomplishment, you will be glad that it has been as i say, not different. it is i that must long. for you need no woman to comfort and love you!" it was finished, and we sat in the deepening twilight beyond words. the truth of what she had spoken filled my mind. there was nothing else for us two but what we had had: we had come to the top of ourselves to know this, to look it in the face, and to put it aside.... * * * * * the twilight silence was broken sharp in two by a cry that rang across the room. we started from our dream together and looked around. sarah was standing midway in the long room, steadying herself by a hand reached out to a chair. i ran to hold her from falling. she grasped my arm and walked on unsteadily toward jane. "i knew it! i knew it always!" she cried harshly. "you tortuous woman--you are taking him from me! you did it from the first day! how i hate you!" [illustration: "_no, child, you are wrong! there is no truth in your cruel words._"] she dropped into a chair and sobbed. jane knelt down by her side and, grasping her hands, spoke to her in low, pleading words:-- "no, child, you are wrong! you wrong _him_. he is not such a man. there is no truth in your cruel words." "yes, you have made him do dishonorable things. he has acted so his own family have left him. i know it is _you_!" she sobbed. "he has done what you would have him do." "child, child!" jane exclaimed impatiently, shaking gently the hands she held. "what do you mean by saying such a thing?" "hasn't he done all those bad things? he never denied it, not when he was accused in church before every one. and may said it was true." she looked resentfully at jane through her tears. the older woman still smiled at her and stroked her hands. "but even if it were true, _you_ mustn't take the part of his accusers! that isn't for a woman who loves him to do. you must trust him to the end." sarah looked at her and then at me. she pushed jane from her quickly. "don't you defend him to me! you have stolen him! he loves you. i saw it once before, and i see it on your face now. i know it!" "come!" i said, taking sarah by the arm and leading her away. "you don't know what you say." "yes, i do! you treat me like a child, van! why did you have to take him?" she turned and flamed out to jane. "you have always had everything." "have i had everything?" the other woman questioned slowly, quietly, as if musing to herself. "everything? do you know all, child? let me tell you one thing. once i had a child--a son. one child! and he was born blind. he lived four months. those were the only months i think i have ever lived. do you think that i have had _all_ the joy?" she was stirred, at last, passionate, ironic, and sarah looked at her with wondering surprise, with awe. "you grudge me the three or four hours your husband has given me out of the ten years you have lived with him! you hate me because he has talked to me as he would talk to himself--as he would talk to you each day, if you could read the first letter of his mind. and if i love him? if he loves me? would you deny yourself the little i have taken from you, his wife, if it were yours to take and _mine_ to lose? but be content! not one word of what you call love has passed between us, or ever will. is that enough?" they looked at each other with hate plainly written on their faces. "you are a bad woman!" sarah exclaimed brokenly. "am i? think of this, then. i could take your husband--i could from this hour! but for his sake, for _his_ sake, i will not. _i will not!_" sarah groaned, covering her eyes, while jane walked rapidly out of the room. in a moment the carriage door clicked outside, and we were alone. "you love that woman, van!" sarah's voice broke the silence between us with an accusing moan. "why say that--" i began, and stopped; for, after this hour, i knew what it was for one person to be close to another. however, it seemed a foolish thing to be talking about. there would be no gain in going deeper into our hearts. "there has never been a word between us that you should not hear," i replied; "and now let us say no more." but sarah shook her head, unconvinced. "it is two years or more since i have seen jane," i added. "that makes no difference. jane was right! you love her!" she repeated helplessly. "what shall we do?" "nothing!" i took her cold hands and sat down opposite her, drawing her nearer me. "don't fear, my wife. they are going away again, i understand. she will go out of our life for always." "i have my children," sarah mused after a pause. "we have _our_ children," i corrected. "and it's best to think of them before ourselves." "oh, if we could take them and go away to some little place, to live like my people down in kentucky--you and me and the children!" i smiled to myself at the thought. to run away was not just to pack a trunk, as sarah thought! "it would be impossible. everything would go to pieces. i should lose pretty much all that we have--not only that, but a great many other people who have trusted me with their money would lose. i must work at least until there is no chance of loss for them." "but aren't you a very rich man, van?" "not so rich as i shall be some day! but i might make out to live in kentucky, all the same." "you think i must have a great deal of money?" "i always want you to have all that money can get." "to make up for what i can't have!" she burst into sobs. "i am so wretched, van! everything seems strange. i have tried to do what is right. but god must be displeased with me: he has taken from me the one thing i wanted." that was a bitter thought to lie between husband and wife. i took her in my arms and comforted her, and together we saw that a way lay clear before us, doing our duty by one another and by our children, and in the end all would come out well. as we sat there together, it seemed to me as though there could be two loves in a man's life,--the love for the woman and her children, who are his to protect; and the hunger love at the bottom of the heart, which with most is never satisfied, and maybe never can be satisfied in this life. so she was comforted and after a little time went to her room, more calm in spirit. then i called my secretary, and we worked together until a late hour. when my mind came back to the personal question of living, the fire on the hearth had died into cold ashes and the house was still with the stillness of early morning. for the moment it came over me that the fight i was waging with fortune was as cold as these ashes and doomed to failure. and the end, what was it? upstairs, sarah lay half dressed on the lounge in my room, asleep. the tears had dried where they had fallen on her cheeks and neck. her hair hung down loosely as though she had not the will to put it up for the night. as she lay there asleep, in the disorder of her grief, i knew that the real sorrow of life was hers, not mine. the memory of that day of our engagement came back to me--when i had wished to protect and cover her from the hard things of life. and again, as that time, i longed to take her, the gentle heart so easily hurt, and save her from this sorrow, the worst that can come to a loving woman. as i kissed the stained face, she awoke and looked at me wonderingly, murmuring half asleep:-- "what is it, van? what has happened? it is time for you to go to bed. i remember--something bad has happened. what is it, van? oh, i know now!" she shuddered as i lifted her from the lounge. "i remember now what it is. you love that woman, but i can't let you go. i can't bear it. i can't live without you!" "that will never come so long as there is life for us both," i promised. she drew her arm tight about my neck. "yes! you must love me a little always." chapter xxiv war _wall street and the people of the country--collateral--i decide to go home--slocum finds that i am a patriot--i plan to enlist--hardman once more--claims--a midnight problem--the telegram_ war! that was what was in the air those days. it had muttered on for months, giving our politicians at washington something to mouth about in their less serious hours. then came the sinking of the _maine_ in havana harbor, and even wall street could see that the country was drifting fast into war. and in their jackal fashion, the men of wall street were trying to make money out of this crisis of their country, starting rumors from those high in authority to run the prices of their goods up and down. to those men who had honest interests at stake it was a terrible time for panic, for uncertainty. one could never guess what might happen over night. but throughout the land, among the common people, the question at issue had been heard and judged. the farmer on his ranch, the laborer in his factory, the hand on the railroad--the men of the land up and down the states--had judged this question. when the time came their judgment got itself recorded; for any big question is settled just that way by those men, not at washington or in wall street. the sick spirit of our nation needed just this tonic of a generous war, fought not for our own profit. it would do us good to give ourselves for those poor cuban dogs. the jew spirit of wall street doesn't rule this country, after all, and wall street doesn't understand that the millions in the land long to hustle sometimes for something besides their own bellies. so, although wall street groaned, i had a kind of faith that war would be a good thing, cost what it might. and it might cost me the work of my life. latterly, with the revival of trade, my enterprises had been prospering, and were emerging from that doubtful state where they were blown upon by every wind of the market. for the american meat products company had kept its promise and was earning dividends. it had paid, in the past year, six per cent on the preferred stock, and, what with the big contracts we were getting from the government just now, it would earn something on the common. so far very little of our stock had come upon the market, although the period covered by the agreement among the stockholders not to sell their holdings had passed. in spite of mr. dround's threats, there was no evidence that he had disposed of his stock up to this time. it was probable that when he saw what a good earner the company had proved to be, he had reconsidered his scruples, as he had done years before in the matter of private agreements and rebates. and that rag of a railroad out of kansas city, which farson and his friends found left on their hands in the panic times of ' , now reached all the way to the gulf and was spreading fast into a respectable system. after farson had withdrawn his help at the time of our disagreement, we had interested a firm of bankers in new york, and, one way and another, had built and equipped the road. a few years of good times, and all this network of enterprises would be beyond attack. meanwhile, i was loaded down to the water's edge with the securities of these new companies, and had borrowed heavily at home and in the east in the effort to push through my plans. this was my situation on that eventful day when the news of the sinking of the _maine_ was telegraphed over the country, and even gilt-edged securities began to tumble, to slide downhill in a mad whirl. in such times collateral shrank like snow before a south wind. all the morning i had sat in my office with a telephone at my ear, and it seemed to me that but one word came from it--collateral! collateral! where was it to be had? finally, i hung up the receiver of my telephone and leaned back in my chair, dazed by the mad whirl along which i was being carried. my secretary opened the door and asked if i would see so-and-so and the next man. a broker was clamoring to get at me. they all wanted one thing--money. their demands came home to me faintly, like the noise of rain on a window. "jim," i said to the man, "i am tired. i am going home." "going home?" he gasped, not believing his ears. "tell 'em all i am going home! tell 'em anything you want to." while the young man was still staring at me, slocum burst past him into the room. even his impassive face was twisted into a scowl of fear. "harris is out there," he said hurriedly. "he says some one is selling meat products common and preferred. big chunks of it are coming on the market, and the price has dropped fifteen points during the morning." i said nothing. anything was to be expected in this whirlwind. "do you suppose it's dround's stock?" he asked. "perhaps," i nodded. "it don't make much difference to us whose it is." "we can't let this go on." "i guess it will have to go on," i replied listlessly. slocum looked at me wonderingly. he had seen me crawl out of a good many small holes, and he was waiting for the word of action now. "well?" he asked at last. "i am going home." i got up and took his arm. "come along with me, old man. i want to get out of this noise." the elevator dropped us into the hurly-burly of the street. men were hurrying in and out of the brokers' offices, where the last reports for the day were coming in. "d--n this war!" slocum swore, as i paused to buy a paper. "don't say that, slo!" i protested. "this war is a great thing, and every decent american ought to be proud of his country, by thunder! i am." the lawyer looked at me as if my head had suddenly gone back on me. "i mean it. i tell you, slo, nations are like men. they have their work to do in this life. when it comes to an issue like this, they can't shirk any more than a man can. if they do, it will be worse for them. this war will do us good, will clean us and cure us for a good long time of this cussed, little peevish distemper we have been through since ' . that was just selfish introspection. this fight for cuba will bring us all together. we'll work for something better than our bellies. there's nothing so good as a dose of real patriotism once in a while." "van, you ought to be in the senate!" he jeered. "perhaps i shall be there one of these days, when i have finished this other job." the idea seemed to strike him humorously. "you think it might be hard work for me to prove my patriotism to the people? don't you believe it. the people don't remember slander long. and those things you and i have done which have set the newspapers talking don't worry anybody. they are just the tricks of the game." so we sauntered on through the streets that march afternoon, discussing, like two schoolboys, patriotism and government; while back in the office we had left white-faced men were clamoring for a word with me, seeking to find out whether i was to go under at last. "well," slocum finally asked, as he was leaving me, "what are you going to do about this pinch?" "there's nothing to be done to-night. i'm going to read the papers and see what they say about the war. i am going home. perhaps to-morrow it will be all over. lordy! we'll make a tolerable big smash when we go down!" "get some sleep!" was slocum's advice. * * * * * the papers were red-hot with the war spirit, and they did me good. somehow, i was filled with a strange gladness because of the war. pride in the people of my country, who could sacrifice themselves for another people, swelled my heart. where could you read of a finer thing in all history than the way the people's wrath had compelled the corrupt, self-seeking politicians in washington to do their will--to strike an honest blow, to redeem a suffering people! it comes not often in any man's life to feel himself one of a great nation when it arises in a righteous cause with all the passion of its seventy millions. let the panic wipe out my little pile of money. let the war break up the dreams of my best years--i would not for that selfish cause stay its course. it made a man feel clean to think there was something greater in life than himself and his schemes. [illustration: _to-day i should like to slip back once more to the bum that landed in chicago--unattached, unburdened, unbound._] i walked on and on in the march twilight, leaving behind me the noisy city, and the struggle of the market. why not go myself--why not enlist? i suddenly asked of myself. the very thought of it made me throw up my head. slocum could gather up the fragments as well as i, and there would be enough left in any case for the children and sarah. better that fight than this! when the president issued a call for volunteers, maybe i could raise a regiment from our men. the street was shadowed by the solid houses of the rich, the respectable stone and brick palaces of the "captains of industry," each big enough to house a dozen jasonville families. i looked at them with the eyes of a stranger, as i had the day when i roamed chicago in search of a job. perhaps i had envied these men then; but small comfort had i ever had from all the wealth i had got out of the city. food and drink, a place to sleep in, some clothes--comfort for my wife and children--what else? to-day i should like to slip back once more to the bum that landed in chicago--unattached, unburdened, unbound.... i let myself into the silent house. sarah and the children were at our place in vermilion county, where i had a house and two thousand acres of good land, to which i escaped for a few days now and then. i had my dinner and was smoking a cigar when a servant brought me word that a man was waiting to see me below. when i went into the hall i saw a figure standing by the door, holding his hat in his hands. in the dim light i could not make out his face and asked him to step into the library, where i turned on the light. it was the preacher hardman. "what do you want?" i asked in some surprise. "i suppose i ought not to trouble you here at this hour, mr. harrington," he said timidly. "but i am much worried. you remember that investment you were kind enough to make for me a few years ago?" his question recalled to my mind the fact that he had given me a little inheritance which had come to his wife, asking me to invest it for him. i had put it into some construction bonds. "what about it?" i asked. he stammered out his story. some one had told him that i was in a bad shape; he had also read a piece in the paper about the road, and he had become scared. it had not occurred to him to sell his bonds before he preached that little sermon at me; but, now that my sins were apparently about to overtake me, he wished to save his little property from destruction. "why don't you sell?" i asked. "i have tried to," he admitted, "but the price offered me is very low." i laughed at the fellow's simple egotism. "so you thought i might take your bonds off your hands? got them there?" "my wife thought, as your--" he stammered. i waived his excuse aside. he drew the bonds from his coat pocket. as i sat down to write a check i said jokingly:-- "better hustle round to the bank to-morrow and get your cash." "i trust you are not seriously incommoded by this panic," he remarked inquiringly. "gold's the thing these days!" i laughed. (the cashier at the bank told me afterward that hardman made such a fuss when he went to cash his check that they actually had to hand him out six thousand dollars in gold coin.) the preacher man had no more than crawled out with profuse words of thanks than i had another caller. this time it was a young doctor of my acquaintance. he was trying to put on an indifferent air, as if he had been used to financial crises all his life. he had his doubts in his eyes, however, and i took him into my confidence. "if you possibly can, stick to what you have got. it may take a long time for prices to get back to the right place, but this tumble is only temporary. have faith--faith in your judgment, faith in your country!" i knew something of his story, of the hard fight he had made to get his education, of his marriage and his wife's sickness, with success always put off into the future. he had brought me his scrapings and savings, and i had made the most of them. when at last the doctor had gone away somewhat reassured, i sat down to think. there were a good many others like these two--little people or well-to-do, who had put their faith in me and had trusted their money to my enterprises. not much, each one; but in every case a cruel sum to lose. they had brought me their savings, their legacies, because they knew me or had heard that i had made money rapidly. could i leave them now? i might be willing to go off to cuba and see my own fortune fade into smoke. but how about their money? no--it was not a simple thing just to go broke by one's self. to-morrow my office would be crowded by these followers, and there would be letters and telegrams from those who couldn't get there. so back to the old problem! i rested my head on my hands and went over in my mind the situation, the amount of my loans, the eternal question of credit--where to get a handhold to stay me while the whirlwind passed, as i knew it must pass. [illustration: _it was a messenger boy with a delayed telegram._] hour after hour i wrestled with myself. ordinarily i could close my eyes on any danger and get the sleep that nature owes every hard-working sinner. but not to-night. i sat with my hands locked, thinking. along about midnight there sounded in the silent house a ring at the door-bell: it was a messenger boy with a delayed telegram. i tore it open and read:-- "remember my letter." it was dated from washington, and was not signed. chapter xxv the last ditch _romantic folly--the impulse that comes from beyond our sight--i go to seek mr. carboner--an unpromising location for a banker--i receive advice and help--dickie pierson gets an order from me--what is strauss's game?_ the yellow paper lay in my hand, and, with a flash, my memory went back to that mysterious note which jane dround had sent on the eve of her departure for europe. it lay undisturbed in a drawer of my office desk. i smiled impatiently at the woman's folly--of the letter, the telegram. and yet it warmed my heart that she should be thinking of me this day, that she should divine my troubles. and i seemed to see her dark eyebrows arched with scorn at my weakness, her thin lips curl disdainfully, as if to say: "was this to be your finish? have i helped you, believed in you, all these years, to have you fall now?" so she had spoken. but still i was unconvinced, and in this state of mind i went back to bed, knowing that i should need on the morrow what sleep i could get. but sleep did not come: instead, my mind busied itself with jane dround's letter--with the woman herself. as the night grew toward morning i arose, dressed myself, and left the house. the letter in my office pulled me like a thread of fate; and i obeyed its call like a child. in the lightening dawn i hurried through the streets to the lofty building where the products company had its offices, and groped my way up the long flights of stairs. as i sat down at my desk and unlocked the drawers, the morning sun shot in from the lake over the smoky buildings beneath me. after some hunting i found the letter. mrs. dround wrote a peculiar hand--firm, clear, unchangeable, but with curious tiny flourishes about the _r_'s and _s_'s. as i glanced at it, the woman herself rose before my eyes, and she sat across the desk from me, looking into my face. "yes, i need you," i found myself muttering; "not any letter, but _you_, with your will and your courage, now, if ever. for this is the last ditch, sure enough!" the letter shook in my hand and beat against the desk. it was a silly thing to leave my bed and come chasing down here at five in the morning to get hold of a romantic woman's letter! my nerves were wrong. something in me revolted from going any further with this weakness, and i still hesitated to tear open the envelope. the other battles of my life i had won unaided. at the bottom of our hearts there is a feeling which we do not understand, a respect for the unknown. terror, fear,--call it what you will,--sometime in life every one is made to feel it. all my life has been given to practical facts, yet i know that at the end of all things there are no facts. in the silence and gray light of that morning i felt the strong presence of my friend, holding out to me a hand.... i tore open the letter. inside was another little envelope, which contained a visiting-card. on it was written: "mr. j. carboner, west lake street," and beneath, in fine script, this one sentence: "_mr. carboner is a good adviser--see him!_" [illustration: "_for this is the last ditch, sure enough!_"] this was fit pay for my folly. of all the sentimental nonsense, an adviser! what was wanted was better than a million dollars of ready cash--within three hours. it was now half-past six o'clock, and i had left until half-past nine to find an ordinary, practical way out of my present difficulties. then the banks would be open; the great wheel of business would begin to revolve, with its sure, merciless motion. nevertheless, in spite of my scepticism, my eyes wandered to a map of the city that hung on the wall, and i made out the location of the address given on the card. it was a bare half-mile across the roofs from where i sat, in a quarter of the city lying along the river, given up to brick warehouses, factories, and freight yards. small likelihood that a man with a million to spare in his pocket was to be found over there! in this mood of depression and disgust i left my office, to get shaved. "street floor, sir," the elevator boy called out to wake me from my preoccupation. as i stood on the curb in the same will-less daze, a cab came prowling down the street, crossed to my side, and the disreputable-looking driver touched his dirty hat with his whip:-- "cab, sir?" "two-thirty west lake," i said to him mechanically, and plunged into his carriage. the cab finally drew up beside a low, grimy brick building that looked as if it might have survived the fire. there was a flight of dirty stairs leading from the street to the office floor, and over the small, old-fashioned windows a faded sign read "jules carboner." in response to my knock an old man opened the locked door a crack and looked out at me. when i asked to see mr. carboner, he admitted me suspiciously to a little room, which was divided in two by a high iron screen. on the inner side of the screen there was a battered desk, a few chairs, and a row of leather-backed folios that might have been in use since the founding of the city. a small coal fire was burning dully in the grate. as i stood waiting for mr. carboner, a barge laden with lumber cast its shadow through the dirty windows.... "and what may you want of me?" the words were uttered like a cough. the one who spoke them had entered the inner office so noiselessly that i had not heard him. he had a white head of hair, and jet-black eyes. i handed him my card with mrs. dround's note. "i was expecting you," the old gentleman remarked, glancing indifferently at my card. he unlocked the door of the iron grating and held it open, pointing to a chair in front of the fire. mr. carboner was short and round, with swarthy, full-blooded cheeks. evidently he was some sort of foreigner, but i could not place him among the types of men i knew. "what do you want of me?" he demanded briskly. "oh, just a lot of money, first and last!" i laughed. this announcement didn't seem to trouble him; he waited for my explanation. and remembering that i was to look to him for advice as well as cash, i proceeded to explain briefly the situation that i found myself in. he listened without comment. "finally," i said rather wearily, "just now, when i am in deep water with this railroad and all the rest, and the banks calling my loans, some fellows are selling their meat products stock. it will all go to my enemies--to strauss and his crowd, and i shall find myself presently kicked out of the company. i suppose it's mr. dround's stock that's coming on the market. it's like him to sell when prices are going down." the little old fellow shook his head. "it is not mr. dround's stock," he said. "most of that is over there." he nodded his head in the direction of a small safe which stood in one corner of the room. "how did you get it?" i exclaimed in my astonishment, jumping to my feet. "never mind how--we have had it three months," he replied with a smile. "you need not fear that it will come on the market just now." my heart gave a great bound upward: with this block of stock locked up i could do what i would with meat products. strauss could never put his hands on it. jane dround must have worked this stroke; but how she did it was a mystery. i walked back and forth in my excitement, and when i sat down once more mr. carboner began a neat little summary of my situation:-- "you are engaged in many ventures. some are strong." he named all the good ones as if he were quoting from a carefully drawn report. "some are weak." he named the others. "now, you are trying to hold the weak with the strong. it is like carrying a basket of eggs on your head. all goes well until some one runs against you. then bum, biff!--you have the beginning of an omelet." his way of putting it made me laugh. "and the omelet is about ready to cook in an hour or two!" i added. "we shall see presently. you want to sell out this packing business, some day, eh? to strauss? you take big chances. you are a new man. they suspect you. they call your loans. they think that you are thin in the waist? you have to borrow a great deal of money and pay high for it?" "you have sized me up, mr. carboner." "and after you have sold to strauss there will be railroads--ah, that is more difficult! and then many other things--always ventures, risks, schemes, plans, great plans! for you are very bold." "well, what will you do for me?" i asked bluntly. "i think we can carry you over this river, mr. harrington," he replied, looking at me with a very amiable air, as if he were my schoolmaster and had decided to give me a holiday and some spending money. who made up the "we" in this firm of rip van winkle bankers? carboner seemed to divine my doubts; for he smiled as he reached for a pad of paper and began to write in a close, crabbed hand. "take that to mr. bates," he directed. "you know him, eh?" did i know orlando bates! if i had been to him once at the tenth national, of which he was president, i had been to him fifty times, with varying results. i knew every wrinkle in his parchment-covered face. "he will give you what you want," the old man added. i still hesitated, holding carboner's scrawl in my hand. "you think it no good?" he motioned to the sheet of coarse paper. "try it!" "don't you want a receipt?" i stammered. "what for? do you think i am a pawnbroker?" the mystery grew. suppose i should take this old fellow's scrawl over to orlando bates, and the president of the tenth national should ask me what it meant? "it is good," carboner said impressively. "whose is it?" the words escaped me unconsciously. "i want to know whose money i am taking." "i hope it will be no one's," he answered imperturbably, "except the bank's. you come to me wanting money, credit. i give it to you. i ask no questions. why should you?" was it a woman's money i was taking to play out my game. i recalled the story sarah had told me years ago about jane dround's father and his fortune. he was a rich old half-breed trader, and it was gossiped that he had left behind him a pile of gold. perhaps this mr. carboner was some french-canadian, friend or business partner of jane's father, who had charge of her affairs. as sarah had said, jane dround was always secret and uncommunicative about herself. my faith in the piece of paper was growing, but i still waited. "if you lay these matters down now," carboner observed coldly, poking the fire with an old pair of tongs, "they will be glass. if you grasp them in a strong hand, they will become diamonds." [illustration: "_if you grasp them in a strong hand, they will become diamonds._"] but to take a woman's money! i thought for a moment--and then dismissed the scruple as swiftly as it had come. this woman was a good gambler! "all right!" i exclaimed, drawing on my overcoat, which i had laid aside. "good! don't worry about anything. make your trees bear fruit. that is what you can do, young man." old carboner patted me on the back in a fatherly fashion. "now we will have some coffee together. there is yet time." the man who had opened the door for me brought in two cups of strong coffee, and i drank mine standing while carboner sipped his and talked. "this disturbance will be over soon," he said sagely. "then we shall have such times of wealth and speculation as the world has never seen. great things will be done in a few years, and you will do some of them. there are those who have confidence in you, my son. and confidence is worth many millions in gold." he gave me his hand in dismissal. "come to see me again, and we will talk," he added sociably. * * * * * on the ground floor of my building there was a broker's office. it was a new firm of young men, without much backing. my old friend, dickie pierson, was one of them, and on his account i had given the firm some business now and then. this morning, as i was hurrying back to my office, i ran into dick standing in the door of his place. he beckoned me into the room where the new york quotations were beginning to go up on the board. he pointed to the local list of the day before; meat products stretched in a long string of quotations across the board, mute evidence of yesterday's slaughter. "what's wrong with your concern?" dick asked anxiously. "some one is pounding it for all he is worth." "who were selling yesterday?" "stearns & harris," he answered. (they were brokers that strauss's crowd were known to use.) there was a mystery here somewhere. for there could not be any considerable amount of the stock loose, now that dround's block was locked up in jules carboner's safe. yet did the strauss crowd dare to sell it short in this brazen way? they must think it would be cheap enough soon, or they knew where they could get some stock when they wanted it. "what's up?" dick asked again, hovering at my elbow. i judged that he had gone into meat products on his own account, and wanted to know which way to jump. "it looks bad for us," i said confidentially to dickie. "you needn't publish this on the street." (i reckoned that the tip would be on the ticker before noon.) "but dround has gone over to the other crowd. and probably some of our people are squeezed just now so they can't hold their meat products." i added some yarn about a lawsuit to make doubly sure of dickie, and ordered him to sell a few hundred shares on my own account as a clincher. when i reached my telephone i called up some brokers that i trusted and told them to watch the market for meat products stock, and pick it up quietly, leading on the gang that was pounding our issues all they could. an hour later, on my way back from the tenth national, where i had had a most satisfactory interview with mr. orlando bates, i dropped in at dickie pierson's place. meat products shares were active, and in full retreat across the broad board. "i guess you had better sell some more for me," i said to dickie. "sell a thousand to-morrow." chapter xxvi victory _the shorts are caught--big john comes to my office to get terms--an exchange of opinions--an alliance proposed--i reject it--my enemies are flattering--i have arrived_ they sent old john carmichael around to treat with me. he had to come to the office the same as any other man who had a favor to ask. slocum and i and two or three others who were close to us were there waiting for him, and discussing the terms we should give. "they must be short in the neighborhood of fifteen thousand shares common and preferred the best we can make out," slocum reported, after conferring with our brokers. "how did you have the nerve, van, to run this corner when you knew dround's stock was loose?" "it isn't loose," i answered. "where is it, then? we know pretty well where every other share is, but his block has dropped out of the market. it was transferred to some new york parties last october." i smiled tranquilly. there had been no leak in our barrel. slocum and i had been around to all the other large holders of meat products, and i knew they would not go back on us. the strauss crowd would find the corner invulnerable. when carmichael came in he nodded to me familiarly, just as he used to at dround's when he had been away on a trip to new york or some place, and called out gruffly:-- "say! i told them you were a bad one to go up against. say, harrington, do you remember how you scalped poor old mcgee back in the days when you were doing odd jobs at dround's? well, i came over here to see what you want for your old sausage shop, anyway." with that gibe at my start in the packing business he settled back in his chair and pulled out a cigar. "i don't know that we are anxious to sell, john," i replied. "what? that talk don't go. i know you want to get out mighty bad. what's your figure?" "you fellows have given us a lot of trouble, first and last," i mused tranquilly. "there was that injunction business over the london and chicago company, and the squeeze by the banks. you have tried every dirty little game you knew." carmichael grinned and smoked. "i suppose you want our outfit to turn out some more rotten canned stuff for the government. what you sold them isn't fit for a chinaman to eat, john." thereupon i reached into a drawer of my desk and brought out a tin of army beef marked with the well-known brand of the great strauss. i proceeded to open it, and as soon as the cover was removed a foul odor offended our nostrils. "here's a choice specimen one of our boys got for me." carmichael smoked on placidly. "that is something we have never done, though we couldn't make anything on our contract at the figures you people set. and little of the business we got, anyway! strauss ought to be put where he'd have to feed off his own rations." so we sat and scored one another comfortably for a time, and then came to business. the terms that slocum and i had figured out were that strauss and his crowd should pay us in round numbers two hundred dollars per share preferred and common alike, allowing every shareholder the same terms. carmichael leaped to his feet when he heard the figures. "you're crazy mad, van," he swore volubly. then he stated his plan, which was, in brief, that we should make an alliance with the great strauss and sell him at "reasonable figures" an interest in our company. "and let you and strauss freeze out my friends? not for one minute! go back and tell your boss to find that stock he's short of." carmichael threw us an amused glance. "do you think that's worrying us? if you want a fight, i guess we can give you some trouble." it seems that they had another club behind their backs, and that was a suit, which they were instigating the attorney-general to bring against the meat products company for infringing the illinois anti-trust act. the impudence and boldness of this suggestion angered me. "all right," i said. "you have our figure, john." he left us that day, but he came the next morning with new proposals from his master. they were anxious to have a peaceable settlement. i had known for some time that these men were preparing for an astonishing move, which was nothing less than a gigantic combination of all the large food-product industries of the country, and they could not leave us as a thorn in their side. they must annex us, cost what it might. so now they talked of my ability, of what i had done in making a great business out of a lot of remnants, and they wanted to buy me as well as our company, offering me some strong inducements to join them. but i told carmichael shortly:-- "i will never work with strauss in this life. it's no use your talking, john. there isn't enough money coined to bring me to him. you must buy our stock outright--and be quick about it, too." he could not understand my feeling, and it was not reasonable. but all these years of desperate fight there had grown up in my heart a hatred of my enemy beyond the usual cold passions of business. i hated him as a machine, as a man,--as a cruel, treacherous, selfish, unpatriotic maker of dollars. so in the end they came to my terms, and the lawyers set to work on the papers. the strauss interests were to take over the meat products stock at our figure, and also the empress line, our private-car enterprise, and two or three smaller matters that had grown up in connection with the packing business. when slocum and i went on to new york to finish the transaction, sarah and the girls accompanied us, on their way to europe, where they were going for a pleasure trip. [illustration: "_there isn't enough money coined to bring me to him._"] thus in a few months my labors came to flower, and suddenly the map of my life changed completely. the end was not yet, but no longer was i the needy adventurer besieging men of means to join me in my enterprises, dodging daily blows in a hand-to-hand scrimmage--a struggling packer! i had brought strauss to my own terms. and when the proud firm of morris brothers, the great bankers, invited me to confer with them in regard to our railroad properties in the southwest, and to take part in one of those deals which in a day transform the industrial map of the country, i felt that i had come out upon the level plateau of power. chapter xxvii doubts _the time of jubilation--at the bankers'--the last word from farson--sarah and i go to see the parade--we meet the drounds--a fading life--sad thoughts--jane speaks out--what next?--sarah is no longer jealous_ it was that autumn of jubilation after the spanish war. the morning when i drove through the city to the bankers' office, workmen were putting up a great arch across the avenue for the coming day of celebration. our people had shown the nations of the world the might and the glory in us. forgotten now was the miserable mismanagement of our brave men, the shame of rotten rations, the fraud of politicians--all but the pride of our strength! a new spirit had come over our country during these months--a spirit of daring and adventure, of readiness for vast enterprises. that business world of which i was a part was boiling with activities. the great things that had been done in the past in the light of the present seemed but the deeds of babes. and every man who had his touch upon affairs felt the madness of the times. among the gentlemen gathered in the bankers' office that morning was my old friend farson. i had not seen him since our unpleasant luncheon at the railroad station. he greeted me courteously enough, as if he had once been acquainted with somebody by my name. it was apparent that he had come there to represent what was left of the old new england interests in the railroad properties; but he did not count in that gathering. the men at morris brothers listened to me most of the time that morning! as we broke up for luncheon farson congratulated me dryly on the success i had met with in the negotiations. "i hope, then, we shall have your support," i remarked, forgetting our past dispute. "i am here to see that my friends are taken care of," he replied grimly; "all we hope is to get our money back from the properties. my people do not understand you and your generation. we are better apart." "i am sorry you think so," i said, understanding well enough what he meant. "i am sorry, too: sorry for you and for our country in the years to come. for she it is who suffers most by such ideals as you stand for." "i think that you are mistaken there," i answered peaceably. "we are the ones who are making this country great. if it weren't for men like me, you good people wouldn't be doing any business to speak of. there wouldn't be much to be done!" "our fathers found enough to do," he retorted dryly, "and they did not buy judges nor maintain lobbies in the legislature." "there wasn't any money in it those days!" i laughed. talking thus we reached the place where i was to lunch with some others, and i asked him to join the party. the uncompromising old duck refused; he wouldn't even break bread with me at a hotel table. "i am sorry you won't eat with me, mr. farson. i don't hope to convert you to my way of thinking and feeling. but you were good to me and saved my life when i was in a tight place, and i am glad to think that no loss ever came to you or your friends through me. i have made money for you all. and i wish you would stay with me and let me make a lot more for you in this new deal we are putting through." "thank you," he said with a dry little smile, "but i and my friends will be content with getting back the money we have spent. mr. harrington, there is one thing that you western gentlemen--no! it is unfair to cast that slur on one section of the country, and i have met honorable gentlemen west as well as east--but there is one thing that you gentlemen of finance to-day fail to understand--there is always a greater rascal than any one of you somewhere, and it is usually only a question of time when you will meet him. when that time comes he will pick the flesh from your bones, and no one will care very much what happens to you then! and one thing more: to one who has lived life, and knows what it is, there is mighty little happiness in a million dollars! good morning, sir." he was a lovable old fool, though! all through luncheon and the business talk that followed in the afternoon the old gentleman's remarks kept coming back to me in a queer, persistent way. feeling my oats as i did, in the full flood of my success, there was yet something unsatisfied about my heart. my brain was busy with the plans of the morris brothers, but nothing more. * * * * * after the work of the day was over, sarah and i drove up to the park to see the parade of fine horses and carriages and smart-looking folks who were out taking their airing. it was a beautiful, warm october day, and sarah took considerable interest in the show. the faces of those in the carriages were not much to look at, take them by and large. they were the faces of men and women who ate and drank and enjoyed themselves too much. they were the faces of the people who lived in the rich hotels, who made and spent the money of our country. and as i looked at them, farson's last words came back to my thoughts:-- "there's mighty little happiness in a million dollars." "van," sarah said after a time, "let us drive over the avenue. i want to look at that house the rainbows spoke to us about." so we turned out of the park toward the house on the avenue which we thought of buying; for we had been talking somewhat of moving to new york to live after this year. as we got out of our carriage in front of the lofty gray stone house, a man and a woman came toward us on the walk. the man seemed old and moved heavily, and the woman's face was bent to one side to him. sarah glanced at them and stood still. "van," she whispered, "there are mr. and mrs. dround!" she hesitated a moment, and then, as the two came nearer, she stepped forward to meet them, and jane looked up at us. the two women glanced at each other, then spoke. mrs. dround said something to her husband, and he gave me a slow look of returning recognition, as if my face recalled vague memories. "mr. harrington?" he said questioningly, taking my hand in a hesitating way, as though he were not quite sure about me yet. "oh, yes! i am glad to see you again. how is mr. carmichael? well, i hope, and prospering?" the man's mind was a blank! "yes, mrs. dround and i have been abroad this winter," he continued, "but we have come back to live here. america is the proper place for americans, i have always believed. i have no patience with those people who expatriate themselves. yes, mrs. dround wanted me to take a place in kent, but i would not listen to it. i know where my duty lies,"--he straightened himself with slow pompousness,--"how are the children? all well, i hope?" jane was talking with sarah, and the four of us after a while entered the house, which was just being finished by the contractor. in the hall mr. dround turned to sarah and made some remark about the house, and the agent, who happened to be there, led them upstairs. jane and i followed. "so you have come home to live?" i asked. "yes!" she sank down on a workman's bench, with a sigh of weariness. as i looked at her more closely, it seemed to me that at last age had touched her. there were white strands in her black hair, and there were deep circles beneath the dark eyes--eyes that were dull from looking without seeing anything in particular. "it was best for henry," she added quietly. "he is restless over there. you see, he forgets everything so quickly now. it has been so for nearly a year." there was the story of her days--the watcher and keeper of this childish man, whose mind was fading away before its time. with a sense of the cruelty in it, i turned away from her hastily and looked out of the window. "i do not mind, most times," she said gently, as in answer to my action. "it is easier to bear than some things of life." "shame!" i muttered. "but there are days," she burst out more like her old self, "when i simply cannot stand it! but let us not waste these precious minutes with my troubles. let us talk of _you_. you are still young in spite of--" "the gray hair and the two hundred and forty pounds? i don't feel so young as i might, jane!" she colored at the sound of her name. "but you have got much for your gray hairs--you have lived more than most men!" "tell me," i demanded suddenly,--"i know it was your hand that pulled me from the last hole. it was your money that carboner risked? i knew it. old carboner wouldn't tell, but i knew it!" "and you were on the point of refusing my help," she added with an accusing smile. "i should have scorned you, if you had gone away without it!" "oh, i didn't hesitate long! and i am glad now it was yours, in more ways than one," i added quickly. "it was a profitable deal,--carboner wrote you the terms?" "yes, but it would have made no difference if it had come out badly--you can't know what it meant to me to do that! to work with you with all my strength! it was the first real joy i ever got from my money, and perhaps the last, too. for you are beyond my help now." "how did carboner get hold of your husband's stock?" i persisted curiously. "that is my secret!" she smiled back with a look of her old self. "why should you want to know? that is so like a man! always wanting to know why. believe in the fairies for once!" "it was a mighty clever fairy this time. she had lots of power. do you see that, after all, in spite of all the talk about genius and destiny and being self-made and all that, i did not win the game by myself? i would have been broke now, a discredited gambler, if it hadn't been for your helping hand. it was you! and i guess, jane, we all have to have some help." "you don't begrudge me the little help i gave you--the small share i had in your fortune?" "no, i don't mind. i am glad of it." that was sincere enough. i had come to see that no man can stand alone, and i was not ashamed to have taken my help from the hand of a woman. "but suppose i had gambled with your money and lost it? i might have easily enough." "do you think i should have cared?" "no, jane, i guess not. but i should have!" "it's been the joy of these terrible years, knowing that you were here in the world accomplishing what you were born to do! and that i had a little--oh, such a little!--share in helping you do it. poor i, who have never done anything worth while!" "it seems queer that a woman should set so much store on what a man does." "it's beyond a man's power to know that! but try to think what you would be if you were a helpless cripple, tied to your chair. don't you suppose that when some strong, handsome athlete came your way with all his health, you would admire him, get interested in him, and like to watch those muscles at work, just the muscles you couldn't use? i think so. and if a good fate put it in your power to help him--you, the poor cripple in your chair--help him to win his race, wouldn't you be thankful? i can tell you that one cripple blesses you because you are you--a man!" the excitement of her feelings brought back the dark glow to her face, and made her beautiful once more. ideas seemed to burn away the faded look and gave her the power that passion gives ordinary women. "you and i think alike, i love to believe. start us from the two poles, and we would meet midway. we are not little people, thank god, you and i. we did not make a mess of our lives! my friend, it is good to know that," she ended softly. "yes," i admitted, understanding what she meant. "we parted." "we parted! we lived a thousand miles from one another. what matters it? i said to myself each day: 'out there, in the world, lives a man who thinks and acts and feels as i would have a man think and act and feel. he is not far away.'" she laid a hand lightly on my arm and smiled. and we were silent until the voices of the others in the hall above reminded us of the present. jane rose, and her face had faded once more into its usual calm. "you are thinking of moving to new york? what for?" i spoke of my new work--the checker-board that had been under discussion all day at the bankers'. "you are rich enough," she remarked. "that means so many millions more to your account." "no, not just that," i protested. "it's the solution to the little puzzle you and i were working at over the atlas in your library that day years ago. it is like a problem in human physics: there were obstacles in the way, but the result was sure from the start." "but you are near the end of it--and then what?" "i suppose there will be others!" after a time i added, half to myself: "but there's no happiness in it. there is no happiness." "do you look for happiness? that is for children!" "then what is the end of it?" for of a sudden the spring of my energies was slackened within me, and the work that i was doing seemed senseless. somehow a man's happiness had slipped past me on the road, and now i missed it. there was the joy we might have had, she and i, and we had not taken it. had we been fools to put it aside? she answered my thoughts. "we did not want it! remember we did not want that! don't let me think that, after all, you regret! i could not stand that--no woman could bear it." her voice was like a cry to my soul. on the stairs above mr. dround was saying to sarah:-- "no, i much prefer our chicago style of building, with large lots, where you can get sunshine on all four sides. it is more healthy, don't you think, mrs. harrington?" and sarah answered:-- "yes, i quite agree with you, mr. dround. i don't like this house at all--it's too dark. we shall have to look farther, i guess." jane turned her face to mine. her eyes were filled with tears, and her mouth trembled. "don't regret--anything," she whispered. "we have had so much!" "van," sarah called from the stairs, "you haven't seen the house! but it isn't worth while. i am sure we shouldn't like it." "you mustn't look for your chicago garden on fifth avenue," mrs. dround laughed. as we left the house, sarah turned to jane and asked her to come back with us to the hotel for dinner. but the drounds had an engagement for the evening, and so an appointment was made for the day following to dine together. when we had said good-by and were in the carriage, sarah remarked reflectively:-- "jane looks like an old woman--don't you think so, van?" chapter xxviii a new ambition _jane dround points the way again--the shoes of parkinson and the senatorial toga--strauss is dead--business or politics?--a dream of wealth--the family sail for europe_ "i am writing sarah that after all we cannot dine with you. my husband is restless and feels that we must leave for the west to-night. it was very sweet of sarah to want us, but after all perhaps it is just as well. we shall see you both soon, i am sure.... "but there is something i want to say to you--something that has been on my mind all the long hours since our meeting. those brief moments yesterday i felt that all was not well with you, my friend. your eyes had a restless demand that i never saw in them before. i suspect that you are beginning to know that success is nothing but a mirage, fading before our eyes from stage to stage. you have accomplished all and more than you planned that afternoon when we hung over the atlas together. you are rich now, very rich. you are a power in the world,--yes, you are,--not yet a very great planet, but one that is rapidly swinging higher into the zenith. you must be reckoned with! my good jules keeps me informed, you see. if you keep your hold in these new enterprises, you will double your fortune many times, and before long you will be one of the masters--one of the little group who really control our times, our country. yet--i wonder--yes, my doubt has grown so large since i saw you that it moves me to write all this.... will _that_ be enough? mere wealth, mere power of that kind, will it satisfy?... it is hard enough to tell what _will satisfy_; but there are other things--other worlds than your world of money power. but i take your time with my woman's nonsense--forgive me! "i hear from a good authority in washington that our old senator parkinson is really on his last legs. that illness of his this spring, which they tried to keep quiet, was really a stroke, and it will be a miracle if he lasts another winter. did you know him? he was a queer old farmer sort of politician. his successor, i fancy, will be some one quite different. that type of statesman has had its day! _there_ is a career, now, if a man wanted it!... why not think of it? "good-by, my friend. i had almost forgotten, as i forgot yesterday, to thank you for making me so rich! mr. carboner cabled me the terms of your settlement with strauss. they were wicked! "jane dround. "it would not be the most difficult thing in the world to capture parkinson's seat--if one were willing to pay the price!" * * * * * the idea of slipping into old parkinson's shoes made me laugh. it was a bit of feminine extravagance. nevertheless this letter gave me food for thought. jane was right enough in saying that my wonderful success had not brought me all the satisfaction that it should. now that the problems i had labored over were working themselves out to the plain solution of dollars and cents, the zest of the matter was oozing away. to be sure, there was prospect of some excitement to be had in the railroad enterprises of the morris brothers, although it was merest flattery to say that my position counted for much as yet in that mighty game. did i want to make it count? i sipped my morning coffee and listened to sarah's talk. beyond business, what was there for me? there was our place down in vermilion county, illinois. but stock-farming was an old man's recreation. i might become a collector like mr. dround, roaming about europe, buying old stuff to put in a house or give to a museum. but i was too ignorant for that kind of play. and philanthropy? well, in time, perhaps when i knew what was best to give folks, which isn't as simple as it might seem. "i am sorry the drounds couldn't come," sarah was saying, glancing at jane's note to her. "i liked jane better yesterday than ever before--she looked so worn and kind of miserable. i don't believe she can be happy, van." "well, she didn't say so!" i replied.... yes, i knew senator parkinson--a sly, tricky politician, for all his simple farmer ways. he was not what is called a railroad senator, but the railroads never had much trouble with him.... before we had finished our breakfast carmichael sent up word that he must see me, and i hurried down to the lobby of the hotel. he met me at the elevator and drew me aside, saying abruptly:-- "the old man is dead! just got a wire from chicago--apoplexy. i must get back there at once." strauss dead! the news did not come home to me all at once. his was not just like any other death. from the day when the old packer had first come within my sight he had loomed big and savage on my horizon, and around him, somehow, my life had revolved for years. i hated him. i hated his tricky, wolfish ways, his hog-it-all policy; i despised his mean, unpatriotic character. yet his going was like the breaking of some great wheel at the centre of industry. i had hated him, and for that reason i had refused all offers to settle on anything but a cash basis for my interests in the companies he was buying from us. carmichael and some others had urged me again and again to go in with them and help them build the great merger, but i had steadily refused to work with strauss. "i cannot make a good servant," i had said to john, "and i don't want a knife in my side. the country is big enough for strauss and me. i'll give him his side of the pasture." but now he was dead, and already, somehow, my hate was fading from my heart. the great strauss was but another man like myself, who had done his work in his own way. carmichael, who was a good deal worked up, exclaimed:-- "this won't make any hitch in our negotiations, harrington. everything will go right on just as before. the old man's plans were laid pretty deep, and this deal with you is one of the first of them. his brother joe will take his place, maybe, and if he can't fill the shoes, why, young jenks, who seems to be a smart young man, or i will take the reins." (old strauss had been married three times, but his children had all died. there was no one of his own to take the ball of money he had made and roll it larger; no one of his own blood to grasp the reins of his power and drive on in the old man's way!) "say, van," the irishman continued, "why don't you think it over once more, and see your way to join us? you didn't care for the old man. but you and i and jenks could swing things all right. and we could keep joe strauss in his place between us. god, kid, the four of us could make a clean job of this thing--there's no limit to what we could do!" as he uttered this last, he grasped me by the arms and shook me. i knew what he meant--that with the return of prosperity, with vast capital ready for investment, with the control of the packing and food-products transportation business--which we packers had been organizing into a compact machine--there was no limit to the reach of our power in this land, in the world. (and i was of his way of thinking, then, not believing that a power existed which could check our operations. and i do not believe it now, i may add; nor do i know a man conversant with the modern situation of capital who believes that with our present system of government any effective check upon the operations of capital can be devised.) "think it over," carmichael urged, "and let me know when i return from chicago the first of the week. you don't want to make the mistake of your life by dropping out just now." but while he was talking to me, urging on me the greatness of the future, my thoughts went back to that letter of jane dround's. she had seen swiftly a truth that was coming to me slowly. there might be twenty, forty, sixty millions in the packers' deal, but the joy of the game had gone for me. all of those millions would not give me the joy i had when i sold that sausage plant to strauss! i shook my head. "no, i don't want it, john. but strauss's death makes a big difference. i am willing to offer some kind of trade with you,--to let you have my stock on better terms, if your people will do what i want." carmichael waited for my proposal. i said:-- "old parkinson is pretty near his end, i hear. it's likely there will be a vacant seat in the senate sometime soon." the irishman's eyes opened wide in astonishment. "strauss used to keep in touch with springfield," i suggested. "he and vitzer" (who was the great traction wolf in chicago) "used to work pretty close together sometimes--" "you want to go to the senate, van?" carmichael burst into a laugh that attracted the attention of the men sitting around us. "it might work out that way," i admitted. "and how about that judge business?" he inquired, still laughing. "the papers would make it some hot for you." "no doubt. i don't expect i should be exactly a popular candidate, john. but i calculate i'd make as good a senator as jim parkinson, and a deal more useful one." carmichael stopped laughing and began to think, seeing that there might be a business end to this proposition. the time was coming when he and his associates would need the services of an intelligent friend at washington. he reckoned up his political hirelings in the state. "it might be managed," he said after a while, "only our crowd would want to be sure we could count on you if we helped put you there. there's a lot of bum, cranky notions loose in congress, and it's up to the senate to see that the real interests of the country are protected." "i ought to know by this time what the real interests are," i assured him, and when he rose to leave for his train i added pointedly: "in case we make this arrangement there's more stock than mine which you could count on for your deal. we'd all stay in with you." for there was the stock carboner had locked up in his safe, and slocum's, and considerable more that would do as i said. if carmichael and young jenks put through their merger and swallowed the packing business whole, i knew that our money would be in good hands. "well, when parkinson gets out we'll see what we can do," carmichael concluded. and thus the deal for parkinson's seat was made right there. all that remained was for the old man to have his second stroke. "you in the senate--that's a good one!" john chuckled. "i suppose next you will be wanting to be made secretary of the treasury, or president, maybe!" "i know my limit, john." "d----d if i do! the old man would have enjoyed this. but, van, take my advice and stay out. there ain't much in that political business. stay with us and make some money. right now is coming the biggest time this country has ever seen. and we are the crowd that's got the combination to the safe. these new york financiers think they are pretty near the whole thing, but i reckon we are going to give even them a surprise." with this final boast, he got into his cab and drove off. the day was brilliantly sunny, and the street was alive with gay people. what the irishman said was true--i felt it in the sunny air: the greatest period of prosperity this country had ever seen was just starting. it was the time when two or three good gamblers could pick up any kind of property, give it a fine name, print a lot of pretty stock certificates, and sell their gold brick to the first comer. the people were crazy to spend their money. it was a great time! nevertheless, at the bottom of all this craze was a sure feeling that all was well with us--that ours was a mighty people. and that was about right. [illustration: "_and we are the crowd that's got the combination to the safe._"] well, i loved my country in my own way; and i had all the money i knew what to do with. why not take a seat in "the millionnaires' club," as the newspapers called that honorable body, the united states senate? * * * * * before i left for the west the family sailed for europe. little may and sister sarah, as we called the girls, had persuaded their mother to take them over to paris for a lark. may, who was thirteen, was running the party. she was a tall, lively girl, with black hair and eyes, and was thought to resemble me. the other was quieter in her ways, more like sarah. we had lost one little boy the summer before, which was a great sorrow to us all. the older boy, who was at school preparing for college, took after his mother, too. he was a pleasant-mannered chap, with a liking for good clothes and other playthings. i did not reckon that he ever would be much of a business man. the morning that the steamer sailed sarah was nervous over starting, but may settled her in a corner of the deck and got her a wrap. then the girls went to say good-by to some friends. "van," sarah said to me when we were alone. she hesitated a moment, then went on timidly, "if anything should happen to us, van, there's one thing--" "nothing is going to happen! not unless you lose your letter of credit, or the girls run off with you," i joked. "there's one thing i want to speak about seriously, van. it's may and will!" she paused timidly. "well?" "can't you do something to make them feel differently?" "i guess not. i've tried my best!" "i know they are poor, and will's in bad health, too,--quite sick." "how did you know that?" "oh, i saw may once before i left. they are in chicago again." after a time i said:-- "you know i would give half of my money not to have it so, but it's no use talking. they wouldn't take a cent from me." sarah sighed. "but couldn't you get will a place somewhere without his knowing about how it came?" "i'll try my best," i said sadly. then it was time to leave the steamer; the girls came and kissed me good-by, hanging about my neck and making me promise to write and to come over for them later. sarah raised her veil as i leaned down to kiss her. "good-by, van," she said without much spirit. "be careful of yourself and come over if you can get away." of late years, especially since the boy's death, sarah seemed to have lost her interest in things pretty much. the trip might do her good. chapter xxix the senatorship _the people's choice--what the legislature of a great state represents--the strauss lobby--public opinion, pro and con--an unflattering description of myself--carboner's confidences--on the bill-boards--popular oratory--i discover my brother in strange company--i do some talking on my own account--an organ of kick and criticism--turned crank_ jane dround was right about old senator parkinson. he came home to die early in the fall, and faded away in a couple of months afterward. the political pot at the capital of the state then began to hum in a lively fashion. it was suspected that the governor himself wanted to succeed the late senator, and there were one or two congressmen and a judge whose friends thought they were of senatorial size. that was the talk on the surface and in the papers. but the situation was very different underneath. the legislature might be said, in a general way, to represent the people of the state of illinois, but it represented also the railroad interests, the traction and gas interests, and the packers, and when it came to a matter of importance it pretty generally did what it was told by its real bosses. this time it was told to put me in the senate in place of the late senator, and it obeyed orders after a time. carmichael was honest with me, and stuck to his agreement to use the strauss lobby in the legislature in my behalf. of course the papers in chicago howled, all those that hadn't their mouths stopped with the right cake. the three largest papers couldn't be reached by our friends in any way, but their scoring did little harm. they had up again the story of judge garretson and the bonds of the london and chicago concern. but the story was getting a little hazy in men's memories, and that kind of talk is passed around so often when a man runs for office in our country that it hasn't much significance. we did not even think it worth while to answer it. besides, to tell the truth, we had nothing much to say. our policy was, of necessity, what slocum sarcastically described as "dignified silence." when my name began to be heard at springfield more and more insistently, the chicago _thunderer_ came out with a terrific roast editorially:-- "who is this fellow, e.v. harrington, who has the presumption to look lustfully on the chair of our late honorable senator? eighteen years ago harrington was driving a delivery wagon for a packing firm, and there are to-day on the west side retail marketmen who remember his calls at their places. we believe that his first rise in fortune came when, in some tricky way, he got hold of a broken-down sausage plant, which he sold later to the redoubtable strauss. but it was not until the year ' , when the notorious american meat products company was launched, that harrington emerged from the obscurity of the stock yards. that corporation, conceived in fraud, promoted by bribery, was the child of his fertile brain. not content with this enterprise, he became involved in railroad promotion in the southwest, and he and his man friday, slocum, were celebrated as the most skilful manipulators of legislative lobbies ever seen in the experienced state of texas. "what will harrington represent in the senate, assuming that he will be able to buy his way there? will he represent the great state of illinois,--the state of lincoln, of douglas, of oglesby? he will represent the corrupt vitzer and the traction interests of chicago, the infamous dosserand and the gas gang--above all, he will represent the packers' combine,--joe strauss, jenks, 'big john' carmichael. these citizens, who are secretly preparing to perpetrate the greatest piece of robbery this country has ever witnessed, propose to seat harrington in the united states senate as their personal representative. can the degradation of that once honorable body be carried to a greater depth?" it was not a flattering description of myself, but tom stevens, the proprietor of the _thunderer_, always hated strauss and his crowd, and the papers had to say something. to offset that dose, the _vermilion county herald_ printed a pleasant eulogy describing me as a type of the energy and ability of our country,--"the young man of farmer stock who had entered the great city without a dollar and had fought his way up to leadership in the financial world by his will and genius for commerce. such practical men, who have had training and experience in large affairs, are the suitable representatives of a great commercial people. the nation is to be congratulated on securing the services of men of mr. harrington's ability, who could with so much more profit to themselves continue in the career of high finance." the only trouble with this puff was that it was composed in the office of my lawyers and paid for at high rates. but, so far as affecting the result, the _thunderer_ and the _vermilion county herald_ were about on a par. the order had gone out from headquarters that i was to be sent to the senate to take parkinson's vacant seat, and, unless a cyclone swept the country members off their feet, to the senate i should go. all that i had to do was to wait the final roll-call and pay the bills. my old, tried counsellor, jaffrey slocum, was managing this campaign for me. we could not use him at springfield, however; for by this time he was too well known as one of the shrewdest corporation lawyers in the west. he represented the united metals trust, among other corporations, and had done some lively lobbying for them of late. he was a rich man now, and weighed several stone more than he did when he and i were living at ma pierson's joint. he was married, and had a nice wife, an ambitious woman, who knew what her husband was worth. she might push him to new york or washington before she was done. meantime, it was settled that he should take care of the packers' merger, when that came off, and that business would mean another fortune for him. one day, while the election was still pending, i went over to see jules carboner. the old fellow was cheery as ever, and as pleased to see me as if i had been a good boy just home from school. we had some of his strong coffee and talked things over. "by the way," he said, as i was leaving, "let me tell you now how we happened to get hold of that block of products' stock." and he explained to me the mystery of that stock, which had saved my life, so to speak, at a critical time. it seems that about three months before the war scare, when there were bad rumors about meat products all over the city, dround had placed his stock in the hands of a new york firm of bankers. i suppose he was ashamed to let me know that he was going to break his last promise to me. for if he didn't tell those bankers to offer strauss his stock, he knew that was just what they would do. so much for the scrupulous henry i! the bankers felt around and tried to strike a bargain with the great packer, and negotiations were under way for some time about the stock. that gave our enemies the confidence to sell us short. they thought that, in case the market went wrong, they could put their hand on dround's stock. just at this point carboner received word where the stock was and orders to buy it. he went to new york the next day and bought it outright, paying all it was worth, naturally.... i came back from carboner's place through newspaper row. on the boards in front of the offices one could read in large red and blue letters:-- harrington said to be slated for the senate final ballot to-day men passing on their way home from their work paused to read the bulletin, and i stopped, too. a group of laboring men were gathered about the door of a building near by, and from the numbers entering and leaving the place i judged that some kind of meeting was in progress within. as i stood there my attention was caught by a man who went in with several others. something about the man's back reminded me of my brother will, and i followed into the building and upstairs to a smoky room, where the men were standing about in groups, talking together, only now and then paying any attention to the speaker on the platform. he was a fat, round little fellow, and he was shouting himself out of breath:-- "yes! i tell you right here, you and your children are sold like so many hogs over at the yards. don't you believe it? what do you pay for meat? what do you pay for every basket of coal you put in your stoves? the millionnaires there at washington make the laws of this free country, and who do they make them for? don't you know? do they make 'em for you, or for joe strauss? they are putting one of their kind in the senate from this state right now!"... so he rambled on, and having sampled his goods, and not seeing the face i was looking for, i was moving toward the door, when i was arrested by the voice of a man who began to speak over in one corner. [illustration: _men paused to read the bulletin, and i stopped, too._] "that's so. i know him!" he shouted, and the attention of the room was his. the men around him moved back, and i could see that the speaker was will. he was dressed in a long waterproof coat, and his hat was tipped back on his head. an untrimmed black beard covered the lower half of his face. "i can tell you all about him," he continued in a thin, high voice. "he's the man who got a bill through congress giving himself and his partners a slice of land out of the indian territory. he's the man who kept the texas legislature in his hire the same as a servant." [illustration: "_he's the man who sold scraps and offal to the government for canned beef_--"] generally when i hear this kind of sawing-air i go about my business. the discontented always growl at the other fellow's bone. give them a chance at the meat, and see how many bites they would make! it's hopeless to try and winnow out the truth from the mass of lies they talk about the trusts, capital, the tariff, corruption, and the rest of it. but it hurt all the same to have will say such things about me.... "he's the man who sold scraps and offal to the government for canned beef--" "that's a lie!" i spoke out promptly. "don't i know what i am saying? didn't i try to live on the rancid, rotten stuff? my god, i've got some home now i could show you!" will turned to see who had contradicted him, and recognized me. "you ought to know better than that," i replied, directly to him. "some of it was rotten, but not the meat products' goods. we lost on our contract, too, what's more." will was a little startled, but he steadied himself soon and said again:-- "that's the same thing. you were all the same crowd." "no; that wasn't so," i remonstrated, "and you ought to know it." the men in the room had stopped their talking and were craning their heads to look at us. will and i eyed each other for a time; then i turned to the crowd and made the first and last real public speech of my life. "that's all a d----d lie about the beef _we_ sold the government. i know it because i inspected it myself. and i gave my own money, too, to support men at the front, and that is more than any of you fellows ever did. and the rest of the talk these gentlemen have been giving you is just about as wrong, too. let me tell you one thing: if you folks were honest, if you didn't send rascals to springfield and to congress, if you weren't ready to take a dollar and club a man if he didn't hand it over, there wouldn't be this bribery business. i know it, because i've got the club over and over again. and one thing more, it's no more use for you and i to kick about the men who put their money into trusts than it would be to try to swallow all the water in the lake. that's the way business has got to be done nowadays, and if it weren't done you folks would starve, and your wives and children would starve--" "who are you?" some began to shout, interrupting me. "i am e.v. harrington!" i called back. then they hooted: "hello, senator. put him out!" i turned toward will, and called to him:-- "come on! i want to have a word with you, will." he followed me downstairs into a saloon. some of the loafers who had heard our talk upstairs came in and crowded up to the bar, and i set up the drinks all around several times. will wouldn't take any whiskey. then the bartender let us into a little room at the end of the bar, where we could be by ourselves. "will!" i exclaimed, "whatever has happened to you?" it wrung my heart to see what a wreck he was. he had let his beard grow to cover up his wasted face. his eyes were sunk and bloodshot. the old waterproof covered a thin flannel coat. "i'm all right," he replied gloomily. "what do you want of me?" "i want you to come out and get some dinner with me, first," i said. but he shook his head, saying he must go home to may. "it ain't no use, van," he added, in a high, querulous voice. "we don't belong together. may and i are of the people--the people you fatten on." "quit that rot! i am one of the people, too." "oh, you're senator, i expect, by this time," he sneered. "what did it cost you, van?" "i don't want to talk politics." "that's all i care to talk. i want to get a chance to show you fellows up one of these days. i'm considering a proposition for part control of a paper--a labor weekly." so he talked for a while about his scheme of getting hold of a little three-cent outfit and making it into an organ of kick and criticism. he had seen life from the inside during the war, he explained, and he wanted to give the public the benefit of his experience. he had a snarl for every conceivable thing that was, and he was eager to express it. when i showed him that such an attitude was dead against american feeling, he accused me of trying to suppress his enterprise because it was aimed at my friends, "the thieves and robbers." it was hopeless to argue with him, and the more we talked the worse i felt. he was just bitter and wild, and he kept saying: "you taught me what it meant! you showed me what it was to be rich!" the war had ruined his health and weakened his mind. the gentle, willing side in him had turned to fury. he was a plain crank now! "i'll buy this paper for you--or i'll start a new one for you to curse me and my friends with--if you'll just take may and the children and go down to my farm in the country. there are two thousand acres down there, will, and you can do as you please on the place. when you've got back your health, then you can start in to baste me as good as you've a mind to." but he refused to compromise his "cause." so we parted at the door of the saloon, he buttoning up his old raincoat and striding out for the west side without a look back to me. and as i hailed a cab to take me to the club i heard in my ears that charge, "you taught me what it meant to be rich, van!" it made me mad, but it hurt just the same. though i knew perfectly well that i was not responsible for his crankiness, yet i thought that if he could have kept on at business under me he would have been all right, earning a good living for his wife and children, and not taking up with thoughts he hadn't the mind to think out. for will was not one to step safely out of the close ranks of men, but he was always a mighty faithful worker wherever he was put. and now he was just a crank--good for nothing. chapter xxx the cost _a dinner at the metropolitan club--old friends and enemies--a conservative senator--pleasant speeches--a favor for henry i--i plan a gift for a tried friend--i find that i have nothing to give--slocum's confession--aims in life--the supreme bench--what money can't buy--slocum pays for both_ a number of men gave me a dinner that evening at the metropolitan club. steele, lardner, morrison (of the new york and chicago railway company), joe strauss, jenks, carmichael, and bates were there, among others--all leaders in the community in various enterprises. not all these gentlemen had looked with favor on my political aspirations; but, when they saw that i could win this trick as i had others, they sidled up to me. after all, no matter what they might think of me personally, or of my methods, they felt that i belonged to their crowd and would be a safe enough man to have in the senate. just as we sat down, slocum, who had been called to the telephone, came up to me, a smile on his wrinkled face, and said, raising his right hand:-- "gentlemen, the legislature at springfield has elected mr. harrington to fill the unexpired term of the late senator parkinson. gentlemen, three cheers for senator harrington!" as the men raised their champagne glasses to drink to me, slocum shook me warmly by the hand, a smile broadening over his face. although, as i told them, it had never been my part to talk, i said a few words, thanking them for their good-will, and promising them that i should do my best to serve the interests of the country we all believed was the greatest nation that had ever been. my old friend orlando bates, the president of the tenth national, replied to my talk, expressing the confidence my associates had in me. in the course of his graceful speech he said, "mr. harrington is so closely identified with the conservative interests of the country that we can feel assured he will stand as a bulwark against the populistic clamor so rife in the nation at the present time." and young harvey sturm, also a bank president, who followed him with a glowing speech, made flattering references to the work i had done "in upbuilding our glorious commonwealth." after deprecating the growth of socialistic sentiments and condemning the unrestricted criticism of the press in regard to capital, he closed with a special tribute: "such men as edward harrington are the brains and the will of the nation. on their strong shoulders rests the progress of america. were it not for their god-given energy, their will, their genius for organization, our broad prairies, our great forests, our vast mines, would cease to give forth their wealth!" there was more of the same sort of talk before we broke up. afterward, as the theatres and the opera closed, men dropped in to hear the news, and many of them came up to congratulate me. among others old dround wandered into the club in the course of the evening, and, some one having told him that i had been elected senator, he came up to the corner where i was standing with a group of men, and hovered around for a time, trying to get a word with me. after a while i stepped out and shook hands with him. "i am very glad to hear this, mr. harrington," he said slowly, pressing my hand in his trembling fist. "i have always believed that our best men should take an interest in the government of their country." his eyes had a wandering expression, as if he were trying in vain to remember something out of the past, and he continued to deliver his little speech, drawing me to one side out of hearing of the men who were standing there. "i thought once to enter public life myself," he said, "but heavy business responsibilities demanded all my attention. i wonder," he lowered his voice confidentially, "if you will not find it possible to further the claims of my old friend paxton's son. he desires to secure a diplomatic post. i have urged his merits on the president, and secured assurance of his good-will; but nothing has yet been done. i cannot understand it." eri paxton was a dissipated, no-account sort of fellow, but i assured henry i. dround that i would do my best for him. that was the least that the past demanded of me! so it went on until past midnight, and the club began to empty, and i was left with a few friends about me. when they went i took slocum up to my room for a last cigar before bed. we had some private matters to settle in connection with the election. "you pulled out all right, van," he said when we were alone. "but there wasn't much margin." "i trusted carmichael--i knew john wouldn't go back on me." we sat and smoked awhile in silence. now that i had picked the plum, the feeling came over me that slocum ought to have had it. with that idea i burst out at last:-- "i've been thinking of one thing all along, slo--and that is: what can i do for you when i am senator? name what you want, man, and if it's in my power to get it, it shall be yours. without you i'd never have been here, and that's sure." "i never cared much for politics," he replied thoughtfully. "i guess there isn't anything i want, which is more than most of your friends can say!" "something in the diplomatic service?" i suggested. he shook his head. "how about a federal judgeship--you can afford to go out of practice." "yes, i can afford to go on the bench!" he replied dryly. "but it's no use to talk of it." "what do you mean?" "you ought to know, van, that that is one thing that can't be bought in this country, not yet. i could no more get an appointment on the federal bench than you could!" "you mean on account of that old story? that's outlawed years ago!" "you think so? the public forgets, but lawyers remember, and so do politicians. the president may make rotten appointments anywhere else, but if he should nominate me for the circuit bench there would be such a howl go up all over that he would have to withdraw me. and he knows too much to try any such proposition." it was no use to argue the question, for the lawyer had evidently been over the whole matter and knew the facts. "it isn't that bribery matter, van, alone; i have been hand and glove with you fellows too long to be above suspicion. my record is against me all through. it isn't worth talking about.... i have had my pay: i am a rich man, richer than i ever expected to be when i put foot in chicago. i have no right to complain." but i felt that, in spite of all he said, that wasn't enough--somehow the money did not make it square for him. as the night passed, he warmed up more than i had ever known him to in all the years we had worked together, and he let me see some way inside him. i remember he said something like this:-- "there were three things i promised myself i would do with my life. that was back in my senior year at bowdoin college. i was a poor boy--had borrowed from a relative a few hundred dollars to go through college with, and felt the burden of that debt pretty hard. well, of those three purposes, one was for myself. first, i promised myself i would pay back my uncle's loan. that was a simple matter of decency. he was not a rich man, and his children felt rather sore at his letting me have those six hundred dollars to spend on a college education. i managed to do that out of what i earned as a law clerk the first years we were together at ma pierson's. the next thing i had promised myself was to buy back our old brick house in the aristocratic part of portland--the house my father had been obliged to part with after the panic of ' . i meant to put my mother and sisters in it. the only sister i have living is there now with her children. my mother died in her old home, and that has always been a comfort to me.... you may think it was my desire to do this that made me stick by you when we had that difference about the chicago and london bonds, but you are mistaken. i went with you, van, because i wanted to--just that. i saw then what it meant, and i am not kicking now. "well, the third aim i set myself when i was speculating, as college boys do about such things, was the hardest of all. the others, with reasonable success, i could hope to accomplish. and i did fulfil them sooner than i had any reason to hope i should. the third was a more difficult matter, and that was my ambition to sit some day on the supreme bench. there were two members of our family who had been distinguished judges, one of the supreme court of maine, and another of the federal supreme court, back in the early forties. i had always heard these two men referred to with the greatest respect in our family, especially my great-uncle, judge lambert cushing. although by the time i came to college our family had reached a pretty low ebb, it was natural that i should secretly cherish the ambition to rise to the high-water mark. "and," he concluded, "after thirty years of contact with the world, i haven't seen much that is more worthy of a man's ambition in our country than a seat on our supreme bench. i have no reason to be ashamed of my three aims in life. two of them i made--the third i might never have come near to, anyway; but i chucked away my chance a good many years ago. however, i have done pretty well by myself as it is. so you see there is nothing, van, that you can give me that i should want to take." [illustration: "_so you see there is nothing, van, that you can give me that i should want to take._"] he reached for another cigar, and stretched his long legs. it was the first time he had ever spoken to me from the bottom of his heart, and now that he had revealed the truth about himself, there was nothing to be said. he was not just the ordinary corporation lawyer, who sells his learning and his shrewdness for a fat fee. i had run up against that kind often enough. they are an indispensable article to the modern man of affairs; for the strategy of our warfare is largely directed by them. but jaffrey slocum was much more than such a trained prostitute: he was a man of learning and a lover of the law for its own sake. i suspect that if he had ever sat on the bench he would have been a tough nut for the corporations.... "there's no better proverb, my friend, than the old one about the way you make your bed," slocum summed up, rising to go. "it don't trouble you, perhaps, because you are made different. you are made to fit the world as it is to-day." with that he bade me good night and went away. i sat on by myself for some time afterward, thinking, thinking of it all! very likely if slocum could have had his desire, and gone on the supreme bench, he would not have found it all he had painted it as a boy. but whether it was foolish or not for him to set such store by that prize, it was beyond his reach, and the man who had done most to put him out of the race was i. i had needed him, and i had taken him--that was all there was to that. he had sold himself to me, not just for money, but for friendship and admiration,--for what men of his kind sell themselves. for in all the world there was not enough money to pay him for selling himself--he had as much as said so to-night. now, when i wanted to give him the gift that he had earned by years of devotion, there was nothing in my hands that was worth his taking! thinking of this, i forgot for the time being that i was senator from the state of illinois. chapter xxxi further cost _i go to see may--a cottage on the west side--may comes to the door--pleading--stiff-necked virtue--a discussion of patriotism--we wash dishes and dispute--old times--one woman's character--possibilities--hard words--rejected gifts--even to the children--who shall judge?--another scale and a greater one_ the cab drew up before a one-story frame house that stood back in the lot, squeezed between two high brick buildings. this was the number on ann street, over on the west side, that will had given me when i had pressed him for his address. the factories had pretty well surrounded this section of the city, leaving here and there some such rickety shanty as this one. there were several children playing in the strip of front yard, and as i opened the gate one of them called out, "hello, uncle van!" it was will's second son, little van. he said his mother was at home, and, taking my hand, he showed me around the cottage to the back door. the boy pounded on the door, and may came to see what was the matter. "is that you, van?" she asked, as if she expected me. "will said he saw you the other day." she did not invite me in, but the little boy held open the door and i walked into the kitchen. the breakfast things were piled up in the sink, unwashed. a boiler of clothes was on the fire, and may had her sleeves rolled up, ready to begin the wash. her arms were as thin as pipe-stems, and behind her glasses i saw deep circles of blue flesh. she had grown older and thinner in the three years since she and will left my house for good. "will's gone to the city," may remarked. "he don't look strong, may. it made me feel bad to see him so--changed, not a bit like himself." she seemed to bridle a little at this. "he hasn't been real well since he had the fever at montauk. he was reinfected at the hospital, and nearly died. when he got out he tried farming down in texas, but his strength didn't come back as we expected, and the climate was too hot for him. so we came north to see if he could get some easier work." "how are the children?" i asked, seeing a strange baby face peep around the corner of the clothes-basket. "we lost the baby boy while will was at montauk. another little girl has come since then. we call her sarah." she waited a moment, and then asked hesitatingly:-- "how's your sarah? she didn't look well when i saw her last." "no--she's been delicate some time--since our boy died, last summer. she's gone to europe with the girls for a change." then we were silent; there was not much more we could say without touching the quick. but at last i burst out:-- "may, why wouldn't you take that money i sent you while will was away at the war?" "we could manage without it. it was kind of you, though. you have always been kind, van!" "you might have known it would make us happy to have you take it. it was only what i owed to the country, too, seeing that i was so placed i couldn't go to cuba. i wanted then to leave everything and enlist. but it wouldn't have been fair to others. i sent some men in my place, though." perhaps it sounded a little like apologizing. may listened with a smile on her lips that heated me. "you are just like that preacher!" i exclaimed. "you can see no good in folks unless it's _your_ kind of good. don't you believe i have got some real patriotism in me?" "it's hard to think of van harrington, the new senator, as a patriot," she laughed back. "those men you sent to the front must have come in handy for the election!" i turned red at her little fling about the senatorship: my managers _had_ worked that company i equipped for all it was worth. "i guess there are a good many worse citizens than i am. i wanted to fight for those fellows down in cuba. and you wouldn't let me do the little i could--help will to take my place." "after all that happened, van, we couldn't take it." "and i suppose you don't want to touch anything from me now! see here, may, i came over this morning to do something for you and will. did he tell you about my wanting him to go down to my place in the country until he got well and strong?" "he's much interested in this paper, and thinks he can't get away," she said evasively. "darn his paper! you don't believe will was cut out to be a thinker? anyhow, he ought to get his health back first, and give you an easier time, too." "i am all right. will is very much in earnest about his ideas. you can't get him to think about himself." "well, i don't mind his trying to reform the earth. if later on he wants a paper to whack the rich with, i'll buy him one. come, that's fair, isn't it?" may laughed at my offer, but made no reply. "if you folks are so obstinate, if i can't get you to go down to my place, i'll have to turn it into a school or something. a fellow i was talking with on the train the other day gave me an idea of making it into a sort of reform school for boys. what would you think of that? sarah is taken with the idea--she never liked the place and won't want to go back, now that the baby died there." "that's a good plan--turning philanthropist, van? that's the right way to get popular approval, senator." she mocked me, but her laugh rang out good-naturedly. "popular approval never worried me much. but, may, i want _your_ good-will, and i mean to get it, too." for the more obstinate she was, the more she made me eager to win my point, to bring her and will back to me. she understood this, and a flash of her old will and malice came into her thin face. she got up to stir the clothes on the fire, and when the water began to run over i stripped off my coat and put my hand to the job. then i stepped over to the sink. "do you remember how i used to wash while you wiped, when we wanted to get out buggy-riding, may?" "yes, and you were an awful shiftless worker, senator," may retorted, fetching a dish-towel from the rack and beginning to wash, while i wiped. "and you had the same smooth way with you, though in those days you hadn't ten cents to your name. and now, how much is it?" "oh, say a quarter!" "then it must have cost you a sight of money to become senator." "it did some, but i kept back a little." when we had finished the dishes we began on the clothes. a child's dress caught on the wringer and tore. it was marked in a fine embroidery with the initials, j.s. ii., for jaffrey slocum harrington--as we had thought to call the little chap. may saw me look at the initials. "sarah sent it to me along with a lot of baby things when my jack came. perhaps she might like to have them back now." "she and the girls come home next week. won't you come and see her? she'd care more for that than for anything." [illustration: "_do you remember how i used to wash while you wiped, when we wanted to get out buggy-riding, may?_"] "you were always awfully persistent in getting your own way, van!" "but i didn't always get it, i remember." "it might have been just as well if you hadn't had it so much of the time since." "well, maybe--" "there are a few other people in the world besides van harrington, and they have their rights, too." "that's true enough, if they can get 'em." "maybe their consciences are a little stronger to hold them back from getting things. you never held off long when you wanted a thing, van. you took the peaches, you remember?" her lips curled in the way that used to set me mad for her. "i didn't eat a peach," i protested. "i gave them to your brothers, and budd haines." "yes, _you_ gave them!" "i don't believe you think me half as bad as you make me out!" i said, stopping the wringer and looking into her eyes. "you don't know how bad i make you out," she challenged my look. it was not hard to see why i had been crazy to marry her in the old days. there was a fire in her which no other woman i ever saw possessed. jane was large-minded, keen as an eagle, and like steel. but there was a kind of will in this worn woman, a hanging to herself, which gave her a character all her own. nevertheless, we two couldn't have travelled far hitched together. she would have tried her best to run me, and life would have been hell for us both. "well," i protested in my own defence, "there's no man and no woman living has the right to say he's the worse off on my account. i have treated the world fairly where it has treated me fairly." "so that's your boast, van harrington! it's pretty hard when a man has to say a thing like that to defend his life. you don't know how many men you have ruined like that poor hostetter. but that isn't the worst. the very sight of men like you is the worst evil in our country. you are successful, prosperous, and you have ridden over the laws that hindered you. you have hired your lawyers to find a way for you to do what you please. you think you are above the law--just the common laws for ordinary folks! you buy men as you buy wheat. and because you don't happen to have robbed your next-door neighbor or ruined his daughter, you make a boast of it to me. it's pretty mean, van, don't you think so?" we had sat down facing each other across the tub of clothes. as she spoke her hot words, i thought of others who had accused me in one way or another,--parson, will, slocum,--most of all, slocum. but i dismissed this sentimental reflection. "those are pretty serious charges you are making, may," i replied after a time. "and what do you know? what the newspapers say. there are thousands of newspaper men all over this country who get a dollar or two a column for that sort of mud. then these same fellows come around to us and hold out their hands for tips or bribes. you take their lies for proved facts. i have never taken the trouble to answer their charges, and never shall. i will answer for what i have done." "to whom?" may asked ironically. "to god? i should like to see van harrington's god! he must be different from the one i have prayed to all these years." "maybe he has more charity, may!" "are you asking for charity--my charity as well as god's?" she blazed. "well, let that go! i shall answer to the people now." "yes! and god help this country, now that men like you have taken to buying seats there at washington!" we said nothing for a while after this, and then i rose to go. "we don't get anywhere this way, may. i came here wanting to be friends with you and will--wanting to help my brother. you needn't take my money if you think it's tainted. but can't you feel friendly? you are throwing me off a second time when i come to you asking for your love." she flushed at the meaning under my words, and replied in a lower voice:-- "it would do no good, van. you are feeling humble just now, and remorseful, and full of old memories. but you don't want my love now, in real truth, more than you did before." her face crimsoned slowly. "if you had wanted it then, you would have stayed and earned it." "and i could have had it?" instead of answering she came up to me and took my arms in her two hands and pulled my head to her. "good-by, van!" she said, kissing me. as i stepped out of the door i turned for the last time:-- "can't you let me do something for my brother, who is a sick man?" tears came to her eyes, but she shook her head. "i know he's sick, and likely to fail in what he's doing. but it can't be helped!" outside little van was sitting on the ground playing with a broken toy engine. i put my hand on his little tumbled head, and turned to his mother:-- "i suppose you wouldn't let him touch my money, either?" she smiled back her defiance through her tears. "you had rather he'd grow up in the alley here than let me give him an education and start him in life!" i waited several moments for her answer. "yes!" she murmured at last, very faintly. the little fellow looked from his mother to me curiously, trying to make out what we were saying. * * * * * so i went back to the city, having failed in my purpose. i couldn't get that woman to yield an inch. she had weighed me in her scales and found me badly wanting. i was senator of these united states, from the great state of illinois; but there was hostetter, and the old banker farson, and my best friend slocum, and my brother will, and may, and their little children, who stood to one side and turned away. the smoke of the city i had known for so long drifted westward above my head. the tall chimneys of the factories in this district poured forth their stream to swell the canopy that covered the heavens. the whir of machinery from the doors and windows of the grimy buildings filled the air with a busy hum; the trucks ground along in the car tracks. traffic, business, industry,--the work of the world was going forward. a huge lumber boat blocked the river at the bridge, and while the tugs pushed it slowly through the draw, i stood and gazed at the busy tracks in the railroad yards below me, at the line of high warehouses along the river. i, too, was a part of this. the thought of my brain, the labor of my body, the will within me, had gone to the making of this world. there were my plants, my car line, my railroads, my elevators, my lands--all good tools in the infinite work of the world. conceived for good or for ill, brought into being by fraud or daring--what man could judge _their_ worth? there they were, a part of god's great world. they were done; and mine was the hand. let another, more perfect, turn them to a larger use; nevertheless, on my labor, on me, he must build. involuntarily my eyes rose from the ground and looked straight before me, to the vista of time. surely there was another scale, a grander one, and by this i should not be found wholly wanting! chapter xxxii the end _the senatorial party--mrs. jenks's pearls--gossip--one good deed--the duchess brand--i take my seat in the senate--red roses_ when it came time to go to washington to take my seat, my friend major frederickson, of the atlantic and great western road, placed his private car at my disposal and made up a special train for my party. sarah and the girls had come back from paris in time to accompany me to washington. the girls were crazy over going; they saw ahead a lot of parties and sights, and i suppose had their ideas about making foreign matches some day. the boy was to meet us there, and he was rather pleased, too, to be the son of a senator. among those who made the trip with us there were slocum and his wife, of course, john carmichael, young jenks and his pretty little wife, and a dozen or more other friends. we had a very pleasant and successful journey. a good deal of merriment was occasioned by a string of pearls that young mrs. jenks wore, which had lately been the talk of the city. the stones were of unusual size and quality, and had been purchased through a london dealer from some titled person. jenks had given them as a present to his wife because of the success of the beef merger, which had more than doubled the fortune old randolph jenks left him when he died. the pearls, being so perfect and well known in london, caused a lot of newspaper talk. they were said to be the finest string in the united states; there were articles even in the magazines about mrs. jenks and her string of pearls. finally, some reporter started the story that there was a stone for every million dollars jenks had "screwed out of the public by the merger"--twenty-seven in all. (for these days there was beginning to be heard all over the clamor about the price of food, and how the new combination of packers was forcing up prices--mere guesswork on the part of cheap socialistic agitators that was being taken seriously by people who ought to know better.) one paper even had it that pretty little mrs. jenks "flaunted around her neck the blood-bought price of a million lives!" so it had come to be a sort of joke among us, that string of pearls. whenever i saw it, i would pretend to count the stones and ask mrs. jenks how many more million lives she was wearing around her neck to-night. she would laugh back in her pretty little southern drawl:-- "the papers do say such dreadful things! pretty soon i shan't dare to wear a single jewel in public. ralph says it's dangerous to do it now, there are so many cranks around. don't you think it's horrid of them to talk so?" sarah had her string of pearls, too, but it was much smaller than the famous one of mrs. jenks. sarah didn't altogether like mrs. jenks, and used to say that she plastered herself with jewels to show who she was. well, the pearls went to washington with us on this trip, and made quite a splendid show, though we used to joke ralph jenks about sitting up nights to watch his wife's necklace. the fame of the pearls had got to washington ahead of us, and the washington _eagle_ had a piece in about the arrival at the arlington of the new senator from illinois and the "packers' contingent" with their pearls! people used to turn around in the corridors and stare at us--not so much at the new senator as at mrs. jenks's pearls! * * * * * i had already taken a house in washington for the winter, and sarah soon was busy in having it done over for us. we had shut up the chicago house, and after discussing the matter with sarah i concluded to turn over the vermilion county property to a society, to be used for a reform school. sarah talked it over with the young fellow i met on the train, who first put the idea into my head, and she seemed to take great pleasure in the plan, wanting me to give an endowment for the institution, which i promised as soon as my packing-company stock was straightened out. now that i had failed to put will and his family down there, as i had set my heart on doing, i had no more wish to go back to the place than sarah had. and as a home to take boys to who hadn't a fair chance in life, it might do some good in the world. [illustration: "_it was good sausage, slo! at least it was when we made it._"] it was a pleasant, warm day when my colleague, senator drummond, came to escort me to the senate. my secretary and slocum accompanied us up the broad steps toward the senate chamber. as we turned in from the street with the capitol rising before us, my eye fell upon a broad advertising board beside the walk, on a vacant piece of property. one of the conspicuous advertisements caught my attention:-- the duchess brand strictly farm-made sausage best in the world it was one of strauss's "ads." slocum pointed to it with a wave of his hand and glanced at me; and i thought i caught a smile on the lips of my colleague, which might have been scornful. so i paused before we passed beyond sight of the sign of the duchess brand. "it was good sausage, slo! at least it was when we made it." "and it did pretty well by you!" he laughed. senator drummond had moved forward with my secretary. "yes! the duchess was all right." then we followed the others slowly up the great steps.... in the senate chamber, in one of the galleries, a group of women were sitting about sarah, waiting to see me take the oath. one of them waved a handkerchief at me, and as i looked up i caught sight of mrs. jenks's pearls when she leaned forward over the rail. on my desk there was a bunch of american beauty roses: i did not have to look for the card to know that they had come from jane. the common lot. by robert herrick, _author of "the real world," "the web of life," etc._ cloth. mo. $ . . mr. herrick has written a novel of searching insight and absorbing interest; a first-rate story ... sincere to the very core in its matter and in its art.--hamilton w. mabie. the book is a bit of the living america of to-day, a true picture of one of its most significant phases ... living, throbbing with reality.--_n.y. evening mail._ novels of its style and quality are few and far between; ... he tells a story that is worth the telling; ... it is a study of life as he sees it, and as thousands of his readers try to avoid seeing it.--_boston transcript._ it grips the reader tremendously.... it is the drama of a human soul the reader watches ... the finest study of human motive that has appeared for many a day.--_the world to-day._ such a story will hardly slip through the reader's hands until the last page is reached, and then as he slowly puts it down, he will be apt to do a lot of thinking.--_advance._ it deserves the widest reading, not only as a piece of admirable writing, but as a powerful presentation of the contemporary american tragedy.--_the outlook._ the book as a story is absorbingly interesting; as a moral study it is not less than great.--_the interior_, chicago. the macmillan company, - fifth avenue, new york. the gospel of freedom. by robert herrick. mo. cloth extra, gilt top and side. $ . . the motive of the story is that of personal independence in its appeal especially to the restless, eager, egotistic woman of our new civilization. the scenes are laid in paris, chicago, and florence. * * * * * a clever, vivacious book.--_n.y. tribune._ "the gospel of freedom" is destined to place the author in the front ranks of the writers to whom we must look for our best and most serious fiction.--_n.y. commercial advertiser._ highly entertaining and interesting.--_n.y. times._ a novel that may truly be called the greatest study of social life in a broad and very much up-to-date sense that has ever been contributed to american fiction.--_chicago inter-ocean._ the macmillan company, - fifth avenue, new york. the web of life. by robert herrick, _author of "the gospel of freedom," etc._ cloth. mo. $ . . like his earlier book, "the gospel of freedom," which was hailed as "the great american social novel," this deals with social conditions in the young west. * * * * * one of the strongest stories of the summer.... it is strong in that it faithfully depicts many phases of american life, and uses them to strengthen a web of fiction, which is most artistically wrought out.--_buffalo illustrated express._ of more than ordinary literary and artistic merit, and the lesson one learns from it will no doubt be a wholesome one. the greatest story of american social life ... ever contributed to american fiction.--_inter-ocean_, chicago. as a story it is absorbing.--_the bookman._ most emphatically worth reading.--_boston budget._ the macmillan company, - fifth avenue, new york. the real world by robert herrick, author of "the web of life," "the gospel of freedom," etc. cloth mo $ . "it is unfortunate for our latter-day fiction that there are not more such strong, well-balanced books being brought out. such work as professor herrick's is creative."--_denver republican._ "the conception is thoughtful, the character-drawing masterly at times, and always intelligent and careful, while toward the end the emotional interests become absorbing. the most striking thing about mr. herrick is perhaps the absolute unconventionality of his notions. his characters are not types, they are people; and he is not so much studying a problem as recording facts. the consequence is that the course of his stories is usually as original as real life. another strong characteristic of his is a subtle, almost feminine knowledge of character."--_washington times._ "the title of the book, 'the real world,' has a subtle intention. it indicates, and is true to the verities in doing so, the strange dreamlike quality of life to the man who has not yet fought his own battles, or come into conscious possession of his will,--only such battles bite into the consciousness."--_chicago tribune._ "intellectually 'the real world' is an exceptionally powerful work ... prominently among the season's best books."--_boston courier._ the macmillan company - fifth avenue, new york transcriber's note: obvious typographical and printer errors have been corrected without comment. in addition to obvious errors, the following changes have been made: page : "head" changed to "heard" in the phrase, "... i heard the young lady exclaim...." page : "thing" changed to "think" in the phrase, "... i should think...." page : "car-worn" changed to "care-worn" in the phrase, "... a care-worn sort of smile...." page : "their" changed to "there" in the phrase, "... seeing that there might be...." other than the above, no effort has been made to standardize internal inconsistencies in spelling, capitalization, punctuation, grammar, etc. the author's usage is preserved as found in the original publication.